Christal was scrambling to recover her thoughts. “So, someone got through your security?”
He shook his head. “She’d left in de Giulio’s jet. His turf, not hers. But that doesn’t mean that it wouldn’t have wiggled past us. Maybe someone slipped the maintenance man a couple of C notes? Or the maid was offered a new car? Cameras these days are tiny. The digital revolution makes the invasion of privacy probable rather than merely possible.”
“So, what happened with de Giulio and Sheela? They still together?”
Lymon shook his head. “Different shooting schedules. He was helming in Italy; she was in Manhattan doing Rage. And the press coverage was all over the two of them. Probing, prying. It was easier for both of them to let it pass than to deal with the pressure.” A pause as he chewed. “People at the top have no private lives. The public eye is relentless in its scrutiny. Most of them work twenty hours a day, seven days a week. Do you really think Sheela wanted to go up to that party at Bernard’s tonight?”
“She didn’t? I thought all the stars did was run from one party to another.” Christal speared a square of salmon.
“It’s business,” he answered. “Maintaining connections, being seen. It’s who you know, how you look. Who you suck up to. In most professions they call it networking. She’ll be there until after two tonight. Then she’ll be on the lot tomorrow morning at six to continue with the wardrobe session. At noon she has to be at La Maison for lunch with Tony, Rex, and the studio bigwigs. At three, she’ll be back on the lot going through makeup and costuming for this afternoon’s photo shoot for the marketing and publicity people. She’ll probably be out by seven. We have her booked for a fund-raiser at the Beverly Hilton at eight. She’ll make it home from that by one, if she’s lucky. She’s due at the lot again at five the next morning to prepare for a cast reading.” He grimaced. “And it goes on, and on, and on. The worst is, she’s always on stage, always having to perform for execs, producers, the press, photographers, the public. Everyone but herself. Sometimes the only private moment she has to decompress is in the limo between events.”
“Doesn’t she get any time off?”
“Production starts next week. She’ll have a trailer on the lot to catch catnaps in. It’s noisy, small, and cramped. She won’t rest until the picture’s wrapped. She’s a pro. She can’t afford to do anything half-assed. Her performance in Jagged Cat has to be one hundred and ten percent. If not it could kill her. A male actor can screw up a picture without torpedoing his career. A woman can’t. John Travolta still makes pictures. Kathleen Turner doesn’t.”
Christal gave him a skeptical look. “They pay her very well for the stress. Didn’t I hear that she’s getting almost thirty million for Jagged Cat?”
“The IRS, Revenue Canada, and the state of California take about fifty percent right off the top,” Lymon began, counting it off on his fingers. “Then her people get their cut of the gross. Tony gets ten percent. Rex gets fifteen. Felix picks up another ten percent. Dot gets somewhere around a hundred grand plus expenses. That’s eighty-five percent of her gross income gone. Her accounting firm charged her two hundred and twenty thousand last year to keep it all straight. She pays somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred and fifty thousand a year in salaries, workman’s comp, FICA, and unemployment for the household staff, et cetera.
“Remember how she looked for the Oscars? By the time she shelled out for tanning, the makeup artist, manicure, facial, hair stylist, and her fashion stylist, she was into her checkbook for twenty-two grand. Just for that one night.”
Christal gaped. “Twenty-two thousand? That’s almost half of what I made for a whole year at the Bureau.”
Lymon didn’t blink. “Then she’s got the physical trainers, voice and dialogue coaches. Then the caterers and research assistants all send in their invoices. Insurance runs another seventy-five thousand. She’s got a whopping overhead for the maintenance of the house and grounds. She’s in a timeshare for the Gulfstream Three—that’s five hundred fifty thousand a year.” He cocked his head. “On top of that there’s security, travel, and all the other nitpicky things. When you add it all up, the lady works for every red cent—and she can’t quit.”
Christal frowned. “Anyone can quit.”
