“Here’s what I meant,” Margaret Stewart said. “I just said they didn’t come and blab all of their war stories to me. Yeah, I heard some stories. Some were true, most of them were probably not.”
“Why don’t you tell us about the ones that were probably true? If there actually were any.”
The older woman pushed back from her desk and crossed her legs. She let out a long breath.
“That was a long time ago,” she said. “Let’s see. There was a core group. Brent Cooper was definitely one of the ringleaders. God he was a smartass. Arrogant, pushy, and a vicious mouth. You remind me of him,” she said to Mary.
“That’s one compliment I never get tired of hearing,” Mary said.
“Let’s see, there was also Harvey Mitchell,” Margaret said. “He was a star even back then. God, I had to turn away so much work for him. Even modeling agencies wanted a piece of him.”
“Harvey Mitchell?” Mary asked. “The host of The Night Talker?”
“The one and only,” Braggs said.
The Night Talker was a long-standing hit for NBC. Not quite the Tonight Show, but still a very powerful ratings earner. Harvey Mitchell was the silver-haired host. Interviewing stars, doing skits, and having a great time doing it. Making boodles of cash, too.
“There were so many of them,” Margaret Stewart said. “They floated in and out. Look, why don’t I just do this? When Mr. Braggs called me, I went into my archives and pulled my files for everyone I could think of. Including Noah Baxter’s. Obviously, there’s no longer anything sensitive in them. Half of the people are dead or disappeared.”
She gestured at a chair near a filing cabinet. There was a box full of faded yellow folders, thick with papers inside.
“Like I mentioned before,” Margaret said. “People came, people went. Men, women, kids, animals. Everything that could have possibly gone on among prosperous entertainment people in Los Angeles during those days definitely went on.” The woman glanced at her phone then continued. “So you can guess most of what was occurring on a daily, and nightly, basis. Why don’t you just look through all that, and then if you have any questions, call me. It’s not like I have time to sit here and tell you about every last thing, plus, at my age, I’d probably get most of it wrong. So just take the stuff, look it over and call me if you have any more questions. Okay?”
Braggs walked over and picked up the box.
Mary stood. “Thank you Ms. Stewart. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I most likely am going to call you again. I always have questions to ask. It’s one of my character traits that makes me irresistible to both sexes.”
“Brent Cooper. Reincarnated,” the older woman said and turned back to her computer as if they’d already left.
“Ouch,” Mary said on her way out.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mary ditched Braggs as soon as possible.
“Don’t you want to go through that stuff together?” he’d asked, looking at the files.
“I think we’ve gone through enough together, don’t you?” Mary said.
“Not really,” he said. “But everyone’s certainly entitled to their opinion, no matter how wrong that opinion may be.”
“Before I go,” he said. “The rest of your clients are here. You remember the consortium of Brent’s old gang that together sent me to hire you?”
“Well, they’re all here and would like to get together with you. You know, go over the case and how they can help you catch the killer. I know it’s short notice, but does tonight work?”
“I’ve always got time for senior citizens,” Mary said. It would be a good chance for her to dig for more information anyway.
“Don’t look so excited, Mary. They're actually a fun bunch.”
“Laugh a minute, I'm sure, Whitney.”
Braggs smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the late Hollywood sun.
“I understand,” he said. “I’m cramping your style. Too much too soon, I take it?”
“That would presuppose I have a style, Braggs.”
“Oh you’ve got style. Plenty of it.”
“Are you hitting on me?”
“Absolutely not,” he said, holding his hands wide, a gesture of pure innocence. “That would be scandalous. A man my age making improper advances on a deceased colleague’s lovely, sexy niece? One who is clearly entertaining the idea of benefiting from an older man’s heard-earned experience in the bedroom? No.”
“The only thing I’m experiencing right now is revulsion mixed with a small amount of nausea.”
“Understood, Mary. Understood. However, I’m not hitting on you, despite the wonderful curve of your — ”
“I am armed, Braggs.”
Braggs snapped his mouth shut, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Mary walked away, wondering if some old ladies somewhere were supplying Braggs with Viagra. If not, she should set him up with the Golden Girls at Brent’s place. They’d tear him apart.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Margaret Stewart hadn’t been lying. At least not about the files. They were old. As old as the Hollywood Hills that had spawned the careers of these actors, comedians, and writers. She set the stack of files down on her desk next to her computer and fired up the machine.
Mary clicked on the iPod that ran her office sound system, and chose an album by Brandi Carlile, an immensely talented singer songwriter from Seattle who Mary had seen in concert. An incredible voice.
She launched her Internet browser, then followed that with her People Search software. It was a proprietary program developed by a friend of Mary’s, a software developer at a large corporation who had been fired for trying to improve the company’s product. It’s never a wise move to be so good in corporate America that you threaten your boss’s livelihood. Mary had helped out on his case and in return he had pirated software, improved it, and given it to her as a gift.
Now, Mary began alphabetizing the files. After fifteen minutes, she had all seventy-five files in order by last name.
With that, she launched into the job at hand. Namely, using her software to find, locate, and hopefully eliminate as many people as she could from the pile. The good thing was, one of the forms required by Margaret Stewart had included a section for personal information, and a line for the client’s social security number. That eliminated any problems with two Michael Williamses.
The pictures, the head shots, made Mary pause. God, they had all looked so young and happy. And real. She smiled at the credits. Television shows that she’d never heard of. Comedy reviews, clubs and movies she’d never heard of. It had been a different world back then.
The first conclusion Mary reached was that Uncle Brent’s crew didn’t have great longevity. Of the first ten files, seven were dead. Not surprising, though. Depending on how old they were when they made the L.A. attempt, and what year they launched, the majority of the folks were somewhere between sixty and eighty. Despite L.A.’s current reputation for health conscious individuals, back then they all smoked and drank like fish. Cancer had gotten lots of them, most likely.
She then dove into the files, working as quickly as possible. It took her just under two hours to eliminate everyone she could. By the time she was done, she was left with a very manageable keeper pile. Twenty-six living, five unaccounted for. After all the illnesses, the car wrecks, the suicides, these twenty-six had made it through. She silently congratulated them. The five who were unaccounted for, well, she would make up her mind about them later.