by Tripp Ellis
He motioned toward the door.
I glanced around, looking for Pete, but I couldn't find him in the increasingly dense party. I looked at JD and said, "I'm with him."
"He can stay,” the bouncer said, mistaking Jack for a rock star. “You gotta go."
The bouncer grabbed my arm and started pulling me toward the door. He dragged me through the crowd, and I thought it was best if I didn’t start trouble with him. He was just about to toss me onto the street when Joel intervened. "It's okay. He's a client of mine."
The bouncer frowned at Joel.
"Run along," Joel said shooing the large man away with his hand. "If I say he can stay, he can stay."
"Yes, Mr. Järvi,” the bouncer said as he skulked away.
"Look at you," Joel said with delight. "Fitting in well, I see. You're not a celebrity until you get kicked out of swanky parties."
“When in Rome.”
"You're blowing up. Front page of every gossip rag on the planet."
“Great,” I said, disappointedly.
"I want to strike while the iron is hot. There is a lot of interest in this right now, and I think I can spin that to our advantage.”
“Hang on. I never agreed to any of this.”
“Trust me, you want me as your agent. People in this town kill to have me as their agent.” He thought about it for a moment. “Sorry, that was a bad analogy.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Yes you are. Everyone’s interested. Besides, I’m a good friend to have. I can open a lot of doors.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“All the talk shows are begging for an appearance. Next week, this story won't even be news. But this week, I think we can line up a seven-figure deal at a major studio. The script practically writes itself. When are you planning on heading back to the States?"
I shrugged. “I don’t think Bree drowned. I’m not leaving until I get to the bottom of this," I replied.
"Ooh, I love it. Murder suspect searches for movie star’s killer."
I rolled my eyes.
“Between you and me, I don’t think she drowned either,” Joel said. "Listen, I've got the best writer in town working on the treatment. He'll have something to pitch to the studios soon. I’ll be back in Monaco tomorrow. Let's get together, go over the concept, then pitch it.”
"We don't know how the story ends yet,” I said with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
"Doesn't matter. We're just selling the concept."
"Let me ask you something. Did you care about Bree at all?"
Joel gasped. "I cared about her very much. She was a dear friend. We have an opportunity to tell her story, and I think it needs to be told. Besides, why leave money on the table?"
I paused, not sure I liked the idea of this.
“You’ve got something I need,” I said.
He flashed a cocky grin. “I’m sure I do, but I don’t sleep with my clients.”
My eyes narrowed at him. “Access.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you.”
“I think somebody at her party killed her that night,” I said. “You help me find out who did it, and I’ll sign your contract.”
Joel smiled. “I think we have a deal.”
“Let’s get one thing out of the way first,” I said. “Where were you at the time of her death?”
“Ooh, the plot thickens,” Joel said excitedly.
16
"I can tell you exactly where I was,” Joel said. “I left the party and hooked up with an actor."
"I thought you didn't date clients?"
“Not my client,” Joel said with a mischievous grin.
"Want to tell me who it was?"
"I can't reveal that information,” Joel said.
"So, you want me to take your word for it?"
"Any good relationship is based on trust. You want to be my client? We need a mutual trust."
"You're the one who wanted me as a client, remember?"
Joel thought about this for a moment. "Okay. If you say a word, I'll deny till death." Joel whispered a name in my ear.
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "Really?"
"Really!"
"I need to verify that."
"Good luck. He’s certainly not going to admit to anything."
"That puts you in a bit of a predicament, doesn't it?" I said.
"What possible motive would I have for killing my best client? I stand to make considerably less money now that she's not around."
He eyed me suspiciously. "Where were you?"
“Asleep in the master suite."
"See. You don't have an alibi either. Do you want my help, or don't you?"
I sighed and reluctantly resigned myself to the fact that I would have to trust an agent. It sounded like an oxymoron.
I was no farther along than when I started.
"What about Zazzle?” I asked. “He seemed to blame Bree for the breakup of his band."
"Why don't you ask him yourself. He's right over there," Joel said, pointing across the dim room to a booth in the corner.
Zazzle was surrounded by groupies. There was a bottle of whiskey on the table, and they were snorting a fine white powder that I was pretty sure was cocaine.
I strolled over to the table and was greeted with an angry glare. "What the fuck do you want?"
"I was wondering if you knew anything about Bree’s death?”
"Just what I see on the news." Zazzle said. "Now get the fuck out of here before I kick your teeth in."
"I recall you trying that before. It didn't work out so well for you."
The muscles in Zazzle’s jaw flexed.
"Where were you after the party that night?"
The rockstar’s face crinkled up, and he shared a glance with his groupies. “Who is this guy?” His glassy eyes looked back to me. “Weren't you were arrested? Aren't you a person of interest?"
"It seems like you had a pretty big beef with her," I said.
"She was a raging fucking bitch. She broke up the greatest rock band since Led Zeppelin."
I scoffed. “That's a bold statement."
