Everybody Takes The Money (The Drusilla Thorne Mysteries) (15 page)

Anne might have been working on a story, but I was there to learn everything I could about Roger Sabo to get him off my back. I leaned over to Anne and whispered, “Were Courtney and Roger together during the show?”

Anne glanced at her notepad, as if checking what I’d said, and repeated the question to Schlegel.
 

“Yeah. Not exclusively. Roger was kind of popular around the shoot, if you know what I mean.”

“Because of the drugs?” Anne asked.

Schlegel nodded. “Sabo was the connection. Everyone else’s sources kept getting busted.”

Anne made a notation. “What kind of drugs?”
 

Schlegel shrugged. “Anything you wanted. He had the best stuff. Some of the girls spent a lot of money with him.” He shrugged. “But you know, the girls...they need to watch their weight, right?”

“Cocaine?” Anne said.

Schlegel screwed up his mouth, like he was asking himself,
Which turnip truck did this chick fall off of?
“Meth. Smoke a little meth, stay skinny.”

Meth. The stuff in Courtney’s motel room. Her teeth hadn’t been too pretty, either.

“Isn’t meth worse for you than cocaine?” I asked.

“Yeah. But it’s cheaper. And you can go for days without eating, you know what I’m saying?”
 

Anne looked down at her notes. “You said everyone else you knew got busted. Was that before or after Sabo joined the team?”

“After. Definitely after. There was a one-to-one correlation there. Maybe he was defending his turf, you know?”

Anne and I glanced at one another. That definitely scored one point for the theory he was a confidential informant. If Roger Sabo could pick off his competition like that, he was a player. We were going to have a lot more trouble with him than I had imagined.

Also made me wonder if maybe Courtney had caused trouble for Sabo and he had to defend his territory.
 

I shook my head. I was not going to think about Courtney’s murder. The detectives of the LAPD were on the case and it was none of my business.

Roger Sabo, on the other hand—I needed to deal with him, in a hurry.

SCHLEGEL HEADED BACK to his office and we walked back to Anne’s car. She turned on the AC and put the recording of the conversation on the car’s stereo so she could make sure the sound had come through. She nodded, satisfied, and took the headphones off. Then she stared at her phone for a few seconds and stuck each earbud of the headphones back in her ears. “
Of course
,” she said suddenly, violently. She pulled off the headphones again. “I am such a moron.”
 

“I never contradict a person on their self-assessment, but do tell. What about your phone made you come to this conclusion?”

She held up the phone. “I taped it. I taped the entire interview with Courtney.”
 

“And this is interesting and important why?”
 

“Everyone present knew I was doing the interview. Are you surprised to hear I was recording it?”

I shrugged. “No.”
 

She shook the phone in my face. “We have a recording of who started the fight, stupid. And it’s not like anyone can claim they didn’t know they were being recorded. It’s why we were all there in the first place.”
 

I wasted no time taking my own phone out and calling Nathaniel Ross.
 

“It’s iffy,” he told me. “Probably won’t be allowed.”
 

“Will it put enough pressure on Roger to drop these assault charges?” I asked.

“Have Anne email me the recording. When you’re alone, call me. I need to talk to you about last night.”

“Done.” I hung up.
 

“Now what,” Anne said.

I called Stevie. “Here’s a name for you. Randi Narvaez. She was another girl on this show and she and Courtney spent a lot of time together. Much of it at Hitchcock Financial. Can you find where she is?”
 

We drove back to Pacific Palisades and discussed Courtney and the show.
 

“Why did she come back?” Anne said. “I could kill Schlegel for not telling us.”

“Yes, but telling us would ruin the publicity for his big reveal,” I said.
 

After a long pause, Anne said, “I shouldn’t have said that. I wouldn’t do that.”

“What?”

“Kill him.”

“It’s only a figure of speech.”

“It’s a
terrible
figure of speech,” Anne said.