His smile was bitter. “She’s in a race just to keep her place. If she took a couple of years off, Rex—who’s one of the best, even if he is an asshole—would go elsewhere. She’d have to lay off half of her staff, and she couldn’t keep the house and property up. She needs that jet. What if she can’t make a last-minute meeting in New York? It could cost her the leading role in her next film.” A pause. “Come on, Christal. You know how much pressure it puts on you when people are depending on you. Even if it’s just the agents you work with in the field. You can’t fuck up. You can’t let them down. If it was easy to walk out, why did you take it so hard?”
She bristled. “What makes you think I did?”
His gaze was boring into hers. “We’ve known each other for almost eight hours now. Long enough for me to get a glimpse of the stuff you’re made out of.”
She smiled at that, leaning back, relaxing. “Okay, so I took it hard. What of it?”
“So, we’re here. In Morton’s.” He waved around at the surroundings. “What I want you to take away is a feeling for the glamor and an understanding of the celebs in this business. They pay for success with little pieces of themselves. The film industry is a meat grinder. It demands more than most people can produce, body and soul. When they start to run out of gas, someone offers a pill, or a bottle, and they can keep the rpms up for a while longer, bear the pressure for another couple of months, or weeks, or days.”
“And then?”
“Crash. Rehab if they’re lucky. An ambulance and an obituary in the back of Variety if they’re not.” He smiled. “Most actors aren’t stable to start with.”
“Not like Marine recon guys, huh?” Christal asked.
He muttered, “Shit,” not unkindly. “I just want you to see beneath Sheela’s skin for a moment. Get an idea of the pressure. Under all the flashbulbs, fancy dresses, and long shiny cars, the world is feeding off of her blood and sucking at her soul. Then, just when it’s really getting crazy, some guy tries to stick a needle into her in New York. Why?”
“Where do you want me to start?”
“That’s your call. What do you think?”
“I’d like to talk to Ensley. And what about Gibson’s security people? Can you arrange that?”
“I can.”
She finished her salmon. “Let me follow my nose, Lymon.”
“Just don’t get it snapped off, Christal.”
8
Christal’s morning was spent in a flurry of paperwork, processing professional credentials—which June Rosen called “dog tags”—and “interfacing” with the local law enforcement. Application was made for a concealed carry firearms permit; she was fingerprinted and photographed for the background check. Then came the W-2s, introduction to expense forms, an American Express Business Platinum card, as well as a company Visa card.
“Have you got wheels?” June asked.
“Back in the lot at Dulles.” She considered. “I’m headed back east soon anyway.”
“Rent in the meantime.”
So she had finally been dropped off at the Avis counter, where she picked up a shiny gold Chrysler Concorde. She had protested for a small, compact, easy-to-park model. Instead, June had coolly asked what she would do if she was driving in the rear blocking position and the limo had a flat. Did Christal want Sheela Marks transferring to the crowded backseat of a Neon?
Now, cut loose for the afternoon, Christal looked at her map and took a stab at honest-to-God LA traffic. While she ate a burger at Wendy’s she pondered the question of where to get started. How did she find a man who may or may not be in New York? One who had jumped at Sheela Marks and run? Someone whom the NYPD couldn’t even begin to place?
Christal sorted throug
h the sheaf of paper June had provided. She stopped at a name, frowned, and punched the number into her cell phone.
“McGuire Publicity,” a voice informed her.
“This is Christal Anaya for Dot.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. McGuire is out of the office. Could I take a message?”
“Is she with Sheela?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t say. I would be happy to—”
“I’m with Lymon Bridges Associates. I’m a special investigator working for Sheela Marks.”
“One moment please.”
The moment lasted nearly a minute.
“Ms. Anaya? This is Dot McGuire.” Dot’s voice sounded mechanical. “How can I be of help?”
“I’d like to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind. It’s about what happened in New York. Would you have any free time—”
“We’re at the lot. Photo shoot. If you’d like, we could do it this afternoon.”
