Larger Than Lyfe (35 page)

Thomas Hencken got on the phone to secure the warrants necessary to view Keshari’s body at the coroner’s office and mortuary. It required more than a few strings to be pulled and he had to call in a lot of favors all the way to Washington, D.C. Un-fortunately, things took yet another turn for the worst when he arrived at the coroner’s office the next day and Keshari Mitchell’s body had been quickly moved to a mortuary by her attorney for immediate cremation. The pathologist allowed the DEA agents to review the paperwork containing Keshari Mitchell’s cause of death as well as
the contents from her stomach pump provided by the paramedics. Keshari’s apparent cause of death was an acute overdose of secobarbital.

Thomas Hencken was livid. The special task force was being dismantled, agents were being assigned to other cases and Thomas Hencken’s superiors in Washington, D.C. called him and demanded a meeting. In Washington’s eyes, as well as in the eyes of many of the task force’s agents, the special task force simply had not made enough progress to continue putting good money after bad. Two agents had lost their lives. The convictions that had been made through the work of the special task force agents were at the bottom of The Consortium’s hierarchy. Thomas Hencken strongly believed tha
t there might be some DEA agents in The Consortium’s pocket. Such was often the case in America’s “war on drugs.” Criminals were often two or more steps ahead of law enforcement. Major criminals’ pockets were almost always
deeper than law enforcement task force budgets. When law enforcement budgets were depleted, they were forced to move on, whether or not they had accomplished their mission; and even if they had accomplished their mission, there was always a new criminal organization at the ready to assume position wherever the prior organization had left off. Drug trafficking in the United States was a trillion-dollar enterprise and sometimes it was made crystal clear to law enforcement that trying to eradicate its operation was akin to trying to take on a missile launcher with a peashooter. There
was simply too much money and corruption involved to realistically foresee any REAL progress.

But Thomas Hencken was determined that he would not let go.

S
ecurity was extremely tight. Police and news helicopters flew overhead. Live television news crews captur
ed the Who’s Who of the entertainment industry arriving in limousines and forming a lengthy procession of respectful mourners heading up the stone steps and into St. Thomas Cathedral on Figueroa. Keshari’s mother was deceased. So was the grandmother who had tried to care for her following Keshari’s mother’s passing. Keshari had no real family to speak of except for Misha, although the two of them were not related by blood. Most of the funeral’s attendees were nothing more than business associates of Keshari’s, some of them were total strangers, and many of them had the most selfish of ulterior
motives for coming. Keshari’s funeral, like a Def Jam party thrown by Russell Simmons himself, was just another place where everybody who was anybody needed to be. Fans of the Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment record label and Larger Than Lyfe’s roster of superstar artists watched the procession behind barricades on the opposite sides of the street outside St. Thomas Cathedral. Many of them snapped photographs with their cell phones, digital cameras, and disposable cameras. All of them craned their necks to take in the celebrity faces that dotted the crowd of mourners.

The front pages of all of Los Angeles’ newspapers and tabloids had been dedicated to Keshari Mitchell, reporting the details of her career, the mystery and the rumors that had constantl
y surrounded
her life, and the questions that now surrounded her death. An exquisite, huge, hand-carved, mahogany urn that had been imported from Egypt, topped by an enormous spray of white roses, was carried into St. Thomas Cathedral by Andre DeJesus, Terrence Henderson, Shaquille O’Neal and Rasheed the Refugee, the pallbearers. The female “Jane Doe” who had been quickly cremated and transferred into the urn that was supposed to contain Keshari’s remains was receiving a VIP send-off instead of a pauper’s grave.

Misha Tierney was escorted into a side door by her handsome, New York Knicks fiancé
and a throng of security. Dressed in black Chanel and huge, black, Christian Dior sunglasses, Misha was but a shell of her usual, beautiful, well-known to be outspoken self. She had been under heavy sedation since the fateful day that she’d discovered Keshari’s body on the bathroom floor of Keshari’s master suite. She had been so distraught days after Keshari’s death that everyone felt certain that she was having some sort of nervous breakdown. Her assistant had had to cancel two large projects of hers because Misha was in no condition to do anything. Misha had been the obvious choice t
o give the eulogy at Keshari’s funeral, but, because of her current mental state, Andre DeJesus had stepped in to give the eulogy instead.

Mars adamantly refused to go to the church to attend Keshari’s funeral. He refused to sit in the same room where Keshari’s remains were in a box and then ride to a cemetery to watch that box being placed into a mausoleum. That was too much for him to take. He’d had to take a brief leave from work because of what the shock of Keshari’s death had done to his head. He lost the
mental and physical ability and desire to function, professionally or otherwise.

