Sex and Violence in Hollywood (35 page)

Maybe it’s over, he thought as he snuggled up to Alyssa. Maybe I got away with it after all. With Alyssa’s skin against his and the sweet smell of her in his nostrils, Adam drifted back to sleep.

THIRTY-FOUR

"You’re not going to believe this,”
Adam said, coming into the studio with fresh-made roast beef sandwiches on paper plates and a bag of potato chips.

“Yeah, I’ll probably believe it,” Carter said from the desk. He did not look up from the severed thumb he was painting.

“Maury Povich wants me on his show.”

Carter looked up. “Is he gonna have the Menendi on, too? I hate theme shows.”

“Eat me.”

Eyes on the thumb again, Carter muttered, “I bet Maury’s audience would’ve laughed.”

It was Thursday, six long, lazy days after the funeral.

Adam put the sandwiches and chips on the desk, where he had left the laptop open and online. On the screen, two fat, naked midgets, male and female, were having noisy sex in the missionary position on a bed. In red above the streaming video, the word
MIDGETCAM
.

“Have you checked out this cam?” Adam asked. He turned up the volume so they could hear the panting and moaning of the midgets.

“No. That chick with the beer bottle was really getting on my nerves.”

Adam sat down, saying, “You’re missing all the action.”

Carter left his chair and came around the desk, looked over Adam’s shoulder.

Adam had logged onto the Midgetcam an hour ago and bought a membership with his Visa. The cam remained dead for the first twenty minutes, and Adam and Carter had grumbled about what a waste of time it had been. Just when Adam had been about to leave the website, a small, naked, wrinkled woman with purple hair and a ring in her nose appeared and began to masturbate with a beer bottle. Adam had muttered that she looked like E.T. Carter had disagreed, saying she looked like the baby E.T. would father if he impregnated Katie Couric.

Adam had gone downstairs to make sandwiches. That was when Devin had told him about the phone call from one of Povich’s producers.

“Munchkinsex,” Carter said.

“Why don’t we do it in the Yellow Brick Road?” Adam said with a chuckle.

“Is there a Dorothycam? I wanna see her get nailed by the Tin Man.” He went back around the desk, pulled the paper plate toward him. “What’s this about Maury Povich?”

“His producer called and talked to Devin. They’re doing a show on the kids of recently dead celebrities.”

“Recently dead is right. The funeral wasn’t even a whole week ago. They must want you to cry on camera, or something.”

“Have you seen all you want of this?” Adam asked, nodding toward the laptop. “If so, I’m going to check out Amputeecam.”

“Yeah, go ahead. That one I’ve gotta see.” Carter took a bite of his sandwich. His forehead creased slowly as he chewed. “Could you use a little more horseradish on the next sandwich? This first bite only incinerated one of my lungs.”

“Pussy.”

“Hey, you’re not really going on Povich’s show, are you?”

“Hell, no. Are you kidding? It’s a freak show.” Once he had logged onto Amputeecam, he clicked on
JOIN
, then filled out the form. Hit the
ENTER
key.

Three rapid knocks. Adam and Carter turned to the door as Devin came in. He looked worried.

“Adam, there’s a police—”

The rest of the words fell on him in an avalanche of fear and dread. Each word clear and sharp, a shiny razor that sliced into his flesh.

“—detective here to see you, from Marina del Rey,” Devin said.

Adam resisted the urge to lock eyes with Carter. He pushed away from the desk, stood.

“I told him you might not be up to it,” Devin said. “He said it’ll only take a few minutes, but it’s up to you. He can come back later, if you want.”

“Thanks, Devin. But I’d rather just get it...over with.”

As he followed Devin out of the studio, Adam glanced over his shoulder. Carter gawked at him, mouth open. “Keep your filthy hands off my sandwich,” Adam said, closing the door.

* * *

The days since the funeral had been so sweet and invigorating, Adam had nearly lost sight of the dark possibilities that lay before him. His worries had been drowned in sex and laughter and one movie after another. He had been too busy getting to know Alyssa to think of the future. Too busy enjoying the phenomenon of being surrounded only by people he liked and cared for, whose company he enjoyed.

