Private: #1 Suspect (14 page)

CAINE WAS WAITING for me on the freedom side of the chain-link barrier. He put an arm around me and hurried me quickly through the seething throng of bikers and gangbangers outside the jail.

The car was waiting for us. Aldo sprang from the front seat and moved fast to open the back door for me.

“You okay, Jack?”

“No worse than if I got hit by a car and slept it off for a couple of days in a drainage ditch,” I said.

Aldo grinned. “Oh, man, that’s bad. But we’ve got you now. Listen, there’s coffee for you in back.”

Had it only been five days since Aldo had picked me up at the airport and driven me home? It felt like at least a decade had passed.

Caine got into the backseat beside me, and the Mercedes shot out into the stream of traffic.

“I want to stop home and change.”

“The hotel would be better, Jack. They just took down the tape around your house an hour ago. No one’s been inside to clean. Cody brought some clothes to the hotel.”

I nodded, thought about my blood-soaked bed. My house forever colored by that blood.

There was a newspaper on the seat beside me. A big photo on page one. It took me a second to realize that the shackled man standing in line for the TTCF bus was me.

The headline read “Morgan Freed on Bail.” The subhead was “Accused Killer Walks on Twenty Million Bail.”

The lede paragraph was about Colleen’s murder, then a few lines about Phil Spector, Robert Blake, O. J. Simpson. Other LA killers.

“When’s the trial?” I asked Caine.

“We don’t have a date. Not yet,” Caine said. “And we don’t want one too soon.”

I knew what he meant. All we had in our favor was me telling the cops I didn’t do it. Another way of saying we had jack shit.

The car waited for me outside the Beverly Hills Sun. I went up to my opulent, gilded room. I stripped down, stood under the six shower heads in the travertine marble stall. Those streams of clean hot water almost resurrected me.

Thirty minutes later, about noon, I walked through the doors of Private and loped up the stairs.

Cody’s workstation was vacant, but there was a client pacing the open space outside my office. It was Dewey Arnold, lead attorney for Hamilton-Price, the biggest sports agency in the world.

“Dewey, come in. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I don’t need to come in, Jack.”

“No?”

I had been headed toward my office, but I stopped, turned around, and looked into Dewey Arnold’s craggy face.

I had known Dewey since I was a teenager. His firm had represented me during my one-season shot at professional football. Hamilton-Price had been my father’s client. Hamilton was still friends with my uncle Fred, who co-owned the Oakland Raiders.

Hamilton-Price had been with Private for the past five years.

“Let me just say it, Jack. You’re fired. We don’t want to work with you anymore.”

“Dewey. Come in. Let’s talk about this. I’m not guilty of anything. It’s a—”

“I’ve heard. It’s a frame,” he said. “We don’t care. We don’t like the stink. I settled up with accounting and I’m putting out a press release this afternoon. We’re moving our business to Private Security.”

“You’re going to my brother?”

“Out of loyalty to your family. Hamilton said to tell you good luck.”

If you say the word
luck
and put a lot of power behind that
ck
sound, spit comes out of your mouth. I wiped my cheek as Dewey Arnold stalked toward the elevator.

I TURNED AWAY from Dewey Arnold and saw a large black woman coming out of my office. She was pretty, late twenties, a good 225 pounds, five foot eleven in flats. She wore a white blouse with some lace in the V neck, kelly-green pants. There was a scared look on her face—but, then, the shower hadn’t washed away the past few days. I still looked scary.

More to the point, I didn’t know her.

So what was she doing in my office?

“I’m Valerie Kenney,” she said. “Val. I’m Cody’s replacement.”

She stuck out her hand and I shook it, but I didn’t get it. Cody had said he’d stay for another week. He’d told me that I would interview his top three candidates.

“Cody wanted to break me in. Give me some training while he’s still here,” Valerie said. “He’s setting up some meetings for me right now.”

“Please come into my office,” I said.

I showed Val Kenney to the seating area. “I’m sure Cody would have told me about you, but I haven’t had a phone for a couple of days.”

“Being without a phone. That’s hell, isn’t it?”

I laughed. First time in a while.

“So what’s your story, Val?”

She summarized her life, hitting the high points. She had rehearsed it, sure, but it wasn’t too pat. Val was from Miami; her mother still lived in the Gables. She’d gone to Boston University, graduated four years ago with a bachelor of science degree.

“I took criminology postgrad at the University of Miami,” she told me. “My mom needed me at home to help her with my brother for a while. He was a teenager, you know, out of control. Do you remember when you came to Miami and gave a lecture on crime detection?”

