The woman’s look said,Honey, I think I would remember knowing someone who looks as fine as you. I took off the hat first, then the sunglasses. I watched my smile light up her face. “You’re…Captain Hardwick’s son,” she said. “The guy from that TV show.”
“Guilty.”
Three years ago, and she remembered me, too. But her memory had nothing to do with my luminous personality or any profound remembrances I gave her about my father, believe me. She remembered The Face, that’s all. That’s what most people remember.
“Any chance a word from you would help me pull any strings here?” she said with a mischievous smile. Like me, she was already trying to work out her angle.
“Not likely.”
“Well, good to see you, anyway. How’s your dad?” Her eyes settled into mine when she asked about Dad, letting me know she wasn’t just making conversation.
“Fine.” My voice cracked as I lied, and I’m usually a much better liar.
“Oh.” Her eyes dimmed. She heard the lie, just like Serena had. “I’m up to my ass in this Afrodite thing. Figures she’d get killed when I’m supposed to be on vacation.”
From a bad subject to a worse one. My stomach hurt. I was ready to go back to bed, but April Forrest might be the only ally I had. A reporter could be useful.
“What kind of strings would you like pulled?” I said.
“Are you asking me that as a Hardwick?”
“Depends on what you need.”
She sighed, fumbling through her papers. “Whatdon’t I need? Media relations is no help. I got a copy of the police report, but it’s so sketchy, there’s nothing—”
My heart thumped so hard, I felt weak. “May I see that?” I said.
April shrugged. She had to do some shuffling to get the order right, but she handed me four pages. A couple of the pages were off-center on the copy machine, cutting words in half at the margins, but suddenly I had the official incident report on the murder of Serena Johnston. I read as quickly as I could, trying to pick out details.
V, the report called her. Serena was Victim now.
Body found at 10:00A .M. Tuesday—the day O’Keefe and Arnaz came to see me—by the manager of a camera shop at Sunset and Highland who thought somebody had moved his garbage out of the Dumpster. V was found wrapped in two garbage bags behind the Dumpster. Newer-model white Escalade found abandoned at Santa Monica and Highland at 9:00A .M. DOB 1-10-72.
My fingerprints will be in her car,I thought.And in her house.
But by then, I was beyond panic. I already knew it was time to employ serious ass-saving measures. I read the report to see if it mentioned anything about me or my business card. Not at first glance. But no cops were going to put pertinent clues in a public document. The report was matter-of-fact and didn’t say much about the police investigation itself, but I needed it.
“What would it take for me to get this copied right now?” I said.
“Look, can’t you just get your own? I’m trying to—”
I pulled out the business card Lieutenant Nelson had pressed into my hand before I left. I waved it in front of April’s face.
April’s eyes followed the card as if it was tasty enough to smell. “What’s that?”
“The name and number of the lead Robbery-Homicide investigator on Afrodite. There’s a pager number on here, too.”
“You’re kidding. You have that, and you can’t get a report?”
“Do we have a deal or not?” I held out my card, too.
April cast a pained glance at the coiffed television reporters readying their cameras. Intimidating competition. I felt her hunger. She wanted to scoop them.
“The best time to call him at his desk is after hours,” I said. “Cops on a hot case work late. Try seven. He won’t want to talk to you, but it’s the best I can do. Absolutely donot mention my name.”
“I don’t even remember your first name. Wait—a poet, right? Keats?”
“My name won’t help you, even the Hardwick. I can’t beany clearer about that. My name stays out. Got it?”
She nodded, convinced. “Deal. Let’s go find you a copy machine.”
What did I have to lose? Lieutenant Nelson would slam the phone down in her ear as soon as she mentioned she was a reporter. Even if he didn’t, there was no way he would name me as a suspect to a reporter. Not yet.
A single-story bungalow across the street called itself SOS Bail Bonds, and we jaywalked to the door. The interior was unkempt and looked like the end of a bad day, but at least the copy machine worked. Raul, the man at the desk, charged me a dollar.
