“Joe Blow.”
Cruz’s hand moved fast, like a snake, to the girl’s neckline. He had his hand on the money when she grabbed his wrist and said, “It doesn’t matter what is his name. He’s dead, okay? He OD’d.”
Cruz pulled out the rest of the money, held it in front of her eyes.
Carmelita sighed.
“These drivers. They are a bad group. Ex-cons. Illegals. They make their own hours. Many times, they use their own cars. When the calls go out for a driver to take an escort somewhere, they hear over the radio where the girls are going and they choose the jobs they take.”
“I need a name.”
“The driver who took me to the Seaview the night Arthur Valentine was killed? He was a guy called Billy Moufan. He and I told each other our secrets.”
“For instance.”
“Billy told me one of our drivers had killed the john at the Moon. He didn’t name the name. Just said to be careful.
“Then my date was found dead. Later, Billy OD’d. I didn’t tell the police anything. They don’t protect party girls, you understand? Maybe Billy OD’d. Maybe someone did it to him. All I know is what Billy told me. The killer was a driver who worked for Sensational Dates in the summer of 2010. Did you know that? No. If you are a good detective, maybe you can find this driver.”
“I’m going to try.”
“Bueno. Now give me the rest of the money.”
CHAPTER 74
JUSTINE GRABBED AT the ringing phone on her nightstand, fumbled it, dropped it, scrambled for it under the bed.
When her hand was around the phone, she squinted at the caller ID. It said only, “Incoming call,” and she didn’t recognize the caller’s number. She glanced at the clock. It was just after four a.m.
Justine said into the phone, “Hello? Hello?”
She heard sobbing. “Hello, who is this?”
“It’s Danny.”
“Danny. Where are you? What’s wrong?”
The crying continued, and between the sobs, Danny gave Justine an address in Topanga Canyon.
“Please come fast,” he said.
Justine said she’d be there in twenty minutes. She disconnected the line, then called Del Rio. He picked up on the first ring, said he’d meet her at the Topanga Canyon address and that he needed coffee bad.
Justine said, “Get two. Black for me.”
She dressed quickly, got into her Jag, and sped away from her house.
She followed Old Topanga Canyon Road, eventually taking a left onto a small road that fed into even smaller roads, her headlights barely piercing the black of that early moonless morning.
When she found Portage Circle Drive, Justine slowed the car and looked for house numbers until she saw 98 on a mailbox.
She turned at the rutted driveway, her headlights lighting the tree trunks crowding it on both sides until the driveway emptied into a clearing. There was a rustic cabin set back into the wooded lot and a blue Ferrari parked in front.
Justine braked her car and buzzed down the windows. She heard nothing but insects chirping, saw one light shining through the front windows, coming from a room toward the back of the house.
Justine retrieved a flashlight from the door pocket, then got out of her car. She touched the hood of the Ferrari. It was cold. She went up a path of broken stone to the front door, which had been painted a bloodred color and had a brass knocker under a peephole.
Justine knocked, calling Danny’s name.
There was no answer.
She knocked louder and called again, with no response. She was about to walk around to the back of the cabin when a car pulled up to hers and stopped. Rick Del Rio got out.
It was more than a little spooky here, and she was very glad to see him. And his gun.
“What’s going on?” he said.
“Damned if I know,” said Justine. “The car is here, but I don’t think anyone is home.”
CHAPTER 75
DEL RIO SAID to Justine, “Go around back. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”
Del Rio tried the doorknob, which turned easily in his hand. The door swung open, and with his light shining into the house, he crossed the threshold.
He shone his beam around the main room and took stock. The house was one of those magazine-type decorated cabins with Native American rugs on the terra-cotta floor, bright blankets and pillows on the leather couches in front of the fireplace.
Embers glowed in the grate. He saw empty wine bottles on the floor and jars of wildflowers on the windowsills.
Del Rio called out, “Is anyone here?”
There was no answer.