A few times, he had caught himself tensing inwardly, in anticipation of his dad walking into the room and making a cruel remark. Each time, he had to remind himself that would never happen again. It would be a while before he broke himself of it, but he was impatient, wanted it to go away immediately and forever.

He and Alyssa were inseparable, as were Carter and Brett. Adam and Carter were on their own that afternoon only because Alyssa had to work and Brett had a dental appointment.

Adam had half-expected another visit from a police officer with a few more questions. He knew it was probably just routine, nothing to worry about. Certainly nothing to panic over. But his nervous system was already setting off its alarms. Sweaty palms, dry throat, pounding heart, wobbly legs.

Downstairs, Adam followed Devin into the living room.

* * *

“I’m Detective Wyndham of the Marina del Rey Police Department.”

“Hi.”

They shook hands briefly.

“Sorry to bother you, Adam, but this should take no more than a few minutes of your time. I simply need to ask you a few quick questions, then I’ll go. We can talk more later, once you’ve had a chance to collect yourself.” His voice was soft, gentle. Almost, but not quite, effeminate.

“Sure.”

The living room smelled of fresh coffee from a sterling silver service on the coffee table. Devin had set out some sliced homemade banana-nut bread.

Wyndham sat at an end of the sofa, leaning forward with elbows on his spread knees. He looked in his late forties, but trim and fit, and the healthy glow on his narrow face could hide a few years. Thick sandy blonde hair cut short and parted severely on the left. Black horn-rimmed glasses sat on his sharp, straight nose. Thin lips beneath a neatly-trimmed mustache a shade darker than the hair on his head. The beige suit he wore came from one discount chain or another, but the notebook he held looked expensive. Bound in fine brown leather, fat with pages and dividers, like a dayplanner.

Wyndham’s cold, stone-gray eyes made solid contact with Adam’s and left them only when necessary. He smelled faintly of some aftershave that had been around forever, the kind youth advisors and guidance counselors slapped onto their cheeks and necks.

Adam sat in a chair, right ankle resting on his left knee. Devin remained standing, hovered in the background. A nervous mother waiting for the pediatrician to give his diagnosis.

“I know you were already asked some of these questions last weekend,” Wyndham said. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to run through them again.”

“Sure,” Adam said.

Wyndham opened the notebook. Adjusted his glasses and tucked his lower lip between his teeth as he read silently for a moment. “You told Officer Ruiz that a lot of people didn’t like your dad. Is that true?”

“Well, I don’t mean everybody hated him. In the movie business, nobody really likes anybody. Or trusts anybody. You never know who’s out to get your next job, or your whole career. That’s what Dad always said, anyway. The way he says it is, ‘You never know who your next job is coming from.’ It’s like, everybody’s friendly and smiley, but at the same time, everybody knows better, and nobody’s safe.”

“Can you think of anyone who didn’t like him enough to kill him?”

“You mean somebody he works wi—er, worked with?”

“Let’s start there.”

“No. I’ve thought about it, but I can’t imagine anyone...well, doing that.”

Wyndham looked at the notebook again as he picked up a slice of banana-nut bread. Put it on a paper napkin, folded the napkin over to cover half the slice. Lifted it to his mouth and delicately took a bite without spilling a crumb.

He couldn’t stand it, Adam thought when he saw Carter cautiously entering the living room.

“Is it all right if I sit in on this?” Carter asked.

Wyndham quickly put his bread on the coffee table, stood, and shook hands with him. “By all means, sit down. I was going to ask for you, anyway.”

Adam closed his throat before he could gasp audibly. Why would Wyndham want to question Carter?

Carter sat on an ottoman. Glanced once at Adam.

Seated again, Wyndham said, “You told Officer Ruiz that your dad did not get along with his family. Do you know why?”

