Hard Exit, page 17
We heard a sound behind us in the house, and he turned to look and listen. I knew that his mom was in there. I guessed her primary caretaker, Maria, was, too.
“How is she?” I asked.
“Going downhill fast. It’s awful. But not fast enough, if you know what I mean. I know that must sound bad.”
“No, it doesn’t. It sounds loving. She’s suffering, and everyone else around her feels helpless and stressed. Because her dying is inevitable, dying with less suffering and more dignity is what everyone should be hoping for.”
“Right. But I can only be here so often. With Leslie and the kids, and the practice, I’ve got my hands full. Maria is great, really great, but …”
“I understand. Try to hang in there. One day at a time, brother.”
“It feels more like second-by-second, but I hear you.”
“If you’ll forgive my directness, who’s writing the obituary?”
“We’re two friends talking. You can’t be too direct. I plan to write it today. Why?”
“I know this is an absurd suggestion, and I know people only get one obituary in their local papers, but what if you let the guys who did this know someone’s onto them?”
“Say he was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“If you think that will work, great. Mom’s not able to read it, and everyone who knew Dad knows he didn’t kill himself, so, yeah, I can do that. But why? What happened to the element of surprise?”
“In most cases, surprise works to your advantage, but when perps are desperate and getting sloppy, letting them know you’re breathing down their necks can cause them to make more mistakes”
“Ones that could get them caught.”
“That’s what I’m hoping. Which leads me to my last question, but then I have to go. I left Jennifer waiting.”
“Pearson? What happened to Amanda?”
“Let’s just say we’re no longer co-stars”
“I wish I could say that surprised me.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Because I’ve heard things.” He paused, then said, “Look, I’m sorry I said anything. I should’ve just said, ‘That’s too bad.’”
“No, what did you hear?”
“That she’s been using.”
“Really? Who said that, and how long ago?”
“Probably six months, maybe a little more. Heard it at a party down the beach, at the Prabhu’s. Gilson, the twerp, was holding court, or thinking he was. Most of the time people just laugh at him, not at his stories. He was bragging about having seen a certain big-time actress on her knees. ‘But not the way you’re thinking,’ he said. Then he delivered what he thought was the punchline: ‘She was snorting a line off a toilet seat. America’s Sweetheart, my ass!’”
“The guy was a zilch. You know he’s dead, right?” He shook his head but didn’t look as surprised as I would’ve guessed he would look. “Housekeeper found him hanging from his bedroom door. He probably had reasons to kill himself, but I’d bet everything I have that Chris Cerveris, your dad, and Gilson were killed by the same people. And that’s one of the reasons why I’m here: Did your dad ever mention Marty Milford, Chris’ producing partner?”
“No, why?”
“No casual references or unwarranted, vicious criticisms of his movies or—?”
“Not that I can remember. Why?”
“I think he’s behind the killings. He’s an arrogant blowhard, but he’s made some good movies. He and Chris produced probably a dozen together. Gilson, Marty, and Chris ran in the same circles, worked together. Family members and business partners are always the first suspects. I don’t know much yet, including how Gilson was involved, but your dad’s murder makes me believe he must have been in Milford’s orbit somehow. But I don’t know what that connection is, and without it, my theory falls apart.”
“What theory?”
“If it didn’t involve your father, I’d hesitate to tell you because I have zero proof, and I’m not doing much more than spit-balling.”
“What’s your theory, Jack?”
“I think Milford is smuggling cocaine in Wave Skimmers.”
“Jesus, dude. What’s gotten into you? You’re obviously under a ton of stress. I’ve personally watched the entire process, from the barrels of resin powder arriving in the factory in San Felipe, to the kayaks being shipped north, to them being inspected by drug-sniffing dogs at the border, to being fitted with handles, seats, and hatches at the shop in Compton. Trust me. There is nothing being smuggled in the kayaks.”
