Cover Your Assets

by Patricia Smiley

  I waited at the door until the woman in the sari settled into a chair in a far corner of the room, hoping the fruity aroma would follow her. The closer I got to the reception desk, the stronger the scent became.

  “Amy?” I said. “I’m Tucker Sinclair. I called earlier about Evan Brice.”

  Her smile faded. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. I know I promised, but can we possibly meet after work? Things are crazy around here. They’re trying to fill a big order, and I have to cover the phones. Plus, I have to take my break at exactly ten-fifteen. The problem is, I called in sick yesterday, and I can’t afford to get on the manager’s bad side.”

  Her voice did sound nasally, which explained the heavy perfume. She probably had a cold and didn’t realize that the smell was strong enough to fell a cheetah.

  “I promise not to take much of your time,” I said.

  She hesitated, weighing her alternatives. Then she sighed. “Hold on.”

  She made a quick call, and shortly thereafter, a slightly androgynous young man with long, silky hair came bounding out of the back office with all the enthusiasm of an Irish setter chasing a mail carrier. As Amy brushed past him, she squeezed his arm and smiled. Her gesture was maternal, but he obviously didn’t see it that way. He was practically panting for her.

  Amy motioned for me to follow her, allowing me to get another up-close-and-personal whiff of her perfume. We passed through a large area where a half-dozen people sat at side-by-side desks talking on telephones. We ended up in a conference room, which had a window overlooking the boulevard. I sat in a chair at the table. As an icebreaker I asked how she’d first connected with Evan.

  She hesitated. “I met him when I worked in hospitality.”

  That résumé entry was somewhat vague, but I assumed she was talking about her stint as a cocktail waitress. Of course, that could have been anywhere from the George V Hotel in Paris to the No-Tell Motel in Pacoima. It wasn’t a crucial bit of information, so I decided not to pursue it.

  “How long were you and Evan together?”

  Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “The way you say that sounds like you think Evan and I were having an affair or something. We were just friends.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply . . . All I meant was, had you heard from him lately?”

  “Actually, he called Friday night.”

  That surprised me. “What did he say?”

  I probably sounded overly eager, because she looked at me quizzically. “You are writing a eulogy for his memorial service. Right?”

  I cleared my throat. “Right.” I should have come up with a rationale for my nosy questions, but it’s hard to think clearly when you’re holed up in a stuffy office with a woman who smells like Carmen Miranda’s headgear.

  She studied me for a moment before apparently laying her suspicions to rest. “He called to say he was sorry.” I was about to say, “Sorry for what?” when she preempted my question. “One of the brightest stars in the universe was snuffed out when Evan Brice died. He graced us with his presence for such a short time, but he made a lasting mark on people he met in both of his worlds. In the world of poetry he made reality a dream. In the world of Hollywood he made dreams into realities for hundreds of his clients. The dark specter of death can never dim the brightness of his . . .”

  Obviously, she’d done her Eulogy 101 homework. Nevertheless, I had to stop her before she damaged any brain cells—hers or mine.

  “Wow, Amy,” I said. “That’s really . . . heartfelt.”

  Her face flushed again. “Thank you. I didn’t mention it on the phone, but I’m a writer. I just took this job to get me through a rough spot.”

  “Seriously? What do you write? I mean . . . besides eulogies.”

  “Screenplays. I just finished a female buddy script I’m trying to get to Reese Witherspoon through an industry contact. If that doesn’t work out, Reese’s nanny is a friend of my hairdresser’s cousin, so keep your fingers crossed for me.”

  She demonstrated how that might look by crossing her own fingers and looking hopeful. I wondered if there was a free hot-oil treatment in it for somebody.

  “Hey, good luck with that,” I said. “I mean it.”

  Amy hesitated for a moment before adding, “By the way, you have permission to use my name in the memorial program—you know, for a writing credit.”

  Granted, Evan’s service, if there was to be one, would undoubtedly include a few Hollywood heavy hitters. Nonetheless, her blatant self-promotion startled me.

