I thought, Until we are parted by death.
Sometime around daybreak the helicopters left.
Chapter 38
After a few hours of stone-dead slumber, I jolted up, puffy-faced, the recollection of the prior day raging in my skull along with a headache I could practically hear. Transmitters and hidden lenses had haunted my sleep, and the first thought to chisel through my stirring panic was of Ariana's raincoat.
I crept downstairs. Seven A.M., and golden morning light fell through the break in the living-room curtains. Faint as it was, it made me squint. A harsh world out there, waiting.
The coat was hanging in the front closet, and I sat on the foyer floor and draped it across my lap. Deep breath. My fingers pinched the seam. Metal beneath. The tracking device remained, sewn into the fabric. I wasn't sure how long I sat there, rolling the bulge between finger and thumb, appreciating its existence, but I was startled to hear Ariana behind me.
'I already checked that it was there,' she said, 'after the cops left.'
'Whoever's behind this removed the one from my Nikes but kept yours in,' I said. 'Which means they don't know that we were aware they bugged our clothing.'
She held the jammer loosely at her side. 'Why remove the one from your shoe and leave mine in?'
'I was supposed to be arrested, in which case the cops would've put my clothes and stuff through a security scanner. And they'd have been hard-pressed to explain why I planted a tracking device on myself.'
'So what do we do with this?' She pointed at her jacket.
'Don't wear it. It's not raining, so even if they are still monitoring it, it won't seem suspicious that you left it behind. If you go out or into work, keep your cell phone off--remember, they can track that, too. Have Martin or one of the carpenters meet you in the parking lot and walk you from your car.'
'I'm not going in today,' she said. 'It's a mad house even there, and besides, I need to start calling lawyers.'
'Whenever you're home, keep the alarm on.'
'Patrick,' she said, 'I know how to be careful.'
She went into the kitchen, surveyed the mess on the floor where the cops had dumped the drawers and the trash bin, then gave a shrug, plucked a pan from the heap, and set it on the burner. I took the jammer, went up to my office, and stared at the blank desk. My thoughts were scattered, but I figured I had to start with Keith. Getting information about a movie star's private life was hard enough, even without a murder complicating matters. I needed people who knew how he spent his days and with whom, people who might not mind talking to the lead suspect in his murder. The list was short. In fact, it was two names.
Using the throwaway cell phone I'd given Ariana, I tried to dial, but the thing wouldn't work. After a few more attempts, I realized that the jammer was knocking out the signal. So I returned the jammer to Ari and went out into the backyard, which I figured more likely to be clear of surveillance devices. I made an anonymous call to my former agency and had a kid in the mail room get me the number of the production office for The Deep End. When I called over, giving a fake name, the assistant was short with me, weary from fielding calls about Keith's murder. She refused to give me any contact information for Trista Koan. Keith had mentioned that Trista had flown in for the production, which meant corporate housing, hotels, or a sublet, which in turn meant no easy trace. Predictably, I couldn't turn up a listing on her by calling information. And I didn't know where she was from.
Back in my office, I rifled through my drawers and finally came up with an ivory card bearing the name of the second person on my list. I found Ariana's laptop in the bedroom and Googled him. Endless photo credits--he was real, not an invention like Doug Beeman and Elisabeta.
Back outside to dial. The phone rang, and finally he picked up.
'Joe Vente.'
'Patrick Davis.'
'Patrick. Don't you think it's a little late to sell out Keith Conner?'
'I need to see you.'
'That shouldn't be hard.'
'Why not?'
'I'm camped out in front of your house.'
I hung up, walked back inside, and peeked through the living-room window. Shadows in drivers' seats, but I couldn't make out faces. My car and Ari's remained floating off the curb; I'd have to move hers into the garage before I left for my meeting at school. From the kitchen Ariana called out, 'Poached eggs?'
'I don't think I can eat.'
'Me neither. But going through the motions seems like a good idea.'
I pointedly didn't say anything, and a moment later I heard a click--her turning on the jammer. After sixteen years her ability to read my mind was staggering. I called out, 'I'll be right back. I'm going to see Keith's paparazzi stalker. He's right outside.'
She said, 'Play the hand you're dealt.'
When I stepped onto the porch, a few car doors opened and slammed, and then a couple of guys jogged toward me toting cameras and trailing wires. A female reporter ripped the paper makeup collar from around her neck and charged, wobbly on her high heels. I felt tentative, exposed in the sunlight, but I had the world to face and everything to prove, and I wasn't going to prove it holed up in my house with the curtains drawn. On blind faith I walked to the end of the walk, and sure enough a van materialized and the door rolled open. I stepped in, and we pulled out and away. Joe hunched forward, smoking, humming along with Led Zeppelin on a crackly stereo and tapping the wheel. His shiny scalp was visible through thinning yellow hair, and he was growing the back out into a ponytail that hadn't quite gotten there. The van was equipped for a stakeout--cooler, sleeping bag, hot plate, camera with giant zoom lens, swivel chairs, stacks of magazines and newspapers with porn mixed in.
He drove around the block, pulled over, then climbed back to sit opposite me. The carpeted interior held the fragrance of incense. 'You're a hot ticket.'
'I want to talk to you about Keith.'
'Lemme guess: You didn't do it.'
'No,' I said. 'I didn't.'
'Why are you bothering with a scumbag like me?'
'I need to know what Keith was up to in the days before he was killed. I figure nobody followed him as closely as you.'
'You got that right. I know every fucking coffee house and production office and midnight booty call. Hell, I know every dry cleaner his clothes visited.' His cell phone piped out an old-fashioned ring, and he snapped it open. 'Joe Vente.' He chewed a chapped lip. 'Britney or Jamie Lynn? What's she wearing? How many frames they have left to bowl?' He checked his watch, rolled his eyes for my benefit. 'Not worth the drive. Call me next time right when they get there.' The phone disappeared back into a pocket, and he bared his teeth at me. 'Another day in paradise.'
'Did Keith ever overlap with a company called Ridgeline, Inc.?' I asked.
'Never heard of it.'
'Do you know his life coach?'
'Life coach?' He snorted. 'You mean that hot blond bitch? Course I do.'
'Can you get me an address?'
'I can get you whatever you want.'
I waited. Waited some more. Finally asked, 'In return for what?'
'Photos of you and a rundown of exactly what happened in that hotel room. And I want it for tomorrow's headlines.'
'Not gonna happen. Not for tomorrow. But I can promise you an exclusive as this thing unfolds.'
''As it unfolds'? My business is all about tomorrow. No one's gonna pay my quote as it unfolds. As it unfolds, everyone gets it. It becomes a court and press-release game, not an inside sneak peek. The more it drags on, the more it favors Big News.'
'Big News?'
'You know, legitimate--and I use the word with great reverence--news outlets. Not opportunistic camera whores like me. You need to understand that you're a perishable commodity. There's a limited window for Patrick
