Guilt

courtship as “the boy was fresh meat. I swooped down like a raptor.”

Donny moved to the estate. Bigger and better roles came his way. Two years into their relationship, he and Prema were each pulling twenty million a picture and lending new meaning to the term “power couple.” Paparazzi got rich peddling candid shots of the duo. Donny and Prema took it to the next level, costarring in three pictures. Two stylish comedies tanked but the dystopian sci-fi epic Wizardine grossed north of two billion internationally.

At age thirty-seven, Prema Moon announced her desire for a quieter life, adopted an orphan from Africa and two from Asia, became the spokesperson for a slew of human rights organizations, caused diplomats to squirm as their shorts rode up when she addressed the U.N. in her trademark sultry voice.

At forty, she added a baby girl to her “tribe.”

Donny Rader, ten years his wife’s junior, dropped out of the limelight.

The couple’s net worth was rumored at three hundred million. Everyone figured they’d resurface. A hack at The Hollywood Reporter termed them “far greater than the sum of their parts,” and dubbed them Premadonny.

The sobriquet stuck. How could it not?

Milo said, “CAPD, Creative Aura of Prema and Donny. Sounds like something you’d doodle while zoning out in class.”

I said, “Along with goofy drawings of rocket ships. Robin’s source says it used to be one of their holding companies but it got dissolved, something to do with changes in the tax code.”

“Lord Donny, Lady Prema, top of the Industry food chain. Jack’s probably mainlining blood pressure meds.”

“Working for them could be why Wedd doesn’t use his apartment much. Their compound is ten acres, probably includes staff housing.”

His phone played “Hungarian Rhapsody.” Kelly LeMasters said, “I feel for you. Having to deal with that bitch.”

“Maria was her usual charming self.”

“Maria,” she said, “is one of those automatons who delude themselves they’re capable of independent thought.”

“She stonewalled you, huh?”

“She sure tried,” said LeMasters. “I told her I’d run a follow-up story hell or high water and would harass you to the point of stalking and she waffled just like you said. The way we left it is she’ll call you to work out the ‘proper data feed’ and get back to me.”

“Good work, kid.”

“Now we’re buddies?”

“Common enemy and all that, Kelly.”

Click.

He said, “Ten acres. Didn’t know you were interested in movie stars.”

“A couple of years ago a man representing them called for an appointment for a ‘family member’ but claimed he didn’t know who. I asked him who’d referred them to me. He had no idea about that, either, was just following instructions, asked if I could make a house call. I said okay if payment would be portal-to-portal. He said money was no object, gave me the address. I was intrigued so I did some research, including Google Maps. The next day, a call came into my service canceling. When I phoned to ask why, I couldn’t get through. I tried again, same result.”

“They hire another shrink?”

“I have no idea.”

“Lucky me,” he said. “If you’d actually seen them or their kids, you’d have to recuse yourself. No actual contract or contact, no confidentiality, right?”

“Right, but if someone that powerful wanted to sue me, they’d do it anyway.”

“You’re staying out of it?”

“Hell, no.”

CHAPTER 34

We’d watched the marble-clad building for nine minutes when Maria Thomas called.

“Just had an obnoxious conversation with a Times reporter who brags she’s been dogging you.”

Milo said, “Kelly LeMasters, Olympic gold medalist in the Pestathlon.”

“She getting in the way of the job?”

“If it goes any further, she will,” he said. “At this point she’s just an annoyance.”

“Well,” said Thomas, “she’s threatening to hound you to the ground unless you feed her exclusive info and if you don’t give her anything, she’ll dig for alternative sources and go public. And we both know she’ll find alternatives, all those loose-lipped idiots floating around the department.”

“That’s my problem, Maria?”

“Now it is.”

Milo groaned. Turned to me and gave a thumbs-up and grinned like a drunk.

“Way I see it,” Thomas continued, “you can neutralize her by being selective.”

“Easy for you to say, Maria. You’re not the one getting dogged.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, that’s the way it’s going to be. You’re instructed to meet with her A-sap and offer her judicious info.”

“Define judicious.”

“At this point,” said Thomas, “Moron Maxine’s real estate deal’s totally screwed so feel free to play with the Cheviot Hills angle. Give her anything that doesn’t compromise the investigation.”

“I’ve been shutting her out completely,” he said. “Now I do a total about-face.”

“Flexibility,” said Thomas. “It’s a sign of psychological strength, ask Delaware.”

“I see him, I might just do that.”

“Whatever. Now go meet with the bitch and stay in control. Any progress on the case?”

“Not much.”

“Then it’s no big deal. Feed her a steaming mound of bullshit, press-types are born with taste buds for it.”

Click.

I said, “Didn’t know Machiavelli was Irish.”

He laughed. “When you’re in love, laddie, everyone is Irish.” His head swiveled toward Beverly Drive. A car had pulled up in front of Gold Standard’s building.

Iron-gray Mercedes sedan. A curly-haired, middle-aged man in a navy suit got out and remote-locked the car. Bypassing the mailbox outfit, he opened the door to the second floor, stepped in and up.

Milo said, “Maybe he’s someone needs gift counseling but I’m smelling the musty aroma of lawyer.”

He swung another U, got behind the Mercedes, copied the tags. Continuing south into L.A., he crossed Pico, turned left on Cashio Street, parked, ran the numbers.

Floyd Banfer, home address on South Camden Drive in B.H.

A 411 call obtained Banfer’s professional listing: attorney-at-law, office on Roxbury Drive just north of Wilshire in B.H.

“Keeping it local,” said Milo. “Should I go back in there and confront them or give myself time to plan? I’m leaning toward wait and see.”

“Sounds like you know what to do.”

“Spoken like a master therapist.”