Into the Dark (25 page)

There had been many strong winds, though. RJ
Tannenbaum and Shane Smith and Errol Ludlow. All those names he tried so hard
to
forget. And DeeDee
. Poor, misguided destructive
DeeDee . . .

The “fasten seat belts” light pinged on as that
last name entered his mind, the name he never dared say, even in his thoughts.
The Shadow’s name. Her
real
name. The strongest wind
of all.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant
announced. “We are making our initial decent into New York’s LaGuardia Airport
. . .”

It had taken Gary hours on the phone to secure a
reasonably priced seat at the last possible minute, to call all his clients with
whom he had scheduled meetings or auditions over the next few days and tell them
that he wouldn’t be there—family emergency, couldn’t be helped, but not to
worry. Gary would be back soon.

If he could do all that in such a short amount of
time, then he could fix this, couldn’t he?
I can
,
Gary thought,
I will fix this
, as the plane
completed its descent, touching ground in New York. Gary’s birthplace. His
home.

O
n his
way out of the plane, the little girl in front of him dropped her baby doll on
the tarmac. Gary jogged to retrieve it, chased the little girl down, and handed
it to her, once they were all in the terminal.

“What a nice man you are,” said the child’s mother.
She had bright blue eyes that reminded him of Jill’s.

“Thank you,” said Gary, who really
was
a nice man, deep down. A nice man who’d made
mistakes. As the other passengers rushed to catch cabs or to claim their
baggage, Gary hung back. There was an airport bar next to the gate. Thank God
for airport bars—open at all hours. It was 10:30
A.M.
here in New York, but who knew when someone would be flying in
from Singapore. Gary smiled. What Jimmy Buffet said was absolutely true.
It’s five o’clock somewhere
. He slipped into the bar
and ordered a Scotch rocks—his first drink in three years.

And the first of many.

S
tanding in front of the toaster oven, waiting for the bagels to be
ready, Brenna remembered standing outside Columbia-Presbyterian with Morasco
two
days ago, and getting the call from Gary Freeman’s newest disposable phone. Then
she picked up the kitchen phone and punched in Gary’s number. She’d been waiting
to do this for hours, figuring Gary wouldn’t appreciate a call from anyone at
4
A.M.
his time, even if it was potential
breaking news.

She was very anxious to call Gary, though—mainly
because she wanted to hear his reaction. She kept replaying their earlier phone
conversation in her head—the long pause on the other end of the line when she’d
asked him if he’d heard of RJ, and then, “No. Why?” the “no” so certain, as
though this were the first time he’d ever heard the name that he himself had
said in the police report.

Sure, maybe Gary had forgotten. But seriously, who
forgets the name of some film student who broke into your house just three years
ago?

The call went straight through to Gary’s voice
mail. “I need you to call me regarding RJ Tannenbaum,” Brenna said. Then she
ended the call. That was it. No further explanation. The toaster oven dinged,
and she slipped back inside the kitchen.
Why pretend you
don’t know RJ Tannenbaum?
Could have been the porn, or the Russian
mob connection . . . or something else it wouldn’t befit an upstanding
children’s talent agent to be connected with. Or it could have been for
different reasons entirely. Whatever it was, Brenna needed to know.

D
iandra was trying to find clues on RJ Tannenbaum’s big flat-screen
computer when she heard a noise—a generic ringtone.
Weird
. She lived at the end of a long hall, with no neighboring
apartments, so for her to hear a ringtone, it would have to be right outside
her
door.

“Hello?” she called out.

No answer.

She found herself flashing on Trent, who had two
ringtones: Ludacris for phone calls, Justin Timberlake for texts. At Bacon last
week, Trent had told her he was going to download a special one, just for her
calls and texts—David Guetta’s “Sexy Chick.” He wasn’t kidding, either—he’d done
it, right there and then. Diandra felt a catch in her throat. She swallowed hard
to smooth it out.
Trent
. Some things couldn’t be
helped. Some things were best not to think about.

She didn’t hear the ringtone anymore.
Probably just somebody taking the stairs
, Diandra
thought.

She went back to the computer. Opened another Final
Cut Pro file, saw still more porn. Had she not known it was RJ Tannenbaum’s
computer—the name printed right there on the control panel Trent had open on
his
screen when she’d come to see him yesterday morning—and if Trent hadn’t closed
it up as soon as he saw her looking, bragging that he was “busy cracking the
mother of all cases,” she would have thought that this was some kind of
elaborate joke he was playing on her.
Whatever you do,
please, oh please don’t steal this computer that’s got nothing on it but bad
porn . . .
But Trent wasn’t like that. He was too guileless
to play that type of joke. He was more of a hit-you-over-the-head type of
guy.

