by Meg O'Brien
“Closer to forty. It’s a zoo, and if an author hasn’t been tagged for greatness, he can get lost there. My agent is Eustice Lamb, and she’s up pretty high on the ladder, but she’s not doing a damn thing. In fact, she’s just as bad as the men. The stories I could tell you—”
I cut him off, not wanting to talk with a potential client about other specific literary agents and what they were doing. “What are you saying, Patrick? Do you want to leave Nolan-Frey?”
“I want to, but…” He leaned across the table and took my hand again. “Would you take me back, Mary Beth?”
I let him wait a second or two. “I don’t know, Patrick. I guess I’ll have to think about it. Is that why we’re having dinner tonight? Are you wooing me, hoping I’ll take you back?”
He dropped my hand. “Lord, no! Tonight has nothing to do with that. Mary Beth, when I saw you at my house the other night I realized how much I’d missed you. We had such a great connection. Didn’t we?”
“Yes, we did,” I agreed. “But Patrick, if I were to take you back as a client, you’d have to accept my decisions this time. I can’t believe you’d like that any more than you did before.”
“No, that’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “These past few months with another agent have been an eye-opener. Before this, I’d never had an agent besides you, and I didn’t have anything to compare you with. I realize now how ethical you are, and how unusual that is in this town. I don’t know, maybe New York agents are different, but here in L.A. it’s a damn sewer.”
I didn’t entirely agree with him, but I knew what he meant. A lot of eager young writers got discouraged here by the politics, the ethics, and sometimes the just plain meanness of people in the biz. Dog eat dog was the motto of the day in La-La-Land.
But it was that way in a lot of businesses, and it wasn’t fair to blame the entertainment industry alone.
“You’ll have to let your other agent go,” I said, “before I can officially represent you. You need to write a letter, and I’d suggest talking to her in person as well. I don’t care what you say, but she needs to know it’s your choice, and that I didn’t approach you first.”
“Sure, I can do that,” Patrick said. “I’ll fax her a letter first thing in the morning. If she writes back or calls and sounds upset, I’ll talk to her.”
I nodded. “That should do. But first, just as friends—between you and me—what are you working on now? Is it the same book you showed me, with all those rapes?”
“Actually—” his face turned slightly pink “—I decided you were right about that. There was too much violence, and I really wanted to write something different.”
“Really? Tell me about it.”
His book, he said, was about Hollywood and drugs, the things he had learned while with his management agency. It wasn’t an exposé, he said, but a novel with a central character who starts out good but gets caught up in drugs and commits a crime that he never would have if he’d been straight. He wanted to develop the fact that there is a serious problem with drugs in the industry, more than anyone realizes, and he wanted to delve deep into the main character.
“Remember that auto accident I had a few years ago?” he said. “The lawyer I had was maybe twenty-eight, and he kept finding reasons to leave the deposition and go shoot up or sniff, whatever. Oh, he didn’t let on he was doing that, but he’d act like I’d said something wrong or was saying too much, and he’d ask the other lawyer to excuse us, like he had to counsel me. Then once we got into the hall he’d leave me standing there and go to the men’s room. When he came back, his eyes would be all glazed over. After the first couple of times this happened, I knew what he was doing. So did the other lawyer, the one for the defendant. Hell, it was pretty obvious. And you might remember, I never got what I should have in the settlement.”
He ran a hand over his dark hair and frowned. “Like I said, Mary Beth, I’m not a moralist. I’ve got plenty of faults, and far be it from me to call the kettle black. But we’re paying these people to do jobs for us, and they aren’t getting them done. That’s what rankles.”
I had to agree with him. In the years after coming to Los Angeles, and before I became pregnant, I’d done a few drugs, including alcohol. In fact, I’d been kind of a wild child. I finally realized that if I had to be drunk or high to be wild, it just wasn’t worth it. Too many dry mouths in the morning, and too many headaches at work.
When I was pregnant, of course, I never touched alcohol or drugs. Then, after I gave my baby up, my business became my life, and it suddenly seemed too serious to mess around that way. As Patrick had said, when you’re paying people to do a job, they should do it and not be out on cloud nine all day. I know now beyond a doubt that if I hadn’t cleaned up, I never would have been able to build my agency into the success it’s finally become.
As for other agents, especially here in L.A., sooner or later the ones on drugs get caught stealing their client’s royalties—or authors begin to see that they aren’t being represented properly. Word gets around, and after a while you don’t hear those agents’ names being mentioned anymore. At least, not in a complimentary way.
“Why aren’t you writing a nonfiction book instead of a novel,” I asked Patrick, “if you feel so strongly about this issue?”
“Are you kidding?” He laughed softly. “You ever hear of that book You’ll Never Work in This Town Again? Or was it lunch in this town again?”’
“I think it was You’ll Never Eat Lunch in This Town Again,” I said. “Julia Phillips wrote it, and it’s a pretty bitter diatribe against Hollywood. Supposedly it led to her downfall, although I think that really began when she was a producer. She was supposedly fired from Close Encounters and I guess she never made it back to the top before she died.”
