The Bright Silver Star (22 page)

Then he held his hand out to her, and said, “Come on, Becca, I’ll take you home.”

C
HAPTER 10

“I
DIDN’T HEAR
T
ITO
smack her around,” Chrissie Huberman insisted. “I didn’t hear
anything
—and you can’t make me say I did.”

“We’re not trying to, Miss Huberman,” Yolie said back at her, somewhat helplessly. “We’re trying to figure out what happened that night.”

“Well, don’t look at me, okay? And if
I’m
the best you can come up with as a suspect then you are just totally brain challenged.”

“You’re not a suspect,” Soave said, trying to cool the publicist’s jets. As if he or anyone else could. “We’re investigating an unexplained death.”

“Can you boys and girls even
deal
with a case this hot?” she wanted to know. “You should consider bringing in an outside consultant. I can pick up the phone and get you a retired NYPD chief of detectives here by three o’clock. He’ll be up to speed by the five o’clock news. You want me to make the call?”

“What we want,” Des said slowly, “is for you to relax and answer the questions that are put to you.”

“Fine, whatever,” Chrissie blustered, puffing out her cheeks.

They were grouped around a conference table in the spare conference room of Dorset’s musty-smelling town hall. The Major Crime Squad computers were up and running in there, and a couple of uniformed troopers were busy working the phones. Outside, there was total insanity—news vans with satellite transmitters lined up every which way on Dorset Street, reporters and cameramen waiting in a noisy, impatient cluster out on the curb for their twelve o’clock feeding.

Chrissie sat erect at the end of the table, dressed in a yellow silk
blouse, white linen slacks, and suede loafers. Her hands were placed palm down on the table, fingers spread wide. She had big hands and wrists. She was a big woman, tall, rangy and very sure of herself. She was not pretty, but everything about her manner suggested that if you didn’t think she was then you’d been seriously misinformed.

“At present, we’re still trying to fill in the blanks,” explained Soave.

“What if I told you I’d like to have my lawyer present?” she demanded, glaring at the three of them.

“That’s totally your right.”

“Not necessary,” she said dismissively. “I have a law degree myself.”

“I thought you were a publicist,” he said, frowning.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be well educated, does it?” Chrissie raised her longish nose in the air, sniffing. “You know, this building smells an awful lot like my grandmother’s house in Great Neck. What am I . . . Wait, that’s
moth balls
I’m smelling, right? And something else . . .”

“Ben-Gay,” Des informed her quietly.

“Definitely
Ben-Gay,” she exclaimed. “God, I would have been up all night wondering about that. Thank you, Trooper.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Yolie said, “We understand from Esme that you’re planning to stay around Dorset, even though she’s terminated your services.”

“If by that you mean I was fired, I wasn’t,” Chrissie said smoothly. “Esme can’t fire me. I didn’t work for her—I worked for Tito. And now is when he needs me the most. His whole legacy as a screen star is on the line. The lasting image that audiences around the world will have of Tito Molina is being cast right at this very minute. I will not quit on him. Too much is at stake.”

“Pretty big story for you, too, I imagine,” Yolie suggested.

“What are you trying to do, girlfriend, fit me for a hooker hat?” Chrissie snarled at her angrily.

Yolie drew back, a bit overwhelmed by this savvy, hard-shell New York
image broker. Clearly, this would go down as a learning day in Boom Boom’s personal diary. “I’m just wondering why you’re still around.”

“I’m
around
because I cared about that kid,” Chrissie said. “Both of them, actually, whether Esme believes it or not. She’s a helpless little lamb. If I don’t stay in town she’ll be slaughtered by those predators out there. Who else does she have watching her back? Her aging preppy bitch of a mother? Besides, I have another client passing through this area today, so it made no sense for me to go back to New York. I’m bunking at the Frederick House Inn for a few days.”

“How did you manage that?” Des asked her curiously.

“How did I manage what?”

“It’s the peak of the summer beach season. Plus every tabloid reporter in America is in town. How did you get a room there on such short notice?”

“No biggie,” Chrissie said offhandedly. “A writer for the
Daily News
swapped me her room for an exclusive.”

“What exclusive would that be?” Des asked.

Chrissie looked down her nose at her. “You don’t really care about shop talk, do you?”