Her emotions tugged at her again.
Stop it
. Why hadn’t Mr. Freeman called her? All the
hell she’d gone through. Things she couldn’t imagine doing, even in her worst
nightmares, she’d done them just for him, only for him, and he couldn’t even
be
bothered to thank her?

Diandra moved away from the computer, and that’s
when she heard the knocking on her front door. It started out soft, but it was
getting louder now, an insistent pounding, as though someone was punching it.
“Hello?”

Her first thought was Saffron. He’d given her all
those pills. Maybe he’d expected reimbursement in actual
money . . .

Uh-oh . . .

Slowly, Diandra crept up to her door, put her eye
to the peephole. Her heart swelled as though to burst. “Oh my God,” she
whispered. “Oh my God!” She threw open the door and there was Mr. Freeman,
standing in her doorway, Mr. Freeman, for the first time in three years,
face-to-face, breathing the same air as Diandra, looking into her
eyes . . .

Saying nothing.

He didn’t smile, didn’t even seem glad to see her
at all, but that didn’t matter, nothing mattered. He’d had a long flight from
California and was tired, was all. He was here.
Mr. Freeman
is here
.

Diandra threw her arms around his neck. He smelled
of Scotch, which to her felt like the most wonderful type of déjà vu
. . . “Mr. Freeman, have you been drinking?” she whispered in his
ear.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, pushed her hard to
the floor.

What?
Tears burned in
her eyes. She’d whacked her knees good, but that wasn’t it, that wasn’t what
hurt so much . . . “What’s . . . what’s wrong?”

He knelt down and punched her in the stomach.

The wind shot out of her. White flecks danced in
front of her eyes. “What’s wrong,” she said again, her voice dry and weak, tears
spilling down her face, snot streaming out of her nose, but too shocked to feel
any of it, too hurt.

And still he said nothing.

Diandra hugged her knees to her chest, crying,
bracing herself against the only man who knew her soul.

“Why,” she whispered. “What did I do? All I want is
to help you.”

He was still kneeling next to her, moving closer.
“Look at me.”

She couldn’t.

He took her chin in his hand, made her look. His
words slurred together, Scotch-stink curling out of his mouth. “You called my
wife.”

“What? No, I didn’t. I swear I didn’t call her. I
. . .” He drew his hand back. Diandra cringed, but as it turned out,
he was just going for his wallet. He opened it, plucked out a folded-up piece
of
paper, and threw it in Diandra’s face. “What’s that supposed to mean, then?”
he
said, as Diandra grabbed the paper, read the words . . .

DeeDee called. She says, “It’s
done . . .”

“Oh God,” she whispered.

“DeeDee called,” he said flatly. “She says, ‘It’s
done.�� ”

“I didn’t call her. I swear, I didn’t call
. . .”

“So Jill was lying?”

“No,” Diandra said. “No. Listen . . . I
didn’t call her. I called
our phone
. She didn’t say
anything when she answered. I thought I was talking to you.”

Mr. Freeman leaned back. He sighed heavily, the
anger draining out of his face along with the air. “You called our phone.”

“Yes.”

Two tears rolled down his cheeks, and then two
more, until soon, Mr. Freeman was sobbing. Diandra wove her arms around him,
cradled his head in her lap like a child. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No it isn’t. I hurt you. I shouldn’t have hurt
you.”

In all the years she’d known him, Diandra had never
seen Mr. Freeman shed a tear and here he was, his whole face wet with them,
making a wet stain on her skirt. It embarrassed her. “Mr. Freeman,” she
said.

But still he kept sobbing, until Diandra grabbed
both of his shoulders and forced him to look into her face. “
Mr. Freeman
.”

“Yes . . .”

“What can I do?”

“DeeDee . . .”

“I mean it. I’ll do anything. Anything you want.”
Anything to make you stop
crying . . .

“Anything I want?”

“Yes.”

“But DeeDee,” he said softly. “You don’t even
know me.”

“I know you better than anybody,” she said. “I’ve
known you since I was a kid, and I know you are good and kind and—”

“I’m not.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. She
stroked his hair. “You do things for me, DeeDee. You protect me. And you don’t
even know why.”

“Errol Ludlow was blackmailing you. He deserved
it.”

“DeeDee . . .”

“You hired him to find Lula Belle. You hired Brenna
Spector, too, and you asked me to keep an eye on them, keep one step ahead of
them, just like I did with RJ Tannenbaum.”

“But you don’t know why.”

She took her hand from him.

He sat up, looked at her. “You don’t know why I
want to find Lula Belle.”

