“Over on the right,” she says.
The limo is heading toward the airport. “We’ve been re-enacting our own pathetic version of the chase scene in Bullittjust to follow a guy who is catching a plane?”
“Looks that way,” Rosie says, “except you’re no Steve McQueen, either.”
Thanks. “Rosie, I did it in one take–McQueen took a week.”
We follow Pete under the international terminal and up the ramp to the departure level. The Lincoln is just ahead of us. Pete tells Rosie he’s going to drop back. I tell him to try to stay with the Suburban because I’d like to know who’s been following us. We circle the parking structure and pull in behind the limo, which is double parked in front of the United terminal. A traffic control cop tells us we have to keep moving. Rosie assures him we’ll be gone in a moment.
We watch Petrillo get out of the limo. A female driver in a dark suit with a matching hat pulls his overnight bag out of the trunk. Petrillo glances in our direction and gives us a sarcastic wave. A moment later, the Suburban goes by us without stopping. I try to catch a look at the driver, but can’t see him through the tinted windows. I look for a license plate, but there is none. Pete’s Plymouth is three cars behind the Suburban. They roll out into the night.
Rosie and I get out of the car and approach Petrillo, who is standing on the sidewalk. The roar is deafening as the cars, buses and limos barrel around the departure level. Petrillo pretends he doesn’t see us. He’s cupping a hand against his left ear and holding his cell phone against his right. Then he puts his phone into his pocket. His voice drips with sarcasm when he turns to me and says, “Isn’t this a pleasant coincidence, Mr. Daley? You didn’t mention you were leaving town tonight.”
I ignore the quip and say, “I thought you left this afternoon.”
“Change of plans. Business.”
“What sort of business?”
He looks at Rosie and says, “We’ve invested a lot of money in your niece.” Then he turns to me and adds in a measured tone, “She’s making our lives very complicated.”
“We wanted to talk to you for a few minutes.”
He rolls his eyes. “You could have called. You didn’t have to chase me down here.”
“We were in the neighborhood,” I say.
“You followed us all the way from Sea Cliff.” The right corner of his mouth turns up when he says, “So, who was he?” His offhand tone suggests he could be asking about the score in today’s Giants’ game.
I try to sound innocent. “Who?”
This gets a half-grin. “The guy in the Plymouth.”
“What Plymouth?”
“The one that followed us here.”
I ask, “Who was in the Suburban?”
“What Suburban?”
“The one that followed us here.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Gimme a break. I try again. “Who was in the Suburban?”
His tone becomes more adamant. “I don’t know anything about it. Who was in the Plymouth?”
We’re starting to sound like Abbott and Costello. “A friend,” I say. “Who was in the Suburban?”
His irritation is beginning to show. “It seems yourfriend decided to follow us here.”
“He was showing yourfriend the way.”
He holds up his hands and says, “We took the license number. We’ll find out who it was. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out you hired a PI to watch us. Obviously, he saw me at Richard’s house and called you.”
I don’t respond.
“I don’t appreciate being followed, Mr. Daley.”
“Neither do I.”
His tone becomes more strident. “We didn’t hire anybody to follow you.”
I glance at Rosie. “We still want to talk to you,” I tell him.
“I asked you to call my office.”
“I get impatient.”
He tries to take the offensive. “Was your PI watching me?”
“No.”
“That means he was watching Richard.”
“That’s right. What about your PI?”
He gives me a bewildered look. “What PI?”
Enough. I fold my arms and say, “Look, Mr. Petrillo—”
He interrupts me. “It’s Dom.”
“Fine. I’ll tell you what, Dom. I’ll promise to stop bullshitting you if you’ll do the same for me. Deal?”
“Look, Mr. Daley—”
“It’s Mike.”
A crooked grin cuts across his face and he starts talking faster. “Okay, Mike. Let’s cut the crap. We know your PI was following us. I don’t know anything about a Suburban.”
“You didn’t hire a PI to help you with this case?”
“Of course we did. Ours is still parked down the street from Richard’s house.”
Rosie attempts to strike a conciliatory tone. “So you don’t know who was in the Suburban?”
“No. Maybe Richard hired a PI to watch me.”
It’s nice to see there is such a high level of trust among the parties involved in the China Basin deal. I ask, “What’s your PI’s name?”
“That’s confidential. What’s yours?”
“That’s confidential.”
