Blue Screen

by Robert B. Parker

  “You told me to hire Sunny,” Buddy said, “because you couldn’t stand having a bunch of macho jerks running your life.”

  “Well,” Erin said. “Things are different.”

  “Because you need me investigating,” I said.

  “A good offense is the best defense,” she said. “I want these people caught and I don’t want to depend on the sheriff of Mayberry to catch them.”

  I nodded. Erin was striding again.

  “I don’t want to depend on any man to catch them. How hard is a man going to try? Fucking old boys’ network. They’re all the same.”

  “What can you tell me about Misty?” I said.

  “She’s my personal assistant. Been with me since Woman Warrior. She was a PA on the picture and I hired her when it was over.”

  That grated a little. I thought back. Misty had said she knew her long before she was Erin Flint in big letters. One person’s long time was maybe different than another’s, and it was never in my best interest to tell everyone everything I knew or surmised. I filed it for later.

  “How about her private life?” I said.

  Erin changed direction and began to slowly circle the room. It was a big room, and unless I kept twisting around, I lost sight of her half the time. I decided not to twist.

  “She took care of everything,” Erin said from behind me. “Appointments, meetings, interviews. She handled all my calls, plane reservations, restaurants.”

  Erin strode into view again.

  “What did she do in her free time?” I said.

  Erin paused and looked at me blankly. I smiled. She looked. I waited.

  “I don’t know,” Erin said finally. “How the hell would I know.”

  “Buddy?” I said.

  “Me? I don’t know anything. She was Erin’s. I didn’t keep track of her.”

  Erin was circling again.

  “She live someplace in LA?” I said.

  “She lived here,” Erin said.

  “Before here.”

  “She had an apartment in my house.”

  “LA?” I said.

  “Beverly Hills.”

  “And before that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I nodded.

  “She have family?” I said.

  “I don’t fucking know,” Erin said.

  She was in view again.

  “Stop asking me stupid fucking questions,” she said. “And get out of here. Find the fucking people who tried to kill me.”

  “It may cost a lot.”

  “Price is not an object,” Erin said.

  I glanced briefly at Buddy.

  “Sky’s the limit, Sunny,” Buddy said. “Just keep a record.”

  Away I went.

  When I started my car, the dashboard clock said 9:03. Rosie had been alone for more than five hours. Erin was probably sincere in her fears that someone tried to kill her and got Misty instead. And she may even have thought that it happened because she was going to play baseball. She might have felt I would bring something to the investigation, and she might be right. But I was also pretty sure of some other things.

  She was coming out with a big movie with a lot of feminist implications. Suggesting she was risking her life to make the movie would be good promotion, and having a bodyguard, and having the bodyguard be female, was probably part of the marketing strategy. Now, maybe she was in actual danger, and I was pretty sure she wanted some big, tough guys looking out for her. Not a 120-pound blonde cutie like me. But she couldn’t admit it, probably even to herself. So she asked me to investigate the crime. It would still look good in the press. It was a small-town department. I was a pretty good investigator. And if I blundered onto the truth and brought the killers to justice…how good would that press be?

  I wasn’t sure she was smart enough to have thought of all this. Maybe Buddy was. Or maybe she was working off some feral Hollywood instinct that didn’t have much to do with smart and dumb. I was pretty sure of a couple of things. One, nobody actually knew anything about or gave a goddamn about the late Misty Tyler. And two, I was pretty sure the Paradise police chief was not a yokel.

  9

  IBROUGHT A bag of donuts with me to the Paradise police station. The chief poured us coffee and we each took a donut.

  “Cinnamon,” the chief said.

  He seemed happy.

  “You learn anything from your client?” he said.

  “No.”

  He broke off a piece of donut and ate it and carefully brushed the cinnamon sugar from his lips. He had on a uniform shirt this morning, jeans, and running shoes. The shirt was ironed. So were the jeans.

  “Erin has engaged me to investigate this murder,” I said.

  The chief nodded.

  “Do you mind?” I said.

  “No.”

  “Would you like to know anything about me?” I said.

  “Your father was a Boston police captain. You were on the job for a while and then went into business for yourself. You’re smart. And you don’t seem to be scared of much.”

  “Who’d you talk with?” I said.

  “State police homicide commander.”

  “Captain Healy,” I said.

  The chief nodded.

  “And you’re willing to work with me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you had much homicide experience, Chief?”

  “Yes.”

  “In a town like this?”

  “I used to work in Los Angeles. South Central for a while, and then Robbery Homicide, downtown.”

  I smiled.

  “Well,” I said. “I guess we know everything we need to about each other.”

  He smiled. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  “Have you learned anything about Buddy Bollen’s security people?” I said.

  “Not much,” the chief said. “Big agency in Los Angeles. Dignitary Protection. They’re all bonded.”

  “Which doesn’t mean one of them couldn’t have killed her.”

  The chief didn’t say anything.

  “Fingerprints?” I said.

  “Kind of soon,” he said. “So far she hasn’t shown up in the system.”

