by Lee Goldberg
To Paula Block and Phyllis Ungerleider, for making it happen.
ACNOWLEDGMENTS
The inspiration for this story came from Lisa Klink, so this book is all her fault. I am indebted to Dr. D. P. Lyle, who gives kindly of his medical knowledge, which I then use for nefarious purposes. I'm also grateful to William Rabkin, Ted Goldberg, Paul Bishop, Tom Mayes, Larry Hill, Al Navis, Robert M. Greber, Bill Fitzhugh, Tom Becker, Lewis Perdue, Robin Burcell, James Lincoln Warren, and Richard Yokley for their help and technical assistance. Finally, to my wife, Valerie, and my daughter, Madison, for not complaining about having to look at my back all the time.
I would love to hear from you.
Please visit me at www.diagnosis.murder.com and say hello.
PROLOGUE
The cliché goes that a picture is worth a thousand words. That might be true, but the pictures splayed out on the desk in front of Bert Yankton were worth about five hundred dollars each, based on what he paid the private detective who took them.
Even that figure didn't calculate their true worth once he factored in the cost of a divorce, the dismantling of his business partnership, and his own considerable pain and suffering, the magnitude of which, he feared, would be extreme. So, when it came right down to it, Yankton decided that figuring out exactly what a picture is worth was a complicated endeavor.
He glanced at another set of pictures, displayed in silver frames on the bookshelves that lined his home study, and pondered their worth. Like the other photographs in front of him, they also were of his twenty-nine-year-old wife, Vivian.
The first photo was taken five years ago, before they were married. It was her headshot, the glossy photo she paper-clipped to her acting résumé when she went out for auditions. He had met her at a party at the Hollywood Hills home of one of his clients, actor Flint Westwood, who'd become an overnight sensation on Sexual Surrogates, a cable drama about a bunch of smug, self-absorbed sex therapists and their patients in Miami.
For reasons Yankton didn't understand then, but certainly understood now, Vivian lavished her attentions on him, even though she'd crashed the party to meet the casting directors, producers, and actors in the room. Yankton was Flint's financial manager, so there wasn't really anything he could do for her career besides teach her how to invest her money, of which she had little. He was also ten years older than she was. Despite all of that, Vivian had clung to him that night and almost every night since.
What was that picture worth? It was hard for Yankton to calculate. It was taken before he knew her, before they made a life together. He supposed its value was the potential for happiness he saw in her perfect features, her radiant smile, her vibrant eyes.
The second photo was taken after they were married and not long after she had surgically upgraded her breasts from a B cup to a C, narrowed her nose, capped her teeth, and plumped up her lips with collagen injections. He hadn't thought she needed any surgery. On a beauty scale of one to ten, she rated herself a seven, and to make it in Hollywood, she believed, she had to be a ten. In his eyes, he told her, she already was. Your eyes don't cast movies, she said. So he did what any good husband would do. He made her happy. He found her the best plastic surgeon in Hollywood.
What was that picture worth? If he combined the cost of the Mercedes convertible he bought her as an engagement present, the Harry Winston diamond ring, the wedding ceremony at the Hotel Bel-Air, the honeymoon at the Four Sea Sons in Hawaii, and the plastic surgery, he was looking at a half a million, easy.
But being a ten didn't get her the roles she wanted. She was relegated to playing waitresses and models and nurses who had, at best, one line. Vivian felt that with her looks, and her husband's close relationship with some of the most powerful people in Hollywood, she should be doing better. But Yankton couldn't bring himself to nag his clients to hire his wife, although he made sure he had plenty of her headshots and résumés on hand when they came in.
Of course Vivian interpreted his unwillingness to pressure his clients on her behalf as evidence that he was ashamed of her, was embarrassed by the way she looked, and had no faith at all in her talent. None of that was true except for the bit about her talent. He knew she didn't have any, at least not for acting, though he would never admit that to anyone, except perhaps Jimmy Cale, his business partner and oldest friend.
The third photo was taken only a few months ago, one of many seductive poses from a spread commissioned by Trelayne, a famous fashion photographer from Paris. Vivian modeled clingy and revealing designer clothes and bathing suits that made the most of her body, which she'd spent months "sculpting" with a personal trainer who actually called himself Michael Angelo and "freshening up" with the plastic surgeon.
What was that picture worth? If it was all totaled up—her personal trainer five days a week, and her cosmetic "freshening," and the designer wardrobe, and the photographer, who had to be flown in from France and put up in a suite at the Hotel Bel-Air for two weeks––he'd guess close to two hundred thousand.
It was after writing those last few checks that he began to realize why she had picked him out of that crowd at Flint Westwood's party. And it was also when he began to wonder if a woman who saw herself as an eleven on a scale of one to ten could really be satisfied being stuck with paunchy Bert Yankton a man who was, in his own conservative estimation, a four at best.
So, to ease his growing insecurity, and to prove himself a fool, he hired a private eye to follow his wife for a few weeks. His fear, of course, was that she'd found herself a younger man who was her equal in terms of physical perfection. An actor, perhaps, with washboard abs. A hot producer with a rich development deal. A high-level studio executive who could green-light movies. Or a powerful agent who could make her a star. Maybe her lover was even one of his own clients, someone whose long-term financial security Yankton had cleverly assured and loyally protected.
