Black

by Russell Blake

  “No offense taken – you’re a very perceptive man, aren’t you?”

  “Or a really stupid one.”

  “I never took you for dumb. Although I’ve got nothing against all looks and no brains, if that’s supposed to warn me off. And I told you the last time – call me Meagan. We’re practically family at this point.”

  “Jack and coke,” Black told the bartender, anxious to end the flirtation there. The last thing he needed was Hunter’s inebriated wife coming on to him in a roomful of movers and shakers. He was still squirming inwardly at the idea when Hunter appeared in an Italian suit that probably cost more than Black’s car and clasped one hand on his shoulder as he moved alongside him and set his wine glass down on the bar.

  “So you’re here. Anything new come up?” he asked, his voice low, strictly business as he pointed at his goblet, signaling a refill to the bartender.

  “Not yet. I talked to LAPD about the killing. I wish you had a stronger alibi, but even so, I don’t think there’s going to be any more trouble from that end. There’s no ‘there’ there.”

  “I think I’ll have another greyhound. Extra tequila, Maestro!” Meagan said, her voice a little too loud.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough? Maybe you should hit the brakes for a while,” Hunter said, his eyes flashing anger.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Heaven forbid that I actually enjoy myself a little. I’ll just walk ten steps behind you and bow to whoever greets you. Will that work?” she asked, her voice sweet as honey.

  “Don’t bust my balls, Meagan. Just this once. Do me this favor, would you?” Hunter replied, offering his dazzling professional smile as he waved at two newcomers by the entry.

  “Fine. I have to go to the powder room anyway. Try not to fuck any of your co-stars while I’m there, would you?” she whispered before teetering off on impossibly high heels that showcased her dancer’s legs.

  Hunter shook his head, a look of fatigue crinkling the corners of his eyes.

  “Women, huh? What are you going to do with ’em? I thought the newer models would be easier to operate, but not at all. Can’t live with ’em, can’t keep ’em in a cage in the cellar…I never said that, by the way. The feminists would have a field day with it.”

  Hunter’s prior two marriages had ended in sensational divorces, with an ugly and extremely public battle on the second one. His daughter from that marriage, Nicole, had been used as a pawn by the newly ex-Mrs. Hunter, and Black vaguely recalled the acrimonious bickering the press had reported in excruciating detail.

  Black chose to remain silent, praying his drink would arrive before the surrealistic situation got any more uncomfortable. Hunter took that as camaraderie or agreement, because he drew closer, and Black realized the actor was pretty close to being drunk himself.

  “Don’t read too much into her, Black. We’ve been going through a rough patch, that’s all. It happens.”

  Black nodded as the bartender set his drink down in front of him and then reached for a bottle of cabernet for Hunter. “None of my business.”

  “Speaking of which, I really could use some good news. Tell me you’re making progress. Please.”

  “It’s still first inning. I’m gathering information. Looking for connections. Patterns. Motive. Speaking of which, can you think of anyone else who would have it in for you?”

  Hunter laughed, a dry humorless bark.

  “Half of Hollywood would like to skin me alive and then dance on my grave, the other half would prefer to piss on it. It goes with the territory. This business is all white sharks. You never have any friends in this town, only allies, and then only until it would benefit them to move in for a kill shot.”

  “What about FSA? There’s a common thread here. Whoever is killing the paparazzi is probably doing it for their own reasons. But why link it to you?”

  Hunter lifted his brimming wine glass in a mock toast and then drained a third of it in one swallow. “Who the hell knows? There are psychos everywhere. Maybe somebody wants to become famous. Or thinks they’re doing me a favor by eradicating the world of cockroaches. Maybe they’re trying to send a message – that they agree with my dislike of the paparazzi, and they’re going to somehow help with my crusade by killing them in my proximity? I could invent a hundred different scenarios, but the truth is that I have no idea why whoever is doing this has singled me out. Just lucky, I guess.”

