Burn (3 page)

Andrew watched it go. When he looked back, he saw the photographer wincing as though in pain.

Running to the bank for the gun was beginning to seem zealous in retrospect. Over the long lazy weeks, Andrew had imagined a hundred ways trouble might one day present itself; none of those scenarios had included the paunchy guy with the sun-reddened scalp standing before him now. But then, nothing about this morning made much sense so far.

“Don't worry, ” he said. “You can tack it on your fee. Now tell me who you work for.”

Andrew noted a half-hearted resistance in the man's eyes. He tipped the barrel of the gun forward, letting the hammer click back beneath his thumb. The man's eyes dulled.

He said, “I'm looking for David Lomax, okay? I was hired by the family. Sort of. That's all I can tell you.”

David Lomax. Andrew shook his head. He was really starting to wonder if he ought to know somebody named David Lomax after all. He narrowed his eyes and raised the muzzle an inch.

“Look, I'm not playing games. I can verify. Would it be okay if I used my phone?”

Andrew held out his hand. “Allow me.”

The guy fished in the front pocket of his shorts, then reached across the counter to hand Andrew a cellular telephone the size of a credit card. When Andrew prompted, the guy began reciting digits. Andrew punched them in with his pinky fingernail. A local number.

After three rings, a male voice picked up the line. It did not have East Coast in it, Andrew noted. Under the circumstances, this came more as a puzzlement than a relief.

“This is Benjy.”

“Hey there, Benjy. How are you?”

“Who is this?”

“Listen. Benjy. I've got somebody here who needs to talk to you.”

Andrew handed over the phone. The guy accepted it wearily.

“It's me, ” he said. “Yeah. No. That was him just now.” Pause. “I mean that was
him.
The
guy.”
A pause, another sigh. “Because he caught me in his house, okay?”

Andrew leaned forward. “Tell him he has an hour to come get you.”

The guy looked at Andrew. Closed his eyes.

“He says….”

Pause.

“Look, does it really matter at this point? What do you want me to say? He's pointing a friggin’ gun at me.”
Pause. “I realize that. But thanks for the bulletin. Yeah. The address I gave you yesterday.”

Without further exchange, the guy folded the phone in his palm and turned to face Andrew again.

Andrew waggled the gun barrel. “Okay Marlowe. Good job. Here we go.”

“Here we go where? That was my client. He's on his way. He'll tell you everything you want to know.”

“Left, right, left, ” Andrew said. “You can do it.”

“But I don't understand what….”

Andrew raised a finger to his lips. When the man stopped speaking, Andrew directed him out from behind the breakfast bar, into the living room, and over to the sofa.

“On your stomach, ” he instructed.

“What? Why?”

Andrew removed the throw pillows and pointed. The guy looked at the short designer couch. Caroline had chosen it, she'd explained when she'd first showed Andrew around the place, to balance a negative space problem in the room. It had been part of her class project in the feng shui minicourse she'd taken at the Design Center last year.

“On that? I'm too tall.”

“You flatter yourself.”

The guy looked at Andrew with a dubious expression. Andrew wagged the gun. The guy sighed. After much shifting and squirming, he finally settled. His shins rested at a bent-knee angle against one sloped armrest.

“Come on, ” he said into the cushions. “Seriously.”

“You'd be more comfortable if you stopped fidgeting.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Don't worry, ” Andrew told him. “This won't hurt. Now be still.”

Keeping an eye on the guy Andrew went to the sliding door and reached out around the corner. He brought the metal detector back to the living room with him and sat down in one of Caroline's rattan accent chairs. He stripped the headphones and the antenna coil and tied the guy's wrists and ankles with the cords.

“What are you doing?”

Andrew removed the snoop's mashed sun visor for him and straightened.

“Comfy?”

The snoop turned his face toward Andrew's kneecaps. “Is this really necessary?”

“It makes me feel better.” Andrew nodded toward the tightly rolled newspapers he'd gotten into the habit of stacking in the woodbin near the fireplace. “Now. I'm a week behind on my current events, so I'm going to read while we wait for your ride to get here. If I were you, I'd use this time to think about the downside of your chosen career field. Holler if you need anything.”