Anne’s journey through being morose was a waste of everyone’s time, including mine. “Courtney came back a week ago. Why was she living out of motels? Even a crap apartment has to be cheaper than a series of motels.”
 

“A good Christian girl from Oklahoma wanted to be a star so bad she’d do meth.”

“Your first mistake is to think that someone’s religious beliefs have any effect on their actual behaviors,” I said. “People simply are who they are.”

When we arrived at Gary’s house, Stevie handed each of us a small cup of espresso. Anne sipped hers, while I slugged mine back.
 

“Ow,” Anne said.

“Least of my aches and pains right now.” I handed my dirty cup to Stevie. “What have you found out?”

Stevie plucked Anne’s cup out of her hand. “Randi Narvaez has been working in movies and TV for the past several years. Small roles. Many without speaking parts. I tracked down her manager’s information. When I called, he said she wasn’t taking phone calls from anyone, due to recent circumstances.”

“She’s holding out for a big interview,” Anne said.
 

“You could call her,” I said. “Or we can get her attention even faster. Is Gary home?”

Stevie nodded. “Outside. Why?”

I ignored her and headed through the butler’s pantry to the French doors that led out to the outdoor living room. Anne followed close behind me.

Gary was stretched out on the sofa, enjoying the heat while keeping out of the sun. He was smoking one of his Cuban cigars and paging through a script. He gave me a mild wave when I came barreling through the doorway, and then looked concerned when I stopped to talk to him.
 

“I have a favor to ask,” I said.

“I hardly know the day has begun if I haven’t got one of your ridiculous requests. What is it?”

“Can you bring someone to the set for a possible walk-on?”

He shook his head. “Casting’s set.”

“I didn’t say you had to cast her. Just have her show up as a possible.”

He took a puff on his cigar, inhaled, and held it, staring at me the whole time. Then he blew the smoke out and put the cigar in the ashtray. “Is this concerning....” He lazily made a circle around his forehead.

He meant my injuries. “Yes,” I said. “It’s about that.”
 

“Is this person the one who tried to kill you
this time
?” he asked, as though only mildly interested in the answer.

“No,” I said.

Since moving into Gary’s house, I’d nearly gotten killed here twice, by two different people, on the same night. Looking a little worse for wear had probably set off a few alarms for him. Albeit, not the same alarms as he’d had installed after the last time.

After a moment, he shrugged. “Certainly. When do you need to speak to this person?”

“Are you going to the set today?” I asked.
 

He shook his head. “Tomorrow.”

“Then one more thing.”
 

He picked up the cigar again.
 

“Can you have whoever’s in charge of casting send the request?”

He chuckled silently as he took another drag on the cigar. He puffed out a few smoke rings. “You’re unbelievable sometimes.”
 

“That’s why you love me.”
 

He made a face at that. “This girl. Is she good-looking?”
 

I glanced at Anne, who nodded. “Very,” she said.

“Ooo, I like her better and better. Can I meet her?”

I made a face. “Gary, darling, do you want to make me jealous?”

“Depends. Will I get a laugh out of it?”

“You’re horrible. Stop smoking. It’ll kill you.”
 

When we returned to the kitchen, Stevie was stirring a giant bowl of what I suspected was brownie batter. Anne picked up her purse and keys off the kitchen counter. “What is your relationship with him?” Anne asked me.

“What do you mean?”
 

“You live with him...except you don’t. You live in the guest house, with Stevie. He tells everyone you’re his girlfriend, but...you’re not. Is he gay?”

I shook my head. “Not gay. Despite being a British actor.”
 

“So what’s the story?”

“It’s not important, Anne.”
 

“It’s so weird. Just always makes me wonder what else you’re not saying.”
 

When she left, I locked the front door behind her and returned to the kitchen.
 

“She’s suspicious you’re not telling her something,” Stevie said.

“She’s not even an investigative journalist. She does puff pieces on celebrities, for the love of Zeus.”

Stevie nodded. “She’s smart and she’s very curious. Which is a good combination for her.”
 

“Yes. And it’s terrible for us.”

