Exposure

by Alan Russell

  Jaeger started in a high quarte, his blade beating quarte against Meyer’s cuff, then with a quick turn of his wrist he shifted his Schläger to a high tierce. For an instant, his recovery seemed incomplete—and it was.

  His deceit was purposeful.

  The maneuver was called a Stirnzieher. His misdirection froze Meyer’s blade for the instant that was needed.

  There—there was the opening. For the audience, it happened too fast, but for Jaeger, there was all the time in the world. Meyer’s scalp was his. All Jaeger had to do was claim his prize. He reached out and cut, his blade a silver bolt of horizontal quarte that sliced his opponent’s forehead from one side to the other.

  Blood showered down Meyer’s face. His Paukbrille turned red. He started shrieking, bad etiquette for a Mensur where pain is supposed to be greeted with a stoic’s reception.

  There was enough blood for even the Butcher. Abfuhr was called.

  Later, his corps brothers, in a ceremony of pomp and circumstance, presented Jaeger with his case of Veuve Clicquot. He didn’t bother with a glass, just drank down two of the bottles in one sitting and got gloriously drunk, his immense pleasure counteracting the pain of blue balls. He had done it.

  Jaeger removed his pillow from his lap and put it on the seat next to him. A minute later the flight attendant came along and noticed the pillow.

  “May I take that?” Angelica asked.

  He nodded, and she reached over him, their skin almost touching. As she straightened with the pillow, he lifted his index finger as if reconsidering. “I’d like a rain check, though,” said Jaeger. “Can you return it to me a little bit later?”

  “When?”

  Jaeger looked at his watch, a platinum Patek Philippe wristwatch with a perpetual calendar and moon phase indicator worth fifty thousand dollars.

  “Say eight o’clock?”

  “You’ll need to readjust your watch. This flight lands at just past four Pacific standard time.”

  “I know. I already have my watch set to California time. But if you and that pillow aren’t busy later, I was hoping the two of you could join me at a restaurant of your choice.”

  Angelica smiled. “I am afraid this particular pillow will have to stay on board,” she said, “but I’m sure an appropriate substitution can be arranged.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  From his car, Graham spent the day working on the Lanie Byrne puzzle, starting with charting out a timeline for her. Her movements from the previous weekend, beginning on Friday the fifteenth, interested him most. Graham was sure something had happened then. That was the first of two weekends that Tina Wiggins and the other live-ins had been told to vacate the Grove for a few days and find other lodging. What happened the second weekend was obvious: Lanie tried to commit suicide and didn’t want any witnesses. It was possible the first weekend had been a trial run for her grand finale, but Graham didn’t think so. The pills had been prescribed just four days prior to Lanie’s suicide attempt. Something had happened to send her on a downward spiral.

  Graham used one hand to dial numbers and the other to turn pages. He leafed through magazines and papers and tabloids from the past two weeks—from Variety to the LA Times to Entertainment Weekly to the Globe—while making a string of calls, fishing the usual sources for gossip, and throwing out the bait of Lanie Byrne to see what was biting. Graham just finished talking with a “nail artist”—for some reason her industry clients always seemed to open up to her when she gave them pedicures—when a story in the Times headlined hollywood pockets deep for veep caught his attention. Director Carl Camden had hosted a very exclusive party at his Malibu estate to help raise money for Vice President Brett Tennesson’s run for the presidency.

  Lanie Byrne had been on a guest list that included Tom Hanks, Steven Spielberg, Cameron Diaz, Matt Damon, Kristen Wiig, and Barbra Streisand.

  The article said it was Tennesson’s third visit to California in the last two months. The gathering of stars netted the veep some serious change, putting almost two million dollars into his campaign coffers. It had been a very lucrative day for Tennesson. His stumping had started early with a 6:00 a.m. breakfast with Silicon Valley executives, followed by a meeting with the governor in Sacramento, a luncheon fund-raiser in San Francisco, a midday address on the campus of the University of California at San Diego, and finally the Malibu party. Tennesson had spent the night in California, staying at the Palms, an exclusive Malibu resort hotel.

  Hollywood, Graham knew, was always fund-raising for one thing or another. There seemed to be a strange symbiotic relationship between ranking politicos and stars, a basking in the mutual glow.

  The Camden fund-raiser had been held the Friday before last, on a night when Lanie Byrne had the Grove to herself. Though the media had not been invited to the fund-raiser, that didn’t mean the media was absent from it.

  Graham decided to call Libby Byrd. Some of the celebrity photographers in town specialized in a particular line of photos. Libby’s signature work usually involved getting a team into exclusive parties. Though Graham didn’t remember seeing any unsanctioned photos from the fund-raiser, he was sure it wasn’t for her want of trying.

  Libby picked up on the first ring. Her growl didn’t put Graham off. She smoked constantly, and her voice reflected it.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Libby.”

  She hacked up some phlegm without bothering to put a hand over the phone. “Join the crowd.”

  “I’m working on a Hollywood-Beltway assignment, and figured you for getting inside shots on the Camden fund-raiser for Tennesson, but everything I’ve seen from that party makes it look as if it was staged by Norman Rockwell.”

