Beware Beware (19 page)

“I kicked him out this morning,” I said, and watched for his reaction.

He closed his eyes and massaged the inside corners of his brows. He shook his head and mumbled something about goddamn James Bond.

“Nothing happened.” I added, “He kissed me.”

He raised his head and sighed. “That isn't
nothing
, Song. Jesus, kids these days.” Still, he sounded relieved.

“Am I in trouble?” I asked.

“You may not have broken any laws, but you know you are if I tell Art.”

“You're not going to, are you?”

He shook his head and spoke in the reasonable tone of a teenager's parent. “I'm on your side here. Don't make me regret it.”

“Not to change the subject or anything,” I said, wanting to change the subject, “but I need to talk to you about something else.”

“Molly gave you food poisoning.”

“No,” I said. “Actually something pretty serious.”

“What is it?”

I told him about Lori's new suitor and his ungentlemanly ways, and Chaz listened with a deepening frown. He'd only met Lori a couple of times, but he knew what she'd been through, as well as what she meant to me.

“That girl,” he said, shaking his head. “Trouble loves her, doesn't he?”

“Men flock to her,” I said. “Most of them are nice enough, but some bring trouble. It only takes one to fuck up a life.”

“So, let me guess. You want me to check up on this guy?”

“Can you?” I asked. “That would be so great, Chaz.”

“I'll give you the friends and family rate.”

I started to crunch numbers in my head—whatever it would cost, though, it had to be done. “Which is?”

“Molly's birthday's coming up. I want to take her out to a nice dinner.”

“Sure,” I said.

“I watch your man, you watch my kids.”

I laughed. “You want thirty bucks' worth of babysitting?”

“I don't trust just any babysitter with my little gems.”

“Thanks, Chaz. I owe you big-time.”

“I know.” He grinned. “Add it to the tab.”

*   *   *

I spent the morning in the office, catching up on administrative duties I'd been neglecting. My mind needed a breather, and after that weekend, Monday morning seemed as good a time as any to relax with a pile of busy work. Chaz left soon after our meeting, with a promise to call by the end of the day.

The busy work didn't relax me as much as I'd hoped. I couldn't hit a minute without thinking about Jamie and Daphne, couldn't chase their suffering from the clean office, the sterile duties of paperwork. And I kept seeing the body—Joe Tilley in his blood bath, pale and juiced like some used fruit.

I pulled up a Web browser and googled the latest on Joe Tilley. A quick scan of headlines told me the word was out. TMZ screamed,
Joe Tilley—Murdered
! I clicked on the
New York Times
article. “Autopsy rules out suicide in death of Joe Tilley,” the headline declared. The article painted the scene of the crime, and included a quote from Detective Sanchez. “We're looking at foul play now,” she said. “We're investigating a person of interest.”

I went cold. I had to assume the person of interest was Jamie, and I didn't like Detective Sanchez opening her mouth to reporters, even if she wouldn't dare, at this point, release his name.

The last word came from Alex Caldwell, described as Tilley's personal friend and manager of twenty years. That made him older than he looked, not uncommon in an industry that traded on youth. His statement was simple, dry, admonishing. “We are all shocked and angered by Joe's death. I've checked in with his wife and children, and they request to be able to grieve in private.”

I didn't like Alex Caldwell, but there was no denying he was someone I should interview. I texted Jamie for Alex's phone number.

My phone rang a minute later.

“Let me just give you a primer on Alex,” Jamie said on the other line.

“Sure,” I said.

“He's a prickly guy.”

“I gathered.”

“He won't want to talk to you. At all.”

“I can't appeal to his love for you?”

He laughed. “He doesn't like me. He doesn't like anyone who gets close to Joe. He barely pretends to tolerate Willow.”

“A jealous man.”

“Protective, I guess. It was his job to keep Joe in line. He saw me as a bad influence.” He chuckled bitterly. “Fair enough, huh?”

“Alex and Joe—were they good friends or was it just a business kind of relationship?”