My sister thought about that, and then she nodded.

I didn’t need new friends. I needed no friends.

GARY’S MOVIE WAS currently shooting what he described as “the endless house party scene.” The production was working out of a house up in Point Dume, taken over for two weeks to film one sequence of the movie. Instead of enjoying a mansion on its own strip of beachfront property, there were forty people standing around wearing some version of the t-shirt/jeans/headset combination. All of the trailers for the production were crammed in at the end of the street. We had to park at a nearby lot, and a golf cart was sent around to pick us up.

To pick Gary up. I was simply along for the ride.

The golf cart driver, named Pete, shook Gary’s hand vigorously. “Good to see you again, sir.” All I rated was a quick “Ma’am.”
 

As we bumped along the unpaved path to the main house where the shooting was centered, nearly every single crew member turned and waved to Gary, who waved back. For such a strange, solitary man, he was a ridiculously popular figure on movie sets. Not only because he was a star, but because unlike many actors on movie sets he actually talked to the people working on them. He waved at the security guards standing on the perimeter. He smiled at the crew members. He remembered names. If he worked with someone more than once, he remembered their kids’ names. He opened doors for the women instead of expecting them to be held open for him. As long as people were polite, he didn’t mind signing autographs or posing for pictures.

It’s when anyone—crew members, other actors, fans—mistook Gary’s social defenses for overtures of actual friendship that the problems started. He would tense up and fold in on himself, not leaving his trailer, his house, his bedroom.
 

The entire golf cart ride I either had my hand on Gary’s forearm or our fingers entwined. The protective circle around Gary went through me.

When we got off the cart, near the makeup trailer, I whispered, “Show me how happy you are I’m here,” in his ear and he laughed like I’d just told a dirty joke.
 

Did I mention he’s a great actor?
 

A guy with short blond hair, wearing one of those headsets and clutching a clipboard, came running up to him. “Gary!” he said, proving in one word he was one of the smart ones who took the star at his word about what name he preferred. He looked at me. “Drusilla, right? Hey. Good to have you back here again.”

I kissed his cheek. “Eddie. How are Maisie and Ginny?”
 

Always ask after a person’s kids. The spouses can and do change. Barring a disaster, the children don’t.
 

“They’ve started walking. In opposite directions. My wife’s going nuts.”

I laughed. “Oh, hey. Do you know where I can find Ofelia?”

“She’s out front, I think.” Then he opened the makeup trailer’s door and said to Gary, “Let’s go over your schedule for the morning.”
 

And just like that, Gary was taken care of, and I was on my own until the next time we had to do the lovey-dovey thing.

Time to find Randi.

Ofelia was the extremely organized person in charge of keeping casting straight for the movie. She was young and very efficient, always with her list of things to take care of and her hair in the straight, even ponytail tied back with a perfectly symmetrical bow. We had met just before filming started and chatted. She asked me if I wanted a walk-on role, and I demurred. At this moment she was at the crafts services table, going over a clipboard’s worth of information with a PA wearing a headset. On a chair near her was a very bored, very beautiful young woman with long black hair and dark eyes. She was small and slight, with the same proportion of oversized head to tiny, waifish body that Courtney had. She and Courtney had probably offered a fantastic contrast on
Girls Becoming Stars
: the blonde and blue-eyed waif, and the dark and brown-eyed siren.

I walked over. “Ofelia, hi.” We kissed on the cheek, because that’s what two people who have a passing acquaintance do on movie sets. “I’m looking for Randi Narvaez.”

“That’s me!” said the beautiful woman. “How you doin’?”

“I don’t know what Gary was talking about,” Ofelia said. “We don’t have—”

“It’s okay, I’ll talk to her,” I said. “Randi? Walk with me a moment.”

I steered her toward the set, which was on the back patio, overlooking the Malibu coast. The cameraman had the video feed working and the grips were double-checking the lighting. Gary’s double, a man about the same height, with the same color skin and a similar hair pattern, was standing under the lights.