Blackbird: A Zeke Blackbird Legal Thriller (Book 1)

by A. J. Gentile

  Blackbird

  A Zeke Blackbird Legal Thriller (Book 1)

  A.J. Gentile

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 A.J. Gentile

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any matter whatsoever without express written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Front cover design by Eye Creation.

  Front cover photograph by K O Moore/Shutterstock. Purchased under enhanced license.

  www.ajgentilebooks.com

  To Bella.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Notes

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  February 5th, 11:30pm

  I'd rather be a failed actress than a strung out meal ticket, Francesca thought to herself. When Victor wasn't harassing her about starring in his next movie, he was trying to force his way into her pants.

  "C'mon, Franny. I've been more than accommodating of your . . . habits," Victor said.

  She had bottled up her anxiety for so long that even her therapist—who was also on Victor's payroll—was pleading with her to work for a different film studio.

  "Get your rocks off somewhere else," Francesca snapped at him.

  Everyone at the party stared. That was a mistake, Francesca thought. She was already covered in champagne and red wine, courtesy of the absentminded waitstaff Victor hired. I'll probably be in the tabloids tomorrow. She figured at least one of Victor's party guests would send an anonymous note to the gossip sites. TMZ will run the headline, "America's Sweetheart Gets Tipsy and Bites the Hand that Feeds," above a photo of her, covered in wine yelling at Victor. From there, she imagined pop culture news outlets all over the country running their own stories. It would add another bit of tarnish to her reputation as 'Francesca Cahill, America's perfect starlet.' She thought of Donnie, who must be in the running for Hollywoods's sleaziest talent agent, sending her a nasty email on how she's taking food out of his kids' mouths. Another disappointment. Great.

  "Please excuse me," she said to prying eyes as she walked upstairs. Tonight had been an all-around disaster, she thought.

  Cahill entered a private room on the second floor and closed the door behind her. She was struck by Victor's personal shrine to himself. Mettalic-gold light reflected off tens of film and entertainment awards organized neatly behind glass cabinets. The brightness killed her buzz and made her feel like she was on the surface of the sun.

  She thumbed around for the room's dimmer switch, reached into her pocket, and pulled out the plastic bag she had purchased earlier. On credit, her dealer insisted, knowing she was deeply indebted to Victor. A slow but confident knock rapped on the room's only door as she inhaled the bag's contents.

  "In a minute," she said, certain that some indie film financier wanted to chat her ear off. She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Los Angeles at night could almost pass as beautiful, she thought to herself. From Victor's million-dollar perch in the Hollywood Hills, she could see clear across the city. She dragged her eyes through Downtown, Echo Park, Pico-Union, Koreatown, Crenshaw, Culver City, Santa Monica, Century City, and Beverly Hills. Thousands of cars moved through the city's major traffic arteries like shiny worker ants.

  She remembered being a worker ant. She recalled living in a makeshift studio apartment in someone's garage in Burbank, living off ramen packets and pizza. For a time she worked as a waitress at a struggling Armenian restaurant in Glendale. Her friends, another aspiring actress and a standup comedian, would come in on their days off to keep her company.

  To break into acting, she vlogged her life nearly 24/7 and posted on YouTube daily. She survived off a steady stream of 'Thrift With Me,' 'A Day in the Life,' and 'Real Talk: Confessions' videos that her small group of followers requested. Luckily, a talent agent saw a few of her videos and agreed to take her as a client.

  The knocking grew louder, more insistent.

  "Occupied," she said, "this isn't even a bathroom!" Life became easier and harder after she landed her first big role. The casting director's gaze made her uncomfortable, but she passed it off as him being passionate about his work. After she got her first paycheck, Francesca was able to move to a high-rise in Marina Del Rey, and even paid for her friends to move with her.

  At first, they were over the moon. Over time, though, she could sense their envy. From there it was a string of sequels and indies shot overseas, back-to-back, surrounded by her self-titled 'manager' mother and money-hungry agent looking for his next payday. Film producers were knocking down her door just to hand her their latest script. Victor was simply the most insistent.

  A Victor Mikulski production is a months-long party, she thought to herself, smiling. He showered the talent with food, drinks, and whatever else you wished to indulge. Francesca hadn't been around any of that stuff growing up, coming from Texas, so she thought she could dip her toe in the water without risk. Big mistake. Now here she was, hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt to Victor, everyone around her looking for even more money, and she just wished to go back to Texas, where life was a little simpler.

  The knocking turned into a pounding.

  "I'm coming," she said. Francesca opened the door in a rage. She recognized him immediately. "What the hell do you want?" she said, sensing something was off.

  "The current situation . . . is unacceptable," the man said as he stepped inside and closed the door.

  "Leave me alone! Doesn't anyone know how to quit anymore?" Francesca replied.

  "You've been ignoring me. I get it, you're busy. But if you just took as second—"

  "I'm not interested. Frankly, I don't know what I've ever done to make you think otherwise," she answered.

