Dead West

by Matt Goldman

  “I saw Sebastiano’s assistants photographing their computer screens. Does that have anything to do with it?”

  “Probably. One of the other clients told me Sebastiano can’t copy any files that are property of the agency, otherwise he’s vulnerable to a huge lawsuit. But if the assistants photograph everything on personal devices, it’s hard to prove. Sebastiano’s assistants must have been photographing files for weeks. I guess they showed up this morning to make everything look as normal as possible then they just took off during the big meeting. You’d think the United States government was taken over by a coup the way people are reacting around here.”

  “So all is good?”

  “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

  “Any sign of Vasily?”

  “None.”

  “Okay. Be safe. Let me know if anything feels weird.”

  “Oh, dude. I’d be calling you every five minutes.”

  * * *

  Spoon and Stable is a nationally ranked restaurant by whoever is in charge of ranking things. The place is booked months out, which is why Molly Ellegaard made a reservation months ago after learning of our engagement. It’s in an old building on North First Street, just blocks from my former residence in a coat factory. The restaurant had white walls and exposed brick and soft light and was full of the kind of people who make reservations months in advance.

  We sat at a table for four in the middle of the dining room. Ellegaard, the son of a bitch, wore a suit. I kept my promise to wear jeans, though I did wear a collared shirt under my sweater and a pair of oxblood wingtips I kept on reserve for special occasions. Gabriella wore her hair down and straight and had wrapped herself in a cashmere thing that looked like a sweater but wasn’t. Molly Ellegaard looked lovely in her black dress with long sleeves. She wore her dark hair pulled back, highlighting her heart-shaped face and warm brown eyes.

  A waiter brought a bottle of champagne I wasn’t aware we’d ordered. Ellegaard said, “Close your mouth, Shap. We’re celebrating.”

  “Now,” said Molly, “we want to hear all the details about the wedding.”

  “Details?” said Gabriella.

  “Have you locked the date? Where are you getting married? Who’s officiating? How many guests? Have you chosen a cake? Where’s the reception? Who’s doing the flowers? Will there be live music or a DJ? Where are you registered?” Gabriella and I looked at each other. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell us. It’s fun to keep it a surprise. It’s romantic.”

  “Uh, no,” said Gabriella. “It’s not that we’re keeping anything a surprise. Our plan is just, well, more simple than most weddings.”

  “Simple’s good.”

  I said, “Extremely simple.”

  “Uh oh,” said Ellegaard.

  Molly caught on. “Oh come on, you two. Don’t tell me you’re eloping. Or going to the courthouse.”

  “We were going to elope,” said Gabriella, “but we realized our mothers would never forgive us. So … You tell them, Nils.”

  “Our wedding is on the second Sunday in March. That’s prime blizzard season so we didn’t have to compete with a lot of other weddings.”

  “Practical,” said Ellegaard.

  “And the potential for bad weather will discourage out-of-towners we’re obligated to invite from coming. We rented out a small restaurant. The guests will be my immediate family, Gabriella’s immediate family, and a handful of friends, including the Ellegaards and their daughters.”

  “Really?” said Molly, disappointment all over her face. “Why do you want to keep it so small?”

  I said, “Because we just want to enjoy our wedding with the people we love. We don’t need anyone else there.”

  Molly said, “But more people is more festive. And you’d get more gifts.”

  “That’s another thing,” said Gabriella, “no gifts.”

  “No gifts?!” said Molly. “That’s not fair. We want to buy you gifts. To commemorate the best day of your lives.”

  Gabriella said, “Best day of our lives? Have you been to a wedding before?”

  Ellegaard laughed so hard champagne came out his nose, and I fell more deeply in love with Gabriella than I’d thought possible.

  I said, “But we’re making a kind-of-sort-of exception for the Ellegaard family when it comes to gifts.”

  Molly said, “Thank God.”

  “We want Emma and Olivia and Maisy to make our wedding cake.”

