She put down the revolver and occupied herself with the contents of the
three wallets. From their driver's licenses, she learned that one of
the boys was sixteen years old and two were seventeen. They did,
indeed, live in Beverly Hills.
In one wallet, among snapshots of a cute high school-age blonde and a
grinning Irish setter, Heather found a two-inch-diameter decal at which
she stared in disbelief for a moment before she fished it out of the
plastic window. It was the kind of thing often sold on novelty racks
in stationery stores, pharmacies, record shops, and bookstores, kids
decorated school notebooks and countless other items with them. A
paper backing could be peeled off to reveal an adhesive surface. This
one was glossy black with embossed silver-foil letters: ANSON OLIVER
LIVES.
Someone was already merchandising his death. Sick. Sick and
strange.
What unnerved Heather most was that, apparently, a market existed for
Anson Oliver as legendary figure, perhaps even as martyr.
Maybe she should have seen it coming. Oliver's parents weren't the
only people assiduously polishing his image since the shootout.
The director's fiancee, pregnant with his child, claimed he didn't use
drugs any more. He'd been arrested twice for driving under the
influence of narcotics, however, those slips from the pedestal were
said to have been a thing of the past. The fiancee was an actress, not
merely beautiful but with a fey and vulnerable quality that ensured
plenty of TV-news time, her large, lovely eyes always seemed on the
verge of filling with tears.
Various film-community associates of the director had taken out
full-page ads in The Hollywood Reporter and Daily Variety, mourning the
loss of such a creative talent, making the observation that his
controversial films had angered a lot of people in positions of power,
and suggesting that he had lived and died for his art.
The implications of all this were that the Uzi had been planted on him,
as had the cocaine and PCP. Because everyone up and down the street
from Arkadian's station had dived for cover at the sound of all that
gunfire, no one had witnessed Anson Oliver with a gun in his hands
except the people who died--and Jack. Mrs. Arkadian had never seen
the gunman while she'd been hiding in the office, when she'd come out
of the service station with Jack, she'd been virtually blind because
smoke and soot had mucked up her contact lenses.
Within two days of the shootout, Heather had been forced to change
their phone number for a new, unlisted one, because fans of Anson
Oliver were calling at all hours. Many had made accusations of
sinister conspiracies in which Jack figured as the triggerman.
It was nuts.
The guy was just a filmmaker, for God's sake, not President of the
United States. Politicians, corporate chiefs, military leaders, and
police officials didn't quiver in terror and plot murder out of fear
that some crusading Hollywood film director was going to take a swipe
at them in a movie. Hell, if they were that sensitive, there would
hardly be any directors left.
