Desert Lost (9781615952229) (15 page)

Otto gave her an anguished look, then reluctantly plodded back to the bedroom.

But not before I saw the scabs on his knuckles.

***

Because of the heavy rain, it seemed to take forever to drive to Boyle Heights, where Dean Orval Nevitt was being held in the psych ward of Los Angeles County-USC Medical Center. I didn't mind the rain all that much because the even worse than usual stop-and-go traffic gave me plenty of time to think. Two years earlier, when Nevitt's stalking behavior first escalated, Angel had hired Otto as her live-in bodyguard to keep Nevitt at arm's length when protection orders failed, which they all too frequently did. The Black Monk arrived with recommendations from other film stars he'd kept from harm. But Otto was human, and Angel was among the most beautiful of women. I couldn't help remembering last week's visit to her house. While we'd sat by the pool watching lit candles float by on fake lily pads, I'd noticed him moving his chair ever closer to hers as he sneaked glances at her slender hands, her full lips.

Why hadn't I realized then that he'd fallen in love with her?

Just like Nevitt.

Would the Black Monk forge threatening letters in order to stay at her side? Or if he wasn't the culprit, would he—overcome with fear for her safety—have searched out Nevitt and beat him almost to death?

The scenery looked less and less Monet-esque the further east I drove, where glimmering green hillsides had been replaced by towers of steel and glass, which in turn were replaced by older concrete buildings not yet demolished. The faces I glimpsed hurrying on foot through the rain changed, too, from tanning-bed-gold to natural brown. Finally, the traffic allowed me to reach the massive, fifty-six acre hospital complex that tended to Los Angeles' knifed, shot, poor, crazy, and uninsured.

After I found the right building among the one hundred-and-twenty-three structures available to chose from, I bought flowers at the gift shop, then waded through a multi-lingual crowd to the reception desk. I identified myself as Dean Orval Nevitt's cousin to a harried young woman hunched behind a computer, who after several searches on her screen, gave me his room number. Before she could tell me he wasn't allowed visitors, I joined the throng headed toward a large bank of elevators.

My good luck stayed with me. When I stumbled off the elevator, the corridor was crowded enough to render me invisible, so I pushed my way through the herd toward Nevitt's room. The corridor stank of sweat, Lysol, and fear. Moans from the suffering cascaded over the nervous chatter of visitors. Although attempts had been made to repair the decades-old walls, the hospital's seventy-plus years revealed themselves in each gouge, each peeling-away section of paint. I counted no fewer than three custodians busily mopping away, but my feet still stuck to the aged tiles. Hard to believe that Norma Jean Baker, a.k.a. Marilyn Monroe, took her first sweet breath in this place.

Halfway down the corridor, a young woman at the nurse's station hailed me. “Wait, ma'am. Who are you visiting?”

I waved the flowers and repeated the same whopper I'd told the receptionist downstairs.

She glanced at her computer screen, then frowned. “You're not on the list. In fact, I can't seem to find any approved visitors for him.”

“Bureaucracy just gets sloppier and sloppier, doesn't it? Myself, I blame computers. Garbage in, garbage out.” Without waiting for her answer, I hurried down the hall.

Nevitt had a small room to himself, but this seemed little luxury, given the stout leather straps tethering him to his high-railed bed. The constraints hardly seemed necessary. His face, already marred by the port wine birthmark and badly-repaired cleft palate, was bruised black and swollen to twice its size. His blue eyes were so bloodshot they could have been bleeding. I pulled the visitor's chair closer to his bed and sat down.

“Hello, Mr. Nevitt. My name's Lena Jones. I'm a private investigator and if you're up to it, I'd like to talk to you about Angelique Grey.”

He mumbled something I didn't quite get. “What's that, Mr. Nevitt?”

“My…my wife.”

“No, sir, Miss Grey is not your wife.” I accentuated the
Miss
. Angel wasn't his wife and never had been, although psychiatrists had failed to convince him of that. “She's the actress you've been stalking.”

“Kept…kept marriage…s-s-secret.” His cleft palate gave him trouble with sibilants. Nature had really done a job on the guy, and I had to fight back my pity.

Gentling my voice, I explained that with the writers' strike temporarily derailing
Desert Eagle
, Angel had accepted a supporting role in a film currently on location in Alaska. Since he was simply mentally ill, not stupid, I added, “It's one of those independent films, a Sundance type of thing, more arty than the commercial stuff she's used to. Oscar-contender stuff. Now listen to me, Mr. Nevitt. When Miss Grey returns to California, there's no point—once they release you from the hospital—of you hanging around her house. Do you understand?”

“Never hurt her. S-s-she's-s…my angel.”

I noticed that he hadn't agreed to stay away from the object of his addled affection, but what did I expect, that I could succeed where a flock of psychiatrists had failed? Sighing, I took the copies Angel had made of the threatening letters and held them in front of his face. I shuffled them slowly, giving him time to read each one. “Mr. Nevitt, did you write these?”

