“Michelle Klein said your group is close and that Paul called you his entourage.”
“That’s what he sometimes called us,” Jason said, “but we usually call our group the Agency.”
“Like the CIA?”
“More like CAA.”
Creative Artists Agency is one of Hollywood’s biggest talent agencies. These kids had grown up in Tinseltown. It made sense that they’d wrap themselves in its glittery fabric.
“So the Agency is sort of a club?”
“That sounds like something with rules. We’re just a group of guys that hang out together.”
“That’s what gangbangers always say.”
“It isn’t like that. We don’t break laws or wear certain colors. We don’t even have a secret handshake. What we are is more like a team. The six of us have been playing lacrosse together all through high school.”
“Was Paul a good player?”
“He’s been one of the best the last few years. That’s why he was picked as captain his junior and senior years.”
“Was he bossy?”
“He liked to be in charge.”
“Did Paul use drugs?”
Jason’s answer was immediate: “No.”
“He didn’t drink?”
“Well, yeah.”
“What about weed?”
“Hardly ever,” Jason said. “Paul was a runner and didn’t want his lungs to get messed up.”
“Can you think of a reason why Paul was carrying a baggie full of OC and Ecstasy?”
A head shake. “Not even one.”
“And you don’t know of anyone that would have wanted to hurt Paul?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?”
“Most people liked Paul.”
“Who didn’t?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible some losers were jealous of him.”
“Such as?”
“I really couldn’t say. Paul sometimes acted cocky, though, and there might have been one or two kids that weren’t from old Beverly Hills that he rubbed the wrong way.”
“What do you mean by old Beverly Hills?”
“People from around here.”
“I’m still not following.”
“There are a lot of kids at our school that go around speaking different languages, like Farsi.”
“And Paul didn’t like that?”
“Lots of people in Beverly Hills don’t like it. A few years back there was this big fight when election ballots came out in Farsi. And the people of Beverly Hills got so sick of houses being torn down and Persian Palaces being put up that the zoning laws were changed.”
“Persian Palaces?”
“Everyone calls them that.”
“So Paul didn’t like these newcomers?”
“What he didn’t like was when they acted like they were still in Tehran. When he heard kids speaking in Farsi, he’d start talking real loud in pig Latin.”
“He targeted Iranian students?”
Jason shook his head. “It was more like a joke.”
“But others might not have found it funny?”
“I don’t know. You wanted to know if anyone could have disliked Paul; that’s all I could think of. But I don’t think his speaking pig Latin is the kind of thing that could have gotten him killed, do you?”
I almost said, “There are some people you’d be advised to not say ‘Uckfay Ouyay’ to,” but instead I just asked him another question.
CHAPTER 7:
Gump and Martinez were still working the case at two a.m. when I took my leave of them. None of us had turned up any real suspects. Paul’s friends-I had talked to all five members of the Agency-couldn’t think of anyone that would have wanted him dead. The only person that had offered a motive for Paul’s death was his father. Adam Klein said he believed his son’s death and crucifixion were payback from organized crime.
“This is the Mob’s way of getting back at me for making
“I am not familiar with
“That’s because its release date is two weeks from tomorrow. The story is about human trafficking, about the modern slave trade.”
“Your film is about present-day slavery?”
“That’s right. The Traffic King is a modern-day slave lord. He collects and sells human beings. He ravages lives.”
“What does that have to do with your son’s death?”
“It’s organized crime retaliating for my putting the spotlight on their activities.”
“Is
“I would call it more of a composite story. In sheer numbers, there is more human trafficking going on today than ever before.”
“But your movie is fictional?”
“That doesn’t take away from its inherent truth.”
By that point in our conversation, I had stopped taking notes. Before reaching him by phone, I had heard Klein selling this same revenge theory to the media. It had sounded out there, but at the time I thought grief was coloring his thinking. Now I wasn’t so sure, but I hoped he believed in his theory. If he didn’t, that meant he was using the death of his own son to promote a movie.
“I think it’s a stretch that your son would have been targeted because of this movie.”
“That’s because you don’t know how despicable and violent the modern slave trade is. It would be just like them to exact revenge for my having exposed their methods. When you see the movie, Detective, you’ll understand what I’m talking about. They are afraid of their house of cards toppling. That’s what happens in the film, and as a result their slave trade is severely disrupted.”
“And how does all of that come about?”
“A woman whose girl is abducted by slave traders gets vengeance against the human traffickers. Getting her daughter back isn’t enough; she goes after the Traffic King.”
I held the phone away from me and just looked at it. When I could talk, I thanked Mr. Klein for his time and hung up on him.
During the drive home I thought about the producer’s conspiracy theory. “Hard to believe,” I said to Sirius. My partner didn’t answer. He was already asleep in the backseat.
The good thing about driving so late was that there was little traffic. Casa Gideon is in Sherman Oaks, the so-called gateway to the San Fernando Valley. Being that gateway is a dubious distinction, and I’m not sure whether the title is a compliment or a ding. Jenny and I had chosen to live in Sherman Oaks because of its proximity to our workplaces, and because when we bought our home it was somewhat affordable. Officially, Sherman Oaks
