by Rick Copp
“I accept your apology,” he said, rather condescendingly.
I needed to ensure that he didn’t suspect Laurette of any wrongdoing.
“Please, Juan Carlos, don’t tell Laurette what I’ve been up to. She’d never speak to me again.”
He paused, and thought long and hard. He really wanted to make me squirm while he decided my fate. Finally, he gave me a wink. “Fine. This will remain between us.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”
He waved me off, and returned to continue rehearsing his dramatic scene with Tammy. What a prick.
I walked back out to the street, where the blinding valley sun made my eyes ache. I squinted as I climbed back into my car and donned my sunglasses. Starting up the Beamer, I pulled out from the curb to make my way over the hill back home, when I passed a Mazda 626 with an Enterprise rental car sticker on the rear bumper that was parked on the west side of the street. A tiny woman was in the driver’s seat, watching the pea green stucco house I had just left. It was Dominique.
I turned the corner and drove back out onto the main strip just east of Screenland Drive, a major street called Hollywood Way, where I immediately U-turned in a strip mall parking lot, and double backed. I rolled to a stop on the opposite side of the street from Dominique’s rental car. She didn’t notice me. She was too busy studying Tammy’s house.
About twenty minutes passed before Juan Carlos and Tammy emerged from the house. Dominique sank low in her seat, not wanting them to spot her.
Tammy gave Juan Carlos a peck on the cheek, and he flashed her a smile before hopping into Laurette’s SUV and driving off. Dominique jammed her Mazda into gear, and roared off after him.
I followed Dominique. Juan Carlos, ignorant to the fact he was leading a caravan, steered onto the Ventura Freeway West toward the ocean. It was still early in the day, so traffic wasn’t heavy. Juan Carlos exited onto Topanga Canyon, a loopy, rustic road that eventually spilled out onto the Pacific Coast Highway and the vast beaches of Malibu. It took over an hour to get there, and Juan Carlos kept driving north, to a remote spot just past the Malibu Colony, home to many of Hollywood’s elite. He parked on the side of the road, jumped out, stripped off his shirt and jeans to reveal a tight black swimsuit, and padded down the sand to the surf.
Dominique pulled off the road, the car rolling over gravel until she was about twenty feet from the SUV. She turned off the car and stared down at the beach, where Juan Carlos bravely ventured into the cold, numbing water. When he was knee deep, he dove into a small wave and disappeared.
I was so busy watching Dominique eye Juan Carlos that I almost tapped the rear end of the Mercedes in front of me that was stopped at a red light. I slammed on the brakes, jerking to a halt, nearly causing the motorcyclist behind me to do a double flip over my roof. He screamed a couple of obscenities at me as he swerved out around me and passed by. I shrugged, mouthed, “I’m sorry,” and took the hint to get off the road.
The sun was assaulting and the temperature must have been upwards of ninety degrees. Sweat dripped down my brow as I kept my eyes focused on Dominique, who had lost sight of Juan Carlos in the surf, and was starting to get antsy. She got out of the car, and wandered down to the beach, keeping one hand above her eyes to block out the sun. I had a pair of minibinoculars in the trunk I used when I could only get nosebleed seats for a concert at the Staples Center. I popped open the trunk, unhooked the lens protectors, and peered through them. After a few seconds of searching, I caught a glimpse of a pair of arms splashing through the water, circling around a buoy, and then starting back for shore. It was Juan Carlos.
Dominique waited for him. After another fifteen minutes, Juan Carlos surfaced and, muscles tired from his workout, slowly made his way up the beach. He didn’t spot Dominique at first, never even looked her way. She finally called out to him, startling him, and he jerked his head around to see her. She was smiling, hopeful, as if she was expecting some kind of warm reunion. He gaped at her for a few moments, trying to discern if it was really her. And then she ran toward him, arms outstretched, yearning for an embrace.
When she reached him and threw her arms around his neck, he stiffened. When she began smothering his face with kisses, he pushed her away. I was too far from them to hear the conversation, but it was heated. He yelled at her, berated her, but she held on to his arm, her lips trying to desperately caress his bronze skin. He wrenched his arm free, and shoved her again. Hard. She fell down, her face in the sand, humiliated.