“Well, I don’t see much sense in alienating people in the industry by outing them in a nonfiction book as criminals or even jerks. If I write it as fiction, everyone who reads the book will think I’m writing about some other person they know.”
I had to smile. “Just be careful to name the person you’re really writing about and say she or he is pure as the driven snow. Make it clear that your evil character is not that person or anything like him or her.”
“Oh, sure, that goes without saying. So, Mary Beth, what do you think?” He seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for my answer.
“I’d have to read the manuscript, Patrick, before I can say. I’ll be curious to see what you’ve done with the premise. Send it over to my office in the morning, okay?”
He nodded.
“But not until you’ve faxed or talked to your current agent. Right? She and I would have to work something out.”
“Right.”
He stood and gave me a hug, saying, “Thanks for everything, Mary Beth. This is really great.”
It wasn’t until he’d gone, leaving me there with an empty glass of wine, that I realized he hadn’t paid the check.
I was still upset with Patrick for sticking me with that dinner check, and with myself for letting it happen, when I walked through my front door. The first thing I noticed through the open curtain of the doors onto the deck was that someone was out there. A small, ornamental deck light was on, and I clearly saw a silhouette moving on the steps that led up from the beach.
I left the inside light off and slipped into my bedroom, grabbing my baseball bat. Tiptoeing back into the living room, I saw that the person who’d been on the stairs was coming toward me across the deck. His face was in shadow, but he looked much like the intruder from the other night, in dark clothes and a knitted cap.
“Hold it right there!” I yelled through the glass door. “Don’t come any closer!”
“I’m not promising anything,” a male voice said.
My heart jumped into my throat. “Who is it?” I called out, lifting the bat. “I’m calling the police!”
“It’s me,” Dan said, laughing. “I’m already here.”
“Oh, God.” I felt my strength lea
ve me and my knees shake. “What the hell are you doing out there?”
“Nothing sinister,” he said. “Just waiting for you to get home.”
I unlocked the French doors and stepped out, not realizing that I still held the bat.
“Are you going to bash me with that?” he asked.
At my irritated look, he said, “Just checking.”
I rested the bat against the wall, next to the door, and folded my arms.
“What do you want?”
“I have some questions for you, and I thought I’d just drop by. You weren’t here, though. Where have you been?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business. I do have a social life, you know. And it’s personal.”
He held his hands up, palm out. “Okay, okay. Don’t bite my head off.”
“I suppose you want to come in,” I said.
“It would be better than standing out here in the damp and dark.”
I turned and led the way into the living room. “Have a seat,” I said, motioning to a chair.
“How about some hot coffee?” he asked, crossing his arms and slapping them as if to warm himself.
“Sure. Help yourself.”
“You have some made?”
“Hardly. I just came in,” I pointed out. “You make the coffee while I change.”
“Like I said, a hard-hearted woman.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
I left him on his own while I went into the bedroom to take my black silk dress off. Pulling some comfortable navy-blue sweats from a drawer, I put them on and tied back my hair in a ponytail. If Dan had come here tonight for anything more than talk, this look should sufficiently daunt him. I was far too tired after Lindy, Patrick, et al, to mess around.
The coffee was dripping and smelled wonderful when I went back into the living room. Dan sat at the breakfast bar and I went over and sat in a chair across from him, folding my legs under me.
“You look…comfortable,” he said. “Sort of sexy.”
“That wasn’t the plan.” I looked away.
He grinned. “Actually, I like your hair up like that. It makes you look seventeen.”
“In which case, you’d be committing a crime to lay a hand on me,” I pointed out.
He sighed. “That’s okay. I don’t have the stamina for that tonight.”
I was surprised to find that I felt almost disappointed.
“So what did you come here to ask me about?” I said, sliding off my stool to get the coffeepot and cups. Putting the cups on the breakfast bar, I filled them to the brim.
“I’ve been wondering about Nia,” Dan said. “She’s very unusual, isn’t she?”
“You mean because she’s a black woman with an Irish accent?”
“An Irish accent that comes and goes,” he observed.
I smiled. “And naturally, you find that suspicious. It couldn’t be that she’s lost some of her accent since she came to live here? No, more likely she bashed three men with a Chinese dildo and then came into work as if nothing had happened. Right?”
“The first two men, anyway. Could be. Tell me about her.”
“Okay, but you’re barking up the wrong villain.”
He blew on his coffee, then slurped an inch off the top. “Maybe so. Tell me about her anyway.”
I held my hands around my cup to warm them. “Nia was raised in Dublin. Her father was a respected doctor there, and he now has a successful practice in London. When Nia was fifteen, though, her mother was caught in IRA crossfire. She didn’t survive. Nia lived in Dublin with her father until she was eighteen. Then she came to the States.”
“By herself?”
I nodded. “I take it she knew someone in New York who helped her get started there. She’s reluctant to talk about it, so it may have been a man she was having an affair with. I think Nia’s the type who would be embarrassed to tell anyone if that was the case.”
