I whispered close to Dad’s ear. “Weren’t you the one who taught me not to stare?”
“You be sure to make this right, Mr. Shemin,” Marcela called after us, as Len and I walked toward my home office, like Len was our plumber.
“I’ll do that, ma’am,” Len said. I almost believed him.
I’d moved my office into a corner of the screening room, which had once been the centerpiece of Alice’s social life. She’d spent a fortune on it. My tiny corner desk, computer and printer faced opposite Alice’s old nine-and-a-half-foot screen, two rows of seats, and a museum’s worth of publicity photos in neat rows across the walls.
“Ten, this house! Jesus, all these years you’re giving me this song and dance about no money, ‘Get me work, Len’…This fucking house is bigger than mine. This room! I don’t have a goddamn screening room. Who do you think you are—George Lucas?”
I powered up my computer. “Inheritance,” I said. “Former client.”
“You’re kidding! Who?”
I shook my head. “You know I’m not going there, man.”
Len admired Alice’s photo collection on the wall, the record of her Hollywood friendships. Name someone, and their signatures and photos are up there. Name anyone.
“I’ll look her up in the real estate records,” Len said.
“Do what you gotta do.”
With Len there, I almost forgot about my ear. Then my computer beeped as the screen came on. I barely heard the sound, as if I were in a fish tank filled with water.
Len was talking to me, and I had to concentrate to listen. Len, ever perceptive, noticed I was favoring one ear and shifted to my good side. “…times I tried to get you to walk away from that life, I should’ve been lining up clients, getting my ten percent.”
I might have thought it was funny if it hadn’t been so hard to hear.
“So you just came to say ‘I told you so’?” I was surprised by the anger in my voice.
Len’s face went sallow. “Hell no, Ten. I was just kidding. A joke.”
Anger had hardened my face. I had to use my hands to knead my skin back to softness. The anger seemed to have boiled up out of nowhere, and that kind of anger is dangerous.
“Sorry, man,” I said.
Len patted my shoulder and checked the closed door behind us. “Listen, Ten, in all seriousness: I’m sure Jewell got you fired off the show.”
I’d had my suspicions, but if anyone would know, Len Shemin would.
“What makes you sure?”
“Your show-runner, Frank Lloyd, got his start at Dark Dream Productions, which was FilmQuest’s television subsidiary, and he made them a fortune. I knew the Lloyds and Jewells play doubles at the Beverly Hills Tennis Club—that’s why I sent her your packet. Homeland is his baby. All she had to do was pick up the phone, and you were gone.”
Pick up the phone and say what? I wondered.
On my computer, I Googled my least favorite propmaster, Gareth Priestly. He got two hundred hits, including his MySpace page, where I saw a long list of credits. He’d started his career working on Alien, and he’d worked steady, high-profile projects ever since, most of them involving gunplay. He should have done a better job. Leaving blanks in a gun about to be fired against an actor’s body was damn near as bad as filling it with bullets. There would be an incident review at the SAG Stunt Performer’s Board. If his mistake was taken seriously enough, there might be charges.
Beside Gareth’s name, I typed L-Y-N-D-A J-E-W-E-L-L. Searched them together. Call it a hunch.
There were forty hits. Most of the sites were movie listings, from three or four projects Gareth Priestly worked on that Lynda Jewell shepherded as an executive producer. That didn’t count: They might never have even met.
But the last hit was a photo from Variety, which I could only access because of my subscription: Lynda Jewell and Gareth Priestly side by side at a FilmQuest premiere party, raising champagne glasses toward the photographer, their faces slightly ruddy from alcohol.
The blood in my veins cooled.
Not only had they met, but they looked cozy. Priestly was in his midfifties, but he was fit. Strong face. Maybe handsome. Where was her husband when that photo was taken?
Two clangs in my head reminded me that Len was talking to me.
“…not much you can do except wait…” Len was saying. “So far, I haven’t heard from Progress Smartphones, so that’s good. Your contract runs through May…”
That bitch tried to hurt me.