But in his worst nightmares—and he'd had many of them—Yankton never imagined just how deep the betrayal could be.
His wife, Vivian, was sleeping with his partner, Jimmy Cale. The graphic nature of the pictures the private eye took left no doubt at all.
In many ways, it was Cale's betrayal that hurt Bert Yankton the most. The two of them had met twenty years earlier as students at the UCLA Graduate School of Business. Yankton had the intelligence and the financial acumen, but Cale had the charisma, the charm, and the creativity. They both knew that separately they wouldn't amount to much, but if they teamed up, they might have a chance at something beyond their individual promise.
Cale knew he would never fit into a corporate structure. He chafed at authority, at anything that restrained his creativity and his freedom. But Yankton could have gone right from UCLA into the accounting department of some huge company. In fact, he would have been assimilated into the Borg collective of corporate America, his identity lost, his true earning potential left untapped.
It was Cale who came up with the brilliant idea that the two of them should make a living investing other people's money. Not as mere stockbrokers or accountants but as financial managers or, as Cale liked to call it, Wealth Generators. Cale didn't want to deal with anyone smarter than they were, so they decided to court The Talent, Hollywood-speak for actors, writers, producers, and directors, basically people who lived off their imaginations rather than intelligence.
Cale looked like Talent, though his creativity was limited to money and how to exploit it. He would bring in the clients, do all the courting, seducing, and hand-holding, while Yankton concentrated on the business itself, coming up with the investment strategies for their clients.
And that's about the way it worked, though each was deep
ly involved in the other's area of expertise as well as his own. Yankton would bring in the more conservative thoughtful clients who weren't susceptible to Cale's charms, while Cale would come up with outrageous, edgy, out-of-the-box business strategies that Yankton might otherwise not have considered
They started their business by going to equity-waiver plays in ninety-nine-seat theaters on Melrose and screenings of student films. They targeted aspiring actors, writers, and directors and offered their financial management services for free until the clients got on their feet. Gambling that a few of them would become stars, Yankton and Cale helped them deal with their credit card debt, manage their student loans, and apply for unemployment until their big breaks came.
The gamble paid off.
First, one of their actors got a regular gig on a sitcom that became the surprise hit of the season. Then a writer sold a spec feature for "the high six figures." Then a director got a music video, and that led to a lucrative contract with a major advertising agency. And all those clients remembered who'd been there for them when they had nothing, and who was going to turn their newfound something into something more.
Success bred more success, luring clients who were already established in The Industry. Soon, Yankton and Cale had stunning offices on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills, lavish homes, and expensive cars.
Surprisingly, it was Cale who married first, had a child almost immediately, and settled into a life of privileged domesticity in Brentwood, right down to the golden retriever and the Jeep Cherokee. But the marriage collapsed within a few years, as his wife, Betsy, was unable to forgive his constant and unrepentant womanizing.
Yankton had been there for his friend, letting Cale stay with him during those first few painful weeks. He even brokered the equitable division of their assets.
Betsy was the kind of woman Yankton should have married: sensible, practical, family-oriented, and totally authentic, physically and emotionally. The idea of getting breast implants or collagen injections would have appalled her. Yankton liked her immediately and remained friends with her long after the divorce, continuing to manage the family's money and their daughter's college fund. He was the only person both Jimmy Cale and his ex-wife trusted.
Vivian was definitely more Cale's type, or at least the kind of woman everyone expected him to be with.
And now he was.
How could Cale do this to him? It wasn't something that happened by accident. Cale had to know the magnitude of his betrayal and the destruction it would cause. Was that the thrill for him? Was that what made the affair irresistible?
Yankton could understand Vivian's motives. First, there was the physical aspect. Cale looked like a movie star and dressed the part, too. Cale had money, at least as much as Yankton, and would gladly manipulate his Hollywood clients on Vivian's behalf without their even being aware that they were being played. And sleeping with him was the perfect way to act out her fury that Yankton hadn't done more to help her career.
But why would Cale do it? Why didn't he rebuff her advances instead of giving into them? Or was it Cale who pursued her? How could he put his own gratification above their partnership? Their friendship?
Yankton just couldn't make sense of it. Having an affair with Vivian was a premeditated act of cruelty. Of hatred. There was no other explanation
What had he ever done to Cale to deserve this?
It made Yankton want to cry.
But the self-pity passed quickly, evaporating in the heat of a stronger, more consuming compulsion.
The need to kill
When Vivian came home that evening, clutching two shopping bags from Neiman Marcus, her husband was nearly finished remodeling the living morn with a sledgehammer.
All the paintings had been driven into holes in the walls where they'd once hung. The canvases and splintered frames looked as if they were being chewed up by the house.
Anything made of ceramic or glass had been smashed into shards and covered the floor like glittering confetti.
The couches and chairs had been pummeled into piles of broken wood and twisted chrome draped in torn leather.