“Vile,” he whispered through his tears. “Vile.”

“You didn't answer my question. Did you write them?”

“Love her. Why…why would I…Angel isss…isss s-s-s-
sacred
! Never hurt her.
Never
!”

“I need a yes or no answer, Mr. Nevitt. Did you write them?”

“
No!”

“One more question. Who beat you up?” The Black Monk had appeared in so many photographs taken of Angel that I was certain Nevitt would be able to pick him out of a lineup. If it came to that.

“Di…didn't ss-see. Hit from behind.”

“You saw nothing? Not even the fist coming toward your face?”

“No.”

I stuffed the letters back into my vest pocket. Despite the fact that it would do no good, I delivered another warning. “Mr. Nevitt, you are not Miss Grey's husband, and if you continue to harass her, you'll wind up spending the rest of your life in state-run mental institutions. Is that what you want?” This was an exaggeration, of course, but only the direst threats would work in this situation.

“Angel needs me.” His body trembled under the sheets.

I wanted to hate him for the pain he'd caused Angel over the years, but I couldn't. Instead, I found myself taking his hand.

“Mr. Nevitt, if you really love her, and I believe that you do, you'll do what is best for her. And that's to stay away. You're not a bad man, you're just confused about where loves ends and control begins. If you only…”

At that point, the door opened and a nurse built like a linebacker stomped in.

“Mr. Nevitt doesn't have any cousins.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut wood. “He's an orphan.”

She gripped my arm and hauled me out of the chair. Not wanting to create an even bigger scene, I didn't struggle, but as the nurse hustled me out the door, I snapped back, “Even orphans have family somewhere.”

All we had to do was find them.

Chapter Nineteen

On my way back to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, I did some hard thinking. The shock in Nevitt's eyes as he read the threatening letters had convinced me that he didn't write them. It was time to question Angel again.

When I hit the Beverly Hills city limits the rain slowed to a drizzle then stopped completely the minute I pulled up to the hotel. As another smirking valet took the keys of my cheap rental, a rainbow arched its way over Rodeo Drive. Miracles continued while I walked into the hotel elevator and saw that I'd be sharing it with actor Daniel Craig. He smiled, I slobbered. Unfortunately, we ended up on different floors.

My ebullience reverted to gloom when I saw that the Black Monk had rejoined Angel in the living/dining room for something that smelled like herbal tea. I needed to warn her about him, so I joined them at the big dining table.

“Chamomile, Lena?” Angel asked.

“I prefer drinks that are bad for me.”

“Vodka, perhaps?”

“Not that bad. Look, I just interviewed Nevitt…” Here I sensed, more than saw, a posture shift in Otto's direction. “…and it's my opinion that he didn't write
any
of those threatening letters.”

“What a load of crap.” This, from Otto. “The guy's a wacko.”

I ignored him. “Nevitt was unconscious when the last letter was mailed. Did you by any chance bring along some of his early ones, the non-threatening kind?”

She shook her head. “They're at the house. In the safe.”

“Think back. How bad was Nevitt's spelling then?”

“He's dyslexic, so a lot of the characters were transposed. You know, l-v-o-e instead of l-o-v-e.”

“What's that got to do with anything?” Otto again, sounding impatient.

I pulled the copies out of my pocket and spread them on the table. “Read these again, this time paying attention to the spelling, not the content. See any transposed characters?”

They both frowned as they read “Nevitt's” missives. Halfway through, Angel put her hand over her mouth. “Oh.”

Otto was less delicate. “Aw, shit.”

“You see? Whoever wrote these was trying to copy Nevitt's literary style, but he—or she—got it wrong. Like us, the cops were too focused on Nevitt to consider that someone else might be involved.”

I snuck a look at Otto, but couldn't get a good view of his face, since his head was bowed. However, the tips of his ears were bright red. Angel had paled, but unlike her bodyguard, had no trouble meeting my eyes.

“Angel, I need to ask you some more questions.”

“Bring them on.”

“Who benefits if you don't show up on the set of
Desert Eagle
when they start shooting again?”

“Nobody, because I've never missed a call and I never will. Besides, that sort of thing is written into my contract, so unless I've been run down by a truck and have at least two doctors' affidavits to testify to near-fatal injuries, I'm obligated to show up.”

“But if you were incapacitated, would
Desert Eagle
have to shut down production?”

“I
am
the desert eagle.”

Angel was a nice person and she had a healthy ego; healthy enough that it sometimes blinded her. “You're not the only actress in the world. The Scully and Mulder characters were replaced on
The X-Files
, and when John Ritter died, the studio rewrote
8
Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter
.”

“Both shows wound up cancelled, too,” she shot back.

