They're Watching (2010) (35 page)

"I will."

"Oh, and now I've earned that exclusive twice over."

"Does that mean . . . ?"

"You bet your ass. I found her."

Chapter
44

I caught Trista outside the Santa Monica bungalow, dumping an armload of empty Dasani bottles in the recycle bin. I said, "Bottled water? Isn't that environmentally irresponsible?"

She turned, shielding her eyes against the setting sun, and gave a sad grin when she recognized me. Which quickly turned coy. "Your shirt's made of cotton," she said, "which requires a hundred and ten pounds of nitrogen fertilizer per acre to grow. Your car there"--a flick of her lovely head--"if you upgraded to a hybrid, you'd pick up about a dozen miles to the gallon, which would keep ten tons of carbon dioxide out of the air a year." As I approached, she leaned toward me, blond hair drifting, and eyed my trousers. "That a cell phone in your pocket, big boy? It's got a capacitor strip made of tantalum, extracted from coltan, eighty percent of which is torn out of streambeds in eastern Congo where gorillas live. Or used to."

I said, "Uncle."

"We're all hypocrites. We all do damage. Just by living. And yes, by drinking bottled water, too." She paused. "You're smiling at me. You're not gonna get flirty and patronizing?"

"No. It's just been a long couple days, and you're a breath of fresh air."

"You like me."

"But not like that."

"No? Then why?"

"Because you think differently than I do."

"It's good to see you, Patrick."

"I didn't kill him."

"I know that."

"How?"

"Your anger's all on the surface. It's really just hurt you don't want to acknowledge. Come inside."

Moving boxes littered the tile floor--evidently the production company had wasted little time in dismissing her from the movie once it was no longer necessary for her to look after Keith. I glanced around the bungalow. A choice location, four blocks from the ocean, eight hundred square feet that probably rented for a couple grand. A slab of floating counter barely accommodated a kitchen sink, a microwave, and a coffeepot. Aside from a tiny bathroom next to the closet, the place was one room.

Whale posters adorned the walls. She caught me looking and said, "I know, it's the decor of a sixth-grade girl. I can't help it, though. They're so magnificent. It kills me." She swiped a bottle of Bombay Sapphire off the floor and refilled her glass, adding a splash of tonic. "Apologies. You probably think I'm . . ."

I said, "No, please. You can trust a woman who drinks gin."

"I'd offer you some, but I'm running low and I'm gonna need it to get through this." She placed her nightstand lamp into a metal trash bin along with a handful of socks and then looked around, overwhelmed.

"I'm moving back to Boulder," she said. "It'll be fine. I'll get going on another project and . . . and . . ." Her back was to me, and her hand rose to her face and then her shoulders bunched, and I realized she was crying, or trying not to. She made a high-pitched gasp, and when she turned, her face was red, but she looked otherwise normal, if a touch pissed off.

She took a slug from the glass, sat on the bed, patted the spot next to her. I went. Glossy photos of beached and autopsied whales had spilled across the comforter. They were crime-scene graphic, impossible to ignore. I felt a sense of despair at seeing those magnificent animals reduced to driftwood. A helplessness that turned to revulsion at the back of my throat.

She picked one picture up and gazed at it almost fondly, as if it were a remembrance from some other life. "It's all fucked up, Patrick. You know that. The dream is never the dream. It's a bunch of compromises and, if you're lucky, a few decent people now and then." She rested her head on my shoulder, and I could smell the gin.

She wiped her nose with her sleeve, sat back upright. "It was my job to baby-sit him. Keep him from dying in a drunken car crash, from fucking a seventeen-year-old, whatever. Keep him alive and out of jail and we get our movie. How hard can that be?"

"Pretty hard."

"I know you hated him." Her words were slurred, ever so slightly.

I said, "Maybe he wasn't so bad."

"No," she said. "No, he wasn't. He was kind of a dumb Labrador, but he tuned in enough that we could get him on board. Stars, movies, opportunism--Christ, it sounds so cynical." She looked down at one of the eight-by-tens--blubber and pink meat. "But I actually believe in this shit."

"And Keith?"

"He was a movie star. So who the fuck knows? He got used for all kinds of agendas." The irony sat with us. She said, "They get bored, you know. Look for hobbies, for causes. But he didn't have to pick this one. He didn't have to pick anything. But he did. Remember when the gray whales were washing up in the San Francisco Bay?"

"No, sorry."

"Right at the foot of the Golden Gate. I took him up there. You know, in the field with marine biologists. Get your shoes dirty. They love that shit. He was all excited, bought a new Patagonia windbreaker. When everyone finally left, I couldn't find him. He was back by the water, his hand on the whale. He had one tear going down his cheek. You know, the Keep America Beautiful crying-Indian tear? Like that. But no one was looking. He wiped it--he was all fine, sure, no problem. But I forgave him a lot for that tear." She stood abruptly. "I gotta finish packing. I'll walk you out."

But she just stood there, glaring at those sagging posters. "What the hell am I doing?" she said. "I don't know anything about movies. Or financing. I'm just a bleeding-heart idiot with half a master's degree who loves whales." She looked around the cramped bungalow as if these four walls held all her shortcomings and disappointments . When she snapped out of it, she caught me watching her and flushed at the glimpse she'd given up. "I said I have to finish packing."

"Listen, just give me a minute. Please. You were with Keith a lot at the end--"

"You have to remind me?"

"Can I ask you a couple questions?"

"Like?"

"Did he ever mention a company called Ridgeline?"

"Ridgeline? No, never heard of it."

"Did he ever go to the Starbright Plaza? A strip mall with office buildings off Riverside in Studio City?"

