by Dixie Lyle
But this isn’t a real celebrity, responds another part of my brain, desperately trying to hold on to the original self-deception.
Shut up! hisses the hindbrain. Can’t you see I’m trying to get us laid? Then the whole thing breaks down in a mess of contradiction, self-recrimination, and half-remembered teenage fantasies.
Jaxon Nesbitt. Young, attractive, single. Not a teenage fantasy, but only because he wasn’t around when I was in the throes of puberty. I could talk to him without making a fool of myself, right?
“So,” I said. “You’re Sherlock Holmes.”
He glanced at me as he loaded up a plate with food. Gave me a movie-star smile, the kind that crinkled the eyes at the corners and showed every gleaning white tooth and highlighted those perfect cheekbones; basically, it did for his face what high heels do for legs, bringing all the good bits into tight focus.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “My amazing detective skills are picking up on some skepticism.”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” I said quickly. “I think you’ll make a great Holmes. I was just wondering what you do to prepare for a role like that.”
He added a few cherry tomatoes and a slice of prosciutto. “Read, of course. Try to get into his head, see the world like he saw it. You know, considering that he was a fictional character.”
“Right. So, Mr. Holmes … any insights into our current situation?”
He laughed. “Oh, is that what this is about? You think I can figure out the murder and the bombing?”
“Can you?” I gave him a smile of my own, one with a challenge in it. Successful people find it hard to resist challenges; meeting them is usually how they became successful in the first place.
“I can give it at try.” He sat down next to me and picked up a fork. “Let’s see. Somebody killed an acknowledged sleazeball and blew up our lead actress—who was sleeping with him. List of suspects for the sleazeball is long. The real question is, why go after Natalia?”
“You’ve been thinking about this.”
He speared a piece of cheese with his fork and popped it in his mouth. “’Course I have. We all have. And here’s what I think: multiple killers. Gotta be. One went after him with a bomb, the other up close and personal. You’re the one that found the body, right?”
“Yes.”
“I heard it was all chopped up.”
I nodded. I’m not squeamish, but suddenly I had no appetite. I pushed my mostly empty plate away from me.
“Sorry, that must have been disturbing. But whoever did that must have really, really hated him. The person who planted the bomb, though? More cerebral, more cold-blooded. You see what I mean?”
More like the work of a professional, I thought. “I do. Think they were working together, or separately?”
“No idea. Human beings are capable of all kinds of messed-up things. I will say this: The film industry is the only one I can think of that brings together completely different kinds of talent to work together. Brilliant creativity on one end of the spectrum, hard-core engineering on the other. Could two of those people have come together to kill someone they both hated? You tell me.”
“What makes you think I have any idea?”
He smiled again, but toned it down a little this time. “If I’m going to play Holmes for you, you’re going to have to be my Watson.”
“Do I have to? I’ve read the script.”
Watson didn’t fare well in the film. In fact, he got zombified early on and Holmes wound up having to decapitate him. The actor that played him had gone home after the first day of shooting.
Jaxon shrugged. “Thing is, Holmes was brilliant at noticing tiny details and remembering esoteric facts, while Watson was better at understanding human nature. Which is the opposite of what we have here—you’re clearly a detail-oriented person, while my forte is human nature. If we’re going to have any luck cracking this case, we’re going to have to play to our strengths.”
Was he flirting with me? I think he was flirting with me. Oh, God. “Well, then,” I managed. “The bomb must have been planted after the fires in the hearths had died down, when most of the guests were alone in their rooms. Nobody seems to have an alibi, everybody seems to have a motive. How do we narrow the possibilities?”
“All I have to offer is my own, completely subjective perspective on human nature. Which is as follows.” He paused, finished the bite of food he’d just taken, then continued, listing points on his fingers as he went. “Max Tervo: can’t be him, he’s too straitlaced. Lucky Trentini: can’t be him, he’s too nervous. Natalia: in the hospital, not a suspect. Keene: bit of a wild card. No obvious motive, but in my experience a guy like that is capable of anything. The one with the weird name—Yiminy Ferkus?”
“Yemane Fikru.”
“Him. Clearly Keene brought him along for the drugs. Drugs, Hollywood, and violence have a long history together, so that brings up all sorts of possible scenarios. Rolvink was into some sketchy stuff, you know?”
I did, but I was interested in what Jaxon knew. “Like what?”
Just for an instant, his smile locked up. It was weird, like seeing a movie freeze on a single frame, and then it was gone. “Oh, the usual LA weirdness. Porn, guys with neck tattoos who never take their sunglasses off, suitcases full of cash delivered by steroid junkies with shaved heads and bizarre accents … pretty standard, really. I mean, you can’t throw a latte in this biz without hitting some kind of freak in the head. Half the people on the crew probably have prison records, and I guarantee none of them had any love for old Maurice.”
Catree certainly didn’t. “I notice you left one suspect off your list, Mr. Holmes.”
He laughed, his absence of concern so overwhelming it almost seemed forced. Almost—he was a talented actor, after all. “Me? Nah. Totally not.”
“Alone in your room, just like everyone else?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Look, Rolvink was scummy, sure, but no more so than any other algae in the pond—and if you want to succeed in my profession you better be okay swimming in the stuff, because it’s not going away anytime soon.”
I got to my feet. “Not all of it, anyway. But somebody around here seems intent on cleaning the pool…”
13.
