“Good work,” said Brendan. “Though I’d advise that kneeing someone you’re interviewing in the groin may not quite be textbook procedure.”
“He started it,” said Sofia. She wasn’t going to apologize, but she did feel bad about it. Not because she’d hurt Trimble, or his testicles (she could only hope that she might have taken him out of the shallow end of the gene pool with her single blow), but because it did lack a certain amount of professionalism. But her breasts were her own private breasts, and she wasn’t going to apologize for protecting them.
“Aidan, what do you have?” Brendan asked.
Aidan picked up a fat pile of papers next to his chair and theatrically dumped them on Brendan’s desk. He was the data king, sure, but he had a bit of the drama queen about him, too.
Brendan picked up the papers and began sifting through them. He’d scan a page before handing it off to Sofia. “Give us the highlights.”
“The big story is that there was a ton of financial activity over the past six months,” Aidan said. “Nigel was moving money around at warp speed. Shifting five and six figures sums between accounts. Taking out new credit cards like they were about to stop offering them. Moving balances to new cards to pay off old ones. Also credit card charges in weird places out of town.”
“Like hotels?” Sofia asked.
“Hotels. Spas. Flights to Europe. I went back two years and up until six months ago their spending patterns were pretty predictable,” Aidan said. “Then it changed.”
“The hotels could have been Melissa and Moonbow?” said Sofia.
“That was my first thought,” Aidan said. “But I checked the reservations, and they were for Nigel.”
“Maybe he was having an affair, too,” Brendan said. “He finds out that Melissa’s cheating and decides that what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. That kind of a deal.”
“Possible,” said Aidan.
“So all this money that was being moved around. Did he have financial problems?” Brendan asked.
“That’s how it looks. Oh, and about two months ago he set up a life insurance policy using that new credit card money. Melissa’s the sole beneficiary,” Aidan said. “For a million dollars. He had to go get a medical before the insurance company would sign off on it.”
“He passed?” said Sofia.
“With flying colors,” said Aidan.
Brendan picked the black-and-white morgue picture up from desk and studied it. “We know the poor guy didn’t die from natural causes. That’s one thing we can be certain of.”
“So Melissa’s set for a while,” said Sofia.
“And Moonring,” said Aidan.
“Moonbow,” Sofia corrected him.
“Whatever,” said Aidan.
It wasn’t looking good for their client. Melissa seemed to have one motive stacked on top of another. From a secret lover to a fractured relationship with her husband and a nice, juicy insurance policy that would pay for a lot of spa visits. Brendan was right. The cops were running behind, but they’d catch up, and when they did, Melissa, and probably Moonbow, would be taking the perp walk in the full glare of LA’s voracious media.
Brendan’s thoughts must have been running along similar lines. “Let’s keep digging on Trimble. All we need is enough to put doubt in the minds of a jury. If Trimble has a record, and he banged heads with Nigel, that might be enough.”
“You think?” Aidan asked.
Brendan shrugged. “Not really, but it’s all we got. Let’s call it a day. You kids go have fun. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Aidan almost jumped from his chair. Sofia was pretty sure he had at least one, and possibly two or three, Tinder dates awaiting him. Somewhere, several unfortunate women were doing their makeup and getting ready for a date with a man who would inevitably find some minute flaw that would give him grounds to dismiss them as a future second date/girlfriend/partner. Either they wouldn’t be educated enough, or they’d be too educated. They’d be too bossy or too passive. Or they’d have a tattoo or a piercing somewhere other than their ears, or some other feature from a long list of Aidan’s non-negotiables. That would lead them to being nexted, which was the term Aidan actually used when he’d decided a woman he was seeing was no longer worthy of his time. But right now that wasn’t what was bothering Sofia.
She cleared her throat. “What if she actually is guilty and our doing this means that she gets off, or even sends someone who didn’t do it to prison?”
Next to her, Aidan rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated, “Oh, boy.”