There was a light on in the hacienda-style kitchen, another designer-inspired room, bright with Mexican tiles. Iron hooks hung from the beamed ceiling, holding pots and pans. There were dishes in the sink and plates with remains of chocolate cake sitting on the counter.
He could almost see Danny and Piper cutting up right here.
Del Rio found the bedroom down a short hallway. The bed was king-size, made of birch saplings, and took up most of the room. He noted the rumpled sheets, the pillows that had fallen between the mattress and the wall, and the calico quilt in a heap on the floor.
Piper’s sundress, the one that she had worn for her scene that day, was over the back of a chair. Feminine underthings were on the seat and a pair of flat shoes was underneath it.
Didn’t need to be a genius to see that sex had happened here. In fact, the entire place had the look of a nonstop party. Too bad Piper was sixteen and Danny was twenty-four.
Del Rio continued his quick tour of the cabin. The bathroom was empty. Damp towels were hanging over the shower curtain rod. He opened closets, found men’s casual clothes and shoes.
Relieved not to find bloodstains or any other signs of violence, Del Rio returned to the kitchen and exited by way of the back door.
The deck cantilevered out over the canyon. It was furnished with a grill and comfortable chairs. Beyond the deck, a spot of light bobbed along a trail and then was blocked from view by a thicket of trees.
Del Rio went down the steps to the path through the scrub dotted with trees. He walked fast, ducking under branches, and caught up with Justine.
She spun, startled by his touch on her shoulder. “Find anything, Rick?”
“Looks like the kids were having a good time. That’s it.”
“How could Danny be so stupid?”
“Call him. Now,” Del Rio said.
Justine did. “Danny. Danny, where are you? It’s Justine.”
Her voice echoed across the canyon. Del Rio said, “Listen.”
He heard a man’s voice saying, “I’m here,” coming from far along the path. And then there was the sound of car doors slamming behind them, back at the cabin.
CHAPTER 76
THERE WAS ZERO visibility.
Del Rio thought that the night was so black, even dawn couldn’t break through the moonless and overcast sky.
While Justine went back to the cabin, Del Rio pushed ahead, following the narrow path through oak and sycamore and chest-high scrub in the direction of Danny’s intermittent cries, until the trail ended in a clearing.
He flashed his light around, and there was Danny, just ahead. The kid was wearing only his boxers, lying facedown on the ground, pretty much hysterical.
Del Rio went to him, stooped down, shook his shoulder.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“Nooo,” Danny cried.
His voice was slurred and he stank of booze. Del Rio saw that he was clutching a shoe, like a ballet slipper. Danny’s flashlight was turned off or dead, lying an arm’s length away.
“Where’s Piper?”
Danny rolled onto his side and pointed to where the trail ended and the steep drop into the canyon began.
“What? She’s down there? ”
Del Rio walked a few yards to the edge, pointed his light straight down, and saw a patch of white. He was pretty sure that he was l
ooking at Piper Winnick’s splayed and broken body, a hundred yards down in the canyon.
Del Rio stared for a long moment, hoping he was wrong. The girl looked dead, but maybe she was unconscious. It was a slim possibility, but he had to check.
He went back to Danny, grabbed him by his hair, forced the blubbering kid to look him in the eye. “What happened, Danny? What did you do to her?”
“I can’t…carry her out of there,” Danny wailed. “I want to die.”
Del Rio said, “What did you do, you piece of shit?”
The kid kept crying. Del Rio stood up and walked back to the lip of the canyon.
The canyon wall was at a treacherous forty-five degree angle to the floor. Del Rio looked for footholds, saw jutting boulders, some ledges running parallel to the ground, flat places where he could put his weight. If he watched where he was stepping, he could maybe get all the way down.
Pressing his left hand to the hill, gripping his light with the other, Del Rio started his descent, doing a good job of being a mountain goat even though his heart was slamming hard against his rib cage. He was about halfway to the bottom when, without any warning, his feet slipped across the smooth surface of a rock and shot out from under him.
