greenhouse, running through our lack of options, and she'd said in exasperation, We don't know people big enough to help us.
For a good time, I stared at Gordon Kazakov's cell-phone bill. Then I called the bold number in the header. Five rings. Seven. No voice mail?
I was about to hang up when a voice answered. Smooth as bourbon.
I said, 'Gordon Kazakov?'
'Who is this?'
'The enemy of your enemy.'
A pause. 'Who's my enemy?'
I said, 'Festman Gruber.'
'I'd like a name, please, sir.'
I took a breath. 'Patrick Davis.'
'I see that they've been busy on your behalf.'
How could he know that? But I was eager to finish the call and turn off my Sanyo again before the signal could be traced. So I got to the point. 'I have something you want.'
'I'll meet you.'
'That'll be difficult,' I said. 'Don't you live in Georgetown?'
'I'm in Los Angeles,' he said. 'I promised my wife she could meet Keith Conner. That was before, of course, but I'd booked some business the first part of the week.'
My bewildered silence must have spoken volumes, because he said, by way of explanation, 'The first day of production was to be Monday.'
'Wait a minute,' I said. 'You were involved with the movie?'
'Son,' he chuckled, 'I was financing it.'
Chapter 55
Hotel Bel-Air, tucked into twelve bucolic acres of priceless real estate, was of course where a Gordon Kazakov would stay. With their sheltering trees, private paths, and white-noise brook, the grounds were the embodiment of discretion. The hush-voiced staff had played host to royalty of every definition, from Judy Garland to Princess Di. Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio used to sneak off here to get away, and now I was doing some nonroyal sneaking of my own, past the dinner patrons trickling out with their eco-farmed furs and bloody lipstick.
Ari and I had come here for an anniversary meal once, though we couldn't afford to stay the night. Intimidated by the waiters, I'd overtipped, which was probably undertipping. We'd sidled out, thanking everyone too profusely, and I'd never been back. Until now.
Having parked up Stone Canyon, I took a path along the brook to dodge the valets. A foursome strolled over the bridge above me, and Keith Conner's name sailed from the low murmur of their conversation as if it were aimed at me. Lowering my face, I kept walking, and so did they. The rain had stopped, leaving the air clean and sharp with the scent of vegetation. Passing three floating swans and as many signs warning of their temperament, I headed under a nearly horizontal California sycamore, crossed a patch of lush grass, and regarded the private stairs leading up to Room 162. Tea lights flickered on each step, a romantic touch, but to me the shifting shadows felt merely ominous. In choosing to trust Kazakov, I'd placed my freedom and Ariana's life in his hands. For all I knew, he'd called LAPD already and they were all waiting for me inside, oiling their semiautos and sipping Campari.
There was much to gain and everything to lose.
Steeling myself, I headed up the stairs. I knocked twice, once, then twice again.
A dry voice came through the wood--'I was just kidding about that'--and then the door tugged open. I tensed, but there was no Gable, no SWAT, no hired muscle, just Kazakov in a white bathrobe and his wife across on a couch, dwarfed by the expansive suite.
He rubbed an eye. 'Come in, please. Forgive my getup, but I don't dress for anybody after ten anymore.' A handsome man, though he looked older than he had in the photos I'd seen, maybe closing on seventy. 'Need something for that?'
He was so matter-of-fact that it took a moment for me to realize he was talking about the bruising on my face. 'No, it's fine.'
'Come in. This is my Linda.'
She stood, smoothing her designer sweat suit, and offered a feminine handshake. She was around his age-- noteworthy in this setting--with a graceful demeanor and sharply intelligent eyes. We exchanged a few polite words, preposterous under the circumstances, but she inspired etiquette. Then she glanced at her husband. 'You need some tea, love?'
'No, thank you,' he said. As she withdrew, he winked at me and reached into the minibar. 'Forty-two years. You know the secret?'
'No,' I said. 'I don't.'
'When we're at an impasse, I admit to being wrong half the time. No more, no less.'
'I've got the being-wrong part down,' I said. The thought of Ariana caught me by surprise here in this lavish suite. I flashed on DeWitt's broad, handsome face, those arms that barely tapered at the wrists, the shoulders that kept going. And Verrone, of the downturned mustache and the steady, lifeless glare. My wife in the hands of these men. Controlled by them. Breathing only as long as their mood or judgment held.
'You seem shaken,' he said.
The time blinked out from the DVD player beneath the wall-mounted flat-screen--11:23 P.M.
Twelve hours and thirty-seven minutes until Ridgeline would kill my wife.
I said, 'I won't argue that.'
He gestured for me to sit. 'Would you like a drink?'
'Very much.'
He poured two vodkas over ice, handed me mine. 'They play dirty pool, our friends over at Festman Gruber. I know their tricks, as they know mine.' He sat sideways at the edge of the secretary desk and crossed his hands over a knee as if waiting for someone to paint his portrait. 'It was very much in their interest for this movie not to happen. McDonald's stopped Supersizing after that documentary. If you can get McDonald's to do something, hell, sky's the limit. We needed a star of a certain status for the picture to get the kind of exposure we required. You know how it is. Given our time frame, it was tough to begin with. It's not like A-listers sit around waiting to be slotted into low-budget whale movies.' He took a sip, squinted into the pleasure of the alcohol.
I followed suit, the vodka burning my throat, soothing my nerves.
He used his thumbnail to buff an imaginary spot off the lacquered desktop. 'Keith Conner was not as much of a lout as you'd think.'
'I'm starting to figure that out.'
'Movie stars aren't killed quietly,' he mused.
'They needed something failproof.'
'And low-tech.' He gestured with his glass. 'Golf driver, was it?'
'I don't even golf.'
'Don't understand the game myself. Seems like an excuse to wear bad pants and drink during the day. I did enough of that in my youth.'
I looked down into the clear liquid, my hands starting to tremble. After so much menace, the human contact and our quick rapport had caught me off guard. It felt safe in here, which opened me up to what I'd been trying not to feel. The past hours were a jumble, one trauma bleeding into the next. I flashed on Sally, pinwheeling back, mouth open, eruption from her chest. 'Someone was shot. Right in front of me. A single mother. There's a kid who right now is . . . is finding out . . .'
He sat there, patient as a sniper. I wasn't sure what I was trying to convey, so I drained my glass and handed him the CD. His eyebrows lifted.
He took the disc, circled the desk, and popped it into his laptop. He clicked and read. Read some more. I sipped and sat back, cataloging everything I was going to do differently if I got a chance to be with my wife again. That last night we'd been together, my thumb drawing a bead of sweat through the dip between her lovely shoulder blades, the quick urgency of her mouth against my shoulder--what if it was a final memory?
His voice startled me from my thoughts. 'This internal study shows very different results from those that
