2
Kobe didn’t return to the freeway. Instead we drove up a curving, tree-shaded street lined with giant houses that ranged from mission style to bloated Tudors. The lawns were manicured swathes of green, and crews of gardeners wielded lawn mowers, leaf blowers, and clippers against various vegetation.
“This is Beverly Hills,” Kobe said from the front seat.
“Oh,” I said.
“Rodeo Drive is a couple of blocks east of your office.”
“Oh,” I said again, and wondered if every limo driver played tour guide? Of course this was the town where they sold maps to movie stars’ homes. Most people probably wanted to hear about these world-famous locations. I decided maybe I ought to offer more to the conversation, so I added, “That’s the big shopping area, right?”
“Oh, yeah. You can drop twenty grand fast on Rodeo Drive.”
“Guess I won’t be shopping there.”
Kobe laughed. “I hear you.”
I leaned forward a bit, and studied the passing houses. They seemed to alternate between multistoried French chateaux, and sprawling Spanish-style haciendas. “So this is where the movie stars live?”
“Some of them. A lot of them live in Bel Air and on Mount Olympus.”
“You’re kidding, right? That can’t really be the name of a subdivision.”
He laid a hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor. It’s a real place. We won’t be anywhere near Olympus, but we’ll be driving right past the entrance to Bel Air. You’ll see the guard gates.”
The town car made a turn onto Sunset Boulevard, and a few blocks later Kobe pointed out the entrance to Bel Air. There wasn’t much to see. Just a very steep driveway and a guardhouse manned by two men in private security uniforms. The houses were all screened by bushes and trees. A Jaguar was waiting while the guards inspected the driver’s license. I wondered if a Jag was too declasse for Bel Air? The traffic was really moving on this wide boulevard, and with all the trees and grass I could forget I was in a giant city. Kobe made a turn toward the hills and we wound up a narrow road. A discreet sign indicated the Beverly Hills Hotel. We turned up the driveway and the hotel came into view.
It was very … pink. It had three Mission-style towers that marked the main building and the entrance. Kobe pulled up to the front entrance and hopped out to open my door. A cute, young, redheaded bellman hurried down the red-carpeted steps to gather up my luggage. Kobe also gave him David’s garment bag and told him it should be placed in Mr. Sullivan’s room. I tipped Kobe and thanked him for the tour, then followed the redhead into the lobby.
A sleek, dark-haired bellhop took David’s bag and disappeared out the back door. The redhead led me to the elevators. “My room isn’t near Mr. Sullivan?”
“No, he’s booked into a bungalow. You have a deluxe guest room. They’re still nice, just not
“Okay.”
“So what brings you here? Audition?” he asked. The smile he gave me had enough teeth to qualify for a toothpaste commercial. As he held the door and allowed me to precede him into the elevator.
“I’m not an actress. I’m a lawyer.”
“No way. You’re way too pretty to be a lawyer.”
I knew it was absolutely insincere, that I looked like something the cat had dragged in, but it felt nice anyway. We went down a hall, and he opened the door for me. The room was very well appointed in tones of gold and cream. I was really glad they hadn’t continued with the pink theme. There was only so much pink I could stand. I tipped the redheaded schmooze king and studiously ignored the giant stack of folders on the desk. Instead I opened my suitcase and arranged my toiletries in the bathroom. I looked at the big tub and contemplated a long soak in hot water. I walked back into the main room and studied the bed. Next I looked at the files. Sleep? Bathe? Eat? Work? My stomach won out. It might be three o’clock in New York, but it was just past noon in LA. I could have lunch.
Grabbing a room service menu, I studied the options and decided on a fruit and yogurt salad. While I waited I unpacked and wondered why on earth I had brought so many clothes?
My salad arrived. It was good, but the price tag was rather staggering. I sat at the desk and wondered if the home office would get me an apartment? It would be less expensive than a hotel room, and in an apartment I could cook, which would reduce the chance of weight gain. Eating out all the time was hell on a body
I thought about working, but instead I turned on the flat-screen TV for company. As I was clicking through the channels I noticed that many of the broadcast channels had a breaking news bulletin. I finally found a local news channel, which was running multiple screens. On one screen there was a helicopter view of a deep blue Ferrari heading down one of the freeways followed by five police cruisers. Stuck behind the phalanx of cops was all the rest of the freeway traffic. Another screen showed a video from an amateur photographer standing on an overpass. Still another showed the newsroom with a pretty, blond female news anchor, her pretty male counterpart, and a former cop discussing the unfolding chase. It didn’t look like much of a chase, since, according to the commentary, the Ferrari was moving at a very discreet thirty miles an hour. I wondered if this was the source of the traffic jam from earlier in the day. If so the cops were certainly not in any hurry to resolve the situation.
“Do you think they’ll use spikes?” the male anchor asked.
“Those can be risky, and Kerrinan Ta Shena is famous,” the woman said.
And I had my explanation. Kerrinan was an Alfar heart throb. Had starred in a boatload of movies. I’d seen a number of them. He was also the primary spokesman for the Android smartphone.
“Not when you’re moving that slow, and no one is above the law,” said the ex-cop piously.
So what had happened that he was driving on a freeway with a phalanx of cops? I remembered his wife had died—no, been killed: it had been in the news a few weeks ago. But if they were talking road spikes to deflate the tires, it looked like the authorities had begun to suspect the spouse.
“I wonder why they don’t just move in,” the female anchor asked.
“Well, there’s a problem with that, Trina,” the male anchor said in a tone that made it sound like she was retarded. “The Alfar have this ability to move in and out of our reality. Makes it tough to make an arrest.”
“So why hasn’t he done it? Why hasn’t he left our world? Why spend hours in this glacial chase?”
“You’ll have to ask him that, Trina, once he’s apprehended.”
They were joined by a Hollywood reporter, and the group began to discuss Kerrinan’s films. He specialized in frothy romantic comedies where a human woman wins out over all the Alfar hotties for the heart of an elf lord. It had happened in real life too; Kerrinan had married a human actress, Michelle Balley. They had been Hollywood’s “it couple.” Until she fetched up dead.
There was something riveting about the chase, or maybe that was because I was so tired. I ate, watched the images on the tube, and listened to the never-ending babble. In an effort to fill the slowly passing minutes the reporters and experts in the studio, and their compatriots in the helicopter, in cars, and on bridges, rehashed the events that had led to this chase.
Three weeks ago Kerrinan had called the police to his Bel Air mansion. They found Michelle brutally murdered, and Kerrinan covered in blood and claiming no memory of the events. His defense attorneys claimed he’d gotten the blood on himself from holding his murdered wife, and that grief and shock had affected his memory. But forensics told a different story. DNA evidence proved that Kerrinan had wielded the knife that killed his wife. The police had been going to his house to arrest him when Kerrinan had fled into the garage, jumped in the Ferrari, and hit the highway. There was more speculation from the blow-dried news readers that the actor had been tipped off by a fan in the police department.
“Or maybe he just saw the flashing cherries and realized it wasn’t a parade,” the ex-cop said with a look of pity and contempt for the news anchors.
