Cover Your Assets

by Patricia Smiley

  Brodie sat down on the couch across from me. “I’d like to think you’ve been pining away for me all these years,” he said, “but I guess you’re here about Evan.”

  “I want to know who killed him, Jamie.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

  “Have the police interviewed you?”

  “A couple of times. I told them everything I know.”

  Apparently that included everybody Evan had ever met, partied with, or slept with. When Jamie hadn’t remembered names, he’d given descriptions. He acknowledged that the police had asked questions about Cissy, but they had seemed equally interested in Evan’s drug connections and his women friends.

  “Evan always had girls after him,” he said, “wanting him to make them stars. At first he loved the attention. After he got sober, it depressed him. Shit, man, most of those girls weren’t ever going to make it in the business.”

  “So he let them down gently by screwing them?”

  Brodie let the teacup warm his hands for a moment before he spoke. “Look, Tucker, I know it’s hard for you to understand, but present company excepted, those girls were just sex to him. All of them, even Cissy—at first, anyway.”

  “Lola Scott, too? Just sex?”

  He rolled his eyes to dismiss that notion. “No, not Lola. Sparks flew in both directions. It gave me a hard-on just watching the two of them together. Lola’s a fox, and from what Evan told me, she knows the difference between erotic and kinky and can play it either way.”

  “So what broke them up?”

  Brodie swirled the floating debris in his teacup. “You might say Lola rose to the highest level of her incompetence. Some of the things she did on her way up came back to bite her.”

  “You are talking about the video?”

  He frowned. “What video?”

  “Never mind. Go on. Why did they break up?”

  His stare was probing, as though he preferred hearing my story to telling his. Eventually he decided it wasn’t worth the wait.

  “Lola Scott thinks she’s Sarah-fucking-Bernhardt. She was always pressuring Evan to find projects ‘worthy’ of her talent. He didn’t think she was ready for the big time. He suggested she take some acting lessons. That just pissed her off, so he decided to give her what she wanted. Evan had to jump through hoops for Richard Burnett, but he finally got her a starring role as the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold in Pagan Dreams. So what was Lola doing while Evan was finessing the coup of the century? She was sneaking around behind his back, negotiating a picture deal with some Italian so-called producer who promised to cast her as Eleanor of Aquitaine in a remake of The Lion in Winter. Lola Scott as the new Hepburn? Now, that’s funny. Anyway, when Evan found out, that was it. He fired off a fax and canned her ass. She went crazy, but it was too late. He was finished with her.”

  “You think she went crazy enough to kill him?”

  He thought for a moment. “No. In her own narcissistic way, she loved Evan. It didn’t stop her from screwing him over for the sake of her career, but I don’t think she would physically hurt him.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that but dropped the subject for the moment.

  “Were you at Poet’s Corner with Evan the night he died?”

  He nodded.

  “So that was the last time you saw him.”

  Jamie covered his face with his hands. “Man, I thought you knew.” He sighed again; then he dropped his hands and looked at me. “Evan and I were supposed to meet on Monday to talk. When he didn’t show up, I called his home, his office, his cell. I couldn’t find him anywhere, so I went to the apartment. The door was unlocked. I found him in the kitchen. There was blood everywhere. Man, I’ll never get that picture out of my head for as long as I live.”

  “He called me just hours before he died, Jamie. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Something was eating at him, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He wanted to work out the details first. He said once he got everything clear in his mind, he’d tell me everything. I got the impression he knew something that was going to sink somebody’s boat. Whatever was bothering him, he took it to his grave.”

  I doubted that but didn’t tell Brodie. More than likely at least one other person knew about Evan’s troubles: his killer.

  “Aside from Lola, was Evan still involved with other women?” I said.

  Brodie paused, as if looking for some way to avoid answering the question. “I don’t know. Maybe. But he hadn’t mentioned any names. Not for a long while.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me. What?”

  “Look, Tucker, I’m just guessing, but I think he did something shitty to somebody. It made him feel real bad, and it wasn’t just lip service to satisfy some twelve-step sponsor. He was hurting, man.”

