by Dan Ames
“Please call me Tati,” Mary said.
“The hottie,” Kurt said.
“Okay. Tati.” He smiled at her.
Mary felt like taking this kid’s milk money and hiking his underwear up.
“We are about to embark on an incredibly tight production—-” Mary began.
“Here is my vision!” Kurt said, leaping to his feet.
Mary cursed silently. She should have known this was a bad idea.
“I picture morning dew on lillies in a vase perched by the side of the vibrating bed,” he said. He had his fingers joined to resemble a camera’s viewfinder.
“How did the dew get inside the house?” Mary asked.
“The camera pots down toward the floor,” Kurt continued.
“I think you mean pans, not pots,” Mary said. “The camera pans down.”
“To the most beautiful ass the world has ever seen,” Kurt said. His eyes grew wistful.
“I told you, Patrick, I’m not going to be in this one,” Mary said.
“We move up on the ass like the Allies at Normandy—”
“Can we back up for a moment?” Williams said. He looked at Mary. She sensed he thought she was the safest bet in the room.
Williams said, “As excited as I am about your director’s visual treatment, what are your casting specs exactly? And did you bring a copy of the script?”
“We’re looking for the actress, of course,” Mary said. “She is the hinge upon which this production will swing. Italian and French actresses are out of the question, of course, as we are not allowed to work in Italy anymore . . . really, all of Europe.” She pointed a thumb at Jason. “My star actor here got drunk in Brussels and thought he was making love to an obese barmaid. Turned out to be a farmer’s prize milk cow.”
“Wait, a minute,” Jason said, a confused look on his face. “Are you saying—”
Kurt held his hands out for silence.
“In order to continue, I’m afraid I need a beer and some chocolate,” Kurt said, an imperious tone in his voice. He glanced back at the office door, looking for the secretary. “Can that be arranged?”
During Kurt’s rant, Mary had taken the opportunity to read some of the names on the files upside down. One of them seemed familiar to her, but she couldn’t place it.
Williams turned his attention from Kurt back to Mary. “I love working with you creative types,” he said. “But I don’t believe I have anyone currently on my roster who would be a good fit for what you have in mind.”
“What about Nina Ramirez?” Mary said. “Her head shot created quit a stir in our office.”
“And in my pants,” Jason said, warming up to his new role.
“Nina Ramirez?” Williams said. His boyish innocence was suddenly gone, replaced with a slightly flustered look.
“I’m not sure I’m familiar with her work,” Williams said, with a noticeable lack of confidence.
“Well, you should—everyone knows you’re her agent,” Mary said. “Now is she available for a screen test? Can she read for us?”
“I represent hundreds of actors,” Williams said. “Why don’t you leave your script with me along with your casting specs, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“But we really had our hearts set on Nina,” Mary said.
Williams checked his massive watch. “Like I said, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Come on,” Kurt said. “We’ve been sporting wood for this chick for a year—in the moviemaking sense.”
“Yeah, where is she?” Jason said, warming up to the idea of putting Williams on the hot seat. Mary was surprised by his perceptiveness, factoring in the ganja haze.
“Gentlemen, and Ms. Rivers, I’m afraid I have a conference call I simply can’t miss,” Williams said. He was suddenly a bundle of nervous energy. He pressed a button near his phone, and the secretary arrived moments later.
“Thank you so much for thinking of me for your project,” the young agent said. “I’m sure it will be an amazing production.”
Mary stood.
“Thank you for your time,” she said. “I’ll buy you a drink sometime. Once you turn twenty-one.”
15
Fifteen
“What part of ‘follow my lead’ did you two Neanderthals not understand?” Mary said.
They stood outside, the hot southern-California sun making Mary wish she was not in a ridiculous outfit that weighed ten pounds. Now she knew how a sausage felt being stuffed into a highly restrictive casing.
“What part of fucking awesome do you not understand?” Kurt said. His big face carried a big, lopsided grin. “That shot I described was incredible, totally cinematic! And it was right off the cuff! Holy shit, I should’ve been a director!”
“You were great, Dad,” Jason said. “I thought my line about the stirring in my pants was cool too.”
“It was a little over the top,” Kurt said to Jason. “But I’ll give you points for trying.”
“Over the top?” Mary said. “Don’t be ridiculous. Uncle Kurt, I thought your performances were really subtle too. Highly nuanced.”
“You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?” Kurt said. He narrowed his eyes.
“You guys were supposed to keep your mouths shut and let me do the talking,” Mary said. “You both sounded absolutely ridiculous. I especially liked the ‘beer and chocolate’ request. That was highly inspired.”
“Oh, get the giant corncob out your butt, Mary,” Kurt said. “That was perfect! These big-time directors like Steven Spielsburger always make requests. You know, M&Ms of one color, hookers without STDs. And they get ‘em, by God! Anything they want!”
Mary unlocked her car and gestured for them to get inside. She fired it up and pulled out onto Ocean.
