“So why did you care if your name was exposed publicly?” asked Peter.
“Because I don’t want Carlie publicly embarrassed. Our life is enough of a media circus as it is. You know, bad boy rocker marries a girl like Carlie—the press loves this shit. I knew if it came out, the whole circus would start again. They’d start running the clips of my mug shot from years ago and the time I punched a paparazzi in the
face and I don’t want her to have to go through all that again,
especially since it’s finally died down. Does that make sense?”
“It does.” Peter glanced at his notepad. “Did you make any other payments to the blackmailer other than the initial $100,000?”
“Yes. Last Thursday I got another call, asking for another
$100,000. I sent it to the same P.O. box as the first time.”
“What time of the day did you get the call?”
“It was the morning. The call woke me up. I was grateful Carlie had left the day before so I wouldn’t have to explain it.”
“So Carlie doesn’t know everything about you?” asked Peter, not unkindly or accusatory, more like they were just two men out for a drink.
Austin looked at him blankly for a moment before
understanding
crossed his intelligent features. “Oh, right. No, I haven’t told her about this. I don’t want to risk her being upset. She’s had two miscarriages. I want to get her through the first trimester. She lost the last one after the press crucified her because of her performance
in
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
.” Bella had forgotten that Carlie had played Maggie in one of the big theatre houses in Los Angeles. The press had not been kind.
It wasn’t Carlie’s fault, Bella had thought at the time. Who casts a movie actress known for playing the girl next door in fluffy romantic comedies as the ferocious and sexy Maggie the Cat? Someone concerned with people buying tickets instead of worrying about the
integrity of the play or the poor Hollywood starlet completely miscast.
Peter glanced at his notepad again. “And you’re sure it was Thursday morning you heard from the blackmailer?”
Austin nodded his head in the affirmative. “I think so.”
Peter wrote something in his pad. Austin plucked at the strings on his guitar, staring at the floor before looking over at Peter. “Do you know who it was?”
“We have a suspicion but we’re unsure,” said Peter.
“Can you tell me?”
“Tiffany Archer.”
He blanched and turned pale. “What?”
“We believe her murder could be tied up in this.”
He put his guitar down and walked to the window. “So that’s why you’re here. You think I could have something to do with her murder?”
“That’s right.”
Austin turned to look at them. “If it was her blackmailing me I wouldn’t have murdered her over it. I might’ve eventually decided it wasn’t worth it to keep paying her but it wouldn’t have been the end of the world if it had come out. Carlie and I have good publicists. It
was
mostly Carlie I was worried about, just getting her through this first couple of months without miscarriage. And, I don’t say this to sound arrogant, but a couple hundred thousand dollars isn’t going to break me.”
“Where were you Thursday night and Friday morning?”
“Thursday night I played a charity gig at the Hollywood Bowl.
Bunch of bands participated. Cancer research. 18,000 people saw me that night. Saturday I spent the day here, writing songs and surfing. My housekeeper can vouch for me. She was here all day as well.”
Peter asked him to call them if he thought of anything else. They both gave him their cards. “You’re in the business, then?” he said to Bella.
“I’m afraid so.”
***
Cash Cutler’s home was in Beverly Hills. It was enormous, with
sprawling lawns and fountains, although not even close to the
largest on the street, which Peter noted with a dry quip about sit-com actors not making as much as rock musicians. This time they were let in through a security buzzer, similar to the one Drake had at his home, and pulled into a circular driveway. The house had large columns, like southern plantations might, and Bella remembered then that Cash was from Alabama or Georgia. His current television show was
about a country singer who hit the big time and moved to Beverly Hills. Cash was a good singer and a surprisingly talented actor,
completely believable in his current role.
A Hispanic maid answered the door and without a word led
them outside to a swimming pool. Cash, fit and tan, dressed in long
shorts and T-shirt, was reclining on a chaise lounge reading a magazine.
There
was a glass of white wine and a martini with two olives on the table next to the chaise. A young blond woman stood next to him, her surgery-enhanced breasts barely covered in a pink tank top. Her cut-off jeans were so short her butt cheeks were peeping out as she leaned over and pointed to something in the magazine that made
them both laugh.