  “That’s because there was only one official photographer working the party, a stiff who should go apply for a job at the coroner’s office because he shouldn’t be shooting the living.”

  “Where were your people?”

  “Getting all but cavity searched.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I wish I were. I had the staff lined up in place weeks before the party. That was necessary because the Secret Service was doing background checks on everyone working it. I guess they didn’t want another presidential hopeful like Bobby Kennedy dying in LA. I got commitments from three of the banquet staff to do some undercover photography. Because they were rookies, I spent half a day setting them up with mini-cameras in their cummerbunds.

  “Since I knew security would be tight, I figured the staff might have to go through metal detectors, so I took my three to LAX and had them stroll through the detectors with their camera cummerbunds. Not a peep out of those machines.

  “Everything should have gone like clockwork at the party. The Feds had the metal detectors just like I figured, but the problem is they brought in this new gizmo—our fucking tax dollars at work—a laser designed to pinpoint any kind of optical sight. The first of my would-be photographers walked through the detector, and suddenly these Buck Rogers lights go off, and these Secret Service goons charge at him. My guy was a little jumpy to begin with, and Tennesson’s hired muscle pushed him over the edge. As they’re jumping him, he’s so scared he wets his pants, and that causes a short in the camera’s wiring. The Feds act like some kind of goon squad. They push him down on the ground like he’s an assassin, and then they start ripping off his cummerbund, and all the while this poor kid’s got volts running up his nuts and pee running down his leg.

  “My other two plants see what’s happening, and they’re smart enough to lose their hidden cameras. So I’m out over three grand in expenses, and that’s even before Mr. I-Need-Depends tries to hit me up for another grand because of what he describes as his ‘disfigured scrotum.’

  “‘Disfigured scrotum?’ I say to him. ‘It can’t be too disfigured if you’ve got the balls to try to scam me.’ So he goes teary on me and I end up throwin
g him a couple bills for missing out on working that night and for his getting canned from the service that throws him the banquet work. The man definitely can’t hold his water on either end.”

  Libby stopped her story long enough to cough again.

  “A camera-sniffing laser,” Graham said. “When I hear about people bringing in equipment like that, it makes me wonder what they’re trying to hide.”

  “Maybe they should have been hiding the artichokes Benedict. I hear the hollandaise sauce had a canary-yellow glow.”

  “The first rule of politics,” said Graham, “is to line up any photo ops. You wouldn’t think Tennesson would care if anyone snuck in a camera.”

  “Is that what you’re really calling about?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Wells. You’re not doing any Hollywood-Beltway assignment.”

  Graham’s silence was answer enough.

  “Care to ask me what’s really of interest to you?”

  “I want to know what happened at that party, Libby. It might not have anything to do with what I’m working on, but then again, it might. I’d like to talk with your two insiders and ask them some questions.”

  Graham listened to Libby’s hacking. When she regained her breath, she gave him two names and telephone numbers, then said, “Welcome back, Wells.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It sounds like you’ve got some fire in your belly again. It’s been absent for a long time.”

  “I wish I could say it was good to be back, Libby.”

  The first telephone number Graham called was disconnected, and there was no forwarding number. LA, thought Graham, the world’s capital of disconnected numbers. He managed to reach his target at the second phone number, but it took Graham several minutes of fast-talking before C. C. Crane decided she would answer any of his questions.

  C. C. had a high-pitched, breathless voice, a patois of Valley girl, mall doll, and some art courses at a community college.

  “I don’t know why I ever even agreed to try to take those pictures,” she said. “It was like that lady cast a spell on me. Something about her frog voice made it impossible for me to say no. But even if that poor guy in front of me hadn’t been busted, I doubt whether I would have been able to take any pictures. It was hard enough just delivering plates to those people. It felt like I was in one of those mind-blowing museums where everywhere you turn there’s a Monet, or Picasso, or Degas, or Van Gogh, but instead of paintings there were all these name-brand kind of people. I had to pinch myself to keep from stopping and staring.”

  Graham didn’t interrupt C. C. much, just let her ramble on with her memories of the night. It was clear she had told her stories to a host of people; it was also clear she enjoyed repeating them.

  Unsolicited, she mentioned the name of Lanie Byrne. “Miss L was like this princess or this angel,” C. C. said. “She had on a beautiful silk designer dress, and had this strand of gorgeous white pearls. She was probably the quietest person there, but her eyes were glowing, and she had this serene smile that was happy and content, sort of Buddha-like.”

  Graham questioned C. C. about the arrival and departure times of some of the guests. It wasn’t a carpooling kind of crowd. As far as C. C. remembered, all the guests arrived separately, and all came in limos. Tennesson and his Secret Service contingent left right after Streisand sang “America the Beautiful” just before midnight. The rest of the guests soon followed his departure.

  C. C. rather abruptly decided it was time to depart as well; she was late for an appointment.

  Graham mulled over their conversation, and then dialed Celestial Motors. He told their operator, “I need to talk to someone about a car we rented.”

  “One moment,” she said. After the operator put him on hold, Graham regretted his not dropping Lanie Byrne’s name, an omission that resulted in his getting a long earful of elevator music.

