“Let me guess. She denies everything.”
“Yep.” I fill him in. His eyebrows go up when I tell him about the Oscar in the trunk.
He scratches his chin, a mannerism he inherited from our dad. He tugs at his mustache. He has a large repertoire of nervous ticks. “I hear another guy is missing.”
“Martin Kent. He was MacArthur’s business manager.”
Pete cuts right to the chase. “You want me to find him?”
“It would help.”
“Done.” He pauses and asks, “What did Angel tell you about her husband?”
It’s a test. He’s comparing the story she told him with the story she told us. “She said she had suspicions that he was cheating. She said you were looking into it, but hadn’t found any definitive evidence.”
“And you believed her?”
Our eyes lock. “Pete,” I say, “were you able to confirm that Big Dick was cheating?”
“Let me put it this way,” he says. “I don’t have any pictures. I didn’t catch him in bed with anybody.” He tugs on his ear. “Having said that, the answer is yes. I am sure he was cheating on her. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
*****
Chapter 7
Pete
“Being a PI is a lot more glamorous on TV than it is in real life. You just keep working until you find what you’re looking for.”
— Pete Daley.
My brother has taken off his jacket and is sitting on my windowsill. He’s nursing a cup of coffee. “Their marriage was a disaster from day one,” he tells me. “I have friends in L.A. who work security for the studios. They gave me the skinny. Big Dick was a control freak. He orchestrated every move she made. He told her how to dress and what to say. The quid pro quo was that she got a starring role in The Return of the Master.”
“When did she hire you?” I ask.
“About three months ago.”
“What made her suspicious?”
“There’s a reason MacArthur was married three times. If they cheat with you, they’ll cheat on you. Angel may be young, but she’s no dummy. She has more street smarts than your average twenty-five year old. She knew what she was getting into. He was spending a lot of time in L.A. on post-production. She called me when he stopped coming home on weekends. He was having an affair with a model named Maureen Sheridan. Very sexy. She appeared in a couple of Madonna’s videos. She’s had everything done. She probably had her boobs done twice. Legs that go from here to L.A. I don’t think she and MacArthur were just reading scripts when they got together.”
“Why weren’t you able to nail him?”
“They were careful. They arrived separately at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I couldn’t get any pictures.”
“Do you have any idea how long he was seeing her?”
“About three years. She’s a single mom with a two year-old son. I don’t know if MacArthur was the father. He was cheating on Angel the entire time they were married.”
He was a pig. Then again, Angel knew from the beginning that he had demonstrated an utter contempt for the institution of marriage. “Does Angel know about this?” I ask.
“I told her about it a couple of weeks ago.”
“How did she take the news?”
“Badly.” He reconsiders and says, “Very badly. She’s in a state of denial. She told me she wouldn’t believe it until I showed her some pictures.”
We look at each other in silence for a moment.
“There’s more,” Pete says. “Those rumors about problems on the set were true. Her husband was unhappy with the film.”
“And their marriage?”
“She was going to take a big hit there, too. He made her sign a very one-sided prenup. He kept control of all the money. If he divorced her for any reason, she got nothing.”
“Even if he cheated on her?”
“Especiallyif he cheated on her. That was the whole point. He had an easy out, no matter what.”
“And if he died before the divorce was final?”
“His will trumps the prenup. She’s entitled to the house, her car, half of his cash and securities and half of the stock of MacArthur Films.”
“Who gets the rest?”
“His son.”
Really. “Angel and young Richard will each own half the company?”
“Yeah.” He arches his eyebrows and adds, “They hate each other. They’ll never be able to work together. One of them is going to end up buying the other one out.”
Unless one of them is a murderer or Angel’s husband amended his will without telling anybody. “What do you know about the son?”
“He’s an obnoxious twit who’s going through a nasty divorce. It isn’t his first. I wish his soon-to-be ex-wife had hired me to watch him. I would have dug up some pretty juicy stuff. He’s also a solid producer of crappy movies. He’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done. In some respects, he was the only reason MacArthur Films was still in business. When he was at his best, his father was a good writer and a great director, but he had no idea how to deal with the business side of production. Little Richard is a lousy writer and a terrible director, but he’s very good at the nuts and bolts of producing movies.” He shrugs and adds, “His father never appreciated his skills. They barely spoke.”
“Why did Big Dick leave him half of everything?”
“Other than Angel, he’s the only family he had left.”
I ask the million dollar question. “Was he planning to file for divorce?”
“I think so.”
“How could you tell?”
“The guy to watch was Martin Kent. He kept MacArthur out of trouble.”
