A Death In Beverly Hills (21 page)

"Has Kaitlen Berdue confirmed this?"

Cynthia shook her head. "It's just a rumor. Did Tom ever say anything about Kaitlen having an abortion?"

Steve felt as if an icicle had been shoved into his belly. Is this why he was here? Was the whole point of this . . . date . . . to get him relaxed enough, drunk enough, stupid enough that he'd confirm this abortion rumor for her next broadcast? Sucker!

"I feel sick."

"Are you all right?"

"Pull over."

Steve fumbled with the belt release and staggered a couple of feet into an alley next to an abandoned auto parts store. A minute later, his face gray and his stomach empty, he got back into the car but this time the fragrance of the leather seats was overpowered by the cloying smell of vomit coating his nose and throat. He glanced at Cynthia then closed his eyes.

"Can you drop me off at my place?" The dead air in the cabin sucked up his words like stones dropped down a dry well.

"Sure."

A moment later some innocuous classical music filled the car and only another moment after that Cynthia was shaking his shoulder. "Steve, we're here. Do you need any help getting inside?"

Getting inside? Steve gave a sour chuckle. He wasn't getting inside tonight. No, not with Cynthia tonight.

"Did I say something funny?"

"No," he mumbled, blinking against the glow of the dome light. "Sorry." For an instant some perverse part of his nature dredged up the phrase 'Let's do this again real soon' but the moment passed. Knees weak, he made it to the sidewalk and leaned through the open door. "Thanks, Cynthia. I had a good time. Sorry I couldn't hold my liquor. Out of practice, I guess."

"So. . . ." she began, then seemed to think better of it. "Yeah, I had a good time too. Give me a call when you feel better."

"You bet," Steve said and slammed the door.
When Hell freezes over
, he muttered as he watched Cynthia's taillights disappear into the night.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Glenn Malvo's company, Impact Productions, leased a small suite of offices around the corner from the Paramount lot. Janson settled into a worn flower-print couch under a framed poster for a direct-to-cable suspense drama called
Night Lies.
The office wasn't the cradle of dreams and romance that star-struck tourists might have imagined. On the opposite wall hung a lurid poster for Tom Travis's last movie,
The Boneyard
. Steve leafed through a copy of
The Hollywood Reporter
while a very handsome young man alternately screened calls through a wireless headset and made coffee.

Every two or three minutes he shot a quick glance in Steve's direction as if worried that if not carefully supervised Janson might make off with the coffee table or the potted ficus tree. About fifteen minutes later, the receptionist received a silent order and told Steve that Mr. Malvo would see him now.

Malvo's office was a clone of the waiting room, only more so. Cheap furniture, movie posters, framed invitations to the Academy Awards, a couple of lumps of glass in futuristic shapes etched with flowery prose, "The Signus Award for Excellence in . . . ." something or other. Malvo was on the phone. He gave Steve a quick glance and the flick of his hand then spun around to contemplate the second-story view of the traffic on Vine.

"Yeah, I understand, Jerry, but . . . . Uhhuh . . . ." Malvo turned back to Steve and shrugged, as if to say, 'What are you gonna do?' About five-nine, dressed in black slacks and an open collar white silk shirt textured with subtle beige embroidery, Malvo frowned and tapped a pair of heavy black-framed glasses against the arm of his chair. "Okay, Jerry, you do that and get back to me. Right." The phone clattered into the receiver.

"Hi, Glenn Malvo. You're here about Tom Travis?"

"Steve Janson. I'm helping Greg Markham."

"Have a seat. Chad get you coffee? You need anything?"

"I'm fine, thanks." Steve settled into a chocolate-colored chair that wasn't as comfortable as it looked.

"Greg's a terrific attorney, a real heavy hitter. Did a hell of a job on the Candace Lang thing." Malvo gave Steve a long look. "So . . . ?"

"Yeah. I'm trying to pin down anything on someone who might want to hurt Tom Travis or his wife."

"Let me guess -- you asked Tom for a list of suspects and he couldn't think of a single person who disliked him." Malvo gave Steve a quick, cold smile. "You've never been in the business, right?"

"I used to be a prosecutor, before that, a cop."

"Sounds like half a movie right there. Anyway, look, a hundred million people in this country want to be in the movies. Maybe a five or ten thousand people alive today ever had a speaking part. Maybe five hundred of them had a part where anyone might remember their name. Maybe a couple hundred of them are working featured players today and less then half of them are Stars. Tom Travis is a Star. Okay, he's not number six or eight any more, but he's still a Star."