Correct.
X-Files
had limped along for a while with two new alien-hunters, but the network flushed
8 Simple Rules
almost immediately. “Financially speaking, what happens if
Desert Eagle
folds?”

From the conflict mapped across her beautiful face, she obviously had a difficult time envisioning America without her series, but she tried. “It would depend on the reason the show was cancelled. No show lasts forever, not even
Desert Eagle
or
The Simpsons
, which is why I pay close attention to my investment portfolio. I'm not one of those stars who lets their business managers make all the decisions.”

“Very wise of you, too. Let's talk about the recent staff changes I've noticed on the show, especially one of the producers. Mid-season, Stuart Jenks replaced Brad Speerstra. That's pretty unusual, isn't it? Exactly what happened? Since I was in Arizona when it all went down, I didn't pay much attention. As long as my consultation checks clear, I'm happy.”

A thin smile. “Getting the truth is difficult in this town, but there's a rumor going around that Speerstra's teensy cocaine problem became less teensy. There's another rumor that his girlfriend, you know, that brain-dead redhead who plays Kax on the ‘reality show'
Sunset Slummin
' was pregnant and is refusing to get an abortion. Talk about stress, hm? So Speerstra's wife decided to divorce him and served him with the papers right on the set, for God's sake. Word is that his pre-nup isn't as cast-iron as it could be, too. Kudos to wifey's attorney, I guess. Anyway, right after Speerstra got served, he dropped off the face of the earth. Most of the cast thinks he's in Monaco auditioning a new girlfriend, but I happen to know that he's at the same rehab facility as one of my ex-husbands. Now Jenks is sitting in his chair at the head of the conference table, and the good ship
Desert Eagle
sails on. As soon as the writers' strike is settled, of course.”

A palace coup, then.

“Do you know Jenks well, Angel?”

“Hollywood's an incestuous place, but Stu and I aren't close. Still, I've never heard bad stories floating around on the local grapevine. Nothing about women, nothing about money. He's Beverly Hills born and bred, USC film school, Loyola law, married, two kids in college, wife involved in a slew of charity organizations. Hardly a criminal background.”

The Federal penitentiaries were packed with businessmen and women who, on paper, looked like saints. As soon as I finished here, I'd give Jimmy a call. If Jenks had so much as jaywalked in kindergarten, Jimmy would find out.

“Speaking of the local grapevine, Angel, last week's issue of
The Hollywood Reporter
ran a blind item saying that some agent was negotiating a contract for—let's see if I remember the wording—‘a very blond star, who plays a much darker woman on her hit TV crime drama.' The item went on to say that the star was looking to double her salary. That item about you?”

“Since when have you started reading the
Reporter
?”

“Since Hollywood started writing me checks.”

“Oh, all right.
Desert Eagle's
Nielsen ratings are through the roof, we're moving from cable to network, and Toyota just signed on as main sponsor. My agent thought it was time to negotiate. Like I said, I
am
the desert eagle.”

So it was true; Angel was in the middle of contract negotiations, possibly to the tune of millions of dollars. “If you're right and nothing shady is going on, we need to explore other options. Who in your personal life might want to scare you, other than your ex-husbands.”

Her answer came quickly. “No one.”

“If I might add something here?” The Black Monk, silent until now, raised his hand. When I nodded toward him, he continued, “Angel's been having trouble with a neighbor. Is that the kind of thing you mean?”

Before Angel could wave him into silence, I asked, “What kind of trouble?”

“It's not a big deal, but the woman's been bitching that one of Angel's trees is killing hers.”

A homicidal tree?

“C'mon, Otto,” Angel said. “Nadine wouldn't resort to forging Nevitt's letters based on nonsense like that.”

As far as I was concerned, most of Hollywood life was nonsense, but that didn't mean the natives didn't take it all seriously. I demanded details. The story that emerged was this: several years earlier, Angel had allowed her gardener to plant a pretty little thing called Tree of Heaven, which then proceeded to go forth and multiply itself along the southwestern side of her front yard. Angel had been delighted, because as the tree grew into a dense thicket, it hid the neighboring house, an ugly pink stucco belonging to Fifties film beauty Nadine Nedon. Unfortunately, the Tree of Heaven—which might more correctly have been named the Tree of Attila the Hun—invaded the aging film star's lawn by snaking out roots, one of which wrapped itself around Nedon's prized American sweet gum. Nedon's gardeners were now engaged in a battle to the death with the ever-growing green monster.

“She's suing me,” Angel finished.

“For what?”

“Two million for lawn repair and tree replacement, another twenty-five million for pain and suffering.”

I knew better than to laugh. Beverly Hills landscaping lawsuits were legendary. “Do you think she'd resort to sending you those letters?”

“Old bitch is crazy enough to do anything,” Otto said. “But seeing as how you're looking at all possible suspects, I have another name for you.”

