“We are.” Brendan smiled. “She identified the man from the pier as a patient of her husband on your bird footage. It’s been posted online.”
“Jeffery told me he wouldn’t put it up,” Sofia said. He must have run out of good footage and decided that good footage was more important than keeping his word. Jeffery’s promises were fluid.
“How’d she know to look for it online?” Aidan asked.
“Apparently she’s become a fan of the bird’s YouTube channel since he filmed the footage the blackmailer turned over.”
Everyone loved Fred. Jeffery had a star on his hands.
“What was Rhett doing at the Solov Clinic?” Aidan asked.
“She wasn’t sure. She said she saw him often, but she doesn’t know what treatments Dr. Solov administered.”
Sofia pulled up some of Rhett Fantome’s photos online. She walked through several years of his career on IMDB. Bit parts, but enough pictures to give her a good sense of what he’d looked like growing up vs. what he looked like now. He was a traditionally handsome guy: square jaw, nice cheekbones, cleft chin. Until he smiled, he didn’t look one bit like the Joker. He also didn’t look like he’d had plastic surgery. It wasn’t always obvious, but his nose, chin, eyes were the same throughout his entire career. No big before-and-after moments anyway. And his face hadn’t moved like he was using Botox when she talked to him. It might be subtle, but he sure didn’t look like a patient of Dr. Solov’s.
Aidan examined his notes. “Didn’t we see an El Camino over at Rhett Fantome’s residence?”
“Brown,” she said. “Nicely restored.”
“We have that car in our reports. He was at the clinic before Dr. Solov went to play racquetball on the day we tailed him.”
“Good work,” Brendan said. “Let’s get back here tomorrow and see what we can dig up on Rhett Fantome.”
Sofia was happy to leave a little early. She had to head over to Emily’s.
* * *
Later that night, she pulled into her parking lot feeling pretty good. She’d brought her sister and the kids pizza. Van had seemed his usual self, and Emily was better, too. Everyone teased Sofia about kissing Gray. That was up on YouTube as well, and Violet played it twice before Emily took pity on Sofia and declared it Van’s turn to pick. He wanted to watch skater videos. They made Emily a little pale, but she toughed it out like a good mom.
Sofia’s phone rang.
“Hey, Jaxon,” she said. “About that video with Gray.”
“No worries. You theater folk are always acting.”
She smiled and got out of the car. “You’re theater folk, too.”
“That’s how I know.”
She plugged in her car to charge and headed down the path to her trailer. She was carrying the last of the pizza. She thought Fred might like it although, after his recent caviar and sushi binges, she wasn’t sure.
“Are you coming back to Malibu?” she asked.
“Not for at least a couple of weeks. Work.”
She groaned. It was no fun having her only action with Gray.
“But I was thinking—”
She wasn’t destined to learn what he was thinking, because there was a giant thump at his end of the line and then a few swear words.
“Horse troubles,” he said. “Kisses.”
And then he was gone and she was saying “kisses” in the dark.
“Sofia?” It was Gray.
“You’re not the kisses I was looking for.”
He walked up the path and gave her a nice long hug. “You OK?”
“Sexually frustrated. And this case isn’t breaking the way we want. Why do you ask?” She linked her arm in his. Moonlight glittered on the waves.
“I saw the footage of you at the pier with Rhett Fantome.” He tugged her away from the path to her door and down toward the beach.
“How come everybody can identify him from that footage?”
“He has a distinctive walk.” Gray sniffed her hair. “You used the conditioner. It looks great.”
“Thanks for sending it along.”
They went onto the beach where they slipped off their shoes and walked along the cold sand. Gray hadn’t said much, but Sofia could tell something was up.
“I don’t mind if your Victoria’s Secret model comes back and goes to the Oscars with you,” she said.
“What?”
“Just in case that’s what’s bothering you.” She usually guessed right with Gray. Today wasn’t her day.
“It’s not that.” He sat down and patted the sand next to him.