  “Anything surface talking to the rest of the staff?” I said.

  “No.”

  “Nobody has a record,” I said.

  “Nope.”

  “Nobody caught in a lie,” I said.

  “Nope.”

  I might have caught Erin in a lie, but I wasn’t sure yet, and she was my client, and I thought I’d sit on that for a while.

  “You know her movements prior to the crime?” I said.

  “Far as anyone can tell us she was in her rooms at the mansion, and then apparently went to the gym to work out. Apparently, she worked out every afternoon about four o’clock.”

  “Who found her,” I said.

  “Head security guy,” the chief said. “Randy Wilkins. He went in to lift some weights.”

  “Alibis?” I said.

  “Not really. Buddy and Erin were with each other, they say. Everyone else was alone.”

  “Buddy and Erin could have done it together and been each other’s alibi,” I said.

  Jesse nodded.

  “Too soon, I suppose, for a motive to surface,” I said.

  “None has,” Jesse said.

  We ate our donuts and drank our coffee for a little while. There were no pictures of women or children in the office. On top of a file cabinet, near the coffeemaker, was a baseball glove that didn’t look new. On his desk was a short-barreled .38 in a clip on a holster. His chief’s badge was beside it.

  “Erin feels that it is an antifeminist conspiracy to prevent her from playing baseball,” I said. “She thinks Misty was mistaken for her.”

  “I know,” Jesse said. “Bollen tells me she’s going to play for the Nutmegs next year.”

  “That appears to be the plan.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “You think there’s anything to
the conspiracy theory?”

  “I don’t care if she plays baseball,” Jesse said. “Hard to say about everyone else.”

  “I don’t know what you got from the people at SeaChase, Chief, but all I got from Erin and Buddy was that they knew nothing at all about Misty Tyler.”

  “Real name was Melissa,” the chief said. “Had a California driver’s license. Santa Monica address…and don’t call me Chief.”

  “Jesse?” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Sunny?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “New best friends,” I said.

  10

  MY FATHER and I had breakfast together every Tuesday morning at the same table, in the bay window that looked out onto Newbury Street. At breakfast time it was my father’s table. I was having a toasted English muffin. My father was having hash and eggs. He didn’t worry much about nutrition. In fact, he didn’t, as far as I could tell, worry much about anything. Phil Randall was the calmest human being I had ever met. It was not self-control, it was an abiding calm at the center of his being. He cared about things. He loved his wife and daughters. But he looked at everything that came before him with clear and unflinching repose.

  “How’s Elizabeth?” I said.

  I didn’t like my older sister much, and Daddy knew that. But I knew it would please him if I asked.

  “She brought home her latest husband candidate,” he said, “to meet your mother.”

  “She brought him home to meet you,” I said. “You’re the one we both answer to.”

  My father pushed some hash onto his fork with a piece of toast.

  “I’ve met a number since she got divorced,” he said.

  “What did Mother say?”

  My father chewed his forkful of hash thoughtfully and swallowed.

  “She warned Elizabeth that he might take advantage of her,” my father said.

  “Daddy, she warns both of us that anytime we have a date.”

  He smiled.

  “Your mother gets a good idea,” he said, “she likes to hang on to it.”

  “So what did you think of the latest Mr. Right?” I said.

  “Another Ivy League jerk,” my father said.

  “Your fault,” I said. “You sent her to Mount Holyoke.”

  “To major in jerks?” my father said.

  “Elizabeth’s specialty,” I said. “Including Hal.”

  My father shook his head. “At least she divorced him,” he said.

  “See,” I said. “Good parenting shows.”

  We both smiled. He didn’t mention my own divorce. He didn’t ask about my love life. He knew that if there was something I wanted him to know, I’d tell him. My father was quiet. He wasn’t shy. His quietness didn’t make you feel compelled to talk. It was just a sort of bone-deep peacefulness that made me feel safer when I was with him. Richie had been like that.

  “I’m on an odd case,” I told him.

  He nodded.

  “Do you know who Erin Flint is?”

  “Some kind of movie star,” he said.

  I knew my father never watched anything but ballgames and Western movies.

  “Very good,” I said. “She’s also planning to play major-league baseball.”

  My father nodded.

  “Do you think a woman could play?” I said.

  “In the big leagues? Regularly? Not one time as a stunt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Probably not,” my father said.

  “Sexist pig,” I said.

  He shrugged.

  “That’s probably it,” he said.

  “Well, I’m now working for her,” I said.

  “Erin Flint?”

  “Erin Flint.”

  “You going to tell me about it?” my father said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  My father listened completely, as he always did. And ate his breakfast. When I got through, his plate was empty. He sat back and finished his second cup of coffee. A waiter hustled over with a pot. My father nodded. The waiter poured him a fresh cup and topped off mine.

  “Police up there mind you being along on this?” he said.

  “I don’t think they mind.”

  “Anybody up there know what they’re doing?”

  “The police chief seems pretty good,” I said. “He used to work Robbery Homicide in Los Angeles.”