"I don't--"

"Making it to the top in this business changes you. Nobody tells you you're full of crap. Nobody tells you your breath stinks. Nobody tells you you're wrong, about anything. Nobody hates a Star, except, maybe, another Star. . . .True story, they're shooting a movie and one of the grips notices his watch is missing. The next day, the star is wearing the guy's watch! The grip says something, politely, and the star smiles, apologizes for the mistake, and returns the watch. The next day the grip is fired and the Assistant Director tells the crew that if the star borrows' anything don't say a word to him, just turn in a voucher and the production company will reimburse them. By the end of the movie, the star had 'borrowed' enough stuff to fill the trunk of his Rolls and nobody opened their mouth. I promise you that if you asked the if he had any enemies he would have sworn to you on a stack of bibles that everybody loved him. And he would have believed it. You get my drift?"

"Starting to sense a reality gap here."

"Now you got it." Malvo pointed his finger like the barrel of a gun.

"Okay, what can you tell me about Tom Travis that he won't tell me himself?"

"How much time do you have?" Another quick grin. "Just kidding. I don't have all day. . . . Okay, where do you want to start?"

Where did he want to start? "How about women. Tom had something of a reputation as a ladies' man. Maybe one of them or their boyfriends or husbands . . . ." Malvo's expression grew sour. "What?"

"I did a courtroom movie couple of years back,
Deadly Verdict
, lots of 'objection- sustained' crap. We had a legal consultant work on the script. What's that wife-beating objection -- assumes facts not in evidence?" Steve cocked his head questioningly. Malvo sighed and tried again. "Tom wanted to be a ladies' man. He wished he was a ladies' man. He pretended he was a ladies' man, but the truth is, well, you know the old story, the mind is willing but the flesh is weak."

"You're saying he . . . ."

"Not enough lead in the pencil, if you get my drift. That was all pre-Viagra, of course. Tom's probably buying the stuff by the case now. The fact is, nobody who knew the real story was very worried about Tom being in the bedroom with their squeeze. From what I heard, mostly he just liked to watch."

"Watch?"

"Got off on it. He and his buddy would go cruising. Tom would pick up the girls, no problem there. Back in the day he had to beat them off with a stick, excuse the reference. They'd end up in a suite at the Beverly and Tom would ah . . . help out and when he'd gotten his girl warmed up, his buddy would take over and close the deal. Then the girls would switch and Mr. Reliable would go to work on number two. At the end Tom would get one of the girls to give him a BJ and then he'd order champagne and whatever and everybody went home happy." Malvo flashed another of his quick grins.

Suddenly an image of Bobby Berdue popped into Steve's head. Bobby said that Tom had wanted some kind of prescription drug that wouldn't show up on his medical records. Viagra? Cialis? 'I bought some speed to keep me going.' Yeah, right, Tom!

"Son of a bitch!"

"A light just go on?"

"You could say that." So if Tom couldn't keep his soldier at attention . . . . Oh, Shit!"

"What?"

"Did Tom ever get anybody pregnant?"

Malvo shrugged. "Not as far as I know. A lot of the guys get a vasectomy, avoids a lot of nasty accusations. Who wants to have Marlon Brando's problems, right?"

"Maybe Tom didn't need one. Maybe a shortage of lead in his pencil wasn't his only problem."

Another shrug. "That I couldn't tell you." Malvo took a quick look at his watch.

"How about managers, agents, co-stars, business partners, anybody who might have been pissed enough with Tom to want to hurt him or his wife?"

Malvo's head gave a quick shake. "Tom's actually a pretty sweet guy. Sensitive, deep down. Truth is, I could never picture him wrapping a wire around his wife's neck and pulling until her eyes popped, not for real. Maybe if she had been shot from fifty feet away or something, maybe, but up close and personal? I don't think so. Don't get me wrong. Tom can make it look good for the camera. But in real life," Malvo held up his hands, then took another longer look at his watch.

"Last thing. You said Tom would get together with other guys to pick up women. Can you give me a few names?"

"Hmmm, that goes back a few years, PV, Pre-Viagra." Malvo smiled and stared off into space. "Actually . . . . it was more like, I think, just one guy. For that kind of a job you need a real stud. It's one thing if Tom can't get the private to salute, but if both of 'em crap out, well, you can imagine how that could end up as a terminal hit on a guy's ego and Stars don't have the toughest egos in the world, more egg than ego if you ask me."

"So, Tom found the right guy and stuck with him?"

"Another stuntman, like Tom, except this guy was never gonna be a Star, except in the bedroom. He might have done some porno. I figure he had been bragging a little about his stamina while he was waiting to do a gag and Tom heard him and checked out his film. He must have figured the guy would make him look good, do the job," Malvo pounded his fist twice into his palm with a meaty
smack-smack
. "The guy likes the babes. Tom gets off on the action. Everybody's happy."

