Fool Me Twice (5 page)

“It is to me.”

“Okay. Sorry. Accountants are generally considered to be notoriously dull.”

Jesse smiled.

“It was important that I be privy to how every penny was being spent and why, because accuracy in reporting that information to the studio was critical. Over time, I worked closely with several of the studio’s best line producers, and as a result, learned their job. I was in New Zealand with a small feature when midway through the shoot, the line producer suffered a heart attack. My boss back in Hollywood suggested that I step into the job. After all, I was on the scene and was an integral part of the process. I knew where all the bodies were buried, so to speak. It made sense. Plus, it was a chance to elevate myself. So I held my nose and jumped.”

“How did it go?”

“I threw up several times each day, but I managed to finish the picture. I’ve been line producing ever since.”

“I like a story with a happy ending.”

“Let’s wait until this one’s in the can before we talk about happy endings. I still have Marisol Hinton in front of me.”

“Meaning?”

“I worked with her once before.”

“And you didn’t like her?”

“It wasn’t a question of liking her. Marisol is permanently tuned to the Marisol channel. All Marisol, all the time. Twenty-four-seven. No one else exists. Nothing else matters.”

“So why are you working with her again?”

“She requested me.”

“So she must have liked you.”

“She and her husband both liked me. She didn’t perceive me as a threat, so I passed muster.”

“Her husband?”

“A small-time actor named Ryan Rooney. You ever hear of him?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Ryan Rooney was in
Tomorrow We Love
with her. They had the kind of torrid affair that she usually reserved only for members of the crew. Why, I don’t know. He’s as self-involved as she is. It beats me why they got married in the first place. She’s highly competitive. I can’t imagine her being helpful to him. Or to anyone, for that matter. It’s been all downhill for him ever since.”

“Is he in this movie?”

“God, no. Rumor is she accepted the part so she could get away from him. I read somewhere he had taken to smacking her around.”

“Hooray for Hollywood,” Jesse said.

After dinner, they walked the boardwalk to Frankie’s rented waterfront apartment. The warmth of the day had given way to the chill of an early fall evening. She wrapped her coat more tightly around her. She clutched Jesse’s arm as they walked.

The crisp smell of the sea rode in on the coattails of a steady, bracing wind. A galaxy of starlight lit up the cloudless sky. A lone figure walked hurriedly by them, his head lowered against the wind.

“Paradise is a long way from Hollywood,” Frankie said.

“It’s home for me now. I like where I live and how I live.”

“Do you miss it?”

“L.A.?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe the anonymity. It’s hard for me to be private here.”

“And that bothers you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Because?”

“By nature I’m a hermit. I think I’d be happiest living in a cave and spending the winters in hibernation.”

“It’s hard for a police chief to be a hermit.”

“Exactly,” he said.

They had arrived at her building, a new five-story brick-and-glass modern overlooking the harbor. When they reached the main entrance, she turned to him.

“I had a lovely time, Jesse,” she said.

“Me, too.”

“Do you think we can do this again?”

“I do.”

“Goody,” she said.

  10  

H
arry Kaplan, the process server, found Ryan Rooney in front of the trendy industry restaurant Craft, talking with a prospective agent, a toothy shark of a woman in her twenties, dressed entirely in black.

Kaplan interrupted them.

“Mr. Rooney,” he said.

“Yes.”

Kaplan pressed the summons into Rooney’s hand.

“You’ve been served,” he said, before disappearing into the crowd on the sidewalk.

Ryan shrugged.

“It was nice to meet you, Ryan,” the woman said, and hurried away. Ryan watched her leave.

Then he opened the document and began to read. Several lines caught his eye.

“Marisol Hinton vs. Ryan Rooney . . .”

“Reference is made to the prenuptial agreement between the parties. . . .”

“The aforementioned will immediately vacate the premises of the residence located at . . .”

“Mr. Rooney’s executive position at Marisol Hinton Enterprises shall be deemed to have been terminated. . . .”