“Now he’s a missing person.”
Pete says, “Kent had a couple of meetings with Frank Grossman.”
Grossman is a barracuda in the guise of a divorce lawyer who takes great pride in his “scorched earth” approach to family law. His business cards contain the motto, “We take no prisoners.” He’s handled Big Dick’s last three divorces and he probably prepared Angel’s prenup. It’s unlikely he’ll talk to us because of client confidentiality. All the more reason for us to find Martin Kent. I ask, “Anything else I should know?”
“Nothing that’s admissible.”
“Anything that’s inadmissible?”
“Maybe.”
“Did you do anything illegal to obtain it?”
“Depends on your definition of illegal. I have some sophisticated recording equipment. It allowed me to listen in on some of Big Dick’s conversations with Dominic Petrillo.”
“Where were you?”
“The room next door to MacArthur’s at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“I take it you weren’t a registered guest?”
“That would be correct.”
“You realize breaking and entering is frowned upon.”
“For the record, I didn’t break anything. I just entered. Coincidentally, I had my recording equipment with me. I never go anywhere without it.”
“Technically, taping other people’s conversations without their permission is a crime.”
“I won’t do it again anytime soon. Do you want to know what I heard or do you want to lecture me on the federal and state wiretapping statutes?”
We won’t be able to use any of this in court. I ask him what he heard.
“It seems Petrillo and his friends at Millennium Studios weren’t real happy with the early buzz on The Return of the Master. Petrillo was talking about delaying the release.”
If Petrillo didn’t like the movie, he could have pulled the plug. It’s hard to imagine Big Dick could have double-crossed him to such an extent that Petrillo would have killed him. We have no evidence to suggest he did. “What does that have to do with MacArthur’s death?”
“Maybe nothing. I thought you might like to know.”
“Is there a chance you were keeping the MacArthur house under surveillance last night?”
“No. Angel told me to kee
p my distance.”
We sit in silence. A cheating husband. A lousy movie. A nervous studio. A tenuous development project. A lot of questions. I look out the window toward the guy in the cubicle.
Pete asks, “Where do you want me to start?”
“I want you to find Martin Kent.”
“Got it. What are you going to do?”
“Rosie and I promised MacArthur’s son that we’d pay him a condolence call this afternoon.”
*****
Chapter 8
Little Richard
“My father was a kind and gentle soul whose body of work will be his lasting legacy. The industry has lost one of its shining lights and he will be missed. Construction of the MacArthur studio complex will begin as planned.”
— Richard MacArthur, Jr. KGO Radio. Saturday, June 5. 3:00 p.m.
“That’s disturbing,” Rosie understates when I tell her about my conversation with Pete. “Angel hasn’t been particularly forthcoming about her relationship with her husband.”
We’re heading west on Geary toward Little Richard’s house. The afternoon rush hour traffic is heavy. My Corolla cooperates as we pass Japantown, but sputters when I hit the gas to climb the hill near Kaiser Hospital.
“If Pete says Big Dick was fooling around,” I observe, “I’m inclined to take his word for it. And if he said Petrillo was unhappy about the movie, I think it’s true.”
“I’ll talk to Angel about it. It won’t be a pleasant conversation.”
No, it won’t. “We need to get copies of the prenup and the will,” I say.
She agrees. Then she adds, “Even if Pete’s right, none of this proves anything.”
“It gives her motive.”
Rosie nods. We drive in silence for a minute.
I ask, “Did you have a chance to talk to Nicole?”
“Briefly.”
Nicole Ward is the San Francisco DA and is running for re-election in November. She comes from a prominent family and is considered one of the great young hopes for the California Democratic party. She has insatiable political ambition and plays exceptionally well on the evening news, and it also doesn’t hurt that she’s drop-dead gorgeous and perhaps the most eligible single woman in the Bay Area. She’s running for re-election in November. She gained a certain amount of notoriety early in her career when it was revealed she had worked her way through law school by modeling lingerie for Victoria’s Secret. She’s more than just a pretty face. She’s an effective prosecutor and one of the most unpleasant people on the face of the earth.
“What’s her temperature?” I ask.
“White hot. She’s already talking about the death penalty.”
She always does. A law-and-order zealot, Ward would send shoplifters to the gas chamber. “Do you have any idea which ADA will be assigned to this case?”
