“Yeah, that'd be okay.”
“Just tell me when and where.”
“Okay ah… well, I'm coming to The Cities this afternoon. I have to go to the fairgrounds over in Saint Paul. I left a saddle up there during the fair. Can you meet me in the horse barn, say around five?”
“Sure, five in the horse barn,” replied Todd, wondering what in the hell he was getting himself into.
“Go in the door right across from the cattle barn, it'll be open.”
“I'll be there.”
29
Tim Chase sat at the dinette table in his trailer, his elbows on the table, his head bowed against his hands, which were clenched in tight fists. Was this the disaster that he had been fearing all these years? Was his world, which had been so carefully crafted, about to collapse in a heap of rubbish?
There was a light knock on the aluminum door, and a small voice said, “Five minutes.”
Chase half turned, and shouted, “Fuck off!”
The minion, one of the many that lurked in the coattails of his fame, scurried away.
He didn't care what the director insisted on. He didn't care what scene it was or how much he was needed. He didn't give a shit how much each minute of shooting was costing, he couldn't do it. They could just fucking well wait. Oh, shit. He just couldn't go out there and pretend everything was fine when actually everything was completely screwed up. There was no way in hell he was in the mood to act, no way in hell he could get into the mind of another.
There was another knock, this one heavier, and a deep voice that said, “It's me, Vic.”
“Yeah.”
Not moving, not lifting his head in the least, Chase listened as his bodyguard opened the door and stepped into the trailer, which moved slightly under his weight. Chase wanted to kill this guy, he wanted to chop off his head right here and now. And he probably should.
Chase waited a long moment before, in a low, even voice, saying, “I didn't see the local news last night, Vic. I mean, I really didn't have much reason to watch it. How about you? Did you catch it?”
“No, sir.”
“And I really didn't have much reason to read the local newspaper this morning. Even though I was up awfully early I did read the first section of The New York Times. Oh, and during makeup I glanced at Variety, just sort of skimmed through it. But you know, I'm only here for a little while and I'm kind of busy, so why would I read the local paper, right? Am I right?”
“Correct, but—”
“Shut the fuck up, you moron!” said Chase, slamming his right fist on the dinette table, which sent a powerful rattle rippling through the entire trailer. “Can you imagine my surprise when just a half hour ago I'm eating my turkey sandwich in the canteen and I glance over at the local paper and there's a big article about a knife found in some fucking lake? There's even a picture of the sheriff's divers fishing it out. Someone called it in, apparently. A tip. And now they're looking at it as a potential murder weapon for that kid. Shocking, wouldn't you say?”
“I read the piece.”
“Oh, you did, did you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And let me guess, that was the knife, right? I mean, as soon as I read about it I just had this hunch. That was it, wasn't it?”
“Yes, sir.”
With fey curiosity, Tim looked at him with a shrug. “So what'd you think, Vic? No prob? No big deal?”
“I can explain.”
“Bullshit you can explain! There's nothing to explain—you fucked up everything!” He jumped to his feet, looked at the stupid oaf, then turned and leaned against the cheap kitchen counter. “God, you're a moron! A big, fucking dumb moron! I told you to take it out of my car and get rid of it. I told—”
“I went down there and—”
“Shut up before I fire you! And don't you dare interrupt me again!”
Trying not to panic, Chase told himself to just calm down, to keep a grip on things. But how could he when his arch-nemesis, the media, was dancing at the gates? God, all they had to do was get a hold of this one and the world would be screaming for his head. He'd spent so much time worrying, fearing the day when the truth got out. He was the prince of sex and money and power, and any and every Joe Schmoe reporter in the world would love to crucify him on this one.
“I told you to throw it away where no one would ever find it, and the next thing I know it's on the front page of the Minneapolis paper. What are you trying to do, ruin me completely? What the fuck did you do, just go down to that lake, park your car, and throw it in the water?”
Vic jammed his hands into his pockets and turned away. “I took every precaution.”
“Precaution? Precaution? Jesus Christ, why didn't you just point the cops in my direction? Do you know what this means? Do you have any idea what kind of trouble this could be?”
“I was sure no one saw me.”
“But someone did, right? Someone saw you throw that knife into the lake—which means they can probably identify you too.” Chase leaned back and pulled at his hair, and as calmly as a madman, said, “What about my Land Rover? Did you get it cleaned like I asked?”
“Yes, I did that yesterday while you were here on the set.”
“And tell me what they said down at the car wash. Any of the guys say anything about that little red puddle in the back? Anyone say, Gee, Mr. Vic, is this blood back here? Anyone say that, did they, huh?”
“No, sir. I washed it before I went down there.”
“Oh, did you?”
“I can assure you that no one's going to find out, that no one's going to be able to trace it back to you.”
“Right.”
But if they do, thought Tim, glaring at this idiot, I'm going to deny everything. I'm going to say I never met that kid and that I know nothing about the knife. After all, who would they believe, Tim Chase or some glorified bouncer with a criminal record? Exactly. All they had to do was learn about Vic's past and all suspicion would get dumped upon him.