Yankton was in the process of destroying the dining room table when he noticed Vivian standing in the doorway, her mouth hanging open, either in shock or from the unnatural weight of the collagen in her lower lip.
"I never liked what you did with this place," Yankton said. "I only wanted to make you happy."
He used to think she was a stunning beauty. But tonight she looked grotesque to him, a mockery of a woman, with her catfish lips, bowling-ball breasts, and permanently arched eyebrows.
"Not that you give a damn," he said, giving the table a final whack with the sledgehammer that brought it crashing to the floor.
Yankton nodded pleased with himself. His skin was damp with sweat, his clothes sticky and itchy. His tailored suit was dusted with plaster and sawdust. There were blisters on his hands from wielding the sledgehammer, which was far heavier than his usual weapon of choice, a fine fountain pen.
"What the hell has gotten into you, Bert?" she said, trying to sound angry instead of afraid. "Do you have any idea what this is going to cost?"
"Matter of fact, I do." he said calmly.
He motioned with the sledgehammer towards the coffee table, the only piece of furniture left standing in the wreckage. In the center of the table was the stack of pictures the detective had taken and, beside it, a thick document.
Vivian's breath caught in her throat as she saw the picture on the top of the stack. It was the most graphic one of the set, which is why Yankton put it on top. He didn't want any arguments. He didn't want any denials. Her grip tightened on the handles of her Neiman Marcus shopping bags as if they were life preservers. She couldn't look away from the picture. She couldn't look at him.
"You can keep the pictures for your portfolio. They're sexier than the crap the French guy shot and a lot cheaper. The document beside them is our prenup," Yankton said. "I've highlighted the key points with a yellow marker so you can't miss them. I'm going to La Quinta for the weekend. Be gone when I get back on Monday."
Still hefting the sledgehammer, he headed for the door. She flinched as he walked past, as if expecting him to take a swing at her. But he didn't. He took a few swings at her Mercedes in the driveway, though, leaving it bleeding antifreeze and wailing for help as he got into his BMW and drove off.
When she was certain he was gone, she slowly set down her shopping bags, reached into her Louis Vuitton purse, and took out her cell phone. Her hands trembled. The phone rang twice, and then he answered.
"Jimmy," she said, but then she couldn't say anything more. All she could do was sob.
* * *
On Monday morning, Bert Yankton showed up promptly at seven A.M. at his Wilshire Boulevard offices looking fit and rested. He smiled at the receptionist, picked up his mail, and sauntered into his bright corner office.
He emerged a few moments later to get a cup of coffee and a donut from the snack mom, then went back to his desk to check the stock market, catch up on his e-mail, read the newspaper, and go over his calendar for the day. This was all part of his morning routine.
Ordinarily Yankton would spend the next two hours preparing for his first meeting of the day, which would be with either a client or member of his staff.
But this morning he had a meeting that wasn't on the books.
The man who strode uninvited into Yankton's office looked like he would be much more comfortable wearing a tank top, shorts, and sandals than an off-the-rack suit and scuffed Florsheims. He had the even tan and sun-bleached hair of a surfer, but there was nothing laid-back about his attitude. The man radiated authority and probably would have even without the badge and the gun clipped to his belt.
"Bert Yankton?" the man asked.
"Yes." Yankton rose from his chair. "How can I help you, Officer?"
"It's detective I'm Steve Sloan. LAPD Homicide."
"Who died?" Yankton asked.
"All right," Yankton said. "Who has been killed and what does that have to do with me?"
"Where have you been since you left the office Friday night?"
"I went home for a few hours, and then I drove down to La Quinta," Yankton said. "I have a place there."
"Is there anybody who can confirm your whereabouts?"
"I was by myself. But I stopped for gas in Montclair on my way down, got some groceries at Jensen's market on Saturday night, and filled up the tank again on the way back this morning, at a Chevron in Redlands. I used my credit card for all those transactions, if that matters."
"It will."
"Are you going to tell me what this is about?"
"Where's your partner?"
Yankton's face tightened, and he glanced at his watch. "Jimmy doesn't come in until ten."
"When did you last see Jimmy Cale
"Not since Friday," Yankton said. "We met with a client for lunch at Le Guerre in Studio City. Jimmy had other meetings in the Valley and I had an appointment back here at the office."
"Who did you meet with?"
"I'm not answering any more questions until you tell me what's going on."
"You met with a private investigator who calls himself Nick Stryker," Steve said.
"What should he be calling himself?"
"Zanley Rosencrantz. That's his real name, but it doesn't sound half as cool as 'Nick Stryker,' does it? Think about it for a second, Bert. Would you have hired a guy with a name like that to follow your wife?"
Tiny beads of perspiration were beginning to make Yankton's brow shine. "If you already knew who I met with and why, what was the point of asking me?"
"To catch you in a lie, of course," Steve said. "It's a big part of what I do."
"Has Stryker been murdered?"
Steve shook his head. "No such luck."
Yankton shifted his weight in frustration, clearly trying to keep his voice steady and his demeanor professionally aloof. "Then who has?"