  I wondered what that something could be. Maybe Evan had second thoughts about firing Lola Scott. Perhaps he felt guilty because he’d threatened to use the porn video to ruin her career as payback for the Italian producer stunt.

  “Do you think he was upset about Lola Scott?”

  “I doubt it. Evan was done with her. Like I said, I’m guessing, but I got the impression Evan’s problem wasn’t going away without costing him money—lots of it.”

  “Maybe Lola was planning to sue him for breach of contract. You must have some idea what it was. Tell me, Jamie, please.”

  He looked surprised and then skeptical. “Why are you asking all these questions, Tucker?”

  “I don’t know . . . for Dara, I guess.” And Claire and Frank and Evan, too, but I didn’t say that, either.

  “Evan’s kid? I don’t get it.”

  “I think the police are about to arrest Cissy. That leaves Dara holding the bag for everybody’s mistakes. I won’t let that happen.”

  “What if Cissy did it?”

  “What if she didn’t?”

  Brodie ran his fingers through his hair and then blew out all the air in his lungs in one big sigh. “I don’t know if it means anything, but just before he went into rehab, Evan had a big party at the apartment, with lots of booze and drugs and people who all wanted a piece of him. Back then he wasn’t exactly conscientious about keeping his social calendar straight. From what I heard, he invited several ladies to be his date that night. Two showed up. One was so embarrassed she left in tears. The other one freaked out. Called him a few choice names. Dumped a glass of wine on his shirt. I heard Evan was so stoned he hardly noticed. A couple of guys hustled her out of his place before the neighbors got pissed off about the noise and called the cops.”

  Having been discarded by Evan myself, I could sympathize with the feelings of betrayal those women must have experienced. I wondered if he’d really been too high to remember inviting them or if he’d done it on purpose, to entertain his guests with a catfight. It was sad to realize how much of Evan’s life had been devoted to drugs and lies. I couldn’t help wondering if that devotion had caused his death as well.

  “I need names,” I said.

  “I only know one: Amy Lynch. Evan never mentioned the other woman’s name. I hear she was a mousy little thing with a deer-in-the-headlights look, definitely not his type.”

  “Where can I find this Amy Lynch?”

  “I’m not sure. I think Evan met her in a hotel bar. She was a cocktail waitress or something, but he told me she quit right after that to work in a nail salon. Last I heard, she was hustling ice cream at Ben and Jerry’s in Brentwood.”

  “Amy sure changes jobs a lot. She must be an actor.”

  Jamie smiled. Then he shifted his gaze to the cup in his hand, as if he was revisiting some private moment. “I have a friend who reads tea leaves. She thinks they’re a window to the soul.”

  “Is she any good?”

  “Not very, but I keep hoping she’ll get it right. It would make everything so much easier.”

  For a while we said nothing. I helped him take the tea set back to the kitchen, where I noticed a small statue of the Buddha—
the young one, not the fat one—on the cabinet near the toaster. Resting on his upturned palms like an offering was what looked like a piece of torn lace, maybe from the edge of an old pillowcase.

  “You know,” he said, “I almost looked you up after you split with Evan, but it seemed like a shitty thing to do . . . you know . . . because he was my friend.”

  “Yeah, that loyalty issue is tricky, all right,” I said. “I’m just curious, Jamie. How much sleep did you lose over not telling me Evan was screwing my best friend behind my back?”

  His face reddened. “You didn’t need me. You found out on your own.”

  “The hard way.”

  This time his smile was thin and resigned. “I can see now that you and I didn’t stand much of a chance.”

  “About as much chance as Lola Scott as the new Hepburn.”

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, as if he didn’t know what to say but didn’t want me to leave, either. Finally he walked with me to the porch.

  “By the way, Jamie, did you ever tell anybody that Evan and I were engaged?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just curious.” I turned to leave.

  “Good luck to you, Tucker.”