“You know, I should just fire you now. For starters, I'm not going to take the fall for this, I'm just not. Second of all, the guys back in Hollywood won't let me go down—I'm just worth too much to them.”
“As I said, I'm sorry”
“A heartfelt apology—isn't that sweet? I am so, like, touched, ya know?” Chase shook his head in disgust. “Why are there so many morons in the world? And why do they all work for me?”
“I'm sure I don't know.”
“Well, you pull one more stunt like this and you'll be working as a bouncer at the scuzziest gay bar in the world, I guarantee you that. I'm paying you a fucking fortune to get me exactly what I like and what I want and to make sure there's no way in hell anyone finds out. One more screwup and you're out. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
But now, of course, there was no time to waste. They had to move, Chase knew from experience, and move quickly before the cops or worse, the media, descended upon them.
“Okay, I want to get the cars out of the picture. First I want you to take my Land Rover back to the dealership and lease me another one. Tell them something like some newspaper guy has identified the car as mine and he's been tailing me all the time, so I need another color or another model or something.” He put his hand to his mouth. “No, wait, this is better. First take my car—the keys are around here someplace—and drive it back to the house and just park it in the garage and leave it there. Don't let anyone else have the keys. Then go back to the dealership and just buy the fucking thing. Get a check from my accountant and just do it.”
“Sure.”
“Then buy another Land Rover that's exactly the same—same model, same year. And make sure it's the same white, that's very important. And don't buy it there, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Go to another dealership. There's got to be two in this rinky-dink town. So go and get another identical Land Rover, and that's the one I'll use. If there are any questions then at least it
will be clean.”
“What about my car?”
“Yes, of course…” He thought for a second, and said, “Put it in the garage along with mine. Wait, better yet, go out and rent a garage at one of those self-storage places and put your car in there until we're through here, until you're ready to drive straight out of town. Then this afternoon go to another car dealership—what are you driving, a white Saab?”
“Right. A white Saab convertible.”
“Fine, then go to a Saab dealership and lease one for yourself. You can bill me. But get a totally different color. Make it green or whatever you want, I don't care. Just different. And make it a four-door or something like that.”
“Sure.”
Breaking their conversation came yet another knock on the flimsy door, and a voice that was at once both annoyed and saccharine, saying, “Tim, it's me, Brian. Is there a problem? Are you alright? Can I come in and talk?”
Chase rubbed his eyes and groaned. It was the film's director coming to take his temperature, or more specifically to see what the hell was holding him up. If he only knew.
“Go on, get out of here,” muttered Tim to Vic. “And tell Brian I'll be right there. Tell him I'm in the John.”
And Chase did just that, escaped to the bathroom, taking a quick two steps into the coffin-sized room and sealing the door behind him. More often than not a chamber like this was his only escape, his last place of refuge. Such was the price of stardom, he thought, as he leaned against the sink and slumped against the cold vinyl wall. At least here he could lock everyone out and no one would come banging on the door every five fucking minutes wondering if he was okay.
With any luck this might work. With any luck…
He thought about the beautiful farm boy, his hair so blond, his face so pure and young, and that body, so broad and powerful. He remembered when Vic had first brought him by, how he'd paraded him past for Tim's approval. And he knew it right away, knew that, yes, that one would do quite well, thank you very much. He was just so naturally pretty, so naturally masculine. You didn't find kids like that back in California, not at all. They were into too many things, fads and trends from body piercings to tattoos. But not that kid. He was untouched. A Lolita of boyness. Yet what a mistake. What a huge fucking mistake.
Suddenly he both heard and felt quick steps trooping through the trailer. The next moment there was a rap on the bathroom door.
“Tim, it's me, Brian. Are you okay? You're not sick or anything, are you? You want me to get the doctor?”
Standing there, Chase clutched his fists and tried not to scream.
“For God's sake, I'm going potty, do you mind?”
“Well… well, how long are you going to be? We're all waiting.”
“Let me think here. I've never been a very good judge of these things. How about five minutes? That good for you?”
“Sure. Five minutes, that's great,” replied Brian. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“You're most certainly welcome.”
Sealed in the tiny room, Tim heard the director retreat, his hasty footsteps beating their way through the trailer. And then, with a sigh of relief, Tim sensed the outer door open and close.
Okay, he thought, as he rubbed his brow. The cars were taken care of, or would be soon, provided that Vic didn't screw up again. Now all he had to worry about was, of course, the media.
30
“So I was parked right about here.” explained Rawlins to his partner, Neal Foster, “when I saw this car come out of there.”
From the front seat of his Taurus, Rawlins pointed to the large black iron gates of the driveway. It was early afternoon, the sun was breaking through the clouds, and the shiny black metal glistened, broadcasting an image of wealth and privacy. Past the gates and the fence, past the rich green lawn and thick bushes quietly sat the huge house. Though it was the size of a small hotel and though the grounds were impeccably manicured, the structure and its grounds were deserted.
“About what time was this?” asked Foster, seated next to him.
“Nine last night, maybe a little after.”
“And what were you doing here?”