  “Your generous contribution will be of great comfort to the family, I’m sure.” I paused to come up with another plan of attack. “You know, it may sound morbid, but I just can’t stop obsessing about what was going through Evan’s mind in those days before he died. I think I’d feel better if I knew. Do you understand what I’m talking about? For instance, did you get any sense of his frame of mind from that last telephone call? How did he sound? Happy? Sad? Worried? Afraid?”

  She paused for a moment, staring at me critically. Then she leaned back in her chair. “Yeah, that call was interesting, all right. First of all, I didn’t think I’d ever hear from him again, so it was a surprise. He started off by apologizing for not connecting me to a producer friend of his at DreamWorks like he promised. I told him it wasn’t too late: he could still make the call. This time he just changed the subject. So what, right? Evan Brice wasn’t the first guy who broke his word to me. After that, it was just small talk. He asked if I’d seen this movie or that one. What did I think of the story structure? Who would I cast as the schlubby neighbor? I don’t think he really cared what I had to say, and I told him so. Then he got weird on me. He started talking about God or whatever God means to you and how we should give up control to a greater power. He went off on a riff about why politicians have to lie to get elected and how the Catholic Church should stop obsessing about abortion and deal with more important issues like priests diddling little boys. That’s when I started to wonder what he really wanted from me. Kind of like how I’m wondering right now about you.” She leaned forward in her chair, her gaze fixed on me. “You’re not writing any eulogy, are you? Who are you anyway? A reporter?”

  “The temp business has made you cynical, Amy. Or did that happen in hospitality?”

  She looked more hurt than angry. “Oh, for Pete’s sake! Don’t treat me like a dim bulb. I’ve been to enough funerals to know that no one wants you to say if the dead guy was afraid before he died. They only want to hear good things, even if they aren’t true. Listen, I don’t care about protecting Evan Brice’s reputation. He did some bad things to me. If you wanted me to tell you that, I would have, but you should have been honest with me instead of making up stupid stories.”

  Perhaps I should have felt more sympathy for all the pain Amy Lynch had suffered at the hands of men in her life, but despite her dewy skin and alluring smiles, she wasn’t 100 percent innocent—nobody was. For all I knew, Amy was using Evan to advance her writing career as much as he was using her—for what? Amy had denied having an affair with Evan, but she’d accepted an invitation to be his date at a party. Once they’d gone that far, it was difficult to imagine either of them passing up an opportunity for a few minutes of heady sex.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Maybe we should start over—”

  She checked her watch and abruptly stood. “Maybe some other time. I have to get back to work.”

  Amy hadn’t returned to her desk by the time I let myself out, because the panting hermaphrodite was still covering her phones. Even though I’d blown the interview, I felt grateful to be outside, breathing neutral air.

  On my way back to the car, I thought about Evan’s last conversation with Amy Lynch and tried but failed to draw any meaning from it. He’d chitchatted about films and casting choices but hadn’t mentioned Lola Scott. It was impossible to know what had set him off about the church. Evan wasn’t even Catholic. He’d been raised a Presbyterian, but he’d never attended any church dur
ing the time I knew him. On the other hand, maybe sobriety had deepened his thinking.

  For now it appeared that Amy Lynch was a dead end. I was trying to figure out who might know the identity of Evan’s other party date, when I heard a car door slam nearby. I looked up and saw Amy sliding into the passenger side seat of a vintage Mustang convertible parked across the street a couple of cars ahead of mine.

  The Mustang’s top was down, too. From what I could see of the man behind the wheel, he didn’t look like anybody I’d waste another sick day on. As soon as Amy was settled in, he leaned over to kiss her. She immediately pushed him away, allowing me to catch a glimpse of his sharp, angular features. I noticed that his nose came to a point like a fox’s. It took me a moment to realize who he was: Jerome Fielding, Evan Brice’s personal assistant.

  I waited for the Mustang to pull out into the flow of traffic. I planned to pull out, too, staying far enough behind so that neither would suspect that they were being followed.