Stalemate. We say nothing for a moment. Then he decides to play poker. “I’ll tell you the name of mine if you’ll tell me the name of yours,” he says.
It’s a variation of “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” Pete and I used to do it all the time when we were kids. We used to play with baseball equipment, then it involved car accessories when we got older. Rosie taught me a different version. It still involved equipment and accessories, but it had nothing to do with baseball or cars. I extend the olive branch. “My brother,” I say.
Petrillo gives me a knowing nod. “We figured.”
“And your guy?”
“It’s not a guy. Her name is Kaela Joy Gullion.”
I glance at Rosie, whose face breaks out into a broad smile. “The cheerleader?” I ask.
Petrillo doesn’t return my smile. “She came very highly recommended.”
Indeed. Kaela Joy Gullion is a statuesque blonde who once played professional volleyball, became a Niners cheerleader and got married to an offensive guard. When she became suspicious of his fidelity, she started taking road trips with him—without his knowledge. She caught him red-handed in a strip club in New Orleans, and put him on waivers around the same time the Niners did. Her highly-publicized efforts as an amateur PI led to a big divorce settlement and a new career. She moved her operations to L.A. a few years ago. Now she plays in the big leagues of PIs.
“How long has she been working for you?” I ask
“About six months. Our security guys found her. We needed somebody to help us check out the MacArthurs. It’s a standard part of our due diligence.”
It begs the question. “Was she watching Big Dick’s house for you on Friday night?”
He hesitates almost imperceptibly and then says, “Yes.”
Whoa. This is news. “Did she see anything?”
“I don’t know. We’ve traded calls. I haven’t talked to her yet.”
“Has she talked to the police?”
“Not as far as I know.”
We have to talk to her. “Did she come up with any dirt about the MacArthurs?”
“Not much. The company was clean. Marty Kent kept them out of trouble. It was a full time job.”
“And their personal lives?”
“The stories about the divorces, the drugs and the financial troubles are all true.”
“Was Dick cheating on our client?”
He nods.
“Was he planning to file divorce papers?”
“I don’t know.”
“And now she’s watching Little Richard?”
“Yes.”
“You told us you weren’t going to get involved in Angelina’s case.”
“As far as the media and the public is
concerned, we’re not. We can’t be perceived as condoning the actions of a murderer.”
“Accused murderer,” I correct him.
“Whatever. We’re trying to protect our investment. We can’t ignore it.”
I ask, “Do you think Richard had anything to do with his father’s death?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“Did he and his father get along?”
“At times. And at times they fought like angry little children. They were fighting the other night.”
“About what?”
“The movie and the China Basin project. It didn’t take much to set the two of them off.”
He is trying to appear forthcoming. “Why are you telling me this?” I ask him.
“Dick MacArthur’s life was an open book.”
It was more like an open soap opera.
“Besides,” he continues, “if you think about it, we’re on the same side. We want Angelina to get off just as much as you do. We’re trying to release a movie in less than a week. We’re going to lose millions if there’s a delay. Angelina’s promotional appearances will be canceled if she’s in jail. Not to mention the beating we’ll take in the press if we release a movie with a star who has been charged with murder.”
“What are you suggesting?” Rosie asks.
“Let’s help each other out.”
This elicits a cautious glance from Rosie. Trusting Dominic Petrillo is probably as precarious as forming an alliance on Survivor. On the other hand, he may have some information that could help us. “We’d like to talk to your PI,” I tell him.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“And we’d like to talk to you.”
“I have nothing to hide.”
In my experience, when somebody says they have nothing to hide, they always do.
“My plane leaves in forty-five minutes,” he says. “Let’s get a drink.”
*****
Chapter 18
“Making Movies is Like Playing Craps”
“Members only. Kindly present identification to the attendant.”
— Entrance to United Airlines Red Carpet Club. San Francisco International Airport.
“Where are you?” I ask Pete. I’ve parked my car and I’m walking across the overpass from the parking lot to the United Terminal. Rosie is at the Red Carpet Club with Petrillo. I have no idea how we ever existed without cell phones.
“101 north at Army,” he says. “The Suburban is two cars ahead of me. I don’t know where he’s going.”
Neither do I. They aren’t heading back toward Sea Cliff. I ask him if he’s ever heard of a PI named Kaela Joy Gullion.
“Of course. The cheerleader.”
