The Bad Always Die Twice

by Cheryl Crane

  “Jess, that’s a terrible thing to say.”

  She shrugged. “A girl’s got to pay her AmEx bill.” She glanced at the file again and frowned. “You’re not going to find anything in there.”

  “No. I guess not.” But Nikki continued to flip through the papers. There were notes on potential buyers. Copies of some estimates Nikki had gotten for Rex with the idea of making some improvements that would move the house. There was also a copy of a contract that had fallen through, and a copy of the current contract. Nothing of interest. She was scooping the papers up to drop them back into the file when a pink WHILE YOU WERE OUT slip fell to her desk. She picked it up. It documented a call from Rex a month before he supposedly died in the plane crash. For some reason, he had called the main number instead of Nikki’s or Jess’s cell. There was a return phone number on it that Nikki didn’t recognize. This was not Rex’s or Edith’s cell phones or their home phone. She held up the piece of pink paper. “You recognize this?”

  Jessica barely looked at it. “Nikki, that was what? Like eight months ago? I don’t know what it is. And I know you don’t want to hear this, but we cared for each other.”

  Nikki nibbled on her lower lip. “Did you return this call?”

  “Nikki, I don’t know. I don’t remember. How many calls do we return to clients a day?” Jessica looked up at her from across her desk. “Do you think it would be okay to call the police and see if I can pick my car up from impound yet?” As expected, the police had contacted Jessica midday Tuesday, gotten the location of her car, and had it towed in to examine for evidence.

  “There’s no way they’re going to release it this soon.” Nikki held up the call memo slip. “You sure you didn’t return this call, because I’m sure I didn’t.”

  “I don’t remember.” Jessica shrugged dramatically; she sounded like she was teetering on the edge of tears. “I think I might just go home. Of course, I can’t go home because the police have my apartment roped off because I found a dead man in my bed. I’m just going to catch a cab.” She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a cute little leather handbag that was the same burnt orange as her dress. “See you at your place later?”

  “I might try to catch a bite with Jeremy tonight. Could you let Ollie and Stan out?”

  “Sure,” Jessica sighed; she didn’t have a lot of patience for pets.

  When she was gone, Nikki studied the pink slip of paper in her hand. It had Rex’s name, Jess’s name, and a phone number. There was something written beneath the phone number, but the pen used to write the note had smeared. She studied it under her desk light. It looked like the number 511.

  Nikki hesitated, then picked up the phone and dialed the number.

  “Good afternoon,” said a man on the other end of the phone. “Sunset Tower Hotel, how may I direct your call?”

  Chapter 10

  It was close to five by the time Nikki reached the landmark art deco hotel; the traffic on Sunset Boulevard was awful, even for a Friday afternoon. Nikki had given enough potential real estate buyers the canned tour of L.A. that she knew the spiel on all the hotspots by heart.

  Designed by the architect Leland A. Bryant, the Sunset Tower Hotel in West Hollywood had been built in the early thirties as a luxury apartment building. It was the first quakeproof structure built in L.A. Occupants over the years had included Jean Harlow, Clark Gable, Errol Flynn, John Wayne, Marilyn Monroe, and Frank Sinatra. In the eighties, the building fell into disrepair, but was saved at the last moment from demolition by preservation laws. Truman Capote was once quoted as saying, “I am living in a very posh establishment, the Sunset Tower, which local gentry tell me is where every scandal that ever happened, happened.”

  Nikki didn’t like to consider how many nights Victoria had spent in the Sunset Tower while Nikki was tucked safely in bed back in Beverly Hills. Victoria was never considered a loose woman by anyone’s standards, but she managed to marry seven different men, so she had by no means been a social recluse.

  Nikki pulled up to the valet parking stand in front of the hotel. “I won’t be long,” she told the young man who opened her car door. As she climbed out, she picked a peanut up off the seat, giving him a quick smile of apology. “Thanks,” she called as she accepted the ticket, handing him a few ones instead of the peanut. As she headed for the front doors, she tossed the nut into her mouth.