“To be perfectly frank, it's a long story, so let's not get into—”
“Ah, sounds like relationship problems to me. Right? Am I right?” Knowing he was dead on target, Foster grinned, entirely proud of his sleuthing abilities. “In my humble opinion, that's how stories always get long. Or complicated, anyway.”
“Whatever,” replied Rawlins with a reticent shrug.
No, he didn't want to get into it, and he wouldn't, at least not until he had to. The important thing was that last night he'd been parked right here, right out front of this big house, and he'd seen a white convertible Saab come barreling through those gates and down this street. And the vehicle did have California plates, Rawlins was sure of that, just as he was sure that the driver was bald. But could it all be so easily solved?
“I want to know who the tipster is and just how and why he knows so much,” said Rawlins. “He was obviously here last night because he saw me, but why? Why would he be hanging around this place?”
“He said he was a photographer?”
“Yeah.” Wondering who in the name of hell Todd had visited inside the mansion last night, Rawlins added, “And I want to know whose house this is, anyway. It has to belong to someone important.”
“So no big deal. Were cops, we can find that out pretty damn easy”
Not hesitating, Foster reached for the radio, which was mounted on the slender transmission hump between the front seats. He grabbed the microphone and, because this wasn't an emergency, called not dispatch but Channel 7, their information channel.
He said, “Car 1110”
Through the small speaker beneath the dash, a woman's voice warbled: “Go ahead, Car 1110.”
“I need a reverse directory check.”
As Foster read off the address, Rawlins wondered how long this was going to take, either seconds or minutes. There was never any telling. If checking the phone records didn't work for some reason, then they could always use the cell phone to call another department to see to whom the water bill was sent. But apparently that wasn't going to be necessary.
The woman's voice on the radio said, “Car 1110?”
“1110,” answered Foster.
“That residence is listed as belonging to Suzanne Buttons.”
“Buttons?”
“Yes. That's boy-up-top-top—”
“Copy.” With a shrug, Foster hung up, then turned to Rawlins. “Doesn't ring any bells for me. How about you?”
Of course it did. She was no department store heir. No lumber or grain scion, of which there was still a wide smattering in the Twin Cities. No nouveau computer millionaire either. Rawlins had read all about her in the newspaper, and Suzanne Buttons, who'd made every penny of her own money, was famous and filthy rich for an entirely different reason.
“Makeup,” said Rawlins. “She's the queen saleswoman of a direct sales cosmetics line. I think she's something like their biggest grossing sales rep in the country, maybe the world.”
“You mean one of those pink Cadillac millionaires?”
“Different company but same idea.”
Which didn't tell them a whole lot about what was going on here. Or, thought Rawlins, why Todd would have been here last night, unless of course Todd had simply been working on a story. Which was a possibility. It would be just like Todd to have said he had a date, implying so very much, when in actuality that date could have simply been an interview. But if it had been an interview, what was Todd looking into? What scam or crime had piqued his reporterly instincts? And just who had he seen?
Grabbing his cell phone from the seat, Rawlins said, “I'm going to call CID and see if there've been any police calls on this address.”
He punched in the number, and the receptionist answered, saying, “Criminal Investigation Division.”
“Hi, Donna, this i
s Steve Rawlins. Can you get me someone in Homicide? Anyone there?”
“Sure. I think Lewis is in.”
There was a click on the line, and a moment later, a woman picked up saying, “Homicide, this is Sergeant Lewis.”
“Hey, Kathy, this is Rawlins. We're parked outside a residence in south Minneapolis, and I was wondering if you could check to see if there've been any police calls at this address. I'd be interested in the last year—oh, and whose name might be on it.”
“Sure, but I'm right in the middle of something. Let me call you back in five.”
“Great,” said Rawlins, who then gave her the address as well as his cell phone number.
No sooner had Rawlins hung up, than Foster ran his left hand over his craggy face, and said, “You gotta back up a little bit, Rawlins. If we're going to figure this out, you gotta tell me what you were doing here last night. Just some general information, that's all I'm asking for.”
The problem, of course, was that there wasn't much more to tell. Squirming in his seat, Rawlins stared at the yellow brick mansion that was bathed in the bright, cool light. Did he really want to drag Todd into this, or was the cat already out?
“Okay,” began Rawlins hesitantly, “you're right. Todd and I are having problems, but I really don't want to get into it. Not just yet, anyway—I mean, I'd like to keep this simple. But I was out here last night, and—”
“And he was in there? Todd was inside the house?”
Oh, shit, thought Rawlins, Foster was a bulldog of an investigator, and a great one too. One chomp into something and he never let go.
“Yeah, right, Todd was in there.”
“And?”
“Well, so I'm sitting right about in this exact spot when a white Saab came pulling out. I was rather curious who was in the car. Actually, I thought Todd was with some guy, so I followed it for a block and then pulled up alongside it. Okay, maybe it was a little stupid of me, but I did it.”
“And?”
“And… and there was only one person in it. Some guy—big, bald. And that was it. I looked at him, he glanced briefly at me, and then I drove on.”
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