However decorative those bars might be, with their graceful, swirling scrollwork, they made a statement. The residents of Rosado lived in fear. Some with only minor and occasional anxieties. Others in constant terror. But the wrought iron said it all. No one fastened metal bars across their doors and windows just to enhance their décor.
“Our buddy, the limo dude, ain’t exactly raking in the dough,” Dirk said, “if he lives in a place like this.”
“We’re spoiled,” Savannah told him, “living where we do, there on the ocean. San Carmelita is nice.”
“That’s true. It is. I forget how nice until I come here to the valley. All the smog and the heat and the traffic and the noise.”
“I don’t blame the folks who live here for piling into their cars and racing to the beach every weekend.”
“I do,” Dirk grumbled. “I wish they’d keep their asses at home, where they belong.”
“That’s what I love about you, darlin’—your love for humanity.”
“I love humanity. But people . . . people suck.”
Uplifted by that sage bit of enlightened philosophy, Savannah turned her attention back to the business at hand. She glanced at the piece of paper in her lap and the address that Tammy had scribbled on it.
“We’re just about there,” she told him. “It should be in the next block on the right-hand side.”
And sure enough, there it was. The simple little cottage Tammy had shown her on the computer screen. She recognized the curtain of red bougainvillea nearly obscuring the right side of the house.
Savannah had two lovely bougainvillea plants herself, one on each side of her front door. And even though she was very proud of them—and had even given them names, Bogey and Ilsa—she had to admit these were much larger and more lush than hers.
Down the driveway of broken cement at the back of the property sat the oversized garage she had seen from the satellite image. One of the two doors was open, and she could see the rear end of a Cadillac limousine.
She was pretty sure it was the one that had transported Jason Tyrone to the movie premiere on the day of his death.
Dirk parked the Buick at the curb. They both got out and started to walk up to the front door. But at that moment, Savannah saw a figure coming out of the garage.
It was the same man who had chauffeured Jason on the night of the show—Leland Porter, the proud owner of Diamond Transportation Services.
He looked quite different without his formal livery. Instead of the elegant black uniform, he wore a dingy, formerly white tee-shirt and jeans with ripped knees. And although it hadn’t been so obvious in his suit, his casual attire revealed a body that was nearly as muscular as the ones in the movie they had seen the other night.
In his hand he carried a portable vacuum cleaner and several attachments. When he spotted Savannah and Dirk, he set the vacuum on the driveway, brushed his palms off on the seat of his jeans, and walked over to them.
“Can I help you?” he asked with a friendly but curious tone.
They met him in the middle of the driveway.
Dirk extended his badge with his left hand and held out his right for a handshake. “I’m Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter with the San Carmelita Police Department.”
“And I’m Savannah Reid,” she said, “also from San Carmelita.”
Leland shook Savannah’s hand vigorously, then Dirk’s. “You two are a long way from home.”
“A half-hour, give or take,” Savannah added. “Three hours if there’s a nasty accident and everybody on the road wants to stop and gawk at it.”
“I hear ya,” Leland said with a chuckle. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been stuck in traffic for an hour, all because some blonde in a pair of short-shorts is changing a tire.”
Savannah and Dirk laughed along with him. But not for long.
“We need to talk to you about Jason Tyrone,” Dirk said abruptly. “I’m sure you heard what happened to him after you left him at the Island View Hotel.”
Leland nodded. “I heard he died in the middle of the night. Something about a heart attack and some drugs he was taking? I think that’s what they said on the eleven o’clock news last evening.”
Dirk nodded. “We were just at the hotel, looking at their security video. And as it turns out, you were the last one to see him alive.”
Leland looked surprised. “Really? Wow! That’s creepy. After I escorted him to his room, he told me that some friends of his were going to drop by very soon. So I figured he had somebody with him when he, well, you know . . .”
“No,” Savannah said. “From what we know now, we think he was alone when he passed. By the time his friends had arrived he was already gone.”
Leland shook his head sadly. “Man, that’s too bad. Nobody should be all alone when they check out.”
There was a long moment of silence, as though they were honoring the dead. Then he added, “It’s kind of ironic, when you think about it. Different magazines and newspapers had listed him as one of the sexiest men alive. There must’ve been ten million people—especially women—who would’ve been happy to hold his hand and comfort him until he was gone.”
“Yes, it is sad,” Savannah said. “But I reckon when it comes to the business of passing over to the other side, everybody’s pretty much on their own.”
The two men nodded in agreement, and all three stared down at the broken cement for a few seconds—again showing respect for the recently departed.
With her eyes averted, Savannah found herself looking at the front of Leland’s tee-shirt. The old fabric was thin, almost threadbare in places, and she couldn’t help but notice that he seemed to be wearing bandages on both of his nipples.
She did a quick mental scan of her memory banks, trying to think of any type of injury or medical condition that would warrant a man having to bandage his breasts.
She couldn’t help being curious. But it wasn’t the sort of thing you asked about. So she filed the information away for future consideration.
But not quite soon enough.