  -21-

  there might have been an innocent explanation for why Evan’s personal assistant and a scorned party date were kissing in a vintage Ford. It was possible Jerome was Amy’s brother, except that his kiss wasn’t a brother’s; it was the kiss of a lover, or at least somebody who wanted to be one. In any event, after Jerome’s first lip lock was rebuffed, he didn’t try again.

  I wondered why Amy was skipping work to meet with him. According to her, she’d called in sick the day before and didn’t want to antagonize her boss by taking off more time, even to speak with me. Maybe something I’d said had upset her enough to ask Jerome to stop by and hold her hand. Only, how did he get here so fast? Then again, perhaps he was the reason Amy Lynch had to take her break at exactly 10:15.

  We were parked on a side street, so traffic was minimal. There were no pedestrians except for a homeless woman pushing a shopping cart. She paused near my car to watch a couple of crows fighting over a spilled container of French fries in the middle of the road. When she turned her cart to get a better view, a wheel slipped into a crack in the sidewalk, which had been buckled by tree roots. I watched as she carefully readjusted her load of plastic bags, dirty blankets, and a fragile-looking black kitten.

  I waited patiently for something else to happen, but the Mustang remained parked at the curb. The open convertible gave me a ringside seat to watch the conversation between Jerome Fielding and Amy Lynch. Too bad I couldn’t hear what they were saying. The Boxster’s top was down, too. I didn’t want to get caught spying, so I scrunched low until I could just barely see over the dashboard.

  Moments later, Amy handed Jerome a bulky padded envelope. I wondered what was inside. Some kind of payoff? More eulogies? Maybe it was Amy’s movie script. She’d just told me she was planning to give it to an “industry contact.” Jerome wasn’t exactly that, but he’d certainly worked for one. Perhaps he’d mined a few leads of his own in hopes of earning more of Amy’s kisses.

  Ten minutes of watching two people chitchat in a car is a real snore, so I was surprised but relieved when Amy opened the door and got out. I waited until she disappeared around the corner. Then I strolled across the street to the Mustang, dodging the crows and the pecked-over French fries. I opened the passenger-side door. Fielding looked startled as I slid into the seat that Amy had just abandoned. The leather was still warm. The padded envelope was on the floor beneath my feet.

  “Hey, Jerome. Cool car. Is it a sixty-six or a sixty-seven?”

  He looked confused, as if he couldn’t decide whether he should tell me to take a hike or ask me for a date to the Talbot-Lago exhibit at the Petersen Automotive Museum.

  “Sixty-seven.”

  “Did you restore it yourself?”

  “Reupholstering bucket seats isn’t one of my gifts.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I can identify. I once tried to make a slip cover for a wing chair. The thing ended up looking like a doghouse bagged for termites. By the way, I saw you talking to Amy Lynch. Have you known her long?”

  He frowned. “Not very.”

  “I guess you met her through Evan Brice.”

  “That’s right.”

  “His death was such a tragedy for everyone—you especially. I guess now that he’s gone, you’ll be looking for another job.”

  That assumption seemed to make him uncomfortable, because he looked away. “That’s up to Mrs. Brice.”

  “Well, if you need a referral to a good headhunter, I can give you to a couple of names.” I dug out a pen and a business card from my purse. Then I picked up Amy’s envelope on the pretext of using it as a lap desk. I ran both hands over the surface, trying to identify the contents. It definitely felt like sheets of paper as opposed to bundles of money. I jotted down a couple of executive search firms I’d worked with in the past, and handed him the card. He stared at the envelope on my lap as if he was afraid I’d leave greasy thigh prints on the manila.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, acknowledging his discomfort. “Is this something important?”

  “No.”

  “Good. For a minute I thought it might be Amy’s screenplay. She told me she was giving it to you. Did that guy at DreamWorks finally agree to read it?”

  He paused a moment as if he wasn’t sure how to respond. “No, I have a contact at Sony.”

  “Amy must be grateful. I hear Evan didn’t have much success shopping it around.”