“Just answer the question, please,” Des persisted, as Yolie watched them go back and forth, content to be riding the bench for now.

Chrissie shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, sure. I fed her that rough sex spin to explain Esme’s split lip. Kinky sex between two beautiful stars the public will eat up. Wife beating they will not—bad for Tito’s image.”

“Not to mention Esme’s lip,” Des said. “So
you
were the informed source close to the golden couple. Girl, you have you some skills. I’m impressed.”

“I work hard for my clients,” Chrissie said simply.

“Most definitely. But now you’ve got to show us the love, too.”

“What are you talking about?” Chrissie wanted to know.

“I’m talking about you sitting here telling us that you couldn’t hear what went on that night between Tito and Esme. That’s just not going to get it done, is it, Lieutenant?”

Soave shook his head gravely. “Not even maybe.”

“But it’s the truth!” Chrissie protested.

“Tell us what you heard, Chrissie,” Des said, raising her voice at her. “Give us some news we can use.”

“Look, it’s a big, big piece of property. There are acres of lawn in between the guesthouse and the main house. They’re nowhere even near each other.”

“Where were you earlier that evening?” Soave asked.

“I went out to dinner with a couple of reporter friends. Got home at about ten-thirty, climbed into bed, and worked the phone.”

“Who were you talking to at that time of night?”

“My other clients, for starters. They’re my babies. I have to tuck them into bed. And I called Gunnar, my husband. We talk every night when I’m away. Then I, let’s see, I talked to Tito’s agent on the coast, then a guy I know
at Daily Variety.
What can I tell you? I live on the phone. I was too wired to sleep, so I took a Valium.”

“How often do you need to do that?” Yolie asked her.

“Are we here to talk about my personal shortcomings?” Chrissie shot back.

“Please answer the question, Miss Huberman,” Soave said.

“Fairly regularly, okay? I get kind of wound up. Maybe you noticed.”

“And you heard no yelling going on between Tito and Esme?” Yolie pressed her doggedly.

“For the thousandth time—no.”

“What about cars?” Des asked. “Did you hear any cars come and go?”

Chrissie thought about this for a second. “I did, now that you mention it. The driveway there is gravel, and it makes a definite crunching noise. Somebody pulled in about eleven-thirty, maybe twelve. Then went out again a few minutes later. Another car took off not long after that.”

So Chrissie was corroborating Esme’s story, Des reflected, that Tito had come and gone in a huff and that she, Esme, had then gone running to Jeff Wachtell. “We’re placing the time of Tito’s death at
between one-thirty and two,” Des said, shoving her horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “You were in bed?”

“Asleep,” Chrissie replied, nodding. “I dropped off at around one.”

“Alone, yes?”

“Alone, yes,” she answered frostily. “Next thing I knew Esme was in my bedroom screaming about how the police had just found Tito, and I had to hit the ground running in six different directions at once. It’s been like that ever since.”

“She doesn’t seem all that crazy about you,” Des said. “Esme, I mean.”

“She doesn’t have to be.”

Des stepped into the batter’s box now and swung from her heels. “Would that have anything to do with the fact that you were sleeping with Tito?”

Chrissie wouldn’t take the bait. “Why, what did she tell you about us?” she asked, not the least bit flustered.

“Not one single thing.”

“Then how do you . . . Oh, I get it. Tito must have told someone. He wasn’t real discreet, to put it mildly.” Chrissie fell silent for a moment, staring down at her hands on the table. “Esme probably did know, yeah. And my personal rule of thumb is whatever she knows, Mommy knows.”

“How long had you two been involved?” Des asked.

“ ‘Involved’ isn’t the word for it. Tito didn’t get involved. The boy was strictly a midnight rambler. Showed up bombed on my doorstep late one night.”

“And you let him in?”

“Are you kidding me? He was the sexiest man in America. Who was I not to? And in answer to your next question—Gunnar and me, we’re not about being possessive. So this was not a major deal, okay?” She paused, lowering her voice confidentially. “Neither was Tito, for that matter. In the sack, I mean. Besides, we only slept together a grand total of four times. Three, technically. The last time he couldn’t even rise to the occasion.”

“Too bombed?”