“They get those things because they’re actually directors,” she said. “Not Ralph’s grocery baggers pretending to be directors.”
“Wow, I wanna direct,” Jason said.
“Quit being so high-strung,” Kurt said to Mary. “That guy didn’t know anything anyway. Christ, he looked like his Dad brought him into his office so he could print off his grade-school paper.”
“Where do you want me to drop you?” Mary said.
“Back at Ralph’s,” Kurt said. “I’ve got a big day in the produce section. You should hear some of those old biddies bitch. Christ, they tell me the cantaloupe are overripe, I tell ‘em to get a fucking mirror.”
Jason snickered in the backseat.
16
Sixteen
The crew was on lunch break. A little food van serving mostly tacos, arrived at the set every day around noon.
Jake Cornell watched the little tyrant director, Morrison, skip ahead in line and place a special order.
He had to stand on his tiptoes to see over the counter.
Jake snickered.
“Out of the way, Drag Ass,” someone said behind him. It was Paolo, the guard from Venice Security.
The big man strutted past Jake, and he had a vague notion to punch him in the back of the head. Ever since the midget director had labeled Jake with his new moniker, Paolo had taken great pleasure in using it at every opportunity.
It was the opportunity Jake had been waiting for. He’d studied Paolo’s routine, and the man loved nothing more than long lunches, going back for seconds, sometimes thirds, as well as dessert.
He also loved to flirt with the makeup girl, who Jake was convinced couldn’t stand the big security guard.
Jake slipped back into the warehouse and went to the locked door.
So far, his undercover mission had turned up very little. LAPD had gotten a tip that Morrison’s production company was using underage girls for its pornographic films. The tip had been passed down to Vice, and in turn passed down to the low man on the totem pole to go undercover.
Hence, Jacob Cornell, fresh from a disgraceful conduct review and thrown under the bus by Lieutenant Davies, was given the assignment.
Jake glanced back over his s
houlder. The crew was busy with the taco truck.
He went to the door that was always locked and usually guarded by Paolo, although the man had adopted a strolling security tour and disappeared for half-hour intervals to chat up the makeup girl.
Jake had taken the time to study the door and knew it could be picked with a simple jimmy, which he now had in his hand.
He slipped the slender implement inside the lock, pinched and twisted until the lock popped.
Jake ducked inside and shut the door behind him. If Paolo stuck to his schedule, he had at least fifteen minutes.
The light switch was just inside the door, and Jake turned it on.
It was an office, with a simple desk and computer, as well as a file cabinet.
What was a bit unusual was the glass window at the rear of the office. Jake walked forward past the desk and peered around the window, where there was another room.
There was a small bed, a camera on a tripod and a few lights.
Jake saw a separate door to the right of this hidden stage and—
He registered a whisper of movement behind him and then searing pain that ran down his neck and back. His body went numb, and then his mind went black.
17
Seventeen
Mary drove back to her condo, parked in her assigned spot, and climbed the stairs to her place.
The building had been built in the early ‘90s on Ocean Avenue, but far enough away from the tourist hotels to occasionally enjoy some peace and quiet.
Mary had toyed with moving out, finding a house somewhere, but she’d grown attached to the neighborhood, sort of halfway between Santa Monica and Venice.
She hated climbing the stairs to the condo, but vowed not to ride the elevators to her fourth-floor home. She rationalized that if she climbed the stairs a few times a day it would negate the need for an actual workout.
Yeah, she didn’t buy it either.
She unlocked the door, threw her keys on the kitchen table, opened the fridge, and pulled out a bottle of chardonnay. She plucked off the stopper and poured herself a glass.
The mail. Mary scooped up the stack and took it into the livingroom, placed the pile on the table in front of the couch. She went to the sliding glass doors that opened up onto her little balcony and took a long look at the Pacific. During the day, she rarely looked at the ocean, but usually when she was home, she would look out at its vastness and inevitably think of her parents.
They died when she was quite young, on their sailboat during a freak storm. The police eventually found the boat, or more accurately, the thousand pieces that would have represented what the boat used to be, but they never found the bodies.
All Mary had left were some faded photographs, newspaper clippings, and some of her father’s papers. He had been an entertainment attorney in Los Angeles, her mother had been an actor and a comedienne, as well as one of his clients.
There were still a lot of questions in Mary’s mind about them, their deaths, and even the last few years of their lives. But for now, Mary had set those issues aside until the day when she had time to go back.
That day always seemed just around the corner.
Closure was not something Mary had ever enjoyed in abundance.
She went to the couch, sipped from her wine and picked up the mail. Flipping through bills and offers from her cable company, she got to a flyer from Ralph’s and set the bundle back on the table.
Seeing the Ralph’s flyer made her think of Kurt, and thinking of Kurt and Jason, two questionable representatives of their gender, made her think of Jake.
She missed him.