She plopped down.
“Do you miss acting?” he asked.
“Mostly not.”
Long silence.
“Are you thinking of quitting?” she asked. “There’s a lot you can do.”
He shook his head. His brows were lowered. She picked up a handful of sand and let it run through her fingers.
“Are you worried about something?” she wondered. Gray was a good friend, and she wanted to make sure he was OK.
“You.”
She jerked in surprise and somehow flung sand into her mouth. She coughed and spit. “Me?”
He chuckled. “Considering your grace and charm, it’s hard to believe.”
Eventually she got the sand out of her mouth. “Seriously?”
“I saw you on the pier with Rhett Fantome. I made Jeffery take it down.”
“I’m glad you did,” she said. “It was for a case.”
“Really?” His beautiful dark eyes shone in the moonlight. “Tell me.”
He sounded so worried and hopeful that she caved. She told him what she could, leaving out names.
“Oh, thank God!” he said, when she was finished.
“Not really,” she said. “Our client lost a lot of money and it seems like it was for nothing and we basically bungled everything.”
Gray put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to his side. He felt warm and reassuring and smelled, as always, amazing. She snuggled in close.
“So, are you worried about me because I blew it on a case?” she asked.
“Sounds like your pal Aidan was the one who blew it.”
As much as she liked hearing that Aidan was wrong and she was right, she wasn’t going to let this go. “You. Worried. Why?”
“Do you know what Rhett Fantome does?”
She shrugged. “Failed movie star. Looks like he’s hoping to make money off his daughter, and his ex-wife seems to have some cash because she’s a dentist.”
“He’s a drug dealer.”
Then the picture became clear in her head. “You thought my meeting with Rhett on the pier was some kind of weird drug deal?”
“You paid him, then you picked up a package,” Gray pointed out. “And it was so bizarre, I was worried. What were you thinking? After all, he delivers.”
“He delivers?”
“Right to your door. That’s what he does. He’s like the Domino’s pizza guy, but with drugs.”
Sofia started laughing. Gray pulled her in closer and they laughed together.
“Guess what’s in my bag,” she said.
“Please tell me it’s not drugs.”
“It’s pizza.” She opened the bag and pulled out the two pieces. “For Fred.”
“You are Fred’s Rhett.”
“I think that’s Jeffery. He’s the one with the caviar.”
She handed a piece of pizza to Gray and took the other.
“Is this D’Amores?” he asked.
“Meat lovers. Violet says it’ll put hair on your chest.”
“I suppose that means I’ll have to wax.”
A great ending to her day. Pizza on the beach with a good friend. And a new lead.
25
Sofia arrived the next morning with pep in her step. That was what her grandma used to call it when she was in a good mood. She jaunted in whistling with her coffee and her secret new lead, ready to enlighten Brendan and Aidan.
Sofia’s whistle died in her throat. “Good morning?”
“I think we should discuss this in my office,” Brendan said. “Work out the details and get Sofia up to speed.”
Up to speed. Here she was arriving early and already behind. She took a quick sip of coffee. Caffeine would make it better. Caffeine made everything better.
She followed Brendan, Aidan, and their client into Brendan’s office. She figured they were going to get scolded for having messed up. They’d traded Mrs. Solov’s money for footage that was basically useless. She tried to put a contrite expression on her face. She decided that was like apologetic but without accepting the blame.
Not that it mattered, because Mrs. Solov never looked at her.
“I’ve heard distressing news,” she said.
Her face didn’t look distressed. Must have been the Botox. In the old days, she was a good enough actress to fake distress better than this.
“How can we help?” Brendan exuded warmth and compassion. And it wasn’t fake either. He was a kind person.
“A friend contacted me this morning . . .” Mrs. Solov trailed off.
Dead silence in the office. The air smelled of leather, lemon polish and, now, coffee. If she had to make a perfume out of that, Sofia would call it Victorian Library. She bet it’d be a good seller, too.