The snoop wriggled onto his side and looked up. “Who
are
you?”

Andrew had to grin. “You're not very good at this job, are you, pal?”

Thursday, August 9

By MELANIE ROTH
TIMES
staff writer

Local businessman David Lomax is being sought for questioning in the suspected murder of former Lomax Enterprises employee Gregor Tavlin, police said Thursday.

“There are discrepancies we believe Mr. Lomax may be able to help us sort out, ” LAPD Detective Adrian Timms said. “We are examining all possible sources of information.”

Gregor Tavlin, the noted exercise innovator who helped establish the Club Maximum chain of health clubs owned by Lomax Enterprises, was found dead near his overturned automobile off the unpaved Mulholland Drive extension near Topanga State Park on August
2
. Autopsy findings overruled preliminary indications of accidental death.

David Lomax,
29
, is the son of Doren Lomax, founder and CEO

of Lomax Enterprises. The elder Lomax currently is serving his second term as an appointed member of the LAPD Board of Police Commissioners.

David Lomax, a junior vice president at his father's corporation, has not reported to work since the end of July, according to company spokesperson and Lomax family friend Todd Todman. Authorities also have been unable to locate the younger Lomax at his Silver Lake home.

“David is somewhat notorious for his unannounced vacations, ” Todman said. “Naturally, we are concerned for his well-being, but we fully expect to locate him in short order. In the meantime, the entire Lomax Enterprises family intends to cooperate with law enforcement without reservation.”

Detective Timms declined to confirm whether David Lomax will be questioned as a suspect in the murder investigation at the present time.

“THIS
is Todman. Go.”

“Mr. Todman, this is Adrian Timms.”

“Oh … Detective Timms. Hello there. Excuse my tone, I assumed this was a work call. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I was just hoping to hook up with you again sometime in the next day or two. I stopped by your office, but your secretary told me you were going to be hard to catch. Think you could find a few spare minutes at some point?”

“Absolutely. Is there information about David?”

“Nothing new. I'd just like to go over a couple of things.”

“Yes, absolutely. Of course. Fire away.”

“I'd just as soon speak in person. It's nothing that can't wait.”

“I see. Let me track down Doren and get back to you. I'm sure he'd want to make himself available.”

“That's fine. I probably won't be at my desk today. Let me give you my cell number.”

“No need, Detective. I have it programmed into my phone.”

“I'll talk to you soon, then.”

Todd Todman assured the detective that he'd be in touch the minute he talked to his employer. Then he snapped his phone closed, brushed a fleck of lint from his company oxford, and turned to look for the next challenge waiting in the queue.

From where he stood, he saw at least two. One could wait. The other was called Lenhoff

“I'm telling my guys to pack up, ” Lenhoff said. He practically stomped his feet as he crossed the soundstage. “We're out of here. Give me a call when you get your shit together. Better yet: Don't.”

Todd raised his palms. “Rory, I know. If you could just hang in there a few—”

“A few? You do realize we're already two and a half hours behind fucking schedule on this fucking shoot?”

“I appreciate that, Rory. I just got word from Mr. Marvalis. He's on his way now.”

Lenhoff snorted and swept his hand toward the set behind him, which had been designed to convey the general idea of a high-tech, futuristic warehouse interior. The scruffy twenty-eight-year-old director, fresh off a Grammy nomination for his work in pop music videos, brought just the brand of hip young energy Todd felt the project needed. Sadly, he also brought a budding auteur complex the size of his going rate, which was getting to be considerable.

“Rod Marvalis, ” Lenhoff muttered. “You know, Todman, I still don't know what you expect me to do with that tubby son of a bitch if he does manage to drag his bloated ass in here before noon. Tavlin's corpse would look better on camera.”

Todd finally regarded Lenhoff with a frown.

“Gregor Tavlin was an important member of the Maximum Health family” he said. “We all feel the loss. I understand that you're agitated, Rory but try to show a little common respect.”

“Respect? You want to talk about respect? This is horseshit.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Todd saw his other challenge heading over and put his reply on hold. This challenge wore a lime green cycle shirt with the word
SECURITY
in white block letters across his broad back. His name was Luther Vines. Lenhoff saw him coming, too. The director smirked.

