Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

“So you sent him to Premadonny.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Who solicited your help?”

“Business manager.”

“Who’s that?”

Weathers’s eyes traveled to the right. “Not the manager directly, some assistant.”

Floyd Banfer said, “Or some assistant’s assistant.”

Weathers regarded his nephew crossly. “That’s the way it goes with people at their level.”

Milo said, “Who’s their business manager?”

“Apex Management. They handle a lot of the biggies.”

“What do you remember about M.J.?”

“A guy,” said Weathers. “I think he had some bookkeeping experience. Him I did check out. What’s the problem with him?”

“Maybe nothing, Jack.”

“Maybe nothing but you’re carrying around his picture?”

“His name came up.”

“Meaning?”

“His name came up.”

Weathers waved a hand. “Frankly, I don’t want to know. Now can I go and try to pay some bills? I’m no civil servant, got no cushy pension and overtime.”

Milo said, “Sure. Have a nice day.”

“Sure?”

“Unless you’ve got something more to tell us, Jack.”

“I’ve got nothing. To tell or to hide or to relate or report. I’m in the service business, I find service people for clients who need service. What they do once they’re hired is their business.”

Bracing himself on the bench’s center divider, he got to his feet, buttoned his blazer. Banfer stood and took him by the elbow. Weathers shook off the support with surprising fury. “Not ready for a scooter yet, Floyd, let’s get breakfast, Nate ’n Al, Bagel Nosh, whatever.”

Working hard at casual.

Banfer tapped his Rolex Oyster. “Sorry, appointments.”

“Busy guy,” said Weathers. “Everyone’s busy. I should be busy.”

He hobbled away.

Banfer said, “His blood pressure’s not great, I hope the stress doesn’t cause problems.”

Milo winked. “That sounds like prep for a civil suit.”

“Not funny, Lieutenant. Are we through?”

Before waiting for an answer, Banfer headed east on the parkway. A curvaceous female jogger came heading his way. He didn’t bother to look.

Milo sat down on the bench. “I drove by that private road this morning. Like I thought, tough surveillance. The county registered the compound as eleven acres, divided into three legal parcels, all registered to another holding company called Prime Mayfair. Tried a trace-back, it dead-ends at a paper-pusher who works for Apex Management.”

I said, “A lot of plot to thicken.”

He looked up Apex’s number. Got transferred a few times. Hung up, shaking his head.

“Got stonewalled by an assistant’s assistant’s walking-around-guy’s gopher’s peon’s underling slave. Not that anyone would tell me anything even if I could get through. Weathers’s destroying his files doesn’t help, want to take bets he’ll be torching Wedd’s soon as he gets back from breakfast? And for all the tough talk to Banfer, there’s nothing I can really do about it.”

“At least you’ve got confirmation that all three of them worked together.”

He kicked a leg of the bench. Unfolded Wedd’s DMV shot and stared at it for a while. “I need face-time with this prince but getting into that compound’s as likely as being invited to an Oscar after party.” He smiled. “Actually, Rick was invited to one a few years ago. After sewing up the DUI daughter of some hoo-hah producer who drove her Aston into a wall.”

“Did you go?”

“Nah, both of us were on call that night … okay, I’ll figure out a way to watch the place. After I recanvass the park, see if the staff or the regulars remember anything.”

He checked with Reed and Binchy to learn if Kelly LeMasters’s story had pulled up anything solid. It hadn’t. Same for the anonymous Crime Stoppers line.

I said, “Breakfast? Nate ’n Al, Bagel Nosh?”

“No, thanks, already ate.”

Prior meals had never deterred him before.

I said, “Hope you feel better.”

Back home I put in a call to Dr. Leonard Coates.

Len and I were classmates in grad school, worked together for a year at Western Pediatric. I stuck around at the hospital, putting in time on the cancer wards while Len shifted to a Beverly Hills private practice.

Soon after hiring a publicist, Len began getting quoted in the popular press. It didn’t take long to acquire a celebrity patient load, and a few years in he’d taken over the penthouse floor of a building on Roxbury, was overseeing half a dozen associates. While suffering from a serious case of Hollywood Sepsis.

It’s a progressive condition, also known as Malignant Look-At-Me Syndrome, leading to excessive dependency on public exposure, self-invention, and the narcosis of fame.

Len’s addiction had led him to write a useless pop-psych book, peddle countless treatments for screenplays and reality shows, obsess on getting his picture taken at certain parties in the company of eye candy. Tall and slim and meticulously bearded, he plowed through a succession of women. I’d stopped counting his marriages at four. He had two kids that I knew of and the few times I saw them they both looked depressed. The last time Len and I had run into each other was at a hospital fund-raiser. Smiling all the while and checking out the crowd nonstop, he’d spent a lot of time griping about “ungrateful brats. Just like their mothers, you can’t fight genetics.”

His service operator put me on hold. The audio track was a sales pitch for “Dr. Coates’s compelling new book Putting Your Life in Balance .”

The operator broke back in as a synopsis of chapter 1 was ending. The gist was “Stop and Smell the Roses.” I’d never known Len to have a hobby.

She said, “Sorry, Doctor’s unavailable but he’ll get the message.”

I said, “How’s the book doing?”

“Pardon?”

“Dr. Coates’s new book.”

She laughed. “I just sit here in a small room and answer the phone. Last thing I read was a utility bill.”

To my surprise, Len called my private line nine minutes later.

“Hey, Alex! Great to hear from you! How’s life treating you?”

I said, “Well, Len. You?”

“Off-the-chart busy, it never stops. But what’s the alternative? Stagnation? We’re like sharks, right? We need to keep moving.”

“Congratulations on the book.”

“Oh, you heard the tape? We’ll see how it does. I calculated my hourly fee writing it. Somewhere south of ten bucks an hour but my agent claims it’s a stepping-stone. She’s been getting nibbles for a talk show, says I’ve got more people-warmth than you-know-who, so maybe. What’s up?”

“What do you know about Prema Moon and Donny Rader?”

A beat. “May I ask why you’d care about people like that?”

“Hollywood types?”

“Shallow types,” he said. “That’s my bailiwick, you’re not going to encroach on my territory, are you, Alex?” He laughed. “Just kidding, you want ’em, they’re yours. Though you have to admit, I’m better suited to that kind of thing because we both know I’m about as deep as a rain puddle in August. You, on the other hand … please don’t tell me you’ve sold out, Alexander. I’ve always thought of you as my positive role model.”

Guffaws, rich, loud, audio-friendly.

“You’re selling yourself short, Len.”

“Not in the least. Know Thyself is my first commandment. Meanwhile, I just bought myself a new Audi R8, the convertible. Tuned it up so the compression’s insane, real beast, and trust me, that didn’t come from listening to whiny mothers. Bet you’re still with the old Caddy, right?”

“Right.”

“There you go,” he said. “Loyalty and solidity. Maybe one day it’ll be a classic.”