Cover Your Assets

by Patricia Smiley

  A half-dozen people sat on director’s chairs on a set made up to look like the living room of an upscale high-rise apartment. The floors were parquet, the decor sleek and modern. Several busts of unrecognizable old white men sat atop four-foot pedestals placed throughout the room. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases framed a fake window, through which the audience could see a backdrop of what looked like the Manhattan skyline. A painting of a distinguished older woman in a formal dress hung above the fireplace, which I assumed was also fake.

  Lola Scott sat on the living room couch, staring blankly into space. She was somewhere in her twenties. The white negligee she wore was filmy enough to reveal what was beneath all that fluff: the lean body of an athlete. Her blue-black hair was long, lush, and iridescent. I tried but failed to find a single flaw. She was a genetic freak, so perfect she looked computer generated.

  A middle-aged man with thinning hair and probably the beginnings of an ulcer was referring to notes on a tablet attached to a clipboard. The director, I assumed.

  “Your point is well taken, Lola.” His tone was brittle. “Except Mallory Eden is not pissed off that her mother was just crushed by a garbage truck. She is heartbroken. I need you to tap into that inner pain.”

  The words were snide and meant to hurt. His intentions were not lost on Lola Scott. She seemed to be holding her breath. A moment later, her chin began to quiver.

  “That’s it!” the director shouted. “Okay, people, we’ve got tears. Let’s take it from where Mallory throws the champagne glass into the fireplace.”

  Slowly Lola rose from the couch. “Excuse me. I’m going to my trailer.”

  With her negligee billowing like a cloud of mist, she walked off the set. The director collapsed against the back of his chair, put his finger to his temple, and pretended to shoot. I skirted around the fake living room and followed Lola out a door into the harsh sunlight.

  “Excuse me, Miss Scott. I’m Tucker Sinclair. Charley Tate sent me.”

  As she whirled around to face me, each hair on her head floated out into the ether with a fluid motion that reminded me of a team of long-legged synchronized swimmers. The move had obviously been staged for maximum drama. Thick bangs nearly obscured her brown eyes, which were puddled with moisture. Instead of calling attention to the tears by wiping them away, she let them roll down her face. By the time they landed on the white negligee, they had gathered enough makeup to spot it with brown freckles.

  “Bobby doesn’t give me any credit for what I’ve done to make this show a hit,” she said. “He’s trying to kill me off. Everybody knows it.”

  I assumed that Bobby was somebody connected to Kings Road, the director perhaps, and that he wanted to kill her off the show, not literally kill her off.

  “I’m sorry.” It was all I could think of to say.

  She began flapping her hands as if she were drying her nail polish. I suspected it was a tool she used to harness all those unwieldy emotions. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I have to go. You can come if you want.”

  I wanted. I slid in next to her on the bench seat of a golf cart parked outside the door of the sound stage. Lola turned the key. The motor purred, and the cart lurched forward. It stopped almost immediately in front of a trailer parked a hundred feet away. I guess walking wasn’t in her contract.

  I followed her up the steps and through the door of the trailer. Inside, sprawled on a couch, watching TV and drinking a beer, was a well-muscled guy with curly blond hair. He wore a white wife-beater undershirt that exposed beefy arms, one of which sported a tattoo of a coiled snake. I immediately checked out his feet. No boots with silver medallions, just athletic shoes—big ones. When the man saw Lola, he jumped up like a lonely lapdog.

  “I’m cold, Jakey. Get me a robe?”

  At the mention of his name, my heart produced an anxious thud. Jakey stared at me, too, as if I looked familiar, but he couldn’t remember why. When recognition hit him, a dark, menacing cloud moved across his face.

  “Shit!” he said.

  Lola was too self-absorbed to pick up on the exchange. “Jakey,” she repeated. “My robe.”

  He hesitated a moment longer before pulling out a long red bathrobe from the closet.

  “Not that one, the white terry.”

  The muscles in his jaw twitched. Nonetheless, he went back to the closet and found the robe she’d asked for. Lola put it on over her negligee, while he dutifully returned the red one to the hanger.

