by Davis Bunn
The deputy reached the steel door at the end of the corridor. He opened the sally port, checked inside, then said, “Your boy’s not a pretty sight.”
Jennie released Emma’s hand and stepped forward. Emma hesitated, then followed her.
Jennie said, “Open the door.”
It was only when the deputy fit the key in the lock that Danny realized he was sweating. Up to then, it had all been about Alex and the shoot. But the sound of clanking locks and the bars and the echoes resonating down the concrete hall took him straight back. His heart pounded and his skin turned clammy. He had never known the meaning of claustrophobia until that moment.
The door clanged as the deputy pulled it open. To Danny it sounded like a nightmare he only now recalled. He stood to the left of Rick and the soundman, with Greg in front and Annie behind him. They watched as Jennie released Emma’s hand and stepped into the tank.
The disinfectant odor wafted back, causing both women to squint. Jennie played it like the pro she was. The normal reaction would have been to stop in the doorway, blocking the way. But Jennie stepped to the right, pulling Emma through the portal and over beside her. Rick slipped past, his movements swift and practiced and silent. He positioned himself by the left-hand wall. Only when the camera’s light was stable and shining brightly through the door did Jennie step forward. Her features were tight, strained, and very tired. She wore a shapeless thigh-length beige sweater, so old it looked like a bathrobe. Below were drawstring khakis and rope-soled canvas slip-ons. The result was a weary woman looking down at a situation that almost broke her heart. Again.
Emma stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Jennie. Jennie responded by settling one arm around Emma’s shoulders. The two of them finding comfort in each other.
Greg pointed at the floor by the deputy’s shoes, silently ordering the police officer to remain precisely where he was. The deputy leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms.
The tank was a windowless cement cube. The floor, walls, and ceiling were all painted a dismal greyish green. The floor angled slightly toward two central drains, and six steel benches lined the walls. A steel toilet and sink were embedded in the left corner, near where Rick stood with the camera.
Alex was a mess. He sat on the rear bench, his head leaning against the wall. His hair was spiked on one side, mashed flat on the other. His shirt was buttoned to his neck, but a rip ran from his right shoulder to his rib cage.
Jennie’s voice was flat and harsh as the light. “You promised me you were going straight.”
Alex slowly lifted one hand, as though the effort required all the strength his body had left. He shielded his eyes and groaned. “Turn it off.”
“You promised me.” Jennie pointed to Emma. “You promised her.”
Only then did Danny realize Alex was weeping. “Please. Don’t.”
The emotion was too real, the pain etched into Alex’s features too raw, to be faked. The reality caused Jennie to hesitate.
Emma released her and slipped forward. Jennie reached out to her, almost drawing her back, but stopped before she touched Emma’s shoulder.
The girl walked over and settled onto the bench beside Alex. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” Alex jammed the heels of both hands into his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“Promise her you’ll stop.”
“No more lies.” Alex heaved an awful breath and dropped his hands. His face was wrenched by an ancient’s agony. “I don’t know if I can.”
Emma was the calm one now. The one who defied her years. “What if we helped you?”
Alex huffed. Then again. “You’d do that?”
“We both will. We want to.”
He looked at her. Or tried to. “Why?”
“Because.” Emma touched the tattered fabric over Alex’s heart. “There’s a good man in there. Trying to come out.”
Alex stared at her.
“It’s what Daddy would have told you,” Emma said.
Alex wiped his face, struggling for control.
“Ready?” she asked.
He nodded.
Emma rose to her feet. “Let’s go home.”
50
MEGAN PULLED INTO the Chambers basement lot at a quarter to eight. Harvey’s secretary had called her forty-five minutes earlier and given her an assigned space. She was fairly certain it was the same space where her boss had always parked. Her Suzuki looked out of place among the Aston Martins and Mercedes. She shared the sidewalk with four execs, all of whom gave her the sort of tense inspection that suggested they knew why she was there.
The building’s ground floor contained a boutique coffee shop. This time of day, virtually all the clients were Chambers employees. Which made the fact that Harvey Chambers was there waiting for her all the sweeter. He asked what she would have, then sent an intern scurrying for her cappuccino and muffin.
When they were seated in the coveted corner table, he said, “Thanks for joining me.”
“Harvey, as far as I’m concerned, this beats champagne and caviar at the Polo Lounge.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You’re meeting me here so the world will know you’ve made up your mind. And you’re coming down on our side.” She smiled as the intern deposited her breakfast. “I suppose it would be out of line to hug you.”
He used his cup to indicate the tall man scowling in the service line. “Certainly as far as Larry is concerned.”
“What can you tell me about Legend?”
“Right to the point. I like that.” He toyed with his cup. “They have offered us a five-picture deal.”
“But only if you start with the Valentine project.”
“In a nutshell,” he confirmed. “If we do business with you, there’s no deal.”
“Does that make sense to you?”
“No, Megan. It doesn’t. And not even your nemesis there can offer me a decent explanation. That’s what finally brought me to this meeting.”