"It's the truth. Sue me. That bitch seriously pulled a Yoko Ono."
"Something tells me you are far from the Beatles."
Zazzle snarled at me. He made a move like he was going to get up, but thought better of it. "Why do you care?
"I don't know,” I said. “I just do."
"You didn't mean anything to her. You were just another in a long list. Hate to pop your cherry, pal."
"You know, the sad thing is, I used to like your music until I met you."
He muttered something at me as I walked away.
This was getting nowhere.
Zazzle had dozens of groupies that would be willing to say they had spent the night with him. I was trying to conduct a murder investigation with no authority behind me. I had no teeth. No power. And all the celebrities thought they were untouchable.
And they probably were.
Nobody wanted to push the issue. Nobody was interested in the truth. Bree’s death had been wrapped up with a nice bow. A simple explanation. An accident. There was no murder. Nothing to worry about. And everybody wanted it to stay that way.
I began to wonder what the hell I was doing?
Once the open bar ended, the parties thinned out. Joel invited us to another party on a movie star's yacht in the harbor.
The same people seemed to move from venue to venue, with a minor change in the supporting characters.
It all started to blur together. Drink after drink, yacht after yacht, pretty girl after pretty girl.
It was easy to become numb to it all. It was performance art, and each venue was a stage. Nothing was real, and everyone put on a façade. The endless mix of booze and drugs made it a surreal dreamlike fantasy world. There was no future, and there was no past. Nothing really mattered. There were no consequences.
Not when you were ultra-famous or super-rich.
One moment blended into the next. Days could go by. Then weeks. Then months. Then years. It was an insulated bubble of exclusive parties and excessive indulgences. You were either somebody, or hanging onto somebody. The has-beens and the never-was-beens weren’t allowed.
Yet everyone thought they would be a star forever.
I ran into Liam on De Campo’s boat. His eyes filled with disdain when he saw me. He looked at his watch as I approached and said, “Isn't your 15 minutes up by now?”
"I've got a few minutes left."
"Enjoy it while it lasts."
He started to walk away, but I grabbed his arm.
He flashed me a look that said I’ll press charges if you don't release me.
"I'm just trying to find out what happened that night.”
"She drowned. Let it go."
"You don't really believe that, do you?"
"I don't know what happened. But if somebody did kill her, I'm probably looking at the prime suspect." His eyes burned into mine.
"Do you think I'd be walking the streets now if the police had anything concrete?"
He glared at me.
"I can't seem to get a straight answer out of anybody, but I'll ask the question anyway. Where were you when she died?"
"I was with my wife. She's right over there if you want to talk to her." He pointed her out in the crowd.
I talked to her later, and she confirmed Liam’s story. But I didn't expect otherwise. If you wanted to stay happily married to your husband, you’d sure as hell confirm his alibi.
"You knew Bree well,” I said. “Is there anybody who would have wanted to do her harm? Besides Savannah or Zazzle?”
"This is Hollywood,” Liam said. “Everyone has enemies."
"There was a guy at the party that night. Linen suit. Tan. Blonde highlights. Bree seemed to have an intense conversation with him. She didn't look happy about it. Neither did he."
Liam thought about it. “Vincent Villeneuve?”
"Yeah, that’s him."
“Art dealer. Mostly contemporary, but sometimes he can get some rare classics."
"Picassos?"
Liam’s face twisted. "She paid way too much for that."
"That could be what they were fighting about," I suggested. "Did she have a case of buyer’s remorse?"
"I told her not to buy it. She couldn’t afford it." He looked around and made sure no one was eavesdropping. “If this ends up in the trades, I'll kill you." Then he said in a hushed tone, “She was on the verge of bankruptcy."
That hung in the air.
But it didn't come as a total surprise. Though it was still hard to wrap my head around how someone who made $20 million a picture could go bankrupt.
I thought back to the first time I saw the Picasso hanging on the bulkhead in the master suite. Then it dawned on me. I hadn't noticed it when I collected my bags after I'd been released from jail.
I didn’t say anything just yet. Somebody had stolen the painting. Liam had access. My mind raced with possibilities.
“Who is handling Bree’s estate?” I asked.
Liam hesitated a moment. “That’s where things get complicated. She died without a will. She was 27 years old. How many 27-year-olds do you know that are on top of their estate planning? I had been urging her to take care of it.”
“So she died intestate?
“And her death in Monaco complicates matters. I’m still trying to determine how the assets here will have to be settled, and which law will apply. Monaco recently changed their code in 2017, so the law of Bree’s nationality may apply. Her attorney is handling that. I’ve contacted her mother and her sister. But her mother is an invalid and unable to travel. Her sister should be arriving tomorrow.”
“When did she purchase the Picasso?”
“Last week. Why?”
“It’s missing,” I said.
Liam’s face went pale.
“What do you mean it’s missing?”
“When I got my bag, it wasn’t in the master suite.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes were full of skepticism.
“I have an eye for noticing detail. I was just so frazzled at the time, it didn’t register.”