After a long pause—because she knew how to work an audience—Mrs. Solov continued. “Mr. Rhett Fantome, the man we believe is the blackmailer, was found dead in his apartment this morning.”
Aidan’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t say anything.
Hard for Sofia to imagine that the robust, crabby actor guy had been alive yesterday and now was gone. Then she thought of Yvette. Maybe he hadn’t been a prince, but Rhett was her father and he had come to her birthday party. Sofia’s own father had never attended a birthday party or any other event. Yvette knew her father, at least a little, and she would probably miss him. Poor Yvette.
“Cause of death?” Aidan asked.
“He . . . They . . . A drug overdose. But they don’t know, not for certain.” Mrs. Solov lowered her lashes, but not before Sofia caught a glint of satisfaction in those beautiful eyes.
Interesting.
“And how are you involved in this?” Brendan asked.
“I’m concerned about my connection with Mr. Fantome, and my husband’s connection with him, coming to light.”
Especially since Rhett was a drug dealer and her husband had access to drugs. It made the blackmail make sense. But Sofia held her tongue. She’d run her news by Brendan first.
“I’d like you to investigate discreetly.” Mrs. Solov stared at her hands. She wore a giant diamond with a studded gold band. In contrast to her face, her hands looked as they always had. Slim, elegant, and graceful.
“What would you like us to do?” Brendan asked.
“Could you, perhaps, determine my husband’s whereabouts last night?” Mrs. Solov’s voice trembled, then firmed up. “He should have been at a Rhinoplasty Guild meeting until late, then stayed overnight at our apartment in town. It’s in the schedule I gave you.”
“We’ll get started right away.” Brendan patted her hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Maloney.” She fixed her gorgeous smoky eyes on him and Sofia saw Brendan, hardened ex-cop Brendan, melt a little. Donna Lodge still had some sexy superpowers to spread around.
After she left, Brendan snapped into action. “Sofia, how about you see if Dr. Solov was at that meeting?”
“I’m on it,” she said. “But I have a piece of news first.”
“Go ahead,” Brendan said.
“Rhett Fantome was a drug dealer. He delivered drugs to expensive industry clientele.”
“How do you know?” Aidan asked.
“I have sources.” Adorable sources.
“I’ll see if the police are aware of that connection,” said Brendan. “Good tip.”
He had sources, too.
“I’m not sure about this, but I have a theory,” Sofia said.
“What’s your theory?” Brendan asked.
“What if Dr. Solov was supplying drugs to Rhett Fantome? They were seen together on the Fred footage. We have records that the two of them met at least once at the clinic, maybe more often.”
Aidan whistled.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Brendan said. “It’s not our job to investigate Mr. Fantome’s death. Our charter is to see if Dr. Solov is in the clear.”
“Still,” Sofia said.
“Aidan, while Sofia’s verifying that Dr. Solov was at the conference, I’d like you to see if he’s clear for the hours after the conference. See if there are any cameras around his apartment, someone who remembered him. We’ll meet here at three.”
“Gotcha.”
Brendan and Aidan headed out for the parking lot. Off to interact with their sources, old and new, while she looked into a rhinoplasty conference. First, she verified that the conference was on the schedule. Mrs. Solov seemed like a woman who was very organized, but it made sense to verify.
It was. The meeting was at the Beverly Hills Hotel in LA. Gorgeous, historic, expensive. A place to see and be seen. Frequented by beautiful and insecure women. The perfect place for plastic surgeons to hang out.
It was about an hour’s drive at that time of day, if she was lucky. And she needed some supplies. She had just the thing in the trunk. This was going to be a fun part to play. Since Aidan wasn’t around, it wouldn’t matter too much if she blew it either. Not that she would.
She drove down the Pacific Coast Highway playing angry metal music way too loud. It wasn’t her preference, but she was getting into character. Her character was someone who got yelled at a lot. Her name was Ashley, and she was a personal assistant.