  “Yeah, Jamie. Good luck to you, too.”

  He stood on the porch watching me until I slid into the front seat of my car. Then he went back inside. As soon as he’d closed the door, I used my phone to check both my cell voice mail and my home message machine for any word about Muldoon. Zilch. To take my mind off what was beginning to feel like a hopeless situation, I called Ben & Jerry’s. When I asked for Amy Lynch, I was told she’d moved on to greener pastures. It was too late to find her without doing some research, so I headed for home.

  When I arrived, I made another round of calls to local shelters and the neighbors. No one had seen Muldoon. In desperation, I listed him on a Web site dedicated to missing pets. At the moment, there was nothing else I could do but wait and hope.

  At about nine p.m. I was sitting on the couch, holding Muldoon’s cashmere sweater and trying to divine some cosmic clue about his whereabouts, when the telephone rang. It was Joe Deegan. There were sounds of music and voices in the background, as though he was at a party.

  “We have to talk.” His tone was edgy.

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  He hesitated. “In person. Tomorrow.”

  “I may be busy tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be at your place around ten.”

  I heard a woman’s voice in the background. It was both whiny and seductive. “Who are you talking to?” she said to him.

  He lowered his voice and added, “Make that noon.”

  He hung up before I had a chance to tell him Muldoon was missing or to ask if the woman’s voice belonged to Candy. Maybe I’d pose the question in person tomorrow. He might be in a better mood to answer it. The problem was, I knew I wouldn’t be in a better mood to ask it.

  -18-

  the following morning, there was still no word on Muldoon. I tried to call Venus for solace, but she didn’t answer the telephone. Eugene wasn’t picking up, either. I assumed he was on his way to the desert.

  I still had to find out how Darcy Daniels had gotten intimate details about my relationship with Evan Brice and why she had twisted and embellished the facts to make her coverage of his murder investigation seem even more salacious. I had already eliminated Jamie and myself and probably Cissy as the source of the leak. Perhaps Evan had told somebody. If so, it was going to be a difficult if not impossible task to find out whom he had told, much less why. Maybe I should accept Jason-the-twit-producer’s offer to do an exclusive interview with Darcy Daniels. I could use our meeting as a ploy to turn the tables and interview her. The idea was perilous at best. At worst, it could be a total disaster, but avoiding risk had never been my strongest trait. On the other hand, it was Sunday. Jason and Darcy were probably too busy doing brunch, or each other, at some trendy Beverly Hills hotel to make interview appointments with the subject of yesterday’s news. I decided to sleep on the idea.

  My house had always been my refuge, but now I couldn’t stand the thought of being there without Muldoon. My cell phone number was listed on the missing-puppy flyer. It was also registered with all the nearby shelters and posted on the missing-pet Web site. Everybody was looking for him. There was nothing more I could do.

  Deegan wasn’t due to arrive at my place until around noon. If I sat around the house waiting for him, I would only get more depressed. As much as I hated the thought of going back to Evan’s apartment, I had to finish packing. I gathered up some old newspapers from my recycling bin in case I needed to wrap any glass and headed for Venice.

  When I arrived, the Latino’s black Honda Civic was taking up two spots in front of Evan’s apartment building. As usual, I had to leave the Boxster in the parking lot down the street.

  I was nearing the front lobby when I noticed somebody squatting next to the Honda’s front tire. I heard s-s-s-s-t and saw the car’s front end list to port. A moment later, the culprit stood. It was the woman I’d seen shouting at the Honda’s owner earlier in the week. She was wearing the same pair of rubber flip-flops and that red kimono—silk, I guessed. Resting against her leathery brown chest was some kind of necklace that consisted of a black silk cord strung with six small cubes, each engraved with a letter. Together they spelled “Brenda.” When she realized she’d been caught vandalizing somebody’s car, her self-satisfied smile turned into a defensive glower.

  “Damn punk,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or just muttering to herself, so I said, “Beg your pardon?”