"You remember his name?"

Another vacant stare. "Shit, I can see him in my head, about five ten, wiry, long face, matted, curly kind of hair, blue eyes, his nose was too big to be a star, sort of funny looking. Couldn't read a line to save his life. Tom tried to get him a small part in a couple of westerns. Had a delivery like a mackerel. Jeeze, what was his name? Bailey? Bobby? Billy? Barry! Barry McGee."

"Did Tom and Barry stay friends after Tom got married?"

"Well . . . ." Malvo twisted uneasily in his seat.

"What?"

"I don't know. They were tight then they weren't. I asked Tom if he wanted anybody special on the stunt team for
The Boneyard
, keep the star happy, right, and he said 'no.' I said 'fine, okay' and started to leave and Tom stops me and says, real quiet, 'I'd rather not work with McGee this time around.'"

"Did he say why?"

"He didn't say and I didn't ask. If a star wants to tell you something, he will. You don't ask, not unless you don't want to work with him again. You get too nosey and the tabloids print something, he's likely to think it came from you. Who needs that?" A final long look at his watch. "Steve I've got . . . ."

"Yeah, me too. Thanks for all your help. Can I give you a call if anything else comes up?"

"Sure, you've got my number." They shook hands and Steve turned toward the door. "Hey, say 'Hi' to Tom for me, will you." Malvo called. "Tell him . . . . tell him when this shit is all over, I've got a script with his name on it. Tell him I believe in him and, uh, that we'll do great things together. You tell him that for me, okay?"

"You bet." Steve gave Malvo a little wave and headed for his car and wondered if Google could get him an address for Barry McGee.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Steve finally got McGee's phone number from the Screen Actors' Guild and left a message implying that he was doing a project with Glenn Malvo and needed somebody to supervise the stunts. McGee called back an hour later with the suggestion that Steve meet him at a riding club out in the Valley.

It was a little after one when Steve arrived at The Norcross Academy which straddled a small valley at the edge of Topanga State Park. Steve slipped the Mercedes into a lot full of ML430s, Honda Pilots and Soccer Mom minivans. Apparently the employees were required to park their dented Silverados and five year old Mustangs someplace out of sight of the paying customers. A mother in black jeans and a tightly fitted blue cotton shirt herded a bunch of twelve-year-old girls in formal riding costumes up to the barn. Three were white, one Asian, all wearing black small-billed hats, white shirts, black vests and black pants. Each clutched a dark brown riding crop. A handsome young man in blue jeans and a cowboy hat greeted the woman and checked the girls off one by one against a list on a plastic clipboard.

"Help you?" the kid asked Steve with a smile. Perfect teeth, Steve noted, white as a fifties refrigerator.

"I'm supposed to see Barry McGee. Is he around?"

The smile slipped three notches and the kid waved toward the barn. "He's in the back corral." He gave Steve's wingtips a quick glance as if to say 'Watch your step.' Behind Steve appeared three fifteen year old girls in designer jeans and orange-sequined t-shirts. Cowboy Bob's smile cranked back up to its full wattage.

The barn was about fifty yards long with large sliding doors at both ends. Inside it was dark and cool and thick with the scent of horses and old hay. Beyond the far end Steve spotted a staging area with troughs and hitching rails and beyond that an emerald-colored field fitted with hay-bail jumps all circled by a white board fence. To Steve's far right was a dusty, steel-pipe corral populated with four horses and a single sweat-stained ranch hand whose skin was the color of faded leather. As Janson drew closer he noticed the man's cap of wiry hair and long face centered with a nose like a splayed lump of clay.

"Barry McGee?" Steve called when he reached the pipe fence.

"Yeah. Janson?" McGee squinted, pulled off his sweat-stained cowboy hat and wiped a sleeve across his brow.

When they shook hands Steve noticed the rough cuts in McGee's palm. Barry gave Steve a quick once over and replaced his hat.

"You're in the production end, I guess. What're you, some kind of CPA who wants to

make movies?"

"Actually, I'm helping Greg Markham with Tom Travis's defense. Glenn Malvo said you and Tom were friends."

"He did, did he?" McGee mused, squinting into the sun and wandering over to one of the horses. "Why'd that come from Malvo instead of Tom? You sure you're really working for him?"

"You can call Greg Markham. He'll vouch for me."

"Okay. What did Tom tell you?"

"He's a little reluctant to talk about the old days. He thinks it's a waste of my time but I like to be thorough."

