Borderline (13 page)

22

Breakfast was officially the last thing on my mind now, but in the interest of improving my relations with my partner, I waited patiently for my turn. As I headed toward the dining room with my omelet, I heard Tjuan in mid-conversation with an agitated Phil.

“Your name's not on it?” Phil said. “You rewrote the damn thing from scratch!”

“That's how it works,” said Tjuan, feeding a scrap of bacon to Monty, who was perched nearby on the table. “I get the money, they get the credit.”

Phil snorted. “I wouldn't ghostwrite
one note
of a song; I don't care how much they offered.”

“I don't want the damn credit. My name does a script more harm than good anymore.”

I must have been gaping at Tjuan like a fish as I sat down; I left an empty chair between us for the sake of politeness. “You're a for-real screenwriter?” I said.

“Nope.” He slammed shut like a vault. Monty's ear flicked backward, and he jumped down off the table, bacon notwithstanding.

“Sure you are!” said Phil. “Just because you don't get any—”

“We're done talking now,” said Tjuan, and Phil sighed. I took the hint and gulped down the rest of my omelet in silence.

Was that why Tjuan was so hostile to me? Did he see me as competition? If so, he'd be thrilled to hear that Caryl's grand plans for my career involved me fetching lattes and picking up dry cleaning. When I was finished eating, I went to pay Teo my compliments before excusing myself to call my more tempting career option.

“Berenbaum,” he answered, packing about as much stress as a man could cram into three syllables. I felt a stab of guilt but powered past it.

“It's Millie,” I said.

“I know, kiddo, I've got caller ID. What's up?” Short, clipped. I knew not to take it personally; Dr. Davis and I had worked on this.
What is the goal of this interaction?
My goal was to get information, not to stroke my ego.

“I found out what you and Susman were arguing about.”

He didn't respond right away. I hated not knowing if it was distraction, guilt, annoyance, confusion, or something else entirely.

“And?” he finally said.

“I just wondered why you didn't bring it up before.”

“Didn't I?” He sounded so confused it was contagious. Had he?

“I'm pretty sure you didn't.”

“I don't know what to tell you. Are you still planning to go to the train station today?”

The change of subject set off alarm bells. “Absolutely. But don't you find it odd that one of your business partners was leaving Johnny insistent voice mails and the other one was invited to his resort room?”

“You're saying you think this has to do with the studio?”

“That didn't occur to you when Teo brought up Inaya the first day?”

“He said she was having drama with Johnny. Johnny's not a partner in the studio, so why would she call him about it instead of, I don't know,
me
?”

“A good question.”

“Ask her if you want, so long as you don't mention fairies, but I'm serious about staying off Vivian's radar.”

“If she's so dangerous, why are you even working with her?”

“She promised not to cause me harm.”

“And you believe her?”

“Fey,” he reminded me.

“Right, fey can't lie. Sorry, I'm used to doubting everything people say.”

“With fey you only have to doubt what you see. Look, sorry I can't be any more help, but I'm putting out fires right and left today.”

A rule I had made for myself when trying to bluff my way through Hollywood was always to be the first to start wrapping up a conversation. I seemed to be repeatedly failing at this with Berenbaum, and it irked me.

You deserve an answer. Stand up for yourself.

“Mr. Berenbaum—”

“David.”

“David, just tell me straight up. Why didn't you mention that this might have to do with the studio? You've had a dozen opportunities, and the fact that it never came up is really bother­ing me.”

Another brief silence. I was starting to hate the phone.

“Millie, I honestly don't know what to tell you. I could swear I brought it up when we were talking about Susman. I'm just so scattered right now. I'm obsessed with getting this film out and—to be honest—not knowing anymore if it's going to save or tank my career. My head is not in a good place for this.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, “but if you want to see Johnny again, you might need to shift your focus a little.”

“Duly scolded. I'll call you tomorrow, early, while my head's still clear. Promise.”