  Black took a sip of his cocktail and noticed the security man he’d recommended to Hunter standing in a corner, watching the crowd. Black made eye contact and the man nodded, stone-faced, then returned to his nonstop scanning of the privileged few.

  Meagan returned looking like a fashion model and beamed a megawatt smile at Black before throwing Hunter a patently fake one. “I’m back, darling. I hope you didn’t miss me too much.”

  “Always, Meagan, always. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think we need to get this show on the road. It’s movie time!” Hunter declared, clapping his hands together theatrically before moving off towards the screening room doors to have the announcement made.

  Meagan edged close to Black again and pressed one haunch against his. “You know, we have some unfinished business, you and me. Maybe you can sneak out halfway through the movie and meet me in the ladies’ room?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Meagan, but I’m on the job tonight. And you’re my client’s wife.”

  “More like his bathmat. Trust me, big boy, you have no idea what you’re missing.”

  His eyes roamed down her gym-toned body and he swallowed hard. “I’m sure I don’t. But that’s the way it has to be.”

  She pulled away from him. “Have you made any progress on the case?”

  The sudden changing of gears threw him, and then he recovered. “No, not yet. There’s not a lot to go on, frankly. It’s a weird one.”

  “You should look at his bitch daughter at some point. I could see her doing something psychotic, and she hates the paparazzi more than Hunter does.”

  “I gather there’s no love lost there.”

  “She hates me because her father dumped her mom to marry me. And since the accident, she’s taken her condition as an excuse to be an abusive little fecal speck every chance she gets. So no, we don’t have the very best relationship,” Meagan said, a few of the words slurred but with a renewed energy, eyes sparkling with a flicker of excitement. Black realized that she’d probably done a line of coke in the bathroom to even out her buzz, and decided that spending any more time with her at that point was courting disaster. “And don’t let her cripple act fool you. She could probably outrun you if there was a bottle of gin on the line.”

  “I’ve got to go talk to the security chief before the showing starts. If you’ll forgive me…”

  She pouted, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  The announcement came over the public address system as he was crossing the room, and he lost his chance to talk with his friend, who sprang into action marshaling the other security men in preparation for the screening. Black hung back as the throng entered the mini-theater and made sure he was the last one in, his thoughts roiling over the interactions he’d just seen.

  The film was terrible, almost a parody of a Bruckheimer action romp, and Black nearly bolted from the theater when the credits rolled two hours later. If this was the “game changer” that Hunter had bet the farm on, he was about to lose everything, Black could see that. The lackluster polite applause confirmed his take, and he hurried from the screening area before anyone would miss him, anxious to be rid of the whole scene, with its pretensions, ugliness, and the toxic environment Hunter and his wife managed to create within seconds of being in each other’s company.

  He stopped at Valentino’s in Hollywood on the way home and asked around about Preacher and his partner, but got nowhere, and after an hour of overpriced watery drinks and too-loud music, he decided to call it a night and head back to his dump, secure in the knowledge that as rough as he had it, Hunter
probably had it worse.

  Chapter 19

  “There’s a gentleman here to see you,” Daniela announced to Freddie over the intercom.

  Freddie glanced at the speaker. “That’s nice. Who is it?”

  “A Mr. Black. He said that he’s involved in the murder investigation.”

  Freddie rolled his eyes, then closed his browser. The truth was he’d been surfing the web, looking at his competitors’ sites, watching how they treated the same stories he was featuring, so it wasn’t like he was particularly busy at the moment. Still, he’d already spent a half hour with two detectives the prior day, and his time was valuable.

  “Fine. Show him back.”

  When Black appeared with Daniela, Freddie appraised him briefly and then indicated one of the two chairs in front of his desk. Daniela closed the door behind her, and Freddie gave Black a wan smile that never reached his eyes before leaning back in his seat and exhaling noisily.

  “I’ve already told you everything I know. I don’t see how else I can help you,” he started, irritation barely contained in his every word.

