“Won’t they see the cables in the photos?” Black asked Jeanie.
“They’ll remove them in touch up. Photoshop. Makes it all much easier these days.”
“Ah.”
“Same for bags, wrinkles, augmenting cleavage, adding contour…”
“Who knew?”
Aston directed the scene with the confidence of a master, moving among the gamblers to get the shots he wanted. This was the demons round, the girls wearing horns, their makeup accentuated, and Black mused that maybe hell wasn’t such a bad place to be, if there was any accuracy at all to the depiction. He watched for a few minutes and sidled up to Demille, who didn’t seem to register his presence until he was alongside.
Demille turned his head toward Black. “So, Mr. Black. We meet again.”
“Yes. Daniel asked me to stop by.”
“I know. I’ve been instructed to submit to your interrogation.”
“I’m not sure I’d call it that. Friendly questions, nothing more.”
“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to ask some questions.”
“You’ll find I’m nothing if not persistent.”
“I’ll grant you that. Let’s get together after the shoot. We should be done by 9:00.”
“Plan on it.”
Trish approached them and Black sensed Demille’s body stiffen. Black didn’t know why there might be friction there, but it was unmistakable. She stood next to Demille to watch the shoot, and seemed to be working up the courage to say something to him.
Gasps suddenly arose from the crowd as a snarling figure barreled at Demille. Two of the police rushed to retrain the assailant as a security guard moved to stop him.
The man was yelling almost incoherently. “You miserable bastard. You think you’re so much better than–”
His diatribe was cut off as the guard got his arm around his neck and choked him. Black stepped back as the assailant swung at Demille, who dodged most of the blow. Black heard the sound of skin striking skin, and recognized the attacker even as the first cop reached them and brought his billy club down on Zane’s shoulder. Zane fell forward, a dazed expression on his face, and Black smelled the sour stench of hard liquor as Zane clutched at him for support.
“Zane! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Demille exclaimed, holding his jaw, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
Zane glared hate at Trish with bloodshot eyes as she backed away, and returned his focus to Demille.
“You miserable piece of shit. You ruined my life. I’ll kill–”
The second cop had arrived, and cut Zane’s threat off with a burst from his Taser. Zane’s legs buckled beneath him, and he fell to the floor quivering as the voltage short-circuited his nervous system. Everything around them had stopped, and for a moment that lasted a year Black saw the tuxedoed faux gamblers frozen in a montage of slicked-back hair and perfect jawlines, the female demons suspended overhead with shocked looks on their faces, 50 Cent blaring from the speakers as the bystanders watched in horrified fascination.
And then everything seemed to accelerate to real time again. The other two police officers arrived, cuffed Zane, hauled him to his feet, and dragged him to the exit and the waiting squad cars. Jeanie rushed to Demille with a tissue in hand and dabbed at his lip. He pushed her away gently, and after probing his jaw for tenderness, shook his head.
“Do me a favor and get some ice for the swelling. It’s not bad. He mostly missed me,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Just get it. Let’s not make this a big deal. It’s over. And we have a shoot to finish.” Demille clapped, summoning his group’s attention. “Everyone. Don’t worry. It’s nothing. A drunk. I’m fine. Carry on. We’ve still got two more groups to go before we’re done.”
Aston gave him a long look, and then nodded and called out to the assembly. “Come on, everybody, focus. Time’s wasting. Let’s do this!”
The DJ cranked the music again and Aston went back to work, the incident seemingly forgotten as the overhead slings moved the models over different sections of the playing tables in response to Aston’s instructions.
Jeanie returned with a plastic bag holding some ice, and Demille held it to his cheek, watching the shoot.
“That wasn’t just any drunk. That was Zane,” Black said softly.
“As far as I’m concerned, it was just any drunk. He’s nobody. An angry kid who can’t hold his liquor.”
“I wonder what he was doing here?”
“It’s a free country. He probably heard from one of his old modeling buds that there was a shoot. Got wasted, as usual, and decided to set me straight. He’s got a real problem with alcohol and drugs. As you saw firsthand. Maybe a few nights in jail will straighten him out. It’s not my problem anymore.”
“I’d say it’s safe to say he blames you for his problems.”
“Drunks and addicts always blame someone other than themselves. They’re always victims.”
The first inning of the shoot drew to a close as Hailey and the other two models were lowered from their lofty positions nearly three stories above the casino floor, and everyone took a breather as the next group got into position. Aston called a five-minute break, and Demille excused himself to go check on his condition in the men’s room. The ice had arrested the swelling, as far as Black could see, and Demille wouldn’t suffer any ill effects – Black had been hit more solidly by angry girlfriends.
Black got another cup of steaming coffee from the breakfast bar near the exit and watched the spectators ebb and flow as their early morning interest waned and they moved off to other pursuits. Demille emerged from the bathroom and moved to rejoin him, but paused when he saw an unexpected familiar face – Gabriel Costa, outside the glass doors, talking to Hailey and Trish. Black tried to think of any good reason Costa might have for being at an out-of-town, exclusively Demille shoot, and nothing came to mind. Except…
“What the hell?” Demille exclaimed as he stormed through the exit, and Black realized that Costa hadn’t been invited. A new set of models entered and proceeded to the cables as the DJ began playing some old school Snoop Dog and Dr. Dre, and Demille elbowed through the doors to confront Costa.
