by Tatum West
“Honey, as soon as we’re off this call, I want you to call this man and tell him exactly what you’ve just told us,” my mom says, worry creeping into your voice.
“Your mother is right,” my dad says.
“Hang on Nikki,” Mom interjects. “I’m going to need to record this call and broadcast it to the town of Abingdon—”
“I do think you’re right sometimes, sweetheart. Most of the time.”
“Well thank you, Clyde. I’ll go ahead and rip out the boxwoods out back in exchange for the hydrangeas I was talking about—”
“Not about that.”
“Guys,” I say. “Let’s focus. You think getting in touch with this guy is a good idea? I mean, he appeared out of nowhere and could have kidnapped me—”
“Anybody can kidnap anyone at any time,” my mom says. “But this guy seems qualified enough to kidnap you, sweetheart. I mean, if he could help you out of this situation with the guys working for you, I wouldn’t mind if he did.”
I might not mind it, either.
“You need to get on this as soon as possible,” my dad adds. “I think Sal is embezzling. We’ve been worried about this for a long time. I was thinking of emailing you, but I just don’t want you to think we’re micromanaging your career. You’re doing so well, Nick. We’re so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, my voice cracking ever so slightly. “I don’t think that.”
“We just want the best for you, honey. You need to get rid of these guys and get in touch with Fox Lee—or someone like him. I didn’t know that there were guys who did this for a living.”
Everything is so black and white to them. Their lives are simple. They have the same friends they’ve had since they were kids. They know who they can trust, and they know who to turn to when they need help with anything.
I envy them now. I never saw it before, but they have things figured out. They don’t just let things happen to them when things are overwhelming. My world is so much more complicated. Sal’s been my manager since I stepped off the plane in LA. Derek has been with me since the first tour, after my debut album topped the charts. They knew me when I was nobody. They stuck with me. The idea that Sal might be stealing from me physically hurts. It breaks my heart.
But what if he’s not, and he discovers I’ve hired someone to look into him? Sal would be devastated. He had faith in me when everyone else in this city just laughed, and this is how I repay him?
“Promise us you’ll call this Fox Lee fellow,” my father adds. “If you’d like, I can fly out tomorrow and help you with all this. I’m happy to do it, son. You know we’re ready to do anything in the world for you.”
“I’ll call him,” I promise. “And I’ll let you know if I need you to fly out. Let’s see what he says first.”
“Okay,” Dad says.
“Can we ask one more thing?” Mom asks.
“Sure, anything.”
“When you get an audit underway, can I see it? I know it’s a lot to ask. Your financial situation is your business, but Nikki, this is what I do. I’ll be able to tell if the audit is done correctly, or…”
“How about you do the audit?” I say, hesitating just a moment. “I’d prefer you do it, actually. If you have time to take it on.”
“That would be wonderful,” Mom replies. “After you meet with Mr. Lee, assuming you hire him, have him call me.”
“I will,” I assure her.
For six years I’ve tried to do everything on my own. It’s time I started asking for help from people I know I can trust. After speaking to my folks, I already feel better. One way or another we’re going to sort this all out.
When our call is done, it’s still too early to call Fox Lee’s office, so I tackle the job of cleaning up after Derek and his party. Beer and liquor bottles, along with countless cigarette butts, litter my house and the pool deck outside. The more I think about Derek and those people wandering around my place while I was sleeping, the angrier I get. Derek has gotten way too comfortable treating my home like it’s a hotel.
He’s supposed to be my chief of security, but he brought strangers to my house and gave them the run of the place by the looks of things. I find more beer bottles in the downstairs bathroom; an empty box of McDonald’s french fries in the media room; and a half-dozen DVD’s carelessly strewn across the coffee table.
I’m calling a locksmith after I call Fox Lee. I’m resetting the passwords on the security system.
