“Meagan. I…I’m here to see your husband. He’ll be here any minute.”
“Don’t worry. We have a…an open marriage. Sort of. How much time do you need? We can use the powder room,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice thick.
“That’s not a bad idea. But I’m thinking I need to use it alone,” he said as he rose, twisting away from her, and set his glass on the coffee table before crossing the big room. “Is it over here?”
“Getting warmer,” she said, disappointment in her voice, and then she knocked back the rest of her margarita in a single swallow. “First doorway on that hall, to the right.”
Black found it easily enough and flicked the lights on as he bolted himself safely in. The room was done in soft orange Venetian plaster with a rustic finish, and he studied his reflection in the ornate mirror before rinsing his face with cool water, letting it drip from his chin as he leaned forward over the onyx vessel sink. His eyes stared back like vats of dirty oil as he reached for a thick towel, the powerful glow of the tequila still warming his belly even as he fought an internal struggle against his hormones. He had zero doubt Meagan would have let him take her right there, standing up in the small space, and the thought sent an erotic charge down his spine that didn’t stop till it hit his toes.
Whoa, big boy. Earth to Black. Time to put your unit back in your pants and keep it there, not work out the odds of having a quickie before your client gets home.
He took several deep breaths and shook his head. What was he thinking? This wasn’t some booze-fuelled porn film. This was reality, and reality was that even if Hunter’s wife was an alcoholic nympho – not that there was anything wrong with that – he was there on business. So she was off limits, even if they had an open marriage, which he took to mean that Meagan screwed everything male that crossed the threshold.
Two minutes later he emerged from the powder room, whatever madness had gripped him now banished, and as he returned to his seat he heard the noise of the garage door closing and then a slam from the end of the opposite hall. Meagan looked up from where she was refilling her glass in the kitchen and winked at him before carrying her drink across the great room. Hunter appeared and she gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek and sauntered to the stairs with a wave to Black.
“Nighty-night, Mr. Black,” she said, managing to make the words sound husky and sexually charged. Hunter ignored her innuendo and lumbered to the kitchen, his gait heavy. He fixed himself a drink – single malt Scotch, Black noted – and then seated himself across from Black, glancing at the half-empty margarita glass before knocking back two of the three fingers of The Macallan.
“She’s quite a girl, isn’t she? Don’t let her spook you. She’s a show horse, only happy when there’s an appreciative audience,” Hunter said. “But you want to watch those margaritas. They’re pure heroin.”
“Yeah, I sort of got that after a few swallows.” Black sighed and crossed his legs. “Tell me what happened today. At your press conference, and with the police. Don’t leave anything out.”
Hunter looked up at the ceiling and then fixed Black with a level stare.
“Only a few people knew about this event. My entourage – my PR people, my agent, my manager, my co-stars, and three members of the press, all hand-selected and known to me for years. We’re giving exclusive interviews to the most influential networks in preparation for the premiere on Friday. So it was hush-hush, invitation only. Apparently, a couple of paparazzi got wind of it, and snuck into the hotel. Don’t ask me how this crap happens. It shouldn’t have. But it did.” He took another, smaller sip. “But the joke was on them. Apparently there was an explosion in the room they were hiding in, and then an electrical short that wound up electrocuting them.”
“And the police don’t think that was accidental.”
“No, they don’t. Long story short, I went to the john around the time the explosion happened, so they suspected me. They pulled the video, though, and I was clearly on my way to the can when the power went off, so there’s no connection between me and the explosion. Mainly because I didn’t know anything about it, and I don’t go around killing people, even if they’re paparazzi.”
“You have to admit, it’s kind of awfully coincidental that paparazzi keep turning up dead in the vicinity of you and your movie, given how vocal you’ve been about your dislike for them.”
“It gets even worse. They believe the two that got fried are from the same group that the two chasing Melody were from – FSA, which is the company I sued. Freddie’s gang.” Hunter took another healthy slug of Scotch.
Black leaned forward. “What precisely do you want me to do?”
“I need someone to watch my ass, line up decent security, and make sure there are no more disasters. I’ve got a lot riding on this film, Black. More than anyone knows. This has to go off without a hitch, and it seems like someone’s doing their best to screw it up for me.”
“I don’t know about that. Any publicity is good publicity, right?”
“To a point. But not if they think that the lead actor and director is a bad guy, and that’s the way it’s shaping up in the only court that matters to me – the court of popular opinion.”
Black nodded. “I told you how it has to be. I work alone, with no strings, and I pursue whatever lines of inquiry I see fit. In other words, I don’t answer to anyone, and I don’t offer daily reports. I’ll contact you when I have something to report, and not until then. If you can’t deal with those terms, you got the wrong man.”
“Okay, okay, tough guy. I told you, I agree. We’ll do it your way.”
“I charge two hundred dollars an hour. Five grand retainer against a minimum twenty for me to take the case. At two grand a day, on average, that will buy you a couple of weeks, max. I cover my own expenses.”
“Fine. I’ll have my bookkeeper cut you a check in the morning. What do we do first?”