  The lobby of the hotel was grand, done in dark wood, mauve accents and marble floors. Unfortunately, despite the enormously expensive restoration job, Nikki got the feeling that the true ambience of the hotel was lost forever. The Tower Bar (once gangster Bugsy Siegel’s apartment), where she occasionally met clients, was nice enough, but she couldn’t help feeling the place was touristy. In her mind, the Sunset Tower Hotel would never be what it had once been in the Golden Age of Hollywood.

  She walked up to the front desk; the clerk was busy typing into the computer, though for all she knew, he could have been bringing up YouTube clips of kittens riding unicycles. She waited patiently until the young man in the cheap suit jacket glanced up.

  “May I help you?”

  Nikki moved in closer, lowering her voice. “I was wondering if you can answer a couple of questions about one of your guests.”

  “I’m sorry, but we don’t reveal the names of celebrities currently staying with us,” he replied, a line he’d obviously memorized. He returned his attention to his YouTube video.

  That’s because no celebrities would stay here, Nikki thought, but she didn’t say it. Instead, she gave him the smile. “This isn’t exactly a celebrity. And he’s . . . was a client of mine.”

  The clerk stared at her.

  “Could you tell me if Rex March stayed here February 11th of this year?” She indicated the computer screen. “Would it be possible to just . . . look it up?”

  “Never heard of him,” the young man said.

  “You’ve never heard of Rex March?” She reached into her handbag, pulled out a leather business card case and began to thumb through the cards. She’d been meaning for months to clean it out; the good news was that she was almost positive she still had one of Rex’s cards, complete with a photo of him grinning. Bingo! She offered the business card. “You don’t recognize this man?”

  He barely looked at the card. “Nope.”

  “Do you read the newspapers?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Read the papers?” she asked, trying to check her annoyance. “Watch the news? My client, Rex March, was murdered this week.” Seeing no need to clutter the conversation with details, she left out the part about her friend being the main suspect.

  “There’s been no murders in the Sunset Tower Hotel, ma’am. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  She frowned, dropping the business card back into the abyss of her bag. “You can’t just check to see if he was here that day?”

  He sighed, hit a few keys on his keyboard and glanced at the computer screen. “No—what was his name, ma’am?”

  She hated it when people ma’am’ed her. She wasn’t old enough to be a ma’am. Was she? “Rex March. He did TV. Movies.”

  The clerk frowned. “Must have been before my time. Never heard of him. No Rex March checked in here.” He looked up, his face as bland as a bowl of congealed oatmeal. “Anything else I can do for you? A dinner reservation? A spa appointment?”

  She sighed, her shoulders sagging. He was already looking at the computer again. “No. Thank you. Have a good day,” she added as she turned away—just in case her mother was hiding behind a potted palm. Victoria had always insisted on extreme politeness, even with the lowliest valets, key grips, or maids in restaurant bathrooms. It was a rare behavior for Hollywood royalty, and contributed to the universal adoration of her fans.

  Beginning to doubt her detective skills, Nikki went back out the front door and handed her ticket to the valet.

  “Be a few minutes, ma’am.”

  Of course, it would. Her car was probably alread
y parked six deep. She flashed the smile, even though she wasn’t really feeling it. As she waited, she contemplated the phone number written on the WHILE YOU WERE OUT slip and what it might mean. Nikki knew Rex well enough to know he could have been at this hotel that day on one of his many liaisons. So, did the clerk at the desk just lie about whether or not he’d been a guest that day, or had Rex given a fake name, something Hollywood stars were famous for doing? And had his hookup been with Jessica? Did it matter who the woman was?

  “Miss . . . Miss Harper?”

  Nikki turned to see a young man wearing a hotel name tag. “Yes?”

  He tucked his hands behind his back like a child trying to keep from touching candy on a counter. “I . . . I thought that was you. I saw you in People magazine. That charity event you attended with your mother. You . . . you looked great.”

  “Thank you.” Nikki didn’t get a lot of recognition; there were too many real celebrities in town, but it did happen, occasionally. Always be polite, Victoria said. But watch out for crazies. Nikki glanced away in search of her Prius.

