Who Killed Tiffany Jones?

by Mavis Kaye

  The story intrigued Kim. She didn’t know Lester Bennett personally, but she had been introduced to Renee Rothchild when she visited Paris a year or so before. She had always admired Renee’s music, and 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 78

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  when they met she had been impressed with her elegance and charm.

  Their deaths reminded her of Tiffany. And that in turn led her to think about the drive-by killing of Brixton from which Ruff Daddy narrowly escaped. Suddenly, it seemed that the black music industry was under siege. Tiffany, Brixton, and now Renee and Lester Bennett.

  There was no apparent connection, and, given the rivalries and hostil-ities in the world of hip-hop, the Brixton drive-by was not that unusual.

  Still, the coincidence of all these deaths in a week or so seemed strange. And Kim had been trained never to accept coincidence as a satisfactory explanation for anything. When she started with the NYPD, Lt. Jackson had told her, “If it crawls like a snake and hisses like a snake, look out for the venom.”

  When she left her apartment she decided that on Sunday, after returning from her Los Angeles trip, she would call her old friend, Lt.

  Jackson, and arrange to have a drink with him. At least she could air her thoughts and get a reaction from a pro. Perhaps he had some conclusive information on Tiffany Jones’s death. If she knew Tiffany had really died of a diabetic seizure, as everyone assumed, it might help her get rid of all these nagging suspicions.

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  SEVEN

  Los Angeles—Saturday, July 28

  Ki m C a rlyl e guided the rented convertible, a silver-gray Mercedes, to a halt at the corner of Sunset Boulevard and La Cienega.

  She had met two senior Warner Records executives at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel earlier in the afternoon and, if her instincts were correct, the multirecord deal for saxophonist Charlie Holt and his fusion-jazz group had been sealed. After returning to her suite at the Chateau Marmont, she had discarded the severe, power business-suit worn for the meeting and rested for a few hours before changing into the slinky Chanel pantsuit that she now wore. Tonight’s festivities called for something more chic and relaxed.

  She glanced quickly at the visor mirror to assure herself that the wind and heat weren’t destroying her hairdo, then pulled away, heading west toward the Pacific Coast Highway. The bash for Cheeno—

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  upturned thumbs from critics across the country for his performance in the film Crack Baby—was due to kick off at nine. The sun was just beginning its descent toward a typically hazy L.A. horizon, and she figured she had about an hour to get to Cheeno’s newly acquired digs in Malibu. Cheeno had suddenly become one of her hottest clients; she had to make an appearance, and she didn’t want to be late.

  It was twilight when she turned off the Pacific Coast Highway onto Winding Way, a narrow, snakelike road that led up into the hills overlooking the Pacific. The road was intersected by short lanes and cozy culs-de-sac with houses nestled close together near the bottom of the hill. But as she ascended the steep grade, the lots and houses ballooned in size and the small crossing lanes were replaced by wide circular driveways leading to sprawling mansions. Near the top, a huge banner had been stretched across the road:

  CHEENO—IN THE HOUSE.

  She smiled to herself as she turned into the wide driveway, wondering what the old residents thought of their irrepressible new neighbor.

  Cheeno had a knack for outrageous self-promotion, and understate-ment was definitely not his thing.

  It was only 9:15, but all available parking in the drive had already been taken and a line of limousines and expensive cars stretched almost to the road. A half-dozen young male attendants, attired in glistening black gaucho pants and scant red vests opened to reveal their well-developed pecs, scurried around assisting guests from their limos and whisking unchauffered cars off to be parked. Kim couldn’t resist thinking that every one of them looked as if he had just stepped out of Cheeno’s latest music video.