“Well, you were secretly managing her Web
site.”

“Yes, I was. But that isn’t the reason.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his
head in her lap again. Again, she stroked his hair. She could have said more,
because she knew a little more than that. But that would ruin this moment,
wouldn’t it? Make her less trustworthy . . . She said, “Do you want to
tell me the reason?”

“I do,” he said. And then, he told.

Three years ago, when Diandra was still waiting
tables at Barney’s Beanery, she’d seen Mr. Freeman come in. He hadn’t recognized
her as his former client—not until she walked up and introduced herself—which
spoke volumes as to how successfully she’d grown out of her awkward phase. Mr.
Freeman was sad about his finances, and he couldn’t tell his wife, who happened
to be out of town with his three daughters. And so, that night, he wound up
doing two things he hadn’t done in twenty years—drinking being the first. The
second happened after Diandra had driven him home and taken off his shoes and
unbuttoned his collar.

In the middle, he had called her Clea. She wished
that was her name.

It had been the most meaningful experience of
Diandra’s life—Mr. Freeman giving himself to her like that, Mr. Freeman, whom
she respected and adored and who had never before been unfaithful and never
since. But this—this telling. This meant even more. “You’re the only person I’ve
ever told,” he kept saying. “You’re the only one who knows.”

And Diandra held him and listened and loved him
anyway. “I will do anything for you,” she said. She meant it.

Chapter
20

“I
can’t
believe you’re going to Happy Endings without me,” Trent said to Brenna over
the
phone as she walked up Twenty-fifth Street, looking for the right address. “It’s
like you’re going to a Justin Bieber concert at Disney World without taking
Maya.”

“Trent? You’re recovering from a drug
overdose.”

“Big deal. So are half the people at Happy Endings,
probably.”

“And anyway, Maya’s over Bieber.”

“His new stuff is pretty good.”

Brenna peered at the numbers across the street
until she found the address 140 West Twenty-fifth . . .

“So, are we there yet?”

“Uh . . . I think so.” If this was the
right building, if Charlie Frankel hadn’t somehow given her the wrong address
in
his e-mail, then Happy Endings was the biggest architectural closet case Brenna
had ever seen. The building was dull and dingy and completely unremarkable—the
type of place that may have been a parking garage at one point, before the most
minimal amount of work was done on it to make it hospitable to human life.
“Okay, so just so you know there are no hard feelings, I ran a credit check on
Robin Tannenbaum.”

Brenna stopped. “How were you able to do that?”

“Hello? Mrs. Tannenbaum gave us his social.”

Brenna sighed. “I didn’t mean how do you run a
credit check,” she said. “I meant, how did you do it in the hospital?”

“Ohhh . . . Annette brought me my
laptop.”

No more Mrs. Shelby,
huh?
Brenna thought. But she didn’t mention it. She had enough
trouble trying to figure out her own personal life these days, let alone
Trent’s. “So, what did the report turn up?”

“He’s in debt up to his nose hairs.”

“Well, we figured on that.”

“Yeah, but here’s the kind of interesting thing. I
have a contact at the card where he did most of his spending, and so I found
out
what he was spending on . . .”

“Yes?”

“Film equipment.”

“Why is that strange? He went to film school.”

“For three months. He never had a job in film
production—just the porn stuff. That Mac Pro was loaded with everything he
needed to be a top-notch editor, and guess what? It was registered to Happy
Endings. Nice perk.”

“I’m still not following.”

“The only film equipment he needed for his job was
bought and paid for. But for some reason, RJ went nuts buying lights,
microphones, one of those Steadicams . . . he spent forty thousand
dollars on film stuff in just three months.”

“So by the time he wanted to buy that fancy
camera,” Brenna said. “He was so much in debt he had to borrow from
Pokrovsky—and risk incurring a crazy amount of interest on a $3,000 camera.”
She
crossed the street fast.

“Yep. And before three months ago, he hardly ever
touched that credit card.”

For a moment, she recalled the medicinal smell of
Pokrovsky’s apartment, again feeling the cold metal chair through her sweater,
the hardness in Pokrovsky’s eyes . . .

“That money, he wanted for
some ridiculous camera. He told me he was working on a project which would
change the world—which, believe me, I put as much stock in as that film
education.”

“Must have been some project,” she said into the
phone.

“Huh?”

“Trent, did you get any closer to finding out what
happened to Shane Smith?”

“No, dude. Smith is a common freakin’ name, so it’s
really hard without a social.” Trent sighed. “The so-called filmmaking narrows
it down, but there’s no Shane Smith in the Directors Guild.” He snorted. “Why
am
I not surprised?”