After I finish tidying up, I head upstairs to take a shower. I’m feeling downright furry with whiskers scratching my chin. Sometimes I have to shave twice a day just to keep my skin soft and free of stubble. It’s a pain. I’d rather not have even a hint of stubble. It doesn’t go well under Dior foundation, or the Nars Orgasm blush I like to use right along my cheekbones. More than that, even the hint of facial hair reminds me of my past, of trying to be like all the other boys at school, of trying to be like any boy, when I’d really rather not be one thing or the other.
I stroll through my bedroom into my master bath, feeling somewhat rejuvenated, but all that disappears as soon as I see the mirror.
Written in lipstick – my favorite color, Bloodmoon – is the following message, taking up the entire length and breadth of the six-foot-long mirror:
“My beautiful Nikki, watching you sleep was my very best dream come true. I wanted to wake you and take you into my arms, but you were so peaceful, so perfect, I couldn’t disturb you. Soon – very soon – we’ll be together forever, and you’ll see just how deep my love for you is. I know you love me too, because that’s what it means to be soulmates. Stay beautiful, my lovely angel. Sleep well. All my love.”
It’s signed with the initials “D.D.C”, which are underlined and punctuated with a heart.
Someone was in my bedroom. Someone in my bathroom, rifling through my makeup until they found my lipstick. Someone was here, watching me, while I slept.
Holy shit!
My heart skips three beats. I can’t catch my breath. My knees go weak, and my breath escapes me, all at once. I fall to the floor, hand over the pain gathering in my chest.
Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!
____
* * *
“MY BEST ADVICE would be to change the locks, update all your security passcodes and backups, and talk to an attorney,” the detective who responds to my 911 call says. “We’ve got some fingerprints, but unless he or she is already in the system, I doubt it’ll turn up anything.”
Another cop takes a photograph of the message written on my mirror. The detective looks at it, then back at me.
“The good news is if he wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead. You’re lucky. This is probably an obsessed fan.”
I’m lucky? I don’t feel lucky. I’m scared as shit and feeling vulnerable. I don’t know what to do.
The detective asks me about any threats I’ve received on the internet or over the phone.
“Just a few trolls,” I say. “I usually ignore them unless they’re really offensive. The worst ones I block. There’s this one guy who shows up at the studio gates a lot. I’ve seen him outside a few places I’ve been—restaurants, clubs, that sort of thing. He’s a little creepy, but he’s never done anything except be there.”
The detective nods, handing me his card. “The next time you see him, call me,” he says. “Get a picture of him if you can, but don’t get close to him.”
Great. Get a picture of my stalker. Isn’t that their job?
“You need an attorney or a PI who handles things like this. The LAPD doesn’t have the resources to do a deep investigation on a possible stalker. There are people who do it for celebrities.”
I nod. “I’ve already got an attorney’s number. I’m calling him as soon as you guys leave.”
“Good,” the detective says. “And get the locks changed today.”
CHAPTER FIVE
FOX
M r. Lee, there’s a call for you on five,”
my admin, Nancy, says over the intercom. “It’s someone named Nikki Rippon. He said you might be expecting his call.”
I wasn’t expecting him to call, and certainly not so soon, but I’m pleased, and not just for the potential of a new client and interesting work. For some reason, which I’m not entirely comfortable thinking on too deeply, he’s been on mind all day.
He’s twenty-six years-old.
I haven’t dated a twenty-six year old guy since I was in my twenties.
“Mr. Rippon,” I answer, trying my best to sound professional and nonchalant. “Pleased to hear from you. How may I help you today?”
His reply stops me cold.
“The police just left.” There’s terror in his voice. “I think the guys working for me… my security team... they’re not doing their job.”
“What exactly are they not doing?”
“I woke up to a party on my back patio. Topless girls and drinking. Drugs. I don’t mind a party. Just not that kind of party.”
“That’s not unusual. Why were the police involved?”