Brendan smoothed his hands across the desk. He took a moment before he spoke. He seemed to be choosing what he said with care. “Sofia, we’re not going to go out and frame Tucker Trimble or anyone else. We’re not going to plant a gun on him or pay someone to give false testimony. Who does or does not get convicted—if it even comes to that—is a matter for the courts. All we’re doing is gathering evidence that may strengthen our client’s defense.”
Sofia understood exactly what Brendan was saying. She even agreed with it. The American justice system wasn’t ideal, but it was a hell of a lot better than vigilantism. People got their day in court. The evidence was heard and assessed by a jury of their fellow citizens. That was all great. But it didn’t change the fact that someone with the money to hire a good attorney and someone like Maloney Investigations stood a pretty good chance of beating the rap, whether they were guilty or not.
Brendan seemed to sense Sofia’s continued discomfort. “Think back to the OJ Simpson trial.”
“Sure.” In fact, she had gone through a period when she was about fifteen when she’d read pretty much everything to do with it, and watched all the documentaries she could find about what had been dubbed America’s ‘trial of the century’ where football superstar OJ Simpson had been acquitted of murdering his ex-wife, Nicole Simpson, and her friend, Ron Goldman. She’d even pestered Brendan for weeks with questions about it, which, looking back on it, must have been pretty annoying.
“Okay, so when the defense pulled out those tapes of an LAPD detective using racial slurs, was that fair or not?” Brendan asked.
Sofia remembered the release of the Mark Fuhrman tapes as being a pivotal moment in the racially-charged case. Fuhrman, one of the LAPD’s lead investigators, had found key evidence against OJ Simpson. He’d also been caught on tape using racial epithets while helping a woman researching a screenplay about the LAPD. OJ Simpson’s defense team had used the tapes to claim that Fuhrman was a racist cop, and he had planted the evidence to convict OJ Simpson, a black man.
“Well, the judge admitted it as evidence, so then yeah,” said Sofia.
“Exactly,” said Brendan. “We do our job, and we let the system do its job.”
“Great.” Aidan jack-in-the-boxed out of his chair. “That’s settled then. See you tomorrow.”
“Sofia?” said Brendan. “Does that make sense?”
Just because it made sense didn’t make it right.
24
The sun was sinking down into the waves of the Pacific Ocean as Sofia walked barefoot along the beach. She usually came down here when she needed to clear her head. Feeling the cool sand between her toes and listening to the crash of the waves usually helped her sort through the events of the day and get some perspective on things that troubled her. Tonight, though, it didn’t seem to be working.
She understood what Brendan had said about allowing the legal system to do its job. She just wasn’t sure it made her feel any better. She had turned her back on a career that millions of people around the world would have killed for. Or at least a career that millions of people around the world thought would be worth killing for (the reality was a little different). But she had done it because she wanted to make a difference in the world. To do something that left the world a better place. And now she was confronted with a situation where, justice system or not, she might be quite literally helping someone get away with murder. That had to be
leaving the world a worse place.
Although she’d had the briefest encounter with Nigel Fairbroad, he had seemed like a decent enough man. He hadn’t been sleazy. He hadn’t hit on her. In fact, he’d helped her out of an awkward situation. Now he was dead. Not movie dead. Real, gone forever, mutilated, and dumped into the sea dead. Never to return. Life over. And the only thing her job demanded of her was that Nigel’s death didn’t adversely affect Melissa. And she didn’t even like Melissa.
It didn’t sit right. It didn’t seem fair. Not that the world was fair. She knew enough to know that. She wasn’t that naive. The world was indifferent and random and beautiful and cruel, often all at the same time. So why did she feel, for the first time since she had started working at Maloney Investigations, that she’d made a mistake? That maybe this wasn’t the job for her after all?
She could, if she wanted, always go back to acting. Walking away when her career was on an upswing wouldn’t count against her. Not in Hollywood. As far as the movie and TV industry was concerned the word no was pretty much the sexiest word in the world. If you were in demand, saying “no” made you more desirable, not less.