Del Rio twisted his body, grabbed at the branches of a manzanita with both hands. His flashlight jumped away from him, bounced, and rolled downhill—and then Del Rio lost his tenuous hold and began skidding downward, his whole body sliding over rocks and dirt and grasses until, forty or fifty feet later, the ground came up and dumped him hard on his ass.
CHAPTER 77
DEL RIO WAS scraped and shaken, but he hadn’t slammed into anything on the way down. He rested for a moment, then got to his feet and made for his flashlight, which was, miraculously, still throwing light. Huffing, he picked his way across the rough terrain and closed in on young Piper Winnick.
She was on her back, her arms flung out like broken wings. Her white cotton nightgown was ripped and dirty, hiked up to her breasts, exposing her panties. She was wearing one shoe, a match to the slipper Danny had been holding in his hand.
Del Rio knew Piper was gone, but he hunched down beside the girl and put his hand to her neck.
He couldn’t find a pulse. He listened to her chest. No heartbeat. Her body was still warm to his touch. He didn’t want to accept it, but Piper was dead and that was a sin. No other word for it.
Del Rio wanted to straighten her limbs, cover her body, close her eyes—acts that would destroy the crime scene, which this almost certainly was.
He flashed his light over Piper’s face, tracked the dried blood to a wound at her temple—and saw that her skull was crushed there, caved in.
He used his light and his camera phone to catalogue the skull wound, the bruise on her arm, scrapes on her thighs, the blood trailing down her pale skin, indications that Piper had been alive when she’d gone over the cliff.
Playing his light up the canyon wall, Del Rio saw dozens of big rocks, any one of which could have cracked Piper’s skull.
Danny. That fucking kid.
Screwing young girls wasn’t enough. He’d moved up a few levels to physical aggression. Had Piper tried to get away from him, made a misstep, and fallen? Or had Danny shoved her over the edge on purpose?
Del Rio remembered the way Piper had looked yesterday morning, giddy with life. He could still see her in that yellow dress, holding on to her hat, saying her lines in a girlish voice with an Italian accent. He remembered the look of joy on her face when she got into that fast car with Danny.
He tried to remember what Danny had looked like when he’d floored the accelerator, but he couldn’t picture him. Del Rio had been looking at the girl.
Del Rio imagined getting his hands on Danny, knocking his teeth out, breaking the bones in that too-pretty face. He was twenty years older than Danny, but he could still do some damage to a wimpy piece-of-crap kid like that.
Del Rio stood up. He had tears in his eyes as he looked at Piper’s body. Her last minutes had been filled with fear and pain. A nice young girl like that.
“You were having a good day, Piper. A good life. I’m sorry this happened to you.”
Del Rio opened his cell phone and dialed Justine.
CHAPTER 78
BUGS CIRCLED JUSTINE’S dying beam. She whacked her flashlight with her palm, and the light flared briefly, then dimmed again.
Damn it.
Justine was pissed at herself for taking Danny’s Mayday call seriously. He’d gotten her and Rick out of bed at four a.m., and now where was Danny?
Run off again with Piper.
Justine was wearing espadrilles, the wrong shoes to be hiking up this obstacle course of a path that started at the back of the cabin and led to only God knew where.
Add that to Danny’s management team: Schuster, Barstow, and Koulos were following her single file, murmuring too softly for her to make out what they were saying to one another. Except that she’d heard her name a couple of times, so she knew they were talking about her.
Blaming her for Danny Whitman’s escapade.
The unbelievable nerve.
The Whitman job was not worth what Private was being paid, not even close, and she was going to do something about that when she got hold of Jack.
Her cell phone rang, an incongruous bar of upbeat music. It had to be Rick saying that he’d found Danny. She hoped that whatever the problem was, it was minor or solved or both.
