The Midnight Show Murders (2) (26 page)

“Well, look what I found.”

It was Blaney, standing beside me, pointing a gun at my head. “You are so going down,” he said.

I pushed up into a sitting position. That’s all I did, I swear to God. I’m not sure how Blaney interpreted it. A threat, I guess. He took a backward step … and wasn’t there anymore. Just like Wile E. Coyote.

The scream that followed was loud and had an echo effect. It lasted for a surprisingly long time, growing softer and softer until it was no longer audible. In my mind, he’s still falling.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

I hugged my legs, trying to keep warm. I rocked back and forth. I don’t know why. After what seemed like hours but was probably only a couple of minutes, I got out the phone and turned up the volume. “You there, Campbell?”

“We’re here,” Brueghel said. “You in a safe place?”

“Relatively.”

“How many in the gang?”

The gang. “Was a gang of three. Now two.”

“Good work. We’re sitting on the two. Where are you?”

“You tell me.”

“Okay. Stay. We’ll find you.”

“No. I’m too near the edge. Just start honking a car horn. I’ll find you.”

Maybe I could have stood up and walked. But I’d developed an affinity for the ground. With my knees stinging, I crawled toward my own personal foghorn.

Eventually, I saw headlights adding a ghostlike quality to the fog. I got to my feet and staggered toward them.

Campbell was leaning against the rear of the Mercedes, her phone to her ear. Stew and Trey were lying on their stomachs at her feet, their hands cuffed behind their backs.

“That you, Blessing?” Stew asked, twisting his head to look up.

Blood caked the side of his no-longer-handsome face, and his frantic eyes reminded me of a prairie dog’s I’d seen in a cage too small for him.

“You were lying to me, right?” he asked. “Glory didn’t really tell you that?”

“I’ve never even met the woman,” I said.

Chapter
FORTY-EIGHT

Somebody in the hotel must have tipped the media I was there. After the first dozen calls, beginning at five in the morning, the zero hour, apparently, for lean and hungry freelance journalists, I disconnected the room phone. Management was kind enough to provide a security guard to stop their more aggressive brethren and sistren from knocking on my door.

My cellphone, once it had been fully charged, was my own responsibility. No longer a fan of “Frim-Fram Sauce,” I put the instrument on vibrate and, depending on the ID, either ignored the call or pretended to humbly accept effusive praise from friends and associates who’d been misled by the elaborately spun reports of my heroic capture of the killers of Desmond O’Day, James Fitzpatrick, and Gibson Lewis (carefully doled out in the early hours by April Edding and her publicity crew).

Cassandra had been surprisingly impressed, suggesting we frame and mount the
New York Times
account of my bravery and hang it at the Bistro’s front door beside a long-standing lovely restaurant review by Ruth Reichl in
Gourmet
when it was a magazine as well as a website. Wally Wing, who was calling himself my manager as well as agent, saw even bigger business opportunities, thanks to my new fame. A restaurant chain. Several movies. Books. A show in prime time.

“Hell, Billy, I think we’re ready for our own videogame.”

“Baby steps, Wally,” I replied. “We can discuss this rationally when the fairy dust has blown away.”

“When do you return to Fun City?”

“With luck, tomorrow.”

Gretchen Di Voss called to congratulate me. She and several other executives, including her father, had had an early meeting to discuss the fate of
The Midnight Show
.

“It’s a goner,” she said. “Unlike the people who refuse to believe in global warming, we recognize a disaster when it’s staring us in the face. Even if the show hadn’t been struck by so many tragic events, the talk-and-entertainment competition is simply too great. I mean, just look at Leno’s new numbers. Temporarily, we’ll be filling the time slot with repeats of two sitcoms from our premium cable channel,
Nasty Nancy
and
The Boy with the Magic Ding-Dong
. Since they’ll be on after midnight, we won’t even have to do much editing.

“In the fall, we’re starting a full hour of news hosted by Vida Evans. She’s raring to go.”

“I’ll bet.”

“She, ah, suggested you for her cohost. Any interest?”

“Oh, gee …”

“You’ll be here, in New York. She’ll be out there. With your recognition factor going through the roof, I think we can kick
Nightline
’s ass.”

My recognition factor. My fame. Such ephemeral bullshit. All I wanted was my old life back. I liked getting up early and being part of the
Wake Up
team. I liked doing the cable shows and having enough time to at least say hello to the customers who were keeping the Bistro going.

But the news hour might be fun.

“We can talk about it when I get back,” I said.

“Excellent. Meanwhile, Billy, bravo. You did a brave and wonderful thing.”

I clicked the phone shut and looked down at my bandaged knees. “Bravo,” I said. “You guys did all the work.”

The phone vibrated. Harry Paynter. Not today, Harry. Maybe I’d return the call tomorrow, if I had time.

