“Tasha Barlow?” she repeated softly.
“Did you know her?”
“No, of course not.” She snapped open the soda and took a long sip. Then she cleared her throat. “Roy never mentioned her. And I don’t think she worked on any of our shoots.”
“This probably sounds silly, but what shoots?”
“You really don’t know?” She looked at me oddly. “I’m the creative director here. I produce television commercials for our clients. Roy has been in the latest ones.”
I nodded encouragingly, but she glared at me, insulted that she had to explain her lofty job.
“You probably saw my ads on the Super Bowl,” she said, obviously deciding it was better to brag about her success than brood about my ignorance. “A spaceship lands on Mars and morphs into a blue Buick. Suddenly a rock star jumps out of the car and there’s music everywhere. Very postmodern.”
It clicked. “My gosh, I loved those. Everyone loves those. Didn’t you have Paul McCartney in one? And Bon Jovi?”
“We did.”
“And Roy? I guess he didn’t make much of an impression on me.”
“You only see him from the back, holding out a microphone when the star appears. No lines.”
“I didn’t notice him.”
“As long as you noticed the commercials,” said Julie, deciding to give an inch. “We have three airing now and Buick sales are soaring. We’re deciding whether or not to renew Roy for the next two we shoot.”
“If they’ve been so successful, you probably don’t want to change anything,” I said.
“Roy’s not exactly the make-or-break, as you just pointed out. First round, he was thrilled just to be on the same set as McCartney. But now he wants a paycheck to match his ego, and he’s not getting it.”
Julie took another swig of soda, then slammed the can on the desk. I tried to decide if her defiance was personal or professional.
“So tell me more about Roy,” I said. “What’s he like to work with?”
“You’ve met him, haven’t you?”
“Just once.”
“Then what do you think?”
I’d spent under an hour with Roy Evans and suddenly everyone wanted my opinion. “He’s charming,” I said.
“No kidding. And the sky is blue,” said Julie, who clearly wasn’t vying for the “charming” designation for herself.
“He seems to have a lot of famous friends,” I said, trying again. “He told me some good stories.”
“Let me guess. You heard how Jennifer Lopez adores him.”
“He showed me the video.”
She snickered but didn’t sound amused. “He’s moving fast on you. Be prepared, because there’s lots more to come. He has at least two weeks’ worth of stories before he starts repeating himself. You’ll be completely enamored of him and he’ll make you laugh. Mr. Sunshine. You’ll feel warmed by his attention. But don’t go too deep, because you’ll get disappointed quickly.”
Julie’s hard eyes and pinched lips said she’d already hit the dis-enchanted stage. I wanted to ask what Roy had done wrong, but Sammie arrived just then with a shiny paper bag from Healthy Drinks and placed it neatly on the desk.
Instead of “Thank you,” Julie said, “Sammie, don’t forget to listen to my voice messages.”
“I’ll do it right now.”
“Tell me if there’s anything important.”
Sammie left quickly and Julie took her iced tea out of the bag. She gave me a small smile. “I’m a heavy drinker. Tea and Diet Coke. My only vices.”
“Not the worst I’ve ever heard.”
“Certainly not in this town.”
I smiled and tried to readjust myself on the sofa, but it was like being plopped in a pile of marshmallows. “Anyway, we were talking about Roy. The man who doesn’t go too deep. You don’t seem to like him very much.”
“Really?” asked Julie, raising an eyebrow. “Some people would say I like him too much. I gave him the job on the commercials. He wasn’t the obvious choice, and I spent a lot of time convincing the client why he’d be right.”
“And now you’re ready to convince the client that it’s time to switch.”
Julie moved her mouth back and forth, then blurted, “Maybe.”
I thought about it for a moment. “I take it Mr. Sunshine has a dark side.”
Julie started to say something, then stopped herself, pulling the lid off her oversized cup of green tea. Opening a packet of Splenda, she stirred it slowly into the tea. She was being careful now, making sure that her personal feelings didn’t get in the way of business.