The opportunity to go back might not last forever. Eventually there would be a new young actress who would take her place. But she definitely still had a window where she could return to her old working life with no questions asked. It wasn’t like she’d be going back to some horrible job, either. She’d been paid ridiculously well for basically dressing up and playing make believe, a job which was sometimes even fun. Her hiatus would make her more interesting to producers and casting directors. All she had to do was say the word, and she could be back in a world of six-figure paydays, where she didn’t have to lift so much as a finger, and people would kiss her ass all day long. And she wouldn’t have to worry about whether she was making the world better or worse.
“Hey!”
Sofia glanced back over her shoulder to see Jeffrey Wiener scrambling along the beach toward her. His face was red, and he was struggling to catch his breath.
She stopped walking and waited for him to catch up.
“Didn’t you hear me calling you?” said Jeffrey between gasps for air.
“Sorry,” said Sofia. “I was kind of distracted.”
He shot her a sympathetic smile. “Tough day at the office?”
She had forgotten that when he wasn’t busy manipulating everyone he came into contact with and generally trying to bend people to his will, her former agent could actually be a sweet guy.
“Something like that.” Even if she had wanted to share the details, she wasn’t at liberty to. Brendan had drilled the need for client confidentiality into her from the first day. In any case, a gossip like Jeffrey would be the last person she’d share Melissa Fairbroad’s problems with. Telling an agent a secret was like taking out an ad in the LA Times and hoping no one read it. Okay, she thought, hardly anyone did read the LA Times anymore, but telling an agent anything you didn’t want spread all over town faster than wildfire was still a bad idea.
Jeffrey stared out over the ocean. “I never get tired of this view.”
Sofia smiled. “Me, either.”
He glanced over at her. “I guess we both have a lot to thank a little show called Half Pint Detective for. And each other. You know I have clients that I’m closer with than my wife.”
She wasn’t sure that she liked where this was going. “You’ve been divorced three times.”
“That reinforces my point,” he said. “It’s a bond, Sofia. Especially between an actor and their agent. I mean directors, producers, they come and go. And writers, don’t get me started on those schmucks. But actors. You guys really have to put yourselves out there. Open up. Expose your heart and soul, the core of your being, to the world. And I’d like to think my job is to make sure that through that process you feel completely safe. Like I’m your safety net, ready to catch you if you fall.”
Sofia, who’d been standing next to Jeffrey as they both enjoyed the sunset, turned to face him. “Jeffrey, why are you giving me your signing speech?”
“My what?” said Jeffrey, unable to meet her eye.
“You know, the speech you give every single person when you want them to sign agency papers so you can represent them,” she said.
He dropped his hand onto his chest. “I am hurt that you reduced my words of friendship and kindness to a business pitch.”
His eyes seemed to be filling with tears. Either he really was upset, or it was the salt in the air.
“I’m sorry, Jeffrey,” Sofia said. “I thought that you were trying to …” She trailed off. What had she thought he was trying to do? For once, he did seem to be genuinely emotional. “It’s been a hard day.”
“You mean to say that playing a detective and actually being one are two different things?” he asked, his eyes still moist with tears.
“I guess they are,” she said. “I mean, I knew it would be, but the reality of it’s starting to sink in.” She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. “Listen, I appreciate your concern. I really do.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I have an offer for you. I spoke to the network again this morning, and they’re prepared to really break the bank to get you for Celebrity Second Chances. Of course we’ll have to keep the figure to ourselves because they don’t want the other talent to know, but they really want to make this happen.”
The transformation was remarkable. Within a matter of seconds, his tears had disappeared, and he’d transitioned from concerned friend to talent agent. It was like watching a science fiction TV show where regular human beings transformed into reptilian lizards, only a Hollywood agent in full-on sales mode was even more unsettling. Suddenly the prospect of representing a cold-blooded murderer seemed a lot less daunting than it had minutes before.