Cash looked over at them as they approached. “Hey y’all. Come on out. What’re you drinking? I’ll have Lulu here fix you up one.”
Lulu was the girl, not the maid, apparently, because she straightened up, gave them the once-over, and broke into a huge
smile. “Of course I will, darlin’.” Her accent was southern, noted Bella. He must have imported this one from home.
They both declined the drink. “Well sure, you two are on the
job,” said Cash, his voice a slow drawl. “I played a cop once in a movie
and my character was always sipping from a flask but I guess y’all don’t really do that in real life.” He pointed toward a table with a cocktail umbrella. “Come on over here, I’ll get Martha to bring us
some grub.”
“No, we’re fine,” said Peter. “We just have a few questions for
you and then we’ll let you enjoy your evening.” His eyes slid to
Lulu. “Best if we talked to you alone.”
“Much obliged. Sure thing. Lulu, baby, go get changed. I want to take you to dinner.”
Lulu squealed and jumped up and down. Those breasts were a couple of weapons, thought Bella.
Cash grabbed his martini and the three of them sat at the table. “What can I do you for?” asked Cash.
“Like I said over the phone,” began Peter, but Cash interrupted
him.
“This is about the blackmail thing.”
“Right,” said Peter. “Can you tell us when it started?”
Cash looked around the yard like he was nervous, his eyes
darting
to every corner of the yard. “See, the thing is, whoever this
blackmailer person is, she said if I went to the police she’d leak the whole damn thing and well, I really don’t need that right now.”
“We believe the person who was blackmailing you is dead,” said Peter. “You’re safe to talk to us.”
“Dead?”
“When was the last time you heard from her?” asked Peter.
“Thursday.”
“What time?”
“Around lunchtime, I think. I was at the studio between takes.
They’ve got this whole sexy storyline going this season and this sweet little thing I’m filming with needed a break. It all looks sexy on television but filming love scenes ain’t as much fun as you might think. It’s all move your arm there and throw your head back there.
This poor girl was freezing and needed something hot to drink, not to mention how horrified she was to be almost buck naked next to me wearing nothing but one of the darn dick socks, excuse me for saying so, Miss.” His eyes darted to Bella and back to Peter. “I suggested a swig of tequila or something to loosen her up but she’s one of these girls who never eats or drinks, legs as big ‘round as a toothpick. I like my girls with a little southern fried meat on their bones. Wait a minute, now, where was I going with this? My mama always says I never know when to shut my mouth and let someone ask a question.”
“How many times had you received calls like this?”
“Three times. This was the fourth. Each time she asked for a hundred grand. Which hurt me to hand over, believe you me, but like I said, I’m trying to build a new image—away from the bad boy stuff—and more of a recovering sweet ol’ southern boy who wasn’t prepared for fame. You know, that kind of thing.”
“That kind of thing can be real, you know,” said Bella, warm, thinking of poor Tiffany.
“Oh, hell yeah, sure. But that’s not really the case for me. I’m
reckless. Have been all my life, even before I came out here, so me
and
my mama can’t really blame Hollywood on my troubles but my
publicist sure can. You know half the crapola you read in them big magazines ain’t really the truth. Publicists run this town, let me tell you. And the thing is, I don’t care what people think of me, really. I
just want to keep working and my manager and agent think it’s
better if I play up all this poor ol’ me routine.”
“Poor old me?” asked Peter, watching him with those piercing eyes that seemed to see everything in at once.
“Oh, you know, the sharks of Hollywood got a hold of me and now I’m fighting hard against my demons, blah, blah, blah. Get my drift, here?”
“Is it important enough for you to murder over?”
“How’s that again?”
“Tiffany Archer was blackmailing you.”
His eyes were wide, disbelieving. “Tiffany Archer? Wasn’t she just a kid? May she rest in peace.”
“Twenty-seven,” said Peter.
“Shoot, she was blackmailing me? How’d she know about it?”