“I’d really like to find him.”

“Why?”

She saw a break in traffic, hurried across the
street. “Because Pokrovsky told me that RJ was working on a film project when
he
disappeared,” she said when she got there. “And one guy can’t work all that
equipment alone.”

“Every director needs a crew.”

“Yes,” Brenna said. But that wasn’t all of it.
Brenna recalled the Bible passage RJ had printed out so neatly, so as not to
ruin the picture of his favorite director.

Be strong and courageous. Do
not be afraid or terrified because of them . . .

“Everyone who’s frightened,” she said, “needs at
least one person they can trust.”

“Tell it, sister.”

“RJ’s call log.”

“Yeah?”

“You sure there were no calls on there that could
have been made to Shane?”

“I thought I sent you the numbers.”

“Never got the e-mail.”

Trent sighed. “Do me.”

“Pardon?”

“When what’s-her-ass came over, RJ’s phone was cued
to send it to you,” he said.

“Diandra?”

“Oh man
, nausea tsunami
. . .”

“Sorry.”

He took a few deep breaths. “Anyway, I forgot to
tell you, but when she swiped RJ’s computer, the phone was right next to it
. . .”

“Great. She took that, too.”

“It’s not that big a deal,” Trent said. “The log
wasn’t that long. I tried every number, and except for a few work calls, they
were all take-out places. Chinese, pizza, Thai . . . Dude clearly
didn’t like his mom’s cooking.”

“Nothing out of state?”

“Well,” he said. “There were like four calls to the
same number in California back in September. Got me all excited because he
hadn’t called the number before or since.”

“And?”

“Nada. A talent agency. I asked if there was a
Shane Smith who worked there and they said they never heard of him. Then I asked
what RJ had called about and they hung up on me. I hate L.A.”

Brenna stood in the middle of the sidewalk, unable
to speak.

“Don’t get me wrong. There’s tons of hot girls out
there, and you can get an awesome tan and Disneyland rocks out loud.”

She still couldn’t say a word.

“Brenna?” he said.

And finally she got the sentence out. “RJ called a
talent agency.”

“Yep,” Trent said. “I’m thinking he probably wanted
them for this film project of his and they blew him off.”

“Do you remember the number?”

“Uh, no. I’m not you.”

“How about the name?”

“Wait a sec . . .” Trent paused for a few
moments, thinking. “It . . . um . . . It started with an
F  . . .”

Brenna closed her eyes. “Freeman Talent
International.”

“
Yes
,” Trent said.
“Hey, what did you ask me for if you already knew the answer?”

Brenna stared up at the building, a chill spreading
up her back. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said. “I gotta think about porn
right now.”

B
ehind
Charlie Frankel’s desk hung a series of framed promotional posters for Happy
Endings videos. Ushered into his empty office and told, “He’ll be right with
you” by the receptionist—a heavy, middle-aged woman who looked as though she’d
be more at home leading a Jane Austen book club—Brenna couldn’t stop staring
at
them.
Buttman Returns
,
The
Bangover
,
28 Inches Later
. . .
all accompanied by movie stills that sold the product in ways artistic
renderings couldn’t approach. She loved them all, mainly because you couldn’t
look at them and think of anything else: RJ’s calls to Gary Freeman in
September, for instance. Or the fact that three years ago, RJ had broken into
Gary’s house. Or the memory of Gary’s curt voice over the phone two days ago,
telling Brenna that he’d never heard of anyone named RJ Tannenbaum
. . . She glanced down at her phone. The voice mail was empty. Gary
still hadn’t called Brenna back.

Back to the posters. Brenna’s favorite was from the
gay collection—
The Wizard of Ahhhs
, featuring Ray
Bulger. The artwork brought new meaning to
packaging
, and she was compelled to get up for a closer look. “Whoa,”
Brenna whispered.

“That’s one of our biggest sellers,” said a voice
behind her. “No pun intended.”

Brenna spun around to see an older man in
shirtsleeves and a plain blue tie, with horn-rimmed glasses, benign-looking
features, and a neatly trimmed, mostly bald pate.
Company
Head, huh?
He also looked as though he’d be happier in the Jane
Austen club. “Mr. Frankel?”

“That’s me,” he said, shaking her hand. “You
already met Gloria.”

“The receptionist?”

“My wife,” he said. “Can’t fire her.”

“A very interesting family business.” Brenna
smiled.

He didn’t. If Charlie Frankel was capable of
changing his facial expression, he’d yet to show it. “Have a seat.”

