“Let’s just say unimpressed,” I said.
“But still curious.”
“Very.”
“Your liege never discussed these matters?”
“Mr. Bainbridge wasn’t your typical vampire, and even he would never discuss sex with a young woman in his care.”
“And neither will I,” David said.
“Because you consider me in your care? Because I’m a woman? Or because you’re uncomfortable talking about it?”
David leaned back in his chair and took another long drink of blood. “You’re a good lawyer, Linnet. No matter which part of that question I answer, and no matter how I answer it, I’m fucked.”
I smiled at him, and he gave me a smile in return. At that moment the door to the conference room flew open, and a slim vampire of middle height blew in. Hank Pizer had a narrow, sharp-featured face with bright blue eyes and slicked-back black hair. Unlike every other vampire I’d ever met he had a deep tan. I looked closer and realized he had used a self-tanning spray. That was startling. More startling was the broad smile that he bestowed on us, revealing his long, pointed canines.
“Hey, Davy … Linnie. Welcome to LaLa Land.”
I didn’t mind the diminutive, having been called that for much of my childhood, but it was surprising to hear it from someone I hadn’t even technically met, especially given the formality of the New York office. I glanced at David, expecting an explosion. Again, he surprised me. He just sighed and shook his head.
“Hank, strive to recall that you’re a vampire now. You can get away with it around me, but don’t try it with the senior partners.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Pizer said. Startled, I looked to David, but he studiously avoided my gaze.
Pizer flung himself into a chair. “So, here we are. In the center of a legal shit storm.” His expression said how much he loved it.
“Let’s discuss the case,” David said.
Pizer shrugged. “You got the papers.”
“I’d like your take on it,” David said. “Right now it looks like one set of pretty, vapid, and narcissistic people is mad at another group of even prettier, more vapid, and far more narcissistic people.”
“With that attitude toward actors you’d make a great producer,” Pizer said. “Okay. Short version. The Powers come out. By the mid-1970s a few Álfar are starting to join the Screen Actors Guild and auditioning for parts, and getting them too, but it’s just a trickle, so no big whoop. But then a lot of bankable human stars start to age and die, and more Álfar show up, and new, young execs take control of the studios and the networks. They’re comfortable around the Powers, so they cast more Álfar, and then more Álfar come to Hollywood and join SAG. Now the Guild is half-human and half-Álfar, but guess who’s getting most of the juicy roles?”
“The Álfar,” I said.
Pizer made a gun with his forefinger and pretended to shoot me. “Right in one. They are awesome in the room.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“That’s Hollywood speak. You don’t have a meeting, you get in a room together.”
“Well, that’s obnoxious,” David said.
“Point is, they’re prettier than humans.”
“Their charisma doesn’t translate to the screen,” I said. “They are gorgeous, but I know—knew—an Álfar. It’s just not the same.” John’s perfect features swam briefly before my mind’s eye.
“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter. It works in the audition, and like you said, they are gorgeous,” Pizer said.
“All of which proves my point. This is unworthy of serious legal action,” David huffed.
“So what? You want me to tell them to forget it? Get a different firm? It’s taken months to get the human actors, the Álfar actors, the studios, the networks, and all their lawyers to agree on Ishmael, and it’s a big payday for the firm.”
“Of course I’m not saying that.” David shook his head like a bull bedeviled by flies. “I’m just complaining. It’s too sunny here, and I can already tell I hate both sides, and this actor Montolbano who drew us into this.”
“There’s something I don’t understand,” I said. “The parties picked IMG to arbitrate. Why not use you? You’re here. You do entertainment law. Why bring us in from New York?”
“Because I’m a player,” Hank said.
“And Hank can always be found at a Hollywood party,” David said somewhat sourly. “Not exactly impartial. Or so the argument would go.”
Pizer did the gun/finger thing again. Hank was rather charming for a vampire, but I decided this 1970s habit could get real old real fast. “Exactly. They know we’ve got the moxie—as you would say—to handle this issue,” he grinned at David. “But folks on the West Coast figured you cold, proper Yankees wouldn’t be appropriately impressed with Hollywood glitz and glamour.”
