Point of Impact (33 page)

"Really? I tried hard to get some subtext into that, but the script was, you know, just full of major problems. Writers just don't understand what a proper vehicle should be like for actors. They are all hacks out here."

Probably used too many big words,
Michaels thought.
Those two- and three-syllable ones must be killers.

That was unkind, Alex. This is Hollywood, remember, it's all about what looks good. It's not her fault how it works.

"Well, we thank you for your time, MJ," he said. "You've been a great help to us."

"Hey, no problem. I'm glad to cooperate with the government any way I can. If you get a chance to talk to the IRS, tell them to quit auditing me, okay?" She flashed the smile, inhaled deeply, and then turned to wave again. "Barry! How are you!"

Waiting for the parking lot attendant to fetch the rental car, Howard said, "Well, that was helpful in a major way, you know?"

Michaels said, "And when did you see
Scream, Baby, Scream,
John? Dial it up on your room cable last night?"

"Just my bit to keep the conversation moving," he said. "Besides, I didn't say I'd
seen
it, I said 'a critic said.' That would be our staff critic here. I was just taking Gridley's word for it."

"Well, I suppose we should go try Larry," Michaels said. "And hope that he and his boyfriend have patched things up since
Surf Daze."

"Or Todd," Howard said. "Maybe he's gotten his Paxil refilled."

"Maybe we don't need to," Jay said.

Michaels and Howard looked at him.

"The inscription in the capsule said the grandchildren would know where to find him. I think MJ might have told us."

"The beach at Malibu," Michaels and Howard said together.

"Big-time drug dealer could afford to live there."

"It's a long stretch of coastline," Howard said. "Hundreds of homes."

Jay said, "But movie shoots in cities have to have all kinds of permits. I can access the records for the surfer pic and find out exactly where the location was. That would narrow it down to a handful of houses. We could check ownership records on those, eliminate some of them."

Michaels said, "That's good thinking, Jay."

"I didn't think you were paying full attention to your work back there," Howard said.

"Silicone doesn't do it for me," Jay said. "Besides, she's much smarter in her movies, which ain't saying much."

"Okay, get on-line and find out what you can."

"One other thing," Jay said. "I got a blip during the interview." He waved the flatscreen, looked at Howard. "Several witnesses, a couple of them nuns, attest that Brett Lee was in the nursing home yesterday when you were being shot at. It couldn't have been him."

"Damn," Howard said. "Then who?"

"Maybe your dog crapped on somebody's lawn," Jay offered.

"I don't think so," Howard said. "We don't have a dog."

"Maybe you should get one. One with big teeth."

The car hop arrived and pulled the rental car to a stop. Michaels took a five from his wallet and gave it to the man, who looked at it as if it were a piece of used toilet paper. Lord, what kind of tips was he used to getting?

Inside, Michaels said, "Find us a place to go, Jay."

"I'm on the case, boss."

Chapter
34.

Malibu, California

When Tad woke up, he noticed a couple things: First, he was on the deck, with the beach umbrella doing its best to keep him in the shade, but starting to lose that battle.

Second, there were some men with guns wandering around in the house.

Fortunately, he recognized one of the gunslingers, so he realized the bodyguards had showed up, and Bobby must have decided to hire them.

Shit happened when you went into hibernation. You got used to it.

He looked at his watch, and the date showed he'd been out for a couple of days. Not too bad.

His head felt as if somebody had opened it with a dull shovel and poured half the beach into it. He was way beyond grainy. All the rest of him just hurt. Bad.

He managed to get to his feet, using the umbrella for support, and headed toward the bathroom. Once, after sleeping for a couple of days, he had stood over the toilet peeing for more than a minute, on and on, must have pissed half a gallon. For some reason, his bladder never let go while he was out, and he counted that as a blessing.

The guy with the gun that Tad recognized nodded at him. "Hey, Tad."

Tad nodded in return. The name came to him, slow, but there. "Adam. How's it going?"

"Good. Bobby's out. He's supposed to be back in a while."

"Cool."

He shambled into the bathroom, cranked the shower up, then stripped. He waited a few seconds for the water to heat up, then stepped into the shower. He stank, and he could pee just as well in the shower.

He needed to get to his stash. He wasn't gonna be able to function real well for a couple of days yet, no matter what, but certainly not straight.

He opened his mouth, let the needle spray rinse the taste of tar and mold out, spat three or four times, then swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of the hot water. He knew he was dehydrated, and if that got bad enough, his electrolytes could get wacky enough to stop his heart. He'd known guys on speed who hadn't eaten or drunk anything for a couple of days who'd died that way. Heart just stopped beating.

He stayed in the shower for ten minutes, letting the spray pound him. He felt a little better when he stepped out onto the cool tile floor and started drying himself with the big fluffy beach towel. A little better wasn't going to cut it.

His stash was in the wheel well of his car's trunk, and the car was parked in the lot of the sandwich place two down from them. When Bobby was running in paranoid mode, which was most of the time, he wouldn't let Tad keep anything in the house that might get them busted. Not even in the car, if Tad wanted to park it in the driveway or garage or anywhere inside the security gate. Nothing more than you can swallow, Bobby told him, and close enough so you can do that if somebody crashes the gate.

Tad mostly tried to do it that way. For a while, he buried his drugs on the beach. He had kept his stuff in a mason jar with a plastic lid so no coin-hunter or narc would find it with a metal detector. He would sneak out late at night and bury the jar in the sand. But he'd lost one that way, completely spaced out on where he'd hidden it. And another time, somebody's dog had dug up one of the jars, so he'd stopped that. The walk to the car wasn't that far, half a block, but of course, it felt like a thousand miles after a session with the Hammer.