  “It’s bad enough he leaves his car here for days. He doesn’t even live in the neighborhood. Seventy-two hours. You’re not supposed to park on a city street any longer than that. Now he’s taking up two damn spaces. Where does he expect the rest of us to park, huh?”

  I gave her a perfunctory nod. “Yeah, it’s a bummer, all right.”

  She watched me carefully for a moment, perhaps judging whether I was friend or foe. “I’ve seen you around lately. You moving into the neighborhood?”

  I was reluctant to tell her anything, so I just said no, that I was visiting a friend. Without another word, she turned, and with a swish of red silk and the slap, slap, slap of the flip-flops against her heels, she crossed the street and walked up a flight of stairs. A bicycle was chained to the railing at the top of the landing. As she passed it, she caught her robe on one of the pedals. There was a ripping sound. She lifted the hem of the kimono and ran her hand gently over the damaged silk before she opened the door to her apartment and disappeared inside.

  I suspected that the owner of the Honda was going to be colossally pissed off when he saw the flat tire. I didn’t want to be hanging around when it happened, so I made my way up the stairs to the third floor.

  When I walked into Evan’s place, the smell of industrial cleaners lingered oppressively in the still air. I opened the windows to let the sea breeze freshen the room while I wrapped and loaded kitchen items—wineglasses mostly—into the boxes I’d gotten from Rose. At the last minute, I decided to launder the towels and sheets before giving them away. I made several trips between the apartment and the washing machines in the basement until everything was clean. I’d finished in the kitchen and was getting ready to make a trip to the Dumpster to toss the food from the refrigerator when I heard a loud sound from outside in the hall.

  My heart pounded as I tiptoed up to the peephole and cautiously looked out. The Latino was banging on Monique Ruiz’s door with his fist, which made the buxom-woman tattoo on his biceps jerk suggestively. He was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt with red, orange, and yellow flames licking upward from the hem toward his chest. The stubble on his head was glistening with what looked like sweat. Obviously, he’d just discovered the flat tire. I couldn’t see his face, but I suspected that his wide, sensuous mouth was now distorted by a scowl. I wondered who he was. The boyfriend?
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  A moment later, a fragile-looking young woman appeared at the threshold. Before I could get a better look, the guy pushed past her into the apartment and slammed the door closed.

  If he was Monique Ruiz’s boyfriend, at least it would explain why he left his car parked for days on the street: He was living at her place, at least part of the time. I wondered what her parents thought of the arrangement. Not much, I suspected.

  I opened the door wide enough to hear loud voices coming from inside Monique’s apartment, but I couldn’t make out the words. I was about to go over to see if she was all right, but almost immediately things quieted down. I wanted to talk to her, but I didn’t want to get in the middle of a lovers’ quarrel, so I went back to my packing.

  When I finished, I decided to check in with Rose. She greeted me in a snappy pair of red pedal pushers and a red, white, and blue stars-and-stripes blouse.

  “What was all that noise I heard a while ago? I’m still a little jumpy because of Mr. Chatterton.”

  “Monique Ruiz had a visitor, her boyfriend maybe. I think he had a flat tire and wasn’t too happy about it.”

  Her face lit up. “I hope she brings him over. She keeps promising to introduce us, but I guess he travels a lot. She tells me he’s a good man, though. That’s a high compliment coming from her.”

  Granted, I’d had limited exposure to the guy, but Rose’s upbeat description didn’t quite fit with what I’d observed of his behavior. Maybe I’d caught him on a bad day. Actually, by now it was more like a succession of bad days. On the other hand, there was no point in trashing him in front of Rose, so I shrugged off her comment. We visited for a few more minutes before I got up to leave.

  On my way out, I collected the mail from Evan’s box. When I stepped out onto the street, I saw Monique’s boyfriend standing by his Honda, staring at the flat tire. The wraparound sunglasses covered his eyes but not the tops of his brows. They were pinched together in a frown. His anger had faded, leaving only confusion, as if he didn’t know what to do next. I felt sorry for him, so I walked over and asked if he had a spare.