After hanging up I felt a rush of anxiety. Had he blown me off? Was this flash powder? Even if not, the conversation hadn't gone well. I knew he was already over it, but I couldn't stop tormenting myself with the idea that his last thought of me was that I'd interrupted his already stressful workday with an accusation.

I had to resist the urge to think of something brilliant to say and call him right back. Only Dr. Davis's voice, almost a part of my own consciousness by now, kept me from behaving like an idiot.

Push it away. He already has.

Caryl was sitting on her favorite couch in the living room, so I took myself and my crutches over to her.

“Whatever is going on,” I said, “I'm ninety percent sure it's about the new studio. At least this gives us something to research. Berenbaum doesn't want me talking to Vivian—”

“Neither do I.”

“—so I thought I would try Inaya West.”

“Just be certain that you do not—”

“—mention fairies or magic. I know, I know.”

My crutches were starting to bruise my armpits, so I decided
to have a seat in my wheelchair, which now had a permanent parking spot in the living room. I idly turned myself in circles with my free hand while I waited for Inaya's voice mail. Her outgoing message was an automated one that just spit back the number I'd dialed, so I couldn't be certain I had the number right.

“My name's Millie,” I said to her machine, keeping my tone warm and friendly. “I understand you've been trying to track down John Riven. I think you and I should talk.” I gave my number and left it at that. The simpler the better when dealing with people who are, as Teo would have put it, way above your pay grade.

As I relaxed in my chair to plan my next move, Gloria's boyfriend, whose name I'd forgotten
again
, wandered in and sat down at the grand piano. After a moment's hesitation, he started into a somber Rachmaninoff prelude.

As I listened I found my mind wandering back to the LAPD officer, feeling retroactively puzzled by the way he'd looked at me. Not because there was anything all that special about it, but because there
wasn't
.

As wrong as it is, people in wheelchairs don't get treated normally by strangers. People see the chair first and wrestle with their discomfort, then their guilt over their discomfort. Sometimes they cover for it with extra-friendly smiles; sometimes they look sympathetic; mostly they just avert their eyes for fear of being rude. Brian Clay hadn't done any of those things, and it made me wonder why. Did he have a disabled friend or family member? Or was it just seen-it-all syndrome from years at a tough job?

I got back on my crutches and carefully levered myself up
the stairs to my room, my phone tucked into my pocket. There was no point in holding my breath waiting for a celebrity to return my call, and I wanted to do something useful between now and the train station, so I found Clay's card, and I gave him a ring.

“Yeah?” he answered more quickly than I'd expected.

“It's Millie. Millie Roper, the girl you were following.”

“Do you have something for me?”

“I might,” I said. “Do you think we could meet somewhere? Coffee or something?”

There was a long pause, and I started to feel stupid, but then he said, “Where?”

I picked the closest coffee shop to the Residence to save on cab fare, and he said he'd meet me there.

Before leaving, I invaded Teo's room to use the computer. I double-checked the time and departure track of Rivenholt's train, then sent an e-mail to Berenbaum with the details in case he wanted to show up and catch me being heroic. I printed a copy for myself and stuck it in my backpack along with some cash, my ID, ChapStick, a roll of Certs: the usual sort of things you take with you when you are going to meet an attractive police officer.

The coffee shop was a corporate clone, utterly lacking in personality, and Clay was an odd match for it. He sat at a table against the wall, and as I hobbled over on my crutches, I was struck once again by the long, coarse lines of his face. He evaded handsomeness by a narrow margin, and his macho blue-collar vibe was heavily mitigated both by his goatee and by the metric ton of sugar he was dumping into his caffè mocha.

“Careful,” I greeted him. “I think there might still be some coffee in there.”

“Millie. Sit.”

“I hope you haven't been waiting for me too long.”

“All my life,” he said, about as suave as a sack of bricks. I burst into startled snorts of laughter. “Sorry,” he said immediately, one corner of his mouth turning up. “I watch too much TV.”