Well, there was no help for it. He wasn't going to send Adam or one of his hard-ass friends to collect his dope. He didn't trust anybody that much except Bobby, and Bobby wouldn't do it anyway.

Tad slipped on a pair of raggy black sweatpants, a black T-shirt, and a pair of black zorrie sandals. Might as well get to it. It was gonna take a while.

"I'm walking over to where I parked my car," he told Adam. "Don't fucking shoot me when I come back."

"Why waste a bullet?" Adam said. "You look like somebody could kill you with a hard look. Hell, you look dead already."

"You need to work on your material, Adam. I heard that one already."

"Lots of times, I bet."

Tad thought about his route for a minute. Out the front gate and along the road was longer. But walking along the beach through the sand would be harder. The road would be noisier, all the traffic. The beach would be hot. He'd have to walk around cars parked on the highway. He didn't need any more obstacles at the moment. Until he got his medicine mixed and working, just breathing was an effort.

Okay, the beach. He headed for the deck stairs.

Michaels said, "One of those three or four houses?"

Howard drove, Michaels rode shotgun, Jay sat in the back. As they idled slowly along the highway, looking toward the beach, Jay said, "Got to be. Permit specifies this part of the beach. That sandwich shop over there is in the movie. I pulled it up and scanned location shots. That house to the far left was built two years ago, so it wasn't there then."

"Do we have owners on these?"

"Yes. The pinkish one is owned by the actress Lorrie DeVivio. She got it in the divorce settlement with her fifth ex-husband Jessel Tammens, the movie producer."

"DeVivio is what ... sixty and rich? Hard to image her making and peddling dope," Howard said.

"Ah, you know the old movie stars, eh, General?"

"She won an Oscar," Howard said. "And not for her looks."

"What about the other houses?"

"Second one belongs to the chairman of the board of the Yokohama-USA Bank. He's also sixty-something and also richer than God.

"Third one, the pale blue and white one, is owned by a corporation called Projects, Inc. Some kind of corporate retreat, maybe. I'm running down the incorporation stuff now. They are out of Delaware.

"Fourth one belongs to one Saul Horowitz. Don't know who Solly is, and the searchbots haven't been more forthcoming so far."

"That sounds promising. Pull over there, into that restaurant lot, and let's think about this for a minute," Michaels said.

All four of the houses had security gates and fences, at least to the road side. As Howard parked the car, a Mercedes convertible arrived in front of the third house and pulled up to the gate. The car's top was down, and a sun-bleached blond, deeply tanned young man in a Hawaiian shirt who looked like a surfer held up an electronic remote and pointed it at the heavy steel gate, which slowly swung open to admit his car. He pulled into the drive, and the gate started to close behind him.

"Yo, kahuna dude!" Jay said, in a valley-boy voice, "Surf's up!" Jay held up his hand, the middle fingers closed, his thumb and little finger extended. He waggled his hand back and forth. "Mahalo!"

"Thank you, Brian Wilson. You get the license plate number?" Michaels said.

"Crap! I'm sorry, boss--"

"It's a vanity," Howard said. "P-R-O-J-E-C-T-S."

"Run it," Michaels ordered.

Jay, chagrined at his failure to catch the number, dialed up the California DMV and logged in, using his Net Force access code.

A few seconds later, he said, "Car is owned by Projects, Inc.," he said. "Big surprise there, huh? Looks like you get wheels to go with the house. Nice perks."

"So, what do you think?" Michaels said.

"Either it's that one or the Horowitz place," Howard said. "Rich bankers and rich movie stars might use dope, but they don't need to sell it."

"Just FYI, General, they found a bug on your car. That's how the shooter kept from losing you." Jay pointed at the flatscreen. "Also, Mr. Lee, who as we all know couldn't have been said shooter, called in sick today."

"Something fatal, I hope," Howard said.

"And to keep things interesting, Mr. Zachary George is on vacation this week and next," Jay said.

Michaels said, "Anything on the searchbots for Mr. Horowitz here yet?"

"Nope," Jay said. "But I don't think we need it."

"And why would that be?"

"Take a look at the death-warmed-over stick in black walking along the road there, coming from the sandwich place," Jay said.

"So?"

"Look again, boss."

Michaels did. He frowned.

"Yeah," Jay said. "Kind of hard to picture him beating the crap out of a room full of bodybuilders and trashing a gym, isn't it?"

Michaels nodded. "But that's the guy."

"Never thought I'd see an actual match to a police ID composite," Jay said. "All we have to do is watch and see if he chooses door A or door B. Whichever one he picks, I'd bet my next month's salary against a bent quarter that's our dealer's house."

The three watched the man, who looked as if he might fall down any second, as he shambled along. It took him a while to get there, but he finally did.

"And we have a winner," Jay said. "It's the surfer dude's pad. Net Force rules!" He looked at Michaels. "Now what, boss? We gonna go kick ass and take names?" He held up his air taser and waggled it.

Both Howard and Michaels laughed.

Michaels said, "I see your experience in the field didn't teach you anything. We're not going anywhere. We're calling the FBI. They'll go in."

Drayne parked the car and went in. He saw one of the bodyguards skulking behind the banana and short palm trees nod and wave at him. Good to know they were watching the place like they should.

Inside, Drayne walked out to the deck. Adam was there, looking at the ocean. "Where's Tad?"

"He stepped out, said he was going to his car," Adam said. "Said he'd be back in a few minutes."

Drayne nodded. Tad would be self-medicating as soon as he was ambulatory again, and his pharmacy would be in his car, parked away from the house. It better be.

The front door opened, and speak of the devil.