She dug in her jacket pocket and got her phone in hand just as the path emptied into a clearing. The faint circle of her flashlight beam revealed a heap on the ground.
It was Danny.
He was half naked, barefoot, sitting with his arms locked around his knees, rocking and keening.
What was this now? Was Danny having a tantrum or was he actually in trouble?
Schuster broke past her and ran to Danny, calling his name.
Barstow barked, “Can I have that?”
He snatched her flashlight out of her hand and jogged over to where Schuster had pulled Danny into his arms and was crooning to him, “What’s wrong, buddy? Where does it hurt?”
Justine’s phone was ringing again. She turned her back on the group and put the phone to her ear.
Del Rio was panting and his voice was ragged.
“The girl is dead. I’m coming up the canyon right now. Don’t let Danny leave.”
“What girl? You mean, Piper? Rick? Are you there? ”
Del Rio had clicked off.
CHAPTER 79
JUSTINE SENSED MOVEMENT behind her and she whipped around. Merv Koulos was right there, standing so close she could smell Tic Tac on his breath.
The producer’s homely face was crumpled like a paper bag and he was shouting at her, “Do you see this, Dr. Smith? Danny is having a breakdown. We hired you people to watch him, and now I’ve got a mental case on my hands. My crew is showing up on set tomorrow, and you think Danny’s going to be up for that? Every day that we don’t shoot is three hundred grand right down the—”
“We’ve got a bigger problem, Mr. Koulos. Much bigger.”
“You’re telling me? I’m going to sue you for criminal negligence. I’m going to sue you personally.”
Justine saw Rick’s light bobbing as he reached the top of the incline. She left Koulos in midrant and went to Rick.
He was winded, trying to catch his breath. He gasped, “Looks like Piper was killed by a blow to the head. Could have happened as she fell down the cliff. I can’t tell if she was pushed or what.”
Danny pulled away from his agent and lurched over to Del Rio.
“Pushed? She wasn’t pushed,” Danny wailed. “We were sleeping. I woke up and she was gone. I went looking for her. She was supposed to be asleep…”
Barstow’s face showed shock. His voice was high, bordering on hysteria when he said to Danny, “I know, Danny, I know. Come back to the house with me. We’ll get some clothes on you. I’ve got Xanax. We’ll take care of this. Come on, Da
nny.”
Justine stood still, blinking in the dark, trying to absorb Rick’s terrible news.
Piper Winnick was dead in this remote place, and no one had been with her but Danny.
Justine didn’t know Piper, had never met her, but she’d met Danny. And she had contracted for Private to keep him at close range.
He’d ditched them. That was a deal breaker, and she thought that was defensible in court—but what was terrifying her now was the possibility that Danny was capable of violence, and she hadn’t seen that.
Had her ego gotten the best of her? Had she missed a signal that had cost a girl her life?
Schuster and Barstow were trying to move Danny back up the trail, but Danny was resisting, shouting at them that he didn’t want to leave Piper alone.
Koulos was back in Justine’s face. He raged, “And now, because he got away from you, Piper is dead. My movie is dead too. I’m ruined. Ruined.”
Justine was still holding her phone, but her hand was shaking.
“You making the call?” Rick asked her.
She nodded and dialed 911.
CHAPTER 80
JUSTINE HAD JUST opened her front door when her phone rang. She hit the light switch in the foyer. Rocky barked, ran to her, and threw himself against her thighs.
She tousled his ears, tossed the car keys onto the console, and checked the caller ID on her phone. It was Danny’s manager, Larry Schuster.
What did he want now? Was this another threat to sue?
She was still shaking from the sickening events of the past few hours: the dead teenage movie star, the threats from Mervin Koulos, and the pitiful arrest of Danny Whitman, who’d kicked and screamed until three cops managed to stuff him into the cruiser.
Justine said hello into the phone.
“Do you still work for us?” Schuster asked.
“You’re kidding, Larry. Danny broke our contract when he drove away from the set—”