I sat down, plopping my backpack onto the table and leaning it against the window. “I'll try not to keep you from work too long,” I said, trying to hide the massive rush I felt at being flirted with. By a
cop
. What the hell?

“This could be work,” he said with a shrug. “You have information?”

“Yeah, but I don't know if I should give it to you. This whole situation is just beyond weird. Is there anything you can share with me about the abduction you mentioned? When it happened? Johnny's relationship to the girl? Anything?”

“No,” he said.

“Well, this was a huge waste of time for both of us, then,” I said, sitting back.

“Unless we find something else to talk about.”

My pulse kicked up a notch, and I sat up straight. “Like what?”

“Like why you jumped off a building.”

“Ah.” I sat back again. “Not to be rude, but why does it matter?”

“It . . . was a bad day for me,” he said. “I'd always—ugh, I don't know, it'll sound cocky.”

“I like cocky.”

“Well I'd always been kind of a prodigy. Everyone thought I could do no wrong. So after that I kind of—well, I lost my grip for a while. Lost my job for a bit; had to fight to get it back.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize. I just want to know why you jumped.”

“It was a rough year. I'll leave it at that.”

“You don't have to leave it. I actually want to hear. Do you think I'm going to judge you or something?”

For some reason, I really didn't. I probably should have felt weirder talking about this stuff to a complete stranger, but it had been a long time since I'd had anyone but a stranger to talk to, and this particular stranger had a wry, haunted vibe that was kind of working for me.

“I slept with one of my professors,” I said, looking at my hands. “It didn't end well.”

He slurped at his drink and didn't say anything for a while. Finally he said, “You're not going to do anything like that again, right?”

“Sleep with an authority figure? No promises.”

“I meant, try to end your life.”

“No,” I said more soberly. “I won't be doing that again.”

“You understand why I ask, right? I mean, if life looked hard to you back then . . .” He gestured unashamedly to my legs.

I could have been offended, but in truth I was surprised no one else had said that to my face. I traced figure eights on the table with my fingertip, then sighed. “Here's the thing, Brian. From across the room, I'll admit death looks like a real babe. But I've been close enough to see what's under her makeup, and no thanks. Really.”

“All right,” he said.

“Will that help you sleep better?”

“I'm a long way from sleeping well. But it's good to hear.”

“What would it take to help you sleep?”

He didn't respond, just lifted his gaze from his drink. I instantly regretted my innuendo; his eyes were empty pits of misery. Even without a direct rebuke, I got the message that whatever was keeping him up nights was something that I should have treated with more respect.

An apology rushed into my throat, but as always, my Border­line allergy to contrition made it stick there. So I just looked back at him, hoping I was as easy to read as he was.

“I wish I could tell you,” he finally said.

“Why can't you?”

“You've said you're a friend of Berenbaum's, and I can't—”

He broke off as my phone rang. I fumbled in my backpack, hurrying to answer. “This is Millie.”

“Millie,” said Inaya West. “Who the hell are you?”

23

“Hold on just one second,” I said to the movie star, “and I'll explain everything.” I mouthed, “Be right back!” to Clay and tried to get back up on my crutches, which was awkward with the phone in my hand. Clay did a little half lurch forward before changing his mind and leaning back again. I appreciated the vote of confidence, and sure enough, I managed to get up and out to the sidewalk without face-planting on the tile.

“I'm so sorry,” I said once I was out of Clay's earshot. “I was in a coffee shop, and I wanted to make sure I could hear you. I'm Millie Roper; I've been working with David Berenbaum.” Best to keep things as generic as possible and let her lead the conversation. The fewer lies I had to remember, the better. “There seems to be some weirdness going on with John Riven lately, and I'm trying to sort it all out.”

“Do you know how I can get in touch with him?” she asked. “He hasn't been returning my calls, and now David won't either.”

“I know David's been wrapped up with problems in postproduction and hasn't had—”

“Bullshit. Pardon my French. But that's a load of shit. Either he's slinging it at you or you're slinging it at me. Which is it?”