  Inside the grand, colonnaded, neocolonial mansion, the heavy beat of Cheeno’s mega hit, “Booty Power,” literally rocked the space. Kim was greeted by a group of hostesses clad in red vests—only slightly less 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 81

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  revealing than those worn by the outside attendants—and skimpy thongs that boldly accentuated that part of the anatomy celebrated by the rapper’s lyrics. One of the perky young mascots approached, literally bouncing over to Kim, and led her through the domed foyer into a massive living room. There guests gathered in small groups sipping champagne and attempting to talk over the music, which blared from concealed speakers. Cheeno’s latest music video was being displayed on a huge flat-screen monitor suspended high on a wall near the rear of the room.

  Arched entrances led, on her left, to an imposing dining room and, on her right, to a den or game room, which was stocked with electronic gadgets and games. The semicircular staircases on either side of the huge room ascended to a spacious balcony that served as entranceway to more than a half-dozen bedrooms but was now filled with can-dlelit tables. A few guests had already taken up positions there and sat gazing down at the mob below them. Through a wall-length expanse of sliding glass doors at the rear of the room was a tiled patio, and beyond that an Olympic-size pool sandwiched between two bubbling, oversize spas.

  Kim accepted a glass of Dom Perignon from a smiling waiter who, in perfect time to Cheeno’s music, acrobatically danced among the guests, balancing a dozen or so crystal goblets on a silver tray. She took a sip then stood to the side, sizing up the crowd. She immediately noted that scattered throughout the room were more than a dozen security guards; despite an attempt to blend in, their rigid postures, darting eyes, and dark, off-the-rack worsted suits stood out like neon signs. Cheeno had told her he was expecting more than one hundred guests, and it seemed that at least half of them had already arrived.

  Among them were some top executive suits, a few prominent stars, and celeb-status directors and producers. She had seen Debbie Allen, John Singleton, Clive Davis, Reuben Cannon, Tyra Banks, Quincy Jones, one of the Wayans clan, and either Russell Simmons or an exact 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 82

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  look-alike—each holding court before a group of seemingly spell-bound listeners.

  Rick Fox from the Lakers and, judging from his extreme height, another NBA player huddled with two or three friends whom Kim didn’t recognize but assumed were pro football players because of their hulking physiques. They stood near the glass doors leading to the patio, laughing and alternately peering out over the rapidly growing crowd inside or out at the half-dozen female revelers frolicking in the pool in fantasy-inspiring bikinis. Then there was the younger Hollywood set, the nouveau successful crowd that had broken through and soared to fame, fleeting or otherwise, on one or another of the sitcoms that flourished on the UPN, WB, and Fox networks. Still, this was not your typical Hollywood party.

  Most guests were clearly from the Source/MTV/Vibe rap set—in town for the upcoming Source Awards, Kim concluded. There were some West Coast rappers, but most seemed to be part of Cheeno’s posse, a group of friends, musicians, and acolytes whom the rap-cum-movie star had brought with him when he left Newark. The rappers were easily distinguished from the Armani- and Gucci-clad Hollywood types by their attire. They were decked out in an assortment of colorful jackets, vests, and jeans or baggy pants (one leg rolled up) inspired by designers ranging from No Limit, Tommy Hilfiger, John Varvatos, and Sean John to The Gap and Banana Republic. Ne
arly all wore some kind of headware—including caps, designer head-rags, outrageous fedoras, berets, and specialty hats like construction helmets and mannequin caps. Most were bejeweled with enough ice or, as a Sex and the City character had called it, “ghetto gold” to stock a New York diamond district outlet. They were not difficult to spot. At first glance, Kim’s favorite was the Loose Ends MC who wore old-fashioned clod-hoppers and cut-off, black-and-white pajama bottoms under an elegant antique tuxedo jacket with tails. Except for a few who had opted for the 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 83

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  revealing, minimal outfits favored by Lil’ Kim, their female counter-parts were less conspicuous.

  This evening the sometimes explosive rivalry between the rap factions appeared to be under control. Although they clowned, trash-talked, and tried upstaging one another, no animosity was on display; a few of the East Coast Ain’t No Thang crew had even joined Watts Up, a West Coast group, and were lifting their glasses in a toast in front of the TV monitor. The rappers’ boisterous antics, along with the blaring video, set the upbeat, almost raucous tone of the party.