“That does sound like a great offer, Jeffrey,” she said. “And I really appreciate you getting it for me, even though I’m not actually in the business anymore, and you’re not my agent, but I’m going to have to pass.”
She turned away and walked back down the beach toward her little blue trailer. Jeffrey chased behind her for a few hundred yards spouting on about things like gross profit participation and how this would be the perfect platform for an eventual return to TV drama and movies, and how there could be a book deal, too. At one point, she was fairly sure he said something like “these days something like drug addiction really offers a terrific cross-media business opportunity to someone with the right platform,” and she had to stop to stare at him in disbelief. After that look, he gave up.
Back at her trailer, another scavenger was waiting for her. Perched on the railing, Fred the seagull cocked his head as she walked up the steps and let out a loud squawk. She unlocked the front door and propped it open to let in the sea air. She poured herself a glass of wine from a bottle in the refrigerator, put bologna into a bowl, and took it outside for Fred. She sat on the porch sipping at her wine and watched Fred peck at the meat, dropping pieces on the porch floor.
“You’re a messy eater, you know that, Fred?” she told him.
He squawked once in answer. It sounded like “whatever.”
Taking out her phone, she checked her voicemail. A message from her mom. She was still worried about the rehab clinic incident. A message from her sister asking if Sofia could babysit the niece and nephew for the weekend. And a new message left moments before from Jeffrey apologizing for his behavior but asking her to keep an open mind about the Celebrity Second Chances offer. She deleted that one.
Fred had already wolfed down his dinner bowl and was eyeing her wine. “Nope, dude, that’s all you’re getting. I think you’d be a mean drunk.”
Fred squawked again and flapped his wings, but stayed put.
Sofia picked up her wine glass, went back inside, and began to fix dinner for herself. While she waited for the water to boil for her artichokes, she called her mom. Her stepdad picked up.
“Hey, Sofia,” he said. “
Your mom’s out at her book club, but I’ll tell her you called. Everything okay?”
“Great,” Sofia said. “How are you?”
“Fine. Played golf this morning, did some gardening. Y’know, the usual stuff.”
Her stepdad was a man of few words, which was probably just as well because her mom could talk the hind legs off a donkey. He promised he’d pass on the news to her mom that she was great, and not in need of rehab, celeb or otherwise, and hung up.
Next, she called her sister and said she’d be happy to babysit on Saturday so Emily and her husband could go away. They needed the time alone. As she was telling Emily she was available, Sofia heard what sounded like ground warfare in the background. She loved her niece and nephew to bits, but they were, to put it politely, a handful. Her nephew, Van, spent most of his time dismantling things to try to figure out how they worked, and her blond, ponytailed niece, Violet, was obsessed with mixed martial arts to the point where her elementary school was threatening to expel her if she put one more of her classmates into a chokehold or performed a move she had invented that involved leaping off of desks. She called it “the flying death claw.”
“So, Mom is worried about you,” Emily said.
“There’s no need. I’m fine.”
“How’s the job?” her sister asked.
“Good,” Sofia said. “Challenging, but good. Better than acting.”
“You know I hate you for having the life I wanted and then giving it up, right?” said Emily, cheerfully.
“I know,” said Sofia. Emily had made peace with that long ago, and Sofia suspected that she was much happier with her perfect husband and hell-on-wheels kids than Sofia ever was with acting.
“Okay, see you Saturday.”
By the time Sofia had eaten dinner and walked back out onto the porch, Fred had flown off.
She looked up at the dark sky and the few stars able to shine through the light pollution and smog. She picked up her phone and scrolled down to Jose, the barman from Frank’s Grotto. She tapped out a text asking him to come over but deleted it. It was late, she was tired, and she had a busy day ahead of her tomorrow. Plus, she wasn’t sure if he’d respond to a late night booty call, and she’d had enough humiliation for one week.
A is for Actress (Malibu Mystery Book 1) Page 10