She took a spartan, hard-backed chair across from
his small desk. Save for the framed stills, everything in both Charlie Frankel’s
office and in the reception area defined bare bones, the whole place clearly
designed with the idea of as little overhead as possible. Brenna imagined that
Charlie and Gloria were very, very rich people who owned about three outfits
apiece, had a drawer full of coupons, and wouldn’t pay full price for anything
if world peace depended on it. Of course, she did hope that the Frankels didn’t
skimp on Ray Bulger’s salary—he deserved a massive paycheck, pardon the pun.

“So you’re looking for RJ, huh?” he said.

Brenna tore her gaze away from the poster. “Yes, I
am.”

“Have you checked with Lula Belle?”

Her knees went weak. “
What?
”

“That was a joke.”

“Can you explain the basis of the humor?”

He sighed. “Do you know who Lula Belle is?”

“Uh . . . yes.”

“I ask because a lot of regular people don’t. But
she’s pretty legendary in our little community. I introduced RJ to her work
about a year ago and he became quite a fan.”

Brenna looked at him. “Why is she legendary?”

He pointed at the wall behind him. “See those?” he
said. “Our biggest sellers, and she’s probably made more money off that Web site
of hers than all of ’em combined.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Plus, she does it at no cost at all. No
costars, no locations, no production values at all, really. No sex—hence no
money shot. Which significantly cuts your need for an editor . . . No
offense to RJ but we could’ve done a lot with the money we paid him.”

“Sure.”

“Plus she’s not even technically porn. She calls
herself performance art so there’s a lot less guilt attached to watching her,
even though probably 99.9 percent of her fans wouldn’t know performance art if
it slapped ’em on the ass and called ’em sweetie.”

Brenna looked at him. “Sounds like you’re a fan,
too.”

“Only of her business model,” he said. “Call me
old-fashioned, but I like sex in my porn.”

“RJ didn’t?”

Charlie exhaled heavily. “RJ,” he said, “was one of
the .01 percent.”

“He saw her as an artist.”

“Best actress he’d ever seen on screen.” He
snorted. “Yeah, she’s a regular Meryl Streep up there, deep-throating a Coke
bottle.”

Brenna smiled. “Art is subjective.”

“You can say that again. You know what Gloria
loves? Avant-garde jazz. I swear to God if I have to listen to Ornette Coleman
when I’m balling her one more time . . .”

“Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“Was RJ in touch with Lula Belle?”

He sighed. “I know you talked to Yuri
Pokrovsky.”

“Yes.”

“So you know he doesn’t think too much of RJ’s work
ethic.”

Brenna squinted at him.
Where
are you going with this?

“But the thing was, he was wrong. He didn’t know
him. If RJ loved something, he was devoted to it. And there was nothing he loved
more than film. I was the only one he talked to about it. I guess he saw me as
a
fellow cineaste.”

“Okay, that’s interesting, but—”

“He wanted to be a filmmaker. An auteur. He had a
project he was working on, and I guess he thought Lula Belle was the only
actress who could do it, and so he joined Lula Belle’s fan site and he wrote
her
a letter where it says ‘contact me.’ Like hundreds of other guys have done,
probably.” He took a breath and leaned in, his face as still and deadpan as
ever, but with a slight intensity to the voice. “He told me she wrote back. From
her personal e-mail. They were corresponding. About what, I don’t know.”

“Who sent Robin that picture,
Trent?”

“A Hotmail
address.”

“Sweetpea81?”

Brenna said, “Did he ever meet with her
. . . in person?”

“Not while he worked here,” he said. “But.”

“But?”

Charlie opened his desk drawer, removed something,
and placed it on the table between them. A manila folder. “His letter of
resignation,” he said. “I printed it out for you.”

Brenna read:

October 8, 2009

Dear
Charlie:

It has been a real
learning experience working for you these past three years, and I consider
you to be the best film teacher I’ve ever had. I’m sure you’ll understand,
though, when I tell you that the Dream—The Big One—is about to come
true.

She’s agreed,
Charlie.

It is with much gratitude
and hope for the future that I tender my resignation from HAPPY ENDINGS
VIDEO. No need to forward me my last check, as I’m unable to give you two
weeks’ notice: My new job begins immediately.

See you in the moving
pictures.

All
best,

RJT

Brenna looked up at him. “ ‘She’ is Lula
Belle.”

“She has to be,” he said. “Right?”

“And his project—this film he was making
. . .”

“I don’t know anything about it, other than he
needed Lula Belle to complete it. I told him, why not use one of our actresses?
Or if he needs someone legit, put an ad in
Casting
Call
. He wasn’t having any of it. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I
can’t do this without her.’ And apparently, he didn’t need to.”