“Let me put it this way,” she said. “If I get new talent for the next round of commercials, we’ll talk about a dark side. Otherwise, he’s my guy. Mr. Sunshine. And that’s it.”
Julie Boden’s gamesmanship was starting to grate on my nerves. And I wasn’t even sure what we were playing. “Why’d you invite me here if you weren’t going to be honest with me?” I asked, not caring anymore what she thought of me.
“A favor to Alain,” she said airily.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Alain is a hairdresser. We all adore him, but you’re a busy woman. You didn’t see me just because he called you.”
“If you want to leave, you may,” she snapped.
“I don’t want to leave. I want to know why Alain’s saying the words “murder” and “Roy Evans” in the same sentence got you to call me.”
She shifted in her seat. “That’s obvious, isn’t it? I’m running a multimillion-dollar ad campaign for a major client. If there’s going to be a scandal involving the talent, I need to know about it.”
“And it wouldn’t surprise you if Roy was involved in a murder.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” she barked, getting up from her chair and coming around to the front of her desk. “I didn’t say that.”
“Then let me ask. Would you be surprised if Roy were involved in a murder?”
She leaned against the edge of the desk, inches from where I was sitting, and crossed one leg in front of the other. “I’d be shocked,” she said, clearly talking for the record now.
“Tasha Barlow was strangled,” I said, for no particular reason.
She looked startled, and her boot skidded against the hard-wood floor. She managed to steady herself. “Accidentally, you mean? During sex?”
“I don’t know. Could be. Does that sound more like Roy?”
“Sounds like a lot of men.”
She moved away from the desk and walked toward the window, gazing for a moment at the panoramic view of the hills, which was only partially obscured this morning by the hazy smog. Then she turned around to me.
“Look, Roy’s beat is heavy music and he fits the stereotype. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, right? I won’t try to tell you otherwise. He drinks too much and smokes pot more than he should. Cocaine now and then and some crystal meth. He has enough good qualities that I overlook his human failings. Everyone has an addiction.”
“He does coke, you do Diet Coke.”
Julie contorted her mouth into what should have been a weak smile but turned out closer to a grimace.
“How about his sexual interests,” I said. “Crystal meth is what you take to give a wild edge to your orgasms, isn’t it? Makes you feel uninhibited. Do you think Roy is the kind of guy who might get high and take a sex game too far?”
“I have no idea. Is your husband?”
I ignored the gibe at Dan. “You must have been on location with Roy, shooting those commercials. Staying in the same hotel and all.”
“I don’t do bed checks on my talent.”
“Of course.” No reason to check on the talent if she was already lying next to him in bed. Alain had hinted that Julie and Roy were pretty close. Julie and I looked at each other, but I bit my tongue. No reason to say something that would get me thrown out.
Too late. Julie must have felt she was treading on dangerous territory. Her heels clicked smartly on the
floor as she strode back to her desk and sat down. “It’s been interesting talking with you, but I have a commercial to prepare. When you leave, you can close the door behind you.”
In case that wasn’t blunt enough, Julie swiveled her chair away from me and picked up her phone. Our conversation was over. I walked out, shutting the door with a loud click.
Sammie looked up from the computer in her cubicle. “Did your meeting with Julie go all right?” she asked. She seemed genuinely concerned — a bright young woman who’d obviously seen more than one person leave Julie’s office in tears.
“I don’t know. You have a tough boss. I hope I haven’t made her tougher for you today.”
“I’m used to it,” Sammie said. “Anyway, do you need to be validated?”
Of course I needed to be validated — who didn’t? I needed someone to validate that I was on the right track to solve this mystery. That I’d be able to help my husband and hold my family together. But the validation Sammie had in mind was more limited, so I started digging through my Furla bag to find the valet parking stub.
“Check your pockets,” Sammie advised as I continued fumbling for the ticket, which seemed to have vaporized.
“I’m sure I tucked it inside my bag,” I said. But I stuck my hand in the side pocket of my black Prada pants and pulled out the ticket. Sammie grinned and efficiently slapped two validating stamps on the back.
