City of Mirrors (16 page)

I
t was seven o'clock and the bar was two deep. Over the din of conversation the Beach Boys sang in high-pitched voices about surf, cars, and girls. Instead of Ryan in the center booth there was a young long-haired celeb with great cleavage and the aging record producer Bobby Sanders. Heath followed me over to see Kiki, who was still on his stool at the end of the bar, coffee cup in front of him and a swizzle stick hanging from the corner of his mouth. His nappy peroxided hair covered his head like a badly knitted cap.

“Did Ryan leave?” I asked.

“He's in the back room, sleeping it off.”

I sighed with relief. “I've come to take him home.”

“I'm glad you care about him. He's a good guy. Come on.” Kiki slid off the stool. His legs were bowed as if he'd once been a cowboy instead of a surfer. He pulled himself up to his full height of five foot two, and we followed him through the bar and past the restrooms.

Kiki opened a door to a storage area filled with cocktail-napkin boxes, extra hurricane candleholders, and other necessities for the bar. In the middle of this was a narrow cot covered with a Bird of Paradise print quilt. Next to it was a table with a hula-dancer lamp. The cot was empty.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“He must've left, but I didn't see him go,” Kiki observed.

“He could be walking home.” But on the way to the bar I'd scanned the highway for a weaving Ryan.

I hurried to the men's room and peered in. Tom Smits, an agent who wouldn't take me on as a client when I returned to acting, stood at a urinal.

Glancing sideways, he gaped at me. “Diana!”

“Have you seen Ryan Johns?”

“No.” I took a moment to assess his penis, shook my head, then I stepped out, closing the door. “He's not in there.”

Kiki's black-button eyes were wide. “What's going on?”

“You keep your exit door open during business hours?” Heath asked tersely.

“Always,” he responded. “You a cop?”

Shaking his head, Heath shoved the door open, and the three of us stepped out into an alley that backed onto a wind-eroded mountain which threatened to slide down on the bar every rainy season. The only illumination came from a rusty lantern hanging from the eaves. Taking a small flashlight from his pocket, Heath shined its intense beam to the alley's left, then to the right.

“What's that?” I saw a dark lump in the middle of the cracked asphalt.

Heath moved toward it, leaned over, and snatched up something that looked like a boot. I sucked in my breath. He retraced his steps, his face harsh in the single overhead light.

“Recognize it?” He handed me an Ugg.

“Yes, it's Ryan's.”

Heath turned to Kiki. “Anybody in here earlier who wasn't a regular?”

“We always get a few, but usually they leave after one drink. We don't make 'em feel too comfortable. I gotta protect my clientele. People like Diana need a place they can be themselves and not see it on TV the next day.”

“So was there anybody unusual at the bar?” Heath persisted.

“A guy with a shaved head. A Bruce Willis wannabe. But he looked more like an ex-con to me.”

“Did he have a blue bomber jacket on?” I asked.

“T-shirt. And he had notes to himself.”

“What's he talking about?” Heath asked me.

“Tattoos,” I explained, then to Kiki: “Did his ink art say ‘One Night With You?'”

“Didn't get close to enough to read it. But it ran down the length of his right arm.”

“What time was he in here?” Heath pressed.

“An hour ago, maybe longer. He talked on his cell a lot. I think I should put up a sign: no cell phones allowed. But then everyone would stop coming.”

“Where was Ryan when the guy came in and sat at the bar?” Heath asked.

“He was in his booth. And then Mick, bartender, and I had to help Ryan to the back room. Now that I think about it, the guy must've followed us because he came in as we were putting Ryan on the cot and then he asked me where the men's room was. I told him to turn around and he'd fall into it.”

“So he knew Ryan was in the back room,” I said.

He nodded. “Ryan was passed out by then. When I got back to my place at the bar, this guy was already on his stool talking on his cell again. Then about a half hour later he leaves.”

I looked at Heath. “You think he was calling Parson?”

“Telling him where his boys could find Ryan.”

“Does that mean Parson got a DVD sent to him, too?”

“Hey, what's going on here?” Kiki asked.

Ignoring him, Heath aimed his light at a dumpster.

I hadn't noticed it there, hidden in the dark shadows of the rocky hillside. Now it loomed up in the glow like a giant coffin. Clutching Ryan's boot, I stepped back and leaned hard against the doorjamb.

“You want to help me look in here?” He gestured to Kiki.

“You kidding? For what?”

“Ryan,” I whispered.

“Shit.” Like an aged cricket, Kiki hopped up on the side rungs while Heath pulled himself up and over the rim.

I turned away, peering back inside the club. My legs felt weak. If Ryan was in the dumpster, I didn't want to see his body.

Paul Meany, a character actor, came out of the men's room, his hand automatically checking his fly.

“Diana,” he acknowledged. Years ago he and I had had a bumbling sexual encounter while he was having an affair with my mother.

“Paul.”

“Sorry to hear about your mother. She was a true pro.”

“A pro.”

“You look great. Are you seeing anyone?”

“Yes.”