The realization rang more loudly than the rest of the noises in my head.
The second time, I said it aloud.
“What?” Len said. He used that B-word plenty, but he’d never heard it from my lips.
“Lynda Jewell.” I pointed out the photo on my screen.
“Who’s that with her?”
“The asshole who gave Perry a gun loaded with blanks.”
Len’s eyes widened. He lowered his face so close to the screen that his nose nearly touched it. “No. That can’t be right. You think…? He’ll probably get fired. What you’re talking about is assault. That’s…prison.”
“Or something. If I can prove it. Means and opportunity we have. Maybe motive, too.”
Len looked at me with alarm. The tumult between my ears made me miss most of what he said, but I could tell how dismissive his words were by his body language. Don’t jump to conclusions, he was saying. Give it a few days. Don’t do anything rash. Len always gave good advice, but it’s hard to hear him even with two good ears. For me, anyway.
I changed the expression on my face—admittedly, it must have been fearsome—and Len looked more at ease. Being an actor comes in handy every day. Before long, Len was looking at his watch, saying something about a meeting at Warner Brothers at three.
But first, he gave me another hug. “Next step, lawyer. If we make the case, you’ll get a settlement. But your assault theory…remember what I said. Thin ice, Ten.”
Whatever else he’d said didn’t matter. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Women,” he said to my good ear. “If you find a sane one, bottle her.”
Len hadn’t said a nice word about women since his divorce. Once I told him to let all that anger go, or he’d drive himself crazy. If he was ever put on trial for any crime having to do with hating women, I’m not sure who’d be hotter to get me on the stand: the prosecution or the defense.
“It’s not about women,” I said. “I’ve known thousands of women, and most of them are saner than you. This one happens to be a sick and vindictive person.”
My speech was intended more for me than for Len.
I suddenly understood why so many men were eager to join the Bitches-Ain’t-Shit club. Ages ago, one of my clients told me I had contempt for women, since so many female sex workers have contempt for men. I’ll admit that her theory messed with my head for a minute, but I eventually convinced her otherwise. I love women. Let me count the ways.
Lynda Jewell wants to rewire Tennyson Hardwick? Bring a lunch. But our time in her hotel suite was far from over. She’d been too sloppy.
Somehow—some way—someday—I was going to get her.
The rest was only details.
After I walked Len to the door, I returned to my computer to find out more about the connections between Lynda Jewell, Gareth Priestly, and Frank Lloyd.
But first, I checked my email. Finally, a note from BLESSED-GIRL was waiting for me. I hadn’t heard from April since she’d left. I inhaled, and read the note before the breath left my lips: Arrived safely! There’s so much to talk about. I’ll call you soon.
And that was it.
My joy at seeing email from April was snuffed out by everything she hadn’t said. She wasn’t out in the bush: She’d told me they were checking her into a Holiday Inn. If she ever sent me her number, or called me, I would tell her what had happened Monday. If not, she didn’t have time. Either way was fine. That was what I told myself.
I almost didn�
��t recognize the next email’s sender: SECUREG?
When I opened it, I saw the company’s full name: SECUREGUARD.com It was a monitoring service I’d set up after my computer problem with Chela. They monitored keystrokes and kept track of email and websites. Pure invasion of privacy, but I owned the computer, I pay for the internet, and I don’t care.
I’d almost forgotten I had the service. For months they’d been quiet, meaning that hopefully she’d been good. Now, for the first time in six months, I had a bulletin. SecureGuard could tell me if Chela tried to get back in touch with Internet Guy. I didn’t spy on Chela’s email more than once in a while, and lately only if I had a reason. SecureGuard had just given me one.
Chela wasn’t home from school yet, so I went into her room to sign on to her computer. Knowing every keystroke also meant I knew her passwords.
In a way, we were in a war, Chela and I. She didn’t know who she was messing with.
I signed on as Chela, using her password. Her only email was ten announcements from her high school, one a reminder for the homecoming dance. Chela, knowing I was spying, deleted almost all of her personal email immediately. But I knew how to check her Recycling Bin, and that was where I headed next.