  “My face must be a mess,” she went on. “Call makeup.” Jakey turned to face the door. “No. Just get me some Q-tips and a jar of baby oil, and tell Jude to come by in fifteen minutes.” He’d made it a couple of steps when she added, “Wait. Let Bobby stew for a while. Stay where you are. Don’t do anything.”

  Jakey grew increasingly frustrated as Lola continued sending him to fetch things: bottled water, box of tissues, hairbrush. Maybe he was uncomfortable being ordered around in front of a woman whom he’d assaulted just days before. At some point Lola realized that he was glaring at me and, after a thoughtful moment, figured out why.

  “Baby,” she said tenderly, “I think you need a break. Why don’t you go to Starbucks and get me a tall triple skinny dry cappuccino. Tell the barista to double-cup it.”

  Jakey looked conflicted, as if he wanted to get away from me but didn’t want Lola to orchestrate his departure. I wondered how much further he could be pushed before he exploded. Apparently a little further, because he didn’t protest—he just walked out of the trailer, slamming the door with barely contained rage. Great! Another guy in my life with low impulse control.

  Lola wasn’t looking so beautiful anymore. Tears had streaked her makeup. She’d wiped her nose on the cuff of the robe so that it no longer looked pristine and perfect. For what seemed like a long time, she didn’t say anything, just stared at her reflection in a wall mirror as if she was mesmerized by the drama unfolding on her own face.

  “Everything I do turns to shit,” she said.

  I could sympathize with that. “Maybe I should come back later.”

  She ignored my offer as if she hadn’t even heard it. For a moment I wondered if she’d been rehearsing lines. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Damn him. Why did he have to die?”

  I assumed she meant Evan Brice, but trying to guess made me feel as if I were on some quiz show, filling in missing words in a sentence to win a new plasma TV.

  She turned her gaze on me. “I just want to be at home in bed with the covers pulled over my head.”

  “Charley Tate told me you want the bed in Evan’s apartment.”

  She nodded. “I know it sounds dumb, but it would make me feel closer to him right now. I’ve made so many stupid mistakes in my life . . .”

  “You mean like making that porn movie?”

  She looked at me warily. “Please, you can’t tell anybody about that. I never thought I’d make anything of myself, or I wouldn’t have done it. I was only sixteen. My parents had just kicked me out of the house, and I was broke. I met this guy named Stan at a party, and we moved in together. He convinced me the film was the answer to everything. We’d make some money, and I’d get experience in front of a camera. So I did it. A few months later I started getting bad feelings about it. I told Stan, and he promised to destroy all the copies. Copies, sure. He did that, all right. But he kept the master. Lying bastard. When I got the part in Richard’s film, Stan saw my name in the paper. He called Evan and asked for a hundred grand.”

  “So you paid up?”

  She nodded. “Evan was furious that I hadn’t told him about the film. He came to the set of Born to Ride and told me to come up with the money. He’d arrange the rest. I was short of cash, so I asked if he’d advance me his commission on Pagan Dreams as a loan. He said no. We had this huge fight. I finally managed to get the payment together, and a few days later I gave it to Evan. He made the exchange with Stan.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “We couldn’t.
If Richard Burnett ever found out I’d done an adult film, I’d be stuck on this crappy soap forever.”

  Lola Scott had obviously had a tough life, but it was hard to feel too sorry for her. A lot of people would be thrilled to have a steady acting job, even if it was on a “crappy soap.” I tried to look at life from Lola’s point of view. In a dozen years, after multiple plastic surgeries had pulled her skin so tight that her eyebrows had merged into her hairline, she’d come to work one day and found out that the script called for a drop-dead gorgeous twenty-something newcomer to push her in front of a subway train. I couldn’t fault Lola for developing a plan B.

  “Look,” I said. “I have to tell you the truth. The police already know about the video. They also have a description of Jakey and the boots he was wearing when he attacked me. Sooner or later, they’ll find out about everything.”

  She closed her eyes and blew out a big breath of air. “Stupid jerk. I told him to go to the apartment and see if the tape was still there. That’s all.”

  “Why did Evan have it at the apartment in the first place?”

