David Rosenfelt. Sudden Death
(Andy Carpenter – 4)
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
To Robert Greenwald,
an extraordinary talent, friend,
person, and citizen
Acknowledgments
Okay… okay… so I didn’t do this alone. The point is, I could have… I just chose not to. So, a grudging thank you to those who may have provided some slight, unnecessary, almost imperceptible help.
Robin Rue and Sandy Weinberg, agents for life.
Jamie Raab, Les Pockell, Kristen Weber, Susan Richman, Martha Otis, Beth de Guzman, Bob Castillo, and everyone else at Warner. They have been extraordinary partners.
My team of experts, including George Kentris, Kristen Paxos Mecionis, and Susan Brace. They fill in the gaps of my knowledge in the legal and psychological worlds, which is like saying the Atlantic Ocean fills in the gap between Europe and North America.
Those who read early drafts and/or contributed their thoughts and suggestions, including Ross, Heidi, Rick, Lynn, Mike and Sandi Rosenfelt, Sharon, Mitchell, and Amanda Baron, Emily Kim, Al and Nancy Sarnoff, Stacy Alesi, Norman Trell, June Peralta, Stephanie Allen, Scott Ryder, David Devine, and Carol and John Antonaccio.
Debbie Myers, who brightens and informs my life and my work by just being Debbie Myers.
I continue to be grateful to the many people who have e-mailed me feedback on Open and Shut, First Degree, and Bury the Lead. Please do so again at dr27712@aol.com. Thank you.
I STEP OFF THE PLANE, and for the first time in my life, I’m in Los Angeles. I’m not sure why I’ve never been here before. I certainly haven’t had any preconceived notions about the place, other than the fact that the people here are insincere, draft-dodging, drug-taking, money-grubbing, breast-implanting, out-of-touch, pâté-eating, pom-pous, Lakers-loving, let’s-do-lunching, elitist scumbags.
But here I am, open-minded as always.
Walking next to me is Willie Miller, whose own mind is so wide-open that anything at all is completely free to go in and out, and often does. I’m not sure how thoughts actually enter his mind, but the point of exit is definitely his mouth. “This place ain’t so cool,” says Willie.
“Willie, it’s only the airport.” I look over at him and am surprised to see that he is wearing sunglasses. They seem to have appeared in the last few seconds, as if he has grown them. While he doesn’t consider the airport “cool,” he apparently fears that it might be sunny.
Willie has become a good friend these last couple of years. He’s twenty-eight, ten years my junior, and we met when I successfully defended him on an appeal of a murder charge for which he had been wrongly convicted. Willie spent seven long years on death row, and his story is the reason we’re out here. That and the fact that I had nothing better to do.
We take the escalator down to baggage claim, where a tall blond man wearing a black suit and sunglasses just like Willie’s holds up a sign that says “Carpenter.” Since my name is Andy Carpenter, I pick up on this almost immediately. “That’s us,” I say to the man, who is obviously our driver.
“How was your flight?” he asks, an opening conversational gambit I suspect he’s used before. I say that it was fine, and then we move smoothly into a chat about the weather while we wait for the bags to come down. I learn that it’s sunny today, has been sunny this month, last month, and will be sunny next month and the month after that. It’s early June, and there is no chance of rain until December. However, I sense that the driver is a little nervous, because for tomorrow they’re predicting a forty percent chance of clouds.
I have just one small suitcase, which I wouldn’t have bothered to check had not Willie brought two enormous ones. I make the mistake of trying to lift one of Willie’s bags off the carousel; it must weigh four hundred pounds. “Did you bring your rock collection?” I ask, but Willie just shrugs and lifts the bag as if it were filled with pillows.
I’ve lived in apartments smaller than the limousine that transports us to the hotel. The movie studio is obviously trying to impress us, and so far succeeding quite well. It’s only been a week since they called me and expressed a desire to turn my defense of Willie into a feature film, and we are out here to negotiate the possible sale of those rights. It’s not something I relish, but Willie and the others involved all coaxed me into it. Had I known we would be flown first-class and whisked around in limos with a bar and TV, it might not have taken quite so much coaxing.
The truth is, none of us need the money we might make from this deal. I inherited twenty-two million dollars from my father, Willie received ten million dollars from a civil suit which we brought after his release, and I split up the million-dollar commission from that suit among everybody else. That “everybody else” consists of my associate, Kevin Randall, my secretary, Edna, and Laurie Collins, who functions in the dual role of private investigator and love of my life.
I would be far more enthusiastic about this trip if Laurie were here, but she decided to fly back to Findlay, Wisconsin, for her fifteenth high school reunion. When I warily mentioned that it would also be a chance for her to see her old boyfriends, she smiled and said, “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
“I’ll be spending all my time in LA with nubile young actresses,” I countered. “Sex-starved, lawyer-loving, nubile young actresses. The town is full of them.” I said this in a pathetic and futile attempt to get her to change her mind and come out here with me. Instead, she said, “You do that.” I didn’t bother countering with, “I will,” since we both know I won’t.
So it’s just Willie and me that the driver drops off at the Beverly Regent Wilshire Hotel. It’s a nice enough place, but based on the nightly rate, the fairly average rooms must have buried treasure in the mattresses. But again, the studio is paying, which is one reason the first thing I do is have a fourteen-dollar can of mixed nuts from the minibar.
Since Willie’s release from prison brought him some measure of fame, his life has taken some other dramatic turns. In addition to becoming wealthy, he’s gotten married, partnered with me in a dog rescue operation, and become part of the very exclusive New York social scene. He and wife Sondra are out every night with what used to be known as the in crowd, though I am so far “out” that I’m not sure what they’re called anymore. He is constantly and unintentionally name-dropping friends in the sports, entertainment, and art worlds, though he comically often has no idea that anyone else has heard of them.
Willie’s social reach apparently extends across the country, because he invites me to go “clubbing” tonight with him and a number of his friends. I would rather be clubbed over the head, so I decline and make plans to order room service and watch a baseball game.
First I call Laurie at her hotel in Findlay, but she’s out. I hope she’s in the process of marveling at how fat and bald all her old boyfriends have gotten. Next I call Kevin Randall, who is watching Tara for me while I’m gone.
Golden retrievers are the greatest living things on this planet, and Tara is the greatest of all golden retrievers, so that makes her fairly special. I hate leaving her, even for a day, but there was no way I was going to put her in a crate in the bottom of a hot airplane.
“Hello?” Kevin answers, his voice raspy.
I put him through about three or four minutes of swearing to me that Tara is doing well, and then I ask him how he’s feeling, since his voice maintains that raspy sound. I ask this reluctantly, since Kevin is America’s foremost hypochondriac. “I’m okay,” he says.