  “Oh, they can’t—”

  “Yes, they can. Emma loves those baking shows. The girls can make whatever they want, decorate it any way they want. The only requirement is there’s enough cake for thirty-five people.”

  “And Molly,” said Gabriella, “we’d like you to pick out the flowers. We’ll give you a budget and let you surprise us.”

  “Okay,” said Molly. “At least the flowers will be festive. I can guarantee that. Now, what about invitations?”

  I said, “Yeah, we’re not doing those. This is your invitation. And Ellie, we’d like you to officiate.”

  “Me? How do I do that?”

  “I’ve signed you up to be a reverend with the Church of the Latter Day Dude. You got to register with Hennepin County and that’s about it.”

  “Who’s going to write the service?”

  I said, “I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”

  “So see?” said Gabriella. “The cake, flowers, presiding over the wedding. The Ellegaards have plenty of gifts to give.”

  Molly deflated and said, “Are you sure you want a tiny, wing-it-by-the-seat-of-your-pants wedding? You might regret it someday.”

  “We’re sure,” said Gabriella. “But we appreciate you looking out for us.”

  Molly emptied her flute of champagne.

  Halfway through the meal my phone buzzed. I ignored it, but whoever it was called back. Then called back again. Persistent callers are never calling with good news. I didn’t want to ruin a perfect evening, so I excused myself to take the call.

  It was Ebben Mayer. Thom Burke was dead.

  25

  A neighbor found Thom Burke facedown on his driveway in the middle of the afternoon. The neighbor called 911 assuming Thom had had a heart attack or aneurism. The neighbor hadn’t noticed the garage door was damaged from impact. Or that Thom’s chest had been crushed. An LAPD officer from Robbery-Homicide had called Brit, she being the most frequent contact in Thom’s phone, and asked to set up a time to talk with her. Ebben told her she’d have to tell them about Vasily’s threats and to let go of For the People—the movie was as dead as Thom Burke. Ebben expected the police would want to question him, too. He asked me to come back to Los Angeles and help navigate the fallout of Thom’s death. No, not asked—he begged me to come back. I told him I’d call him back in the next few hours.

  I had to return to Los Angeles. A client died on my watch last year. It would haunt me forever—I didn’t want a repeat.

  I returned to the dinner table and Molly trying to convince Gabriella we had to move into a house so Evelyn would have a yard. With a swing set and a sandbox. I jumped into the conversation saying we’d never have a sandbox because every cat within a one-mile radius would make an appearance just to shit in it and kill every songbird that happened to be singing its sweet melody.

  Molly said, “Well, what about that?”

  “What about what?” said Gabriella.

  “Do you want pets?”

  “We’ve talked about getting a dog. We both love dogs.”

  I said, “I had a big golden retriever when I was a kid. Sheila. Saw her get hit by a car.”

  Molly said, “Ugh. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Swore I’d never get another. But I’m ready to give it a shot.”

  Gabriella said, “We’ve had such busy, unpredictable schedules as single people but now that we’re together we think we can make it work.”

  Molly said, “Does that mean you’re going to give Evelyn a little brother or sister?”

&
nbsp; “Molly,” said Ellegaard.

  “Oh, come on. Nils knows everything about us. He lived with us for six months.”

  The Ebben Mayer news could wait. The restaurant, the champagne, the four of us together—it was perfect, despite the direction the conversation had turned.

  Gabriella said, “That’s right. I had forgotten Nils lived in your basement.” She looked at me as if she were reevaluating her decision to marry me. Then she broke, a big smile on her beautiful face. She leaned over and kissed me and said, “I’d wish you would’ve come to me back then. I could have spared you a lot of heartache.”

  “You didn’t have a basement.”

  My life had fallen apart. No work. No money. I turned to Ellegaard. He and Molly took me in and Ellegaard changed my life when he convinced a friend with the Duluth Police Department to hire me as a consultant. Duluth had suffered a rash of murders. The victims were found out in the open, naked, their bodies spotless as if half their skin had been scrubbed away. Even their fingerprints were gone. The public was scared. The police had no leads. They hired me out of desperation. I threw myself into the case as an escape from myself more than anything. I worked to exhaustion, but solved the case, which is now what people call the Duluth Murders. That case turned my life around.

