Lowell asking for a pretty one to set up the tables and chairs.
App—or a lackey—picking her up.
Private party before the big one.
Lowell and App and Trafficant? Had the producer worn a mustache, back then?
Nothing nasty Friday night; she’d been in a good mood the next morning. But something had gone very bad the next day.
Make it a good-looking one.
Felix Barnard was no Sherlock, but he’d managed to put enough together to merit his own payoff. And a finale at the Adventure Inn.
App, sitting there, talking to me about deals.
Playing with me?
He was Lowell’s patron. Powerful enough to be ordering Lowell around. . . . I recalled his explosive reaction to my intrusion, then the cold, cruel way he’d fired his receptionist.
Allowing me in when I told him what it was about.
Sounding me out, assessing the threat.
Talking about Mellors/Mullins’s violent nature. The script definitely a diversion. Which wasn’t to say Mellors hadn’t written it.
App, with years of experience weaving and darting in Hollywood.
Had he bought my biography story?
Maybe. He hadn’t tried to restrain me or harm me. Hadn’t even kept my card.
Waiting for me to get back to him on the deal. . . .
I pressed down on the gas pedal, forging into rural Malibu. This far up, there were no lights on the road. The highway darkened and twisted. I kept picturing Karen, getting into the sleek red car with golden expectations.
Playing with Lucy and Puck the next morning until Gwen had had Doris, the experienced mother, take over.
Doris, putting the kids to bed, then sneaking out to frolic. Returning later to discover Lucy gone.
She runs out to look for her. Finds her sleepwalking, babbling.
Men hurting girl.
Powerful men. Mopping up the evidence of murder . . . in a motel owned by some guys from Reno. The Advent Group. Now I knew why the name was familiar.
The other outfit sharing the twentieth floor with App’s production company.
Advent Ventures.
App keeping Mellors on a financial leash in order to control him and use him. First, the “idiot job” at the production company, then moving him into the motel job.
Literary critic to brothel manager. Lowell would have appreciated it.
I could imagine App’s spiel.
“Think about it, Denny. I know the job is below you, but it’s just short-time and all you have to do is look in on the dump once in a while—maybe even pick up some material—how about a series based on a motel? All these crazy characters drifting in and out? We can pitch it to the networks. Don’t feel pressure to make a decision right now. Think about it and let me know. Come up to the house, we’ll look at the ocean and break some bread.”
Everything falling into place, but, still, Gwen had admitted to nothing more than seeing Karen step into the crowd with her hors d’oeuvres tray, and Lowell’s payoff could be construed as a generous tip.
I heard Milo’s voice, superego by way of the LAPD:
No evidence.
CHAPTER
41
I tried to call him again that night, and the next morning. No answer at home, and the desk officer at Westside Division was unhelpful.
All this information and nowhere to go. Lucy wasn’t focusing on Karen, so that bought some time. But I wasn’t sure last night’s intimidation would keep Gwen Shea in town and, without her, what did I really have?
I’d keep trying to find Milo. In the meantime, I’d run off the tension.
I was changing into shorts and a T-shirt when my service called with Dr. Wendy Embrey on the line.
Trying to keep the irritation out of my voice, I said, “Hi, Wendy.”
“Hi, how’s Lucretia doing?”
Off the case, she had no privileges. “She’s fine.”
“Well, that’s good. It was an odd case, I never really felt I had a handle on it.”
“In what way?”
“The suicide attempt. She was so adamant about not trying to kill herself, but she seemed so coherent. So, no subsequent psychosis or major depression?”
“None.”
“Good. Anyway, say hello to her for me. I still think about her.”