Dead West

by Matt Goldman

  “Yeah, well, you’re not a soldier with PTSD.”

  “Don’t judge me. You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

  I looked hard at Brit. I didn’t know what she’d been through. But I did know the stress one feels can be proportional to one’s narcissism. Woe is me because me is so damn important. I’d not only seen it a thousand times, I’d experienced it when I couldn’t get out of my own way. I was lucky to have Ellegaard then. He pulled me out of that whirlpool of self. Bunion Brit didn’t have an Ellegaard. If she did, the person would have showed up when Thom got killed. Brit was alone, swirling down and around and into herself.

  The FBI and LAPD were out looking for Ebben Mayer. They’d search Thom Burke’s house again. They’d search Vasily’s house and stake it out. I could only get in the way and in trouble in those places. I had one play. Sebastiano invited Ebben to his party. Sebastiano lured Ebben out of his house and onto the road. Talking to Sebastiano might yield something. I had no idea what. Brit’s ecstasy wouldn’t take full effect for about an hour. I’d have to find Sebastiano and get her out of there by then.

  She looked at me like a wounded animal and said, “Please take something. I need a friend tonight.”

  “I need to keep my head clear for Ebben.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” said Brit. Then something caught her attention. “Oh shit. There’s what’s-her-face from CBS. She passes on everything I pitch. Come on. This way. I think she hates women.”

  Brit led me through the kitchen and into a side entryway and down a wide circular staircase. We stepped into the basement, which was nothing like any basement I’d ever seen. A polished limestone floor. No rugs. The ceiling was ten feet tall. Clumps of casual furniture akin to beanbags made pits of social interaction where personal boundaries buckled. Multiple generations of party attendees clumped in mutually beneficial transactions. Kids who looked fresh out of high school, their faces round with baby fat, tangled with thirtysomethings and fortysomethings and fiftysomethings and beyond. The old wanted youth. The youth wanted money and power. The plain wanted beauty. The beautiful wanted to be wanted. The intelligent wanted recognition.

  I saw the bar Brit had told me about. Made of translucent sheets of stone, lit from within to glow browns and pinks and greens. Wide enough for a dozen stools, all taken, each surrounded by people standing. One man and one woman tended the bar, both naked and body painted in the same white shirt as the servers above. The pool glowed blue behind them through its glass wall. Bodies swirled in and out of view. A few in bathing suits but most were not.

  The nudity felt cold, forced, benign, and presentational. Nowhere near provocative. Brit and I worked our way through the basement and up another set of stairs that led to the backyard where we found a forest of human beings and heat lamps. A view of the sparkling L.A. basin that turned to black at the coast. Naked torsos in the pool and its adjacent hot tub. And Sebastiano holding court at a round table with Debra and a woman and man wearing business suits.

  “Lawyers,” said Brit.

  “Do you know them?”

  “I’ve seen them before. Mostly around Sebastiano.”

  “So they’re show business lawyers.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “Criminal defense attorneys.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Sebastiano saw us and waved us to his table. The kid who’d brought us sandwiches in his office appeared out of nowhere with two more chairs. Bunion Brit and I sat. Sebastiano made introductions, and I immediately forgot the lawyers’ names. Then he asked if we’d heard any updates on Ebben.

  I said, “No. Have you spoken to the police?”

  The lawyers took that as their cue to leave. They got up and walked away. Sebastiano said, “Those two come to every party.”

  “Of course they do,” said Debra. “Any excuse to work late and get in a quick fuck before they go home to their spouses.”

  Sebastiano nodded in agreement. Another open secret among friends and coworkers. Sebastiano said, “The police swung by to see if I was really having a party.”

  “Because your invitation drew Ebben out of the house.”

  Sebastiano said, “I feel awful about that, but Vasily was probably camped outside. Ebben would have left eventually. If we’d had any idea this was a possibility—”

  “How does that work when the police come up to confirm you’re having a party but the party includes illegal molly and cocaine?”