“That should get you out of the parking lot for free,” she said, handing it back.
Maybe she had some stamps in her drawer to get Dan out of jail free.
As Sammie got up to lead me toward the elevators, I thought about Julie’s snapping at her to pick up the voice messages. If that was their routine, Sammie knew a lot about office goings-on. In fact, she’d probably taken the original message from Alain.
“Listen, Sammie, I came here hunting for information about Roy Evans,” I said, talking quickly since we’d almost reached the end of the hall. “I’m guessing Roy and Julie had some kind of fling, right? One of those that everybody knows, but nobody mentions. But Julie sounds pretty pissed now. Do you know what happened?”
“Not really.” Sammie bit at the edge of her middle finger. “Roy still calls a couple of times every day, but now Julie tells me to say she’s in a meeting. Used to be she’d talk to him for hours. With her door closed.”
“When did that change?”
“A week or two ago.” Sammie pushed the button for the elevator, which opened almost immediately. Damn. If I’d been in a rush, the elevator would have been stuck on the fortieth floor.
I handed Sammie my business card. “Anything you hear would be helpful,” I said. “You can call me.”
Sammie glanced at the card, but didn’t look like she’d be rushing to the phone anytime soon.
“Well, don’t let Julie ruin your day,” she said with a rueful smile, as if she’d had a few ruined days of her own.
Downstairs again, I paid for parking with my validated pass and drove away carefully, my mind whirring. Maybe my meeting with Julie wouldn’t win either of us a congeniality award, but at least I was getting somewhere. A few calls, a few questions, and I already had some new facts in hand. The picture wasn’t clear yet, but I had a start.
When I got home, I changed from Prada pants to Gap sweats and sat down in the kitchen, scribbling some notes on a legal yellow pad. But the more I looked at my evidence, the more my excitement began slipping away. Let’s say I was right on all counts. Tasha Barlow hadn’t just done makeup for Roy Evans, she’d slept with him. Meanwhile, Roy Evans was busy having a fling with his boss, Julie Boden. Three points of a triangle. Julie was sufficiently smitten that she’d hired Roy for a big commercial, but the passion ebbed in the past couple of weeks when he did something to upset her. Something significant, since she wouldn’t even talk to him. But it would take a longer jump than even Carl Lewis could manage to assume that his affront involved killing Tasha Barlow. Could be nothing more than he forgot her birthday. Or even worse, remembered and sent a Whitman’s Sampler.
I munched a few grapes from the refrigerator, then spit one out, a bitter taste in my mouth. Sex and scandal didn’t really come as a surprise in Los Angeles. Pick any three random people in this town and there was a good chance I could come up with similar scuttlebutt. Did my information add up to anything that would help Dan?
Frustrated, I went over to the pantry and tugged at the smooth-glide shelves. I hadn’t eaten breakfast this morning, which justified my gulping down a chocolate-glazed Krispy Kreme doughnut. Make that two. And since it was well past lunchtime, I went back to the silver-paneled Sub-Zero and devoured a piece of cold chicken and a hunk of Brie without bothering to sit down. I was just eyeing some leftover tiramisu when I caught myself short. I needed an outlet for my anxiety other than eating.
Which is how I ended up in Dan’s study with a can of Pledge in my hand.
Cleaning could work off my energy, and this was the place to do it. Dan didn’t let our housekeeper into his study, insisting he’d handle the vacuuming and polishing himself. He didn’t do a bad job, keeping medical journals stacked in leather baskets, papers filed in color-coded folders, and books arranged alphabetically on the built-in mahogany shelves. I felt uncomfortable invading Dan’s personal space, but I reminded myself I was doing him a favor. Neat, sure, but dust bunnies might be growing under the desk.
Dan’s digital answering machine flashed red, showing three new calls from this morning. While I dusted, I must have accidentally hit the PLAY button because all of a sudden…
Oh, heck, who was I kidding? I was so desperate for information that if I’d found a tube-locked Sentry safe with an anchor bolt, I’d have nabbed a jackhammer to pry it open. A measly PLAY button wasn’t going to stop me.