Juan Carlos spat out a few final words, and stalked back to the SUV. He was livid as he yanked open the door, grabbed his shirt to wipe himself off from the water and the smell of his ex’s desperation, jumped in, and peeled away. Bits of gravel flew in all directions.
I didn’t follow him. I knew he was probably heading home to Laurette. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed upon Dominique, who had now climbed to her hands and knees and was sobbing. Her eye makeup smeared her face like a clown as she rose to her feet. The blustery wind almost knocked her tiny body down again. But she pushed forward, hands covering her face, and rushed toward the ocean before her.
It took me only a few seconds to figure out what she was going to do. She bounded into the surf, her arms stretched out, as if offering herself to the turbulent, dangerous waters of the Pacific. Before I sprinted down to the beach, she was already up to her waist, and by the time I had reached the water’s edge, she had disappeared below the surface altogether. I blocked out the freezing sensation as I dove headfirst into the water and swam out with bold, choppy strokes. I stopped, treading water, my arms, legs, and torso paralyzed with cold. There was no sign of her. Nothing. All I could see was a family of four—mom, dad, and two kids, with their dog—having a picnic lunch down the beach. I wanted to call to them for help, but what could they do?
I inhaled sharply, and dropped down underneath the surface, eyes open, trying to focus on anything. But it was dark and murky, and after only forty-five seconds, I had to shoot up to the surface again, and take another deep breath. I dove once again, and this time I caught sight of something. A fish? No, it was a hand. Just a few feet away. I shot forward and grabbed it, tugging it toward me. A face appeared through the shadowy depths. It was Dominique, her eyes wide open, her mouth agape, filling with water.
I wrapped an arm around her waist, and hauled her to the surface. With all my strength, I dragged her limp body toward shore. I coughed and sputtered from swallowing a mouthful of saltwater. I wasn’t sure if she was dead, or unconscious, or in a state of shock. Finally, my foot touched bottom, and I was able to carry her out, setting her down in the damp sand out of reach of the tide. I gave her mouth-to-mouth, and after a few tense moments, she gurgled, throwing up a quart of seawater, and crying uncontrollably.
I helped her to sit up, and we sat in silence as she held my hand and whimpered, unsure if she was happy or sad to have survived.
“Why did you do it?” I said.
She looked at me, vaguely recognizing me from the bus trip up to the Hearst Castle. She gave me a quizzical stare, and then shook her head and quietly cried.
“He wants nothing to do with me,” she said.
“Juan Carlos?”
Her eyes fluttered, surprised that I knew who had broken her heart. “Yes,” she said. “He told me he didn’t care if I was alive or dead, just that he wanted me to leave him alone. He loves her now.”
I knew exactly who “her” was. This was going to be good news for Laurette. But for this fragile creature, who took Juan Carlos at his word and decided her best option was simply to drown herself, I felt sorry. She struck me as a wounded bird, fallen from the nest, alone and afraid. Although Juan Carlos may have proven his intentions, his treatment of Dominique only reinforced my opinion of his character. And the thought of him sharing a bed with my best friend made me shudder.
Chapter 8
Dominique was in a trance-like state as I led her back to her car. Fearing she was in no condition to dr
ive, I offered to chauffeur her anywhere she wanted to go, especially if it was to the nearest psychiatrist’s office. But quickly snapping out of it, she assured me she was feeling better, and before I could convince her otherwise, she was back behind the wheel of her rented Mazda, and merging into the heavy traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway. She definitely had no desire to open up anymore to a complete stranger.
So I was left standing on the dusty, dirt shoulder of the highway, secure in the knowledge that Juan Carlos was at least faithful. That still didn’t leave him off the hook as a murder suspect.
I got back into the Beamer, and headed east on the 10 Freeway, exiting the commuter-clogged La Brea Avenue north, which led me straight to the Hollywood Hills, and finally home.
