The Bequest

by kindle@netgalley. com

  “I’m fine. Just tired. It’s been a long night.”

  “It was that guy on the rope line, wasn’t it? What did he say to you?”

  “It wasn’t anything he said. It was just...”

  “Just what?”

  “He reminded me of somebody, that’s all.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mike blew a puff of air through pursed lips. “You’re not making a damn bit of sense. This should have been one of the biggest nights of your life—it’s your comeback, for God’s sake—and you act like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Maybe I have.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Like I said, I’m just tired.”

  Not another word was spoken until Mike pulled into the circular drive in front of Teri’s house. He put the vehicle in park, then turned the key to shut off the engine.

  “I’m going to bed,” Teri said.

  “I’ll come in with you.”

  “Alone.”

  Mike looked at her, creases forming on his forehead as he scowled. “I don’t get you. We should be celebrating.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. I just don’t feel well.”

  He placed his hand on her cheek, but she pushed it away. “Please, Mike.”

  “All right, fine.” He started the car and looked straight ahead.

  “Please don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He made no move away from her, but he kept staring out the front windshield.

  She opened the door to get out then looked back at him one more time. “What if something goes wrong with the movie?”

  That got his attention. He looked at her, eyebrows raised. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Just something.”

  “Is that what this is all about? Fear of success?”

  “You’ve got a lot riding on this, don’t you? You and Bob, both.”

  “A lot of people do.”

  “So what happens if it all goes bad?”

  “Now you’re just being crazy. You saw everyone tonight. A hundred million the first week; I guarantee it. Even if it tanks after that—and I’m not saying it will, but if it does—it’s still a home run. Nothing can go wrong. We can’t lose. You can’t lose.”

  She nodded at the words, which all made sense in her head, yet at the same time didn’t make sense in her heart, where she knew something, indeed, could go wrong. And she worried that she was about to find out what.

  The night crew at Hollywood Luxury Cars and Limos had its work cut out for it. The limousines had returned from the premiere of Teri Square’s comeback movie The Precipice and, by all accounts, everyone had had a good time. Washing and waxing the exteriors of the cars wasn’t nearly as demanding a chore as cleaning the interiors, which were stained by everything from alcohol to seminal fluid. As Pablo Hernandez went to the next car in line, all he could think about was how money can buy just about anything except class.

  He opened the front passenger door and quickly wiped down the dashboard. He glanced over toward the back seat, ready to be repulsed at what he might find but saw that it was remarkably clean. He slipped out of the front, opened the back door, and crawled inside. The dome-light illuminated black leather, which appeared spotless. Either this limo had gone unused or it carried AA members or married couples. Not a single spot of alcohol or splash of bodily fluids to be found. A sober, chaste evening was had by the passengers.

  Pablo took a clean cloth from his back pocket, sprayed it with a leather care product, and began wiping the seats. As he leaned across to the far side, he saw the corner of something sticking out from beneath the seat. He pulled it out and found it to be a folded headshot of the famous actress Teri Squire. He admired her picture. She was beautiful.

  But the greasy fingerprints on the glossy photo seemed out of place. Whoever had put them there had not been in this car, because there were no such greasy prints anywhere on the seats or windows.

  He turned the photo over and saw something scrawled in an uneven handwriting: CRESCENT HOTEL 324.

  Strange. Very strange, indeed.

  He backed out of the car and headed for his supervisor’s office.

  CHAPTER 16

  Sleep wouldn’t come to Teri. The scraggly-haired man haunted her every time she closed her eyes. At last, at nearly two a.m., she got up and turned on her laptop then connected to the Internet. A few minutes later, she had directions to the Crescent Hotel. Dressing hastily in jeans, tee-shirt, running shoes without socks, and a green “University of Hawaii Rainbows” baseball cap from her most recent trip to the islands, she grabbed her purse and left the bedroom. She stopped in the den just long enough to transfer her .22 from the coffee table to the purse then she went to the garage, started her SUV, and backed out.

  Twenty minutes later she found herself trolling parts of Los Angeles that she had heard about only in news reports, usually involving stories of murder, mayhem, and gang violence. Storefronts were gated and barred, topped off with gargantuan padlocks. The rare buildings unmarked by graffiti stood out, conspicuous by the absence of street artwork, just as her SUV was conspicuous by its newness. Even at the late hour, gangbangers, mostly Hispanic, milled about on street corners and greedily eyed her vehicle as it passed. Fortunately the windows were tinted or they would have been able to see a lone, terrified Anglo woman behind the wheel. That would have been like ringing a bell for Pavlov’s dogs.

  Up ahead, a “vacancy” light flashed in purple and green, beneath a larger sign that proclaimed “Crescent Hotel,” along with a sliver of a moon outlined in fluorescent paint. The light in the office was on. As she turned in, she looked through the glass doors at a man who appeared to be either asleep or dead at the front desk, facedown on the counter. She hoped it was the former.