“I kicked those assholes out. When I went back inside to shower, I saw a message written on my mirror. Like, written by someone who broke into my house. A stalker. Or some punks. Someone looking to scare me.” There’s a thick silence at the other end of the line. I can almost hear him shaking. “I called someone to change the locks. I don’t… I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do. They didn’t go over that in the how-to-be-famous class I took when I first got to Hollywood.”
“Yeah, I bet not. There’s really no training manual, is there?”
“Fucking unfortunately not.”
“You’re at home now?”
“For the time being. I might evaporate into thin air from anxiety.”
“I wouldn’t blame you. But stay put,” I tell him. “Don’t open the doors for anybody but the locksmith or me. I’m going to arrange a new security detail for you as quickly as I can. I’ll give you a call when I’m on my way over. You call me if anything else happens. Okay?”
“Fine. I’ll take a Xanax and hide in my closet.”
“Honestly, that’s not a bad plan. Is it a nice closet?”
“Best closet I’ve ever had. And the only one I’ve ever been in.”
I try not to laugh, but I clear my throat and give a little scoff. I’ve dealt with plenty of shitty security teams and stalker attempts, but no one so far has managed to make it funny.
“Okay, well, stay there. I’m on my way.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“It won’t be long,” I promise him. “Just long enough for me to make a few phone calls.”
As soon as I’m off the phone I buzz my admin.
“Nancy, I need a retainer contract for Leo Nicholas Rippon drafted as soon as possible,” I tell her. “Along with a power-of-attorney and a non-disclosure. And please get Christian Black at ASP Security on the phone for me. Thank you.”
While I wait for the call to Christian to come through, I fire off an email to Ellis Robards, one of the best private investigators I’ve ever worked with. I give him the basic details of the case, promising to follow up later. I know, even with scant information, Ellis will get to work immediately. By this time tomorrow I expect to have a solidly informative initial report on Salvatore Domenico and Nikki’s bodyguard Derek, along with insight into all their near family, friends, and associates.
“Mr. Black is on line six,” Nancy says. “And Mr. Jackson is on his way up to speak with you. He said it’s urgent.”
“Send him in when he gets here,” I respond. “Put Christian through.”
Christian Black isn’t a man I want to keep waiting. He’s the CEO of one of the most reputable security firms in the country, providing close protection and a full array of security services for clients worldwide, from pop stars to diplomats working in war-torn countries. Christian and I first worked together when I was involved in a high-profile case against a tobacco company. I got death threats, and not the kind you get from guys sitting at a computer in Mom’s basement. Genuine mobsters met me in a parking deck, telling me to back off or they’d kill me. It was terrifying. The next day I contacted Christian Black. I’ve been referring his firm’s services to my clients ever since.
“Good to hear from you, Fox,” he says. “Although every time you call me, I feel a crisis coming on.”
“It’s no different this time,” I tell him. “I need a dedicated, twenty-four-seven detail, starting today, for a client. He also needs a full-tilt security audit.”
“Who is it?” he asks. “We’re stretched a little thin around here. I just sent ten guys to Moscow for a summit.”
“Nikki Rippon.”
“That kid--the one with that video. The song. I like his style. Kinda Annie Lennox, a little Ziggy Stardust.”
“Yeah. That’s him.” I smile. Good comparison. “His manager, Sal Domenico, is a real piece of work. I’ll send over what I have on him. And his security team seems to be lazy—and pretty fucking ridiculous.”
“There are plenty of other good security firms out there, man. I know you like us, but we’re strapped as hell right now.”
“He needs someone good. And he needs them quick.”
“And why might that be?”
“He’s got a stalker who’s been inside his house,” I add. “I don’t know anything about the person, except that’s a pretty ballsy move--coming in a guy’s house while he’s sleeping, leaving him a love note in lipstick on the bathroom mirror.”
“Bold,” Christian states with a touch of admiration. “Lipstick? Is the person of interest a woman?”
“I doubt it,” I tell him. “I don’t know. I think it’s tough to say at this point. This is why we need you.”