“Oh, they were great friends, from way back. Didn't have as much in common towards the end, I guess. Alex was pretty disappointed in Joe sometimes, and Joe hated that he judged him. For instance, Alex is a dad, right? Well, Joe was a shit dad, and they both knew it. That's just one example.”

“But Alex cared about Joe?”

“Like a brother, I'm pretty sure.”

“He didn't seem too broken up when I met him.”

“That's just the way he is. He‘ll get angry, but he's the kind of guy who won't show weakness.”

“Okay, thanks. This was helpful. So where can I reach him?”

“I'll text you his number, but you might be better off just showing up.”

“You think that's a good idea?”

“He's a talent manager in Hollywood. He may not be famous, but he's a key gatekeeper. I can't imagine how many phone calls he ignores in any given hour. And today's not even a normal day.”

“Good point,” I said. “How about weird strangers who show up at his office without appointments?”

“Lot fewer of those. And he has a chain of admins who are pretty good at keeping unannounced visitors at bay.”

“A chain?”

“Yeah. Plenty of insulation. Alex has to be available to meet clients and other important people. But he needs to keep up barriers to keep away the grasping hoi polloi.”

“And that's me, right?”

“Sure, but you've met him.”

“Yeah, we're real close.”

“Oh, I mean he doesn't like you, but he's wary of you.” He paused, like he was reviewing my file in his head. “That should be enough to get you in the door.”

*   *   *

Alex Caldwell was one of the founders of Apex Management, a big-time talent-management operation with a long roster of A-list clients. I looked it up on my phone and found a brief Wikipedia page and a very unhelpful Web site. The site was sleek and minimalistic, a single home page with a brief description of the company and a few deft name drops that conveyed its Hollywood dominance, a small constellation implying a sprawling network of stars. There was no contact information available on the page—not a business number or a general e-mail, not even a single civilian name. Apex was an entertainment fortress, and if the site was any indication, it was built to be impenetrable.

The address Jamie had given me was in Beverly Hills, a straight shot down Wilshire Boulevard, the long artery of road and office buildings that coursed from downtown to the ocean, running right through Koreatown along the way. Wilshire didn't have a big movie to its name like Sunset or Mulholland, but it was almost as iconic, as indivisible a root of L.A. I knew a girl from high school who got a fake I.D. with her street address grafted onto a New York license. She lived in a townhouse on Wilshire—her fake got confiscated within a week.

The drive from my office to Apex was only six miles long, but it took a full half hour with only slight traffic. Wilshire got nicer the farther west I drove—the slummy exteriors of K-Town led into the wholesome line of Miracle Mile. By the time I reached Beverly Hills, the soju billboards might as well have belonged to another country.

Apex was in a modern office building with windows like liquid mercury, wedged among the luxury department stores of commercial Beverly Hills. I parked in the underground garage and submitted, with reluctance, to the compulsory valet parking.

I rode a quiet elevator up to the fourteenth floor, and found Apex Management behind wide doors of steel and glass. They opened onto a row of young white receptionists, their tidy heads tilted down toward Apple computers. One of them looked up when I came in, and I caught his eye before he could pretend he hadn't noticed me. He was a beautiful kid, college-age with dark hair and a shapely mouth. His only physical flaw was an unfortunate cursive tattoo that spread across one side of his neck. I would have bet a lot of money that he was a connected intern, a somebody's son—he was well-dressed with an air of boredom, a little vapid in the eyes. My guess was, he was rebellious enough to get inked, but that that was the extent of his imagination. He eyed me with suspicion, and I waited for the supercilious, “May I help you?”

It never came, so I approached the desk without breaking eye contact.

“Hi,” I said. “My name's Juniper Song. I met Alex Caldwell the other day and wanted to talk to him. Is he in?”

He looked me up and down, openly evaluating my appearance. It took some effort not to squirm or revolt under his scornful gaze. A few seconds later, he sat back with a smirk, a clear enough message that he found me unremarkable. I wondered if rude disregard for commoners was part of his job description. “Do you have an appointment?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “This is about Joe Tilley. As you can imagine, it's important.”