“Well, they’d be wrong,” I said.
David slewed around in his chair and stared at me. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re a fan.”
“There isn’t a woman breathing who doesn’t think Montolbano is hot, hot, hot,” I said. Pizer gave a wild laugh.
“For an actor he’s also whip smart,” Pizer said. “It was genius to propose an arbitration before his guild tore itself apart.”
I stood and crossed to the stack of folders, laid my hand on top. “We got the Cliff Notes version of this. I’m assuming that witnesses have been approved and most depositions have been taken?”
“Yeah, we’re ready to rock and roll,” Pizer said.
“I don’t suppose you have copies of all this so we can read in our hotel rooms?” I asked.
“Of course I do. I’m Mr. Organization. Copies are already in each of your rooms and a second set in your offices. And no offense, but you look whipped.”
I forced a smile and counted to ten. Vampires are all about the courtesy except when they’re unbelievably rude, because humans just don’t rate.
“I am pretty tired.”
“Have the driver take you to the hotel,” David said. “I’ll stay here. The windows are UV-protected, and the blood is fresh.”
I gathered up my belongings and started for the door. “Hey,” Pizer said to David as I was leaving, “I didn’t know that place in Cabo was just a front for the mob. I’m making up for it this time. You’re staying at the Beverly fucking Hills Hotel. Just one of the premier hotels in LA. Why are you always such a—”
I shut the door behind me, cutting off the bickering, rolled my eyes, and headed for the elevators.
2
Kobe didn’t return to the freeway. Instead we drove up a curving, tree-shaded street lined with giant houses that ranged from mission style to bloated Tudors. The lawns were manicured swathes of green, and crews of gardeners wielded lawn mowers, leaf blowers, and clippers against various vegetation.
“This is Beverly Hills,” Kobe said from the front seat.
“Oh,” I said.
“Rodeo Drive is a couple of blocks east of your office.”
“Oh,” I said again, and wondered if every limo driver played tour guide? Of course this was the town where they sold maps to movie stars’ homes. Most people probably wanted to hear about these world-famous locations. I decided maybe I ought to offer more to the conversation, so I added, “That’s the big shopping area, right?”
“Oh, yeah. You can drop twenty grand fast on Rodeo Drive.”
“Guess I won’t be shopping there.”
Kobe laughed. “I hear you.”
I leaned forward a bit, and studied the passing houses. They seemed to alternate between multistoried French châteaux, and sprawling Spanish-style haciendas. “So this is where the movie stars live?”
“Some of them. A lot of them live in Bel Air and on Mount Olympus.”
“You’re kidding, right? That can’t really be the name of a subdivision.”
He laid a hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor. It’s a real place. We won’t be anywhere near Olympus, but we’ll be driving right past the entr
ance to Bel Air. You’ll see the guard gates.”
The town car made a turn onto Sunset Boulevard, and a few blocks later Kobe pointed out the entrance to Bel Air. There wasn’t much to see. Just a very steep driveway and a guardhouse manned by two men in private security uniforms. The houses were all screened by bushes and trees. A Jaguar was waiting while the guards inspected the driver’s license. I wondered if a Jag was too déclassé for Bel Air? The traffic was really moving on this wide boulevard, and with all the trees and grass I could forget I was in a giant city. Kobe made a turn toward the hills and we wound up a narrow road. A discreet sign indicated the Beverly Hills Hotel. We turned up the driveway and the hotel came into view.
It was very … pink. It had three Mission-style towers that marked the main building and the entrance. Kobe pulled up to the front entrance and hopped out to open my door. A cute, young, redheaded bellman hurried down the red-carpeted steps to gather up my luggage. Kobe also gave him David’s garment bag and told him it should be placed in Mr. Sullivan’s room. I tipped Kobe and thanked him for the tour, then followed the redhead into the lobby.