  Kim smiled and calmly scanned the room, nodding to a few friends before setting out to mingle with the guests. She was long past being star-struck, unless, of course, business required she give that impression.

  As she often joked, she was a show-business agent by accident and a sleuth by nature; seeming oddities and the unusual captured her attention much more than celebrities. Still certain people had to be given their props; so when she started making the rounds, she rapped briefly with Singleton, injected herself into a conversation between Quincy and Debbie Allen, and briefly cornered a Fox executive who had called about one of her clients. Before long, however, she gravitated toward a group of intriguing peripheral characters she had never met.

  A tall, dark-skinned man wearing a Nehru jacket and tasseled fez, whose facial scarification suggested he was African, stood near the archway leading to the dining area talking to two bespectacled business types in Brooks Brothers suits. The two men, whose pale skin suggested a strong aversion to sunlight, gestured toward the wiry, nut-brown-complexioned black man with heavy dreadlocks, dark rimless sunglasses, wool trousers, and a brightly colored polyester short-sleeve shirt who stood beside them. At a Malibu party, the quartet seemed odd or, at best, unusual. They were engaged in heated conversation but, when Kim approached, the talk ceased abruptly; the black man with dreads turned and quickly moved into the dining room.

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  “Didn’t mean to break up the caucus,” Kim laughed. “Just making the rounds. But I seemed to have disturbed your friend.”

  “Oh, not to worry,” the younger Brooks Brothers suit replied in a clipped English accent, “he was never a very sociable chap. Perhaps, like the rest of us, he was simply overwhelmed by your beauty.” He bent at the waist and, lifting Kim’s hand, softly kissed it. “I’m Winthrop—

  Winthrop James,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eye.

  “I’m Kim Carlyle . . . from New York,” she said, momentarily taken aback by the lingering, somewhat seductive kiss.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of you—you are an artists’ representative if I’m not mistaken. Formerly Tiffany Jones’s agent. Am I correct?”

  Kim nodded, surprised that he knew of her.

  “This is Jonathan Wims, a business associate,” he said, nodding toward the other suit, “and Paul Mawuli, a visitor from Liberia.”

  “And what brings you to Hollywood?” she asked.

  “Oh, just boring business transactions,” Winthrop said. “Contracts, inventories, debits, and such—nothing that would interest you show-business movers and shakers.”

  “And you, Mr. Mawuli?” Kim asked, smiling up at the tall African.

  “Winthrop and I attended Oxford together,” Mawuli said; “we met, purely by chance, in the bar at the Park Hyatt in Century City. It was I who suggested he accompany me to Mr. Cheeno’s, ah, what is the idiom . . . blow-out.” He laughed ingenuously. “And, as usual, I’m impressed with the . . . ardor of your festivities.”

  “Well, we do what we can,” Kim laughed, “but I should admit that this bash is hardly representative of our . . . festivities. Anyway, you’ve traveled a long distance. I assume it was not just to honor Cheeno.”

  “You are an inquisitive beauty, aren’t you?” Mawuli said, smiling.

  “No, not exactly. In fact, my secretary had been instructed to call you in New York. You see, I am here to propose that Mr. Cheeno consider shooting his next film in Liberia. Financially, it could be a windfall for him since costs are minimal—no annoying problems with unions, you 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 85

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  understand. And, my group, well, we’re interested in expanding our investments—”

  “Paul, you always go on so,” Winthrop interrupted, forcefully grabbing Paul’s arm. “I’m certain that Ms. Carlyle hasn’t the slightest interest in the details of your organization. After all, this is a party. Why don’t we get another drink and get into the spirit of things.”