“I believe every word you just said, except the last sentence. I’m not saying I understand how it’s being done, and I’m not saying your dad had anything to do with it. I’m saying that Chris, your dad, and Gilson were all murdered within days of each other, all by hanging. The universe throws out all kinds of coincidences, some far outside the realm of probability, but these murders can’t be coincidental. I have no idea how the pieces fit together. Don’t know if Chris was in on the smuggling, don’t know how Milford managed the smuggling, don’t know how Gilson was involved, don’t know if your dad was involved, don’t know how the MLKs and da Uptown Posse are involved, but those are the pieces I have, and I need to solve the puzzle.”
“Look, I’m going to tell you something that’s going to hurt you a lot. Something I haven’t told you all these years because I’m your friend, but only a friend could tell you this. It’s something I suspect you already know, so it may not hurt as much as it would if you were delusional or stupid. You aren’t very good at your job.”
I stared at him. I’d known that being an investigator was not my dream profession. I’d known that I’d fallen into the work because I needed something to keep my mind occupied so I could try to decrease my thoughts about losing Jami. I’d known that I lacked the passion for my law-enforcement mission to be a great investigator. But I didn’t think those realities made me bad at my job.
When I continued to stare at him, Frank said: “It’s kind of a running joke in this town. I don’t take pleasure in saying it, but it’s true. Other PIs are more ruthless, less principled, more corrupt, meaner, more willing to admit there are no rules. I’m sure you’re smarter than all of them, but intelligence is only part of what a person needs to do your job well. They’re brutal bullies, and you’re not.”
“You think that makes me bad at my job?”
“Obviously, or I wouldn’t have said it. But I said not very good.”
“You could be right. Regardless of whether you are, thank you for your honesty. I’m about to prove you wrong, though, but I’ll need your help, if you’re willing to help me.”
“Sure. I’m not saying I don’t like and respect you, Jack.”
“We’re cool. I swear. But I need you to write an obituary stating outright that your dad was murdered and connecting his murder to the murders by hanging of Chris Cerveris and Jason Gilson. Can you do that?”
“Of course.”
“Great. Then I need you to go through your father’s paperwork, all of it, sheet by sheet, looking carefully for any mention of Marty Milford, or Martin Milford. I don’t care if it’s a dinner receipt from the Holiday House in 1982. I need you to find a connection. I’m not saying to invent one, but I’m telling you a connection between the two exists. You know how I know?”
“No.”
“Because I’m a good detective.” I smiled and stood. “Maybe not great but good enough.”
“Trust me, Jack, I’m not rooting against you. If you’re able to figure out who killed Dad and put these assholes away, I’ll tell everyone I know you’re better than Sherlock Holmes.”
“Thank you. Take care of yourself. During one of your mom’s lucid spells, tell her she makes the best lemon bars in the world.”
“Will do.” We shook hands, and I started to walk away. But I remembered something, so I turned and asked, “What did you do with the red kayak under the deck?”
He looked at me as though he was confused, but he didn’t appear to overreact. Frank had filled in about ten times when the monthly floating hold’em game I played in was down enough players to threaten the integrity of the game. He’d been good company and a good sport, but he was a lousy poker player and a terrible bluffer. I’d surprised him with the question about the red kayak to test his reaction, to see if everything I’d just told him would ensure he would go inside to destroy documents, then call Marty to tell him to suspend all smuggling operations immediately. If Frank had been involved in the smuggling scheme, especially without his father’s knowledge, could his father have found out about it, then been such a liability—threatening to expose the operation, perhaps—that Frank and the others had to eliminate him so he wouldn’t talk? As I’d sat there and told him my theory, I realized I could be tipping him off, causing the operation to shut down and destroy all traces of its existence, but I had to take that risk.
“I didn’t know it was missing,” he said. He didn’t repeat the question, as people trying to think of a believable response frequently do, and he didn’t lift his chin as he’d done when he was trying to bluff me off my pair of queens with his pair of treys. But he might have become a better liar.