  Barely idling, she drove along one wing of the hotel, scanning the doors for numbers. Just as she neared the end of the building, she spotted 324 upstairs. Lights were on behind thin curtains. The fabric pushed back and a man looked out. Waiting. Watching. She couldn’t tell much about the man’s features in the darkness, but she knew it was the scraggly-haired man. And she knew the scraggly-haired man knew it was her. She wondered how many times he had looked out tonight before she arrived.

  There were no stairs at this end, so she circled about and headed back toward the office, where she parked her SUV at the foot of a flimsy steel staircase. She locked the doors but kept the keys gripped tightly in one hand. In the other, she carried her purse by gripping the outline of the .22 inside, finger pressed against the trigger guard. The material was flimsy enough that she would be able to fire the weapon without even removing it from her purse.

  At the top of the stairs, she turned slowly and approached the room at the end. The door opened before she reached it. She closed the last few feet then stood in the doorway and looked inside. The scraggly-haired man stood by the bed, shirtless, but at least wearing pants. She glanced at his forearm at the football helmet tattoo. It appeared a little smeared, but that fact didn’t register.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t my favorite beneficiary.” He bowed and gestured in a grand sweeping motion for her to enter. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  He sat on the end of the bed, expectantly. Teri stepped inside, purse and keys still tightly clutched in her hands.

  “Close the door,” he said.

  “I think I’ll leave it open.”

  “Well, that’s really not very safe. Not in this neighborhood. I’d hate for something to happen to you just because some pervert saw a beautiful woman like you standing in the open doorway to a hotel room.”

  Good point. Teri cut a look outside to the street below. She closed the door but stood with her back pressed against it.

  The man reclined on the bed, propped on one elbow. His eyes scanned her from head to toe and back again, lingering on both passes at her breasts and her crotch. He was
obviously having fun toying with her. “You ever talked to a dead man before?” he asked.

  “What do you want?”

  ”Well, for starters, I want to know if you’ve ever talked to a dead man before.”

  “You’re not dead.”

  “Not now. But I was. My mother even has the death certificate to prove it.”

  “It won’t be the first time a death certificate was wrong.”

  He laughed. “No, I suppose it won’t. But past mistakes will pale in comparison to this one.”

  “Whose body was that they fished off the rocks?”

  “Why, didn’t you hear? That was me. Leland Crowell.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t. Or maybe you’re not.”

  “Didn’t Mom show you my picture?”

  “Pictures don’t mean anything.”

  He pointed at the dresser on the far wall. “My wallet’s right there.”

  She glanced at it but remained frozen to the door. The last thing she wanted to do was move any farther into this snake den.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “It won’t bite.”

  Teri tucked her keys into her pocket, then hustled over, grabbed the wallet, and returned to the door. Awkwardly, using one hand since the other still clutched her purse, she flipped the wallet open. Sure enough, the scraggly-man’s unsmiling face stared at her from a California driver’s license, which bore the name: Leland J. Crowell.

  “J for Joseph,” he said.

  “Again, doesn’t prove anything.”

  “Boy, you’re a tough nut.” He leaned his head back, as if deep in thought. Then he rolled across the bed and grabbed an olive green backpack on the floor next to the nightstand on the far side. In one motion, he swung it upward and tossed it toward Teri. It landed at her feet with a soft thud.

  “Feel free to look in my filing cabinet,” he said. “You’ll have to forgive my filing system, though. I’ll admit it’s not very organized.”

  Teri bent at the knees, laid the wallet on the floor, and opened the backpack. She reached in and pulled out a stack of paper clipped together at the top. A screenplay: The Precipice. She dropped the screenplay on the floor and two pages fluttered loose. She picked them up one at a time and looked at them. One was a certificate of registration for the screenplay with the Writers Guild of America. The other was a certificate of registration from the United States Copyright Office.

  She looked from the copyright document to the man on the bed. “You can ask your lawyers, but I think that does prove something,” he said. “In fact, it’ll be all I need when I walk into court to get an injunction to stop the release of your movie.”

  “It doesn’t prove you’re Leland Crowell.”

  “You got any proof I’m not?”

  Teri stood silently, pondering how best to answer that question. In fact, pondering if she had any answer at all.

  “Then I believe we’re at a stalemate” he said. “Or maybe we’re not. I’m not a lawyer, but I don’t think it’s gonna be my job to prove I’m me; it’s gonna be your job to prove I’m not. And who’s a judge going to believe is best suited to say who Leland Crowell is? Me, the California Department of Motor Vehicles, and dear ol’ Mom? Or you?”

  Teri remained mute. She had no good answer to that question, either. Damn if he didn’t ask some good ones.

  “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” he asked.

  Still nothing in response. After all, what could she say?

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said. “Then again, maybe we can work something out.”

  So that’s what this is all about, she thought. Money. And isn’t it always?

  “How much do you want?” she asked.

  “Who says it’s about money?” It was as if he had read her mind. “Maybe I want my fifteen minutes of fame. Or maybe I want a screenwriting career. Or—”

  “I can give you that. Under a different name, though. I have a new studio deal, and I can use the writer of my choice.”

  He smiled, showing brown teeth. “Or maybe you were right all along. Maybe it is money I want.” He gestured around at the room. “Maybe I want a nicer place to live. I could use an upgrade, don’t you think?”