He stared at the Ugg I was holding, seemed to decide it wasn't worth asking about. “Well, see you later.” He headed back toward the bar.

I forced myself to look back at the dumpster.

Soon Kiki's head popped up over the edge like a perverted jack-in-the-box. “He's not in here.” His white teeth flashed.

I let out a deep breath and lessened my grip on Ryan's boot.

The two men scrambled out of the bin and brushed themselves off.

“I gotta get back to the bar,” Kiki told me. “Anything I can do to help you, just let me know, Diana. They don't call me the majordomo of Malibu for nothing.”

“There is something, Kiki. Could you find someone to go to my house and board up the sliding door on my deck? The glass broke.”

“No problem. And don't worry about Ryan. He always turns up.”

I wasn't worried. I was terrified.

“I'll tell you what I know,” I said to Heath, hoping it wasn't too late.

S
till clutching Ryan's boot, I sat in Heath's car, which was now an Escalade instead of a Mercedes.

“Talk to me, Diana.” He turned in his seat, facing me.

I described everything that'd happened at Binder's; from our first arrival at his office to our return and finding Binder wounded and that his girlfriend, Pearl, had sold the Bella Casa key to Zackary Logan. I also told him what happened after I left him yesterday; the meeting at the Formosa, Beth Woods driving me to Bella Casa, and the discovery of Zackary Logan's body. I didn't tell him about Colin, or Celia and Ben's encounter.

“Sorry about the movie,” he said when I finished.

“Thank you.”

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, then, making a decision, he started the car.

“Would they take Ryan to Santa Barbara?” I asked.

“No, it's too far away. They'll want to question him quickly.” He threw the car in reverse. “Parson has a penthouse in a building he owns. He uses it when he's in town. I'll start there.”

“
We'll
start there. Where's his penthouse?”

He glanced sharply at me. “9000 Sunset.”

“Parson owns that? It's filled with production offices and business managers. My agent's in that building.”

“Parson loves Hollywood and its real estate.” Backing up, he swung the Escalade around, pointing toward Pacific Coast Highway, waiting for an opening in the line of rushing cars. “Why would Jenny prostitute herself if she didn't need to?”

“I don't think she thought of herself as a prostitute, like Pearl did. She had to be the brains behind the blackmailing scheme. Maybe she wanted to be like her father.”

There was a gap in the traffic, and he made a quick left, speeding toward Santa Monica.

“Do you think Parson ordered Rubio to shoot me?” I asked.

“No, I think you pissed him off when you slammed on your brakes and he didn't stop fast enough and banged into your car. That didn't make him look very good.” He grinned malevolently. “Image is just as important for hit men as it is for movie stars.”

“Great. Another insecure narcissist in Hollywood.”

“Except Rubio doesn't knife people in the back. He shoots them.”

Shivering, I looked out my side window. The reflection of my gaunt face stared back at me. “Will Parson let Ryan live?”

“They'll want information from him before they seriously hurt him. Everybody thinks it's the pain that makes you talk. But that's not entirely true. It's the anticipation of it, especially if you're a novice.”

“Novice?”

“I'm assuming Ryan has never been trained on how to handle torture.”

I glanced at Heath and wondered if he had. “So they'll hurt him.”

“Yes.”

“But he doesn't know anything.” I tried not to imagine the horror Ryan might be experiencing.

Suddenly Ryan's house loomed up in the Escalade's headlights, and I knew I couldn't bear living next door if he wasn't there. Slowing, Heath spun the steering wheel and swerved sharply, tires screeching, into my driveway. The Escalade came to an abrupt stop behind my Jag.

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

“I'm dropping you off.” Staring straight ahead, his voice was even and without emotion. “You need to be here for Kiki's guy when he comes to board up the broken door.”

“I need to
what
? I need to find Ryan! I owe him.”

“Diana, I don't know why you owe him, and if I did it wouldn't matter.”

“What if Rubio comes back and tries to shoot me again?”

“He won't. He'll be with Parson now.”

“How can you be so sure?” I snapped, furious.

“I know these guys. They're like dogs, they need the alpha male.” He turned on me, his voice rising angrily. “I don't want you involved.”

“I'm already involved, and you're just wasting time.”

His face hardened and his lips spread thin. I knew the expression well. I had seen it earlier in Zaitlin's office at Ben's party, and later in the limo going up to Santa Barbara. It was the look that said “I don't know you.”

“Get out of the car, Diana.” He leaned across me, his shoulder brushing against my breasts, and threw open the door. “Now!”

“Why do I keep walking into the propeller where you're concerned?” I grabbed Ryan's boot, got out, and slammed the door.

As he drove away, I ran down the path and up onto my deck. Stepping over the jagged pieces of glass, I stood in my living room. The cold ocean air rushed through my house as if it didn't exist. As if I didn't exist.

I left Ryan's Ugg on the coffee table and found a warm jacket in the hall closet and put it on. Then I grabbed my purse, making sure my cell phone was in it, and ran into the kitchen. Opening the booze cupboard, I uncorked the brandy, tipped the bottle, and tossed back two slugs.

