Private: #1 Suspect (19 page)

JINX LOOKED HAUNTED as she told me about Clark Langston’s life and death, still afraid of her dead husband. Maybe she still loved him too.

“We were on a dirt road that circled the lake,” she said. “Boaters were packing up their gear. The road turned into a rut, overgrown with grass and weeds, and in every way deserted.

“I was still doing my GPS voice,” Jinx continued. She smiled, but it was a nervous smile. “This laughable pretense of control over my husband was inspiring me, Jack. We were now locked in a crazy game of chicken. And he was goading me, saying, ‘You think I don’t know what you’re up to?’

“I don’t know how he knew it, but an idea had occurred to me—that maybe I could get him to crash his Maserati. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to die, and if I died too, it was all right.

“I said, ‘Take the next left.’ That was the road to the national recreation area.”

I sat back in my seat and watched her face. I imagined this power struggle twenty years before, the tyrannical older man and his bride who fantasized about getting even. Emotionally, Jinx was still back there.

“It was still light enough to see,” she said to me. “I told him to take the next turn, which was onto a boat ramp. He did it, and we took the ramp going forty.

“I lost my nerve. I screamed, but Clark was having a high time scaring me, making me sorry that I’d dared him. He laughed at me, Jack. He pressed his foot down even harder on the gas.”

“Did he realize where he was?”

“I’ll never know. He might have thought he could stop the car in time and misjudged the distance. Maybe he thought that his quarter-million-dollar car would fly. All I know for sure is that he never braked.

“I undid my seat belt,” Jinx told me. Her head was lowered. She was rushing now, trying to get the story over with.

“I had the door open, and I jumped before the car hit the water. I went numb for a while after that. I heard nothing, saw nothing, thought only of reaching the shore, which wasn’t far away.

“I didn’t look back. I walked for a while, got a ride, told the police that my husband had lost control of his car.

“When they pulled the car out of the lake, Clark was still wearing his seat belt. His blood alcohol was three times the legal limit, and his death was ruled accidental. No questions.

“I went to the funeral. I cried. Then I moved to LA. I took back my maiden name, and I got my degree.”

“You bought a hotel.”

Jinx said, “Yes. Right after I graduated. I bought a hotel with the two million dollars stipulated in my prenuptial agreement. I borrowed a lot more. I renovated the whole place, reopened it as the Beverly Hills Sun, and then I bought the other two. I was in a frenzy. I needed to work, to prove to myself that my life was worth something. That I didn’t need Clark’s love—or his disdain.

“Jack, what I did at Whiskeytown Lake—I wanted him to die, then I made my wish come true.”

She had started to tear up, but she wouldn’t let herself go. She said, “I’ve been feeling that the killings in my hotels are payback for Clark’s death, for the money I got from him.”

“Jinx, did you make your husband a drunk, an abuser, a rapist? Did you make him drive off that ramp?”

I was continuing in this vein, but she stopped me. She put her hand on my chest. She was struggling to get something out.

“I’m afraid…to trust myself again…to be with a man.”

She was leaning against me.

“I feel like I want to hold you,” I said.

She looked up at me, her eyes full of tears. “I need to be held.”

I took her into my arms, and at last she cried.

I hadn’t expected to feel close to her. I didn’t even welcome the feeling, but it was undeniable. I liked Jinx a lot.

IT WAS JUST after midnight. Except for a plastic bag blowing around the street and the odd car lost in the wrong neighborhood, absolutely nothing was happening on Anderson and Artemus.

The Private fleet car was a gray 2007 Chevy sedan, parked on Anderson, just south of Artemus, where the guys had a view of the entrance to the Red Cat Pottery, as well as the loading docks on Artemus.

Del Rio was at the wheel, Cruz riding shotgun, Scotty in the backseat. Everyone was very quiet.

Cruz said, “Call Jack.”

Del Rio got Jack on the line and told him where they were. They exchanged thoughts on how to steal a fortune in illegal pharmaceuticals on behalf of the Vegas Mob without getting caught, without getting thrown in the clink for twenty years, with no help from Carmine Noccia.

Del Rio said, “It’s getting late, Jack. That Oxy is going to leave the warehouse one box at a time. In another few weeks there’s going to be an empty van in there and Noccia is going to break heads. He’s going to start with yours.”

Jack gave Del Rio the go-ahead, and Del Rio hung up.

Cruz started the car and drove to Boyd, a dead-end street parallel to Artemus, where he found a space among the delivery trucks and panel vans parked all along the length of it, both sides of the street walled in by cement-block warehouses colorfully tagged with spray-painted graffiti.

Del Rio twisted around in his seat. “Scotty. You’re up. Let’s rock ’n’ roll.”

Scotty took a slug off his water bottle and said, “I’m liking the window below the stairs.”

“Make it quick,” Del Rio said.

Scotty pulled on a pair of work gloves, turned the dome light to the “off” position, and opened the back door.

Del Rio said, “Wait a second.”

