by M. Z. Kelly
“It’s nothing personal,” I said to Darby, knowing that he and Peters had been partners. “I just don’t like dealing with the press or MRS.”
“Then get used to it,” Edna said. “Chief East is doing the happy dance with Peters and her boss. And what the fucking chief wants, the fucking chief gets.”
“Molly and I have turned up something interesting on Bert Prince’s lawyer,” Selfie said. Our crime analyst had blue hair this morning, and a dress with a matching blue bow on the front. “He and Prince go back about a decade. He’s mentioned in some articles I pulled up on the Internet about being an advisor to our victim in his business interests and TV show. It’s almost impossible to believe that Swenson didn’t know about Marisha Dole and his client hiding money.”
“Swenson’s also been investigated by the state bar a couple of times,” Molly said. “The DA’s office said he was suspected in a real estate fraud case. An elderly couple in Beverly Hills signed their home over to an unscrupulous broker for a price that was way under market value. Swenson was a partner in the deal. He eventually tore the existing house down and put up a mega mansion, where he now lives.”
“You think Swenson, Dole, and Prince could have all been working together to siphon money from the show and the endorsement deals?” Edna asked.
“It’s just speculation at this point,” Molly said. “But Selfie and I believe that it’s likely they all knew what was going on. The diversion of funds and the subsequent cover-up were complex, and they had to have help pulling it off.”
“We still need to talk to the TV show’s producer,” I said. “Maybe Carlyle Waggoner will have some insight into Swenson’s relationship with Prince and Dole.”
“There’s one other issue,” Selfie added. “Swenson’s well connected politically. He contributed heavily to the mayor’s election fund. Any investigation involving him is likely going to ruffle some feathers downtown.”
The lieutenant sighed as his intercom buzzed. “We see where the facts take us and deal with the fucking fallout as it comes our way.” He answered his phone. After a moment, he ended the call and said to Darby and me, “Peters is here. Go see if you can break something loose.” His brown eyes fixed on me. “And you play nice in the sandbox.”
THIRTEEN
After the meeting ended I got a text back from the one I’d sent to Carlyle Waggoner yesterday, telling me that he could meet with us this morning. His office was in a converted factory, not too far from Paramount Studios in Hollywood. I drove Darby and Mel Peters, while Leo and Buck said they’d meet up with us later at Nirvana. Darby’s former partner wasted no time irritating me.
“I heard your dog is still in the hospital,” Mel said in her grating, know-it-all attitude. “Too bad you two won’t be working together again.”
I looked at her in the rearview mirror. Peters was attractive in a soap opera diva sort of way. She had dark hair, but wore way too much makeup. And then there were her hips. I try not to be petty, so let’s just say they seemed to be expanding faster than the national debt, something that immensely cheered me.
“Actually, Bernie’s being released in a couple of days,” I said. “He’s going to need PT, then I’m hoping he’ll be able to work again.”
“One of the local news channels contacted me about doing a story about him. Maybe we can chat later about giving her an interview and bringing along a news crew.”
“And maybe my dog can take a big bite out of your fat ass.” I was fantasizing and didn’t actually say it. Instead, I just said, “We’ll see how things go.” It was my standard, politically correct go-to-hell response.
After showing our credentials to a receptionist at Carlyle Waggoner’s office, the producer’s secretary led us through an industrial building with exposed pipes and ducting. As we walked, I realized part of the building had been converted to sound stages with green screens for shooting special effects.
The secretary then turned us over to Waggoner’s personal assistant, a woman named Morgan Hathaway. We met on one of the soundstages, where Hathaway began walking us through the studio toward her boss’s office. Along the way, she explained the function of the building. “What you’re looking at is a state-of-the-art virtual reality studio where experiments in immersive technology are being perfected.”
“Never heard of it,” Darby said.
“Augmented Immersive Intelligence is a process that takes virtual reality to a whole other level. When perfected, AII will immerse the moviegoer interactively into the film that’s being watched. The technology will make it seem as though you’re on stage with the actors, as part of the action.” The producer’s assistant was tall, blonde, and attractive, making me wonder if she had more than just a working relationship with her boss. Hathaway beamed a megawatt smile at us. “If you’ve ever wanted to be a movie star, you just might someday have your dream realized.”
“That’s fascinating,” Peters said. “I have lots of contacts with the media. I’d love to set something up with Mr. Waggoner and the press, maybe talk about how the technology might someday be used in police work.”
“Sorry,” Carlyle Waggoner said. The handsome producer had come up behind Peters, startling her. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought he glared at Morgan Hathaway before adding, “Everything you’ve seen here is proprietary and confidential at the moment. Once we’re further down the road with it becoming a reality, maybe we can talk about setting up a meeting.”
After introductions and some chit chat, Hathaway wandered off, and we followed the producer to a small office that was adjacent to the soundstage, where we got down to business.
“We’re following up with anyone connected to Bert Prince,” I explained. “We’re trying to piece together anything that might help tell us who would want him dead.”