  “Do you disapprove of my party, Mr. Shapiro?”

  “Not at all. It’s a party. People are enjoying themselves. You are, aren’t you, Brit?”

  “I’m having a lovely time. Thanks for asking, Nils.”

  I said, “I’m just wondering if the police don’t see what’s happening or they do and look the other way. Trying to get a feel for how this town works.”

  “Well, if you must know, I have an assistant parked at the bottom of the street. If a police car is headed up, we have time to hide what needs to be hidden.”

  “Your assistants do a lot of shitty work.”

  “Price of admission to the game. And it’s just for a year. After that they’re on their way.”

  Debra said, “We all went through it. Besides, how would you rather pay your dues: a year of personal servitude or four years of medical school or three years of law school?”

  “Hey!” said Brit. “There’s Carl!”

  She got up and disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone with Sebastiano and Debra. I said, “Ebben’s parents received a demand for ransom.”

  “Wait,” said Sebastiano. “What are you saying? The police have confirmed it’s a kidnapping?”

  “Holy shit,” said Debra.

  I said, “What did you think happened? Ebben just abandoned his car and leaked blood onto the street?”

  Sebastiano said, “I don’t know. I guess I just thought Ebben would show up. Why would Vasily kidnap him? It’s such an act of desperation.”

  I said, “Yes. It is. A person feels desperate when they’re on the hook for $15 million.”

  Debra laughed. “You think the 15 million in Thom Burke’s safe-deposit box came from Vasily?”

  Sebastiano did not laugh. He sipped a martini or what looked like a martini. After learning how the man created himself, I didn’t trust that anything was what it appeared to be. I said, “Why is that funny to you? Who do you think the 15 million came from?”

  “Ebben Mayer. It had to be Ebben. How else do you keep 15 million off the books and readily available?”

  “Why would he have to keep it off the books?”

  “I don’t know,” said Debra. She removed her octagonal pink glasses, blew on the lenses, and returned them to her round, pretty face. “I don’t know what it’s like to have that kind of money.” There it was again, Debra’s I’m not in the club bitterness. First it was about her weight, now it was about her bank account. “Thom was working for Ebben, and Ebben is the sole principal of The Creative Collective. He raised a $100 million fund. Plus, with all his personal money, doesn’t it make sense that—”

  “Easy, darling.” Sebastiano reached over and placed a hand on Debra’s forearm. “Ebben’s a client, remember?”

  I said, “Hold on. I’m curious. Is Debra saying Vasily helped fund The Creative Collective and now he wants his money back?”

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  “Maybe Vasily threatened everyone to pull Kate Lennon from For the People so it would kill the movie and his investment would revert back to him?”

  Debra opened her mouth to say something but Sebastiano caught her eye and she kept quiet. My phone buzzed. Ellegaard. It was 1:00 A.M. in Minnesota. He wasn’t calling to say hello. I excused myself from the table and answered.

  Ellegaard said, “There’s a problem with the ransom.”

  I watched Brit try to snuggle with a handsome man in his twenties. The man seemed annoyed, as if a stranger in an airplane had fallen asleep on his shoulder. His friend
s laughed. I had to get her out of there. I said to Ellegaard, “What kind of problem?”

  “Ebben’s parents don’t have $20 million. Not even close. They’ve given almost everything they had to their foundation.”

  “Okay. Well, Beverly and Arthur have the money.”

  “They do, but they refuse to pay it.”

  “What?”

  “I spoke to Beverly Mayer half an hour ago. She said Ebben needs to learn his lesson about show business. She’s not paying the ransom.”

  “And if Ebben gets killed?”

  “She said she’s willing to take that chance.”

  “Lovely woman. But Ebben has 20 million, right?”

  “The FBI is looking into that. It’s not so simple to liquidate assets without a signature. Especially when the owner of the funds is under duress. We don’t even have a verbal request.”