That was where I saw a sender’s name: DRUMZ62.
It was a new email address, but I knew who it was from: The guy in Sherman Oaks was a drummer with a Led Zeppelin tribute band called Stairway. I’d watched his show once, with plans for him in the parking lot. His first name was Zack. He was forty-six, born in 1962. Chela didn’t realize it, but I knew everything about that prick except boxers or briefs. And hoped Chela couldn’t fill that one in for me.
I’d wanted to break his legs once, and the feeling was back.
His email to Chela was dated the night I was at the hospital, another reason to be pissed. I could have been at home. That wouldn’t have stopped his email, but at least she wouldn’t have been without me when it came. I had made her promise to tell me if he ever again tried to get in touch with her. She said she’d seen the light: He was disgusting, and she never wanted to hear from him again.
Yeah, right.
I clicked DRUMZ62’s message open, a single line:
I miss you. Where U been, beautiful?
My fists contracted. For ten seconds, I was so pissed I couldn’t move my fingers. It was as if he’d snuck in through the cyberwindow. Into my house.
Heart pounding, I scanned the folder of SENT MAIL to see if Chela had answered.
She had, within a minute: I told you not to write me here. Call me on our cell.
Our cell? I’d bought her one, but obviously she knew I had access to the bill. That door was locked and barred, right? Hardly. Disposable or rechargeable cells are sold over the counter at every 7-Eleven. Who paid for it, Chela—and how did you pay him back?
Chela lied to me every day, and maybe always would. Lying was her nature. I was a fool to think I could stand in the way of a force that strong.
That was when the call came, when I was at my lowest.
Marcela knocked on my door. The knocking sounded so muted, I almost missed it. “Ten! Phone for you!”
My cell phone was in my back pocket, and no one called my house phone except political pollsters and bill collectors. I wasn’t in the mood for the phone.
“Who is it?” I called back, not moving.
(“Meghiehee Wiehe?”)
“FUCK,” I said, much louder than I intended. Rage was running loose in my throat, my muscles and everywhere else, and I couldn’t rein it back. I didn’t even want to.
I tried to ignore the startled look on Marcela’s face when I flung the door open. Marcela’s eyes looked too much like April’s when she asked if I’d gone into a hotel room with Lynda Jewell, wondering why I’d let that woman sit on my lap. Hurt. Surprised. Emptied out.
“Who?” I said. “Jesus, Marcela, speak up. E-nun-ci-ate.”
The phone in Marcela’s hand trembled slightly. Her voice was uncertain.
“Melanie…Wilde? She said it’s about T.D. Jackson.”
EIGHT
I’D WARNED MELANIE that if she insisted on seeing me Tuesday, I wouldn’t be at my best. But Melanie Wilde couldn’t hear the word no, wheedling and cajoling nonstop on the phone. She talked me into letting her pick me up—only because getting out of the house seemed like a damn fine idea, and nobody else had offered me a ride. I didn’t trust myself to drive yet. I also didn’t trust having too much empty time left in the day. I was too pissed off in too many directions to have idle hands. Devil’s workshop and all that.
I really wanted to drive to Sherman Oaks and commit a felony. Or to FilmQuest.
Instead, ten minutes later, Melanie showed up at my curb in a silver Volvo convertible, her braids loose in the wind. Driven music was playing on Melanie’s speakers, but I couldn’t follow it. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t have to. Grief chiseled her cheekbones. She was a sight, midnight skin wrapped in a sweater of spun gold. I had blocked Melanie’s true beauty from my eyes at the fund-raiser, but that day my eyes missed nothing. Her beauty was hard, burnished, secure. She probably had known she was beautiful since she was a girl.
I stood beside her open passenger door. “You holding up okay?”
“Sorry about your ear,” she said, ignoring my pity. “Let’s take a drive.”