When the taxi had passed on Anderson, Del Rio told Scotty to go. Scotty was wearing black from neck to toe and was almost invisible except for the shine coming off his blond hair. Del Rio and Cruz watched as he reached the top of the alley and crossed the street, still in view of the Chevy.

Then Scotty disappeared.

A half minute after that, an alarm shrieked, and seconds later, the back door of the car opened and Scotty got in, saying, “Did you time me?”

Cruz laughed. “You were quick, yo. Like in those films where they stop time and the one guy runs between all those frozen people, you know?”

Del Rio said, “Let’s see how fast the cops answer the call.”

Four minutes later, the first sirens came up South Anderson and stopped out of sight. From the proximity of the squawking car radios, Del Rio figured they were outside the roll-up gates at the loading dock.

The three investigators ducked down in their seats, Del Rio assuring himself that so far no crime had been committed. Scotty had only rattled a window until the alarm went off. They waited for more cars to arrive, but only the two cruisers showed up.

When the cops had left, Del Rio and his team did the same thing: set off the alarm, then waited for the cops to come and leave again. Then they did it once more.

JUSTINE WOKE UP to a racket.

Rocky was going nuts
and
bananas, barking, his toenails clacking as he got traction on the hardwood floors in his scramble toward the front door.

Justine looked at the clock. It was just before seven.

What the hell was this? In between Rocky’s barks, she heard her doorbell ringing insistently.

She threw a robe on over her silk PJs and walked to the foyer, thinking it had to be Jack. Who else would dare? She peeked through the peephole, then opened the door to Danny’s manager, Larry Schuster.

His clothes were rumpled, his patchy beard was coming in—in sum, he looked like he’d slept in his car.

“I’m sorry about the time, Dr. Smith. I have to talk to you.”

“Call me Justine. Did something happen to Danny?”

“No, he’s still in the hospital. I was driving around all night. I finally came to a decision.”

“Here’s an idea, Larry. I’ll be at the office at nine. Why don’t you meet me there?”

“This will only take a few minutes. Please. It’s important. I can’t take a chance that someone sees me and thinks I told you what I know.”

“You’ll never eat lunch in this town again?”

Schuster smiled. “Exactly.”

Justine told Schuster to come in. She led him to the kitchen, asked him to make coffee and to take a seat at the counter. She went to her bedroom and reappeared a few minutes later, dressed for work.

Justine took a carton of milk out of the fridge, then poured coffee into mugs.

“Sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

Justine put the sugar bowl next to the milk. She fed her cat and her dog and told Schuster to start talking.

“There were other girls.”

“There were other girls what?”

“Besides Katie Blackwell, three other girls in the past year threatened to sue Danny for unwanted, um, sexual contact.”

“Shit,” Justine said. “You should have told me this before I took the case, Larry. This is a contract breaker, as if we didn’t already have enough reason to tell you and Danny good luck without us.”

“Please don’t do that,” Larry said.

“I was a shrink in a mental hospital, did you know that?”

“Yes. That place in Santa Monica. Crossroads.”

“That’s right. So I know a thing or two about mental disorders. But the way Danny keeps fooling me makes me think he’s delusional. He believes his own stories.”

“No, he’s telling the truth. He was loyal to Piper. He didn’t have sex with those girls.”

“Then who did? This crap about someone else running his life could possibly get Danny some kind of insanity deal, but I wouldn’t count on it. You should prepare yourself. Danny is looking at prison for a very long time.”

“He didn’t molest those girls and he didn’t murder Piper either.”

“Larry, unless you say, ‘I know he didn’t do it, because I killed her,’ I’m not going to believe you.”

Schuster said nothing. He just stared at her.

“Did you kill Piper, Larry?”

“No. No. I’m sorry. I was just thinking whether it’s all right for me to tell you what I think—”

“Tell me, damn it. Or get the hell out of here and don’t ever call me again.”

“Alan Barstow.”

“Do
not
make me drag this out of you.”

“Alan Barstow paid off those other girls. And he tried to pay off Katie Blackwell. Alan stands to make many, many millions on Danny and will do whatever it takes to keep him as a client.”

“Why would he kill Piper? What’s his motive?”

“Piper didn’t like Alan. She was trying to get Danny to change agencies. If Piper got between Alan and Danny, Alan would have been dangerous. He’s a very scary dude. You should seriously check him out, Justine. I think you should put him on a skewer and fire up the grill.”

JUSTINE DROVE THE car around the lake with the Vegas-style fountain set in front of the enormous black glass building in Century City. The Monolith, as it was called, was home to Creative Talent Management, the biggest, most influential talent agency in Hollywood. And the world.

Nora Cronin sat beside Justine in the passenger seat.

Early in the year, Justine had worked for the DA’s office to help the LAPD catch a spree killer who had been terrifying the city and running the cops into the weeds.

The Schoolgirl Killer had been Lieutenant Nora Cronin’s case, but despite her initial outrage that the DA had assigned Private to work with her, she and Justine had meshed brilliantly, as if they’d worked together for years.

