“How closely do they guard their sources?”
“Very. You want to find out who’s feeding them the information?”
“Yes.”
“I’m thinking… hold on, let me call my partner’s office and ask her about this.”
There was a click. I held, gripping the receiver harder than was necessary.
Another click. “You’re in luck,” Letta said. “My partner—I think I mentioned she’s in market research—she has a client who dates a guy at the Times who’s tight with one of their staff writers who lives with an underling in the ‘StarWatch’ office. And this writer is not too happy about being an underling and the treatment that goes with it. Anyway, it might take a while, but there’s a good chance we can pry the information loose.”
“What a series of connections!”
“Sharon, in L.A. you’ve got nothing but series of connections—most of which have to do with sex. We’ll get working on this, let you know as soon as we find out something. Where’ll you be?”
“Either here at Ricky’s”—I recited the number of the office line—“or up there at the Tower at Century Plaza.”
“Pretty fancy stuff. If I get good at this investigating, will you hire me? It’s got to pay better than my royalty account.”
At one-thirty I called the head security man into the office and briefed him about keeping the band members confined to the studio. Then I phoned Hy at RKI and told him I’d be over as soon as I was certain the rehearsal was running smoothly. Finally I took out the background information on Ethan Amory and Kurt Girdwood and went over it carefully.
The attorney had been born and raised in Knoxville, Tennessee, and was a graduate of Vanderbilt University in Nashville and Northwestern University’s School of Law in Illinois. He’d returned to Nashville and set up a practice whose clients consisted of studio musicians and minor recording artists, but when two of his singers were signed by MCA and had records that went platinum, Amory followed them to L.A. and built up a new and much more lucrative practice there. He was twice divorced, had no children, lived in a three-million-dollar house in Brentwood, and owned a second home in the Bahamas. Keim’s research had turned up no arrest record and a sterling credit rating.
Girdwood was a California native, born in Stockton but raised in Pasadena. He’d dropped out of UCLA to work for a concert promoter, then moved on to one of the large booking agencies, and eventually set up on his own as Girdwood Talent Management. Within a few years he represented a good number of top acts, and by the time Ricky walked into his office on the strength of the success of “Cobwebs,” GTM was considered one of the major management firms on the West Coast. With Ricky’s continued success, Girdwood had parceled out his other clients to his employees and devoted his time exclusively to managing my brother-in-law’s career. He was three-times divorced, with a child by each marriage; he lived in a condo in an expensive downtown high rise and owned co-op apartments in New York and London. Like Amory, he had no arrest record and his credit was impeccable.
Keim had dug up and faxed a 1991 article profiling the pair in Hits magazine. In essence, it implied that each was cold-blooded and ruthless in his own way, but accorded respect to their abilities. In conclusion, it said, “Any artist would consider himself or herself blessed to be represented by the Machiavellis of music law and management.”
I pushed away from the desk and stretched just as the phone rang. The button for the private house line flashed—a call for Charlene or one of the girls. My watch showed two twenty-three; by now the rehearsal was underway, with no apparent breach of security. I wondered if I should pack it in and stop by RKI to drop off the latest note at their lab and see how Hy was doing. Maybe then I’d head up to L.A. in Chris’s car and pay a visit to both Amory and Girdwood. A long face-to-face with each man might reveal something that would lead to a break in the investigation.
I got up and began putting files into my briefcase. When I finished I made a brief call to the Century Plaza and found that Rae and Mick had checked in. They were, Rae said, playing double solitaire in a suite of awesome proportions, but later she planned to kick him out and take a nap. Mick still wanted to drive up to Pacific Palisades and canvass his former neighbors, but in light of this latest communication by fax, I vetoed the idea and asked him to get busy trying to trace Patricia Terriss with his laptop.