  “Retired?” my father said.

  “From LA? No, he’s young. He’s, like, my age.”

  “So what’s he doing here?” my father said.

  “Change of pace?” I said.

  My father shrugged.

  “I’ll ask Healy,” he said. “He lives up around there. He may know him.”

  I smiled.

  “He does,” I said. “The chief asked Healy about me.”

  “Nice to know he’s thorough,” my father said.

  We drank our coffee.

  “Big money,” my father said, “is access. That would include access to criminals.”

  “And Buddy Bollen is big money.”

  “That’s my understanding,” my father said.

  My father was sitting with his back to the window. I could look past him at Newbury Street where well-dressed people walked by briskly on important and obviously upscale missions.

  “You think he’s connected?”

  “No way to know,” my father said. “But most people with his kind of wheeler-dealer money know what the papers call ‘underworld figures.’”

  “Follow the money,” I said.

  “People mostly get killed over money, or love,” my father said.

  “Or hatred,” I said.

  “Back side of love,” my father said.

  “I wonder if Misty had a love life?” I said.

  “Good-looking woman in her thirties,” my father said.

  “And Buddy’s got money,” I said.

  “See,” my father said. “You already have a couple of clues.”

  11

  ITALKED ON the phone with Tony Gault, again.

  “Do you know if Erin Flint has an agent?”

  “I don’t think so,” Tony said. “I think Buddy Bollen takes full care of her.”

  “Manager?”

  “Same answer,” Tony said.

  “She must have had an agent or a manager at some time.”

  “You don’t have a prayer in the business without one,” Tony said.

  “By which you mean the industry,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you think you could find out who it was?” I said.

  “Tony Gault, mega-agent? Sees all, knows all?”

  “I assume that means yes.”

  “Sure.”

  “And put me in touch with them?”

  “Natch,” Tony said.

  “How about her personal assistant, Misty Tyler?”

  “How about her,” Tony said.

  “Can you find out anything about her?”

  “She ever been part of the industry?” he said.

  “By which you mean the business,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Tony said.

  I smiled three thousand miles away. Tony was Hollywood to his marrow, but he knew it and could at least make it funny.

  “As far as I know she has just been Erin Flint’s personal assistant,” I said.

  “Mega-agents,” Tony said, “do not find things out about personal assistants.”

  “You could ask your personal assistant,” I said.

  “Personal assistants to mega-agents,” Tony said, “same thing.”

  “Okay, and anything you can find out for me about Buddy Bollen,” I said, “I’d appreciate.”

  “I can do something with that. He is, after all, a film tycoon,” Tony said.

  “Which mega-agents can find things out about,” I said.

  “Sure, if the reward is commensurate with the effort,” he said.

  “Doing the right thing is not its own reward?” I said.

  “F
or a mega-agent?” Tony said. “In Los Angeles, California?”

  “I withdraw the question. How about Buddy the baseball owner?”

  “I know a sports agent,” Tony said. “He might be useful.”

  “If I come out there, could you set me up with some people?”

  “Absolutely,” Tony said. “I’ll have my personal assistant call their personal assistants.”

  “Whatever happened to secretaries?” I said.

  “‘Secretary’ is an exploitive, sexist concept,” Tony said.

  “Oh,” I said. “Of course.”

  “Mega-agents understand sexism,” Tony said.

  “I’ll bet they do,” I said. “While I’m out there will you wine and dine me?”

  “At the very least,” Tony said.

  12

  TONY SENT a limo to pick me up at LAX. The traffic was backed up on the 405 going north in mid-afternoon, so the driver went off onto Sepulveda and snuck up on it that way. At Santa Monica Boulevard we turned northeast past the Pollo Loco and went on big Santa Monica, past Century City, where Tony’s agency was, to Wilshire and east on Wilshire to the Regency Beverly Wilshire. Buddy had said the sky was the limit, and I took him at his word. The Beverly Wilshire was one of my favorite hotels, and it was at the foot of Rodeo Drive, where, surely, my investigation would lead me at least once.

  I unpacked and hung up my clothes carefully, leaving space between the hangers so the clothes wouldn’t get wrinkled. I am usually sort of unkempt in hotel rooms. I leave everything out and throw things around. It’s not my house, and there are, after all, maids. But this time, I put everything away and lined my makeup in an orderly fashion in the bathroom. If I were to entertain in my room, perhaps this evening, it would be nice and neat.

  Then I took a bath. Usually I shower. But today…the tub was so big and the soap looked so lavish, and, facing the possibility of entertaining, a sybaritic bath seemed right. I did my face, combed my hair, put on clean clothes, stashed the worn clothing in a laundry bag, sprayed a little perfume, stood for a minute and looked out my window at the preposterous enticements of Rodeo Drive.

  “I’ll deal with you before I go home,” I said. Then, squeaky-clean, beautifully dressed, perfectly coiffed, subtly made up, sweet-smelling, elegantly put together, and as neat and orderly as my room, I headed downstairs to the bar.