  The flush on his cheeks was the only break in an otherwise controlled performance. “Just so you know, Evan tried. No one was interested. He couldn’t work miracles for everybody. The point is, he always gave it his best effort. Unfortunately, you seldom get credit for failure. Few people understand that.”

  “But Evan did?”

  “Yes. He never set out to disappoint, but he had a lot of high-maintenance people to prop up, both at work and at home.” The condescending tone of those last three words was unmistakable.

  “I assume you’re referring to his wife.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth, Ms. Sinclair. Of course, my first loyalty was to Evan, but I’m a professional. I’ve always extended Mrs. Brice every courtesy.”

  “I’m sure you have, Jerome. In fact, I assume your job includes extending courtesies to a lot of women in Evan’s life. People like Lola Scott.”

  “My responsibilities were varied. That’s why I got into this business. I like the challenge.” He reached over and turned the ignition key. The engine purred to life. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m late for an appointment. It was nice seeing you again.”

  Again, his tone was even and his emotions controlled. I could only guess at what he was thinking. Unfortunately, asking him to enlighten me seemed futile. Obviously, I didn’t have the necessary tools to pierce the armor of a professional personal assistant.

  I put the envelope back on the floor where I’d found it, and got out of the car. Moments later the Mustang pulled away from the curb.

  The crows were again squabbling over the French fries, holding their ground even as I put the top up on the Boxster. It wasn’t until the car edged into traffic that they flapped their wings and flew into the gritty Mid-Wilshire sky.

  When I got to Western Avenue, I turned left toward South L.A. and the entrance to the 10 Freeway. On the way I tried to piece together possible scenarios that might have led to a liaison between Jerome and Amy. Amy had reason to dislike Jerome’s boss, Evan Brice. I wondered if she’d disliked him enough to kill him. On the other hand, maybe she was using Evan’s boorish treatment of her at the party to threaten him. He’d called in Jerome to negotiate a settlement. Only what was she threatening? Exposing Evan’s drug habit didn’t provide much leverage. That fact had already been made public. Ditto with his stint in rehab. From what I could see, all she had against him was his bad behavior. Big deal.

  Then again, it was possible that Jerome and Amy found out about Lola Scott’s porn video. The two of them cooked up a scheme to use their knowledge to coerce Evan into launching Amy’s writing career. Evan
found out that Jerome was involved in the conspiracy, and felt betrayed. They argued. Jerome killed him. Too bad Moses Green didn’t have my keen imagination.

  I was so caught up in my thoughts that I wasn’t prepared when the guy in front of me braked at a yellow light. That was a flagrant disregard for L.A. road etiquette. Nobody stopped at an intersection until at least three cars had run the red light. I slammed on my brakes and was nearly rear-ended by a white van. The driver looked like a serial tailgater, because the van’s grill was already smashed in from a previous accident. He also looked like a slob. From my vantage point, I could see that the dashboard was littered with stacks of envelopes and what looked like a crumpled license plate.

  When the light turned green, I sped off, weaving in and out of lanes until I reached the entrance to the freeway, heading west toward Santa Monica. As I merged into traffic, I checked my gas gauge. It was less than a quarter full. I considered pulling off to fill up, but I thought I had enough to make it to a station closer to home.

  I was about a mile from the transition to the 405 when I checked the traffic in my rearview mirror before changing lanes. That’s when I noticed the white van behind me. Of course, white vans are almost as common in L.A. as Mercedes Benzes, but this one had a damaged grill and a crumpled license plate in the front window. I was sure it was the same one I’d seen earlier.

  It wasn’t unthinkable that we could be driving a similar route. After all, the 10 and the 405 are two of the busiest freeways in Southern California. But L.A. traffic generally flows like this: you get a few car lengths ahead; he gets a few car lengths ahead; you go fast; he goes slow; you go slow; he goes fast. No matter what, you both get to the same destination within a couple of minutes of each other. What doesn’t happen is that for ten miles the same vehicle is still stuck to your tail like superglue.