“I don’t know. He never talked about them. Whenever Mom mentioned any of them, Dad always clammed up, went cold. I know his sister stopped talking to him when they disagreed over something that happened in their childhood. But the others...I never knew what caused the bad blood between them, and it seemed like such a forbidden topic, I never asked.”

Wyndham nodded. Took another bite of bread, chewed as he studied his notebook. His jaws slowly bunched into tight knots, then released. Bunched, released. “I have some names here, Adam. I’m going to read through them, and I want you to tell me if any of them sound familiar. All right?”

Adam nodded.

He turned to Carter and Devin. “If either of you recognize any of these names, please speak up.” Eyes on the notebook again. “Waldo Cunningham?” He did not lift his head, but his eyes peered over the top of his glasses at Adam.

“No,” Adam said.

Wyndham turned to Carter, Devin. When they shook their heads, he said, “Cecelia or ‘Sissy’ Noofer?” Another negative. “Just speak up if something rings a bell.” He put the last piece of bread in his mouth, chewed. Brushed his thighs with four fingertips to remove crumbs that weren’t there. Read the names a little faster. “Nathaniel Cunningham. Wanda Marsden. Dennis Martin. Marianne Ford. Jack Edgerly. Mistress Montana. The Rev—”

“Mistress?” Devin said.

Wyndham lifted his head, slender eyebrows high.

“Mistress as in...dominatrix?” Devin asked, wincing slightly. As if worried he had asked a stupid question.

The detective smiled gently and said, “That’s all it says. Just Mistress Montana.” He cleared his throat before continuing. His tongue swept back and forth between cheek and teeth, searching for stray bits of nuts and bread. “The Reverend Barry Quine. Ola Blake. Dr. Leopold Buttrick. Kyla Kortzeborn.” He leaned back slowly on the sofa, looking at Adam. Waiting.

Mistress Montana, Adam thought repeatedly. The name was a seed wedged tightly between two teeth. Something about it bothered him, even frightened him. But he tucked it away for the moment. Shook his head and said, “No, none of them sounds familiar. Should they? I mean...who are they?”

“Just two, actually. Something we’re looking into.” Wyndham closed his notebook and stood. Turned to Devin and smiled. “That is the most delicious banana-nut bread I have ever tasted. Without exception.”

Devin brightened, stood quickly, hands clasped before his lavendar blouse. He beamed with pride. “My mother’s recipe. I made several loaves this morning. Let me send one home with you.”

“Oh, no-no-no, I couldn’t do that. But I—”

“Oh, please, it’s no problem at all! I’ll be right back.” Devin hurried out of the living room, trailing a faint scent of jasmine.

Adam stood. A moment later, so did Carter, lips pressed tightly together. He looked around as if uncertain where to put his eyes. Adam hoped Carter stayed quiet, just waited till Wyndham was gone before opening his mouth. And he hoped the detective did not notice Carter’s nervousness.

“Um, if you don’t mind my asking,” Adam said, “what kind of detective are you?”

Wyndham smiled, holding his notebook at his side the way a pastor holds a Bible. “Homicide.”

Adam locked down, became still. Held everything in. “Then...you don’t think it was an accident. Did you find something?”

Wyndham bent down, took his cup of coffee from the table, and finished it off in a swallow. Put the cup back on the table. “The investigation has reached a juncture that could be very revealing. Or it could lead nowhere at all. That remains to be seen.”

“Do you have an idea who might have—”

“I am sorry, Adam, but I cannot discuss the investigation in any detail. We need time to build our case. But first...we need to find all the pieces.”

Adam nodded. The more he thought about the detective’s last two sentences, the deeper his frown grew. “What, um...what case?”

“This case. The case that will determine whether or not your family was murdered. And if so, by whom. And why.”

Adam nodded. “Okay. That case.”

Wyndham’s eyes were very busy. Back and forth between Adam and Carter.

He knows something, Adam thought. His stomach suddenly lurched, as if he were on a rollercoaster. His palms became moist, clammy. Don’t shake hands. He’s a detective. He’ll detect sweaty palms.