“I do.”

“I was in the front row.”

“Sorry. There were a lot of people there.”

“Oh, that’s okay. But you really made an impression on me, Mr. Morgan.”

“Jack.”

“Jack. So how am I doing?” she asked. “Am I still hired?”

Second time I’d laughed. I guess I must’ve missed laughter if I was counting.

“Let’s see how it goes,” I said. “Keep talking.”

Val told me she’d done a stint with Miami PD in the back office, got her master’s at night, and told her mother that she was going to move to LA one day and work for Private.

“That last part’s a lie,” I said.

She grinned. “It’s what you say on interviews, ‘I always wanted to work here.’ But damn it, I did. I do.”

“Have you moved to LA?”

“Yes. I’m a big one for bold moves.”

First time she’d looked nervous in fifteen minutes, since Dewey Arnold told me good luck like he was wishing I’d get the plague.

“When Cody answered my e-mail, I got on a plane and flew out to meet him,” Valerie continued. “Speaking of e-mail, you’ve got a lot of it. Phone calls too. Three clients resigned—I cued up their contact info on your computer. And there are about five meetings I should rebook for you, if you’re ready. Mr. Del Rio, urgent. Ms. Poole, urgent. Should I go on?”

“You know what has happened to me?”

“Yes.”

“Solving Colleen Molloy’s murder—we’re going to be working nights. Weekends. You’ve got an advanced degree. Are you sure you want to answer phones?”

“Yes. And I can do anything you need me to do. This is a dream job, Mr., ah, Jack. I’ll work my butt off. That’s a promise. You’re looking at a former scholarship student. I got into the best schools on scholarship.”

Her hands were clasped tightly together in her lap. She was leaning toward me, hopeful.

I had to smile. She was smart and she was motivated, but was she as good as her act?

“When you think I’m ready, we’ll talk about me moving up to investigation,” Val Kenney said.

I had a murder rap hanging over my head. I had to take a chance that the smart and motivated Ms. Kenney could watch my back while I did whatever I had to do to save my life.

I reached out and shook her hand again.

This time I said, “Welcome to Private.”

THE MOVIE WAS being shot north of LA, just outside the town of Ojai, on a ranch-style property set back from a winding country lane.

Del Rio stood in the shade of an avocado grove, watching the crew set up the first shots of
Shades of Green.
A few yards away, Scotty leaned against the white horse fence that separated the avocado trees from the drive, the lawn, and the eccentric-looking house, maybe a hundred years old.

Right then, eight-fifteen a.m., the crew was adjusting the lights, the sound level, the camera angles, focusing on the blue Ferrari parked in front of the house.

Danny Whitman was in the driver’s seat, and his costar, sixteen-year-old Piper Winnick, was sitting beside him. The two were joking around, getting into the personalities of the characters, two young spies who’d fallen in love despite the odds, seeing as Danny’s character was marked for assassination.

Del Rio was reminded of the characters in one of those Bourne films starring Matt Damon and an actress whose name he didn’t know. Unlike the brunette in that Bourne movie, Piper Winnick was a honey blonde. She wore her shining hair shoulder length and was dressed in a yellow sundress with a straw hat shading her eyes.

Danny Whitman wore a blue polo shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap, and he was nuzzling his costar, who was fake-pushing him away, calling him
“stupido
,
”
the two of them laughing.

What Del Rio liked was how there were no other houses visible from this property, that the situation was under control. He lit a cigarette. He wasn’t hooked, but there were times when it just felt good to exhale and watch the smoke blow away in the breeze.

Del Rio watched the actors, thinking the film was pretty much guaranteed to be next summer’s blockbuster—if Danny didn’t go to jail. Or maybe the film would be even more of a box office bonanza if he did.

The director was talking now, telling the couple to take their places. They got out of the car and went into the house of many crazy additions, just as three of Danny Whitman’s handlers ambled up from the road.

Scotty left his post at the rail, came over, and stood next to Del Rio.

He said, “Of the three of them, I only like Schuster, the manager. I think he likes Danny for real. Barstow, Danny’s agent? He doesn’t like anybody. Merv Koulos. I understand him. He doesn’t try to hide that it’s all about money.”

Del Rio said, “It’s all about the money for all of them, Scotty. Just different shades of green.”

The three men came up to the investigators, Schuster saying, “You’re the guys from Private, right?”

Del Rio thought Schuster looked happy for good reason. He’d waited a long time for the cameras to roll, and today was the day.

Barstow said, “You can get something to eat if you want. The chow wagon is behind the barn.”