As I wound up to the English Tudor–style house I shared with Charlie, I saw his Volvo parked out front. He was home early. Definitely a welcome surprise. Snickers was running in circles when I entered the kitchen from the garage, and I scooped her up and followed Charlie’s voice into the den, which was my favorite room in the house. The walls were covered with Hitchcock and Wilder movie posters and an impressive DVD collection, all positioned around the wide-screen TV. In other words, heaven. Charlie sat on the couch, talking on the phone. He winked at me as I ambled in, and patted the cushion next to him. I plopped down, sinking deep into the soft, intoxicating lushness of the cushions (we spare no expense when it comes to comfort). He slipped a muscular arm around my neck, pulling me closer, and I closed my eyes, nestling my head against his chest as he talked.
“So man, how long has it been?” he said, smiling. “Jesus, that long? No, things here are good. I’ve got a boyfriend now, going on three years.” He gently kissed the top of my head and I couldn’t help but smile.
“No, seriously. What, you think I was going to wait for you?” Charlie said.
My eyes popped open. Who the hell was he talking to? Going to wait for whom?
“Very happy. He’s an actor,” Charlie said. And then, after a moment, Charlie laughed. “I know, I know, but I love him anyway.”
Charlie tousled my hair, and gave me another wink. I wasn’t as receptive anymore. I shot up, and stared at him as he wound up his conversation.
“You too, man, and thanks. You’ve been a huge help.”
He clicked off the phone.
“Hey,” he said, as he leaned in and kissed me softly on the lips.
“Hey,” I said flatly. “Who was that?”
“Friend of mine in Miami.”
“I don’t remember you ever mentioning a friend in Miami.” I knew I was being the unreasonably suspicious boyfriend, but after snooping around after Juan Carlos all day, it was in my blood.
“We met in Michigan. At the Police Academy. Good guy.”
There was a long silence as I considered dropping the whole subject. But a lot of people have learned not to bet on me dropping anything. “So were you just friends, or were you, you know, more than just friends?”
“Yeah, there was a flirtation for a while. Pretty innocent though. Never got past the groping stage. But then he dropped out of the Academy and joined the military. We kind of lost touch.”
“So what brought about this big reunion?” I said, my eyes boring into him.
Charlie was so used to my drama, he never flinched or blinked or lost his cool. He just chuckled to himself, and took my hand.
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. You’ve been so caught up in finding out if Laurette’s husband had anything to do with that Teboe guy getting poisoned, I decided to make a few calls. I heard this guy was living in Miami, doing some side work for the police, so I got his number from the South Beach precinct, and rang him up to see if he knew anything about the victim.”
I perked up. “Did he?”
“Did he ever.” Charlie snaked his hand behind my back, and yanked me across the couch until our faces were inches apart.
“Well, what does he know?” I asked.
“Later,” he said, and lowered me down on my back. He lifted my head in the crook of his elbow, and jammed his lips over mine. Our tongues danced and probed together, and he wrapped his legs around mine and locked them into place. Charlie didn’t demand much from me, but when he got hot and horny, he hated to wait. We weren’t going anywhere.
He was the best lover I had ever known, and if I had been smart, I would have just gone with the flow, and put my curiosity into neutral, but once my mind starts racing, there’s no turning back, and I just couldn’t help myself.
I reached up, kissing his cheek, his forehead, making my way over to his right ear. Charlie’s anticipation was building. This was always the part where I talked dirty.
“So what exactly did your friend know about Teboe?” I said.
Charlie let out a sigh, but chose to ignore me. He ripped open my shirt, and started caressing my chest with his hands. I slipped mine up underneath his sweater and did the same. Then, he grabbed ahold of my zipper and yanked it down, cupped a hand below my genitals, and rubbed furiously. I gasped, lost in the pleasure of his touch. Charlie was certain this would do the trick. No more questions until we were through.
“Did your friend know whether Teboe and Juan Carlos worked at the same restaurant?” I said.
Charlie stopped and pulled away. I could see the frustration on his pained face. But he knew it was a hopeless cause.
