Flesh And Blood by Jonathan Kellerman

“Some film agent who works for one of the big outfits. Manager thinks Andy said William Morris. He dropped in at The Cloisters infrequently, drank Singapore slings, schmoozed with Andy, not too friendly with anyone else. Last time was months ago, but I’ve got a description—forties, dark hair, slim, tiny little eyeglasses, Armani suits—and maybe a name. Manager thinks he heard Andy call this guy Jason or Justin. I’m heading over to Morris right now. Maybe they’ll buy my screenplay.”

“Didn’t know you had one.”

“Throw cash at me and I can write one in a couple of days, win an Oscar—have you seen the crap that gets on-screen?”

“What, cop against the odds?”

“Charming genius cop as sensitive soul and savior of the world.”

I laughed. “If you dead-end in Beverly Hills, you might try Salander’s parents. He had a snapshot of them in his room, taken in—”

“Yeah—Bloomington, Indiana. Called this morning. Salander’s mother hasn’t spoken with him in nearly a year. Seems Andy Senior has troubles with his only child’s lifestyle, Junior left home a year shy of high school graduation, never returned to the Old Homestead. He sends Mommy a Christmas card and she mails him money that she saves from the grocery stash. When I hung up she was crying—I love my job. Anyway, thanks for the Irving info. Feel free to call with additional inspiration.”

“Actually …”

“What?”

“Try to stay calm,” I said.

“If I could get calm, I could stay calm. What?”

“I’ve been traveling through more than cyberspace.” I told him about my day at Paradise Cove, the time with Cheryl Duke, meeting Anita and Irving, catching sight of Black Suit in tennis garb.

“So you actually met the guy.”

“Just for a few minutes.”

Long silence.

“Kayaking?”

“It’s good exercise.”

“Alex,” he said. Then he trailed off. More dead air. Finally: “Mr. Schmatte wears linen and the goombah plays tennis. Summer fun in the winter—maybe Joe Mafioso’s another kind of pro. Brought in to improve the old guy’s backhand.”

“He’s built more like a power lifter.”

“Fine, fine, but lobbing balls across the net makes him even less likely to be some hoodoo hit man. If he was, they wouldn’t put him up on home turf. Alex, I can’t believe you actually took out a goddamn boat and did marine surveillance.”

“No law against enjoying the great outdoors,” I said. “Lucky I was there. The boy might’ve drowned.”

An exaggerated sigh hissed through the receiver. “Myyyy heeero—so now Mommy’s bonded with you. You going to date her?”

“Very funny.”

“You took her number.”

“What was my choice?”

“How about self-righteous indignation? You might’ve told me at the outset that you knew Irving from more than the Internet—”

“I was waiting for the right moment.”

He laughed. “What’s the use? Okay, so is there a reason, other than the garment link, that Irving twangs your antenna? What’s he like in person?”

“He kowtows to his wife but likes to come across in charge. Styled hair, dresses like reruns of Miami Vice, tough-guy swagger—he impressed me as someone who wants to be seen as a player.”

“If bad taste and phoniness were felonies, L.A. would be one big penitentiary,” he said. “Okay, he’s got poor fashion sense, that’s why he bombed in the garment game. Give me something else—something ominous that I can work with before I go chasing around town.”

“Can’t,” I admitted. “I’m just trying to connect the dots. There is one other issue that might or might not be relevant. Cheryl’s pretty nervous about being judged a neglectful mother. And Irving suggested to me—a perfect stranger—that she was. I think he wants that information out there. I’ve done enough custody consults to develop a nose for impending conflict, and this one reeks of it. Rich families are the worst—enough funds to pay lawyers for too long, and it’s never about the kids, it’s about control. And money. In this case, big money. Cheryl said she and Duke split amicably, but that could be wishful thinking, or just a lie. Or taking the kids from her might not even be Duke’s intent. The feeling I’m getting is that he’s receded into the background. Hasn’t thrown a party in nearly two years, Cheryl implied there wouldn’t be any more. Duke’s handing the corporate reins to Anita and, by extension, to Kent Irving. So maybe it’s all part of Anita and Irving’s power grab. Those two kids are heirs, two more slices of the pie. If Anita and Kent can gain custody of Baxter and Sage, they consolidate their grip on the empire. A power grab also fits the need to get rid of nuisances—like blackmailers who push too hard. I can see Irving hiring a hit man, maybe even being arrogant enough to put the hit man up at the estate. Because mobbing up is glamorous.”

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