  “Yes, well, we appreciate that. I just have a few questions, and then I’ll be on my way,” Black said in an officious manner. He had told the receptionist that he was investigating the latest murder, and she had assumed that he was with the police. He’d even favored one of his more modern-cut jackets and a pair of nondescript gray wool trousers, dressing in an impression of Stan that he thought would fool just about anyone. It had worked, and now he was with his client’s nemesis, free to ask whatever he liked as long as he didn’t blow it and tip his hand.

  “Well, let’s not wait for Christmas, then,” Freddie said.

  “We’ve already covered the victim’s background and the events leading up to the unfortunate event. I want to discuss related elements of the case. Specifically, anything he might have been working on that could have triggered an attack.”

  “What, you think this wasn’t random?”

  “I didn’t say that. But you have to admit that working for your company has become a singularly dangerous occupation lately. We need to consider all possibilities, that’s all.”

  “Then you think it could be related to the other attacks?”

  “We don’t have enough information to draw any conclusions, sir. But it’s certainly something we’re looking at.”

  “Fine. For the record, there wasn’t anything inflammatory he was working on that I know of.”

  “I see. Tell me, Mr. Sypes. How does your organization get its information?”

  “Well, that’s kind of a trade secret.”

  “I’m sure it is. But humor me. I’m not planning to set up a competitive site anytime soon.” Black favored Freddie with an empty smile of his own.

  “To answer your question, we have a host of ways. People call us with tips. We pay service people at a wide variety of restaurants and clubs where celebrities are known to hang out. Sometimes we get contacted by PR people trying to create buzz for their clients. EMT techs, firemen, even cops give us tips. There are a hundred different ways we stay plugged in.”

  “I was looking at your site, and I noticed a couple of pieces that caught my eye. Can we use those as examples?”

  “I’m not sure how that’s going to help catch Lorenzo’s murderer…”

  “There’s a method to my madness. Play along with me,” Black said in a decidedly unplayful tone. “You’ve got one about Terry Hollens. Going into rehab for the, what, fifth time?”

  “Yes. Poor Terry. Seems like she just can’t stay off the hillbilly heroin. A shame. Let’s see…” Freddie tapped at his computer keyboard and then squinted at the information on the screen. “We got that tidbit from the cab driver who took her there. Called us right after she gave him the address. We paid a hundred dollars for that.”

  “Wow. I’m in the wrong business. A hundred bucks for a phone call. Who knew?”

  “Of course, depending upon the celebrity, it can be less, or a lot more. Terry’s battles with her demons are sort of old news these days, so it’s just not worth what it might have been, say, three years ago when she still had her TV show.”

  “I see. All right, what about the one with Hunter getting into that brawl? Seems like having a photographer at a biker bar was awfully serendipitous.”

  This time Freddie typed more slowly. “Ah. That was an anonymous tip. Phone call.”

  “Anonymous? Wouldn’t most of your tipsters want to get paid? Isn’t that a little unusual?”

  “Not as much as you might think. Sometimes people just call in because they’ve seen someone famous and want to feel like they’re part of the process. It’s a strange world. We get them all the time.”

  “I see. Do you tape the inbound calls?”

  Freddie’s eyes shifted to the side with a momentary look of cunning, then returned to Black with the steady gaze of the innocent. “Tape?”

  “Record. Do you record your inbound tip calls?”

  Freddie nodded. “We have a policy of doing so.”

  “So, for instance, you would have the anonymous tipster’s voice recorded?”

  “You’ve now completely lost me. What would that have to do with a murder investigation?”

  “Two of your staff were killed at one of Hunter’s press conferences, were they not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you received an anonymous tip alerting you to Hunter’s whereabouts only a day later. I’m wondering whether they might be connected.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not paid to solve the whole crime, just put together miscellaneous puzzle pieces and collect information. Tell me – would it be possible to pull that call and hear it?”

