Templeton arrived at six sharp Tuesday evening, dressed in a strapless black gown that hugged every curve of her lithe body, looking like a movie star in her new Cabriolet.
I’d picked up a black silk shirt at Saks Fifth Off down on the boulevard for nineteen bucks to go with the funeral suit and Italian shoes, and Templeton conceded that I’d actually managed to put together an ensemble that passed as marginally trendy. I climbed in without her getting out and we shot off into the weekday-evening traffic toward the Valley and the amphitheater at Universal City. By the time we got there, I’d filled her in on my encounter with Randall Capri.
“The most interesting things were what he didn’t say—he never came right out and denied my most scurrilous charges, just blustered with outrage that looked about as authentic as Regina Delgado’s cleft chin.”
The conversation moved back in time to my most recent visits to Horace Hyatt and the Delgados, and I mentioned the unpleasant fact of George Krytanos’s missing maleness. Templeton shivered.
“This story just gets darker and more perverse. Let’s hope we’ve bottomed out.”
“Never underestimate the human race, Templeton.”
By then, we were strolling arm in arm down hyperstylish Universal City Walk like a couple of Toontown characters. The late-March winds had chased away most of the Valley pollution, and the neon was bright and gaudy along the fake urban avenue where hip-hop-attired kids darted in and out of food joints and amusement palaces. As we passed a noisy video arcade, Templeton leaned into me a little, her head up against my shoulder.
“Can I trust you to enjoy yourself and blend in tonight?”
“I was counting on you to handle that part.”
“At least try to smile—after all, we’re undercover.”
I raised the corners of my mouth as ordered, and we turned into the amphitheater walkway, moving unimpeded to the VIP will-call ticket window. A minute after that, we were following directions around the side of the big concert hall, where we stood in a short line making its way through security into the party tents. To our right, beyond a locked chain-link gate, I saw the back ends of several limousines that had been parked pointing north. Their uniformed drivers stood about sipping coffee, chatting, or polishing the long limos, which already appeared to be immaculate, right down to the spotless tinted windows that camouflaged everything within.
Then we were showing our tickets and smiling our way inside, toward the jazzy sound of a live combo and a noisy crowd of entertainment-industry VIPs, acting like we belonged there. The party stretched out into several connected tents that included two open bars, several long tables piled lavishly with cheeses and other goodies, an empty dance floor, and a scattering of small tables and chairs where the schmoozing was already in high gear. Templeton was as stunning as any woman there, turning heads, most of them male, as we moved through the tents. I could see agents and executives trying to place her face, trying to figure out what singing group she might be a member of or peg her as some one-hit wonder they’d forgotten, while others just looked her up and down, trying not to drool.
The crowd was mixed, more black than white, and Freddie Fuentes appeared to be one of the few Hispanics in attendance. I spotted him across one of the tents at a dessert table, glancing quickly over his shoulder before he turned at a surreptitious angle to stuff foil-wrapped Godiva chocolates into one of his coat pockets. I discreetly pointed him out to Templeton, who was exchanging glances with a blond soap opera star whose name escaped me, if I’d ever known it at all.
“Remember, Templeton, we’re here to work.”
“Also to work the crowd, Justice. Loosen up, have some fun.”
“Maybe we should get some food.”
“Getting your appetite back?”
“I see Edward T. Felton, Junior at the main buffet. Why don’t you introduce yourself, see where it leads?”
“While you do what?”
“Hang close, keeping a low profile and my ears open.”
We waltzed across the tent as casually as possible, took plates at one end of the buffet, then sidled up next to the billionaire, who owned at least a dozen entertainment companies and had his eye on several more. I was surprised by how short he was; in his photos, television interviews, and taped panel appearances, where he regularly sounded off on the state of media and business—though never his personal life—he’d always come across as formidable. I’d gotten the impression of an outwardly cordial man whose affability and charm masked a razor-sharp mind that was quick to seize on an error or a weakness, who mercilessly sliced the interviewer or the opposition down to size as if he enjoyed it. Amid the tuxedos and flashier Hollywood outfits tonight, he had an Eastern corporate-power look: trim but sturdy looking; clean-shaven to a fault; a full head of short-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair; an Ivy League suit and tie that was probably Ralph Lauren. He had almost no neck, which accentuated both his short stature and his aura of power, and his face was conventionally masculine and unremarkable, except for his lively green eyes—they were as keen and judicious as any I’d ever seen, even as they searched the iced shrimp and little sandwiches. I didn’t see an unclipped hair, an errant thread, or a wasted movement about him; everything exuded discipline and control, both of which must have been essential for a homosexual like Felton as he rose through the corporate world in the sixties and seventies, until finally reaching his current pinnacle of power, where no one dared question his sexual orientation.
Templeton reached for one of the shrimps just as Felton did, timing her move so that her left hand bumped his right elbow. They both withdrew at the same time, apologetically, and Templeton feigned surprise.
“Oh, my goodness, it’s Edward T. Felton, Junior.”
His eyes crinkled as he smiled.
“Have I had the pleasure?”
She offered her hand.
“Alexandra Templeton, with the
Los Angeles Times.
”
“Ah, of course. So good to see you again.”
He reached toward the table, yet away from her, snatching a crustless, triangular sandwich.
“It’s kind of you to pretend that you know me, Mr. Felton. Not everyone would be so diplomatic.”
He bought himself a few seconds by plucking a toothpick and spearing a shrimp, and I could almost hear the fine mesh gears of his mogul’s mind turning inside his skull.
