All the Lucky Ones Are Dead (6 page)

“If you say so,” Gunner said.

“Refresh my memory for me. You're working for Mr. Elbridge, right?”

“I don't believe I mentioned who my client was.”

“But it is Mr. Elbridge, correct?”

As Benny Elbridge had given Gunner permission to disclose this information at his discretion, the investigator nodded his head.

“I knew it. He just can't let it go,” Joy said.

“What's that?”

“Come on, man. You know what. He thinks the Digga was murdered.”

“And you don't?”

“No. Hell no.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because it isn't possible, that's why. He was in that hotel room alone the night he died. He locked the door himself, from the inside.”

“Or somebody made it appear that way, you mean.”

Joy shook his head.

“Then the Digga
had
been entertaining ideas of suicide just before his death.”

“In his way he was, yeah.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's like this. Killing himself was never very far from the Digga's mind. I never really thought he'd do it, but the possibility was always there.”

“Why?”

“Why? You mean—”

“What reasons could he have had for being that despondent, yeah.”

Joy smiled and shook his head. “Sorry, Brother Gee, but I'm afraid I can't say.”

“You can't?”

Joy shook his head a second time.

“Would it help me to read the alleged suicide note he left behind?”

“Oh. You know about that, huh?”

“The note's common knowledge. What isn't is what it said. Or, for that matter, whether it was really a suicide note, or just the latest flava the Digga was getting ready to drop on his fans.”

“You're talking about song lyrics, right?”

Gunner nodded.

“Yeah. That's what the cops thought it was too, at first. But no.” Joy paused for emphasis. “It was a suicide note.”

“You're sure about that.”

“As sure as I need to be. I mean, the note might've
looked
like some lyrics, yeah. All it was was some lines on a sheet of paper, no punctuation or caps, same way the Digga always laid his lines down. But if you concentrated on what the note was
saying
, instead of what it
looked like
…”

Gunner looked at him expectantly, hoping he'd go on on his own without being prodded.

But Joy recognized the ploy, said, “I'm sorry, Brother Gee. But that's as much as I can say. You asked me if the boy could have been considered suicidal before his death, and I said yes. What his reasons might have been for bein' that down are, in my opinion, private and immaterial.”

“Not if they involved a second party who may have murdered him they aren't.”

“They didn't. You can take my word for that.”

“I'd like to. It'd make for a shorter work week. But that isn't what Mr. Elbridge is paying me for, is it?”

“I already told you. I don't know
what
Mr. Elbridge is paying you for.”

“You don't think the Digga was murdered. No problem. Every man's entitled to his opinion. But I think we both owe it to the kid's father to at least consider the possibility for a few minutes, don't you?”

After a long pause, Joy shrugged and said, “All right. Why not? You want to know names, right? People who might have wanted to kill the Digga?”

“As many as you can think of.”

“Bume Webb,” Joy said, without hesitation.

“But Bume Webb is in prison.”

“Raymont Trevor isn't.”

“Who's Raymont Trevor?”

“Raymont Trevor's the brother who's been running things for Bume since Bume went away. He's kind of a full-service second-in-command—bodyguard, errand boy, hatchet man. Whatever Bume needs, Raymont is.”

“And his motive for killing the Digga would have been?”

“Damage control. What else?”

“What kind of damage control?”

Joy glanced at his watch impatiently, said, “Have you been following the troubles of Bume's label lately?”

“You mean Body Count? Sure.”

“Then you know it's a sinking ship about to go down.”

“I know it's suffered one hell of a talent drain since they took Bume away, yeah.”

“And do I have to tell you why that is?”

“Bume's a tyrant. Now that he's gone, his subjects are going over the wall as fast as they can scale it.”

“Exactly.”

“So?”

“So the Digga was the last name rapper Bume had left, and he was halfway out the door. We only owed Body Count one more record, and we delivered it a month ago. In another two weeks, I was going to move the Digga to another label. We had a deal all ready and waiting to be signed.”

“Only the Digga died before that could happen.”

“Yes. Which makes him just as unavailable to Body Count as he would have been otherwise, of course, except for one thing. This way, Bume saves some face. Better to lose his last bankable act to an unforeseen tragedy than watch him become yet another defector.”

“And this Raymont Trevor would have done the job for him if Bume had wanted the Digga killed?”

“Raymont? Oh, yeah.” Joy shrugged again and smiled. “But this is all speculation, remember? I'm not actually accusing Raymont of doing anything.”

“What about 2DaddyLarge?”

“2Daddy? What about him?”

“Mr. Elbridge seems to like him for the Digga's murder even more than you like Bume. And frankly, so do I.”

“Yeah? Why's that?”

“Two reasons, really. This East Coast-West Coast rivalry they had going on, and the little matter of the Digga's wife.”

Joy raised an eyebrow. “Danee? What's she got to do with anything?”

“I understand the Digga wasn't the first rapper she's spent quality time with. Before him, there was 2Daddy.”

“Who told you that?”

“Not my client, if that's what's worrying you. I don't think he even knows.”

Joy had thought he had his displeasure in check, but was unsettled now to learn that Gunner had noted it. Checking his watch again in a fully ineffective attempt at misdirection, he said, “I'm afraid we're going to have to wrap this up, Brother Gee. Lunchtime in here is almost over.”

“Sure. But why don't you finish telling me what you think about 2Daddy murdering the Digga, first,” Gunner said.