Del Rio said, “Thanks, but we’re good.”

He was thinking how it was great to get a softball job once in a while. Everything under control.

FIFTY FEET AWAY from the avocado grove, the director’s assistant called, “Quiet please. Let’s have quiet.”

Someone clapped the boards, said, “Take one.” And the AD said, “Four, three, two and…action.”

The camera was focused on the front door, Danny coming out of the house followed by Piper. Danny turned to Piper, saying, “You gotta understand, that guy is crazy.”

“Cheesecake. I mean fruitcake,” Piper said in an Italian-accented voice.

They got into the car, Whitman saying, “Try to keep it straight, okay?”

Winnick said, “I know; cheesecake is girly pictures and fruitcake is cuckoo. And keep my head down.”

The star said to his movie girlfriend, “I’m fruitcake to let you come with me. If anything happens to you, Gia—”

The girl laughed, said,
“Stupido,”
as Danny started the snazzy car. He gunned the engine. Piper yelped and flew back against the seat as the sports car shot toward Sisar Road.

It was traveling way too fast.

That was not in the script.

The crew and the bystanders stood and gaped as the car blasted through the open gate and kept going. The director yelled,
“Cut
,
”
but the car didn’t stop.

Instead, Danny took a hard left onto the two-laner, and the car became a vivid blue streak, getting smaller until it vanished from view and they couldn’t hear the engine anymore.

The director yelled, “What the fuck? What the fuck is going on here?”

Schuster, standing next to Del Rio, was punching numbers into his cell phone. Merv Koulos did the same.

“Danny. It’s Merv. Damn it,” said Koulos. “Danny, call me. This isn’t funny.”

“He’ll be right back,” Scotty said to himself. He turned to Del Rio. “He just likes the car and the girl. He’s going to turn back in a second. He’s just goofing around.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Del Rio.

Del Rio’s contentment was gone, replaced by a feeling like a cold wind blowing through his rib cage. He opened his cell phone, dialed Justine, and when she answered, he said, “We’re on the job for one hour and we lose the damned kid. Yeah, right, Danny. He took off at a hundred twenty in a three-hundred-thousand-dollar sports car. Brace yourself, Justine. He took the girl with him. Piper Winnick. No. Nope. If he said where he’s going, no one here got the memo.”

IT WAS LATE afternoon, nearly five.

Justine and Scotty had spent the day looking for Danny. They’d been to his house and Piper’s house in the Hills. They had contacted both sets of friends and families and were only now leaving the studio after talking to everyone who had an opinion on Danny’s disappearance—which was everyone period.

Half the people they talked to said they thought Danny was irresponsible, immature, just didn’t understand the consequences of his actions.

The other half guessed that Danny understood the consequences full well, that his disappearance was a publicity stunt mimicking the movie plot. Several people suggested that Danny’s agent, Alan Barstow, had put Danny up to it.

In any case, Justine knew that soon the police would be looking for a blue Ferrari and two young movie stars.

Justine told Scotty to strap in, then she drove off the Harlequin Pictures lot with tires squealing, heading toward Beverly Hills.

As she drove, Justine beat on the steering wheel with her palms in frustration, furiously trying to make sense of Danny’s insane and dangerous escapade. He couldn’t claim that he’d had one of his blackouts when he’d driven that car off the location with Piper Winnick riding shotgun.

What had she missed?

Was he a narcissistic child?

Or was he a psychopath?

Either way, he was self-destructive.

Danny Whitman, the kid with everything to lose, could go to prison for twenty-five to life.

And that was if he hadn’t hurt Piper.

Justine sped through a yellow light, saying to Scotty, “You heard me tell him ‘Play it straight. Don’t go anywhere with the opposite sex.’”

“You have to turn in two blocks, Justine. Maybe you want to get over into the left lane now—”

“He agreed to our terms. I keep asking myself, is he crazy? I mean, is he actually crazy?”

Scotty stomped on an imaginary brake on his side of the car as Justine took a hard left through a red light.

Justine said, “See, I liked him, Scotty. I liked him a lot. Tell me that address again.”

“Three forty-five North Maple. Should be about three blocks down. I take responsibility, Justine, but I don’t know what I could have done differently. We had to stay out of the shot, which went all the way out to the road.”

“You couldn’t have known. I mean it, Scotty.”

The building coming up on their right was blocky, about fifteen stories high. Justine turned the car down a ramp on the east side of the building and took the car deep into the dark underground garage.

A few minutes later, she and Scotty were giving their names to a woman behind the reception desk of the Barbara Crowley Talent Agency.