“Sure,” he said with grating sarcasm. “You mentioned the number-one news story in America, so I'll just go ahead and put you through to Joe Tilley's manager. Do you want me to call his agent while I'm at it?”

The other receptionists had turned to look at our exchange, and the girl next to him, a pretty wisp of blond hair and blue eyes, touched his elbow. “Come on, Diesel.”

A quick burn of anger flushed through me, and it was tinged with humiliation, as if I really were trying to weasel my way to a sniff of fame. I didn't like the way this kid looked at me, and I didn't like that the other receptionists seemed to think I needed their pity.

“Look,” I said, much calmer than I felt. “I'm not famous, okay? But I'm not trying to get famous, either. I just need to talk to Alex about Tilley. He'll want to talk to me, too.”

“What about Joe?” The hostility stayed in his tone.

I snapped at him. To hell with pleasing Diesel. “What do you think? Maybe you know he was murdered recently?”

He snapped back. “Yeah. I do. We've been broken up about it all day.”

The other receptionists murmured in response, and it struck me how strange it was that they'd all shown up for work, that work went on as usual, the first business day after a major client's murder. I noticed now that the little blond girl had been crying. There was a delicate puff to her eyelids, and her makeup looked like it had been touched up in poor light. It seemed unlikely that Joe Tilley knew any of these kids by name, but plenty of people mourned him without having met him once. I granted that his murder was a shocking event in this office, and I decided to give this punk the benefit of the doubt.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I said, smoothing out my tone. “I need to talk to Mr. Caldwell about the murder. He'll want to talk to me, too.”

He sensed the conciliation, and when he spoke again, he sounded like he was trying to be reasonable. “Look, Miss, uh—” He coughed. “Believe it or not, you're not the first person I've talked to today with something ‘important' to say about the murder. Alex is way busy. I can't just let you see him.”

I sighed. “Will you just tell him my name, and say I'm the woman he met in the penthouse? You can always throw me out later.”

The crying girl looked at me. “The penthouse?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said, leaving a meaningful pause. “That penthouse.”

“Were you there?”

“He was good and dead by the time I showed up, but I saw him.”

All four receptionists were looking at me now, and even Diesel eyed me with a new air of respect.

“I'll tell him,” he said. “But no promises.”

*   *   *

The lobby gleamed with white furniture and walls of glass, a futuristic look out of a high-end design catalog. I waited on a white leather sofa that was much less comfortable than it looked, glancing now and then at Diesel, who was on and off the phone. I was riffling through a bland coffee-table book when Diesel caught my eye, nodded once, and looked away. Ten minutes later, another beautiful college-age admin came to fetch me, this one female, in very high heels. She introduced herself as Alex's assistant Danica and escorted me down a long hall, where her stilettos clacked like thrown stones against the white polished concrete floor. Danica was friendly and talkative, and I wondered if my admission to Alex's company came with a rise in esteem in the eyes of the Apex Management youth.

“We are all in pieces,” she said, a little chirpily. “Joe was such a sweet, sweet man. Did you know him well?”

“No,” I said. “I didn't know him at all.”

She smiled with her lips closed, and led me to a corner office, where she knocked on the door with diffident raps.

“I have Juniper Song here to see you,” she said.

“Send her in,” said Alex.

I squeezed through a person-size sliver in the heavy door, and when I thought to look, the girl had disappeared without showing her face inside. I took this as a bad sign.

The temperature dropped ten degrees in Alex's office. It was cold as a cave, the kind of cold that gripped your extremities long after you put on socks and gloves. Alex sat on a high-backed chair and looked unperturbed.

“Sit if you need to,” he said, flicking his wrist at a fat-cushioned chair.

I sat, though I didn't need to.

Alex looked sleep deprived but not at all softened. He eyed me with undisguised disdain. “So what exactly is it you want?”