“What are you doing on my shoot?” Demille shouted, obviously furious, Black could tell, even from his vantage point inside.
“Tom. Please. Let’s not create a scene,” Gabriel said, his voice calm.
“Too late. Start talking.”
“Mr. Demille, Gabriel’s here because we asked him to come,” Trish began, her voice steady. “We’ve been meaning to talk to you, but you’re always so busy…”
“Talk to me about what?” Demille spat.
“Hailey and I have discussed things, and we’re not comfortable re-signing with the Demille agency now that it’s going to be sold to DNA. We’ve decided to go with Gabriel’s firm after her contract runs out…after the next shoot in Tahoe. I’m sorry. I really am,” Trish announced.
Demille was seething. “What? How dare you. I discovered Hailey. I’ve invested a fortune in making her a star.”
“Which we appreciate, and you’ve certainly done well representing her. But things have changed, and we’re not comfortable with a large outfit like DNA. It’s nothing personal…”
Demille was glaring at Gabriel. “Gabriel. How could you? Poaching my talent at my shoot. Does it get any lower?”
Gabriel shrugged. “It’s just business, Tom. I was going to touch base with you to talk it over. But then Trish called and suggested I come out and finalize everything–”
A scream and a crash interrupted the tussle. Black spun to where the crew and spectators were frozen, staring in shock at one of the models sprawled on the top of a roulette table, twitching. Aston and two of his helpers rushed to her, and then the photographer glanced around with a wild look and called to Jeanie.
“Get an ambulance. Now.”
Jeanie came running over, horror written across her face. “Oh, my God
. What happened?”
“The harness must have broken. She dropped two stories. Get help,” Aston’s assistant said.
Jeanie hurried to the police, and one of the officers called it in as the others tried to establish order. Black saw a spreading pool of blood on the green felt table top, and realized that the model must have been partially impaled on the roulette wheel, in addition to whatever damage she’d sustained from the fall. Her beautiful face was white from shock, her angel wings crushed beneath her. Black turned away. He couldn’t look. He’d seen enough injuries to know that this was a bad one.
Demille burst through the exit doors, an expression of incomprehension slowly transitioning to panic, and then another model screamed at the technicians manning the winches.
“Get me down. Get me down!”
Aston barked orders and technicians scrambled to comply. The girls were lowered, the shoot obviously over as everyone tried to give the police a wide berth. Sirens howled from the street outside, and Black scanned the men and women in the vicinity, looking for anyone out of place. Because even as more security personnel trotted over, he knew in his gut that the model’s fall was no accident, and that whatever twisted bastard had targeted Demille’s talent had struck again.
Chapter 17
The detective heading up the investigation methodically interviewed everyone who’d been present at the shoot, asking a standard list of questions as the crew and models waited their turn. Black recognized him – Martin Grimm, ex-LAPD, a colleague of Stan’s who’d moved to the high desert two years earlier for better pay and less stress than Los Angeles afforded. Black called Stan on his cell, catching him at home, and explained what had happened and what he needed. Stan agreed to do his best to help before he hung up, not particularly chatty first thing in the morning.
An hour later it was Black’s turn to meet with Grimm, who had the sad look of a bloodhound and the yellowish complexion of a hard drinker. Grimm nodded to Black and invited him to join him at the breakfast bar as he refilled his coffee.
“Hey, Black. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yeah. How’s desert living treating you?”
“Like shit. Crime’s skyrocketed since I got here, and the captain thinks it’s directly related to my coming aboard.”
“But other than that? Gets pretty hot during the summer, doesn’t it?”
“It’s a dry heat,” Grimm said, his tone bitter at some inside joke he didn’t find funny.
“How’s the girl?” Black asked.
“In real trouble. Ton of internal injuries and bleeding. She’s in the OR right now. Might not make it. And even if she does, sounds like she’ll be paralyzed. Admissions gave us a synopsis, and it’s ugly.”
“This was no accident,” Black said flatly.
“I know.” Grimm looked around as he sipped from his steaming cup. “You never heard this from me, but it looks like somebody sabotaged the girl’s harness.”
“How?”
“Cut the screws that hold the eyelet that the cables connect to. Left only one intact, or I should say relatively intact, and glued the screw heads back into the other three holes so it would look untouched.”
“So no question about premeditation.”
“Zero. Forensics is looking at the final screw to see if it was deliberately weakened. My guess is yes.”
“That explains why the tech didn’t catch it. I watched him hook everyone up and give each cable a firm tug.”
“Which wouldn’t have been enough to break it. But once they were suspended and moving, it was just a matter of time.”
“You better seal off the wardrobe trailer. That has to be where the harness was sabotaged.”
“I already have, and that’s part of my questioning. I’m focusing on who could have had access yesterday or last night.”
“How long would it have taken to do that?”
“Only a few minutes if you came prepared. A screwdriver, bolt cutters, super glue. Maybe a Dremel or a file to weaken the final screw. Probably not all that long.” Grimm shook his head. “Stan called and said you’re investigating some other related events?”