I’d just hung up when the door opened and Charlene burst into the room, her face nearly as pale as the white cotton shirt she wore over her swimsuit.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“That phone call.” She gestured at the instrument on the desk, her hand trembling. “It was from the director of Brian’s camp. He said that the counselor was helping Brian pack, but since he hadn’t personally taken the call, he wanted to verify that I was sending someone to pick my son up.”
“What!”
“A woman called there an hour ago and spoke with the secretary, claiming to be me. She said someone would be arriving at five to bring Brian home. I told the director he wasn’t to release him to anyone but Ricky or me. And I phoned Molly’s and Lisa’s camp and left the same instructions with their director. No one has called there—yet.”
I reached for the phone and punched out RKI’s number. Asked for Hy and put it on the speaker. When he came on I said to Charlene, “Tell him what you just told me.”
When she finished, Hy spoke in a voice that would have told nobody but me that he was disturbed. “Okay, nothing to panic about, but the kids’re going to have to be moved. You and the girls, too. Is there someplace you can go that’s private and that none of Ricky’s associates know about?”
She thought. “Well, Vic owns a big place near Lake Tahoe. I’m sure he’d let us use it.”
“Get on to him, then get back to me. McCone, I’ll be in Dan Kessell’s office; he’s better at this kind of arrangement than I am.”
I took the phone off the speaker and handed the receiver to Charlene. She made her call, spoke at length, jotting down notes, and hung up. “It’s all set.”
I redialed RKI, asked for Kessell’s office, and put the speaker on again.
Hy answered. “Dan and I are both here. Dan, you’re talking with McCone and her sister, Mrs. Savage. Charlene, is it okay for the place at Tahoe?”
“Yes. I’ve got the code for the security system and exact directions.”
“Good. Now listen carefully. We have a plan, and Dan’s going to tell you about it.”
Kessell’s deep, rumbling voice came on. “Hello, Mrs. Savage, Sharon. First I want to stress that there’s no immediate cause for alarm, but we’ll want to move as quickly as possible. Where are the children’s camps?”
Charlene said, “The girls are at Mammoth Lakes, and Brian’s at Lake Elsinore.”
“Give me exact names and locations, please.”
While she was reciting them, the fax rang. I stared at it in annoyance, then thought of the earlier communication and backed up so my body shielded it from my sister’s line of sight.
“Very good,” Kessell said. “Now, here’s what you’re to do: Call the camps and tell the directors that they’ll be receiving further instructions from you late this afternoon. Then get yourself and the older girls packed. Take enough for a long stay. One of our representatives will arrive at your home at four-thirty. He’ll identify himself by this code number.” He repeated a succession of seven digits twice.
The fax was transmitting. While Charlene wrote down the code, I turned to get a look at the display panel. All it said was “receiving” and there was no header on the page that was emerging. My sister said my name; quickly I turned back and took the sheet on which she’d written the code number.
Kessell went on, “At six-thirty our representative will take you and the girls to Lindbergh Field and fly with you on one of our jets to Tahoe. I understand there’s an older boy.”
Charlene looked torn. Finally she said, “My other son is a grown man and has a job to do.”
> I wished Mick could have heard that.
“Fine. As I said, you’ll fly to Tahoe. Guards from our Reno office will already be in place on the property. Give me the exact location and the security code, please.”
She repeated them, then asked, “What about my younger children?”
“I’m coming to that. Before you leave the house, at precisely four forty-five, you’re to call your boy’s camp. Have the director call back so he’ll know he’s actually dealing with you. Tell him your son will be picked up by helicopter promptly at five. Give him the code number; the pilot will use it to identify himself as your representative. How old is the boy?”
“Thirteen.”
“Any problems with having him picked up by a stranger? Or with the chopper?”
A wisp of amusement passed over Charlene’s face. “I don’t think there’ll be a problem with any of the children, Mr. Kessell. In fact, it may be your pilot who suffers.”
Hy chuckled, but Kessell didn’t respond; the former marine and air-charter operator had absolutely no sense of humor. Behind me the end-transmission tone on the fax went off.