I had to believe him because if I didn’t, and he really had removed the red kayak, then he’d helped commit the murders, which meant I’d be dead soon. Because I had many more reasons to want to live than I had a few days before, I believed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“I’m sorry,” I said to Jen when I returned to her house. “I didn’t intend to stay that long.”
She was at the kitchen table reading, with a coffee mug and an empty cereal bowl in front of her. She put down The Sun Also Rises, stood, and said, “That’s okay. Learn anything?” She gave me a hug and sat down.
“I either learned that my theory is idiotic or that Frank Watson has learned to lie.” She raised an eyebrow. I told her my theory about Marty Milford importing cocaine in Wave Skimmers. To her credit, she didn’t suggest I take antipsychotics. However, she said, “You’ve given this a lot of thought, and solving crimes and catching criminals are not within my field of expertise, so I’ll buy your theory because you’ve espoused it. However, you didn’t supply any evidence for your theory.”
“I don’t have any yet.”
“Your honor,” she said, in a pompous, authoritative tone, “I propose an unsubstantiated theory, bolstered by supposition and my staunchest hunch. Based on this theory, which is accurate because I’d like it to be, I suggest you sentence Marty Milford to the maximum sentence allowed by law. And if you could eviscerate him publicly, that would suit me even better.”
“Thank you for believing in me.”
“That’s my job now, right? I support your theories, and in my spare time I continue my fight to prove that Earth is flat.”
“It’s important to have goals. Joking aside, I have a question, and I need you to be honest.”
“Unless I’m obviously joking—which I’ll never do regarding the flatness of the Earth—you can assume I’m being honest with you. I’m not going to remain sober otherwise.”
“Okay. Do people think I’m a bad investigator?”
She finished her coffee and said, “I wouldn’t say that. I’d put it differently, but I’m not sure how best to put it. Okay, I’ll give you a parallel example. Initially, I made my living with my looks, making gobs of money primarily from my genes. Because I look the way I do, people assume I can’t also be smart. I worked my ass off finishing my Ph.D., then I worked at least twice that hard launching JP and building its market share, battling the recession, then regaining market share. But almost everyone thinks I was blessed with good looks, so I didn’t really accomplish the rest of it. Of course, I launched JP because I was a model, but you understand.
“I think this town perceives you in a similar way. You possessed enough talents or traits, physical and otherwise, to attract Amanda, one of the world’s biggest movie stars, and you’ve been riding her coattails since—or that’s the perception. You don’t have to be a great P.I. because people like to associate with fame, and if they hire you, they’re only one degree of separation from Amanda.”
I sat down in the chair next to her but didn’t say anything for a few seconds.
“People settle for someone they believe to be a lesser investigator because they hope to meet Amanda?”
“That’s my theory, anyway. I’m not saying I think of you that way. I’ve known you since grad school. I know you. They don’t.”
“Frank said the perception is that not only am I not good, but it’s also widely known that I’m not ruthless.”
“Listen to yourself. You’re a good person. Why in the world would you want to be ruthless? In sports and frequently in business, people talk about winning at all costs as though that’s the ultimate goal. Sacrifice your principles, cheat at every opportunity, thumb your nose at laws, trample on your friends and competitors, and ignore you family, all to raise a trophy or your company’s stock price. It’s warped. Making sacrifices to achieve goals? Sure, that’s fine. We’ve all done that. But abandoning your humanity so others think you do your job well? That’s not you.” I nodded.
“Frank’s right,” she said. “You’re not ruthless. I know in this town being an asshole is considered to be an asset, but in life it generally means you’re so miserable and unself-aware that you consider destroying people to be admirable.”
She gestured for me to stand as she stood, then gave me a hug. “For the record,” she said, “I’m sure you can do whatever you need to do when push comes to shove.”
“We’ll see.”
