A basketball sailed across Scotty’s sight line and went into the basket. Someone yelled, “Yeah!”
It was a guy about five-ten, short brown hair, shirtless, barbed-wire tattoo around his right biceps. He was grinning, triumphant, and he looked about twenty-two.
Schuster said that the guy, now dribbling the ball, was Rory Kovaks, Danny’s school pal from Nebraska. They’d grown up together, Rory coming out to LA to keep Danny company.
Schuster pointed out Alan Barstow, Danny’s agent at CTM, a big talent agency with top, top clients. Barstow was in his thirties, medium height and thin.
Last, Schuster pointed out Randy Boone, assistant to Danny, and Kevin Rose, Danny’s fight coach, all members of the Whitman entourage.
Schuster called out, “Time out, people. We have guests.”
The ball swished into the net and bounced off the asphalt onto the grass, where the various players gathered around. Schuster told the four guys that Justine and Scotty were from Private and that they had been hired to do damage control.
Some stood, some sat on the ground as Schuster gave Justine the floor. Scotty hung around at the sidelines, just watching.
Justine said hello to everyone and introduced herself as a senior investigator at Private. “The tabloids are watching for anything that they can exploit,” she told them. “Katie Blackwell, the girl in question-well, her parents have probably also hired private investigators. They could be following Danny, and any of you who are associated with him, just to find a questionable moment they can blow up, leak to the tabs, and use to tar Danny’s character.
“It’s critical to Danny’s case that he, and really all of you, keep the party down until after his trial. That means no drugs, no drinking, and especially no girls.”
“Sure, and no eating with your mouth open, no bare feet when entering this establishment,” Kovaks said.
Rose, the fight coach, said, “Dr. Smith, no offense, but we don’t need a PI dogging us. Come on,” he said to Larry Schuster. “You can’t be serious.”
Scotty watched Justine, fingers interlaced in front of her, smiling. She said, “Mr. Rose, it’s all of you or none of you. If you can’t go along with us on the terms, we’ll leave in peace. No problem.”
Scotty saw the job going south. Not what he wanted at all.
He said to the whiners gathered around the ball court, “What’s going on here? Danny Whitman needs our help. He’s being tried for the rape of a fourteen-year-old girl, isn’t that right? You want to help him with that? Or are you goons just out to suck his blood?”
CHAPTER 42
After Schuster chilled down the ensuing scuffle with a garden hose, after Justine said, “Scotty. Watch and listen, ” Justine sat with Scotty and Danny Whitman in the music room on the third floor with its nice view of the Harlequin lot, one of the oldest film studios in Hollywood.
Danny was at the piano, plinking out “Lay Down Sally.”
Justine said to the movie star, “Tell us what happened, Danny.”
Danny sighed, came off the piano bench, fell into a cushy chair. Justine thought how much younger he looked than he did on the big screen. And he was bigger too, well proportioned, the famous dimple on one cheek, thick brown hair, could have been a high school ball player, although he was twenty-four.
She noted the number written in ballpoint pen on the cleft between thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Looked like a phone number.
Danny said, “This is going to sound idiotic, but I honestly don’t know what happened. We were at Alan Barstow’s house. My agent?”
Justine nodded. “I met Mr. Barstow.”
Danny said, “Alan was having a party. There were a lot of girls there. Dozens. I woke up in my own house in my own bedroom-alone. Next thing, before my alarm went off, the police are at the door. They say this…Katie Blackwell is lodging a complaint against me.”
“You say her name like you didn’t know her,” Scotty said.
“I know who she is, ” said Danny. “I’ve seen her around, but that’s all. I didn’t date her. I sure don’t know her age. I can’t even say she was at Alan’s that night, except that my boys saw her hanging on to me.”
“And Katie’s story is what?” Justine asked.
“She says we left the party together, that I made her have sex with me in my car, and that I dropped her off at her front door. You should see my car. Sex in that thing is physically impossible. But she has a girlfriend who says she saw us drive off together. Otherwise it would be strictly he-said, she-said.”
“Did Katie go to the hospital?”
“No. In her deposition she said she was embarrassed, took a shower, didn’t say anything to her parents until the next morning, then they called the police.
“Here’s the thing,” Whitman went on. “I was so stoned that night. If I did it, I deserve to be punished. But I really don’t think I had sex with that girl. I’m pretty sure I would have remembered.”
Justine said, “Pretty sure?”
“It’s all very sketchy. I just remember laughing. Falling down. Girls pawing me. That’s it. And none of my boys saw me leaving with Katie.”
“She could’ve been lying to get out of trouble,” Justine said. “If she was out late, that sort of thing.”
The star pulled on his lower lip, looking to Justine as if he was searching his memory, not making up a story.
Then again, Whitman was an actor.
“Dr. Smith, I might as well tell you, this wasn’t the first time I lost track of myself. My life’s kinda unreal, you know? I was just a kid when I came out here. A normal kid. Here there’s too much of everything and my time isn’t my own. Half the time it feels like someone else is running my life and I have no control over what happens to me.”
Justine said, “All I want to do is help you so that things don’t get worse, so that you can get through your trial without any more bad press. Do you want me to advise you?”
“Yes. Hell, yes. Tell me what you want me to do.”
Justine thought, Oh, crap. Danny was likable and now she was responsible for keeping him clean and celibate so he could make the hundred-million-dollar blockbuster.
She handed Whitman two cards, saying, “Here’s how to reach me and Scotty. It’s really simple. Don’t go out with girls at all. That way there will be no pictures, no headlines. Don’t spend the night out with anyone. Go to work, go home alone, keep your phone on, and stay in touch with us.”
“Done deal.”
“Whose number is on your hand?” Justine asked.
“I don’t know. This is what I’m talking about. Look. It’s gone,” Whitman said, spitting on his hand, wiping it against the leg of his jeans.
“Okay,” Justine said. “Starting now, pretend you’re a monk. And we’ll dig up what we can on Katie Blackwell.”
CHAPTER 43
The staircase at Private was a wide, winding spiral, five stories wrapping around the core of the reception entrance on the ground floor. The stairs were inspired by the cross section of a nautilus shell. And by a stone staircase I once walked down at the Vatican.
I was going up the stairs to my office when Sci loped up the steps, caught up with me on four, and said, “Hold on, Jack.” He had a sad look on his face.
My guts took the down elevator.
“What is it, Sci?”
“You’re looking at the bad-news messenger,” he said. “Bruno just called.”
Bruno was Sci’s friend, the high-level tech at the city lab, the one with cop connections who hoped that Sci would one day bring him over to Private.
We walked past Cody into my office.
Sci dropped into a chair, put his feet up on the edge of my desk, and said, “Between us, okay? Or else we’re going to have to hire Bruno. Lose a good contact at the lab.”
“Go ahead. No, wait. I want Justine to hear this.”
“Are you sure?” said Sci.
“Absolutely.”
I got Justine on the interoffice line. She said she’d be right up, and in a minute she came into my office, barely looking at me. She took the chair next to Sci.