“Oh, this is cute. I guess I'm supposed to go back to my designated area and be a good little boy now?”

Vines had been glowering in Todd's direction from his post by the stage door for approximately an hour. Now he moved toward them with an athletic, purposeful grace. Todd could understand why Lenhoff might be under the impression that he was about to be handled in a manner somewhat less accommodating than Todd's own.

A striking, V-shaped wedge of muscle from waist to shoulders. That was Luther Vines. He kept his head shaved to a clean black dome, and his hooded eyes seemed to smolder, even when he was in a good mood. Which was not often. In fact, Todd Todman couldn't recall if he'd ever seen Luther smile.

He didn't start with Lenhoff. “Problem over here?”

“Yeah, there's a problem.” Lenhoff barely looked at
him. “It's called gross fucking unprofessionalism. Is it any of your concern? Gee. I don't think so.”

“Yo, Spielberg, ” Luther said. “Here's a news flash. You're shooting an aerobics video. You can chill.”

“Luther.” Todd held up a hand, but he could see that it was too late. Luther's uninvited input had nudged Lenhoff's needle into the red zone.

“Who
exactly
do you think you're talking to?” The director wheeled on Todd. “Do you really have the sac to tell me you'd let this walking meat slab speak to Spike Jonze this way?”

“Wouldn't matter to me if you was Spike Lee, ” Luther said. “And you ain't either one of 'em.”

Behind them, the other members of the production had begun to whisper amongst themselves as they observed the developing scene. The extras had stopped flirting with each other. The sound guy peered out from behind his mixing console. The lighting crew stood in a loose huddle, furtively passing folded bills to one of the cable pullers. They were taking bets, Todd realized. He was beginning to fear that Rory Lenhoff might actually blow a hose.

Just then, the stage door opened. A bright shaft of sunlight pierced the moment; everybody turned. Accompanied by the sounds of street traffic, the other half of the security detail appeared.

This one's name was Denny Hoyle. Everyone watched as he stood aside and held the door.

When Rodney Marvalis finally sauntered through— sunglass perched atop his head, frosted blond mane tousled cinematically by the draft from an overhead HVAC duct—Lenhoff glared at Todd. Then he glared at Luther Vines. Then he applauded sarcastically and stalked away.

Todd sighed.

“Well, ” he said. “That was diplomatic of you.”

Luther Vines didn't answer. He was too busy scowling at their star, Rod Marvalis, who had already begun to graze the craft services table. Even from this distance, Marvalis looked like a case study in hangover.

Denny Hoyle jogged toward them.

“I miss anything?”

“We were beginning to think you got lost, ” Todd said.

“Sorry, boss. Got jammed up on the 405. Hey Luthe.”

Vines crossed his bulging arms without acknowledging his junior associate. Hoyle didn't seem to notice.

“Plus we had to turn around and go back on account of Rod forgot his back brace.”

Vines snorted. “Brace, shit. That's a girdle.”

Denny Hoyle shrugged absently. His attention had already been captured by the sight of long brunette hair falling over the shoulder straps of a sleek white unitard. Without blinking, he watched the slim-waisted extra as she leaned into a full-body stretch against a nearby prop crate.

“Denny, why don't you take the door while Luther and I finish up here?” Todd said.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.”

Todd could feel Luther's stare as he watched Hoyle hustle back toward the stage door. He counted to five, took a deep breath, and turned.

“Okay, Luther. Okay. What's on your mind?”

“I want a meeting.”

“You've made yourself clear on that point. I told you we'd work it in.”

“You keep tellin’ me.”

Todd nodded patiently, flipped open his phone, and moved on to challenge number three: getting the founder
and president of Lomax Enterprises on the line before lunch on his tennis day.

“A little patience, ” he said. “That's all I'm asking. These things take time.”

Luther's stormy expression didn't change. Todd sent the first number on his speed dial and raised the phone to his ear. “Deal?”

Luther Vines took a step forward and spoke directly into Todd's other ear.

“You and me already got a deal, ” he said. His breath was hot enough to steam Todd's ear canal.