  Jeremy had called her when she was stuck in traffic on Sunset. He wanted her to stop by his place on Saturday. She was looking forward to seeing him. He was always her voice of logic. He was so grounded, which was amazing, considering the fact that he had made his first million before his twelfth birthday.

  “I hope you don’t mind.” The guy was still there. Actually, he wasn’t much more than a kid. Early twenties, average height, sandy hair, attractive enough face; it was a common look in Hollywood. “But I sort of overheard you talking to the desk clerk.” He lowered his voice. “About Rex March.”

  Nikki’s ears immediately perked up. “Yes?” she said, turning to him.

  He offered his hand. “I’m Julius.”

  “Nice to meet you, Julius.” The smile. She shook his hand. “Do you know something about Rex being here?”

  “Do you mind if we talk? . . .” He tilted his head, indicating a place on the sidewalk that wasn’t visible from the lobby. “I don’t want to lose my job. We’re not supposed to mess with famous people.”

  This time her smile was genuine. She followed him. “What can you tell me about Rex?”

  “I know what people say about him, but I was kind of a fan,” Julius said apologetically. “I grew up watching reruns of his show.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I know it was kind of cheesy and the acting was bad and all, but I grew up with him. You know?”

  Nikki tried to remain patient through Julius’s trip down memory lane. “I know exactly what you mean,” she said, having no idea. “Did you see Rex here? In February? This is kind of important.”

  The young man glanced around as if he were a cast member on the set of a bad spy movie. “I saw him lots of times,” he whispered.

  “You did?” she whispered back, now trying to contain her enthusiasm. She didn’t want to scare him off.

  He nodded vigorously. “We’re trained to play it cool with celebrities, you know, pretend it’s no big deal, especially if they’re wearing a disguise.”

  “A disguise?” she repeated. Not just a false name, Rex had used a disguise? Talk about cheesy. Images of Rex wearing a pirate’s eye patch or a blackened hillbilly tooth skittered in her head.

  Again, Julius glanced one way and then the other. “I’m sure he came in not long before his plane crashed. I’m comfortable enough with my masculinity to admit to you I cried when I heard he hadn’t survived,” he said dramatically.

  “Are you, by any chance, an actor?” she asked, unable to help herself.

  “I am.” He beamed. “I was in a commercial for #1 Automart in East L.A. . . . I was the dancing dollar sign. And a few smaller parts.”

  “Ah . . . so you were saying, you saw Rex on February 11th?”

  “I don’t know about the date. The last time I saw him, he was wearing my favorite disguise of his: a big straw hat,” he motioned, demonstrating a hat the size of a sombrero, “a flowered shirt and sunglasses. I know he had a lot of fans fooled, but not me.” He winked.

  She winked back. “Right . . .” She was trying to think of what else to ask him. She really needed to read some detective novels to see how this was done. “So . . . you happen to know what name he was registered under? Because the nice gentleman at the front desk said Rex March was never registered here.”

  “Jason?” Julius made a face. “That douche bag? He wouldn’t know if Jennifer Aniston walked through his lobby. Actually, she did,” he added quickly. “I know she’s an older woman and all, but she’s hot.”

  Nikki made a spinning motion with her hand. “Back to Rex and the name. Do you know what name he used when he checked in?”

  Julius shook his head, obviously disappointed that he couldn’t tell her. “But I bet I could find out,” he said quickly.

  “Could you?”

  He nodded again. “I have to tell you, my granny, back in Idaho, she raised me and she’s a big fan of your mother’s. She loves her movies. And her eightieth birthday is coming.”

  “Really? Eighty years?” Nikki knew in a second where this was going. “Do . . . do you think your granny would like an autographed photo? Personalized?” That was an easy one. Her mother’s part-time correspondence secretary, Cora, a woman who had been around the Hollywood block more times than most, sent out a stack of autographed photos of Nikki’s mother every week. An autographed photo was totally doable.

