Reel Stuff (26 page)

“I'm more than interested in investment portfolios. That's a great place to start. Can I talk to her?”

The receptionist sounded relieved. I'd finally given her a reason to connect me with the Timmermeister woman.

“Let me see if I can reach her. Her schedule is somewhat complicated.”

She put me on hold and there was soft, soothing music on the line, abruptly interrupted by a nasal female voice warning me that I should keep meticulous records of all my financial transactions. I didn't have that many. Then, back to the music. Finally, Betsy Timmermeister came to the phone.

“This is Betsy, how can I help you?”

“Your receptionist said you deal with investment portfolios?”

“I do. You see, I'm not a broker, but I work with brokers in a variety of fields. Real estate, business holdings, partnerships—”

“So you—”

“Make suggestions. Help people grow their portfolios.”

I had no portfolio. I wasn't quite sure what one was.

“How much money would I have to have to approach you?”

“Where did you find my name?”

“A client of yours.”

“Who would that be?” She sounded cautious.

“First of all, could you tell me how much I'd have to invest?”

“For me to accept you as a client, you'd have to have roughly three million dollars minimum that you could put at risk.”

I couldn't speak. My chest was tight, and I was short of breath.

“Hello.”

I believe I gasped.

“Okay,” I uttered the word three times. “Okay, okay, three million.”

“Yes. Do you have that much?”

If I counted the change in my pockets, I had at best four or five hundred dollars I might be able to lay my hands on. Who am
I kidding? I have maybe two hundred bucks if I sell my autographed picture of LeBron James. And I'm not even sure if it's authentic. My business partner gave it to me as a birthday gift, and I'm never sure if what he says about things like a LeBron James autograph are the truth.

“Yes, I do.”

And she'd said I had to have it to put at risk. At risk? If I had a couple thousand dollars, I certainly wouldn't put it at risk. It was crazy talk.

“Who recommended me?”

“He's no longer alive.”

“Please, I'd like to know.”

“Jason Londell. I worked with him in the last several weeks and he—”

“Jason Londell? Jesus Christ, who is this?”

A strange reaction to a referral. When someone recommended me to install a security system, I was usually ecstatic. Maybe the fact that he was deceased unnerved her a little. I couldn't tell.

“Can we get together?” I just wanted an appointment.

“You worked with him how long ago?”

“In Miami. Just before he died.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really.” That part was the honest-to-God truth.

“What did he say about me?”

“Jason recommended you. I told him I'd come into some money, and he said if I wanted to invest, you were—”

“He actually told you to call me?”

“Yes. He said that you—” I hesitated. The Londell portfolio I saw looked like she had done a great job for the actor and his wife. I knew nothing about how it had grown or shrunk, but the sheer dollar amount told me I was in the presence of greatness.

I don't know what she thought he might say, but I was winging
it. “He said that you did a good job, you had a variety of investments to choose from, and you were very thorough.”

“He said that? Jason Londell? Two weeks ago?” I heard suspicion in her voice, and I wondered what she was thinking about me. Maybe I didn't sound as sincere as I should have. Or maybe she was surprised that Londell had praised her like I said he did. I started believing that I actually consulted him.

“Yes.”

The lady was quiet for a moment, and I could hear her breathing on the other end. Some computer keys clacking, maybe a voice in the background, then she was back on the line.

“Why don't we plan on meeting tomorrow morning? Around ten?” she asked.

“That would be great.” Or not.

“You have my address?”

“I do.”

“All right, then. What is your name?”

I didn't want to give her any more information, but she kept pushing.

“I can introduce myself when we meet.”

“That's not good enough. Sir, if we're going to meet tomorrow, I need your name. Right now.”

“Yes, ma'am. Eugene Moore.”

“Eugene?”

“Yes.”

“M-O-O-R-E?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you from, Eugene?”

I said it before I thought. “Carol City, Florida, ma'am.”

More clacks on her keyboard. Why would she possibly want to know that? I had three million dollars to invest. Wasn't that enough?

“Phone?”

If I wanted to bail, she was making it very difficult to.

“Phone.” The tone was insistent.

I gave it to her.

“My assistant will call you half an hour before the meeting to make sure you are going to be here. And I will be in my office at ten a.m.”

I knew where the office was located.

“I look forward to our meeting.” I wasn't sure that I really did.

“It's an exploratory meeting. I'll be here, Eugene. Don't keep me waiting.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

I didn't know if it was legal to see a couple's prenuptial agreement or not, but I was certain it was illegal to copy a couple's investment portfolio, so I'd already broken one law. It was much easier going forward. Break one law, break two, ten, it made little difference at this point. If Gene Milner could produce the document, the infamous prenup, we would know exactly how Juliana had to perform. If she, Jason Londell's wife, didn't live up to the agreement, if she was proven unfaithful, that in itself didn't mean she'd killed Jason, but it certainly put a damper on her value. If she was proven unfaithful, she didn't inherit any of the investment portfolio. Life insurance, a different story.

Dropping Em off at Gene Milner's office, a hole-in-the-wall in a strip mall near East L.A., I waited outside. The area didn't look very safe with small groups of minorities walking the sidewalks, almost all of them checking me out. There were blacks, Hispanics, Asians, and strange-looking white dudes. One guy with a Mohawk haircut and tattoos covering his forearms spit on the car, and two dark-skinned women with handkerchiefs around their heads raised their middle fingers to me. I must have looked
way too Anglo. I spent the time worrying about the insurance implications if someone would actually slam a hammer or bat into the vehicle, creating a dent that I couldn't pay for. It was a very dicey neighborhood.