Nora touched up her lipstick as Justine drove into the garage, took a ticket from the machine, then cruised around the subterranean car park that consumed more square footage than the town where she was born.

“You know what’s freaky? More money passes through this building than we spend annually on national defense.”

Nora was big, built like a tank, and she had a good, hearty laugh, which she let loose now.

“You’re too funny, Justine. Actually, I can’t wait to see the inside of this place.”

“Yeah?” Justine said. “I think we’re in for a real gladiator-style face-off with an egomaniacal, money-driven jerk who may also be a killer.”

“We might not be able to pull this off. I’m just preparing you. If he says to leave, we’ve got to go.”

“Come on, Nora. A cop and a shrink are going to tag-team him. He’ll talk. He’ll beg us to listen to him.”

Nora laughed again. “What a pair you have, Justine. Anyway, this place may be the colosseum, but we only have to take down one lion. Only one. Here, take this.”

Nora reached down to the floor, picked up a file, and passed it to Justine, who stashed it in her briefcase.

“Let me do the talking,” Justine said.

“Fine,” said Nora. “I’ll be your bodyguard.”

Justine laughed. “Perfect,” she said. “I’ve always wanted one of those.”

AN ELEVATOR TOOK Justine and Nora from the car park to the Creative Talent Management lobby, a vast, marbled space hung with imposing works of modern art. Glass-faced staircases fooled the eye and suspended disbelief, rising thirty feet through the reception area ceiling, itself made of glass.

The space was meant to impress and intimidate—and it did both of those things to Justine. She’d laughed about CTM as the black hole of greed, but now she felt the force of the place. The might of the money.

And she and Nora were on their own.

Justine gave their names to a receptionist, signed a log book, and she and Nora took seats at the periphery of the room to watch the show.

Actors practiced their lines, gesticulating in the corners; messengers came and went; groups of well-dressed people entered the agency through doors that blended so perfectly with the surrounding walls there didn’t seem to be doors at all.

Tom Cruise came through in one of those groups.

Ethan Hawke left the building.

Fifteen minutes after they had arrived, a young man floated down one of the invisible staircases. He was wearing a white linen shirt, dark pants, and a smug expression. Approaching Justine and Nora, he said, “I’m Jay Davis, Mr. Barstow’s assistant. Alan is ready to see you now.”

Justine lifted her briefcase, feeling like she was carrying a dirty bomb, thinking,
I doubt Alan is ready for this.

When they entered his office, Barstow was standing with his back to the door, shouting into the mic of his headset, “I said no, you dumb prick. Lily Padgett will
not
do a screen test. You made the deal and if you dare to break it, we’ll sue you for breach. We’ll take everything you’ve got including the sweat on your balls. Yes. A network series. Jerry Bruckheimer. She turned him down. Do you get me now?”

Barstow clicked off the phone, turned, and saw the two women come into his large, transparent corner office. His smile was bright and cold, like winter sun on a frozen lake.

“How’s Danny?” he asked, shaking Justine’s hand. “I hope you have good news.”

Justine introduced Nora as her partner and they took seats around Barstow’s coffee table, where they had a view of a Frank Stella construction the size of a barn wall, and a panoramic view out the window of West Hollywood and Beverly Hills.

But Justine was scrutinizing Alan Barstow.

He had acne scars and thinning hair and narrow shoulders, but he had swagger to spare. That came from being a top earner at CTM, from making millions upon millions every year.

Justine sat forward in a five-thousand-dollar armchair, put the Waterford crystal goblet she’d been sipping water from down on the Brazilian cherrywood table, and said, “Alan, we think we know who is responsible for Piper Winnick’s death, but we need your help.”

Barstow pressed a button on the arm of his chair and said, “Jay, no calls.” Then, “I’m all yours.”

Justine said, “We think Piper was killed by someone who was jealous of her relationship with Danny.”

“No kidding. That’s bizarre.”

“A few people knew about Danny and Piper. You, Merv Koulos, Larry Schuster, Danny’s friend Kovaks, and his assistant, Randy Boone. But Danny’s relationship with Piper wasn’t public knowledge. Neither was his cabin in Topanga.”

“So obviously someone close to Danny did it.”

“Yes. We think this man expected Piper to be grateful to him for getting her the part in the film and attracted to him because he’s a powerful guy, and he was furious that she ran off with Danny. So it makes sense that he drove to the cabin, woke Piper up, and got her to take a walk with him on the trail. We surmise that he argued with her. That things got physical.”

Barstow broke in. “Justine, are you making a pitch or do you want my help? Who the hell did this to my boy?”

“Someone who likes young girls, Alan. A man who has a real passion for young girls.”

Justine took the folder out of her briefcase, opened it on the table, turned it toward Barstow, and fanned out the pages.

Justine said, “This is what we’re going to show the police. And I have a feeling these mug shots are going to find their way to the Internet. Millions will know that Alan Barstow is a sex offender. That’s you, Alan. You’re the real deal.”