“No further financial obligations regarding Mr. Rooney shall accrue either to Marisol Hinton or to Marisol Hinton Enterprises. . . .”

Ryan folded the summons, put it in his pocket, walked to the parking lot, and got into his Prius. He sat there for a while, considering his options.

The prenup he had signed deprived him of access to any of Marisol’s assets.

He had very little money, having mostly relied on her largesse for his expenses. He owned the Prius, but his insurance was due for renewal. Without work, his future was uncertain.

He was considering a move to New York, where he might find work in the theater and where Marisol’s influence was less pervasive than it was in L.A. But he would require more cash to establish himself there.

He hoped she would stake him. One final gesture for old times’ sake. He figured she owed him. After all, it was because of her that his career had stalled in the first place.

He switched on the Prius and pulled out of the parking lot onto Century Park Boulevard. The towering skyscrapers of Century City had long since replaced the back lot of Twentieth Century–Fox, which had originally stood there.

All that remained of William Fox’s dream factory was a replica of a New York City street and an elevated train platform on which Barbra Streisand’s
Hello, Dolly!
had been filmed.

He headed for the freeway, which would take him back to Camarillo, an industrial city located in the outer reaches of Los Angeles where he was staying in a low-rent residential motel managed by one of his would-be actor friends.

He thought about Marisol and his need for resettlement money. Surely she wouldn’t refuse him. They were still married. The divorce papers had yet to be signed.

And if she said no? He’d deal with that if the time came. But he was already formulating a backup plan. One that would carry with it an exceptionally hefty price tag.

  11  

J
esse was sitting at his desk, sipping coffee, when Molly hollered, “Renzo Lazzeri on three.”

Renzo Lazzeri owned the largest nursery in Paradise, which was once a factory warehouse that he had purchased when the factory closed its doors. He converted the space into a massive greenhouse, a showcase for every kind of garden and plant life indigenous to the Northeast. He added a landscape design department, which became notable for creating the most beautiful gardens in Paradise.

Grasses, saplings, hedges, bushes, seedlings, and flowers fought for space in his greenhouse. He specialized in rhododendrons and hydrangeas and also beach roses, which bloomed in profusion at all the best waterfront homes. And if you needed a riding mower or a top-of-the-line Weber grill, Renzo was your guy.

Jesse picked up the call.

“Renzo,” he said.

“Jesse,” Renzo said. “How the hell are you?”

“Better since I gave up hope.”

Renzo’s laughter filled Jesse’s ear.

“To what do I owe the honor,” Jesse said.

“Frankly, I didn’t know who else to call.”

“What’s up?”

“This may sound strange, but I think I’m being cheated by Paradise Water and Power.”

Jesse sat upright in his chair.

“How so,” he said.

“I use a lot of water around here. Everything I have is always thirsty, so I keep an eye on my consumption levels. My manager regularly checks the meter readings. Lately he’s noticed that our bills are larger than they were in the past. Not by a whole lot but noticeable.”

“So what did you do?”

“I checked our meter readings against the meter readings on the invoices.”

“And?”

“They were different.”

“The meter readings on the invoices were different from the meter readings that your manager took?”

“They were higher.”

“Indicating a greater water usage than what your readings reflected?”

“Yes.”

“Did you do anything about it?”

“I asked my manager to call W and P and explain what he had discovered.”

“And?”

“They told him that his readings were wrong.”

“So what did you do?”

“I called you, of course.”

“It’s good to be the king,” Jesse said.

“What should I do?”

“Leave it with me. Let me look into it.”

“With pleasure.”

“Yours isn’t the first call I’ve had about this.”

“So I’m not completely crazy?”

“I never said that.”

  12  

O
n his way home, Jesse stopped at Assistant DA Marty Reagan’s office.

Reagan was at his desk, in his shirtsleeves, poring over reams of material. File folders and legal briefs covered the desktop. Many were stacked in piles, several of which were overloaded and threatened to topple over.