This was not the kind of conversation I'd hoped to be having. “If he's been dodging your calls,” I said, leaning back against the wall of the coffee shop, “I honestly have no idea why. I just know that you've been trying to contact Johnny, and Johnny is being a pain in my ass too, and I thought we could help each other.”

“What would help me,” said Inaya with tightly controlled fury, “would be if people would stop pumping twenty gallons of sunshine up my ass every time I try to find out what's going on with a project I sold my house to help finance.”

“So this
is
about the studio.”

“I'm not answering any more questions until you answer some of mine. I'm not surprised Johnny's blowing me off, but David I expected better from. This is bullshit.”

A motorcycle roared by, giving me a moment to think. In my years of dealing with touchy actors and underpaid crew, I had learned that trying to soothe an angry person is like pouring gasoline on a fire. There are only two good ways to deal with someone's anger: give it what it wants, or failing that, agree with it.

“You're right,” I said as soon as the motorcycle had passed. “It's bullshit.”

I was rewarded with a few seconds of silence. “What?” she finally managed.

“Screw him,” I said. “He gets what he wants and then kicks you to the curb. It'll be me next, just watch. I don't blame you for wanting to punch him in the mouth.”

“Well, it's not right.” I could hear her relax a little.

“Damn right it's not. And since when is John Riven anything but a hot piece of ass? Why does the world seem to revolve around him all of a sudden?”

“What
is
he up to?” Another pause as she reengaged her Reason Mind. “What exactly is your relationship with David?”

“He prefers I don't talk about the specifics.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “You're a PI, aren't you?”

Sure, why not?
“Well, at least I can honestly say I didn't tell you that. David hired me to look into Johnny.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Just hold up a minute here. David hired a PI to check out his best friend? What the hell?”

“I don't ask my clients a lot of unnecessary questions in this economy.” I loved dropping “in this economy” into conversation; it was like a get-out-of-logic-free card, especially if you were talking to people who couldn't remember the last time they had to pick up their own dry cleaning.

Inaya started to laugh. “Sweet Jesus, this is a clusterfuck. You know Ellis Barnes?”

“Rings a bell.” It didn't.

“I hired him to follow Berenbaum around.”

“Unbelievable,” I said. “People never just
talk
to each other.”

“If they did, you'd be out of a job.”

“You know I'm going to have to tell Berenbaum you're investigating him, right?”

“Good!” she said. “Maybe that will get him to answer my damned calls. I never get ugly on voice mail, because I don't want to see it on YouTube cut to paparazzi shots of me picking my nose. So you can be the one to tell him, I know about all those late-night trips to the construction site with Johnny and Vivian.”

“You do?” I said, trying not to sound thrown as I groped my memory for details. “Down in Manhattan Beach?”

“Mm-hmm.”

But I couldn't ask what trips, or when, without casting severe doubt on my credibility.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I will tell Berenbaum you know about the Manhattan Beach meetings. I'll tell him he'd better call you if he doesn't want a PR disaster. In return, I would love to hear any juicy tidbits you have about Johnny's life these days. The more illicit the better.”

“You have no idea how much I'd love that,” Inaya said. “But Johnny has always been the perfect gentleman. Almost suspiciously so.”

“I need more than that,” I said. “Like why the police would be looking for him.”

“The police? Shit, I had no idea.” But she was grinning; I could hear it.

“I just made your day, didn't I.”

“Hell yes.”

“Do you have any reason to suspect Johnny did anything to Aaron Susman or anyone in his family?”

“Not that I've heard. But I'm going to put Ellis on this; he's brilliant. I promise, whatever he finds out, after me you'll be the very next person to know.”

My new pal and I said our good-byes, and I hobbled my way back into the coffee shop to find the table empty except for my backpack. My disappointment was intense until I saw the napkin that had been pushed over to my side of the table. I gave my damaged brain a moment to process the words on it.