“All right,” Kessell went on, “at six you’re to follow the same procedure with the director of your girls’ camp. They’ll be picked up at six-fifteen. You’ll have your family together at Lake Tahoe by ten at the latest.”
“Why such precise timing, Dan?” I asked. “And why give the camp directors such short notice?”
“Short notice leaves no opportunity for someone at those camps to alert an outsider that the kids are being moved. We don’t know who’s behind this, so we don’t want to trust anyone. And you of all people should know that precision is an RKI policy. Mrs. Savage, are you sure none of your husband’s associates know about the place in Tahoe?”
Charlene smiled wryly. “Even my husband doesn’t know.”
“All right. Why don’t you brief your older girls on this and start packing. In the meantime, we’ll get the operation rolling.”
“Thanks, Dan,” I said.
Charlene depressed the speaker button and turned to me, eyes bleak and weary. “I feel like we’re going into a witness protection program.”
“Well, it’s nowhere near that permanent. Things’ll be back to normal soon.”
“Will they?” She sighed and started toward the door. “I wonder if our lives will ever be normal again.”
I waited till she was out of the room, then turned and ripped the fax from the machine.
YOU K N O W WHAT YOU’VE DONE!
Close to five hours later, Ricky met me in the entryway, duffel in hand, garment bag slung over his shoulder. He went to the archway leading to the living room and looked across at the gathering dusk on the terrace beyond. In the distance the sea was midnight blue, streaked with pink and magenta.
He said, “It’s really all over here, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“My family’s gone into hiding, even the dogs’re boarded.”
“Hy said to tell you that RKI’ll make sure the property’s secure.”
“The property! Who the hell cares about a place that was built on disappointment and lies?”
“You know that isn’t the sum total of your marriage.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s just what I remember most clearly.”
A car’s engine purred in the parking area and gravel crunched—the limo he’d ordered to take us to L.A. Ricky remained where he was for a moment longer, then turned. Lines of strain made his face look years older.
“Time to go,” he said. “I want to get home to Red. I miss her.”
Eighteen
So at last I was alone—both in the enormous bathtub and the suite, Hy having decided at the last minute to fly to Tahoe with Charlene and the girls and stay till the entire family was settled. It was after eleven now, and I didn’t expect him for hours.
More of the avoidance I’d noticed previously? It certainly seemed so. Once it would have been inconceivable that instead of a quiet evening with me, Hy would prefer a long plane ride with two sullen teenagers, and then a longer settling-in period, complicated by the boisterous presence of the three youngest Little Savages. I felt deeply unsettled, uprooted as well, so I turned, as I usually did, to my work.
I added still more hot water, closed my eyes, and began reviewing the case—both fact and implication. Ricky and I had finally had our in-depth talk on the way up here, and what he’d said about his associates had reinforced my image of him at the center of a circling school of parasitic fish, each eager to attach its suckers and hang on for a fast and profitable ride.
“It’s a weird existence,” he’d admitted. “Here I am, caught up in the middle of all this cut-throat game playing, but inside I’m still just the kid from Bakersfield who desperately wants to make it, on account of his daddy being one of the town’s most accomplished drunks and wife-beaters. And my songs—all they are is stories about my life, both the good and the bad of it. But I lay them down on tape and suddenly they’re product, and there’re hundreds of people trying to cash in on them. And I don’t know those people, any more than they know me.”
Ricky’s take on Ethan Amory and Kurt Girdwood was similar to Charlene’s, although considerably more cynical where his manager was concerned.
“He’d rob me blind if he thought he could get away with it, which is one of the reasons I’ve got a professional money manager—who’d also rob me blind if I didn’t keep an eye on him. Kurt and I have an understanding, though. Came to it years ago when I caught him with his fingers in my pocket. I’ve got the evidence of that in my safe-deposit box in case he ever pulls anything again. And one of the reasons he’s been good to Charly—although she isn’t aware of it—is that the box has two keys, and one of them’s hers.”