And then I got some good news: Natalia Cardoso had woken up and seemed to be okay. I told ZZ I was going to drive down to the hospital to pay her a visit, and she offered to come with me. “Let’s have Ben put together a care package,” she said. “Nobody’s crazy about medical cuisine.”
We took the Rolls. Victor, ZZ’s regular chauffeur, drove us with the same steely-eyed attention he paid to everything he did. ZZ was oddly quiet, staring out her window while I stared out mine; I found it meditative, just letting the scenery stream past without really focusing on anything, my thoughts flowing along with no particular destination. When this happens, I go with it; sometimes my thoughts wind up arriving in places I hadn’t intended—but still places I needed to go.
It seemed as if the bomb could have been planted by anyone. Maybe I should be concentrating on Rolvink’s murder instead; it might be easier to pin down the whereabouts of the guests around the time of death, sometime after dinner. Now, how to do that …
A bird flew past, beside the highway. Pigeon, I thought, though I wasn’t sure. And just like that, my train of consciousness jumped the tracks, smashed through a few memories parked on a siding, and came to a screeching halt at an idea. A crazy, brilliant, almost-impossible-to-pull-off idea.
I do enjoy a challenge.
I pulled out my phone. “Sorry, ZZ,” I said. “I just remembered something important I have to take care of. Uh, this might sound a little mysterious.”
ZZ raised her eyebrows. “Really? How intriguing. Well, you go ahead, dear; I’ll try to keep my curiosity in check.”
I called Ben.
“Hey, Foxy Socks. How’d she like the basket?”
“I’ll tell you later. Right now, I need you to do something f
or me.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“I need you to put someone on the phone, but I can’t mention her name.”
“Excuse me?”
“I need her help with a linguistics problem.”
I glanced over at ZZ. She was staring out the window with a look of feigned disinterest on her face.
“Wait,” Ben said. “You want me to put Tango on the phone?”
“If you could.”
“Why don’t you just have me relay a message?”
“Because I’m going to ask her to relay a message, and if the message gets filtered through three brains—three very different brains—it might get garbled.”
“So this is actually a message for … who, exactly?”
“Look, this is hard enough as it is. Is she around, or not?”
“Yeah, she’s right here, taking a nap. Just a second.”
This whole thing would be a lot easier with telepathy, but I was out of range. I waited, then realized it wasn’t exactly like Tango could say hello. “Hi,” I said. “I need a favor. You remember that conversation you had with the Venezuelan office worker?”
I heard a meow, but of course I had no idea if it was a yes or a no. “Yeah, the one that had the crush on you. He was really helpful.” The Venezuelan in question was a parakeet who lived in the coroner’s office, one who’d used his amazing memory to recite some very important overheard information to us. “I need the same kind of thing again. But this time, it has to be a fly-on-the-wall kind of situation. Obviously, we can’t use the Venezuelan again, but I was thinking someone from next door. Next door to your place, not the Venezuelan’s. Somebody who understands the spirit of what I’m trying to do.”
Another meow. Maybe it was my imagination, but it sounded incredulous. “Yes, I know you don’t have a lot of pull with that group. That’s why I want you to get your partner to do it. He’s a lot more diplomatic. Get him to recruit someone, put him on the inside, and report whatever they learn. It has to be this afternoon, no later than two. He’ll know why.”
Ben came back on the phone. “She says she’s got it. I hope she’s right, because she just took off like a shot.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll check in with you later.”
I slipped my phone back into my pocket and looked over at ZZ. She smiled and said, “So. How long have you been working for the KGB?”
“No comment. I’m not going to have to kill you, am I?”
“No, dear. But if an embassy blows up in the next week, you and I are going to have a serious discussion about your extracurricular activities.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t yes ma’am me. I was at Altamont.”
“I know. You’re not going to stab me, are you?”
“Not right now. I’m not wearing my stabby clothes.”
* * *
My plan was simple but daring: get Whiskey to convince a ghost bird—one with a good memory—to spy on Forrester during his interviews with the potential suspects, and relay what he heard to one of us. As long as Tango understood what it was I’d asked of her …
The visit to Natalia was anticlimactic. She was still extremely disoriented, and kept saying, “What?” every few sentences. When told that Maurice Rolvink was dead, she said, “Of course he’s dead. He’s been dead for years.” Then she asked for a grilled cheese sandwich and a pair of ice skates.
We left the gift basket with a nurse, who told us the disorientation was normal and would probably resolve over the next few days. Then we returned to the Rolls, where Victor was sitting bolt-upright and staring straight ahead, just as he was when we’d left him. I wondered if he actually turned off when people weren’t around, or just powered down into sleep mode.
Amazingly, ZZ didn’t ask me any questions about my unusual phone conversation. Either she was trying to prove she could mind her own business, or she thought I was pulling her leg and refused to take the bait. I didn’t care which explanation was true, as long as she stuck to it.
As soon as we were back at the mansion, I made my excuses and hurried off. ZZ didn’t try to stop me, just gave me a mysterious smile of her own. “You go ahead dear,” she said. “Those Venezuelans are notoriously impatient.”
The interviews were being held in the study, and if Forrester stuck to the schedule I’d made for him, he’d be halfway through talking to Jaxon Nesbitt. I ducked into the billiards room, which shared a wall with the study, and looked around. Empty.
Then I heard Tango’s voice in my head.
I looked. Tango was sprawled out on the floor underneath, her eyes alert and her tail twitching.
“How’s it going so far?”
