Chapter 19
"There's a gentleman here to see you," Daniela announced to Freddie over the intercom.
Freddie glanced at the speaker. "That's nice. Who is it?"
"A Mr. Black. He said that he's involved in the murder investigation."
Freddie rolled his eyes, then closed his browser. The truth was he'd been surfing the web, looking at his competitors' sites, watching how they treated the same stories he was featuring, so it wasn't like he was particularly busy at the moment. Still, he'd already spent a half hour with two detectives the prior day, and his time was valuable.
"Fine. Show him back."
When Black appeared with Daniela, Freddie appraised him briefly and then indicated one of the two chairs in front of his desk. Daniela closed the door behind her, and Freddie gave Black a wan smile that never reached his eyes before leaning back in his seat and exhaling noisily.
"I've already told you everything I know. I don't see how else I can help you," he started, irritation barely contained in his every word.
"Yes, well, we appreciate that. I just have a few questions, and then I'll be on my way," Black said in an officious manner. He had told the receptionist that he was investigating the latest murder, and she had assumed that he was with the police. He'd even favored one of his more modern-cut jackets and a pair of nondescript gray wool trousers, dressing in an impression of Stan that he thought would fool just about anyone. It had worked, and now he was with his client's nemesis, free to ask whatever he liked as long as he didn't blow it and tip his hand.
"Well, let's not wait for Christmas, then," Freddie said.
"We've already covered the victim's background and the events leading up to the unfortunate event. I want to discuss related elements of the case. Specifically, anything he might have been working on that could have triggered an attack."
"What, you think this wasn't random?"
"I didn't say that. But you have to admit that working for your company has become a singularly dangerous occupation lately. We need to consider all possibilities, that's all."
"Then you think it could be related to the other attacks?"
"We don't have enough information to draw any conclusions, sir. But it's certainly something we're looking at."
"Fine. For the record, there wasn't anything inflammatory he was working on that I know of."
"I see. Tell me, Mr. Sypes. How does your organization get its information?"
"Well, that's kind of a trade secret."
"I'm sure it is. But humor me. I'm not planning to set up a competitive site anytime soon." Black favored Freddie with an empty smile of his own.
"To answer your question, we have a host of ways. People call us with tips. We pay service people at a wide variety of restaurants and clubs where celebrities are known to hang out. Sometimes we get contacted by PR people trying to create buzz for their clients. EMT techs, firemen, even cops give us tips. There are a hundred different ways we stay plugged in."
"I was looking at your site, and I noticed a couple of pieces that caught my eye. Can we use those as examples?"
"I'm not sure how that's going to help catch Lorenzo's murderer..."
"There's a method to my madness. Play along with me," Black said in a decidedly unplayful tone. "You've got one about Terry Hollens. Going into rehab for the, what, fifth time?"
"Yes. Poor Terry. Seems like she just can't stay off the hillbilly heroin. A shame. Let's see..." Freddie tapped at his computer keyboard and then squinted at the information on the screen. "We got that tidbit from the cab driver who took her there. Called us right after she gave him the address. We paid a hundred dollars for that."
"Wow. I'm in the wrong business. A hundred bucks for a phone call. Who knew?"
"Of course, depending upon the celebrity, it can be less, or a lot more. Terry's battles with her demons are sort of old news these days, so it's just not worth what it might have been, say, three years ago when she still had her TV show."
"I see. All right, what about the one with Hunter getting into that brawl? Seems like having a photographer at a biker bar was awfully serendipitous."
This time Freddie typed more slowly. "Ah. That was an anonymous tip. Phone call."
"Anonymous? Wouldn't most of your tipsters want to get paid? Isn't that a little unusual?"
"Not as much as you might think. Sometimes people just call in because they've seen someone famous and want to feel like they're part of the process. It's a strange world. We get them all the time."
"I see. Do you tape the inbound calls?"
Freddie's eyes shifted to the side with a momentary look of cunning, then returned to Black with the steady gaze of the innocent. "Tape?"
"Record. Do you record your inbound tip calls?"
Freddie nodded. "We have a policy of doing so."
"So, for instance, you would have the anonymous tipster's voice recorded?"
"You've now completely lost me. What would that have to do with a murder investigation?"
"Two of your staff were killed at one of Hunter's press conferences, were they not?"
"Yes."
"And you received an anonymous tip alerting you to Hunter's whereabouts only a day later. I'm wondering whether they might be connected."
"How?"
"I don't know. I'm not paid to solve the whole crime, just put together miscellaneous puzzle pieces and collect information. Tell me - would it be possible to pull that call and hear it?"
Freddie studied him like a lab specimen, and then nodded slowly. "Absolutely. Just get a warrant and I'd be happy to."
Black's composure slipped just a little. "I was hoping that we could work together on these things with less formality..."
"Yes, but when cops start asking for sources, it changes everything. And frankly, I see nothing remotely useful in this line of questioning. It feels like a pure fishing expedition, and while I'm trying to be helpful, there are limits. You just reached one."
Black did a quick about-face and asked a series of innocuous questions related to building security, personnel background checks, company policies and working hours, and then extricated himself before he could get into real trouble. He thanked Freddie for his time with a cursory handshake and beat a swift path for the exit, the foray having been worth it. Someone had known about the meeting, or someone from the restaurant had called when they'd spotted Hunter; the only problem with that theory being that Hunter had only been inside for all of fifteen minutes, and Black doubted that Freddie had roving gangs of paparazzi patrolling the streets of the San Fernando Valley on a Tuesday morning. Which led him straight back to a leak having tipped FSA off in advance.
There were several possibilities: someone from the distributor's side - there was no way of ruling that out - or someone from Hunter's team.