  The handsome man slipped away from Brit, leaving her alone. She looked pathetic. The ecstasy had started to kick in. She was full of love and empathy but had no way to share it. She spotted me and smiled the most compassionate smile.

  I said, “Maybe Vasily would make an arrangement so Ebben can sign the necessary documents to liquidate the 20 million.”

  “Maybe,” said Ellegaard.

  “One more thing. Can you jump on LexisNexis and run a background on Debra Schmidt. Something’s not right about her.”

  “On it. Stay near your phone.” He hung up.

  Bunion Brit hobbled toward me. It was her eyes that gave her away. Ecstasy is a stimulant and hallucinogen that doesn’t create feelings but brings them out. It tears down the walls behind which we hide our love and empathy. It tears down the walls we’ve built to protect ourselves.

  I got my private investigator’s license when I was twenty-five years old and could still pass for a college student and even a high school student. I earned a reputation for infiltrating parties, especially raves where I could move among the pacifier-sucking teens without drawing unwanted attention. This was shortly after 9/11. Law enforcement and parents were concerned raves might become terrorist targets. The whole country was in a state of panic. Security companies hired me to blend into the crowd and keep my eyes open. Parents hired me to search for wayward and missing teens. Shopping malls hired me, too. I spent more time at the Mall of America than any human being should. And though I never saw anything close to terrorism, I saw plenty of young women—no, check that—plenty of girls peddling sex. Girls as young as thirteen.

  Ecstasy played a role at both raves and the Mall of America. Some of the girls worked with pimps. But some were just teenagers who wanted a $200 pair of jeans or a ziplock bag full of ecstasy. I saw the drug’s effects almost daily for years. Wannabe adults became the children they were. Cool and standoffish yielded to warm and open. Duplicitousness melted away and honesty stepped forward.

  I knew how to talk to someone on ecstasy. I knew what I could do with their trust.

  Brit said, “Nils. Oh, Nils. I’m so happy we’ve met. Are you? Happy we’ve met? I sure hope you are.” She leaned against me and placed her hand between my shoulder blades.

  I said, “Brit, can we go somewhere and talk?”

  “You mean like, just the two of us?”

  “If you feel comfortable. You seem calm and relaxed.”

  “Mmm-hmm. I am. Are you, Nils? Calm and relaxed?”

  “Yes. Very much. That’s why I thought it might be a nice time to connect. Get to know each other better.”

  “I’d like that.” She used her free hand to take mine. She rubbed her thumb across the back of my hand. “I know a room we can go to. Would you like to see it?”

  38

  Brit led me through the people and heat lamps, into the house and up to the second floor. We walked hand in hand down a long hall which was open on the right and overhanging the living room below. Doors lined the left side of the hall, some closed, some open offering glimpses into bedrooms and bathrooms. The walls were paper white. Artsy black-and-white photographs hung in the spaces between doorways.

  My job was to save Ebben Mayer’s life. Sometimes that means blurring ethical lines into smudges. Right and wrong swirl into one. I had a gut feeling about Brit. It wasn’t anything more than that. I had no idea what it would yield. Sometimes an investigator gets a break. Mine came from Brit. A double-barreled shotgun of good fortune. Brit invited me to join her in the bath earlier that night. And she took ecstasy. I hadn’t facilitated either. In that respect, my ethics were good.

  Taking advantage of the situation is where my ethics got hazy.

  We entered the last bedroom on the left. I turned on the overhead light, dimmed it to a whisper of gold, shut and locked the door. Brit lay down on the bed, twisting onto her side to look at me. I put my head on the pillow and stared into her eyes. I took both of her hands in mine and said, “You’ve carried a burden the last few days. It has to be exhausting.”

  Her eyes smiled. “Yes. It’s been terrible.”

  “I’m here to help. I’m here so you don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

  “You’re kind, Nils. And generous. And good. I’ve felt that. It’s attracted me to you.” I said nothing. Her whole face smiled, and her eyes teared over. She said, “I want to tell you something, but please don’t judge me.”