“Give me your number,” I said to April as the machine glared on her face. She began to raise a playful eyebrow, but I went on, all business. “If I hear anything else that can help you out, I’ll let you know. You wrote a nice story about my father.”
“Thanks. Sorry it got cut so short…and I really didn’t think I captured—”
“It was great,” I said. That didn’t even feel like a lie. I knew it must be true.
I left Hollywood division with a police report and a reporter’s telephone number. Not bad for someone who might have ended up spending the night in lockup.
It was two in the afternoon, and Serena had been dead more than thirty-six hours. If I was going to find a killer, I had to get started.
I searched my wallet for one last business card, the one Serena had given me.
It might not be a good day for the meeting I was promised, but I didn’t have any leads, and I had to start somewhere. I decided to head straight for Beverly Hills. To Casanegra Productions.
More than ever, I wanted to see Devon Biggs.
FIVE
MOST PEOPLE THINK ABOUT RODEO DRIVEand shopping when they picture Beverly Hills. To me, it’s all about the hotels. The Beverly Hills Hotel. Le Meridien. The Peninsula. The Regent Beverly Wilshire. If it has five stars and a king-sized mattress, I’ve been there. I know the stairwells and the line of sight in the hallways. I know the concierge and the maître d’, and I’ve overtipped the bellhops so they’ll be eager to tell me about anyone, or anything, out of the ordinary. A client once put me up at the Raffles L’Ermitage for nearly a month so I would be within walking distance of her desk at DreamWorks. At the Hotel Bel-Air, I had to wrestle a sawed-off shotgun away from my client’s jilted ex in the elevator. All part of the job.
And, of course, there was Serena. The meaning of the termold haunt became clear to me as I drove past the Four Seasons on my way to Casanegra’s offices. Seeing the place where I first beheld her nakedness, the scent of Serena suddenly filled my car. Trust me, there is nothing more haunting than a dead woman’s cloying smell.
Grief is a selfish feeling—you want everyone around you to share it. But somehow, life was going on as usual for the tenants of the ten-story Art Deco office building at 8602 Wilshire—home to a law office, a health club, an accounting firm, several casting agencies, and Casanegra Productions. In the lobby, the deliverymen, lawyers, executives, and actors were all smiles, lax faces, and careless banter; going about their day’s adventures. An epidemic of good moods only sharpened my bad one. I didn’t feel like explaining my business to the security guard—I couldn’t handle answering to anyone else with a badge and a uniform—so I slipped to the bank of elevators with a gaggle of giddy secretaries who were happy to have me join them. My smile masked feelings they wouldn’t want a glimpse of. A broad-shouldered black janitor pushing a laundry cart toward the service elevator nodded to me as he passed, as if he wished we could trade places. I nodded back. My grandfather put three kids through college with a mop and squeegee. I might need the work soon myself.
The elevator was full when it left the lobby, but it emptied out floor after floor. By the time it climbed to its last stop, there was no one left but me.
The long, black marble receptionists’ desk beneath the Casanegra Productions logo was unmanned, and I could hear the gentle trilling of unanswered telephone lines. In the waiting area, abo
ve a mounted heart-shaped wreath of chrysanthemums and red carnations, a forty-inch television monitor played one of Serena’s music videos with the volume turned low. On the huge screen, dressed in flowing white, Serena twisted, danced, and teased, her eyes searing my soul.You want some of this? Better bring it. / You want some of that? Bring it on… I almost went back to the elevator. What the hell was I doing there?
Since no one was in sight, I headed for a black door with a silver M affixed to it I guessed was the men’s room. I wanted to compose myself, but someone else had beaten me to the sink. A man stood with the water running full blast, his face cupped in his hands. Water dripped freely between his fingertips, soaking the sleeves of his dress shirt. He glanced up when he heard the door open, his eyes pulled down like a bloodhound’s.
Devon Biggs straightened, surprised. Serena’s childhood friend was a wheat-toast-colored brother, smaller than I remembered at five-foot-six, with wiry, almost feline limbs. His hairline had carved out a U shape above his forehead, which made him look ten years older than his true age of thirty-five. The whites of his eyes were blood-red. He looked like I felt.