Reagan removed his reading glasses and looked up at Jesse.

“We got slammed,” he said. “Judge released her to her parents.”

“What about the charges,” Jesse said.

He picked up a stack of papers from the visitor’s chair in front of Reagan’s desk, placed them on the floor, and sat down.

“The driver of the Audi is awake,” Reagan said. “He’s got an awful headache, but he’s alert and expected to make a complete recovery. He’s refusing to press charges. When the DA heard that, he insisted we drop everything, too.”

“Including the reckless endangerment?”

“Yes.”

“Running a stop sign?”

“Yes.”

“Resisting arrest?”

“Yes.”

“The father, right?”

“I never said this, but it turns out he’s a major contributor.”

“To the DA?”

“He runs for the office every four years,” Reagan said.

“So daddy’s little angel gets to skate?”

“With a hundred-dollar fine for texting.”

“Suspended license?”

“Judge waived that, too. You didn’t hear it from me, but you can likely bet the farm that Mr. Cassidy assured the driver of the Audi that he would be generously taken care of.”

Jesse sighed.

He reached over and picked up the stack of papers. He placed them back on the chair, stood up, and headed for the door.

“I’m sorry, Jesse,” Reagan said.

“Thanks anyway, Marty.”

Jesse reached for the doorknob.

“A word of advice?”

Jesse looked back at him.

“The DA thinks you should walk away from this.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know you, Jesse. This isn’t going to sit well with you. As your friend, I’m suggesting that you let it go. Don’t be looking for any more trouble with the Cassidys. With the girl. Best to just drop it.”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“Please don’t do anything stupid, Jesse.”

Jesse flashed him a lopsided grin.

“I mean it,” Reagan said.

—

I
t was dark when Jesse got home. He turned on the lights and headed for the kitchen. He was intercepted by Mildred Memory, his cat, who circled him, rubbing herself against his legs, her tail upright and shimmying.

Mildred had become primarily an indoor cat, and a rather chubby one at that. Jesse constantly spoiled her. She responded by behaving like an imperious hausfrau.

Jesse opened a can of her favorite food and scooped half of it into her bowl. Then he filled a glass with ice and poured himself a scotch.

He sat down heavily on one of his two armchairs, took a healthy sip of the scotch, and considered the events of the day.

The Courtney Cassidy experience was unsettling. Authority in the service of unbridled riches never failed to raise his hackles. Marty Reagan was right when he predicted it wouldn’t sit well with him. It didn’t.

He thought about Frankie Greenberg. She was smart and attractive. She was interesting, and he was interested. His recent adventure with Alexis Richardson had ended when she left town. He and Sunny Randall remained apart. He’d been alone for a while, and he was restless.

He yawned.

He drained his glass, then turned off the lights and went upstairs, Mildred following closely behind.

By the time he had changed and got into bed, she’d pretty much taken it over. He picked her up, lay down, and planted her beside him. She stood up and glared at him. Then she climbed onto his chest, circled twice, lay down, and fell asleep.

He was able to reach over and turn off the light, but he was now forced to sleep on his back, with Mildred’s burgeoning girth freighting him down.

“Aw, hell,” he said, squirming. But after a while he, too, fell asleep.

  13  

J
esse was parked across the street from the Cassidy estate, which was located on the South Shore, spread across twenty acres of prime beachfront property.

The Cassidys had razed the estate’s original house, a sprawling shingled Colonial, and in its place had erected an oversized postmodern featuring a pair of extended wings off the main house, each containing lavishly appointed guest suites and an exercise room.

They had also added an Olympic-size swimming pool, two tennis courts, a putting green, and servants’ quarters.

Between the beach and the pool they had constructed a cabana that housed separate dressing-room facilities for men, women, and children. It contained a game room, a TV room, and a card room with a full-size bar.

The estate’s big gates swung open, and a Lexus convertible turned onto Beach Road, heading toward town.

Courtney Cassidy was at the wheel, holding a cell phone to her ear. Which was illegal.