  “That would be great, but . . .” He glanced at her sheepishly. “This isn’t like blackmail or anything, but I could lose my job, looking up stuff on the computer. And it might take me a couple of days to sneak into the office and do it, so—”

  She spotted her Prius, coming their way. “What will it take, Julius?” she said, cutting to the chase. “My mother doesn’t do personal appearances in Idaho.”

  “No, no.” He put up his hands. “It’s nothing like that. I was just wondering . . .”

  He stalled long enough for the valet to bring up her car. “Yes?” she said, looking back at Julius.

  “Is there any way she could call my granny to wish her a happy birthday?”

  Nikki thought for a minute. Victoria didn’t make personal phone calls often, but maybe she could be persuaded.

  “It would really mean a lot to my grandmother. And to me. And if you needed to know anything else,” he said quickly, “after I find out the name Rex March used, I could definitely help you out.”

  “Done.” Nikki thrust out her hand to shake Julius’s. “You get back to me on that name,” she said, fishing a business card out of her bag, “and Victoria Bordeaux will call your grandmother in Idaho and offer a personal birthday wish.”

  Julius was still grinning when Nikki climbed into her car. All Nikki could think of was what Victoria was going to want from her in return for this favor.

  “Sorry, Ms. Flaherty’s gone home,” the young woman with Marilyn Monroe platinum hair said from behind her desk. She was busy regluing one of her pink press-on nails. “Would you like to make an appointment? She only sees people by appointment. No drop-ins.” The phone rang, but she ignored it.

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” Nikki glanced at the ringing phone.

  “After five,” the secretary explained. She actually had an uncanny resemblance to Norma Jean, but there were people like her all over L.A. Marilyn Monroe look-alikes were topped only by the Elvises. Shoot, Nikki had one of those of her own.

  Nikki nodded, trying to seem disappointed. Actually, she’d purposely stopped by late to be sure she missed Thompson Christopher’s agent. J.J. Flaherty would never answer Nikki’s questions . . . but the secretary might.

  “I’m Nikki Harper.” She decided not to shake the girl’s hand, not with the nail repair going on. Glancing around, she spotted a chair and grabbed it, dragging it over in front of the desk. “You mind if I sit down? Long day,” she sighed, dropping into the chair. “I’m a real estate agent with the Windsor company. You might know my mother,” she went on sha
melessly. “Victoria—”

  “Oh, my God!” A bit of Jersey slipped out of the girl as she shot out of her chair. “Victoria Bordeaux’s daughter! I love love love her movies. My mother and I used to watch them on Sunday afternoons.” She waved her hands in excited admiration. “You were in People this week.”

  “Actually, it was a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, my God!” The young woman rushed out from behind her desk. Nikki thought maybe she was coming around to shake her hand or something, but she made a beeline for the waiting area and began to pull through a stack of tired magazines. “If I can find it, can you, you know, autograph it? My girlfriends aren’t going to believe this! This’ll be three this week. Got it!” She spun around, clutching the said issue of People. “We collect autographs. Whoever gets the fewest in a week has to buy the other three a round of drinks on Saturday night.” She skittered forward, balanced on high heels, her red skirt so tight Nikki could see that there were no telltale panty lines. Commando?

  “I’d be happy to autograph the magazine,” Nikki said sweetly, grabbing a pen off the desk. “Let me keep it and maybe I can get you my mother’s, too.”

  “Oh, my God!” The girl fanned herself with the magazine. “The girls aren’t going to believe this! You’re sooo nice.” She started to offer the magazine, then pulled it back to her boob job. “Not everyone who comes into this office is very nice.” She scrunched up her pretty face.

  “How about Thompson Christopher?” Nikki could see from this close that the mole was penciled in. “Is he nice?”

  “Oh, yeah. Real nice.” She smiled. She was actually pretty, beneath the caricature.

  “What did you say your name was?” Nikki asked.

  “Tawny Lion.” She offered her hand, the nail appearing to now be stable. “But that’s my screen name. It’s Mary, actually. Mary Jones.”