“I didn’t get much sleep last night either,” I said, and handed him a paper towel.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, shaking water from his arms. “Tennyson Hardwick.”
“That’s me.”
“The last message,” he said, gazing at my image in the mirror rather than staring me in the eye. He wiped his face. “You know that, man?”
He wasn’t making sense, but I cut him some slack. “What’s that?”
“The last message she left me was to call Tennyson Hardwick. No shit.”
The air in the bathroom became too thin to breathe.
As if Devon Biggs thought I needed proof—or maybe just so he could have someone else to share her with—he took me to his office and played his voicemail. The call came at 2:34P .M. Just like that, Serena came back to life.
“Whassup, D? Listen, before you leave for Cannes, I need you to do me a solid. I saw Tennyson Hardwick today, he’s looking good, and he could bring something special toDeluxe. No, I don’t wanna hear it.”She gave my number. “I told him to call, but if he don’t, I want you to have Imani call him, a’ight? We’ll settle all that number shit when you get back from France. We’ve both come a long way, huh, Lil’ D?”
And the message ended. Serena’s voice and spirit had filled the room, and now she was gone again—except for her face frozen in framed movie posters I was keeping my eyes away from. I was disappointed that I hadn’t had as much pride as Serena had thought I would. Only pride would have kept me from calling Devon Biggs.
“It all comes tumbling down,” Biggs said.“Deluxe was in development hell for five years, before we grabbed it in turnaround. Another eighteen months of development, and we nailed it. The script was tight. We’d signed a director, got Robin Williams on board. Studio gave a green light.Forty million dollars. And you know what? Those motherfuckers called over here yesterday before Serena’s body was cold. No Serena, no movie. Listen to those phones. Serena set up deals all over town. Yeah, man, yesterday was gonna be your lucky day. Now, we’re both…”
Devon Biggs didn’t finish, but his blood-red eyes told me that my luck, or his job, were the last things on his mind. He shook his head, laughing bitterly as he reached into his desk drawer for a cigarette. He didn’t try to hide his trembling fingers, so he wasn’t worried about his pride either. When he lit up, I realized he wasn’t smoking tobacco. He puffed twice and offered the joint to me, dope-smoking etiquette. I shook my head. One of us needed a clear mind.
“Cops were here yesterday,” Biggs said. “Asking about you, matter of fact.”
My stomach cinched, but I kept my face in check. “What did you tell them?”
“I played them the message. I said baby-girl was trying to put you in her movie, so it didn’t seem smart for you to kill her. But I don’t know you. That’s what I told them.” His eyes turned quizzical. “Is there something else Ishould have told them?”
“I wouldn’t hurt Serena for the world,” I said. “But why’d you try to smooth things over for me with the cops? That message sure sounded like you know me. Lying to the police on my behalf is a very friendly gesture.”
His face hardened. “How Reenie spends her money is nobody’s damn business. Besides, you’re too soft to kill nobody.”
Thatwas the Devon Biggs I remembered, emerging from his fog. Under different circumstances, I would have been tempted to correct someone who called me soft. He could fill a book with the things he’d gotten wrong about me. A lot of people don’t know my public face, and it serves my interests to keep it that way.
I followed his eyes to the wall behind me, where I saw a slightly blurry eight-by-ten photograph framed on the wall. I stepped closer to examine it. Three kids with ashy elbows posed with their arms around each other in front of Serena’s old blue Impala. They were about eleven. Devon Biggs wore thick glasses and a black Michael Jackson-style jacket, Shareef was a grinning MC with his fist doubling as a microphone, and Serena was squeezed between them. If not for the context, I wouldn’t have known who she was. Serena was stick-thin, and her face hadn’t discovered itself yet, but she was dressed in an oversized party gown, the belle of the ball. Three kids playing dress-up, smiling like they would live forever.
A rock seemed to lodge in my throat. I had to look away.
“Last man standing,” Biggs said, his voice so low I could barely hear him. “First Shareef, now Reenie. My family’s gone.”