  “On the contrary,” Kim said, “it’s a fascinating proposal and I’d—”

  “Well, perhaps the two of you can talk about it later. For now, I think we should mingle, take in some of this wonderful ambience,”

  Winthrop said, as he led his companions away.

  They had disappeared into the crowd before Kim could object.

  Kim considered following them, then decided she’d ask Cheeno about the mysterious trio. She accepted another glass of champagne from a dancing waiter and made her way to the patio. A few of the rappers had disrobed and joined the group of would-be starlets and dancers who cavorted half nude in the pool or lounged in the Jacuzzi. An attendant approached Kim as she stood watching them.

  “If you’d like to swim, ma’am, you may change in the cabana,” she said, pointing to the wooden bathhouse at the top of the stairs near the Jacuzzi to the left of the pool. “There are swimsuits or, if you prefer, no suit is necessary.”

  “No, thank you,” Kim said. “I don’t prefer.”

  As she returned to the living room, the lights blinked several times, then dimmed before a spotlight focused on the balcony above the crowd. A minute later, Cheeno stepped out of one of the rooms, lifted his arms above his head, then dramatically bowed as his posse led a salvo of yelps and screams. At five-ten and 165 pounds, his slight frame was dwarfed by the two enormous bodyguards who stood behind him.

  They scowled menacingly as they surveyed the dim room, and followed him down the stairs staying just outside the circle of flickering light that traced his descent.

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  continued for a least five minutes after the star reached the bottom of the stairs. Dressed in Prada clogs and a loose-fitting beige linen shirt-suit by Sean John, which was set off by a diamond-studded sterling silver pendant spelling out his name, he basked in the applause—preening, grinning, and mimicking a few dance steps from his “Booty Power”

  video, which was still playing on the monitor. Finally, the lights went up again to a chorus of, “Cheeno . . . Cheeno in the house! Cheeno . . .

  Cheeno in the house!”

  Kim smiled, half amused and half admiring. She was still amazed at some of the excess and bombast of her younger clients, but, at the same time, she knew their youthful zeal and exaggerated style was what got them over. And when they got over, she also profited. Most certainly, twenty-three-year-old Cheeno was getting over.

  It was he who, a year and a half before, had led her to the producer who backed his first film, which he had written. And, even when he signed with her three years
ago, before cutting his first single, he seemed to be prospering. Most of her young clients struggled before they made it, taking part-time service jobs and living in run-down studios or cheap hotels. Cheeno had left Newark and lived in a one-bedroom Manhattan apartment when he came to her. He never talked about his lifestyle—the apartment, car, or occasional trip to Europe—

  except to say that he had a mentor; and she never asked any further questions. Frankly, she didn’t want to know. He seemed like a good enough kid, and she was happy for him.

  For nearly an hour after he appeared, Cheeno, shadowed by his bodyguards, moved through the crowd greeting his guests. Finally, he approached Kim.

  “Hey, mama,” he yelled, and lifted her in a bear hug.

  “Told you I’d make it,” she said. Cheeno was smiling broadly, but as he talked to her his eyes kept darting around the room.

  “Yeah. The party’s live, ain’t it!” he said.

  “You outdid yourself, sugar,” she laughed.

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  “It’s only the beginning—only the beginning,” he gushed. “I got plans I ain’t even laid on you yet. Believe it, mama, I’m gon be big as Snoop, big as Tupac . . . bigger. You met Mawuli, right?”

  “Yes, I did. So tell me, what’s that about?”

  “Not now, mama, we’ll talk business tomorrow. You seen the crib, the pool, the Jacuzzis. This place is off the hook, ain’t it? C’mon, let’s go lay back and chill.”

  “No, sugar, I think I’ll pass on that, but you go ahead.”

  Cheeno quickly scanned the room again, then turned and started for the patio with his bodyguards close on his tail. When he stepped outside, he turned to them. “Check it—I know you brothas got my back but I got to have a sec by myself. We got security out at the bathhouse, ain’t we?”