Christal took down the directions, ended the conversation, and gobbled her burger. She thought DC traffic had inured her to anything. She was wrong. An hour later, she located the correct studio gate and pulled up at the security booth. The place looked like a maximum-security prison.
After flashing her new LBA ID and getting instructions from the guard, she placed a color-coded card on the dash and drove through a maze of buildings. Parking lot C-2 eluded her until she stopped a guy walking past with half of a gruesome-looking rubber corpse over his shoulder and asked for directions. After finding the parking lot, Christal got lost three times before she located door six in building C. Another security guard finally answered her buzz and led her through a maze of hallways into a small, brightly lit set. Hammers were banging somewhere in the background behind the moveable walls. The whine of power saws shearing wood made a muted cacophony.
Christal thanked the guy and stepped into the room. Sheela Marks stood beside a broken marble column. She was dressed in sleek black leather that emphasized the sexy curves of her body. Long unruly locks of gleaming penny-bright hair shone on her shoulders. She was glaring in a challenging but seductive way into a battery of tripod-mounted cameras that ran the gamut from thirty-five millimeter to large-format portrait jobs with accordion bellows. Three different photographers were snapping and squinting through the lenses. A knot of people stood to one side, some with clipboards, others with gadgets that looked like light meters. Calls of “Great!” “That’s fine,” “Looking good!” and “Fantastic!” were being called out against the construction noise.
“Makeup!” someone shouted. “She’s starting to sweat.”
Lymon’s words from dinner at Morton’s haunted her.
“Ms. Anaya?” A fortyish looking woman, professional in appearance, wearing beige cotton, appeared at her elbow. She studied Christal with harried brown eyes. “I’m Dot McGuire.” After introductions, Dot gestured toward Sheela, saying, “What do you think?”
“It looks hot and boring,” Christal replied. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
Dot crossed her arms and shrugged. “At this stage of the game, I’m just here for moral support. My job gets hectic after the film is developed.” She pointed to the knot of people with the clipboards. “For now, they’re calling the shots, and we jump to the tune.”
“What can you tell me about that day in New York?”
Dot sighed. “Hell, I don’t know. What can I say? We got out of the elevator and started down the hall. Sheela and I were talking about Atlanta. She didn’t want to do the spot on CNN.”
“Why?”
“She was tired. We’d been on the road for three weeks.”
“Promotion, right?”
“Right.”
“Who sets that up?”
Dot gestured around. “The studio, mostly. It’s written into the talent’s contract. For Blood Rage Sheela had to do three weeks on the road concurrent with release. But there was an additional clause that if the pic garnered any awards—e.g., the Oscar—she’d do another three weeks during the re-release.”
“So, anyone in the studio would have known Sheela’s schedule?”
Dot gave her a weary blue-eyed look. “Hey, Christal, anyone on earth who knows the business could have gotten the schedule. Either through the studio, through the TV and radio stations, even through our Web site.”
“You have a Web site?”
“Of course. Sheela Marks is big business. We average over two thousand hits a day. Our Web master updates it every two weeks. Where we’re shooting, what we’re shooting, personal interviews, critical reviews, DVD updates, where fans can find memorabilia, that sort of thing. Last December we even did a five-hour e-mail session where Sheela answered fans’ questions.”
“And her tour schedule was posted there?”
“Sure.” Dot frowned. “Well, within reason. I mean we didn’t post that we were staying at the St. Regis. Just that we’d be in New York and what events were scheduled.”
Christal chewed her lip as she considered.
Someone called, “This one’s a wrap!” Sheela stepped off the dais, and two assistants led her toward the rear of the set, where she disappeared between the panels.
“What are you thinking?” Dot had raised an eyebrow.
“If I called your office, like I did this morning, and said that I was with, oh, say a TV station, and I wanted to fax you some information, what would happen?”
“My assistant would give you the fax number where we were staying.”
“The hotel fax?”