Three-D graffiti was scrawled on the burrito carryout joint next door.
Juan
'
s Burritos and Tacos
. Actually, the colorful graffiti was very artistic, peppered with what seemed to be Spanish words with 3-D effects and a brilliant burst of neon colors. Again, my art appreciation class at Samuel and Davidson University didn't really kick in, but I had no idea what good art was all about. I just knew what I liked. Bottom line was, I felt certain the graffiti carried gang overtones. L.A. was overrun with gangs. At least that's what we'd been told at the front desk of our cheap motel. The lady had, very quietly, offered to sell me a pistol. She said I'd probably need it. Now, I was questioning my reluctance.

Three male Latinos with blue-and-white bandanas strolled by my rental, eyeballing the Chevy and me. Then they walked back even closer. I closed my eyes as if taking a nap, praying they would see how cheap the car was and decide against a jacking.

When I opened my eyes, they had disappeared.

Em walked out five minutes later, a brown envelope in her hand. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was time to get the hell out of Dodge. Milner was behind her, a bear of a man with a ponytail and thick face, scowling as he watched her get into the rental car. I'd apparently interfered with his bad intentions.

“Got it, Skip. Jason Londell gave this prenup to Milner when he hired him to check up on Juliana.”

“Does he have proof that she was unfaithful? Evidence? Maybe pictures or a recording?”

“He was very evasive. Said he'd taken photos, had some communications that he'd intercepted on her cell phone and computer, but he wouldn't share anything. He is working with Londell's
attorney, some guy named Don Witter. I assume there's some sort of client confidentiality.”

I didn't know. Hell, I was a private investigator with a license, but I had no idea if we were bound to keep all client information a secret. It wasn't like we were an attorney or doctor, where we'd gone to school for eight years and were sworn to uphold an oath. We were bottom-feeders. We took pictures of private moments, stole conversations and e-mail, copied people's files and, if we didn't get caught, if we got away with our deceitful and highly illegal and unethical tricks, we generally tried to make people's lives worse than they were. Maybe not all P.I.s, but James, Em, and me. And I'm sure Gene Milner was in that group. But, if Milner didn't want to share any more than he had, at least we had the prenup and that was a start.

“There was one thing that he said, then sort of backtracked.”

“What?”

“He said, ‘the inside scoop is.'”

“And then what?”

“He stopped.”

“So he didn't want to explain?”

“I don't know, Skip. The inside scoop is—”

“That's it?”

“Could have been anything.”

“Could have been he has some inside information.”

“Anyway, I've got to be at the table read in half an hour. What are you going to do while I'm there?”

“I thought maybe I could sit through the read and see how it goes.” I looked forward to being a part of the process. Maybe then I could start to buy into her obsession to be the next American princess.

“No. Skip, you were fired, remember?”

“I do remember that.”

I couldn't forget.

“I think it's better if I go solo. I don't want these people thinking I can't take care of these things by myself. Pick me up in two hours and we'll debrief, okay?”

I dropped her off again, realizing I was somewhat like a chauffeur to a petulant new starlet. I'd had worse jobs. This one just didn't pay anything.

I stopped for coffee at a place called Ed's Coffee Shop on Robertson Boulevard. The place smelled like strong black coffee and frying sausage and had photos of some rather homely people on the wall along with some artwork by a guy named Michael Becker. I found out later the people in the photo were Ed and his wife from the sixties. The regulars who were scattered around the room were also on the unattractive side, but then I knew where all the beautiful people were at this moment. At a table read somewhere in La-La Land. Reading a script about a nerdy scientist and his sister from Detroit. I just wish I could have been there.

Over a cup of strong coffee with cream, I studied the paper Em had given me. The prenup was interesting to read. Just as the insurance policy kept repeating
however
, this document must have taken its lesson from the author of the ten-million-dollar insurance article.

This document will pay to the bearer, Juliana Londell, the full amount of
blah blah blah,
however, in the case of an adulterous relationship
, blah blah blah.
The recipient will recieve
blah blah blah,
however, in the case of an adulterous relationship
, and it must have repeated that statement ten more times. If Juliana had a sexual affair with someone while she was in the boundaries of her marriage,
however
miserable that might have been, she did not qualify to receive seventy-five million dollars. She either slept with Jason or slept alone. It couldn't have been any clearer. For
seventy-five million dollars? I think I'd keep it in my pants. But that's from a male perspective.

However
, the ten-million-dollar insurance policy was not mentioned. I wasn't quite sure how she could live on a mere ten mil, but she got that regardless.
However
, my guess was that if she killed Jason, the insurance company would contest the payment. It was all above my pay grade and my understanding. How do you deal with financial complications of that magnitude when you make less than thirty thousand dollars a year? I could not fathom the amount of money involved.

I made .03 percent of what this guy, this Jason Londell was worth. Not even one-half of one percent. Three hundredths of one percent. I was trying to fathom that figure. The entire exercise seemed like a reason to introduce me to reality. Juliana Londell would be inheriting the entire fortune.

I was going nowhere fast, and there were people in my age range who were so far ahead that I could never dream of catching up.