  “I’m here to support you. Not judge you.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “I’m your friend, Brit. I care about you.” She nodded. “You can tell me anything.”

  She shut her eyes. “You’re my friend.”

  “I’m on your side.”

  She nodded and opened her eyes. “I’m the one who did it, Nils. I killed Thom.” She cried. Not from nerves or fear or guilt but from a rush of sadness, as if an innocent creature had died. But I suspected the innocent creature wasn’t Thom. It was her.

  I said, “I’m sure you didn’t mean to.”

  “I was so angry.”

  “Angry at Thom?”

  She reached up and cupped my cheek. “Thank you for being my friend.”

  “I’m honored to be your friend, Brit. Thank you for being mine.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “I want to help you.”

  “I know. I believe you. I trust you, Nils.”

  “What did Thom do to make you so angry?”

  “He said he’d make me lunch if I came over. I told him I’d like lunch. All I’d had that day was a juice which was all vegetables and almost no calories. I was starving. I drove up to Nichols Canyon and parked in his driveway. The empty juice bottle was in my cup holder. It was a glass bottle.

  “So when I got out of the car, I took it to the side of the garage where Thom kept a special box for just his glass recyclables. He put plastic and cardboard in the regular recycling container, but the glass he liked to take in himself to get the California refund. I opened the box to throw in my juice bottle, and under the green Perrier bottles, like almost all the way down, I saw a white container. The kind vitamins or supplements come in. And I thought that was weird because it looked plastic, not glass. I was curious about that container. I wondered what Thom had been taking because we’d had some problems in the bedroom. He wanted to take Viagra, but I said no. Thom doesn’t put any chemicals in his body, and I didn’t want him to start because of me. I didn’t want to feel responsible for him taking a pharmaceutical. I knew our sexual relationship was short term.”

  “I understand. But you weren’t ready to end it.”

  “I didn’t know how to because of For the People. We were about to go into preproduction. We’d be together every day. I figured I’d wait until we were done shooting. And the one thing that was good about Thom was the sex. Except when he couldn’t do it. But when he could it was really good and so why not continue having sex until we broke up?”

  “I understand.”

  “Aw, you do?”

  “It’s only human.”

  “Yes, i
t’s human.”

  “I understand. You wanted to know if Thom was taking a supplement to help in the bedroom.”

  She nodded. “So I reached under the empty Perrier bottles and pulled out the white container. And do you know what it was for?”

  “Tell me.”

  “The container was for caffeine powder. Then I knew Thom killed Juliana. He killed her with caffeine powder.”

  The unreachable part of my brain communicated a feeling—Brit was telling the truth. I let that sink in a moment then said, “After you saw the container, then what happened?”

  “I was sad. And angry. I got in my car to leave, and Thom came outside and asked what I was doing. I said I had to go. He asked why, and I started crying and said I knew what he did. He either didn’t understand what I was talking about or pretended he didn’t understand. He tried to talk to me but I rolled up my window and started the car. Then he got in front of it to look at me through the windshield. I hated him so much then. He banged on the hood of my car and yelled at me. I drove forward to make him back off. I drove forward until he was pinned against the garage door.”

  Brit squeezed my hands and said, “It was the middle of the day on Nichols Canyon. No one was around. No houses across the street. He yelled. I could hear him through the windshield. He said I was crazy. He said I didn’t know what I was talking about. I was crying so hard. I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t see. Then my boot slipped off the brake. The car moved forward. Thom screamed and I panicked. I slammed my boot down on the brake. But it wasn’t the brake. It was the gas.”

  Brit’s soul drifted away from her body. Her eyes went blank.

  I said, “Thank you for telling me that, Brit. You’re a good friend.”

  Brit returned to her body. She found my eyes and said, “I’m a bad person. I drove away and didn’t tell anyone what I did. Or what Thom did.”

  “You told me.”

  “Because you’re my friend.”

  “Yes, Brit. I’m your friend.”