  I had two friends from the police academy. Ellegaard and Gabriella. If I had gone to Gabriella, if she had taken me in instead of the Ellegaards, the last twelve years would have been completely different. Maybe better. Maybe worse. It didn’t much matter. The only thing I think about now is I love my life. I love my daughter. I love Gabriella. It doesn’t matter how I got here—I’m just grateful I did.

  “Have you had enough time with the menus?” said our waiter. He had a booming voice and blond crew cut and a big smile over realigned teeth and used them all to kindly push us along so our table would turn over for the next reservation.

  We ordered. Then Gabriella said, “To answer your question, Molly, I’ve never wanted babies. I love Evelyn in a way I didn’t know was possible. But I’m happy it’s just the two or three of us depending on the day. Really happy.”

  I said, “Me, too.”

  Molly smiled and said, “I’m glad you’re happy.” She sipped her champagne. “But you could be even happier.”

  We laughed. We talked. We ate. And, over coffee and dessert, I told them about dead Thom Burke.

  26

  Ebben Mayer and Bunion Brit waited for me in baggage claim at LAX among the throng of carts and luggage and people of the world. They didn’t hide their disappointment when they learned I had brought only a small carry-on and no checked bags. Fifteen minutes later, we exited the parking ramp and started our crawl back to Hancock Park, me riding shotgun and Brit in back. It was 9:30 A.M. and they seemed in no rush—it didn’t take long to find out why.

  LAPD detectives were scheduled to interview Brit at eleven o’clock and Ebben at noon.

  “So like,” said Brit, “like what should we say and what should we not say?”

  “You should say the truth,” I said. “And you should not lie.”

  “Like the whole truth?” said Brit.

  “Yes, the whole truth. What were you thinking of hiding?”

  “Well, for one, Vasily’s threatening us to drop Kate Lennon. Because as soon as we mention her name, the police will go to talk to Kate Lennon and she’ll freak and quit the movie.”

  “I thought For the People was dead.”

  “Not yet,” said Ebben, “but it will be.”

  “But maybe not if you and me and Sebastiano and Debra agree to never mention the Kate Lennon part. We can just say Vasily threatened us. We can even say he told us to pull the movie. But why bring Kate Lennon into it? Or Ava St. Clair? We need to protect our reputations.”

  I said, “Have you discussed this with Sebastiano and Debra?”

  “Not yet, but—”

  “Don’t. What you’re talking about is conspiracy, and the cops will sniff it out in a minute and then you’ll have a lot more to worry about than your reputation with Kate Lennon. Tell the truth. You don’t need any advice other than that.”

  The car got quiet. We passed a couple more mini-malls then Ebben said, “Thank you. That’s exactly the kind of thing we need to hear.”

  “Have you two discussed what you’re going to say?”

  “A little.”

  “Undo it. I can’t stress that enough. If your interviews sound coordinated, the police will stop focusing on Vasily and start focusing on you.”

  Brit burst into tears. I glanced at Ebben. He shrugged.

  “Hey, Brit. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be so harsh. Just trying to get the message across.”

  She said, “It’s not that. I miss Thom. I can’t believe he’s dead. Dead! Just like Juliana! What is happening? This is insane!”

  Brit wailed as if she’d lost a great love, but whenever I’d referred to Thom as her boyfriend, she corrected me. Thom was a guy she was seeing. Wasn’t even a guy she was dating. She’d made that clear. She said she missed Thom, but I wondered if what she really missed was her movie script getting produced.

  We dropped Brit at the Hollywood police station on Wilcox then drove up to Sunset Boulevard and found a meter. Ebben and I sat in Groundwork Coffee and picked at scones.

  I said, “If it was Vasily, why do you think he went after Thom? Why not you or Brit?”