Black told him about the acid and the suspicious deaths. When he finished, Grimm stared at the waiting group. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full with this, buddy. It’s definitely attempted murder. With a high degree of likelihood to be murder one if they lose her on the table. You got any hot tips for me on who could be behind it?”
“There was an arrest here this morning, at around six. Zane Bradley. I’d take a hard look at where he was yesterday. He assaulted Demille, the modeling agency owner, right in front of me. Out of his mind on something stronger than beer, and he’s got a grudge against not only Demille, but some of the models – he looked like he wanted to kill one of the stage moms. And that guy, over there, in the white slacks and silk shirt? His name’s Gabriel Costa. A competitor of Demille’s who’s been stealing his talent for his own agency. I’d focus on when he got to Vegas. He was in L.A. as of two o’clock yesterday. Oh, and talk to Jeanie, the event coordinator. She can fill you in on who had access to the wardrobe area, who’s got keys, and so on.” Black hesitated. “I also haven’t written off Demille yet. If I were you I’d give him the third degree. And Jeanie, too. She had access, if no obvious motive.”
Grimm nodded. “You know, if they’d positioned the trailers facing the opposite direction, the wardrobe entrance would have been on the exterior security cameras. But as it is, no love there.”
“That’s a crappy break.”
“Tell me about it. So far a bad morning.” Grimm studied Black’s rumpled suit. “How’s the PI thing working out?”
“You’re looking at it. When there’s work, it’s not a bad gig. But the job isn’t steady, so it’s tough a lot of the time.”
“Everything’s tough a lot of the time. All right. Let’s head back and get your statement on record so you can get out of here.”
“Thanks for filling me in. I owe you.”
“No problem. But you never heard any of it from me,” Grimm reminded.
“Any of what?”
Black was finished with the interrogation in another five minutes, and spotted Demille talking to Jeanie outside as he moved away from the holding area. Black walked toward them and took up a position nearby, waiting for them to finish. Demille said something to her and she nodded, then brushed past Black on her way into the casino.
Demille’s face was slightly swollen, and part of Black hoped it was painful. He didn’t like the man’s arrogance or dismissiveness, and he was convinced Demille wasn’t on the level. He wasn’t sure about what, but he believed himself to be a good judge of character, and Demille just struck him as…wrong.
“Mr. Black. There you are. I hope you don’t take this personally, but with everything that’s gone on, today’s a lousy day for your questions.”
“Seems like no time is the right time.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I think having one of your models almost killed right in front of you qualifies as a pretty good excuse for not being up to it.”
“Mr. Demille. You’ve been stonewalling me for a while. Now’s the only time we have. I don’t mean to be difficult, but I need some answers. So get used to the idea that you’re going to have to talk to me. Or do you want me to call Daniel?”
Demille grunted. “Fine. What are your questions? Let’s get this over with.”
“Let’s start with New York. What was your relationship with Daria?”
“My relationship? She was one of my models.”
“Was she anything more?”
Demille’s eyes narrowed. “Why would it be any of your business if she was?”
“Put simply, were you sleeping with her?”
“Next question.”
“The way this works is I ask, then you answer. We don’t skip the ones you don’t like.”
“Mr. Black, I’m trying to be civil, but nothing gives you the authority to interrogate me about m
y personal life. Not your mistaken sense of duty, not Daniel buying my company…nothing. My private life is my private life. Understood?”
“I need to know everything I can if I’m going to have a clear picture.”
“Then invent whatever scenario in your head you think fits. That I was sleeping with Daria, or not. It’s of no concern to me.”
“Anything you say will remain confidential,” Black promised him.
“Sure it will. Next question?”
“The model who got the acid. What was your relationship with her?”
“Same answer. None of your business.”
“I think it is.”
“Now we’re back to where you can think whatever you want.”
“And Clarissa?”
“Do you have any questions that are actually relevant to the merger or the attacks? I thought Daniel hired you to keep the talent safe and prevent any more disasters. How are you doing so far?”
Black tried to resist rising to the bait, but couldn’t help himself. “I’ve been observing your company for, what, a week? Tell me – how much consulting did you do with me before scheduling this shoot? What professional security systems did you put in place? What precautions were there to protect the talent, or anyone, for that matter? Elmer Fudd with a baton inside? I’ll ask you, as the man at the helm of your company, what precisely have you done to prevent anything but me getting straight answers to my questions?”
Demille studied him as if he was an errant child, then shook his head. “I don’t see this as being helpful.”
“Mr. Demille, you aren’t being asked what you think about it. You aren’t being asked anything but questions that I, as the only security professional working with your group, have deemed important, which you’ve dodged and stonewalled. You’re losing models faster than I change socks, yet you’re acting as though your approval is required for anything I do or say. Here’s a newsflash. I work for DNA. They pay me to give them my input. Right now my take is that you’re about as uncooperative as imaginable, and that if I were doing this deal, I’d walk away. In fact, that’s what I’m going to tell Daniel as soon as we’re done.”
BLACK Is the New Black Page 16