"I guess you got your job to do and I've got mine." McGee lifted the mare's hoof and checked her shoe.

"I just need a few minutes of your time," Steve shouted.

"They pay me to work, not talk," McGee called over his shoulder and bent to check out another shoe.

"You can't take a break?"

McGee patted the horse's neck and gave Steve a calculating glance. "If you was to rent one of these ponies here, I could take you on a little ride and we could talk all you want."

Steve looked at his sixty dollar gray slacks and his black leather shoes and tried to imagine himself wandering the lower reaches of Topanga Canyon on the back of a horse.

"Up to you," McGee said easily, moving on to the next animal.

A light breeze rippled the wild grasses and in the distance a hawk sailed over the canyon.

"Yeah, okay," Steve said a moment later when the hawk had receded to a pinpoint and slipped from view. "Pick out an easy one. I haven't been on one of these things since Boy Scouts."

"Sure, old Buttermilk here's as gentle as a bunny rabbit. Come on in the barn and we'll get you fixed up."

Ten minutes later, having waived all claims for bodily injury, handed over his VISA card and strapped on a borrowed pair of weathered chaps, Steve mounted old Buttermilk and surveyed the world from a point about ten feet above the ground. McGee led them at a relaxed saunter down the dirt road that paralleled the steeplechase oval before wending up one of the finger canyons at the back of the property. As they passed the jumps a few young girls turned to watch, some covering their amusement, others grinning openly.

"Don't mind them fillies none," McGee said in an accentuated twang. "They're just a bunch of stuck-up rich kids havin' some fun with daddy's money."

The trail doglegged to the left and soon the green oval disappeared.

"So, how's old Tom holdin' up?" McGee asked, slowing his horse, a chestnut stallion named Sultan, so that they could ride side-by-side.

"He's hanging in there. It's no fun being locked up."

McGee smothered a grin and made a click-click sound with his tongue to increase Sultan's pace.

"I know you and Tom were friends," Steve continued. "I was wondering if you knew anybody who had a grudge against him, anyone who might want to hurt him or Marian."

"I don't know the wife, Marian. Only met her once for about five seconds."

"When was that?"

McGee tugged lightly on Sultan's reins and the big stallion veered off the trail and up the course of a dried-out stream. Used to being led, Buttermilk followed without instructions from Steve.

"Right after Christmas, just before she went missing," Barry called over his shoulder, then ducked beneath the branches of a massive black oak. The streambed widened into an inch deep leaf-strewn pool and Steve lightly pressed in his heels. Buttermilk agreeably speeded up until they were again riding side-by-side.

"What was the occasion?"

"Truth was, I needed a job. I hadn't seen Tom in over a year but I figured there was no harm in asking. I gave him call and asked him if he could help me out. He could've blown me off but he told me to come over to the house and we could have a drink for old time's sake. Anyway, she was goin' out while I was comin' in. I said, you know, 'Hello-Goodbye' and that was it. Seemed a nice enough lady for all I could tell."

The stream cut to the left and narrowed, its path clogged with rocks. Barry make another knickk-knickk sound between his tongue and teeth and Sultan clambered up the bank and out into a field of wild oats. Steve gritted his teeth and did the same. Buttermilk looked back, a wild look in her eye, and bounded up after them with Steve hanging on for dear life. They shot past McGee in a trot and Steve was afraid Buttermilk was going to break into a gallop and run halfway to Calabasas, but she apparently didn't want to leave Sultan and slowed to a stop all on her own. Smiling, McGee and Sultan sauntered up alongside.

"You're a real buckaroo, ain't you?"

"Tell that to Buttermilk. . . . So, did Tom help you out?"

Barry gave his head a shake. "Said he wasn't no box-office champ no more, that he was looking for work himself, that he might have to start making those cable movies for HBO if he didn't get a break soon. Gave me a hell of a good glass of scotch, though," McGee added, smiling.

"So, is there anybody who had a grudge against Tom?"

"Nah. Tom didn't make enemies like that. He always took the easy way out."

"What does that mean?"

"Take a guy like me, somebody bumps me, I bump him back. He takes a swing at me, I swing back."

"But not Tom?"

Again, McGee laughed. "You bump Tom, maybe he bumps you back, a little. You take a swing at Tom, he ducks and walks away, unless he's been drinking. You get Tom sauced, he'll go fist city with you, but the rest of the time, mostly he'll just get pissed off and walk away, like you're not worth gettin' upset over."

They reached the crest of a long ridge. Below them the land descended to a narrow valley choked with manzanita and scrub oak. Barry shaded his eyes and stared into the distance as a breeze scented with wild oats and bay trees brushed their cheeks.