“They want something,” Megan said. “And it has nothing to do with the films.”
“Legend claims to have an almost completed project, one that would fit perfectly on Valentine’s with a minimum amount of editing.” He pushed his coffee aside. “They also claim to want to use us as an entry point into television work.”
“Do you believe them?”
“That’s an interesting question. I would like to work with Legend. But only if they’re genuinely interested in working with me.”
“Did you ask them why K&K brought you their initial offer?”
“I would if I could have direct contact with their key executives. Aaron Seibel claims they’re busy with a reorganization of their top ranks.” He smiled. “You remember Aaron.”
“All too well.”
“Aaron would like to become my new best buddy, which is another curiosity. I’ve met him a number of times in the past. Before this deal arose, he treated me as, well . . .”
“The head of a television start-up who isn’t within shouting distance of his minimum revenue requirements.”
“You were smart to quit that group, Megan.”
She changed the subject. “What is the proposed budget for the Legend projects?”
Harvey nodded. “Another interesting question. They’ve come down to what you are costing. Three and change.”
“So five of these projects will total less than half of one of their studio projects. They do four films a year, contracted in advance to Paramount. Where is the logic in this offer they’ve made CBC?”
“I asked Larry the very same question.”
“How did he respond?”
“He said he’d have to get back to me on that.” Harvey checked his watch and rose from the table. If he noticed how every eye in the room tracked him, he gave no indication. “You understand, Megan, nothing can be formalized until we’ve viewed your team’s first cut. But if your Mr. Byrd and his group deliver as promised, I hope we can come to some sor
t of long-term understanding.”
Megan wished there was some way to take the man’s words, distill them, and fashion a bond that would make Danny truly hers. “Could you possibly elaborate?”
“Not until the project wraps. Until then, it’s to remain our little secret.”
Megan waited until he had departed to reply, “Not so little, not by any stretch of the imagination.”
51
MEGAN DROVE STRAIGHT from LA to Thrashers Ridge. She had hoped desperately to see Danny, and feared the contact in equal measure. But when she arrived, Thrashers Ridge was quiet. The cook showed Megan a note from Danny saying they were on location and asking for dinner to be ready at six. Megan left a terse note of her own, saying simply that they needed to talk.
Just as she was pulling into the law firm’s parking lot, her phone rang. The readout said it was a blocked number. Megan feared another confrontation with Aaron and was tempted not to answer. The day was already too full. “This is Megan Pierce.”
A distinctly feminine and heavily accented voice spoke loudly over static. “My name is Mei-Li. I call for our mutual friend.”
As Megan listened to what the woman had to say, she wondered if perhaps it had been good not to speak with Danny after all.
When Sol Feinnes entered his office at a quarter to four, Megan rose from her chair, crossed the central space, and followed him. Something in her expression silenced Sol’s secretary before she could protest.
Megan did not march and she did not storm. Sol was not someone who would respond well to histrionics. But he was going to tell her what she needed to know.
Sol set his briefcase on the desk and said, “Can this wait?”
“No, Sol. It can’t.”
Though she spoke calmly, something clearly alerted him to the change. “Megan, I’m due at a conference with my client’s board of directors in ninety minutes. We need to prepare a settlement offer. Tonight.”
“We can do this here, we can do this in your car, we can do this in their waiting room. But it is going to happen today. The information you have withheld from me is no longer about Thrashers Ridge. This has become a beast, Sol. If we don’t handle it now, it could grow fangs and devour us all.”
He shook his head. “Save the poetry for your next jury.”
“Today, Sol.”
“Explain.” He opened his briefcase and began setting files in it. “I can give you five minutes.”
“I’ll do it in three.”
Sol’s movements slowed as she spoke. Megan sat down and walked him through her findings, summarizing her conversations in thirty-second bites. When she finished with her breakfast meeting that morning, Sol had gone completely still.
Finally he said, “I have no contact with Legend Partners. Not now, not ever.”
When Megan did not respond, Sol walked to his open door and called for someone named Gerald. A fresh-faced young man bounded down the hall. Sol said, “I need you to prepare the financial documents for our meeting.”
The guy could not have been more than four years younger than Megan. Even so, his high-pitched eagerness made Megan feel ancient. “No problem, Mr. Feinnes!”
Sol watched the young man depart, then told Megan, “If he fouls things up, you and I are going to have words.”
He left to make a call from his secretary’s desk, returned to his office, and told Megan, “Permission granted. Reluctantly.”
“By whom?”
Sol sank into the sofa across from her. “Eleven years ago the new director of Thrashers Ridge approached me. His name was Daniel Byrd.”
“Wait . . . what?”
“Danny’s grandfather married into the family who has owned Thrashers Ridge for generations. He and his wife were both in their sixties when they met and fell in love. Daniel Sr. then invested all his own assets into turning the place around. It was not enough. He and his wife watched helplessly as the hotel steadily lost all their money. I arranged subsequent bank loans. Three of them. Finally last year the bank demanded all their money must be repaid, without any further delay. Nine months ago Daniel made yet another appointment, I assumed to enter chapter 11. But when he came into my office and sat where you are now, he announced that he had been approached by a buyer. At first I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t accept a cash offer for an outright sale. But he was my client, and he insisted. Forty-nine percent or nothing. The negotiations dragged on.”