  Celestial Motors sold, leased, and rented the best driving machines the world had to offer, both contemporary and vintage. It had picked the right town to set up shop. “Keeping up appearances” was one of the oldest and greatest of Hollywood games. It didn’t matter if you didn’t have a pot to piss in—you still needed to show up in style. One director had managed to convince most people in town that his car collection was the Eighth Wonder of the World, when in fact most of the vehicles he was seen driving were rentals from Celestial Motors.

  “This is Bernadette, may I help you?”

  “Yes, this is William Foley,” said Graham. “I work for Lanie Byrne.” He paused to let that sink in, as did most underlings who wielded power through the boss’s name. “We recently rented a Jaguar from your establishment. I’m calling to check on extending that rental.”

  “Let me pull that up on my computer,” Bernadette said. “Do you have the invoice number?”

  “I’m afraid my paperwork is incomplete. I do have the car’s license number, however.”

  “May I have it please?”

  Graham recited the plate number he had memorized and heard Bernadette tap in the entry. “According to our records, Mr. Foley, there is no specified return date for the rental.”

  “That’s what I’m calling about. We’re currently being charged a daily rate for the rental, aren’t we?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And we’ve had the car now for what, two weeks?”

  “Since Wednesday the thirteenth.”

  He jotted down the date, the information he had wanted, while keeping up his end of the conversation. “Well, is there any way we could prorate the original agreement and get the monthly rental rate?”

  “I’m afraid not. The Jaguar was supposed to be returned on Monday the eighteenth. We called on Tuesday the nineteenth and were told by a Vera Grady—she signed for the vehicle—that the car would be needed for at least another week. However, if you have some firm dates at this time, and would like to switch over to a monthly rental—”

  “Let me get back to you on that,” said Graham.

  It was one of those little things that had nagged at him. In a garage full of cars, that one rental had stood out. It was the only car with the keyless remote in it, the car that Graham and Lanie had raced death in. But why had Lanie rented the Jaguar when she had her own personal fleet of cars?

  There might be some simple explanation. She could have rented it for a relative or a friend. Or she could have rented the tinted window luxury car to allow her some anonymity. Her other vehicles could easily be identified with her; in the Jaguar she could go incognito.

  Graham wondered if there was some reason the car hadn’t yet been returned. Maybe when you’re contemplating suicide, that’s not one of the things you think about.

  Or maybe that’s exactly what you think about.

  Graham dialed Tina Wiggins’s number. Without identifying himself, he said, “We need to meet tonight.”

  “I’ve been trying to call you,” she said. “Don’t you even have a message machine?”

  “Yes. It’s packed in my bag. Is seven good for you?”

  “I was just leaving to work out with my girlfriend.”

  “Tell her your uncle is taking you to dinner at the Palms.”

  Surprised: “The hotel?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Which restaurant? They have two.”

  “We’ll meet in the lobby. I’ll let you choose.”

  “In that case, my sweat can wait until tomorrow.”

  Tina chose Crystal, the hotel’s “fusion” restaurant. The menu selections claimed to combine cooking elements of East and West. Graham looked at the prices and thought the chef should have called the result nuclear fusion.

  The interior designer apparently thought the ocean view wasn’t enough. The restaurant lived up to its name, with stra
tegically placed crystals reflecting colorful prisms of light around the restaurant, the rainbow will-o’-the-wisps magically appearing and disappearing.

  Tina had forsworn her sweats for a short and sheer black dress. She was unabashedly freckled, her exposed arms and legs putting her pointillism on display. Her brown hair was dyed dark red, setting off her pale skin. While Tina gushed over items on the menu, Graham tried to find something familiar. The closest thing to a shrimp cocktail appetizer was shrimp in a papaya/lime sauce with macadamia nut shavings. He ordered it with trepidation. Animal-thin Tina decided to start with soup, salad, and an appetizer. She was apparently like one of those animals who could eat most of her body weight given an opportunity.

  It didn’t take Tina long to devour the soup and salad. Her appetizer, wontons with an apricot glaze stuffed with crab and lobster, apparently agreed with her. She was all but doing a When Harry Met Sally number over it.

  Graham eased into his questioning. “So how’s life at the Grove?”

  “It’s been crazy. Lanie came down with the flu, and it’s like they’ve opened up a hospital wing at the house.”

  Graham didn’t see any need to tell her anything differently. It’s a good cover story when even the staff believes it.

  “So,” said Tina, “was my lead a good one? Did you get some pictures?”

  “I got some pictures,” Graham said. “But Lanie wasn’t entertaining anyone last Friday. She was by herself.”

  He changed the subject, honing in on a request he’d made of her when they had talked on the phone earlier. “Did you get a chance to talk with Vera?”

  Tina nodded, swallowing a bite of the pot sticker. “Lanie told her she was thinking of buying a Jag and wanted to test one out. She gave Vera a company credit card to rent it, and told her to make sure it had tinted windows for privacy.”

  “Did Lanie have any other requests?”

  Tina shook her head, and then reconsidered. “Vera said she had to wait an extra fifteen minutes for them to get a second remote.”