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  “Jack breaks hearts,” Justine said. “That’s what he does. I don’t even know if it’s his fault. Women want to fix Jack, and they think they can. I thought I could too.”

  She reached into the backseat for her shiny leather handbag, opened it, and found a makeup kit in there. She took out her lipstick and a mirror, put fresh color on.

  Scotty said, “So it is as Jack says. He was framed.”

  “Jack is a lot of things, but he’s not a killer.”

  Justine snapped her handbag closed and opened the car door. Scotty was saying, “But wasn’t he in the war? Wasn’t he a marine?”

  CHAPTER 40

  Scotty stood beside Justine as the door to the building marked 231 opened and a barefoot Johnny Depp look-alike introduced himself as Larry Schuster, Danny Whitman’s manager.

  Justine shook Schuster’s hand and introduced Scotty. They stepped inside, the air smelling of pot, burned toast, and air-conditioner coolant.

  Scotty looked around the spiffy modern office, hardwood floors, round chairs in bright colors, desktops off to one side of the room littered with fruit baskets, stacks of scripts, half-eaten breakfasts on trays, and opened gift bags with watches and other loot spilling out, cornucopias of excess.

  On the walls were framed posters of Whitman’s four previous action films, every one of them a blockbuster.

  A man of about forty came toward Scotty and Justine. He had a crumpled brow and graying hair. He wore a wrinkled blue linen shirt with a monogrammed pocket, the sleeves rolled up. “I’m Mervin Koulos,” he said. “MK Productions.”

  Koulos was the man who was making Shades of Green.

  Justine handled the introductions, and they all took seats, the manager, the producer, Justine, and Scotty, in the squat chairs around a low table that made them all look like kids.

  A girl came out and asked if anyone wanted anything. Schuster said, “Pass,” Koulos said, “Fiji, no ice.”

  Justine said, “Coffee, please. Milk and sugar.”

  Scotty took a pad and pen out of his pocket. “Okay if I take notes?” he asked, and everyone nodded yes.

  Scotty understood that Schuster, the manager, was the hands-on guy responsible for the actor’s career, took 10 percent. The producer, Koulos, the scruffy older guy, had a big stake in whether or not the film got made. No wonder he looked worried. His star was in trouble.

  Justine was explaining how Private worked, their methods, billing, et cetera, and what she proposed to do in this case. Both the manager and the producer agreed to “Whatever it takes to contain this thing.”

  Everyone stood up. Schuster went to the back door and held it open, saying, “Dr. Smith, I think you should talk to the rest of the guys.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Scotty was the last one out the back door. He saw a basketball hoop high on a wall forming an angle with another building. The asphalt court still had lines on it showing where to park.

  A basketball sailed across Scotty’s sight line and went into the basket. Someone yelled, “Yeah!”

  It was a guy about five-ten, short brown hair, shirtless, barbed-wire tattoo around his right biceps. He was grinning, triumphant, and he looked about twenty-two.

  Schuster said that the guy, now dribbling the ball, was Rory Kovaks, Danny’s school pal from Nebraska. They’d grown up together, Rory coming out to LA to keep Danny company.

  Schuster pointed out Alan Barstow, Danny’s agent at CTM, a big talent agency with top, top clients. Barstow was in his thirties, medium height and thin.

  Last, Schuster pointed out Randy Boone, assistant to Danny, and Kevin Rose, Danny’s fight coach, all members of the Whitman entourage.

  Schuster called out, “Time out, people. We have guests.”

  The ball swished into the net and bounced off the asphalt onto the grass, where the various players gathered around. Schuster told the four guys that Justine and Scotty were from Private and that they had been hired to do damage control.

  Some stood, some sat on the ground as Schuster gave Justine the floor. Scotty hung around at the sidelines, just watching.

  Justine said hello to everyone and introduced herself as a senior investigator at Private. “The tabloids are watching for anything that they can exploit,” she told them. “Katie Blackwell, the girl in question-well, her parents have probably also hired private investigators. They could be following Danny, and any of you who are associated with him, just to find a questionable moment they can blow up, leak to the tabs, and use to tar Danny’s character.