  “What do you mean if it was Vasily. Who else would have killed Thom?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know much about Thom. Did he owe anyone money? Did he sleep with anyone’s wife? The police will look into all that. But for now, I’m wondering if it was Vasily, why Thom?”

  Ebben Mayer shook his head. “I have no idea. Thom was a gun for hire. No disrespect, but he was the least important person on board. He broke down the script.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Breaking down a script means figuring out how many actors you need. How many locations. How many effects shots. How many days it’ll take to shoot. Stuff like that. Then he makes a schedule and budget. Thom’s job was largely done.”

  I said, “Do you think it’s possible that if Vasily killed you or Brit or Sebastiano or Debra, it would draw too much attention to the movie?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you think if Vasily had killed someone with more visibility it could actually ensure the movie would get made because the publicity would help it at the box office?”

  Ebben sat back and sipped his coffee and said, “Maybe. I suppose that’s possible.”

  “Ebben, you need to get out of town after you talk to the police. That is, if they’re okay with it. Because I can’t protect you here.”

  He nodded. “You’re right. It’s best if I leave until all this blows over.”

  Then Ebben filled me in on the adventures of Sebastiano and Debra. Jay Rosenstein and the ACI Agency were caught off guard. Sebastiano had orchestrated his exit perfectly, filling his schedule, smoothing over internal conflicts he’d had with other agents, which implied he wasn’t going anywhere, recruiting new agents to ACI, even putting in a request to refurnish his office. He’d built a smoke screen of trust and then blindsided his partners by disappearing. Only his three assistants were in the know—he’d bought their loyalty with promises of quick promotions. Sebastiano had kept his word. He’d promoted all three to agent.

  The other mini bombshell of news was that Debra had dissolved her management company to become an agent in Sebastiano’s new company. Rumors were flying around town that Debra somehow found out about Sebastiano’s intention to leave and blackmailed him into a lucrative job. I did not share with Ebben that it was me who’d inadvertently tipped off Debra.

  Bunion Brit texted that she was done. We told her where we were, and she said it was no problem to walk a couple blocks in her boot cast. Fifteen minutes later, she took Ebben’s seat, and Ebben walked down to the police station for his interview. Brit got up to order and returned with a latte and a muf
fin. She pinched off a piece of muffin, looked at it, then set it down on her napkin. I thought she might throw up.

  I said, “Tough conversation with the police?”

  She shook her head and said, “I’m fine.” She changed her mind and ate the piece of muffin. “Do you know if you get murdered, the police can ask a judge for a court order to open your safe-deposit box?”

  “I do know that. Did Thom have a safe-deposit box?”

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “He sure as fuck did.”

  “Did they tell you what they found?”

  Brit nodded then pinched off another piece of muffin and shoved it in her mouth. She took her time chewing, peeled the plastic lid off her latte, blew on the foam, took a sip, and said, “Thom Burke, the guy I was seeing, the guy I was sleeping with, had a safe-deposit box with $15 million in it. A little odd, don’t you think, for a guy who was too cheap to valet park?”

  27

  No one who legitimately acquires $15 million keeps it in a safe-deposit box. The police may or may not have shared that with Brit. I didn’t know if they suspected her of being mixed up in however Thom acquired the fifteen million. I didn’t know anything. But Brit sure acted as if the money was news to her. She seemed surprised, maybe even in shock.

  I said, “Plenty of wealthy people are infamously cheap. Did Thom have money?”

  “I don’t think so. He bought his house in 2000 for $300,000. That’s nothing in Los Angeles. It’s worth $1.5 million now. Can you fucking believe that? All that equity and he didn’t put a dime into it. The dishwasher broke ten years ago. He did dishes by hand ever since. He drove a 1990-something Nissan until a few weeks ago. He finally got a new car and guess what it was. A Subaru Outback. How utilitarian is that? He hustled for work, going from one freelance project to the next. For fuck’s sake, he didn’t even belong to a gym. He lived like a pauper.”