“I guess you’ve found me out, Miss Templeton.”
“I’m new at the
Times.
Hardly a household name. No reason for you to know me.”
“Entertainment?”
“The crime beat, actually.”
His eyes registered the information, dulled a bit, and he reached for a cracker and a slice of Brie.
“Police reporting. Must be fascinating.”
The boredom in his voice seemed measured but intentional, and when he had his cracker and cheese, I saw his eyes scan the room for someone who might be of more value to him.
“It depends on the story, Mr. Felton. I’m working on one now that gets more intriguing every day.”
“Something that might make a good movie of the week?”
“Too dark for that, I’m afraid. I’m looking into Charlotte Preston’s death.”
His eyes and interest came quickly back, hitting the brakes, sliding to a stop.
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that story. I guess I spend too much time with the business page.”
“Rod Preston’s daughter.”
He munched at a sandwich before he spoke.
“Ah, yes, I seem to remember hearing something about that. Suicide, wasn’t it?”
“That’s the official cause.”
“You’re developing another line?”
“Chasing some loose ends.”
“Interesting.”
His lips parted in another prefab smile, showing nicely capped teeth.
“And how do you happen to know Mandeville Slayton?”
“Never met him, actually.”
“Here as a fan, then?”
“Partly.”
“And the other part?”
“I’ve heard that he and Rod Preston were friendly.”
“Is that so? I didn’t know that.”
“You must have known Preston yourself, Mr. Felton.”
“Why do you say that?”
“A man like you, successful at so many levels of the business. And you seem to get out quite a bit, from what I’ve read in the social columns.”
“I may have met Preston once or twice, probably at some charity event.”
He glanced at his watch.
“At the risk of being rude, Miss Templeton, I must move on. I see a few friends out there I’d like to say hello to before the concert starts.”
“Is Mandeville Slayton a friend, Mr. Felton? Or are you also here as a fan?”
“I’m with a lady friend this evening. She’s the fan.”
“Just can’t resist the Tower of Love, I guess.”
“He does seem to have a way with the ladies, doesn’t he?”
“On stage, at least.”
Felton’s smile was locked in tighter than the fine print on a Hollywood contract, but his eyes were making precision movements, scanning Templeton’s for anything he could glean that wasn’t in her voice or words.
“I really have to go, Miss Templeton. It’s been a pleasure.”
“All mine, Mr. Felton.”
We watched him cross the tent, stopping here and there to shake a hand, lightly slap a back, offer a little wave or a nod as he got moving again. I was stuffing shrimp and cheese into my mouth, remembering all the advice I’d been getting about putting some pounds back on my unhealthy frame.
“Nice work, Templeton.”
“I felt like a microbe, squirming under his microscopic lens.”
“I think he was the one who was squirming.”
“Nothing useful, though. Just some very skillful evasion.”
She turned to the table.
“I missed lunch. Those sandwiches are tempting me.”
“Eat to your heart’s content. I have some poking around to do.”
“What kind of poking?”
“I’ll be back before too long.”
I left her and weaved through the chattering guests, across the tent and into another, until I saw a door off to the right that seemed like it might be the side exit I was looking for. When I stepped out, I found myself in the private parking area behind the locked gate, where not quite a dozen limos were lined up. Someone had brought plates of food out to the drivers, all of whom sat eating at a distant table that had been set up for them. All, that is, except for a reed-thin, thirtyish guy with a Fu Manchu mustache and longish hair beneath his visored cap. He leaned against the front fender of the lead limousine, which was gleaming white, smoking a cigarette like he needed it. I went in that direction, slipping past long, black cars that all bore Rolls Royce or Mercedes logos until I was next to the ivory limo in the leadoff spot.
I made a show of patting my pockets.
“You wouldn’t have a smoke, would you? I’m fresh out.”
The driver pulled a pack from his jacket pocket, shook one loose, and I took it. He put it back, found a lighter, and lit my cigarette without being asked. I took a shallow drag, careful not to cough.
“Thanks, man.”
I started to turn away, then stopped, hooking a thumb at the long, white car.
“This Mandeville’s ride?”
“Mandeville always goes in the lead car.”
“I figured that might be how it was. You think I could peek inside?”
“I better not.”
“Mandeville’s always bragging about his ride, man. Telling me how much sharper his interior is than mine.”
“It’s pretty nice, all right.”
“I sure would like to see it for myself.”
The driver gave me half a shrug.
“I don’t know.”
I pulled a fat roll of hundreds from my pocket and peeled a few off the top. “Would three bills buy me half a minute of you taking a little walk?” He glanced around, then told me five bills would pay for a full sixty seconds. I handed him the cash, pocketed the rest, and he wandered a short distance away, pulling on his cigarette while I opened the driver’s door and looked in. It was a very fine automobile inside, gleaming white leather with a dashboard that looked like it belonged in the cockpit of a 787. But what interested me more than the limo’s accessories was the figure sitting in the expansive rear section, sipping from a can of Coke while his attention was welded to a video game. He was a slim kid, blue-eyed, on the cute side, with long blond hair that hung straight and silky. I guessed his age at thirteen, maybe fourteen, but the Adam’s apple suggested he might have been older than that.
I leaned in, trying to sound friendly.
“Hey, what’s happening?”
He barely looked up.
“Nothin’.”
“You ready to party tonight?”
He hesitated, without a glimmer of happiness in his face.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I’m a friend of Mandeville’s.”
He nodded slightly, sullen.