As it burned through me, I wondered why Heath had given me the address of Parson's penthouse if he'd really wanted me to stay here and take care of the old homestead. He knew me well enough to know that I wasn't going to back off. Was he just hoping I would? Or was he using me in some way?

It didn't matter what he was up to. I needed to find Ryan, and the address was the only lead I had.

I went back into the living room and grabbed the Ugg. Praying that Ryan would still need it, I hurried out to the Jag, jumped in, and opened the glove compartment.

The Glock was still there.

T
aking the curves too fast, I sped east on Sunset, trying to plan what I was going to do when I got to Parson's building. How was I even going to get in? He had his bodyguards. I had a Glock. Somehow it didn't seem to even things out.

Someone once said there are only two seasons in Los Angeles—day and night. In a way it's true. There are no seasonal transitions here, we live in Technicolor, and then we fade to black. And for some reason it makes our nighttime feel more dangerous, more final. I wondered what kind of darkness Ryan was experiencing. I thought of the night blowing through my house. Had I left the TV on? Or was there only the sound of the wind?

I raced through the sedate darkness of Beverly Hills into the garish lights of the Sunset Strip and slowed down. The black glass high-rise at 9000 Sunset rose above the smaller buildings, restaurants, and clubs. It reminded me of the ebony glass tower that Lew Wasserman had built on the Universal Studios lot in my mother's time. A dark reflection of cold power.

I turned down a side street and found a place to park. Opening the glove compartment, I reached for the Glock—then stopped. If I got into the building, Parson's bodyguards would search me and take it away. The gun would make them more suspicious, more watchful. Grabbing the Glock, I wedged it under my seat, thinking it would be easier to reach if I had to escape back to the car. Of course, in the meantime someone could steal the gun because I couldn't lock the damn doors.

I left it and ran up the side street to Sunset.

Peering through the thick glass entrance door, I could see a security guard sitting at a desk that matched the black marbled floors and black marbled walls. The lobby looked like a place of interment. A lone light lit up a laptop, but the guard wasn't interested in it: his head had lolled down until his chin rested on his chest. His uniform was the kind that rented security guards wore. He wasn't dressed like one of Parson's men.

I pounded on the door. His head jerked up, he looked in my direction and waved me away with a dismissive hand. As he settled back into his comfort zone, I used both fists, banging harder. When he didn't react, I stomped my feet and shouted at the top of my voice, “Let me in! Let me in!”

People on the sidewalk hurried past me as if I were a crazy woman and they didn't want any part of me. “When acting the role of a mad woman, always keep a soupçon of reality to your performance,” Mother had told me. “Otherwise you're just another ham.”

I was all ham now. Pounding, screaming, stomping, and shaking my head so my hair flew wildly. My only fear was that he'd call the police, but if Parson was there I doubted they'd want the cops around.

Still indicating I should get lost, the guard climbed begrudgingly to his feet. From an alcove near the desk a man in a black suit appeared. My hands were beginning to hurt. The two men conversed, then both walked toward me. As they neared, I recognized Gerald, Parson's chauffeur. He knew me immediately and stopped, unsure.

“Open the door,” I demanded. I was out of breath but easing back into being Diana Poole. “I have important information for Parson.”

The guard looked at the chauffeur, waiting for instructions. Gerald seemed confused. He was a driver, a man used to taking orders not giving them.

“Parson will want to hear what I have to say,” I yelled.

He didn't move.

Finally I used the one word I knew would force him into action. “It's about Jenny. His daughter!” I shouted.

Confused, he looked over his shoulder at a phone on the desk, then back at me. Finally he nodded to the guard, who took a bunch of keys from his belt, found the right one, and unlocked the door. But Gerald pushed in front of him, blocking my entrance.

“What about his daughter?” he asked.

“It's personal.”

“Tell me. I'll pass it on.”

“Really? You think that's what Parson would want?”

“He's not here.”

I doubted that, since he was Parson's chauffeur. “Where is he?”

“Not here.”

“What's Parson going to say to you when he finds out you wouldn't let me in, but instead asked me to give personal information about his daughter in front of this rent-a-cop?”

Glowering at me over the driver's shoulder, the security guard shifted his weight to let me know how big he was.

I continued my rant. “Parson knows I'm the one who cared about her so much that I went looking for her and found her dead body. Do you think I'd be pounding on this door if it wasn't an emergency?”

Gerald was paralyzed with indecision.

I should have brought the damn Glock so I could shoot him. “How do you think I knew about his penthouse if Parson didn't give me the address?”

He blinked his dull penny-shaped eyes

“All right,” I said. “I won't be responsible for what Parson does to you when he finds out how you treated me. And I'm sure you know how he handles people who disobey his orders.” I adjusted my purse on my shoulder, flipped my hair back and, taking a big chance, turned and walked away.

“Wait!” The word sounded as if it had fallen from his mouth like a rock. “Let her in.”

He stepped back as the security guard opened the door all the way. I was in the lobby.

Now all I had to do was act my way up to the penthouse.