"Is that how Tom felt about you?"

Barry gave Steve a sharp look then shook his head. "Nah, Tom had no complaint with me."

"I heard you guys used to be tight, then something happened."

"Oh, you heard those stories about Tom and me, did you?"

Steve shrugged.

"Well," McGee said, flashing a self-congratulatory smile, "I suppose some of that's true. Nobody's ever accused me of being shy with the ladies, and, time to time, Tom maybe needed a few pointers in that department. We did have ourselves some fun."

"Then . . . ."

"Hah! Then Tom got himself in trouble with that girlfriend of his, Clare Cantrell or whatever. Anger management!" McGee barked a laugh.

"You don't think he hit her?"

"Oh, he probably hit her all right. Probably a combination of too much booze and too little performance. My guess is she said something about Tom's moxie in the bedroom department and that's when he socked her, not that he'd ever want that to come out in court. I think that scared Tom, maybe that he hit her, maybe that it might get out why. Anyway, he decided he was going on the wagon and me, I liked to party. Tom had to either give up the booze or give up me." Another sour smile. "Then he met Marion and the good times were over for sure. You want my opinion, I think he was afraid that if we started hanging out together again, one thing would lead to another and we'd be back in the saddle with the fillies. Goodbye marriage, hello community property. You could say the wedding pretty much put an end to our friendship."

Barry flicked Sultan's reins and headed off at an angle down the far side of the ridge. Steve and Buttermilk paralleled them a few feet up-slope.

"So, who could have done this to Marian?"

Barry shrugged. "Maybe it had something to do with her boyfriend."

"Boyfriend? Marian had a boyfriend?"

"Had to," Barry said, fanning his face with his hat.

"What? Why?"

"She was pregnant and Tom wasn't the father. He told you that, right?"

"Tom wasn't the father? Are you sure?"

McGee looked over his shoulder and laughed. "I guess Old Tom left that part out. Tom and I were doin' these girls one night, sisters, man you ain't lived until you've done sisters, anyway, he's not using any protection and I say, 'Hey, partner, what you gonna do if she turns up one of these days with a little Tommy in her arms?' and Tom leans over and whispers, 'Can't happen. I'm shooting blanks.' That's not the sort of thing a guy lies about, even if he's had a few. Truth is, Tom was half in the bag. If he hadn't been I don't think he would have let that slip. Anyway, unless there's been some medical miracle, that kid Marian was pregnant with belongs to some other guy. Maybe Marian and her boyfriend had a fight or something and, you know, one thing led to another."

They reached the bottom of the slope and McGee led them single file down a muddy trail knee deep in milkweed and Italian thistle.

"Dry year," McGee said, kneeing Sultan when he paused to snap up tussocks of spring grass. "Usually water flowing in this crick well into May."

"So Tom knew his wife was pregnant by another man? How'd he take that?"

McGee smiled and raised his brows. Sultan stopped again and this time McGee let him feed. Steve and Buttermilk drew up along side.

"What's that mean?"

"You'd have to be blind not to see that she was knocked up, so after she's out the door, I give Tom a look, like, 'Hey, man, what's that all about?' and he gives me a look back, like, 'Yeah, I know but what can I do?' What was I supposed to say -- 'Who's the guy who knocked up your wife?'" McGee gave Steve a helpless shrug.

Steve stared blankly into the distance, his brain spinning. Had Marian told one of her girlfriends who the father was? Maybe that's why Tom was so anxious to keep Steve from talking to them. No wonder he didn't want Steve dredging up 'ancient history' with McGee. Jesus, Travis's his life's on the line and he's afraid someone will find out his wife cheated on him?

McGee nudged Sultan and he ambled on down the trail with Buttermilk following dutifully behind.

"Was that the last time you talked to Tom?" Steve called to McGee.

"Yeah, I didn't want to talk to the cops so I stayed away."

"Why's that?"

"I don't like cops." Another short laugh. "And, I didn't want them finding out from me about the kid not being Tom's. I mean your wife's murdered and the cops find out she's pregnant with some other guy's baby, I'm no lawyer but in the movie business we call that a motive."

Steve couldn't see McGee's face but imagined it twisted in a sardonic grin. The baby thing was what trial lawyers called a 'two-edged sword.' It opened up a whole new pool of suspects but it also gave Tom Travis a hell of a motive for murder.

Ahead of them the trail curved around the base of the hill and the stables slipped back into view, the emerald steeplechase oval glistening like a an oasis in a desert of cars and smog and ninety-nine cent hamburger palaces.