  "I'm not leaving until you agree to take things with us to the next level."

  "There's nothing to take to another level. I told you to back off. I'm not interested. I will never be interested. We have a strictly professional relationship."

  "That simply won't do," he said. "I can't live with that."

  "Well that’s my final answer—”

  He slashed at Francesca with a knife he had been hiding in his jeans.

  "What the fuck . . . what are you doing?" The pain was dizzying.

  "If I can't have you, then no one can," the man said, plunging his knife into her twice more. She screamed, but Victor's trophy room had been insulated from outside sound, her voice was absorbed into the wall.

  "Goodnight, darling," he said, panting from rage.

  Francesca held her hands against her wounds and curled into a ball. He quietly exited the room and closed the door behind him.

  She stayed silent on the floor for a few minutes, hoping her injuries would heal themselves if she laid still long enough. She could feel herself getting light-headed, but wasn't sure if it was from shock or the drugs. She reached around for her cellphone, but it wasn't in her purse. Pinching her skin together with her hands, she got up and walked out of the room.

  The party was still going, unaware of the horror show taking place upstairs.

  "Help!" she
screamed.

  A few people turned their heads, then she heard someone gasp, and a few more heads turned. She struggled down the stairs, her legs and hands beginning to feel numb. She walked past the partygoers, more than a few taking photos and video as she limped down.

  "What the hell are you doing!" she cried, "someone call 9-1-1!"

  Her eyes began darting around the house looking for anyone she knew: assistant, agent, him.

  "Where the hell is everyone?" she yelled.

  She opened the door to the backyard. Guests mingled along the edge of Victor's infinity pool, seated on the side of a steep cliff overlooking the city. Men in designer suits and women wearing million-dollar jewelry turned to look at her: a limping, bleeding mess.

  "Help me, please!" she begged.

  But as soon as the words left her mouth, she was starting to feel better. Her pain melted into a warm, fuzzy feeling. She started looking for somewhere to lay down, feeling instantly exhausted from the night’s events. She laid back and was immediately enveloped in a warm blanket, the sound of the party slowly drowning out. She wondered what tomorrow's headlines would say about her and if life in Texas would go on as usual. Everything faded to black.

  February 6th, 1:55am

  "Hello?" Zeke mumbled into his phone, wondering who could be calling so late.

  "Hi. I'm calling for Ezekiel Blackbird. My name is Alejandro Garcia. I'm in trouble, and I found your website online, so I called."

  First client? Zeke thought to himself. He had worked on a few small things since opening his own firm. Mostly small claims cases and wills for his parents and sister. This could be his first, honest-to-goodness client.

  "Great! Let me take down your information, and I'll call you back in the morning—"

  "No, you don't get it. I need your help now. Cops are asking me questions and stuff, they told me to stay right where I am."

  "Ah, I see. Don't say a word. Text me the address." Zeke hung up and looked up Alex's location. Nice neighborhood, he thought. He had taken his girlfriend's toy poodle to a dog park up in Hollywoodland a few months ago. It was ritzy. "See you soon," Zeke texted back.

  This must be what it feels like to be a real lawyer, Zeke thought to himself. Achy and bleary eyed, Zeke propped himself up and turned on his bedside lamp. After brushing his teeth and trimming up the edges of his beard, he pulled on jeans, a white dress shirt, knitted red tie, and a dark grey sport coat. Zeke's supervisors had groaned about his casual business attire throughout his many part-time jobs in law school. But at 29, he was intransigent—and like most other millennials—he had problems with authority figures.

  He walked into the living room. The door to Matty's room was open; he was probably working the late shift. Zeke and Matthias "Matty" Fox were friends from USC, where they met as roommates freshman year. After they graduated from undergrad three years ago, Matty had worked a series of dead-end bar-back jobs. Zeke offered to hire him on to help with the office work, and Matty agreed, but also kept his hours at the bar because business had been nonexistent.

  Zeke walked out of his Atwater Village apartment. Employees at the garment manufacturer across the street—Matty called it their neighborhood sweatshop—were just beginning to arrive for work. Patrons were smoking outside of a nearby billiards bar. He climbed into his navy blue '93 Volvo 240, which had just turned the corner from being lame to retro chic. Emissions be damned, Zeke thought to himself. As he switched on the ignition, Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls" blared from the stereo. He immediately turned it down, not wanting his neighbors to know the depths of his depravity, and started off towards Hollywood.

  What am I doing? Zeke thought about how excited he was when, a few months ago, he opened his own law practice. But business wasn't good. He was eager to join the ranks of white shoe law firms working for huge corporate clients. He wanted glass-walled conference rooms, free meals, an office gym, and complimentary coffee. The thing he wanted most, though, was his name on the side of the building. That was a non-starter when he was applying for jobs, of course, so he did the only reasonable thing he could think of: hang out his own shingle. Zeke was in good company, though. Los Angeles is a city of hustlers. Everyone is building their own brand. Coffee shops are packed with starving screenwriters. Tourist attractions are jammed full with YouTubers filming their daily vlogs. In Los Angeles, if you don't work on your own dream, you work on someone else's.