Before another call came in, I dialed Gloria Ingram. She seemed surprised to hear from me and, surprising me, said she was glad I called. She hoped I could tell her why Stew had wanted to kill Des. When I did, she seemed relieved.

“Did you know Des?” I asked.

“No. I don’t think I ever even saw him perform. But Stew … well, I never knew what was going on in his head. I’m just glad …”

She let it trail off, but I understood what she was glad about. That none of it had anything to do with her.

“Could I ask
you
a question?” I said.

When she agreed, I did.

She hesitated briefly, then told me what I wanted to know.

I thanked her and wished her well.

As soon as I clicked off, the phone vibrated.

“Hi, Vida.”

“My God, Billy. Stew Gentry and that weasel Trey. And you nailed ’em, single-handedly. It’s an incredible story.”

“The detectives helped,” I said.

“Don’t start that Mr. Modesty bit. It doesn’t become you. Flaunt it, baby.”

“Maybe I’ll get a T-shirt made. On the front: ‘Guess Who Solved the Des O’Day Murder?’ On the back: ‘Me.’ ”

“You’re the most amusing man I know,” she said. Then, lowering her voice just a hint, added, “I got some wonderful news today.”

“Really?”

“They’re putting a current-events show in the
Midnight
slot. And guess who’s hosting?”

“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving person.”

“Thank you, sir. Ah, Billy, I think you may have gotten the wrong impression about Brutus and myself. We’re not … committed.”

“No. That would be Stew and Trey.”

“Romantically committed,” she said. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes.” And I knew what she was about to say.

“Anyway, I thought it might be nice to celebrate your amazing accomplishment tonight. Over dinner and …”

“I wish I could. But I’m kinda tied up.”

“Oh. Then tomorrow night, maybe?”

“Bad timing. I’m heading back east tomorrow.”

“Darn. I’d love to see you. There’s something we should talk about.”

“Personal … or business?”

“Oh, hell. I’d like you to cohost the show with me.”

“See how easy and painless that was? And a dinner wasn’t even necessary.”

“You’ll do it?”

“Let me mull it over. I’ll get back to you early next week.”

I hadn’t been lying to her about having something else to do that night.

At eight-thirty, Pete Brueghel and I were headed out on what I hoped would be my last trip to Malibu for a long while. Our destination was the restaurant Frush, where Roger Charbonnet was celebrating his release from the lockup.

Brueghel and I looked rather dashing, I thought, in Hollywood-casual slacks and sport coats. Ties neither required nor expected.

“I don’t get why you insisted I come along to the prick’s get-out-of-jail party. I’m the guy who put him in jail.”

“There’s your reason. In a way, you inspired the party.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Okay,” I said. “I need a wingman.”

“Seriously, what are we doing?”

“Enjoying ourselves for a change. All work and no play …”

“This is not my idea of play, Blessing. My idea of play would be putting the cuffs on Charbonnet in the middle of the party and perpwalking him past all his sleazy friends back into the lockup.”

“The night is young,” I said.

He gave me a hopeful look and increased our speed.

“By the way,” he said, “there’s a pilot who thinks he can put a copter down on the floor of that ravine. If the DA can find a forensic team willing to be his passengers, he might just have everything he needs to put Gentry and Halstead away forever.”

“You really think that’ll happen?”

“If the only victim had been O’Day, the guy who helped blow up the Gentry girl, conviction would be a tough call. But you throw in Lewis and Fitzpatrick and we’re talking a slam dunk. Especially with you in the witness box.”

The thought of having to return for the trial made me wince. “I don’t suppose the prosecutor and the defense attorney could question me via Skype?”

“Not likely, unless—goddamn it!”

He slammed on the brakes, and the seat belts did their thing. He’d stopped inches short of a beauty in a minikini who was Rollerblading across the PCH while playing a violin.

“I think we’ve arrived at the party,” I told him.

Frush was nestled among an assortment of high-end boutiques, salons, and spas operating under the umbrella name of The Malibu Collective. Or as the local teens called it, “The ’Bu’tive.”

Brueghel drove around the lineup of cars near the valet service and parked his Crown Vic himself near a night-padlocked shop called May’s Flowers. As we approached the restaurant, where a small, nervous woman in a pantsuit checked off names on a clipboard and a huge bull-necked gentleman observed her and the guests with a bored expression, Brueghel said, “Am I having fun yet?”

I have to report, in all humility, that my arrival at the door caused something of a sensation. That happens when your picture has been popping up on news shows and websites all day in connection with … celebrity murders!

Men stopped and gawked. Women stared at me longingly. Or so it seemed. The name-checker waved us in. Even the bouncer seemed impressed.