“She got ahold of Ms. Zinn’s little black book, for lack of a better term.”
“And now she’s dead. Holy cow. Murdered? Am I a suspect?” Strangely he didn’t look scared, more intrigued with the idea.
“How important was it that this be kept from the press?”
He shrugged, glancing toward the house. “Shoot, not enough to
kill over it. I wasn’t sure what to do next, honestly. I’ve had some money problems, you know. Gambling and, well, as you know, whores, and some parties I’ve thrown I really shouldn’t, so I really couldn’t afford to keep paying her, but on the other hand, I really
didn’t need any more bad press. But, heck, I couldn’t kill anyone. I love the Lord, for one. And He’s already displeased with me over the gambling and the whores and not giving enough money to the church and all that, but Jesus knows my heart and it ain’t the murdering kind.”
“Where were you Thursday night and early Friday morning?”
He scratched his chin and took a sip of his martini, glancing
toward the house. “I was with a girl. Not Lulu, as it turns out.”
“Were you seen in public with her?”
He grimaced. “‘Fraid not. We were here at the house.” He
snapped his fingers. “But the security log will show when I came in and when I left. That’ll prove it.” Pausing for a moment before taking a swig of his martini, he looked over at Bella. “You look familiar. Have we met before? I’ve had a couple run-ins with the cops out here. Do I know you from that?”
“Maybe,” said Bella evasively. She looked at her hands.
“It’ll come to me later. Probably tomorrow when the martini isn’t making my head fuzzy.” He turned back to Peter. “Anyway, I feel real bad she was murdered but it does solve some of my
problems, I ain’t gonna lie. But I had nothing to do with it. I hope you believe me.”
“We’ll check the security log, as you suggested,” said Peter,
putting his card on the table. “You give us a ring if you think of
anything that might be helpful in this case.”
“Sure as shootin’.”
***
Connor Jenkins’s home was a few streets over from Cash’s and four times as big. Besides the main dwelling there were several guest cottages and multiple pools and a tennis court. “How much money does this guy have?” Peter asked her as he parked the car.
“He owns all those stores plus a basketball team and I don’t know what else. I’m pretty sure he’s on the Forbes 100 list.”
Peter kept shaking his head as they waited for someone to
answer the door. Finally, a maid wearing an actual old-fashioned black and white uniform answered the door. “This way, please. Mr. Jenkins asked me to show you into his study.”
They followed her down a hallway, catching a glimpse of a
sitting room ornately decorated and a dining room with a large chandelier. Connor Jenkins was tall and rotund and balding, dressed in an expensive looking sweat outfit and slippers. The study was dark and masculine, with leather chairs and mahogany walls. A large desk held a computer and several neat stacks of paper. There was a bar in
the corner with various hues of liquor in crystal decanters. He
smoked a cigar, sitting in a leather chair next to a lit fireplace, but stood when they entered, shaking both their hands. He picked up the humidor from the coffee table, opened it and offered one to Peter. “Cigar? Best in the world.”
“Thank you, I don’t smoke,” said Peter.
“Drink?” he asked, his eyes on Bella.
“No thank you,” she said, unable to break eye contact.
“I insist.”
“I’m on duty,” she lied, feeling warmer.
“There isn’t a chance in hell you’re a cop.” His black eyes
glittered. He pointed at Peter with his cigar. “That’s a cop. You, my lovely, are something else entirely. But never mind. I don’t know what game you’re up to, but Peter Ball, Tiffany Archer’s murder is no more your case than this little girl over here is a cop.”
If Peter was as shocked as she, he didn’t show it. His expression never changed. “You know Tiffany Archer was blackmailing you?”
“Figured it out the night before she was killed. Had some folks looking into it for me. All roads turned to her. Next morning I wake up to the news she’s dead. Couldn’t say I was sad to hear. Solved me having to take care of it myself.”
“Did you have her murdered?”
“Course I didn’t. Not my style. I was prepared to send my boys up there to Oregon and have her roughed up a bit, threaten her if she didn’t agree to back off. She was in way over her head and that would’ve done the trick.”