“Yes,” Charlie said. “He confirmed it. The two met working at the Nexxt Café. Teboe was a chef. Juan Carlos a waiter. My friend was keeping tabs on Teboe because he was investigating Javier Martinez.”
I had no clue who that was, so Charlie enlightened me. “Big head of a Miami-based crime family. Into money laundering, extortion, weapons smuggling, you name it. They’re bigger than some multinational corporations. Teboe’s last gig was working as a personal chef on Martinez’s yacht. He left under mysterious circumstances, though no one knows why.”
I sat up. “What about Juan Carlos? Did your friend say he was connected with the family too?”
“No. Juan Carlos never worked for them. But Martinez sure as hell knows who Juan Carlos is, and isn’t a fan, to put it mildly. There was a rumor that Martinez put a hit out on Juan Carlos, which might explain why he left Florida in such a hurry.”
“Why would a bad soap actor piss off a big-time crime czar? And why would Juan Carlos lie about knowing Austin Teboe?”
Charlie shrugged.
“Anything else?” I said.
“Nope. That was it.”
To Charlie’s chagrin, I started buttoning up my shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“Going over to Laurette’s.”
“Now?”
“Don’t you think she ought to know that her husband is mixed up with the Tony Soprano of South Florida?”
He couldn’t argue with my logic. But that didn’t make him any less perturbed.
I jumped up, zipped my pants back up, and grabbed my car keys out of my pants pocket. I halted, then turned back, leaned down, and kissed Charlie hard on the mouth. “I know I’m insane, and obsessive, and really hard to handle, but just know that I love you, and I really hope you’re here when I get back.”
Charlie saw right through my quick fix. He wasn’t going to let me off so easily this time. “Maybe,” he said. “Depends on whether or not I can get a flight to Florida tonight or in the morning.”
This floored me. My mouth dropped open and we stared each other down. And finally, after an agonizing thirty seconds, he gave me another one of his adorable trademark winks. “Don’t be late.”
“I love you,” I said, as I raced for the garage.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before.”
Chapter 9
“So, Juan Carlos told Dominique that he loved me and not her, is that right?” Laurette said, clutching an apple martini in her recently renovated backyard, which now boasted a kidney-shaped pool, a blue-tiled Jacuzzi, and several bamboo trees and rosebushes.
“Yes, but he lied about knowing Austin Teboe. They did work together in Miami Beach. Now why would he lie about something like that?” I said.
Laurette took a generous sip of her martini. I thought she was considering my question, but then, after a moment, she leaned forward and said, “So it’s definitely over between them then.”
“Yes,” I said, unable to conceal my exasperation. “But this Javier Martinez sounds like a real dangerous character, and Juan Carlos has somehow ticked him off, and at the risk of sounding melodramatic, I think your life could be in jeopardy.”
Laurette’s eyes brimmed with tears. I thought I had finally broken through. She threw her head back and exclaimed, “Thank God! Thank God he’s not cheating on me! Oh, I feel so much better!”
She never heard a word I said.
I snatched the apple martini out of her hand, holding it hostage. This finally spurred a reaction. As her arm snapped out to grab it back, I wrenched it farther out of her reach.
“Honey, this is serious,” I said. “Juan Carlos is in with some big-time bad guys, and you need to deal with that.”
“Please, Jarrod, whatever past he may have had in Florida is over. His life is in LA now. With me.”
“But what if it turns out that he did have something to do with poisoning Austin Teboe? What then?”
“We’ve been over this and over this. He’s not a murderer. The only time Juan Carlos killed anyone was when he played Brutus in Julius Caesar at the La Hoya Playhouse. Now enough. Promise me you’ll leave him alone.”
Maybe it was me. Maybe I just didn’t like the guy. I knew if I kept up this relentless pursuit of the truth, I risked losing my best friend. It was time to pull back.
“Maybe I’m just being overprotective,” I said.
“And I love you for it.” Laurette squeezed my hand and leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement inside the house. It was Juan Carlos. He tossed his keys on a side table in the living room, spotted us having a cocktail hour out on the patio, and sauntered out to join us.