  He sat back up, perched on the edge of the bed. “Or maybe it’s all of the above. The options are limitless, and I’m in the catbird seat.”

  “Cut the bullshit and just tell me what you want.”

  He stood. She hadn’t realized how tall he was until he did. She certainly hadn’t noticed it at the theater.

  He moved forward a few steps, until he was a mere arm’s length away. Something on his chest caught her eye for the first time. A tiny rivulet of dried blood tracked down from his left nipple. As she looked at it, something below his waist brought her glance downward, but her eyes immediately bounced back to his face, repulsed by the bulge in his jeans.

  “This is kind of romantic, don’t you think?” he asked. “You and me, alone in a hotel room. I’ve never had a movie star before.”

  “And you’re not going to start now.”

  He reached forward and ran his hand through the hair on the side of her head. “Are you sure?”

  She pulled the .22 from her purse and pressed the barrel against his solar plexus. “You’ve got three seconds to tell me what you want or I’m leaving.”

  He backed up then looked down at the small red circle the gun barrel left on his chest. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  “Two seconds.”

  “Why would someone like you have a gun?”

  “I’m from Texas; it’s a birthright. One second.”

  He backed away farther and sat on the edge of the bed again. “You’ve got quite a dilemma, don’t you? You’re about to open a movie that was made from a screenplay you don’t own. My screenplay.”

  “You willed it to me.”

  “So now I am Leland, huh?”

  “If you say so. And you willed it to me.”

  “But I’m not dead. You don’t get it unless I die.”

  She waved the gun at him then aimed at his face. “Easily enough done.”

  For a moment, she thought she’d broken him. She thought she could smell fear emanate from him. Until he laughed at her.

  “Priceless,” he said. “Just priceless. You almost had me going there.”

  “What makes you think I won’t shoot?”

  “Let’s see. What makes me think you won’t shoot an unarmed man in cold blood? How about because you also don’t get the bequest if you kill me.”

  “Who’s gonna know it was me?”

  “You know, there’s a solution to this whole thing. For both of us. I keep on letting people think I’m dead and—”

  “How much do you want?”

  “I want a cut.”

  “How much?

  “Fifty percent.” He paused, then added, “Of the gross.”

  Teri was stunned. Was he kidding? Or merely negotiating? “You’re crazy.”

  “And you’re a thief. You stole my screenplay. So we’re right back to my injunction.”

  “A judge will never let you get away with this.”

  “I’m willing to risk it. What have I got to lose? But how about you?”

  Teri lowered the gun. She had blinked first, and he knew it.

  “Fifty percent,” he said. “You’ve got twenty-four hours to decide. After that, I go to the courthouse.”

  “Do I get in touch with you here?”

  “How about I get in touch with you? I may be moving soon.”

  He smiled, and she looked away. She stuck the gun back in her purse, opened the door, and bolted outside into the fresh air.

  Panic overtook her as she raced along the landing to the stairs. She had her head down, trying to concentrate on the concrete stairs lest she miss one through the blurring of tears forming in her eyes. She didn’t see the black Mercedes SUV pull into the space by her Highlander, nor did she see the tall man in blue jeans and tennis shoes get out and quietly ascend the st
airs to meet her.

  It was only when she nearly plowed right into him that she looked up. She immediately burst into tears.

  Mike wrapped her in his arms and pulled her to his chest.

  CHAPTER 17

  Mike and Teri sat in a corner booth at a well-lit Denny’s restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard, where Mike nursed his coffee but Teri speared pancakes from her Grand Slam and ate with gusto, hoping to bury fear with food. She was also in no mood for Mike’s lecture, which had continued unabated via cell phone as they drove their respective vehicles back to civilization from the desperate neighborhood inhabited by the likes of Leland Crowell—if, indeed, that was who he was.

  “I still can’t get over it,” Mike said.

  “So I gathered.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “Look, Mike, you can keep asking the same question over and over

  again, but the answer won’t change. I had to find out what he wanted. I had to. That’s what the hell I was thinking.” “That doesn’t mean you go to war zone areas of this God-forsaken city by yourself in the middle of the night. And you damn sure don’t go into hotel rooms with strange men by yourself. Who knows what might have happened!”

  “What the hell were you thinking?” The voice belonged to Bob Keene, who trudged across the restaurant toward them. Even with a golf shirt thrown over sharply creased jeans and deck shoes, he looked slick, with every hair in place. Even his stubble of beard seemed calculated to scream “casual.” Mike slid over as Bob sat next to him.

  “I’ve already asked her that,” Mike said.

  “Five times,” Teri added. “And the answer was the same all five.” “Well, I haven’t heard it, so what was it?”

  “I saw that tattoo on his forearm, and it triggered something in my

  memory. I had to find out who he was.”

  “And it was Crowell?” Bob asked.

  “I have no idea. Remember, I never met Leland Crowell in my life.

  But he said he was. And he looked like that picture his mother showed me. And I remember he was supposed to have had a tattoo like that.” A waitress appeared and Bob ordered coffee, then sent her on her way. “So it was Crowell.”