“I think she may keep it herself,” Rosie says. Most cases are assigned to the assistant DA’s. It is unusual, but not unheard of, for a DA to handle a case personally. Ward might see this as an opportunity for some free media time. She is well aware of the fact that she is, in the vernacular, “mediagenic.” She had the hormone-charged anchorman from Channel Seven eating out of her hand when he tried to do a “serious” interview last week. Rosie gives me a sly grin and adds, “You can ask her about it. She’s agreed to meet with us tomorrow morning.”
“On a Sunday?” I say.
“This is a big case,” Rosie says. “She’s going to play it for all it’s worth.”
# # #
“Mr. MacArthur will see you now,” says an exotic-looking woman with a seductive low voice, jade eyes, olive skin and purple lips. Her straight black hair cascades down the back of a white satin blouse and tight black leather pants hug long, slender legs. Hoop-style earrings balance on either side of her round face. A dozen bracelets adorn each of her wrists. There is a ring on each of her fingers.
“Thank you,” I say.
It’s five-thirty. Rosie and I have been waiting for fifteen minutes in the two-story foyer of Little Richard’s six-bedroom monstrosity. When we walked in the door, we were greeted by a life-sized wooden sculpture of our host dressed in formal attire. It seemed a bit ostentatious to me. An original Picasso hangs above the circular stairway. The artwork cost considerably more than my college and law school educations. I can picture young MacArthur standing in the hallway next to his statue and greeting his Hollywood pals.
The woman leads us under the stairway. I see a dozen people standing in small groups in the living room. There doesn’t appear to be any substantial mourning taking place. I recognize Daniel Crown, Angel’s co-star, as he talks on his cell phone. He looks like a young Paul Newman. Everybody in the living room is talking on a cell phone. One guy seems to be carrying on two conversations at once by placing a cell phone against each ear. I guess that’s what they call multitasking.
We pass through a remodeled, restaurant-quality kitchen, where the aroma of freshly cooked pasta and pesto sauce greets us. Then we follow the woman up a back stairway. The carpet and the walls upstairs are snow white. The sleek furniture is chrome and black leather. The artwork is modern. The ambiance is sterile, almost icy.
“Terrible tragedy about Mr. MacArthur’s father,” I say to the woman.
She gets a faraway look in her eyes. “Yes,” she replies. “You could say that.”
I suppose I could. I glance at Rosie as we pass an art piece comprised of a miniature video screen showing a beautiful, naked woman who keeps repeating the words, “I am perfect.”
“Richard turns her off at night,” explains the woman with the rings and the bracelets.
I smile back at the image. I would find it unnerving to have talking artwork in my home.
The dark-skinned woman gives me a playful grin. “She isn’t real,” she explains. “She’s a cyber-model. The artist is developing quite a following.”
A very talented artist indeed. If things don’t work out for him in cyber art, I suspect he’ll have a promising career in cyber porn.
I’m still not sure if this woman is Little Richard’s servant, friend or mistress. She may be all three. There are no signs that MacArthur’s soon-to-be-ex-wife still lives in the house. “Are you a friend of the family?” I ask.
“Oh, no, sir.” She licks her lips. “I’m Mr. MacArthur’s personal assistant.”
I’ll bet. You aren’t anybody in the movie business unless you have a personal assistant. I try for an innocent tone when I ask, “What’s your name?”
“Eve.”
How biblical. “Do you have a last name?”
She shakes her long hair. “No, Mr. Daley. It’s just Eve.”
First there was Cher. Then there was Madonna. Now there’s Eve. “Fair enough, Eve,” I say. “Why don’t you call me Mike?”
“Fair enough,” she repeats. “Mike.”
“Do you live nearby, Eve?”
“In the Marina.”
“Were you here last night?”
“Yes.”
I ask her what time she went home.
“After Richard went to his father’s house.”
“That would have been around eight?”
“Yes.”
“And you were at home the rest of the night?”
“Yes.”
A woman of few words. “Did you hear from Mr. MacArthur last night?”
“Not until this morning. That’s when he told me the terrible news.”
I ask her if she spends a lot of time up here.
“Yes. Mr. MacArthur works from his home. My job is a full time position, although he gives me extra time when I have a film role.”
“You’re an actress?”
“Yes.”
I don’t recognize her. “Where can I see your work?” I ask.
She smiles. “I have a small part in The Return of the Master.” I don’t recognize the names of any of the other movies she mentions. I wonder if any of them can be found in the adult section of our local video store.
I ask, “Do you know Angelina Chavez well?”
“We’re friends. We worked together on a couple of projects.” She hesitates for an instant and adds, “I tried to facilitate communications between Angelina and Richard.”
I decide to be coy. “They don’t get along?”
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