He had noticed her looking. She could see it in his eyes—the embarrassment, the humiliation. And she felt guilty for gawking.
After a few more moments of awkward silence, Leland said, “If you don’t mind me asking, why are the cops investigating his passing? From what they said on the news last night, I gathered it was an accidental overdose or something like that. One of the reporters even said it might’ve had something to do with him taking steroids—like doping, so that he could bulk up.”
“There’s no proof of that,” Savannah said. She could hear the indignation in her own voice. It was already beginning, the rumors, the sullying of Jason Tyrone’s reputation.
So much for not speaking ill of the dead.
Leland seemed to realize that he had offended her. He quickly added, “Right. The reporter even said that it was just speculation on her part, that they don’t know for sure.”
Savannah was eager to change the subject from Jason’s chosen medications. “How did he seem to you throughout the evening?” she asked. “Anything unusual about his mood, or anything he said or did?”
Leland thought it over for a moment. “Not really. He might’ve seemed a little nervous. Maybe a bit jumpy. But I figured it was just because of the premiere. Jason didn’t like that sort of thing. He was a big star and all that stuff, but he didn’t really enjoy having the spotlight on him. He was always a little nervous at those sorts of events.”
“Sounds like you knew him pretty well,” Savannah observed.
“Had you driven him before?” Dirk wanted to know.
Leland smiled, and it was a sad, poignant smile. “Oh, I’ve known Jason for years. We were friends back when he first started bodybuilding. In fact, my claim to fame is that I was the one who first told him he should give it a whirl.”
“Really?” Savannah was impressed.
“Yeah. He told everybody that if it hadn’t been for me, he never would’
ve even tried it. But he was a big kid with way too much energy. I was into it myself, and I thought it might do him good.”
He paused and for a long, awkward moment, Savannah wondered if he was thinking the same thing she was. Maybe the thought had crossed his mind that if he hadn’t suggested that particular path to Jason, his friend might still be alive.
“Now I feel guilty,” Leland admitted, instantly confirming her suspicions. “It’s almost like I killed him myself by even suggesting that he get into this mess.”
“This mess?” Dirk asked.
Leland shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’m sure it’s a positive thing for most builders. If you do it right, you wind up strong and healthy. Plus there’s the psychological boost it gives you—being your own personal best.”
A small, shy smile crossed his face. “And then you’ve got the competitions. Nothing’s more fun than winning one of those big trophies with your name on it and sticking it on your mantelpiece.”
“Have you won quite a few of those?” Savannah asked.
“A couple of the major ones. But that was a long time ago.” He waved a hand in the direction of the garage and the limousine. “Now I mostly drive crazy teenagers to proms and stuff like that.”
“You don’t have a lot of celebrities on your client list?” Dirk asked.
“Naw. Just Jason. And that was only because he knew me from the old days, and he knew that I’m hurtin’ for cash. With the economy in the tank, not as many people pay for limousine service.” He paused, and a look of deep sadness crossed his face. “Jason was a really good friend to me. I’m sure going to miss him.”
“I’m really sorry for your loss,” Savannah said. “I hate to ask what might be a painful question but can you tell me—what was the last thing he said to you, when you left him there at the hotel?”
“I don’t mind you asking, if you need to. I took him and his suitcases up to his suite. I set them down in his bedroom and asked him if he wanted me to stay for a while. Sometimes, when he had a suite like that, I’d hang out, maybe even spend the night on the sofa. A star like Jason has a lot of women after him. Guys, too, for that matter. The hotels do a pretty good job of keeping them away from the celebrity guests. But fans get pretty creative and insistent, too, pounding on the door at all hours. It helps to have somebody who can tell them to get lost.”
Savannah considered his height and breadth. “And I’ll bet you did that very well.”
He shrugged. “It’s not that hard. Most fans scare pretty easily.”
“But you didn’t stay that night, right?” Dirk asked.
“Right. He said a couple of his friends were going to be showing up any minute, and they were FBI agents. So he didn’t need any extra security.”
“And that’s when you left?” Savannah said.
“Yes, I thought he’d be all right. He seemed fine.” Leland’s entire body seemed to sag with the sadness of the memory. “Believe me, you never, never would’ve looked at him and thought, ‘He only has a matter of minutes to live.’ ”
“What do you think killed him?” Dirk asked.
Leland took a long time answering, and when he did, his voice was shaking. “I think that years ago a well-meaning friend turned Jason on to bodybuilding. And in the end, the sport killed him. That’s what I believe happened. And I can tell you, thinking about that is going to keep me awake at night.”
No sooner had Savannah and Dirk left Leland and gotten back into the Buick when Savannah’s cell phone rang.
“It’s Tammy,” she said, looking at the caller ID. “Wonder what she’s got.”
“What makes you think she’s got anything?”
“Tammy has her faults. But calling people to chat endlessly about nothing—that’s not one of them.”
“True. She waits until she’s face-to-face with you to bore you to death.”
“Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
“There’s room for improvement.”
Savannah answered the phone. “Hi, puddin’ cat. What’s shakin’?”
“Dr. Liu called,” was the cheerful response.