  “It’s critical to Danny’s case that he, and really all of you, keep the party down until after his trial. That means no drugs, no drinking, and especially no girls.”

  “Sure, and no eating with your mouth open, no bare feet when entering this establishment,” Kovaks said.

  Rose, the fight coach, said, “Dr. Smith, no offense, but we don’t need a PI dogging us. Come on,” he said to Larry Schuster. “You can’t be serious.”

  Scotty watched Justine, fingers interlaced in front of her, smiling. She said, “Mr. Rose, it’s all of you or none of you. If you can’t go along with us on the terms, we’ll leave in peace. No problem.”

  Scotty saw the job going south. Not what he wanted at all.

  He said to the whiners gathered around the ball court, “What’s going on here? Danny Whitman needs our help. He’s being tried for the rape of a fourteen-year-old girl, isn’t that right? You want to help him with that? Or are you goons just out to suck his blood?”

  CHAPTER 42

  After Schuster chilled down the ensuing scuffle with a garden hose, after Justine said, “Scotty. Watch and listen, ” Justine sat with Scotty and Danny Whitman in the music room on the third floor with its nice view of the Harlequin lot, one of the oldest film studios in Hollywood.

  Danny was at the piano, plinking out “Lay Down Sally.”

  Justine said to the movie star, “Tell us what happened, Danny.”

  Danny sighed, came off the piano bench, fell into a cushy chair. Justine thought how much younger he looked than he did on the big screen. And he was bigger too, well proportioned, the famous dimple on one cheek, thick brown hair, could have been a high school ball player, although he was twenty-four.

  She noted the number written in ballpoint pen on the cleft between thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Looked like a phone number.

  Danny said, “This is going to sound idiotic, but I honestly don’t know what happened. We were at Alan Barstow’s house. My agent?”

  Justine nodded. “I met Mr. Barstow.”

  Danny said, “Alan was having a party. There were a lot of girls there. Dozens. I woke up in my own house in my own bedroom-alone. Next thing, before my alarm went off, the police are at the door. They say this…Katie Blackwell is lodging a complaint against me.”

  “You say her name like you didn’t know her,” Scotty said.

  “I know who she is, ” said Danny. “I’ve seen her around, but that’s all. I didn’t date her. I sure don’t know her age. I can’t even say she was at Alan’s that night, except that my boys saw her hanging on to me.”

  “And Katie’s story is what?” Justine asked.

  “She says we left the party together, that I made her have sex with me in my car, and that I dropped her off at her front door. You should see my car. Sex in that thing is physically impossible. But she has a girlfriend who says she saw us drive off together. Otherwise it would be strictly he-said, she-said.”

  “Did Katie go to the hospital?”

  “No. In her deposition she said she was embarrassed, took a shower, didn’t say anything to her parents until the next morning, then they called the police.

  “Here’s the thing,” Whitman went on. “I was so stoned that night. If I did it, I deserve to be punished. But I really don’t think I had sex with that girl. I’m pretty sure I would have remembered.”

  Justine said, “Pretty sure?”

  “It’s all very sketchy. I just remember laughing
. Falling down. Girls pawing me. That’s it. And none of my boys saw me leaving with Katie.”

  “She could’ve been lying to get out of trouble,” Justine said. “If she was out late, that sort of thing.”

  The star pulled on his lower lip, looking to Justine as if he was searching his memory, not making up a story.

  Then again, Whitman was an actor.

  “Dr. Smith, I might as well tell you, this wasn’t the first time I lost track of myself. My life’s kinda unreal, you know? I was just a kid when I came out here. A normal kid. Here there’s too much of everything and my time isn’t my own. Half the time it feels like someone else is running my life and I have no control over what happens to me.”

  Justine said, “All I want to do is help you so that things don’t get worse, so that you can get through your trial without any more bad press. Do you want me to advise you?”