  “It was temporary. He didn’t want to take it home or to the office, because he was afraid somebody would see it. He told me he was going to find a good place to hide it. He died before he could give it to me.”

  “Too bad Jakey didn’t use better judgment.”

  Her expression hardened. “You’re not going to cause problems about this, are you? Look, I’m sorry you got hurt. It’s not my fault, but I’m going to write you a check anyway.”

  “I don’t want your check. I want to know who killed Evan Brice, and right now I’m thinking it might have been Jakey. If he roughed me up, he might have done the same to Evan. Only Evan didn’t end up hurt; he ended up dead.”

  “No.” Her tone was firm.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because Jakey was with me the night Evan died.”

  “And where was that?” I said skeptically.

  “Rome. I went to meet somebody about a film role. I took Jakey along for the ride. We were both there when I got the news that Evan was dead.”

  That “somebody” was obviously the Italian producer James Brodie had mentioned, the guy who was going to make Lola into the next Katharine Hepburn. But Rome? She couldn’t be talking about Rome-Rome. That was in Italy. Nobody flew to Rome-Rome to discuss a film role. They called or faxed or e-mailed. Sometimes they just said, “You’re beautiful, baby; don’t change a thing. My people will call your people.” Maybe Rome was some new housing project in Pacific Palisades. That was only a few miles from Venice. She and Jakey would have had plenty of time to drive to Evan’s apartment and murder him.

  “When I got the news,” she continued, “I called Alitalia, and we took the first flight back.”

  Damn! Alitalia didn’t fly from Pac-Pal, but it definitely flew from Rome-Rome. So she probably was in Italy. That was disappointing. Not only did she have an alibi, but Jakey had one, too. How many hours had I wasted on the goofy theory that Lola Scott had a hand in Evan’s death? Too many. No wonder Moses Green had brushed me off when I confided in him. Deegan had warned me I was on the wrong track. I should have listened. Now Jakey and I had something in common. We were both stupid jerks.

  “Where is the video now?”

  “Destroyed.”

  “How do you know it’s the only one?”

  “Because Evan made Stan promise.”

  It was hard to believe she could be naive enough to think that a blackmailer wasn’t going to come back for more money, but I guess she was accustomed to getting what she wanted. As much as I hated to admit it, I’d reached a dead end in my little investigation. Neither Lola nor Jakey could have killed Evan unless they’d hired out the job. That didn’t seem likely. Lola appeared to be truly pained by Evan’s death. On the other hand, maybe Stan the blackmailing porn producer had killed Evan. I thought about mentioning that theory to Detective Green but doubted he’d be interested.

  Before I left, Lola agreed to send somebody to pick up the bed before two p.m. on Tuesday, the day I’d scheduled the rental company and the charity pickups. I was relieved. By Wednesday morning the apartment would be empty, and I’d have fulfilled my promise to Cissy.

  “By the way,” I said, “Jakey took some of Evan’s mail.”

  “I know. The stuff is at my house. It’s mostly junk, but you can have it back if you want. I’ll have him drop it by your place.”

  That was the last thing I wanted.

  “Mail it to the Venice apartment. The post office will forward it to the right address.”

  As I walked back to my car, I found myself wondering why the police seemed to have eliminated Monique Ruiz and Lola Scott as suspects in Evan’s death, but not Cissy. All three had alibis. Even though I still believed that Cissy would eventually be cleared, I couldn’t chase away this nagging feeling that there were gaps in her story and missing words in her sentences. Maybe if I filled in the blanks correctly, I could win a new TV after all.

  -24-

  as soon as I left Sony Studios, I headed to West L.A. to collect Muldoon from puppy day care. The traffic was moving at a glacial pace due to construction on Olympic Boulevard. I couldn’t tell what the road crew was up to, but figured either it was tearing up a street that had recently been repaved or else the city had finally scraped together enough money to fill one of L.A.’s notorious potholes, several of which were large enough to swallow Jonah and the whale. Whatever the case, the traffic jam managed to turn six miles into fifty minutes.