There must have been some Malibu Collective insistence on a unified look to the exteriors of its shops, since Frush’s façade, like the Pet Shampoo Parlor to its left and the Anime Art salon to its right, had a distinct washed-out tan adobe quality. Its interior, for purposes of this party, at least, resembled a Universal TV set designer’s idea of a classy, top-of-the-line brothel, subtly lit, plush furnishings, small tables, and lots of loud, self-important men and beautiful but languid ladies.

“Nice crowd,” Brueghel said. “I always wondered where Satan hung out during his frequent West Coast visits.”

A buffet dinner awaited on two long tables lining the right side of the large room, manned by a group of men and women costumed in prison striped shirts and trousers and toques. The members of the serving staff, circulating through the crowd, also were garbed in prison chic, minus the hats. I grabbed two flutes of champagne from the nearest tray and handed one to Brueghel.

“You’ll have to tell me if I’m on duty,” he said.

“Don’t seem to be.”

I searched the crowd of faces. Some I knew from films or sports. Some I knew from their appearances on the morning show. Most I didn’t know at all.

“Looking for somebody?” Brueghel asked. “Our host is over by the stage, pawing the broad in the bikini.”

She was wearing the same tiny thonglike outfit as the Rollerblader we’d almost run over. There were three others, similarly attired. One was seated at a set of drums. “I think they’re the band,” I said.

“They travel light.”

The lady with Roger slid from his grasp, joined the others, and said something that snapped them to attention. She signaled a plump young man, their roadie, apparently, who, thankfully, was not in a minikini, and he did his thing with the sound equipment. She turned to face the crowd, raised her right hand, and, when she brought it down, the music began.

It wasn’t awful. Like Katy Perry, times five. Bouncy, with lyrics that were seminaughty but cute.

With guests dancing or hooking up trying out lounge lizard poses, the detective and I decided it was a good time to take a run at the nearly vacant buffet. Calamari and olives salad. Two types of pizza squares, barbecued chicken, and boiled tiger shrimp. Mini sirloin burgers. And a special treat: abalone on the half-shell, which a prison-chic chef shucked on demand.

We commandeered a small table not far from the buffet, coerced a server into providing two more champagnes, and dug in. Brueghel was at the buffet table selecting a second course when I heard that unmistakable voice say, “ ’Illy, the hero o’ the ’ay.”

It was the wheelchair-bound Victor Anisette and his hot freckled nurse. He was swaddled in a too-full black shirt and black trousers, with an ugly black toupee stuck to his scalp. The nurse’s white uniform was made of skintight leather. “He says you’re the hero of the day,” she translated.

Victor jerked his head toward Brueghel, who was approaching with his second full plate.

“ ’eeckey, hi ih a ang lace hohun hinhi who.”

“He says, ‘Detective, this is a strange place to run into you.’ ”

Brueghel looked at the nurse and I’d swear he licked his lips. Then he blinked and turned toward Victor. “How’s the good life, Mr. Anisette?”

Victor glared at him with his working eye.

Brugehel put his plate on the table and sat, pretending to ignore the old man.

“Hug.”

“He called you a thug.”

“Well, that’s praise from Caesar, sure enough,” the detective said. “I like your nurse outfit, by the way. It’s got that Helen’s House of Pain thing going for it.”

Surprisingly, she gave him a wide smile. Which he returned.

Victor wrapped one of his claws around the girl’s wrist and said, “Ak e to aiya.”

“He wants you to take him to aiya,” Brueghel told the nurse.

She giggled. “Not aiya. Roger,” she said.

“Nah!” Victor shouted angrily, and the nurse hopped to it, wheeling him away.

Brueghel stopped shoveling in the pizza long enough to say, “I’m a sucker for freckles.”

“So is Victor,” I said.

He winced and put down the pizza slice. “That’s it. You ruined my appetite.”

“Just as well,” I said, pushing back my chair. “It’s magic time.”

I started making a path through the dancers. Following behind, Brueghel said, “What’s up, Blessing?”

I didn’t answer. He’d find out soon enough, I hoped.

To the left of the band, Roger seemed to be laying down the law to Victor, who wiggled in his chair. The nurse hovered just out of earshot.

Victor saw me approaching. He raised a bony claw, and Roger turned my way. He grinned and rushed toward me. “Billy, Billy. Goddamn it! The master detective.”

Dancers stopped and stared as he wrapped his arms around me and hugged. “My savior.” He released me and said to the crowd, “This man is the reason I’m free today.”

Darned if they didn’t applaud.

Then Roger saw Brueghel, and the smile on his face vanished. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“He came with me,” I said.

Roger gave me a cold look. “What is this? Some kind of setup?”

“Do you have an office here?” I asked. “Someplace we can talk?”

“What do we have to talk about?”

“After twenty-two years,” I said, “don’t you think it’s time we cleared the air?”

He looked from me to Brueghel, who seemed no less puzzled than he.

“C’mon,” Roger said. “Follow me.”