  “Yes. Hell, yes. Tell me what you want me to do.”

  Justine thought, Oh, crap. Danny was likable and now she was responsible for keeping him clean and celibate so he could make the hundred-million-dollar blockbuster.

  She handed Whitman two cards, saying, “Here’s how to reach me and Scotty. It’s really simple. Don’t go out with girls at all. That way there will be no pictures, no headlines. Don’t spend the night out with anyone. Go to work, go home alone, keep your phone on, and stay in touch with us.”

  “Done deal.”

  “Whose number is on your hand?” Justine asked.

  “I don’t know. This is what I’m talking about. Look. It’s gone,” Whitman said, spitting on his hand, wiping it against the leg of his jeans.

  “Okay,” Justine said. “Starting now, pretend you’re a monk. And we’ll dig up what we can on Katie Blackwell.”

  CHAPTER 43

  The staircase at Private was a wide, winding spiral, five stories wrapping around the core of the reception entrance on the ground floor. The stairs were inspired by the cross section of a nautilus shell. And by a stone staircase I once walked down at the Vatican.

  I was going up the stairs to my office when Sci loped up the steps, caught up with me on four, and said, “Hold on, Jack.” He had a sad look on his face.

  My guts took the down elevator.

  “What is it, Sci?”

  “You’re looking at the bad-news messenger,” he said. “Bruno just called.”

  Bruno was Sci’s friend, the high-level tech at the city lab, the one with cop connections who hoped that Sci would one day bring him over to Private.

  We walked past Cody into my office.

  Sci dropped into a chair, put his feet up on the edge of my desk, and said, “Between us, okay? Or else we’re going to have to hire Bruno. Lose a good contact at the lab.”

  “Go ahead. No, wait. I want Justine to hear this.”

  “Are you sure?” said Sci.

  “Absolutely.”

  I got Justine on the interoffice line. She said she’d be right up, and in a minute she came into my office, barely looking at me. She took the chair next to Sci.

  Sci said, “The LA crime lab found semen in Colleen’s body. The DNA is consistent with yours.”

  “Come on,” I said.

  Justine didn’t say it, but I could read it in her face- Why am I not surprised?

  Sci went on, “And apparently the cops have a timeline for the murder. Here’s what I’ve been told. On the day it happened, Colleen used her credit card to buy gas and a few random purchases at the Sunoco on La Cienega. She had lunch alone at the Newsroom Cafe on North Robertson, and her car was just found at the adjacent parking garage.”

  I was seeing it as Sci laid it out. I tried to block out the issue of the semen in Colleen’s body.

  “Cops have dumped your phone records, Jack,” said Sci. “Your landline was used during the time period when Colleen was killed, and you say you weren’t home.”

  “The killer used my phone?”

  “Yeah. Seems like he used it to call a number that was answered and then disconnected after two seconds. That call was to Tommy’s cell.”

  “ Christ. What the hell does that mean?”

  What did it mean?

  “That semen,” Justine said. “If Tommy had sex with Colleen, the DNA would be the same.”

  “Right,” Sci said. “His DNA and Jack’s are identical.”

  “So the cops are saying what? I had sex with Colleen, killed her, and then called my brother? Or we killed her together?”

  “Jack, what I know is that Mitch Tandy wants to get you for this, and if he can get Tommy too it’s a very big day for Tandy.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Tommy.

  I had to face it. My goddamned brother could have been involved in Colleen’s death. Had he gone insane? Had he killed Colleen to hurt me?

  I thought back to the break that had divided us for good. It had happened when Tommy and I were in the ninth grade, fourteen years old.

  April Lundon was a year older.

  She was charming and flirtatious and spontaneous. She could walk on her hands and ride a horse bareback, and she’d been to Paris. She’d had a French boyfriend the summer before and knew bedroom French.

  She liked to walk between me and Tommy with her hands hooked into the backs of our pants. She said she liked us equally-and we were both crazy for her. April wouldn’t choose.