It had taken her quite awhile to get here. When Jake had slept with his boss, Mary had taken it personally, even though technically they had broken up. He claimed it happened once and only because he was drunker than a Kennedy on vacation.
Vulnerability had simply never been her strong suit. And the fact that she had allowed Jake in, and then he had hurt her—unintentionally though it was—made her even more guarded.
She drank the rest of her wine. What the hell was she doing? Preparing to go on Dr. Phil?
Wilshire Entertainment.
That was the name of one of the files on Trey Williams’s desk. Why did it sound so familiar to her? Mary went to her computer in the spare bedroom and logged on. She launched Google and typed in Wilshire Entertainment. There were virtually no hits for the company.
Google was good for public information, but for the classified stuff, she launched a search engine provided to her by one of her happy clients.
This time, Wilshire Entertainment appeared at the top of the list. She clicked on the attached link and was brought to a spreadsheet. Mary groaned. Spreadsheets. Why not take a rusty razor to her armpits?
She went and got a fresh glass of wine, then returned to the document, took a long drink, and focused.
It came in a flash.
She dug out the production booklet she’d lifted from Vince Buslipp’s production office.
On the first page, the name of the production company was listed.
Wilshire Entertainment.
She went back to the computer and tracked Wilshire Entertainment through its spreadsheets and other corporate filings.
It appeared to be simply a shell company. The name was buried in a list of other seemingly innocous names plastered across a ridiculous flow chart.
Ugh. Flow charts. Even worse than spreadsheets.
She worked her way up the pyramid. The name at the top was interesting.
The Buslipp Group.
The only name she could find was Vince Buslipp.
But “The Buslipp Group” certainly implied more than one partner.
For the first time, Mary felt like she was on the right track.
18
Eighteen
Mary was one never to follow rules. She considered all traffic laws merely suggestions that she was free to interpret depending on her situation at the time.
One rule she did follow somewhat often was quite simple. Whenever she saw a curve ball in her current investigation, her rule of thumb was to go back to her client for more information. Typically, she had discovered new information from the last meeting and knew better, or simply different, questions to ask.
In this case, she had pursued the boyfriends, the porn connection, Nina’s social media outlets, and while she had discovered some key information, she still had nothing tangible that could lead to the girl’s whereabouts.
Which prompted Mary’s decision to once again contact Elyse Ramirez.
She dialed the number, but it went straight to voicemail. She left a message asking for a return call, but feeling unsatisfied, she came up with an idea. Mary remembered Elyse mentioning her husband, a prominent businessman.
It was time to interview the husband, who could possibly provide new and different information than the mother. Also, Mary had been doing this long enough to know that nine times out of ten, a family member was somehow involved in an individual’s disappearance.
That thought pushed a discussion with the father to the top of the list.
Mary looked at the sheet of paper Elyse Ramirez had given her. There was a phone number for the husband, and she dialed it.
A recording notified her that the number had been disconnected.
Mary felt the cold touch of intuition placing its hand on the case.
She wheeled her chair back to her desk and logged onto her database. She typed in the name provided her by Elyse Martinez along with the bogus phone number.
Two pages of entries spat out.
Mary read the list of names, locations, ages, social security numbers, and other particulars.
None of the names fit with a prominent businessman married to a woman named Elyse and with a daughter named Nina.
Mary was suddenly forced to confront the notion that the prominent businessman may not exist at all.
And if that was the case, Elyse Martinez was most likely not who she sai
d she was.
It was time to put away the cell phone and the computer and get back to the real investigative work.
It was time to get some boots on the ground.
Or, in her case, it was time to get some fashionable, stylish, and affordably priced footwear on the ground.
Time was wasting.
19
Nineteen
The address Elyse had given her was located in West Hollywood.
Mary took Santa Monica Boulevard through Beverly Hills and then veered into the funkiness that was West Hollywood.
She made her way through the offbeat eclecticism of the infamous community, to the more traditional residential blocks, the few that existed in the area.
The house that bore Elyse’s address was a ranch-style bungalow with a weird front porch that looked more like a repurposed wheelchair ramp than any kind of actual structure.
Mary parked and went to the front door. She rang the bell, waited, then rang the bell again. Finally, she tried the door, but it was locked.
There was a small picture window in the center of the house, but the porch didn’t extend far enough for Mary to get a good look inside the place.
She walked to the back of the house, knocked on the door, tried to open it, but it was locked. She stood with her hands on her hips, wondering what to do.
Maybe Elyse just wasn’t home.
Maybe Elyse wasn’t really Elyse.
Mary glanced down at two potted flowers flanking the small back stoop. The flowers were dead. Clearly no one paid much attention to landscaping. The grass was long. Shrubs overgrown.
The potted flowers intrigued Mary. She reached out with her left foot and knocked one over.
Nothing.
She gave the one on the right a little nudge and it tipped over, revealing a stained house key and a few grub-like bugs.
Relatives of Lieutenant Davies, Mary thought.