  Freddie studied him like a lab specimen, and then nodded slowly. “Absolutely. Just get a warrant and I’d be happy to.”

  Black’s composure slipped just a little. “I was hoping that we could work together on these things with less formality…”

  “Yes, but when cops start asking for sources, it changes everything. And frankly, I see nothing remotely useful in this line of questioning. It feels like a pure fishing expedition, and while I’m trying to be helpful, there are limits. You just reached one.”

  Black did a quick about-face and asked a series of innocuous questions related to building security, personnel background checks, company policies and working hours, and then extricated himself before he could get into real trouble. He thanked Freddie for his time with a cursory handshake and beat a swift path for the exit, the foray having been worth it. Someone had known about the meeting, or someone from the restaurant had called when they’d spotted Hunter; the only problem with that theory being that Hunter had only been inside for all of fifteen minutes, and Black doubted that Freddie had roving gangs of paparazzi patrolling the streets of the San Fernando Valley on a Tuesday morning. Which led him straight back to a leak having tipped FSA off in advance.

  There were several possibilities: someone from the distributor’s side – there was no way of ruling that out – or someone from Hunter’s team.

  A niggle of acidic anxiety tickled his stomach as he returned to his car. He’d had a feeling all along that Hunter wasn’t leveling with him, and this sort of minor mystery wasn’t doing anything for improving his faith in the man. Whether it actually mattered was a different story – the money was in the bank, and whoever had alerted Freddie, there was no harm done. That was about the only time the paparazzi had been around Hunter lately when one of them didn’t wind up dead.

  Back on the road, top down, the sun blinding as it reflected off the ocean of motorized metal and glass around him, he called Stan.

  “Black. What’s shaking?”

  “Not much. Just got finished running some errands out in Santa Monica. How’s your case going?”

  “The skewered FSA guy? No breaks. Nobody saw anything, and there’s nothing from forensics to give us a direction. I still like your client for it, but that’s probably because I
think he’s a douchebag.”

  “God knows there are enough of them in this town. But if they were all murderers, we’d have a quarter of the population.”

  “There you go with your sunny rays of optimism.”

  “So is it safe to say that Hunter’s no longer a suspect?”

  “In that one. But on the two that went kaboom? I still have unanswered questions there. Apparently the trigger on that device was a burner cell phone. If he was smart enough to set that up, he also would have been smart enough to use a second one to avoid any link on his.”

  “Assuming he did it. But for what reason?”

  “I honestly haven’t figured that one out. Which doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. It just means that there are all kinds of whack jobs out there up to no good, and I can’t get into all their heads. Maybe he just likes killing them?”

  “We both know that’s unlikely. I think he’s clean,” Black said.

  “Yeah, I know. He’s an innocent man. That’s all I ever deal with, seems like. Just once I’d like one of these guilty creeps to just pull a Seven and turn himself in with a full confession.”

  “Tell me that wasn’t a great movie.”

  Stan hesitated. “Not that I don’t enjoy your sassy talk, but is there anything else?”

  “No. I’ll probably be out tonight, trying to run down a guy who ripped my neighbor off for five grand.”

  “Nice. I’ll call you if I’m up for some wading in the sewers, then.”

  “One little drinky never hurt anyone.”

  “Too true, amigo. Catch you later.”

  Black’s next call was to Colleen.

  “Hey, gorgeous. You out and about?” she answered.

  “How did you know?”

  “I can hear that car of yours from here.”

  “Listen, Colleen, I need to talk to you some more about Hunter. I’m not sure he’s completely on the level.”

  “Who is in this town, darling? What did he do now?”

  Black told her about his doubts and about the anonymous phone call.

  “Your gut’s still golden, Black. That’s one of the oldest tricks in the book. It sounds like a setup. He probably tipped them himself. And then had a ready-made media circus for when he took on two bikers, right before his movie premiere, to defend the honor of a young beauty.”