“How did she end up with you?” Dan asked.
“Around four years ago she came here looking for a job. I’d advertised for an office assistant, and Nia couldn’t type or file worth a darn. I saw right away, though, that she had a way with people. Since that’s one of the most important things I need from an assistant, I took her on.”
“And the arrangement’s worked out well?”
“It’s the best thing I ever did. My last assistant was too shy and couldn’t cut it, but Nia—well, she does just about everything right. It’s a huge burden off my shoulders, having her here.”
“You said she didn’t have much secretarial experience. What did she do in New York?”
“That’s the other reason I took her on. Nia worked as a freelance editor for hopeful writers. A book doctor, it’s sometimes called. If a book has potential but needs work, the book doctor helps the writer to pull it into good shape before the writer sends it to an agent.”
“And they charge for this?”
“Of course. It’s a valid service, and most unpublished writers need it. Also, finding someone with really good editing skills is difficult. Nia is an excellent editor, and someone with her smarts working on a book is a blessing—for the writer, the agent and the editors who will eventually read the book.”
“She worked for a publishing house?”
“No, on her own, from her apartment. She advertised, and in a city like New York, word gets around.”
“Does she do this kind of editing for you?”
“Absolutely not. I don’t like the idea of book doctors working for agents. All too often the writer gets the idea—whether it’s from the agent or just wishful thinking—that the agent will sell the book once the book doctor’s done. That’s not necessarily true and, more times than not, a first book doesn’t sell. Getting a freelance editor to vet the book often ends up being more of a beneficial kind of schooling, a way to learn how to write better. I believe both agents and editors should be up-front with their writers about that.”
“Are they?”
I shrugged. “Many are. Some aren’t. It’s a tough business, and people need to eat. As my father used to say, ethics sometimes go out the window when hunger walks through the door.”
“Sounds about right. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Is hunger walking through your door? You’ve just taken quite a kick in the butt, with your most popular author being murdered. If things get too tight, will you toss ethics to the wind?”
“First of all,” I said with an edge, “I’ve never said things are going to get tight. And even if they did, I started at the bottom and I never cared where I lived or how much money I had. That hasn’t changed.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Malibu? The top-drawer office?”
“Sure, Malibu is fun. So is Century City. I’ll admit I’ve got a lot of toys, and I’ll also admit I enjoy them. I don’t really want to lose any of them, and I’ll fight to keep them. But if I have to move on, I’ll build my playground elsewhere. And I’ll still have fun.”
He raised his cup in a toast. “Attagirl. If anyone can do it, I’m sure you can. In fact, I think you could do just about anything to make your life what you want it to be.”
There seemed an undercurrent of something other than praise in his tone.
“What exactly does that mean?” I asked.
“Just that you seem strong, independent…a woman who can get things done. When they need to be done.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, and I didn’t like the personal direction the conversation was going in.
“We were talking about Nia,” I said. “You don’t have to worry about her. I’m sure she has nothing to do with those murders. In fact, I’d bet my life on it.”
“You’re that certain, are you?”
“It’s a sure thing. You can bet against me if you like.”
“Okay. What shall we go for?”
“How about a dinner at Spago in Beverly Hills?”
“Ouch. I live on a cop
’s salary, don’t forget.”
“Yes, but you seem to think you’re right about Nia. Why worry? I’ll be paying—unless you’re wrong.”
He groaned. “You really are a tough cookie, Mary Beth Conahan.”
“You betcha,” I said.
He finished off his wine. “Okay, then. You’re on. But where was Nia when Craig Dinsmore was murdered?”
“Oh, please. I’ve won already.”
“How so?”
“Nia was in my office. I reached her on the office phone right after I found Craig. Which also happens to be right after the killer fled out the bathroom window. Oh, wait, I know—Nia transported herself to the motel, à la Star Trek.”
“Not quite. Look at it this way. Since we don’t have the exact time of death, we don’t really know that the person who went out that window was the killer.”
I was startled, but realized immediately that he was right. “I never even considered that. You think someone else was there at the same time I was? Someone perfectly innocent?”
“And afraid of getting caught with a body, so he or she skipped. It’s possible.”
“If that’s the case, Craig might have been killed anytime and by anyone,” I said.
“Not quite anytime. Sometime between about eight and eleven, when you found him. Plenty of time for Nia to get to the motel, kill Dinsmore, and then make it to the office before you got there.”
“No! I can’t believe Nia would do something like that. I’m telling you, Nia is one of the best people I know. Besides, what would be her motive?”
“Well, think about it. She might have had something going on with the victims. After all, she’s one other person who was connected to all of them.”
“And that means she killed them? That’s ridiculous. The only connection Nia had with any of them, as far as I know, was that she worked for me. She talked to Tony on the phone frequently about business, but much less often to Arnold. As for Craig, we had contact with him when he had a proposal to sell, but when he was actually writing the book, we hardly ever heard from him.”
“You’re using the word we as if you and Nia are one person and you know everything about her. Yet you said, ‘as far as I know.’ Obviously, you’re not really all that sure about her.”