“Heavens no! Most hotels are good, and sometimes we even rely on them, but keep in mind, they’re focused on running their hotel. Sometimes you don’t get messages for several hours. The suites we rent are set up so that we can walk in, turn on the lights, and go to work. It isn’t uncommon for us to have fax machines already waiting in the room.”
Christal nodded. “In other words, it’s not that hard to find out if Sheela’s at a certain hotel. I mean, not if you know the ropes.”
Dot’s expression had tightened. “No, I suppose not.”
“Can you go through your records, see if you received any direct communications to the hotel?”
“I can already tell you that we did. We were receiving faxes the entire time we were there. I was on the room phone four hours a day when I wasn’t on my cell. Publicists live on the phone.”
“Talking to whom?”
“Everyone, dear. Confirming CNN for Atlanta, doing follow-up on interviews, ensuring that we were on the mailing list for recordings and photos, stroking the producers in hopes that they’d book us again in the future.”
“Can you remember if anyone asked specifically where you were or what your schedule was?”
“Heavens, I couldn’t tell you. Probably. No, surely. It wasn’t a secret Our job is to place Sheela’s smiling face in front of as many people as we can. We had a ninety-three percent awareness before the release of Blood Rage.”
Christal glanced at the man who stepped out from the panels. He looked so familiar. It took her a moment to place him. “My God, that’s Manuel de Clerk!”
Dot gave her a wry look. “He’s cast as the lead opposite Sheela in Jagged Cat.”
Christal indicated the photographers as she tried to reset her switches to professionalism. “Why are they doing this? They haven’t even shot the movie yet.”
“Marketing.” Dot indicated the cluster of people who helped de Clerk onto the little set Amidst a babble of voices they were arranging him this way and that on the broken column. “Most of these stills go out to the marketing and sales people. They’re preselling space in the film for advertising. Solicitations will be going to soft drink manufacturers, breweries, automakers, electronics companies, you name it. The highest bidder gets his products used as props on the set.”
Christal rolled that around in her head for a moment “So, let’s say that You Betch’a Beverage outbids the competition to place their drink in Sheela Marks’ hands. Could they get She
ela’s itinerary?”
Dot lifted an eyebrow. “Darling, this is Hollywood. For a price, you can get anything. This whole town is for sale, and for the right price, all—and I do mean all—of the people in it can be had.”
Christal nodded. “Well, since I can’t have Mel Gibson, how much for Manuel de Clerk?”
Dot smiled. “As soon as they’re finished over there, I’ll be happy to take you over and introduce you.” She gave Christal a calculating look. “You’d better decide now if you’ve got plans for later. With your looks and body, he’s going to want to get up close and very personal.”
“Just like that?”
Dot nodded soberly. “Just like that. This is Manny we’re talking about.” A measuring pause. “You interested?”
Christal swallowed hard. “Sorry, I’m working tonight.” She stopped short, something clicking in her head. “This thing at the Hilton. A fund-raiser. Was that on the Web site, too?”
“Heavens, yes. We’ll have a crowd of fans there. They get an ‘I love Sheela’ button for a donation. It’s a benefit for multiple sclerosis. In fact, Sheela will be dropping a couple of bills into a young lady’s collection can at the door, where the crowd can see her.”
People retreated from de Clerk, and Christal watched the cameras clicking and whirring as her teenage heartthrob smiled into the lenses with a beguiling sexuality.
“Jack? How are we doing?” Lymon spoke into his sleeve mike as Tomaso opened Sheela Marks’ massive front door.
“We’re looking good, boss. Howard has given the fire doors a double check. Someone will be stationed on all the doors all the time. We’ve just finished a sweep with the hotel security. Nobody’s hiding in the broom closets. We checked every nook and cranny. We didn’t pry up the drain covers, but if they come up that way, we’ll smell ’em first.”
“Roger. I’m at Sheela’s now. Paul has the car ready. I’ll call as soon as we’re on route.”
“Roger.”
Dot was trotting down the grand staircase, her purse bouncing, a leather briefcase hanging from her right hand.
The Athena Factor Page 9