"He never went to the Valley." She sank back onto the bed. "Is that all?"

"I've got limited time, Trista. I'm the lead suspect. I have to figure out who framed me, and I have to do it before the cops come and put me in jail. Because once that happens, no one will be left to figure it out."

"What am I supposed to do about it? Haven't I helped you enough already?"

"What does that mean?"

"I got him and Summit to drop the lawsuit against you. At least they were going to."

I gaped in disbelief. "That was you?"

"Yes, that was me. After you vandalized Keith's house--"

"That wasn't me."

"Whatever--I convinced him that all this legal mess was a distraction and a pain in the ass for him, and I practically wrote the cue cards so he could convince the studio they didn't need a stink hanging around They're Watching when the movie was riding such good buzz. I know you didn't hit him anyway--like I said, you're too harmless--and if the truth were to come out, he'd lose all credibility to be a caring environmental spokesperson for us." She flicked at a chipped nail, then stared at me from beneath her curled eyelashes, an incredible package of style and substance. "Now, is there anything else or can I get back to my solitude and misery?"

I struggled to regain my mental footing. "Can you tell me anything Keith did or anyone he met with that seemed out of the ordinary?"

"Out of the ordinary? For all the excitement at his fingertips, he was one of the dullest, most predictable people I've ever been around. It was all stupid childish shit--clubs and bars and midnight limo rides with underwear models. There were a lot of pranks and drunkenness, sure, but nothing serious. I doubt he ever met anyone interesting enough to want to kill him. And that includes you."

Assuming that her last words were a dismissal, I got up quietly. She was right; it was difficult to imagine Keith doing anything serious enough to elicit the attention of people with top-shelf intelligence gear at their disposal. He breezed around from one thing to the next. Parties, movies, projects. He'd fallen into Trista's cause like anything else, then worked himself up into a state of conviction over it.

I paused in the doorway and turned back to face her. "I lost my job, too," I said. "Teaching. I never realized how much it meant to me until it was gone. And you know what's funny? It was always just a backup job to me, a consolation prize, but it feels worse losing it than it did getting booted off my own movie." I realized I was rambling, and I cut myself off. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm really sorry you got fired from something that meant that much to you."

"Fired?" she said. "I didn't get fired. The whole production shut down." She sank into herself, her shoulders bowing. "The first day of shooting was gonna be Monday. Three days away. So fucking close."

The wind blew through my shirt, but my skin had already gone taut. "The financing fell apart?"

"Of course," she said. "Environmental documentaries can't get a real release unless there's an Al Gore or a Keith Conner driving them."

My mouth was suddenly dry. My gaze pulled back to those glossy photos on Trista's bed. Beached whales. Exploded eardrums. Ruptured brains.

Sonar.

Keith had talked about high-intensity sonar wreaking havoc with whales, blowing out their organs, giving them emboli, driving them onto shores.

All those bits and pieces, sliding into alignment.

I felt a quickening of the blood, a predatory thrill at breaking through to the heart of the matter.

She was talking. "If anything goes wrong--a recession, a Senate vote, a new development--the environment is always first to suffer." A wry chuckle. "Well, I guess Keith was the first this time."

I heard myself ask, "You can't find another star and get funding again?"

"It won't matter." She tucked a fall of hair back behind an ear. "We had a limited window to make this thing happen. The money's gone."

I pictured him the last time I'd seen him alive, reclining on that teak deck chair, smoking his cloves and trying on earnestness. It's a race against time, man.

What had Jerry said? The idiot's doing some bullshit environmental documentary next. Mickelson tried to get him to wait until he had another hit under his belt, but it had to be now.

"What window?" My voice sounded far away.

At my tone she glanced up. "Excuse me?"

"You said you had a limited window to make the movie happen. Some big rush. Why?"

"Because we needed it to hit theaters before the Senate vote."

My heartbeat, a vibration in my ears. "Wait a minute," I said weakly. "Senate?"

"Yeah. The proposal to lower limits on the decibel levels of naval sonar. To protect the whales. It's calendared for October. Which means we needed to be in production, like, now." She frowned, checked her empty glass. "Why are you being so weird?"

"If The Deep End comes out before October, saving the whales from sonar becomes a popular cause. Certain senators who vote a certain way wind up with egg on their face. It's an election year."

"That is how the game is played," she said. "What are you, fresh out of Cub Scouts?"

"They'd feel pressure to vote to impose limits on sonar."

"Yes, Patrick. That was the hope."

"Unless the movie doesn't get made."

"Right."

"And the only thing that can shut down a production once you get a green light is . . ."

She set down her glass. "Oh, come on, Patrick."

". . . the death of the star."

For the first time, her face held fear. She got it. I'd found a new ally, someone already in the battle on a different front. A resource.

But her gaze ticked to the rear door, then back to me, and I realized with crushing chagrin that she was afraid not because she believed me and saw what I--what we were up against but because she was afraid of me. In my eagerness I'd made a mistake in rushing in, in not debriefing her. She had a limited vantage into the whole sordid mess, and so, given my wild claims, she could only think I was as paranoid and unhinged as I'd been billed in the media.

I held up a hand, desperate, pressured, trying to circumvent the argument she'd started with herself. "You said you knew I wasn't a killer."

"I want you to leave now."

"It's not as crazy as it sounds. Please, just let me lay out for you what--" I took a step in from the doorway, and she lunged to her feet, breathing hard. For a loaded moment, we faced each other across the room, terror coming off her like a heat signature.

Showing her my palms, I backed away and closed the door quietly behind me.

Chapter
45

"All this time I've been asking the wrong question." I was so agitated I was nearly shouting into the phone. "I was asking myself who stands to benefit from Keith Conner's death."