We both turned to look at him. “Who, Otto?”

“Warren.”

Angel stiffened.

So did I. I'd been prepared to deal with Warren later, but Otto had forced my hand. “What makes you say that?”

“He wants more visitation and Angel won't give it to him. If she went crazy, he could wind up with full custody, couldn't he? I wouldn't put forging a few letters past the guy. Look at who his father was, the Porn King of North Hollywood. And wasn't Warren once implicated in some woman's death? I have friends who claim he did it, too. They say he…”

Angel jerked his cup of chamomile tea away, slopping tea across the table. “Say anything else about Warren and you're fired.”

The Black Monk tucked his chin to his chest; it made him look like a sulking child, albeit a terrifying one. “Angel, do you mind if I speak to Otto alone?”

“You can flush him down the toilet for all I care.” With that she glided off into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

I smiled at Otto as if he were my best friend. “Let's go down to the bar. We'll feel more comfortable there.”

Within minutes, we were ensconced in a quiet chrome-and-wood lounge adjoining one of the hotel's restaurants. I sipped at my Coke while Otto belted bourbon and continued to revile my boyfriend. If I hadn't already noticed his feelings about Angel, his spite toward Warren might have shocked me, but now it only made me more alert. According to Otto, there'd been an ongoing series of blowups during the past few months between Warren and Angel over the twins. I found this interesting since Warren had kept me totally in the dark on the subject. According to Otto, Warren wanted the twins with him during the entire spring semester, but Angel had refused, holding him to the agreement set by the California court. The girls would stay with her during the school terms, with Warren only on weekends, summers, and every other Christmas and Thanksgiving. They were with Warren now only because of the threatening letters.

“Thanks to this mess, Warren might win the custody jackpot,” Otto said, belting back another Jack Daniels, which made two doubles in the space of ten minutes. He ordered another double. The alcohol would put him off his guard, I hoped.

After he'd carried on about Warren for a few more minutes, mainly just repeating previous accusations, I leaned over and rubbed his bruised knuckles. “Wow, what happened here?”

“Bar fight.”

“Which bar?”

“What's it matter?” When he looked at me, his eyes appeared almost as red as Nevitt's. Guilt?

“I'd like to run a theory by you.”

“Don't give a shit what you do.”

The bartender, who'd been wiping down the bar with a towel, threw him a worried look. At six-foot-four and weighing nearly three hundred pounds, Otto was one massive chunk of muscle. It's one thing for a woman to work out with weights and keep her karate skills honed, but Otto worked out, too, only with heavier weights and more lethal chops. He could probably even run faster than me. Still, a P.I. must do what a P.I. must do.

“Here's one way it could have gone, Otto. You may be putting the verbal smackdown on Warren now, but at the beginning, you might have thought the same thing the rest of us did, that Nevitt wrote those threatening letters. When not even the cops could find him, you felt helpless to do anything other than ensure he couldn't get close to Angel. When I came along and found the guy's stomping grounds, you could have driven over to Arroyo Seco, waited around until you saw him, then conducted a knuckle conversation.

“But maybe it went this way. Just a couple months ago, Nevitt didn't seem like a threat anymore. He'd been put back on his meds, and everything looked copacetic. Maybe Angel felt so secure that she decided she no longer needed a live-in bodyguard. Big problem for you, because you'd fallen in love with her. So you wrote a few letters yourself, making them look as much like Nevitt's as possible. After that, she needed you more than ever. The only puzzle is, if that's the way it went, why beat him up? Just for the thrill of it all?”

The whiskey glass broke in Otto's hand. After pressing something under the bar, the bartender came running over, towel flapping. “You've had enough, sir.”

“Like hell I have.” Otto's hand was bleeding but his voice remained perfectly calm. Not a good sign.

I slid off the barstool to give myself room. A chop to his nose might work if I delivered it quickly enough. While I considered my options, a man almost as large as Otto appeared from the shadows and placed his hand on Otto's shoulder. “The Beverly Wilshire thanks you for your business, sir.”

Otto looked from the big man to the bartender to me.

“Fuck you all,” he finally said.

And left.

***

When I got back to Angel's suite, she informed me that he was tending to his bloody hand. Interestingly, she didn't ask me how he'd been hurt, just sat there staring at me over the teapot as I called Jimmy and explained the situation and gave him the names I wanted researched. “Stuart Jenks and his wife. Bradley Speerstra, wife and girlfriends. Nadine Nedon, yes,
that
Nadine Nedon. Angel's husbands one and two—Carl Overstreet, and Rudy Monroe. Oh, yeah. And Otto Beasley, AKA The Black Monk. I'm especially interested in finding out if any of these folks' business or personal disputes have ever escalated into threats or overt violence.” I would take care of the Warren situation myself; I could always tell when he was lying.