Shareef had been shot soon before Serena launched Casanegra Productions, if I remembered right. Five years ago, almost to the day. There was speculation about rap rivalries and gang affiliations, but no arrests—all the more reason LAPD would want a face to plaster on the news.
My mind raced. Serena might have confided a lot to Biggs, including our last encounter.If he said something to the police, that definitely would explain why Lieutenant Nelson crawled so far up my ass. I didn’t trust Devon Biggs to be my friend, but he was the only place I had to start.
“I need to find who did this,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“You ever heard of a book calledThe Hollywood Rules ?” Biggs said in the same monotone, like a sleepwalker. When I shook my head, he went on. “Advice book by industry insiders. Reenie carried it around like a Bible, read it until the pages were falling out. There’s one line I memorized, the most important line in the book: ‘You’re going to make enough enemies just by being successful.’”
“Serena had enemies?”
Biggs gestured at the office—the shiny platinum records, Grammy Awards, and movie posters displayed around him; the spoils of success. The office centerpiece was a foot-high bronzeBlack Music magazine artist-of-the-year statuette displayed on its own marble pedestal; it looked almost like an Oscar, and probably weighed as much.
“Names?” I flipped open a notebook I’d picked up at a drugstore.
“Same name I told the cops after Shareef died. But what the hell would you do with a name?”
“There are a lot of homicides in L.A.,” I said. “I only give a damn about one.”
“You wanna play detective?” Biggs said. “Be careful what you wish, my man. You’ll be fucking with people who don’t like to be fucked with.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I guess we’ll see.” He chuckled, although his face was anything but mirthful. “Write this name down in capital letters: Alphonse Terrell Gaines.”
The name had a muted familiarity, out of reach. Then, I knew: “M.C. Glazer?”
Biggs nodded.
M.C. Glazer—named for the Teflon-coated armor-piercing bullets called “cop-killers”—was also the hip-hop world’s suspect of choice in the murder of Shareef. M.C. Glazer’s radio wars with Shareef had been notorious. And Afrodite had chimed in with her own salvos against her friend’s rival now and then, claiming M.C. Glazer was a poser. I remember wincing
when I heard a line from one of her first hits:M.C. Glazer ain’t no ladykilla. / He might penetrate, but he’ll never fill ya. I’d figured it was all hype to sell records, but apparently Devon Biggs didn’t think so.
In retrospect, M.C. Glazer was the obvious choice. Almost.
“Why wait this long?” I said. “Serena hasn’t recorded a CD in years. She’d moved on.” I knew Afrodite’s music, even if much of it wasn’t my taste. When Serena became my client, I bought all of her CDs so we would have something to talk about.
“It’s not just about the records,” Biggs said. He blinked, and I saw moisture on his lashes. “Serena never let that ghetto shit go. I told her she had to be about business now. We planned all this back in junior high. Her, me, and Shareef. Hell, they were the reason I went to college, so I could manage the finance side. But she was still twisted about what was real and what was hype.”
If it was possible, I felt even more grieved. Part of me was hoping—almost praying—that this wasn’t another hip-hop murder. Serena deserved better than to go out as a cliché, even if it would guarantee her martyrdom.
And M.C. Glazer wouldn’t be easy to get to. Biggs saw the dilemma in my face.
“Don’t worry, Hardwick. Don’t you watchCSI ? The cops will figure it out, just like they did with Shareef. And Tupac. And Biggie.” Biggs remembered his joint, inhaling a long toke like it was pure oxygen.
His point was a good one, and it pissed me off. Maybe it really was up to me.
Another glance at the treasures showcased on Biggs’s walls reminded me that Serena had built a valuable empire. What was that old saying again?Follow the…
“Did Serena have a will?” I said.
Biggs still holding his breath. “Yes and no. Not on paper. I told her she had to be businesslike, but she was almost superstitious, like she thought she’d die faster if she wrote it down. I talked her into sitting in front of a video camera for a video will, which is better than nothing. But she wanted to do it privately, and she never let me see it.” With a small cough, Biggs finally exhaled a stream of spicy smoke. His lungs must have been steel-reinforced.
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