Sol stopped talking. Glanced at his watch. Sighed.
“Tell me!”
“He died. Stroke. His widow insisted that we hold to her late husband’s terms. She said she’d burn the place to the ground, leave it to a charity, deed it to the county on the understanding they’d never sell it to . . .” Sol shook his head. “The lady was alone, bereft, and in bad physical shape. I’d assumed she would actually be the one to go first.”
“So the buyer agreed.”
“The firm representing them did. I made them understand it was this or nothing. They relented, but only when they retained an absolute right to acquire the rest at fair market value if the property ever came up for sale.”
“Who was the buyer?”
“I have no idea. Everything was handled by an LA law firm that told me in no uncertain terms that their client was to remain anonymous.”
“Not K&K.”
“None other.”
The news pushed her back in her seat. Megan stared at the space above Sol’s head. Watching all the pieces fall into place. “Legend. It has to be.”
“Given what you’ve told me, I assume that’s the case.” Sol started to check his watch again but resisted the urge. “Apparently Daniel Sr. knew his health was failing and tried to find his son. No luck there.”
“They found his grandson Danny instead.”
Sol nodded. “This is where things get confusing.”
Megan shook her head. Actually, things were finally becoming clear. “The sale of half the hotel’s ownership to Legend went through. Mrs. Byrd continues to honor her husband’s last wishes. She ordered you to help Danny when JR skipped town and landed Danny in jail. You reported back to her what you learned about Danny through me. Because of her ill health, she deeded Danny the remaining half of the hotel. But her late husband made no decision about contacting Danny directly, so she has ordered you to keep quiet. How am I doing so far?”
Sol just stared at her.
“One last question. When did K&K discover Danny’s involvement?”
Sol studied her. “Not until Danny was released from jail. Why?”
“I’m not sure. But I think it might be important.”
“The widow’s name is Louisa Dellacourt. After Danny’s day in court, I informed K&K that Louisa had passed on her share of the hotel to her husband’s named heir.”
“Who was the attorney of record?”
“Aaron Seibel.”
Megan stood. “I have what I need. Go negotiate your settlement.”
Sol rose slowly. Still staring. “What are you going to do?”
For once, the answer was crystal clear. “I’m going to protect my client.”
52
DANNY DROVE to Robin and Emma’s home that night with Megan’s note burning a hole in his pocket. He felt as though the world just would not let him go. The weight of everything he needed to get done, all the things he wished he had done better, Megan’s absence, his own flawed life. All of it bundled together at the end of this invisible chain.
As he started to enter the home, his phone rang.
Kate, Jennie’s bodyguard, said without preamble, “You’ve had visitors.”
“Excuse me?”
“Three nights running. Two couples, or so they appear at first. They pull into the lot about midnight and pretend to be heading up the ridge. Then they slip away into the brush.”
“Does this mean you’re not really a lone bodyguard?”
“Jennie decided she wanted regular patrols, the hotel is so isolated.”
“Why
wasn’t I informed?” Danny read Kate’s silence and added, “Never mind. Go on.”
“We assumed they were fans at first. Then I heard sloshing.”
There was no reason that last word should send his heart into overdrive. “What was it?”
“They were carrying containers of gas, rags, and a timer.”
“What?”
“Good thing Jennie had me add some extra staff, huh.”
“Where are they?”
“That’s a question you shouldn’t be asking.” Kate’s voice showed a new and sharper edge. “Let’s just say they won’t be coming back anytime soon.”
Danny was still digesting that information as he entered the home and accepted Emma’s welcoming hug. He sighed his way onto the sofa, wishing he could curl up in the corner and sleep for a week. Then his phone rang a second time.
Emma watched him check the screen and send the call to voice mail. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“What if it’s, you know, important?”
He slipped the phone back in his pocket. “It’s JR. Again.”
Robin stepped out into the hall leading to their kitchen. “Your partner? The guy who landed you in jail?”
“Yes. Is it okay if we don’t talk about JR tonight?”
“Aw.” Emma slid onto the floor. “Really?”
Danny realized she was kidding. “How do you have energy left for jokes?”
Robin called from the kitchen, “She’s fourteen.”
“Fifteen, almost.” Emma lay on her back, her hair fanned out like a copper sheath. “Today was fun.”
“Maybe for you.”
They had done a series of quick location shots, all possible because Robin and Emma had escorted the crew through their world. Solvang lived from the constant stream of tourists, which made the locals insular. They were friendly enough, but only to a point. The things that mattered, the elements that could make or break their film project, were kept hidden away.
Robin had arranged for them to meet with five regional support groups. Grief groups, Emma had called them. Sob moms. Dreary dads. Robin had told her daughter to be quiet, but Danny could tell she partly agreed with Emma.