Ashley was, unfortunately, a careful driver. Her car wouldn’t be a Tesla. It would be an old Kia, but there wasn’t much Sofia could do about that. She poked along the 1 to the 10 to the 405. She exited too slowly onto Wilshire Boulevard, then drove like Aidan up past the Beverly Hills Hotel. Ashley couldn’t afford to valet her car, so she parked a few blocks away.
Sofia felt like she was starting to get into character. Nervous, jumpy, eyes darting around. Now she just needed to change her appearance. That was what the trunk was for. She pulled out a set of blue contacts and popped them in. It was a start. She piled her hair up into a cap, then pulled on a blond wig. It was a terrible cut. A pageboy straight out of the 1970s, like a bell. A terrible polyester jacket. Now came the weird part.
She pulled out an expensive facial mask. She’d been looking for a chance to try it out. It was supposed to clean the pores and moisturize. But it had the weird and probably unintended side effect of pulling your skin in weird patterns and freezing it there. A couple of months ago it had been a hot thing to do to put on the mask, then post a picture of yourself looking like a weird zombie on Instagram. The folks who did it were pretty unrecognizable.
She dabbed it on and waited. Slowly one eyebrow rose. Half her cheek was pulled sideways. Her other cheek drooped. She looked awful, and nothing like herself. She was Ashley.
She covered the mask with powder and headed out. She trotted along the sidewalk, getting hotter by the second. The wig was excruciating. She pulled out her phone and flipped the camera around to look at her face.
Gruesome.
Perfect.
She’d call herself Ashley Chambers, if it came up.
She neared the hotel. When she was a kid its three pink towers had reminded her of a castle. She walked past the valet, who was taking the keys for a yellow Lamborghini. Luckily, she didn’t recognize either him or the car’s owner.
Then she went under the black and white striped ceiling and inside, into blessedly cool air conditioning. She walk
ed uncertainly up to the front desk, shoulders hunched and a worried expression on her face. Ashley was having a bad day.
“How can we help you?” asked a polished British man, standing behind the front desk. Even though it was hard to say exactly how, she knew he was snubbing her. Good. She read his name tag. Nigel.
“I’m the administrative assistant for Dr. Solov.” She used a nasal voice, like Lily Tomlin’s phone operator. “He’s a very famous plastic surgeon.”
Nigel was unimpressed. Probably impossible to impress. The Beverly Hills Hotel, after all. “I see.”
“He was at a meeting at your hotel last night. The Rhinoplasty Guild.”
Nigel checked on his computer. “We have that meeting on our schedule, miss, but I can’t verify the names of any guests.”
Polite but firm. And one more point of verification. The meeting had been held here, just like Mrs. Solov’s schedule said. Now she needed proof that her husband had attended it.
“I understand the value of discretion. Believe me, I do. But he lost a pair of designer sunglasses.” Damn, not a good item since it was an evening event. She soldiered on. “They’re Gucci’s, tortoiseshell, prescription.”
“I can have someone check to see if they were turned in.”
“Thank you so much. I appreciate it. I’ll just wait right here. Thanks again.”
Nigel looked displeased by her gratitude and hurried off.
Her face felt so weird. It was so stiff. She wanted to knock on it to see what it felt like, but was afraid to crack it. It was also starting to tingle. That couldn’t be good. You were only supposed to leave it on for ten minutes.
While she waited, she pulled out her phone, like any assistant would. It connected right to the Wi-Fi because she’d been there with her friend Brandi Basher a week ago. They’d been dressed up full glam, though, and Nigel hadn’t been there.
She was going to do some searches. Facebook was always a good starting point. A quick look for photos tagged at the Beverly Hills Hotel last night. Several popped up.
But none featured Dr. Leonid Solov. She searched for his Facebook account. Not much there. A few pictures of him and Mrs. Solov at various events. Nothing about what he ate for breakfast or where he was going on vacation or the conference he’d attended at this very hotel. Kind of a wasteland, actually.
F is for Fred Page 13