Black noted Hunter’s amped demeanor, and thought for a brief instant that he might be on something stronger than alcohol. Maybe uppers of some sort? Whether prescribed or off the street, didn’t matter. It was just another data point to tuck away, and if Black’s hunch was correct, it would make Hunter even more unpredictable. Much as his wife was…
“I’ll find you a decent security head. Like I said, I know some people. They’re professional and highly competent. Let me make some calls mañana. What’s your schedule like?” Black asked.
“Another marathon. I’ve got a meeting with a distributor for the international rights at eleven, but I’m trying to keep that out of the limelight because I’m also negotiating with his biggest competitor. That’s how it’s done in this town. We’re going to hook up in the Valley, at a breakfast place a lot of the Harley crowd hangs out at. Stubbs. You know the joint?”
“Sure. I’ve been there, though years ago.”
“That’s my first meet tomorrow – everything before will happen over the phone. Beyond that, I have to head over to the studio to make preparations for the sneak preview on Wednesday, and then the premiere on Friday night. I can get you a full itinerary in the morning, along with the check. My production office opens at nine over at Paramount. Think you can find it?”
“I’ve heard of the place.” Black took a final taste of his margarita and then rose. “Sounds like I’ve got my work cut out for me. By the way, a good security chief will run about four grand a week. You can go cheaper if you want him long term, but that’s about the going rate for high end. Any problem with that?”
“No. All I ask is that he’s competent and trustworthy.”
“I’ll put the guy I have in mind directly in touch with you tomorrow. Probably early. You up by eight?”
“I’m in my gym by five-thirty. And I’ll have my phone with me.”
“Then we’ll talk then. I’ll be at your office at nine. Copy me on the email authorizing the check. In the meantime, I’ll get to work digging down and see if I can make any sense out of this.”
Hunter
grunted assent.
“Did you ever find the cards of the detectives that stopped by here?” Black asked, remembering the loose end.
“Yeah. Let me get them. Same pair that pulled me in for questioning,” Hunter said, standing. He disappeared down the hall to his office, then returned and handed Black the two cards. Black studied them, his face blank, and passed them back to Hunter.
“You’re in luck. I know one of them. I’ll add touching base with them to my laundry list.”
Hunter offered his hand and Black shook it, noting again the overcompensated squeeze.
“You gonna finish your drink?” Hunter asked, his gaze on Black’s still half-full glass sitting on the coffee table.
“Nah. Too sweet for me.”
Hunter’s focus drifted to the ceiling – the upstairs, where Meagan presumably awaited his arrival, if she hadn’t passed out already.
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Black found his own way out, having left Hunter to his thoughts and his bottle. As he neared his car, he heard a scrape of leather on stone to the right. He slowed, and then stopped when he saw the daughter, Nicole, staring at him accusingly from near his fender.
“I saw you,” she said, her voice dead.
“I know. It wasn’t what it looked like.”
“No, that’s clear. A strange man kissing my father’s lovely, honest young wife.”
“More like her kissing him, not to be too technical.”
“Just to be clear, I’m not blaming you. She’s a whore.”
Black took her measure. Her speech was slightly slurred, but that could have been the result of her injuries.
“I try not to judge others.”
“Listen to Solomon here. I don’t have any problem judging her. She’s a whore, always has been, and my dad deserves way better. And he can do better. He should.”
“Maybe. And maybe he loves her.”
“Trust me, that died a long time ago. My money’s on Dad this go ’round.”
She turned and gimped away, the rubber caps of her crutches making soft thumping sounds as she went. Black watched her disappear into the dark, and wondered what sorts of demons could drive such a young thing, someone with everything – money, looks, status – to methodically destroy herself.
Which quickly turned into introspection. He’d been young once, with the world in the palm of his hand, and he’d managed to screw it up pretty badly. His problem had been rage. Hers was chemicals. Everyone found their own personal hell if they went looking, he supposed.
He cranked the ignition and coaxed the big car through the gates, wondering how many of the mansions he was passing had similar dramas playing out behind their privileged façades. Probably more than anyone could imagine, he thought sadly.
Chapter 9
The glimmer of overhead stars was replaced by the flare of city lights spreading endlessly before him like a neon blanket, and Black left the top down as he drove, the rarified atmosphere of Bel Air gradually replaced by the thicker, polluted smell of Los Angeles proper. His earbud trilled as he dialed his old friend Stan Colt’s number – an LAPD homicide detective who had been instrumental in convincing Black to go into the PI game and had done his best to steer clients his way whenever he could. Black had known Stan for over twenty years, from way back in his band days, and their unusual friendship had survived the test of time, through all Black’s ups and downs – mainly downs.
“What the hell are you doing calling this late? You get arrested?” Stan answered, his usually gruff voice like a Rottweiler’s warning growl.
“Nah. Just left a meeting with my newest client, who had the pleasure of your company this evening. I was wondering if you were thirsty.”
“It’s Monday night. Eleven o’clock. What do you think?”
“So the Club Room in fifteen?” The Club Room was one of their usual watering holes, a dive off South Doheny that served strong drinks for fair prices.
“Make it ten. I gotta be up early tomorrow and I need my beauty rest.”