“Too
something.
Don’t ask me what. The boy didn’t exactly confide.”

“Was he upset about it?”

“Well, he wasn’t thrilled, if that’s what you mean.”

“This is a very interesting angle, Des,” Soave spoke up. “I am liking this large.”

“I heard that,” Yolie agreed, nodding her braided head.

Chrissie’s eyes immediately widened. “Whoa, do not even go there,” she said, her voice rising with urgency. “Tito did
not
toss himself off of that waterfall because of me. This is ancient history I’m talking about. Five, six months ago. It happened when I was staying with them out in L.A. And he never, ever knocked on my door again after that. We’ve been strictly business ever since. And in case you’re thinking I’m some kind of a Sally Home Wrecker, forget that, too. Their marriage was already a joke.”

“You saying he got around?” Yolie asked her.

Chrissie let out a sharp bray of a laugh. “Don’t put it all on him. Esme more than kept up her end. And that girl’s taste in men isn’t the greatest, believe me. She’s a slut for big dumb clods. That’s the real reason why Tito wouldn’t have bodyguards around. She was always giving ’em some in the pool house.”

“This made Tito jealous?” Des asked, leaning forward.

“Totally,” Chrissie affirmed. “Understand this about Tito Molina. He was a genuine rebel—angry, soulful, gifted, all of that. But when it came to women he was strictly old school. He wanted to chase puss whenever he felt like it, and he wanted Esme waiting patiently at home for him. And if she talked back to him,
wham,
right in the kisser. Trust me, she wasn’t going to take that from him much longer. A few more months at most. The marriage was toast. That’s why Tito’s agent was so anxious for them to make
Puppy Love.
It was going to be their last big payday together. I am talking north of thirty million between the two of them. But it was absolutely vital that they start filming it right away.”

“Vital for who?” Des asked.

“For everyone,” Chrissie replied, bristling. “We are talking about two mega-stars. When they work, hundreds and hundreds of other people work. And I’m not talking about the glamour people. I’m talking about the assistant wardrobe girl and the guy who drives the catering truck. These people depend on that work to feed their families. And I’m talking about the fans. The millions of young people who wait in line for hours in the rain just for a chance to see those two up on screen together.” Chrissie broke off, her eyes glittering at Des defiantly from across the table. “You think we were
using
them, don’t you? You think we were manipulating poor little Tito and Esme for our own selfish personal gain. Well, you’re wrong. I happen to know actors better than you do, and do you know what they fear the most in life?
Being ignored.
If those two had made
Puppy Love
together, it would have been sheer tabloid heaven—just like Taylor and Burton in
Cleopatra.
And, believe me, they both would have loved every single crazy minute of it.” Chrissie sighed, her voice heavy with regret. “But now it’s never going to happen.”

“Tell us what Tito was up to since they arrived in Dorset,” Yolie said.

“Okay, sure,” Chrissie said easily. “What would you like to know?”

“Were you aware that he was seeing someone?”

“I assumed he was. He slipped out a lot late at night.”

“Who was she?”

“You’re assuming it was one particular she. It’s more likely that there were several women.”

“Can you give us a name? One name?”

Chrissie shook her head. “I don’t do that. I don’t gossip about a client.”

“Shut up,” Yolie exclaimed. “What do you call what you were just doing?”

“Dishing like nobody’s business, you ask me,” Soave said, nodding.

“I was not. I was talking about Tito and me. I mentioned no other names. Go ahead, look it up in your notes.” Now Chrissie focused
her gaze on Des. “How come you haven’t asked me who
Esme
was seeing?”

Des didn’t respond.

“It’s because you already know his name, am I right?”

Again, Des didn’t respond.

“I see, so you get to ask questions and I don’t.” Chrissie heaved her chest, exasperated. “Then let me put it to you this way—are you at least taking a good, hard look at Mitch Berger as your killer?”

“Why do you say
killer?”
Soave fired back. “We’re investigating an unexplained death, remember? Or do you know something we don’t know?”

“I know that he’s very well connected.” Chrissie stared right at Des as she said this, purposely trying to push her buttons. “I know that he and Tito really threw down at The Works.”

“Tito threw down,” Des corrected her. “Mitch hit the deck.”