About Virgil Rattray he could be less specific. “I suppose he is one of those people who don’t own property or use credit cards,” he said in answer to my comment about the dearth of information Keim had turned up on the road manager. “He’s a strange guy. Older than he looks, sort of oozed up out of the muck of the eighties rock scene and presented himself to Kurt one day, said he wanted to work for me. When Kurt asked him why, he told him he was the best and wanted to work with the best, plus country didn’t give him migraines like rock did. Who knows what his real reasons were? But he is the best, no question about it. He lives in a horrible apartment in Echo Park—I haven’t seen it, but Kurt has—and drives a beat-up VW Beetle. So far as I know, nobody’s ever heard him mention a woman—or a male friend. Does drugs, booze, you name it, but never lets it get out of control. Strange, strange guy.”
The picture of the band members that emerged from our discussion was revealing, fleshing out the dry facts that the bios and Keim’s research had provided and putting each in a new and different light.
“Forrest’s probably the best musician of the group, but he’s also a serious cokehead and he’s starting to be unreliable. Was a nice kid when we plucked him out of Nashville to replace Benjy—naive and kind of wide-eyed and grateful to be with a hit band. But the naivete makes him a target for the worst kind of scum in town. You go over to his house and it’s all trashed and filthy, and you find the sleaziest hangers-on and pushers waiting around for the chance to take him for a ride. I’m gonna have to replace him once his contract’s up this fall.
“On the other hand, Jerry looks like a good ole boy from Shreveport. Likes his dope, his booze, his drums, and his women—in that order. Easygoing, slightly stupid, seldom sober. Right? Wrong. He’s no genius, but he’s shrewd, and that’s a winning quality in this business. With Jer it’s all instinct: He senses who to trust and how far, what real-estate investment deal will fly and which won’t. He never carries his boozing or doping to extremes; he’s careful with his women. Ain’t nobody gonna take that good ole boy for a ride.
“Now, Norm—he’s more complicated, and a loner. When he’s not working, he’s up on that ranch in Santa Barbara County, growing things. Lives the
re with a woman named Gina Robinson, who’s been his partner for at least five years. They’re a private couple; none of us have even met her. Was married twice, both wives died young. Norm doesn’t say much, but you look close at him, particularly when we’re doing one of the sadder songs, and you’ll see the tragedy in his life weighs pretty heavy on him. Too bad, too, because he’s disciplined and a damn fine guitar picker; he could’ve had a big career if his private pain hadn’t eaten away at his ambition.
“Of the four, Pete’s the most like me: really driven, but still torn between getting to the top and having a happy, simple life. He’s devoted to his wife, can’t wait to be a family man, and worries because the baby’s late and will most likely be born while we’re on tour. But in the meantime he’s staying up all night writing songs, just like I did; my publishing company’s already picked up four of them, and one’s on hold for a very big star and stands to make Pete a lot of money. He thinks he can take from the business and not let it take from him, but you and I know better. And he admitted to me this afternoon that this situation with Charly and me has opened his eyes some. Maybe that’s good, or maybe he’s better off not knowing. I can’t be sure of that—or much of anything—anymore.”
I got out of the tub and toweled off, then put on one of the terry robes the hotel provided. Still thinking about the band members, I went to the living room and sat on the balcony overlooking Century Boulevard and the city’s neon-lighted sprawl.
I was more inclined now to believe that one of Ricky’s musicians was Terriss’s inside contact: They’d been to his home numerous times and, until this afternoon, had had the run of it. They knew the layout well enough to locate the circuit-breaker box, trip the right switch, fire a shot under cover of darkness, and later hide the rifle on the grounds. They also knew the unlisted fax number. And they were well acquainted with the children: Jerry Jackson, Chris had admitted, was such a good buddy that she’d felt free to ask him for a couple of joints on Saturday night. What was to prevent a buddy from asking her or Jamie for the names and locations of their siblings’ camps?
The Broken Promise Land Page 21