A niggle of acidic anxiety tickled his stomach as he returned to his car. He'd had a feeling all along that Hunter wasn't leveling with him, and this sort of minor mystery wasn't doing anything for improving his faith in the man. Whether it actually mattered was a different story - the money was in the bank, and whoever had alerted Freddie, there was no harm done. That was about the only time the paparazzi had been around Hunter lately when one of them didn't wind up dead.
Back on the road, top down, the sun blinding as it reflected off the ocean of motorized metal and glass around him, he called Stan.
"Black. What's shaking?"
"Not much. Just got finished running some errands out in Santa Monica. How's your case going?"
"The skewered FSA guy? No breaks. Nobody saw anything, and there's nothing from forensics to give us a direction. I still like your client for it, but that's probably because I think he's a douchebag."
"God knows there are enough of them in this town. But if they were all murderers, we'd have a quarter of the population."
"There you go with your sunny rays of optimism."
"So is it safe to say that Hunter's no longer a suspect?"
"In that one. But on the two that went kaboom? I still have unanswered questions there. Apparently the trigger on that device was a burner cell phone. If he was smart enough to set that up, he also would have been smart enough to use a second one to avoid any link on his."
"Assuming he did it. But for what reason?"
"I honestly haven't figured that one out. Which doesn't mean he didn't do it. It just means that there are all kinds of whack jobs out there up to no good, and I can't get into all their heads. Maybe he just likes killing them?"
"We both know that's unlikely. I think he's clean," Black said.
"Yeah, I know. He's an innocent man. That's all I ever deal with, seems like. Just once I'd like one of these guilty creeps to just pull a Seven and turn himself in with a full confession."
"Tell me that wasn't a great movie."
Stan hesitated. "Not that I don't enjoy your sassy talk, but is there anything else?"
"No. I'll probably be out tonight, trying to run down a guy who ripped my neighbor off for five grand."
"Nice. I'll call you if I'm up for some wading in the sewers, then."
"One little drinky never hurt anyone."
"Too true, amigo. Catch you later."
Black's next call was to Colleen.
"Hey, gorgeous. You out and about?" she answered.
"How did you know?"
"I can hear that car of yours from here."
"Listen, Colleen, I need to talk to you some more about Hunter. I'm not sure he's completely on the level."
"Who is in this town, darling? What did he do now?"
Black told her about his doubts and about the anonymous phone call.
"Your gut's still golden, Black. That's one of the oldest tricks in the book. It sounds like a setup. He probably tipped them himself. And then had a ready-made media circus for when he took on two bikers, right before his movie premiere, to defend the honor of a young beauty."
Black was speechless. It all fell into place. "Are you for real?"
"This is Hollywood, sugar. Land of make believe. I'd give you five to one odds that he planned the whole thing. He even got Freddie to cover it, if with a negative spin. Pure manipulation, and brilliant at that. I gotta buy the man a drink next time I see him."
"Huh. While you're being so free and easy with the booze, tell me about the wife."
"Meagan? They've been married for, I don't know, a dozen years. He booted his ex for her. Caused a big stink at the time. Meagan was barely out of diapers. Maybe twenty? Twenty-one?"
"What's your impression of how they're doing these days?"
"I don't talk to her much. She doesn't like me. Feeling's mutual."
"Right. But at the sneak preview party, they didn't seem to be getting along very well."
"Maybe she found out he was banging everything in town. A man like Hunter's not going to change much. Twenty looked great to him when he was fifty, and probably looks even better to him now that he's sixty-whatever. I mean, you know he was humping his co-star, right?"
"Melody. Yeah, I kind of read between the lines there."
"And Meagan's got the appetites of an alley cat, from what I can tell."
"Do you know that for sure?"
"You mean do I have footage of her and the pool boy? No. But a woman can just tell these things, my boy. Rrowr."
"She's been coming on to me pretty strong."
"There you go. Although I also get the sense she's a calculating bitch. Might want to ask yourself what else besides your impressive physique she wants out of you."
"Fortunately for me, I don't have anything else."
"Everyone has something else, darling. You just need to figure out what you have that she has designs on. Not that you're not muy caliente."
"Maybe I'm just in the right place at the wrong time?"
"That could be. Damn. Hang on." Colleen had a short conversation with someone. "Sorry. Seth is painting the place, so it's mayhem over here."
"No problem. I've kept you long enough. Say hey to Seth for me - I gather you two are more than friends."
"I can't afford a pool boy, but Seth, for all his issues, manages to drive my car just fine. Why, you wanna bump ahead of him in line?"
"Maybe another time, Colleen. Thanks for the info."
"Always a pleasure, babe."
Black navigated his way back to the office, wondering what he'd gotten himself into with Hunter, and then dismissed his misgivings. The money was good, and God knew he could use more of that. Who was he to judge his fellow man, or woman, especially at two hundred per hour? One had to be flexible. Not jump to hasty conclusions.
He stopped by Preacher's apartment building again on his way back, but met with the same shrieking invective from the old Vietnamese man, and no response to his repeated knocking. Maybe the scumbag had blown town after ripping enough people off. It wouldn't be the first time, and the girl had already flown the coop. He was getting the feeling that it was a dead end, but he owed it to Gracie to put in at least a token effort. Plus, he'd been young and stupid once, and had certainly gotten tricked out of more than a few measly grand.
Black hated to admit it, but Jared reminded him just a little of himself when he'd first arrived in L.A. The timeline had just accelerated since back in his day. It had taken almost two years for the town to crush his spirit. With Jared, it had only been a week.
Everything was more efficient now.
Probably the damned internet's fault.