“Oh, yeah? What did she want?”
“To tell you that the funeral’s tomorrow at Forest Lawn.”
“Which one?”
“The one in Glendale where so many celebrities are buried. Sorta fitting, huh? It’s going to be at two in the afternoon. Are you going?”
“Absolutely. And so are you and Waycross.”
“Really?”
Savannah could tell that Tammy was trying to stay calm, collected, and respectful. It simply wasn’t couth to dance in your bloomers at the thought of going to someone’s, anyone’s, funeral.
“Yes,” Savannah told her. “We need your young eyes there to scope out the crowd.”
“To see who’s taking it hard . . . who isn’t taking it hard enough? To see who appears to be sincerely grieving and who’s just putting on a show to draw attention to themselves?”
“Exactly. Just like at your average Southern funeral, I’m sure that each of those groups will be represented among the crowd.”
“I have to go buy a black dress.”
Savannah chuckled. “This is California. I’m pretty sure that anything even moderately somber will do just fine.”
“Just no tropical or animal prints?”
“A quiet leopard would probably be okay.”
“And there’s something else I want to tell you about. Something I uncovered when I was researching.”
“Tell me all about it, kiddie-o.”
“Okay.” Tammy drew a deep breath. Such a big one that Savannah knew she was in for a long-winded tale and a half. “Here goes . . .”
“I told you she was a bag of hot air,” Dirk said when Savannah finally hung up the phone.
“You said she was an airhead.”
“And the discernible difference would be . . . ?”
“Before you switch all the way into Bash the Bimbo Mode, you should hear about the article she found online about Jason.”
He drove the Buick south, heading for the Ventura Freeway. “Okay, lay it on me. What did she find that was so interesting?”
“It was an article on one of the bodybuilding sites about Jason and a problem he and some others were having. It’s what Ryan was telling us about in the hotel, where they obsess about getting bigger. Tammy says it’s a real disorder, sort of like anorexia.”
Dirk snorted. “You can say what you want about Jason Tyrone, but he sure didn’t look like he starved himself to death.”
“I didn’t say it was exactly like anorexia, just similar because they’re both body dysmorphic disorders.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Well, I’m no expert. But according to what Tammy just told me, the people who have these disorders don’t see their bodies the way they really are.”
“Oh, yeah, I saw one of those gals on TV one time. She was talking about how fat she was, and she was nothing but skin and bones. She was regular height, but she weighed something like eighty pounds.”
Savannah nodded. “That’s right. And apparently, if you have this bigorexia disorder, you worry that you’re a wimp or whatever. No matter how big and muscular these guys are, they worry about being too small. They think their muscles are underdeveloped and obsess about working out to make them bigger.”
“Even guys who look like Jason Tyrone?”
“Especially guys who look like Jason. The rest of the world thinks they’re a hunk, but they think they’re a shrimp.”
“That’s messed up.”
“You have no idea. Apparently, it takes over their whole lives. They neglect their friends and families so that they can work out constantly. They obsess about their diet and eat way more protein than they should. And they take gobs of supplements—without any kind of doctors’ advice. And then, of course, you’ve got the steroids, diuretics, the human growth hormone. They abuse stuff like that constantly and put their
health at risk, just like Ryan said.”
“Are you telling me that this is a serious problem?”
“Apparently it’s a big deal now. Tammy said that even high school boys are developing this disorder. They think that a man can’t be masculine unless he’s all muscle-bound.”
Dirk shook his head. “That’s like all the girls who think they have to be stick thin to be pretty. It’s a shame.”
Ahead they could see the signs, indicating the entrances to the Ventura Freeway.
Dirk said, “Which is it going to be—north or south?”
Savannah knew what he meant. They could head north, go home, and get back to their normal lives. She could paint the downstairs half bath, launder her dusty curtains, and maybe even find the time to go shopping for some sort of futon for the guest room. And, of course, she could give Dirk his very first honey-do list. Enforcing it would, no doubt, prove to be a challenge. But it was never too early to begin training one’s new husband.
Or they could take the freeway south to the 405, and then jog over to Beverly Hills. On a second piece of paper lying on her lap was Jason Tyrone’s address.
“Are we really going to take this all the way?” Dirk asked her.
“With nothing but an ‘accidental death’ ruling from the coroner, it seems kind of silly. We don’t have one shred of evidence that this was a murder.”
“Very true,” Dirk said. “Nobody would blame us if we just dropped the whole kit and caboodle right now.”
“Exactly.”
The entrance ramps were coming up. One with a big “S” for south, and the next with its “N” indicating north—home, home improvement, and impressing the new relatives.
“The smart thing would be to close the case and let them just bury old Jason in peace tomorrow.”
Savannah held her breath, waiting to see which he would choose.
A moment later, the Buick was taking the tight ramp a bit too fast. So fast, in fact, that the tires squealed a bit.
And then they were headed south. Toward Beverly Hills. Toward Jason Tyrone’s home.
Savannah smiled and said, “But then, we’ve been accused of many things over the years—and being smart ain’t one of them.”
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