Even though he had not spoken to Keshari since the night that he’d confirmed the truth of the federal agent’s story about Keshari’s link to organized crime, Mars still loved Keshari as deeply as when he’d fallen in love with her in Negril. He had always known that, one day, he would overcome his hurt and anger and judgment at Keshari’s violation of their trust. He had always known deep down that, eventually, he would have forgiven her. His heart would have compelled him to forgive her and, if Keshari would have had him, the two of them would probably have reconciled…her past in the past,
all cards on the table, the future bright. Now all of that was nothing more than wishful thinking, possibilities that would always be nothing more than possibilities, time that could never be recaptured, and a chain of events that could never be changed.

Since the day that the entire music industry was shocked and saddened by the news of Keshari’s suicide, Mars had lay in a disheveled mess on a chaise longue on his terrace. He hadn’t shaven. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t even taken off the suit he’d worn on the day he’d gone rushing up to Keshari’s house, only to find out that she was gone. The mix of emotions that had dominated his thoughts since their break-up were quickly replaced by profound guilt and grief.

Mars’s best friend, Jason Payne, came to Mars’s condo repeatedly to check on his grieving brother. Mars wouldn’t let him in. He didn’t want to see nor be around anyone. Mars’s mother and sister had been watching coverage on the news in New York and called Mars to let him know that they were flying to L.A. to be with him. Mars had his answering service tell them not to worry, that he was okay and just needed to be by himself for a while.

The one time that Mars did finally answer his phone himself, Portia Foster had the temerity to be on the other end of the line. Her voice, filled with sympathy, said that she was calling Mars to make sure that he was okay, that she’d been so worried about him since Keshari’s…well, since her…uhm…passing, and that she’d like to come by and bring him some food, a little “care package” to help him to feel better.

“You crazy BITCH!” Mars yelled before slamming down the phone. “Why couldn’t it have been YOU?!”

He lay in a drunken stupor on the chaise longue that had become his bed on his terrace. He should have passed out from alcohol poisoning after all of the liquor that he’d consumed. He sent his housekeeper on a two-week, paid vacation to her native Mexico to visit family. Between bottles of Patrón tequila and Heineken, Mars questioned the very meaning of life.

In his restless sleep, Keshari came to Mars in his dreams. Wearing a $40,000 sable coat with nothing underneath except the platinum-and-diamond belly chain that Mars had purchased as a gift for her at Raffinity, Keshari curled up on the chaise longue beside him, kicking off high-heeled sandals, her red toes tickling his legs, and whispered in his ear, “See…I’m still here.” She planted soft, seductive kisses on his neck and he smiled, her every touch taking him to special places. He couldn’t control himself as he took her aggressively on top of that sable coat, her perfect, bro
wn legs wrapped around his waist.

“See…I’m still here,” she murmured over and over again in his ear, arching her back, making him come faster than he wanted to.

When he climaxed, it was like an explosion that snapped him awake. He looked all around him at the dimly lit terrace. Keshari was gone. Mars was all alone. He started to cry. Keshari was gone forever.

D
avid Weisberg’s messenger service hand-delivered requests for the presence of the entire list of Keshari’s heirs at his firm’s offices exactly one week after Keshari’s funeral. Misha was away on a trip to the Caribbean with her fiancé. The handsome player for the New York Knicks believed that a change of scenery would be just the thing to help Misha overcome the debilitating grief that she’d suffered after losing her best friend.

David Weisberg secured the particulars of Misha’s travel arrangements from her fiancé’s assistant and hired a messenger service in Trinidad to hand-del
iver the notification regarding the reading of Keshari’s will. Misha handled the situation extremely well. With her fiancé at her side, she shed more tears, but she resolved herself to the fact that it was time to get back to the business of living her life. She had a business to run and her own wedding to plan and the distribution of Keshari’s assets would help to bring some closure to one of the most painful situations of her life.

Mars was still on leave from ASCAP and notification was delivered to his condo. He was drunk, disheveled, and completely out of himself when the messenger rang his doorbell. He tossed the notification regarding the reading of the will over the railing of his terrace and told himself that he would not go.

On the afternoon of the reading of the will, all of the heirs
who’d received notification were assembled in the main conference room at David Weisberg’s offices. Misha appeared to be getting back to her old self. She wafted into the room on a cloud of Viktor & Rolf’s Flowerbomb perfume, dressed to kill in charcoal gray Gucci and wearing the tan that she’d acquired in Trinidad very well. Her handsome fiancé had accompanied her for moral support. Andre DeJesus, Sharonda Richards, and Terrence Henderson all sat together. Everyone was present with the exception of Mars Buchanan.

David Weisberg sent his secretary over to Mars’s condo. They’d tried calling repeatedly and had only received his answering service. They contacted the management office and explained the urgency of their situation and asked if someone could send security to check to see if Mars’s car was in the garage. It was. David Weisberg’s secretary was furious at having been assigned such a task. She had no idea what to expect from this Mars Buchanan. If he had no interest in appearing for the reading of that female mobster’s will, that was certainly his prerogative.