“Do you know her?” I tell him Petrillo hired her to watch the MacArthurs.
“I’ve met her.”
“Is she as good as they say?”
“Better.”
I ask him if he can find her.
“Sure.”
“Any chance she’s in the Suburban?”
“Not unless she’s had a sex change.” Then he adds, “I don’t think the guy in the Suburban is a PI, Mick. And I don’t think he’s interested in us.”
“How do you figure?”
“He doesn’t drive like a PI. And he drove by right you at the airport.”
That leaves Petrillo, who may have been telling the truth when he said he didn’t know who was in the Suburban.
I ask, “Where are you now?”
“Getting off at the Seventh Street exit by the Hall.”
“Do you think he’s a cop?”
“He doesn’t drive like one. Cops don’t drive Suburbans without plates.”
I arrive at the Red Carpet Club. “I’ve got to talk to Petrillo,” I say.
“I’ll call you later.”
# # #
“I’m in an impossible situation,” Petrillo laments.
I give him my best empathetic nod. The man has problems, dammit.
For those of us who fly with the great unwashed masses in coach, the Red Carpet Club is not as opulent as I would have expected. I’ve always thought there was a miniature Playboy mansion tucked behind the locked door, complete with flowing liquor and scantily-clad waitresses. Not true. It looks more like the lounge at the student union at Cal. The bustling room is full of modular furniture and harried business travelers. There isn’t a single Playboy bunny. We have twenty minutes until Petrillo has to go to his gate. He’s drinking scotch and munching pretzels.
I ask him, “Why did you stay in town?”
“We have a serious problem with the China Basin project. MacArthur Films is supposed to be one of our anchor tenants and a major investor.”
I knew that much. “It’s a big operation,” I suggest. “They aren’t going anywhere.”
“Dick’s death changes the economics of our deal.”
I try to sound nonchalant. “Not necessarily. His son will run the business.”
“It isn’t the same,” he insists. “He’s a decent young man, but he doesn’t have his father’s credibility in the industry.”
I disagree. He’s an asshole who doesn’t have his father’s credibility in the industry.
Petrillo is still talking. “Try to imagine Lucasfilm without George or DreamWorks without Spielberg. Young Richard is a competent line producer, but I don’t think he has the ability to run a production company. I know for sure he can’t write and direct. If this film doesn’t do well, they may not be able to fulfill their obligations. Frankly, even if the movie is successful, I’m not sure MacArthur Films will have the resources to remain viable.”
I wonder if the same can be said about Millennium Studios. “I’d imagine you have a lot riding on this movie, too,” I say.
“We do.”
“And where does it leave you if it doesn’t meet your box office expectations?”
He chews on a pretzel. “We’ll be fine. We have other projects and access to other funding sources.”
I’m not convinced. “Have you heard from the lender?” I ask.
“We’re going to meet with the bank tomorrow. Not surprisingly, they’ve expressed some concerns about the financial stability of the project.”
If I were in B of A’s shoes, I’d be worried sick. “I understand Dick and Marty were going to invest in the project.”
“That’s true.”
Now they’re dead.
His tone remains measured when he says, “We may have to find some other investors.”
I try to sound innocent when I ask, “Can’t you buy out their positions?” I’m looking for a reaction. I don’t want him to know we’ve been studying the entity’s operating agreement.
He plays his cards close to the vest. “Our attorneys are looking into it.”
I catch Rosie’s eyes. “Where does Little Richard fit into all of this?” she asks.
“For obvious reasons, our deal will change. He’s borrowing the bulk of the money for his investment. At a minimum, we’ll expect him to assume full responsibility for his father’s and Kent’s funding commitments. The bank wants him to personally guaranty the rental payments of MacArthur Films under the lease. The other investors want him to personally guaranty his obligations to make capital contributions to the company. The bank wants a first deed of trust on some of his assets to secure the lease. We’ll need a second on the same property to secure his funding obligations.”
I ask, “I take it no such requirements were being imposed on his father?”
“For all of his shortcomings, his father was a better credit risk. He had access to funding sources that may not be available to his son.”
Where I grew up, we used to call such funding sources loan sharks. Young Richard is getting squeezed. I can’t tell if Petrillo wants to rework the deal or take him out altogether. I ask, “Which property does the bank want him to pledge?”
“The winery is the only asset of any substantial value that he owns free and clear. Ev
erything else is mortgaged to the hilt.”
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