  We agreed, Tommy and I, that only one of us could have the girl. April set the terms, a kissing contest. She would be blindfolded. The best kisser would win. And there was the implied promise that the winner would take all.

  We were testosterone fueled and cocky. The idea of a “kiss off” was delicious. We both thought we would win, and we never considered the consequences. It never occurred to either of us to just walk away.

  The competition was on for a Saturday morning, and a dozen kids showed up at the beach behind the juice bar to cheer us on in this wicked and daring contest.

  April kissed Tommy, then she kissed me. I put my whole heart into that kiss, as if I would never kiss a girl again. April picked me.

  Then, best two out of three, she picked me again.

  Tommy didn’t forgive April and he didn’t forgive me. Our dispute was encouraged by our father, who would favor one of us, then, for no reason we could see or understand, favor the other. He was unpredictable and cruel.

  Our bitterness escalated, got dirty, got physical, and lived on after April Lundon was in college, married, a mother of four. Continued even after my father gave me fifteen million dollars and the keys to Private.

  Continued even after he was dead.

  So there was bad history between Tommy and me, but could he, would he, get revenge by committing murder?

  I thought he was capable of it.

  But I didn’t know if he had done it.

  I stared through Sci and Justine, thinking that I’d go to his office, drag him out, do whatever it took to get him to talk.

  I called to Cody, “I need Del Rio and Cruz. Now.”

  But Justine reached across my desk and put a hand on my arm.

  “Wait,” she said. “Wait until you have enough evidence to box Tommy in.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Jack Morgan’s multimillion-dollar crime lab took up the entire lower level of Private: twenty thousand square feet of cutting-edge forensic laboratory, regarded as one of the top independent labs in the country. A service for Private clients, Private’s lab was also a profit center, hired by police departments across the country when they needed fast results and only the most advanced technology would do.

  Dr. Seymour Kloppenberg, Private’s own Dr. Sci, was the proud head of this lab, but right now he and Mo-bot were in Mo’s office, a dark cave of a room that Mo liked to call her “cozy hole.” She was burning incense, had scarves draped over the lamps, and photos of her husband and kids saved screens on the dozen computer monitors banked above her desktop.

  The local news was on video six, tight close-up of a talking head reporting on the sensat
ional “Murder in Malibu.”

  Sci reclined and rocked in a swivel chair, but Mo was on the edge of her seat, visibly angry and agitated. An accomplished warrior on a multilevel, real-time online combat game, Mo sometimes felt the lines blur between game and reality.

  The feeling was coming over her, that rush of being in a warrior frame of mind.

  As she watched the reporter speak to the camera, Mo assumed her avatar’s personality, thought about weapons in her arsenal, and assembled her virtual army.

  The reporter staring back through the screen was Randi Turner, who had been a fixture on Channel 9 for the past couple of years. Turner said to the camera’s eye, “Jack Morgan, CEO of Private Investigations, is widely viewed as the prime suspect in the murder of his former lover and personal assistant Colleen Molloy.”

  Pictures of Jack flashed on the screen, and then shots of Jack, his arm around Colleen, running through rain from a restaurant marquee to his car. After that, there was a film clip of them at a Hollywood party, whispering and laughing.

  Turner spoke throughout the slide show.

  Turner said, “Jack Morgan’s father was the late Thomas Morgan, convicted of extortion and murder in 2003, died in prison in 2006. Like his father, Jack Morgan is said to have links to organized crime.”

  Mo had had enough.

  She sprang up from her chair and yelled at the TV, “Links to organized crime? Paid off his brother’s gambling debt, you mean.”

  “Take it easy,” Sci said. “All this means is that the press is reaching. If they had something on Jack, they wouldn’t need to refer to his father. They wouldn’t have to imply anything.”

  Turner spoke from the high-def screen on the wall above Mo’s desk. “Sources close to the police tell Channel 9 that physical evidence found on the victim implicates Jack Morgan, but the nature of that evidence is being withheld from the press.”