Climbing into her car was easy. Melanie reminded me of what April might be like in a few years if she took off her brakes. Melanie could help me put off my talk with Chela after school. Nothing else I did the rest of the day was going to be harder than that talk, or more dangerous. So I thought.
The drive itself was easy, too. But climbing out of Melanie’s car afterward wasn’t.
We sat idling at the Jacksons’ curb, in the shade of perfectly aligned jacaranda trees. The gated community of Hancock Park belied the turmoil I knew was caged inside the genteel, Tudor-style house on the corner lot. Len had fawned over my house, but Alice had never lived with the kind of opulence in Hancock Park, which has been home to black millionaires since Nat King Cole crossed the color line and bought his house there in the 1950s.
I realized, a bit late, that I’d fallen into the oldest trap known to man, or more specifically, to men: I wanted to get laid. Mind you, despite my history—or maybe because of it—I don’t find myself casually attracted to random women. Maybe that’s why it turned out to be so easy for me to be monogamous; I’d seen so many women, I lost the habit of looking. Sex always felt good, but it wasn’t always worth the responsibility of new people.
But April was gone—she’d been gone two days and counting, and I still didn’t know how to call her—and the more I missed April, the more I wanted to see Melanie without her clothes. Apparently, I’m one of those people who get horny during periods of pain: Who knew? I hoped Melanie Wilde was one of those people, too. Everything she did turned me on, even her harassment, because at least she was feeding my ego, and my ego was starving.
But what the hell would I have to say to T.D. Jackson’s parents the day after their son’s body was found? I wasn’t even sure I was sorry about it. He probably deserved worse than he got.
“Give me one reason,” I said. “Make it a good one. Or just take me back home.”
Melanie took a long time to mull it over. “Do you know when Homicide considers a case cold?” Melanie said, staring at her steering wheel. Her voice dropped, whispering, but I never missed a word. “The point when they figure they have zero chance of solving it?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“That’s right. And almost forty-eight hours after he died, instead of asking the public for tips, the LAPD jackass squad is still talking suicide. They’re glad he’s dead. I just want you to look into his parents’ eyes. Hear them out.”
“Assuming I can hear them, what will they want from me?”
“Right now, they just need to know somebody’s willing to listen.”
“There are plenty of licensed detectives.”
; “That’s not the way my uncle and aunt want to go.”
“Why not?”
Rare silence from her, a beat. “Judge Jackson likes to keep his options open.”
Right. He wanted to hire someone off the radar. No license, no trail, no accountability. Alice had put me through the seventy-four-day ESI Personal Protection program in Colorado, and I’d actually used the training a half dozen times. And yes, I’d managed to survive—and solve—the entire sordid Serena Johnston affair. But a nagging suspicion that I might have discovered an unsuspected talent didn’t necessarily lead me to that doorstep.
Besides, Judge Jackson might want more than a solved case and an arrest. He sounded like a pissed-off, grieving parent. I understood, but I had my own problem. I had plenty.
“I’m not the one, Mel,” I said. “You’re hurting. They’re hurting. But I’m not the one.”
She brought her hand to my knee and let it rest. Next, a glimpse of her pain-shattered eyes. Ugh. “Unless you are the one,” she said. “How will you know unless you meet them?”
Part of me must enjoy doing what I know I shouldn’t. Part of me always has. I’d better at least get laid for this, I thought, exactly as she knew I would.
“If I make even one phone call on this, they pay through the nose,” I said.
“They wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“And you owe me a favor.”
She arched her left eyebrow. Damn, she was cute. “All right.”
“Then I guess one conversation never hurt anyone.”
The gunshot must have blown away my memory, too.
I halfway expected a butler to answer the door, but instead it was Judge Emory Jackson. Judge Jackson was in his sixties and fit, with broad thick shoulders and a head of snowy hair. He was dressed in a dress shirt and tie even at home. He was four inches shorter and three shades darker than his son, but I immediately saw T.D. in his gait and gestures. T.D. Jackson had grown up to be just like Daddy, almost a carbon copy. In that way alone, their resemblance was eerie.
In the Night of the Heat Page 9