“Alright. Fine. I got it. Stalker, shit security team. He does need us.” Christian sighs. “I’m actually free right now, and I have a team lead who’s here training. I’ll pull him and cobble a crew together. It’ll take me a couple hours to get to LA. Text me the address.”
“I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ll meet you there. Nikki’s pretty scared. I’m heading over there now.”
Before I’ve even hung up the phone, Stephan bursts into my office again, wearing that desperate expression I’ve come to know too well.
“How come you didn’t tell me about the scuffle with Nikki Rippon at 1-Oak last night?” he asks, shoving his tablet in my face. “You’re all over TMZ. Jesus, Fox, that’s a mean right hook you’ve got there.”
I take the tablet, scanning through the dozens of stills posted under the headline, “Blinded By The Light: Nikki Rippon melts under the white-hot heat of stardom.”
The videos are more interesting. The guy I punched – the guy who was close enough to caress Nikki, the one who called him ‘husband’ – is visible in the videos.
He’s maybe in his mid-thirties; overweight and dimpled; with short-cropped brown hair; dressed in jeans and an Army surplus coat. Basically, he looks like a million other creepy neckbeards out in the world.
“It didn’t come up,” I tell Stephan. “We were discussing Miss Bethesda’s drama. This all happened as I was leaving the club after I sent her home.”
I hand the tablet back to Stephan. He gawks at me in puzzled disbelief.
“She checked herself into rehab this morning,” Stephan says. “Thanks for setting that up. Now tell me how this thing with the pop star came about.”
“It’s a long story,” I say, retrieving my suit coat from a hanger on the back of my office door. “You wanted a new client; I just landed Nikki Rippon. He’s a bigger fish than Miss Bethesda, and as far as I can tell, he doesn’t have bad habits. I’m headed over to his place now to sign paperwork and get underway with a full financial and security audit. Christian Black is coming in personally to oversee the security part. So, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go.”
Stephan smiles wryly, shaking his head. “Watch and learn,” he says. “That’s what the old man said to me about yo
u. I still can’t fucking believe Natalie went to rehab of her own accord. And you landed Nikki Rippon in the same breath.”
The ‘old man’ is Braxton Bragg, our other founding partner. At seventy-seven years old he doesn’t do much anymore except advise and consult. Before he went into semi-retirement, he litigated before the United States Supreme Court seven times, and he’s the man who invented the notion of digital copyright. His clients have included major studios and some of the biggest producers out there
I’ve known Braxton since I was sixteen years old, working in the mail room at his firm. I saw his bespoke suits, the fast cars, the confident way he carried himself. He made me want to be a Hollywood attorney. I never expected the long hours or the endless starlets breaking down at dance clubs. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t worked there; that I’d never wanted this so bad. On some days, the exhaustion hits, no matter how many hours I’ve slept or how long I worked out.
“Can I come? I’d love to meet Nikki.” Stephan asks. He’s suddenly like a puppy, wanting to tag along with the Big Dog. I guess he’s forgotten about the guy I punched out in front of half of the paparazzi in this town.
“Fine. You’re a damn good attorney when you’re not flipping the fuck out, Stephan. Let’s go land our next client.”
As much as I want to keep Nikki to myself, that wouldn’t be the right decision for the firm, and probably not even for Nikki. More than that though, I’m going on vacation in a couple of weeks, and I’ll need someone to cover Nikki while I’m away. It’s probably better Nikki meets Stephan now, rather than at the last minute. Nikki strikes me as the kind of client who likely needs a personal connection. He needs to like us. Both of us.
“Sure,” I say. “Let’s go.”
“HE’S GOT MORE Grammys than Madonna and he lives in a bungalow in Laurel Canyon?” Stephan observes as we pull into the short drive. “What’s that about?”
I smile. “It’s telling, isn’t it?” I ask. “You’d almost think he had his priorities in order.”