“I’m on my way.”
Black eased open the battered enamel door to the lounge and stepped into the gloom. The room was sparsely populated with life’s trammeled and unfortunate: a pock-faced Asian bartender stood polishing glasses behind the long mahogany bar, a pair of middle-aged men took serious pulls on tall draft beers at the far end, and an aging woman sat at one of the middle stools, sipping gin, her eyes taking him in with a flicker of interest before settling back on her reflection in the mirror. He glanced around and chose one of the empty tables near the bathroom and waited for the bartender to walk over and take his order: two bottles of Anchor Steam beer, which he knew from experience would be delivered freezing cold with a plastic cup of stale pretzel sticks.
“And two shots of Jack on the side,” he called after the little man, who raised a single hand in halfhearted acknowledgement as he returned to his station.
Just as the drinks arrived, Stan pushed through the door, and after a quick scan of the interior approached Black’s table and sat across from him. Black considered his friend’s craggy face, pummeled by years of hard duty and unmentionable images, his thick brown hair beginning to gray at the temples, a look in his eyes like a Bassett Hound that had been kicked once too often. Stan reached wordlessly over to the shot, raised it in salute, and downed it in a single swallow, then grimaced before exhaling loudly, the alcohol pungent on his breath. Black echoed the action, and they stared at each other for a few beats before Black broke the ice.
“Just took a job working for Hunter.”
“Couldn’t find a gig cleaning septic tanks?”
“He’s not so bad. Says he’s being framed.”
“That’s pretty much what they all say. Other than, ‘I din’t do it.’”
“You really think he’s behind the killings?”
Stan sighed and took a thirsty gulp of his beer. “I don’t know. The guy’s connected to them in some way, that much I know. And he hates the head of the company all these clowns work for. What’s his name, Freddie Psycho?”
“Sypes. Freddie Sypes. But from what I hear, lots of people hate the guy. It’s a long line.”
“I’m not arguing with you, but every one of these killings has been related to your new pal’s movie. Which has been getting a fair amount of attention as a result. I mean, come on. He’s over the hill, hasn’t had a hit since eight-track tapes were big, and then on what’s being called his big comeback flick the paparazzi start dropping like flies? Why this, why now?”
“So your theory is that this is all some kind of desperate publicity stunt?” Black asked.
“I have no theory. I’m just saying there are an awful lot of bodies down at the morgue since he wrapped filming. Seems like it’s gotten hazardous to be a freelance photographer around Mr. Hunter, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s too obvious, Stan. The guy’s not a moron. He’s got to know that he’d be the first person you’d look at, given his track record. Besides, Hollywood bigwigs don’t off lowlife photogs for publicity. Not even in this town. Not without a permit.”
“Fair point. Besides which, we don’t have enough to hold him. Which you know since he’s out driving his Rolls or whatever instead of sitting in the joint saying ‘ahh’ for Bubba.”
“Have you considered that he’s being set up?”
“Sure. The problem is, by who? And to what end? I mean, his crappy movie is getting more press than if the President had gone skinny-dipping with a Mexican hooker, and suddenly a guy who’s invisible to the media is front page news. How is any of that bad for the guy who keeps saying, ‘Woe is me’?” Stan asked.
“Do you have anything on the car crash?”
“Off the record, no. They’re still working it. Trust me, you don’t want the crap job of trying to do a forensic exam on three bodies after a fireball gets through with ’em. Same with the mechanical evaluation. This ain’t CSI Miami. We’ve
got two vehicles that look like somebody put ’em in a car crusher, three stiffs that make beef jerky look good, and no answers.”
“I probably shouldn’t say this, but I get the feeling that Hunter was banging her.”
“Big deal. People bang each other all the time. This is Hollywood. Banging is like ordering a latte or something, except for guys like you and me. Everyone else in this town is out banging right now – while we’re sitting in this armpit talking about how your client is out banging. Did you ever see that Melody chick? She was smoking. She probably had guys crawling through broken glass to bang her. Besides which, Hunter has a rep as a lady’s man, so it comes as no surprise. But it doesn’t get us any closer to the hows or whys of the case.”
They drank their beers in silence, then Black stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “You should see Hunter’s wife. I mean, she’s just raw sex appeal. I met her this afternoon, and she was trying to get me to join her for quickie in the bathroom before the man of the house got home. I’m not making this up.”
“Poor you. Believe it or not, that doesn’t happen to middle-aged homicide dicks with beer bellies and bad attitudes. I should have been a PI.”
“It’s never too late. The hours are terrible and the pay stinks.”
“Right now, that doesn’t sound so bad. At least you don’t spend your days putting thermometers in corpses and listening to sociopaths lie to you.”
“Never say never. The night is young.”
“But we’re not. You going to have another one, or are we hitting it?”
“I have a ton of stuff on my plate tomorrow. But listen, will you do me a favor? Would you give me a heads up if you come across anything that implicates our boy, or points you in another direction? Just so I’m on the same page and don’t step on your toes.”
“You mean will I knowingly reveal pertinent information in a homicide case to someone working for our prime suspect?”
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