Liam’s face tensed.
“Who had access to the boat?”
He thought for a moment. “Me, obviously. Bree’s Attorney. Her agent. But no one was there unattended but me.”
I gave him a look.
“No. I didn’t take it, if that’s what you’re thinking?”
I shrugged. “Somebody took it. If you don’t believe me, maybe you should go see for yourself.”
17
JD and I took a helicopter with Liam back to Monaco. Liam was determined to see with his own eyes that the Picasso was missing.
The rotor blades whirled overhead, and the city lights glimmered below. Every time I was aboard a helicopter it brought me back to my days as a Special Operator. I’m not going to say I miss those days—who really misses being cold, tired, hungry, and far away from home? But it made me a little nostalgic.
We landed on the helipad and took a cab down to the harbor. Liam flew into a rage as we stepped into the master suite of Bree's yacht.
The Picasso was gone.
"God dammit!" Liam practically frothed at the mouth. His face was beet red, and the veins in his temples pulsed. He clenched his fists and paced about compartment.
He seemed genuinely upset.
Either he didn't steal the painting, or he was a damn good actor. I wasn't sure which.
Liam put his hand to his face and rubbed his chin, deep in thought.
"Who knew the painting was there?” I asked.
"Me, Bree, you, Vincent, and Joel.”
"I didn't take it," I said.
There was another long pause.
"Thanks for bringing this to my attention.” He paused. “Listen, I’m sorry I’ve been so abrasive with you. Bree was an important part of my life. I’m having trouble processing her death. I really want to get to the bottom of this.”
I appreciated his apology.
“If you'll excuse me, I need to make some phone calls." Liam motioned toward the hatch.
JD and I left the master suite and walked up to the main deck.
Liam followed.
"Perhaps we should pay Vincent Villeneuve’s gallery a visit?" I suggested.
"I'll handle this," Liam said, sternly.
I raised my hands in surrender. "Whatever you say."
I thanked him for indulging my curiosity. JD and I left and strolled down the dock.
A message from Isabella dinged on my phone. It was a file containing Bree’s text messages.
I gazed at the file on the display and hesitated a moment before opening it. I felt bad about invading her privacy. But, maybe it would provide insight.
Isabella had dug up texts from the last 30 days. One of her nerd herd had hacked into the cell carrier system and retrieved the data.
It wasn't legal, and anything I found wouldn’t be admissible in any court of law. But this wasn't about the law.
This was about justice.
I opened the file and sifted through the messages. It was mostly chitchat between friends. Gossip. Chats with her agent—discussions about upcoming roles and career opportunities. There were several texts from Liam, advising her to take a more conservative approach with her finances.
Then I found the good stuff.
There was a heated exchange with Vincent. Bree wanted her money back for the Picasso.
The painting was a forgery.
My jaw dropped.
Apparently she had the painting authenticated by a renowned expert who raised serious concerns. Bree threatened to go public if Vincent didn't refund her money immediately.
That would ruin his reputation.
And it probably wasn’t the only forgery he had passed off as real.
Vincent did business with everybody. Movie stars, tech billionaires, Russian oligarchs, and mob
sters looking for safe investments.
A motive began to form.
If Vincent had sold a fake to a ruthless gangster, and that information became public, he was as good as dead.
That's definitely a motive for murder in my book.
Vincent would have done anything to keep her quiet. He probably stole the painting back for fear that it would be appraised during the probate of Bree’s estate. The forgery would have surely been discovered during that process.
It was a plausible theory. But that's all it was.
I needed proof.
JD and I walked back toward the hotel. I figured we'd swing by Vincent’s gallery in the morning and see what we could sniff out.
We headed up Avenue du Port. The moonlight bathed the street in a pale glow. It was a nice evening.
A nice evening to die.
A car slowed as it pulled to the curb beside us. The window rolled down, and a hand stuck out. The hand was holding a pistol with a suppressor attached to the barrel.
Muzzle flash flickered, and a bullet snapped across the sidewalk. I could feel the copper projectile displace the air as it zipped inches from my body and smacked into the brick building beside me.
Chips of brick and mortar showered.
I grabbed JD, pulling him to the ground, taking cover behind a parked car.
Several more bullets flew through the air. The muffled pop, pop, pop, echoing down the street. Glass shattered and metal pinged as stray bullets peppered parked cars.
JD and I scampered into an alley as bullets streaked all around us, sending chips of brick and concrete hurtling through the air. We disappeared into the shadows of the alley and kept running.
The assassin's tires squealed as the car escaped into the night.
We exited the alley, crossed the next street, then darted to another alley and kept going.
Our footsteps echoed off the alley walls as we sprinted away. My heart pounded. My quads burned.
Jack’s chest heaved for breath, and sweat misted on his face. He wasn't in quite the shape he had been back in the day.
We finally stopped and caught our breath.
"You okay?" I asked.
His face looked pale, and I could tell something was wrong. My eyes caught sight of a spot of crimson, blossoming on his shirt.