A sleek, dark-haired bellhop took David’s bag and disappeared out the back door. The redhead led me to the elevators. “My room isn’t near Mr. Sullivan?”
“No, he’s booked into a bungalow. You have a deluxe guest room. They’re still nice, just not as nice.”
“Okay.”
“So what brings you here? Audition?” he asked. The smile he gave me had enough teeth to qualify for a toothpaste commercial. As he held the door and allowed me to precede him into the elevator.
“I’m not an actress. I’m a lawyer.”
“No way. You’re way too pretty to be a lawyer.”
I knew it was absolutely insincere, that I looked like something the cat had dragged in, but it felt nice anyway. We went down a hall, and he opened the door for me. The room was very well appointed in tones of gold and cream. I was really glad they hadn’t continued with the pink theme. There was only so much pink I could stand. I tipped the redheaded schmooze king and studiously ignored the giant stack of folders on the desk. Instead I opened my suitcase and arranged my toiletries in the bathroom. I looked at the big tub and contemplated a long soak in hot water. I walked back into the main room and studied the bed. Next I looked at the files. Sleep? Bathe? Eat? Work? My stomach won out. It might be three o’clock in New York, but it was just past noon in LA. I could have lunch.
Grabbing a room service menu, I studied the options and decided on a fruit and yogurt salad. While I waited I unpacked and wondered why on earth I had brought so many clothes? Because you might be in LA for a number of weeks, if not months, was the answer. I tucked my English riding boots into the closet and decided I would call around for stables and tack shops tomorrow. I could always rent a slug at a riding stable, but if you have skills and training, there is always a rank horse that somebody will let you ride if you’re willing to be a crash dummy, or a horse who needs exercising because the owner has gotten pregnant or is too busy to ride. I had cadged rides my whole life, I figured it would be no different in California.
My salad arrived. It was good, but the price tag was rather staggering. I sat at the desk and wondered if the home office would get me an apartment? It would be less expensive than a hotel room, and in an apartment I could cook, which would reduce the chance of weight gain. Eating out all the time was hell on a body
I thought about working, but instead I turned on the flat-screen TV for company. As I was clicking through the channels I noticed that many of the broadcast channels had a breaking news bulletin. I finally found a local news channel, which was running multiple screens. On one screen there was a helicopter view of a deep blue Ferrari heading down one of the freeways followed by five police cruisers. Stuck behind the phalanx of cops was all the rest of the freeway traffic. Another screen showed a video from an amateur photographer standing on an overpass. Still another showed the newsroom with a pretty, blond female news anchor, her pretty male counterpart, and a former cop discussing the unfolding chase. It didn’t look like much of a chase, since, according to the commentary, the Ferrari was moving at a very discreet thirty miles an hour. I wondered if this was the source of the traffic jam from earlier in the day. If so the cops were certainly not in any hurry to resolve the situation.
“Do you think they’ll use spikes?” the male anchor asked.
“Those can be risky, and Kerrinan Ta Shena is famous,” the woman said.
And I had my explanation. Kerrinan was an Álfar heart throb. Had starred in a boatload of movies. I’d seen a number of them. He was also the primary spokesman for the Android smartphone.
“Not when you’re moving that slow, and no one is above the law,” said the ex-cop piously.
So what had happened that he was driving on a freeway with a phalanx of cops? I remembered his wife had died—no, been killed: it had been in the news a few weeks ago. But if they were talking road spikes to deflate the tires, it looked like the authorities had begun to suspect the spouse.
“I wonder why they don’t just move in,” the female anchor asked.
“Well, there’s a problem with that, Trina,” the male anchor said in a tone that made it sound like she was retarded. “The Álfar have this ability to move in and out of our reality. Makes it tough to make an arrest.”
“So why hasn’t he done it? Why hasn’t he left our world? Why spend hours in this glacial chase?”
“You’ll have to ask him that, Trina, once he’s apprehended.”