Waggoner nodded. He was a tall man, probably in his mid-forties, with sandy hair and blue eyes. His good looks made me wonder if he’d been an actor at one time.
“There were a lot of facets to Bert’s life,” Waggoner said, “including his marriages, the affairs, his business ventures. I’m afraid you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“Were you two close?”
“I wouldn’t describe our relationship as close. I saw him in meetings, we had lunch a few times, and I occasionally went by Nirvana to say hello and talk to him and Sly. I guess you could call our relationship as friendly and businesslike.”
“Who do you think killed him?” Darby said, as usual getting right to the point.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I heard that he was involved with lots of women. Maybe it had something to do with that, but I couldn’t really say.”
I decided to get to the heart of the matter. “Our investigation has uncovered some unusual business practices he was involved in. What can you tell us about that?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“He was siphoning money, lots of money, from the TV show and his wife and stepdaughters to keep his own businesses afloat,” Darby said, giving up more information that he should have. “We’re talking millions and we think Marisha Dole was involved.”
“Really?” Waggoner’s blue eyes lost focus. After a long moment he looked back at us. “I guess, in some ways, I’m not surprised. Bert’s lifestyle was pretty much out of control.”
“What about Dole?” I asked. “Do you think she could have been helping Bert steal from Lady and her daughters?”
He shrugged. “I can’t really say. I met her a couple of times, but don’t know much about her.” He took a moment before continuing. “I think the real issue is that Bert had a compulsive personality.”
“Can you explain what you mean?”
“Everything about his life was careening out of control, whether it was money, sex, or…” He took a moment, his gaze moving off again. When he looked back at me, I had the sense that, just like us, he was trying to make sense of the facts behind the killing. “Did you ever have the feeling that something was off w
hen you were with someone?”
“Lots of times,” I said.
“That’s the impression I got whenever I was at Nirvana. There was some kind of tension in the air that I couldn’t put my finger on.”
“Tension,” Darby said. “Maybe it was just the drama associated with the show.”
Waggoner shook his head. “It was more than that. It felt like everyone in the family was hiding something.”
“Maybe, on some level, Lady and her daughters knew that Bert was embezzling their money,” I said.
“That might be the case, but the tension felt like more than that. In this business you meet a lot of people with baggage, Detective. It felt to me like the entire family was carrying around enough baggage to fill the cargo hold of a plane.”
***
As we left Carlyle Waggoner’s office a half hour later, I asked Darby and Mel for their thoughts on what he’d said.
“We didn’t get much that we didn’t already know,” Darby said. “We got a house full of nuts, and one of those nuts eventually cracked and wasted our vic.”
Mel’s comments had less to do with our crime, more with the producer. “I think Mr. Waggoner is not only handsome, he’s brilliant. I would tend to give a lot of credence to what he said.”
It was obvious that she was smitten with the wealthy producer, so I decided to keep my thoughts to myself. After thinking about Waggoner’s comments, I decided what he’d said about baggage struck home with me. And if the Princes were carrying around more than the usual amount of baggage, it meant there were some dirty little secrets at Nirvana we had yet to uncover. I was determined to get to the bottom of those secrets as we pulled up in front of the estate.
After being let into the Princes’ massive home, we found Lady and her three daughters, shooting some scenes for the TV show by the pool. We watched the women interact for several minutes. The scene involved preparations for Bert’s weekend funeral and what was considered appropriate attire for the event. Paris, who I had the impression was always at odds with her mother, said she wanted to forgo the traditional black dress and wear a flower print outfit from their designer label. An argument ensued, with Monaco taking Paris’s side, while Florence tried to act as the peacemaker.
I had no idea if there was anything factual about the scene they were filming. All I did know was that there was lots of drama and arguing, with each woman playing what seemed to be a rehearsed role. I also had no doubt that the murder of Bert Prince and his upcoming funeral would result in a ratings bonanza for the TV show.
When Sly Sylvester happened to glance over and notice us, he called for everyone to take a break. We then went over and explained why we were there. Sylvester went off with Leo and Buck for an interview, while Darby, Mel, and I took Lady and her daughters into offices that were adjacent to the pool.
After introducing Peters, who seemed a little star struck, Darby explained to Lady and her daughters that we were there to ask some follow-up questions.
“We’ve already told you everything we know,” Lady said. “This is a complete waste of our time.”
“We think there are a few things you’re not aware of,” I said. “We need to set the record straight.”
“If this is about my husband’s affairs, I have nothing to say about them and couldn’t care less. We had an understanding, and…”
“This has less to do with affairs than it has to do with money,” I said, interrupting.
That apparently got her attention. “What are you talking about?”
I glanced at Peters, who seemed irritated that I’d been direct with the celeb. I decided to be even more straightforward. “Did you know that your husband and Marisha Dole were diverting millions of dollars from the TV show and the other business ventures you and your daughters are involved in to pay off his debts?”
“What are you talking about? Marisha is our agent. She looks out for our interests.”