  As Zeke drove down the 110, he thought about how Los Angeles was divided by its highways and each district has different culture. Gridlock traffic often made it so you could only travel between two or three of these miniature city-states in a single a day. But midnight to three o'clock in the morning was about the only time there wasn't congestion. And without it, the city shrank.

  Zeke was exiting the 101 within ten minutes, unthinkable at any other time. He sped up Beachwood Drive. The houses grew larger and more grandiose the further he climbed up into the canyon. The road becomes a series of switchbacks. Single-level ramblers gave way to multilevel mansions, complete with spires, Spanish archways, and perfectly manicured shrubbery. Just about the only people that could afford to live here, Zeke figured, were movie stars and the people that employed them.

  Towards the top of canyon, Zeke turned off Ledgewood onto Mulholland. Police black and whites lined the narrow street. A few officers were tying off a roll of caution tape across the driveway. On the street was a crowd of at least two hundred people: houseguests, neighbors, onlookers, paparazzi, and a few local news correspondents. Woah. Zeke figured the late-night call meant he would be handling someone's DUI defense. This was an active scene.

  He walked under the caution tape toward what looked like an officer questioning a few partygoers.

  "Hello!" he said. His voice became cheerful when he was nervous. "I'm Ezekiel Blackbird, attorney for Mr. Alex Garcia. May I have a word?”

  "No lawyers," the officer said, "this is an active crime scene."

  "What the hell happened—"

  "Perhaps I could help out here," an imposing, mustachioed man interjected. He was wearing black slacks and an armored vest with "L-A-P-D" in tall, white letters. "My name is Phillip Salter, I'm a detective with the LAPD's Robbery-Homicide unit."

  "It's nice to meet you detective," Zeke said, eager to make an impression as an experienced lawyer.

  "I'm surprised your client had time to call you, counselor, given the chaos here," Salter said with a grin.

  "Yes, well, I instruct all of my clients to keep me on speed dial." This was technically true, Zeke figured, because he was certain his parents had favorited his cellphone number. "And please call me Zeke."

  "Sure thing. We've got a bit of a shit-sandwich here, Zeke. Someone murdered Francesca Cahill."

  Zeke recalled Cahill from a popular series of YA adventure movies. She was beautiful, and probably not even twenty-four years old. "For fuck’s sake, how?"

  "A knife, we think, and a big one at that," Salter said. "She didn't die immediately, though. As far as we can tell, someone attacked her upstairs and left her to die. When Cahill came to, she struggled downstairs, according to about a hundred witnesses. Disgustingly, it seems like most of them have video of her walking to the backyard. She collapsed into the pool, and probably died seconds later."

  A murder! Zeke was in way over his head. "Awful. How does my client fit into this?" Zeke said, thinking if he kept saying 'my client' enough times, they had to take him seriously.

  "You're sounding a little wet behind the ears there, Zeke. I think we've got a greenhorn here, Frank!" The other police officer snickered. "You've never even met the poor sucker, have you?"

  "Err . . . well, it’s late. My usual . . . client intake associate . . . is unavailable."

  "Did you hear that, Frank? His 'client intake associate' is busy. I think the District Attorney will have slam dunk with this one on the case."

  "Can you just direct me to my client, please?"

  "What am I, your secretary? We cut him loos
e five minutes ago. Find him yourself. You should know though, he's in some pretty deep shit."

  "Can't be too bad if you didn't cuff him," Zeke said to imaginary applause.

  "Fuck off, it won't be long," Salter said as he walked back towards the house.

  That probably could've gone better. Zeke called Alex and weighed the merits of pissing off the lead detective on his first real case. "Hey, where are you?"

  "They let me go. I'm at the 101 Coffee Shop on Franklin, just down the hill. I'm freaking out here, dude."

  "Ok, stay put. I'll be there shortly." Zeke walked back to the Volvo. As he opened the door, he heard someone yelling from the driveway.

  "I'm the goddamned owner of this house, and I want you out!" the man said.

  "Sir, we'll be out of your hair once the coroner comes to pick up Cahill and my team has finished its forensic examination," Salter said with annoyance.

  "And that would be when, exactly?"

  "Probably a few hours, likely by six o'clock."

  "Fine. Do you have any idea who did this?"

  "We have a working theory, yes, but I can't disclose any details at this time."

  "Jesus you're useless. Can you at least call off the media?"

  "Sir, do you see that yellow tape over there?" Salter said, obviously reaching his bullshit limit for the night. "I control everything inside that line. Whatever goes on outside of that line is their business."

  "Wonderful. Just great. I know some people in the DA's office, I'll be passing them your badge number, detective," as he walked off to a waiting limousine.

  Zeke was glad that others weren't exactly ingratiating themselves with the police tonight, either. Still, he thought the interaction was odd. Someone just died, he thought, what's the rush? Zeke turned the car around and sped down the hill.