WORK CALLS, URGENT. LET'S DO THIS AGAIN. And then his number, which I already had, but it lent sincerity to what might otherwise have seemed like a blow-off. I grinned as I folded the napkin and tucked it into my pocket.

Thanks to a reckless cabdriver, I returned to the Residence in plenty of time to head upstairs and check out my thigh wounds in the privacy of my room. They were looking better after some fresh air and attention, so I took a chance and carefully donned my AK prosthesis again. Then, grabbing my cane, I walked down the hall to pester Teo.

His door was ajar, and he was at his computer, surfing a recipe site at light speed while muttering something about butternut squash.

“Hey,” I said. “Do you post your recipes online?”

“Are you kidding?” he scoffed. “Would da Vinci make a YouTube tutorial on how to paint the Sistine Chapel?”

“Get up, Leonardo; the cripple needs your chair.”

To his credit, he did get up, pulling the chair out for me. I sat down with a muffled groan, and he started kneading my shoulders.

“What's up?” he said. “You disappeared, and now you look like the cat who ate the canary.”

I didn't answer right away; I was too busy trying not to fall over from how damned amazing it felt to have his fingers digging into the knotted muscles of my back. It would do no good to let him know this, because then he would stop.

“I have a
suitor
,” I finally said.

He didn't respond, just kept massaging.

“Jealous?” I teased.

“Mostly just confused.”

“Well, I don't know if it's a suitor. But I'm going to pretend it's one, because it makes me happy, and happy is hard to come by.”

“Is he cuter than me?”

“Not really.”

“Smarter, I bet.”

“He wants to date me, so I'm guessing no. But he's older.” I let out a dazed grunt as Teo did something complicated with his knuckles under my shoulder blades. Rivenholt's folder was sitting open on Teo's desk, and as I leaned forward, I fiddled with the paper clip holding the photo to it.

“He doesn't sound too awesome,” Teo said.

“It's the cop who's been looking for Rivenholt, okay? So I have an ulterior motive.” Did I? I couldn't even keep track anymore.

“Is everything about work for you?”

“What else have I got?” I said, trying not to sound too drunk. “But it's interesting. Berenbaum thinks Inaya and Vivian are plotting against him, and Inaya thinks Vivian and Berenbaum are plotting against her. By my math, that suggests that Vivian is plotting against both of them. How Rivenholt and an abduction are involved, I still don't know.”

“I just want to boot him back to Arcadia. I don't need to know all the drama.”

“Want to drive me to the train station at three so we can nab him?”

Teo's hands stilled. “Wait, what?”

“Weren't you there when I was talking to Berenbaum?” I slipped the paper clip off Rivenholt's folder and picked up the photo, staring at those breathtaking eyes.

“Listening to your phone call would've required more of a shit than I actually give about any of this,” he said, starting up the massage again. “Are you sure he's going to be there?”

“Tell you what,” I said, admiring Rivenholt's cheekbones and trying to ignore the way Teo's hands were encroaching on
side-boob. “If we go and he's not there, I'll do your laundry for a month.”

“You just want to rifle through my underwear.”

“Says the guy copping a feel.”

Teo retracted his hands, but it was worth it to score the point. “Fine,” he said. “I'll drive you.”

I slipped Rivenholt's photo into my pocket. “Don't get me wrong,” I said. “I'm all for fooling around, but I think we skipped first base.”

“Excuse me for not knowing the rules.”

“What are you, a virgin?”

His spine stiffened, and he headed for the door. “You're not even allowed to ask me that.”

“Oh my God, you
are
.”

He stood there holding the door open and not looking at me.

“Aw, hey,” I said. “Don't feel weird. It's kind of awesome, actually. Good on you. I just—well, now I get the mixed-signals thing. I thought you were just being a dick.”

“Can't I be a virgin
and
a dick?”

“If you ever have any questions about anything—”

“You know what would be awesome? If we talked about something that wasn't this.”

“Fine. To the train station.”