I shook my head. “On the contrary. From what we’ve been able to determine, she and Bert were involved in an ongoing relationship and have skimmed almost all the money you’ve made from your TV show, commercials, product endorsements, and your fashion line.”
Paris looked at her mother. She was a beautiful girl, who had quintessential surfer girl looks, but her even features were pinched with anger—no, make that rage. “Is what she saying true? We’ve made a lot of money, and if that asshole stole it…” She looked at me. “What does Marisha have to say about this?”
“We were hoping you could help us find her. She’s not answering our calls.”
“We were supposed…” Lady paused, checking her phone. “We’re supposed to meet her for lunch at the Beverly Hilton.”
“How much?” Monaco asked me. “How much did they steal?”
Darby answered. “We don’t have an exact figure. All I can tell you is that it’s millions. You’re all essentially broke.”
Peters spoke up, trying to defuse an already tense situation. “We need to emphasize that it’s still early in our investigation. There may be additional circumstances that we aren’t yet aware of.”
“What does that mean?” Paris demanded.
Mel seemed lost for words for a moment. Or maybe it was just political correctness overload that rendered her speechless. She finally said, “What I mean is that we don’t have a complete accounting of the funds that are involved.”
“Are you fucking kidding us?” Monaco’s voice was an angry wail. “This can’t be happening.”
“We don’t kid,” Darby said, apparently lacking even the smallest quotient of political correctness. He looked at Lady. “It looks like Mark Swenson, Bert’s lawyer, was also involved in the scheme.”
“That’s impossible,” Lady said. “Mark and my husband…” She took a breath, trying to calm herself. “They go back years. He’s like a member of our family.”
“Then there’s a thief in the family,” Darby said, causing Peters to blanch.
“The detective is just speculating at this point,” Peters said, giving her former partner a death stare. “As I said, there’s a lot more investigation needed before we can get to the bottom of everything.”
What Peters said only seemed to aggravate an already bad situation. Paris and Monaco made statements about tracking down Dole and dispensing their own form of justice.
“Did any of you have suspicions there might be some shady business practices going on?” I asked after they’d vented.
That set loose another firestorm, with Paris and Monaco using words like asshole, cheater, liar, and bastard to describe their stepfather.
Florence was less upset, maybe not believing what she was hearing. “I think maybe there’s just been a misunderstanding. I receive a bank statement every month, showing deposits into my personal account from the TV show and product endorsements.”
The other women agreed with what she’d said before I asked, “How are the accounts generated?”
“They come from Marisha’s firm,” Lady said. “She has an accountant…” She stopped talking, her gaze holding on me as the realization hit her that they’d all been part of a massive scheme to steal their fortunes. “Oh, God. I don’t believe this.” Her head slumped down. She began sobbing. After a moment, she raised her head and screeched, “Griselda! I need you, now!”
No sooner had she screamed for her attendant than Griselda Lugosi came waddling into the office like an elderly duck with a moustache. “Vhat you be need-ink, madam?” she asked.
“A tonic. Something for my nerves.”
The old woman pulled a vial out of a leather satchel she wore around her waist and handed it over. “It no taste good, but you must be drink-ink it all the vay down.”
After her employer had finished with the tonic and made a face like a child who had swallowed a dose of bad medicine, the old woman took the bottle back. “You vill be feel-ink much better soon.”
Griselda began to wander past me when I remembered Nana’s request. I handed her the card sh
e’d given me. “This is a special request from a friend of mine. I’m sure she will pay handsomely for your services.”
Griselda took the card, glanced at it, then tucked it into her leather satchel. “I be call-ink her soon.”
My attention was then drawn to Paris, who went on another rant, holding nothing back about her stepfather. We got a picture of Bert Prince that left little doubt he was a despicable, lowlife scum, who would stop at nothing to cheat anyone, anywhere, in any way he could.
Leo and Buck arrived a couple of minutes later with Sly Sylvester. Lady, Paris, and Monaco all went over and let the director have it with both barrels.
“Did you know Bb…bert and Mm…Marisha were stealing…ffrom us, diverting our funds to his other businesses?” Lady said, apparently already feeling the effects of the tonic.
Sylvester splayed his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I knew they were seeing one another, but…” He looked at Leo and Buck, then back at her. “I had no idea they were stealing your money until I was just informed of what’s been going on by these detectives.”
“You worked with Bert every day,” Paris said. “You had to know what was happening.”
“Were you part of the conspiracy?” Monaco demanded, her dark eyes flashing with rage. “Were you in on their scheme?”
Sylvester’s voice pitched high with desperation. “I had no idea what they were doing. I swear.”
As the three women continued to berate Sylvester, Florence came over to my side and lowered her voice. “For what it’s worth, I believe Sly’s innocent. He and my father were always at odds. I can’t believe my dad would have trusted him enough to include him in any kind of scheme to steal from us.”
“But Marisha and your father were also at odds, at least on the show,” I said. “From what I understand, that’s the reason she became your agent.”