They were joined by a Hollywood reporter, and the group began to discuss Kerrinan’s films. He specialized in frothy romantic comedies where a human woman wins out over all the Álfar hotties for the heart of an elf lord. It had happened in real life too; Kerrinan had married a human actress, Michelle Balley. They had been Hollywood’s “it couple.” Until she fetched up dead.
There was something riveting about the chase, or maybe that was because I was so tired. I ate, watched the images on the tube, and listened to the never-ending babble. In an effort to fill the slowly passing minutes the reporters and experts in the studio, and their compatriots in the helicopter, in cars, and on bridges, rehashed the events that had led to this chase.
Three weeks ago Kerrinan had called the police to his Bel Air mansion. They found Michelle brutally murdered, and Kerrinan covered in blood and claiming no memory of the events. His defense attorneys claimed he’d gotten the blood on himself from holding his murdered wife, and that grief and shock had affected his memory. But forensics told a different story. DNA evidence proved that Kerrinan had wielded the knife that killed his wife. The police had been going to his house to arrest him when Kerrinan had fled into the garage, jumped in the Ferrari, and hit the highway. There was more speculation from the blow-dried news readers that the actor had been tipped off by a fan in the police department.
“Or maybe he just saw the flashing cherries and realized it wasn’t a parade,” the ex-cop said with a look of pity and contempt for the news anchors.
Forty minutes later I realized nothing had changed or was going to change. I reached for the remote to turn off the TV, when the male model newsreader suddenly shouted, “Whoa!” as the car shimmered, pulsed in and out of view as it phased in and out of our reality, and then vanished.
So, that’s what it looks like from outside, I thought, and remembered John’s and my mad flight from Virginia to New York City last summer as we were pursued by Securitech and killer werewolves. I also remembered how it ended: in the Álfar equivalent of the Dakota as John’s real mother had forced him to choose between me and my clients—a terrified mother and daughter—and his own freedom. Of course John had done the noble thing.
The male anchor was gabbling, almost hyperventilating. Even though he had corrected his female counterpart in a particularly snotty way, he had clearly never seen the effect and maybe didn’t believe the Álfar could actually do it.
And suddenly the incongruity of the w
hole thing struck me. As the retired cop had said, if Kerrinan had spotted the cops, why not just step out of his house and into the Fey? Why get into a car and spend hours in a slow-motion chase down the LA freeways when you had the power to be gone in an instant? It didn’t make any sense.
I waited a few more minutes, but the Ferrari didn’t reappear and the chatter became an endless loop. So Kerrinan had fled to the Fey. I wondered how the DA’s office in LA was going to cope with that? There were so many Álfar in Los Angeles, maybe California had some kind of extradition treaty with the Álfar? Maybe it would have application in New York? The federal kidnapping statutes should have applied to John. I’d raised that with the FBI, and then with a Department of Justice lawyer in the Manhattan office, who’d looked at me like I’d been on crack.
I decided I’d talk to the California DA. I turned off the television. Thinking about John and my, so far, ineffectual attempts to free him made me depressed. I realized I hadn’t called John’s parents in Philadelphia with an update in over a month. I had met Big Red, the retired policeman, and his wife Meg shortly after John had been trapped and told them exactly what had happened. I owed them that much. They were lovely people, neither college-educated nor wealthy, but good, solid middle-class Americans who had raised four human kids and one changeling, all of them growing up to serve their communities as a firefighter, a nurse, a fisherman, a Marine, and John, who had followed his father into the police force. I shouldn’t be dodging them just because I hadn’t made any progress on freeing their son. Who’s trapped because of you, whispered a nasty voice.
I tried to drown the depression with a hot bath. When that didn’t work I settled for a nap.
* * *
A shrilling ring brought me awake. It was dark in the room, and I fumbled for the phone, knocked it onto the floor, cursed, kicked away the covers, and finally ended up kneeling naked on the carpet pressing the receiver to my ear.
“What? Yes? Hello? Hello?”
Box Office Poison (Linnet Ellery) Page 2