  When I finally got to Le Bon Chien, I found Hannah sitting on a couch in the dayroom, looking as if she’d just found her goldfish floating belly up in its bowl. If Muldoon hadn’t been curled up next to her thigh, I might have worried. He glanced my way but looked as if he didn’t have the strength to move. All that “interfacing” must have worn him out.

  The room was filled with overstuffed couches and chairs, playground equipment, and what looked like a doggie treadmill. A dozen large canines, mostly retrievers but also a standard poodle and a Great Dane, lounged on the furniture. A disreputable looking mutt was entertaining himself by pushing a ball across the room with his nose.

  “So,” I said, “did Muldoon pass his D.O.G. exams?”

  Hannah frowned as if she didn’t appreciate my flippancy. “Please sit down.”

  I checked to make sure I wasn’t crushing Le Bon Chien’s resident flea circus before taking a seat on the couch adjacent to the one she and Muldoon occupied.

  Hannah referred to notes on a tablet that was attached to a clipboard. “Sorry to say, we found that Muldoon didn’t socialize well with his classmates.” Her tone was solemn. “He seemed to prefer hanging out with the staff rather than with the other dogs. We often find this behavior in animals who are left alone a lot.”

  I felt my cheeks burn. “Did I mention that he’s an only dog?”

  “Yes,” she said knowingly, “we’re familiar with the syndrome.”

  Only-dog syndrome? Who knew? Frankly, I was a little put off by her attitude. She should have been praising Muldoon for his people skills, not criticizing him for his choice of companions. However, I swallowed my irritation because this whole day-care gig was important to the pup’s mental health, not to mention my custody battle with Pookie.

  “I’ll admit he’s alone too much,” I said. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Yes, of course, but you must also know we have dozens of applicants a week and limited enrollment. That’s why we can afford to be selective.”

  I didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. Nonetheless, I smiled my most engaging smile. “Only the best and the brightest, right?”

  As a reward for my finally getting it, she smiled back. “I knew you’d understand. While Muldoon is a very handsome boy, he would have spent the entire day curled up in my lap if I’d let him. That sort of behavior doesn’t work here. He has to be a self-starter to make it at Le Bon Chien.”

  I
stared at her in disbelief. “Wait a minute. You’re rejecting Muldoon?”

  “Don’t think of it as a rejection—”

  “You’re rejecting my dog?”

  “As I said—”

  “I heard what you said.” In my head I added: And I think you’re full of shit. In fact, screw Le Bon Chien. Day care my ass—the place is nothing more than a crappy, high-priced kennel. Muldoon is better off at home alone. As much as I wanted to say all that out loud, I didn’t, because a part of me didn’t want to jeopardize the pup’s chances to reapply after le bon Hannah came to her senses.

  I waited for the catch—an offer to enroll Muldoon in some outrageously expensive remedial bonding therapy, perhaps—but none came. Instead, all Hannah offered was an image of a resolute young woman, staring at notes on a clipboard.

  Finally I stood. “Come on, Muldoon. We’re out of here.”

  The pup didn’t respond. He just sat there looking at me with his big brown eyes. Uh-oh, I thought. Time to call in the big guns.

  I looked him square in the eye. “You wanna go for a ride in the car?”

  Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!

  That was more like it. Muldoon jumped off the couch, spun three quick circles in place, and headed for the door as Warden Hannah frowned in disapproval at the din he’d set off. Every dog in the joint was barking now. And who could blame them? In the absence of tin cups to clank along the bars, you work with what you got. Once in the car, I lifted Muldoon’s paw so we could high-five.

  The pup was disappointed on the drive home when I wouldn’t let him hang his head out the window, but if he was going to be my new partner, I had to set limits. There was no time like the present to start. Besides, I had my own disappointments to worry about. In the past week I’d fought with my mother and alienated Joe Deegan, and now, aside from Eugene and Venus, the only friend who was still speaking to me had just been branded an unacceptable playdate at puppy day care. What more could go wrong?

  -25-

  muldoon’s kennel experience had left him smelling less than fragrant. He needed a bath. So on Tuesday morning I dropped him off at a grooming shop in Venice before heading to Evan’s apartment.