Twenty minutes later, we were in her garage, finalizing our plan. We’d packed overnight bags, and I set them in the trunk of the BMW and in the backseat of the Range Rover. Jen made six sandwiches and put them in a picnic basket, along with many pieces of fruit and a box of apricot Clif Bars. She filled the reusable water bottles I kept in the trunk, filled four of her own, and put them all in a large, silver Coleman cooler. I put my backpack and duffel into the Range Rover. I hung one black suit and one of Jen’s many black dresses on the hook behind the BMW’s driver’s seat, then hung one of each behind the driver’s seat in the Range Rover. I removed the Beretta and the Mossberg from the BMW and put the handgun in my bag in the Range Rover. I removed the camera equipment and the night-vision goggles and put them next to my bag, followed by the empty, stakeout pee bottle. I stood the shotgun in the right-rear corner of the garage and asked Jen to choose one of the six hats in a box in the trunk, next to the one with a few changes of clothes in it. She chose the navy New York Yankees cap, tied her hair in a bun at the top of her neck, and put on the cap, followed by her sunglasses. I chose the blue UCLA Bruins cap and put my sunglasses on. We both wore black hoodies, which we pulled up over our caps. She wore black yoga pants, a blue T-shirt, and gray Adidas running shoes, and I wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and Brooks running shoes. I reminded myself to slump a little and hoped Jen would remember to sit tall.
“You’re certain of the plan, right?”
“It’s possible you’re a good P.I., but you’re lousy with trust.”
“It’s just that you’re too good looking also to be intelligent.”
“Good luck, pansy.”
“You, too, airhead.”
I backed the Range Rover out, followed by Jen in the BMW. I closed the garage doors, checked for oncoming cars, and swung the tail downhill across the road into the far lane. She backed out but faced the opposite direction, downhill. We nodded to each other and pulled away. Jen passed Amanda’s house and her street-facing security camera, and I went out the other way. Amanda’s camera had no chance to capture an image of who was driving the BMW because the passenger’s side was closest to the house, and the camera was mounted high above ground level. I went up the hill, checked for any people sitting in cars by the side of the road, didn’t notice any, then made a U-turn. I went back down Broad Beach Road, passing Jen’s and Amanda’s houses on my right, certain that Amanda’s camera could only identify our vehicles, not their drivers.
We each made three circuits of Broad Beach Road, turning left onto PCH at Trancas Canyon Road, then back onto Broad Beach Road, varying our speed significantly each time. During my three laps, I didn’t notice any suspicious cars. I took PCH all the way to Santa Monica, checking for a tail frequently. In Santa Monica, I took Montana to Bundy, pulling to the curb before I reached the Ralphs, accessible from Bundy and Wilshire. The supermarket was only a few doors away from the motel, but not within view. I had a while to wait because Jen was taking the long way around: North on PCH, through the San Fernando Valley on the 101, over the hill on the 405, then off on the Wilshire exit. Traffic could have allowed her to arrive an hour and change later or caused her to arrive four hours after I did. While waiting, I listened to Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life, then meditated.
Eventually, I received a text from Jen: On Wilshire. Finally. Great, I texted. She’d be there in five minutes. While waiting, I realized I might be a lousy P.I. because if I’d been trying to follow Jen and me, and I knew where we said we’d end up, why would I try to follow us from her house? Why not just set up on the Wilshire Motel, then wait? Of course, I could have only said I intended to stay at the Wilshire Motel, then gone anywhere else. If I’d lied, then someone would have had to follow us from the house. In other words, I couldn’t determine whether I was good at my job based solely on how we’d executed this evasive action. But at least I was sure no one had followed us.
I heard a tap on the passenger’s-side front window and opened my eyes. Jen smiled, and I unlocked the door.
“Hello, Lover,” she said.
“Well, not quite.”
“You really are a jackass. But you know that, don’t you? Even take pride in it.”
“Thanks for noticing.” I leaned over to kiss her. I intended to give her a peck, but she had other ideas. After a few seconds, I pulled away. “How’d it go?”