Joy started to object, then changed his mind and said, “I don't see it. 2Daddy might have had motive to kill the Digga, sure. He may have even had the opportunity.” He shook his head from side to side. “But he doesn't have the smarts to do it the way it would've had to be done. Aim and shoot, that's the only way that fool could ever kill anybody.”

“You're saying he's a dummy.”

“With a capital
D
. Lays all his lyrics down in crayon.”

“But you say he may have had the opportunity to commit the crime, if nothing else?”

“That's right. He was here in L.A. the night the Digga died. He'd been on the Coast for three weeks, shooting a video, I believe.”

“Then he's back in New York now.”

“As far as I know.”

Gunner nodded, then asked Joy if the Digga had really been staying at the Beverly Hills Westmore to write, as Benny Elbridge believed.

“For the most part, yes,” Joy said.

“And the other part?”

“He was there to chill out. Do some reading, swim in the pool …”

“Get jiggy with a couple of ladyfriends other than his wife?”

When Joy just stared at him blankly, Gunner told him about the two women the Beverly Hills Police Department's Kevin Frick had said the Digga entertained in his hotel room only hours before his death.

“Okay. So he had some company,” Joy said simply.

“Were they friends of yours?”

“Friends of mine? Why would they be friends of mine?”

“You were his manager. Some managers might consider that sort of thing just another service within their purview.”

“Not this one. My clients do their own pimping. Any more questions?”

“Just a small one. There was a freak in a bronze Lexus pulling out of the parking lot as I was pulling in a few minutes ago. Almost tore my car in half, and looked disappointed when she didn't.
She
wouldn't be a friend of yours, would she?”

Joy frowned, as if the question were the one he'd least wanted Gunner to ask. “That would've been Danee,” he said.

Gunner didn't know why, but that was exactly what he'd thought Joy would say.

f i v e

F
OR THE COST OF ONE NIGHT AT THE
B
EVERLY
H
ILLS
Westmore, a man could fly from L.A. to New Orleans and back and still have change. Some considered it the premier luxury hotel in Los Angeles, and anyone who'd ever set foot on its grounds would be hard-pressed to argue the point. Set back from the northeast corner of Sunset Boulevard and Beverly Drive, behind a fortresslike wall of green landscaping, the Westmore was an old, Spanish-style monument to comfort and overindulgence that catered only to the rich and famous.

As Gunner was neither of these things, his Tuesday afternoon visit to the historic hotel was his first, and most likely last. But that was all right with him. He had lived this long without having his tea served from a sterling silver tray, and he could go right on doing so.

He had made the trip in order to talk to the security man named Crumley, who, Kevin Frick said, had read the Digga's alleged suicide note along with Desmond Joy. But Crumley—whose first name turned out to be Ray, not Rod—wasn't there. Tuesday was his day off.

“You should've called ahead,” his supervisor said. He was a middle-aged, potbellied white man wearing an illfitting version of the security staff's blue blazer. His name was Bob Zemic, and he greeted Gunner's arrival with all the hospitality of a border patrol officer.

“I thought I'd surprise him,” Gunner said.

“Looks like you surprised yourself. What's this all about?”

When Gunner told him, Zemic scowled and said, “You wouldn't be trying to make a case for liability here, would you, Mr. Gunner?”

“Not at all. Should I be?”

“Only if you enjoy wasting time. The hotel did everything that could have possibly been done for Mr. Elbridge, I assure you.”

He had said “Mr. Elbridge” as if the rapper had no more deserved such lofty recognition than a bug he might scrape from his shoe.

“I'm sure that's true,” Gunner said, filing the man's obvious distaste for the Digga away for future reference. “But like I said—liability isn't my interest here. I only came by to hear Mr. Crumley's account of his discovery of the body, and maybe ask him for a short tour of the room, if that's possible.”

“The room is occupied at the moment,” Zemic said.

“I see. Maybe you could just walk me quickly past the door then.”

“The door?”

“Call it going through the motions. My client's getting charged for the time, the least I can do is take a quick look around, right?”

It was a rationale that fit in perfectly with Zemic's low opinion of Gunner and those in his profession. Calling himself being generous, he shrugged after a moment and said, “Sure. No harm in that.”

The last room C.E. Digga Jones would ever sleep in—number 504—was, predictably, up on the hotel's fifth floor. It was one of ten large suites arranged symmetrically on either side of a freshly painted mauve hallway. To reach it, Zemic had to guide Gunner past a gauntlet of fine southwestern art pieces and kaleidoscopic flower arrangements, and wrought-iron light fixtures that mimicked the soft radiance of kerosene lamps.

Zemic stopped at the appropriate door and said, “This was Mr. Elbridge's suite here. Five-oh-four.”

“Sure we can't go in?” Gunner asked.

“I'm afraid so. Like I said, the room's occupied.”

“Really? How do you know? I never saw you check.”

“I don't have to check. Part of my job here is always knowing what rooms are vacant, and what rooms aren't.”

Before the white man could stop him, Gunner reached out with his right hand, rapped on the door three times. “Let's just make sure,” he said.

Zemic was furious. “That wasn't smart, Mr. Gunner. The Westmore doesn't appreciate having our guests disturbed unnecessarily.”

When no one answered his knock, Gunner said, “You can't disturb guests who aren't in.” Letting the security man see he never believed they were there in the first place.

“All the same. We can't go in there,” Zemic said.

Gunner peered down the hall, saw a housekeeper's cart parked outside an open suite door. Zemic watched him start toward it, moved quickly to follow him.

“What are you doing, Mr. Gunner?”