The first message, recorded at 9:21 A.M., was from an assistant in Chauncey Howell’s office, saying Chauncey wanted to meet with Dan as soon as possible. The second message brought ten seconds of silence, followed by a hang-up. The third message, which had come in less than a minute later, offered a man’s voice, speaking in a husky whisper: “Nothing has changed, Doctor. I know what you did. You’ve just got more reasons for silence.”
And then an abrupt hang-up.
I shakily hit the PLAY button again, skipped over the first two messages, and steeled myself as the husky voice resounded once more, filling every corner of the room.
This time I heard a slow intake of breath before the words. And then the same threatening message: “Nothing has changed, Doctor. I know what you did. You’ve just got more reasons for silence.” And the click as the mystery man hung up.
My hands trembled violently, but I managed to hit the PLAY button one more time and listen as the low, rhythmic voice offered its mesmerizing message. Whoever was speaking was a master of the game: his three simple sentences sounded subdued but threatening, quiet but terrifying. I couldn’t make any sense of them. I felt like a kayaker caught inside a wave, bouncing along with the sensations but way too disoriented to spin my head out of the water. I walked around the study trying to calm down, then went back to the desk and hit the button to listen again.
My brain was numb. If there was a key to understanding this message, I didn’t have it. I stared at the answering machine, as if I could unearth some meaning by concentrating hard enough on the radio waves. But nothing was coming through to me, not even static.
I needed to have a conversation with Dan. Whatever was going on, I couldn’t get it by guessing.
After dinner, I read Jimmy three bedtime stories about a happy rabbit family without letting on that our happy human family could split at the seams any moment. When he fell asleep, I went to my study, turned on the computer, and spent an hour paying bills. Someone had bought four pairs of outrageously expensive shoes at Charles Jourdan earlier this month, using my credit card. I sighed. Must have been me. But the days of carefree shopping on Rodeo Drive seemed a lifetime ago. I put my head down on the desk, trying to figure out wha
t had happened to us.
“Are you doing anything tomorrow?”
I jumped up. I hadn’t heard Dan come in and I swiveled around abruptly at the sound of his voice.
He was leaning in the doorway of my office, dressed in gray slacks and a pale blue polo shirt, and holding his navy blazer on one finger at his shoulder. His hair was slightly rumpled and there was the faintest hint of sunburn across his nose. He had all the elements for a Ralph Lauren ad — but his attitude wasn’t right. For once Dan looked defeated. I felt my heart breaking for him.
I took three steps across the room and kissed him on the cheek, determined to be cheerful.
“Hi,” I said brightly. “Did you have dinner?”
Dan shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”
“I’ll get you something to eat,” I said. No crisis could keep me from being the good wife and hostess.
Dan nodded and then asked, “So what are you doing tomorrow?”
“Taking the kids to school, and then I’m supposed to meet a new client.” I’d been surprised when the new third wife of a hot Hollywood producer called. I reluctantly told her my situation and she didn’t care — she had a new mansion to furnish, and apparently a minor murder didn’t matter as much as finding the perfect Ming vase.
“Oh.” Dan looked around the room, glancing at the Warhol lithograph over my desk as if he’d never seen it before. And in a way, he hadn’t. The huge black-and-white flower once had a yellow wash over it, but the color had faded, leaving only the stark lines of the drawing. Warhol’s studio offered to repaint it and authorize it as an original, but I hadn’t bothered. So much for the lasting value of modern art.
“I have a meeting with Chauncey at ten, and I thought you might come,” Dan said.
“Sure. I’ll change my client to the afternoon. Nothing’s more important than you,” I said quickly. I kissed him again. “Come to the kitchen.”
Dan tossed his blazer over the banister. I tried to be nonchalant as I bounced down the stairs, but I could think of only one thing. Had Dan stopped in his study on the way up? Had he listened to the messages on his machine?
Looks to Die For Page 11
