“Okay, as in…”
“You're the private eye. You're telling me you don't know?”
“I need specifics, Ken.”
“Word has it there isn't a drug Mason's met that he didn't date.”
“That serious, huh?”
“His last shoot took way longer than usual. Because of looong naps. Coke and weed don't do that. Catch my drift?”
“Heroin.”
“They say it has that effect.”
“Does he shoot or smoke?”
“How would I know-smoke, I'd bet. Can't afford any needle marks.”
Aaron said, “But the picture did get finished.”
“Loose Change for Danny? Hell, yeah, made a nice profit. Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
The agent laughed. “Depends on who the accountants are. I did a project with Pam DeMoyne-from Shadows of Our Days? She was amazing, I'm talking on a level with Streep and Mirren. But the suits sent it straight to video anyway-I'll send you a DVD. It's really great, historical story about Shakespeare's secret gay life, Pam was Anne Hathaway, she was-”
“The accountants,” Aaron prompted.
“Right,” said Ken. “The accountants. I got Pam a twenty-five percentage of net, which is amazing, even if it is net, at that level you should see some payout. Never saw a dime of royalties. We do an audit, there's a three-hundred-thousand ‘distribution fee.’ I say what's that, they hem and haw, finally they tell me it's the price of driving the film from the production office in Westwood to the editor in Burbank.”
“High-priced taxi. I'll take the gig.”
“Oh, yeah. So did Book's last picture make money? Probably, because he's got clout, they might be afraid to pull bullshit like that.”
“But maybe diminishing clout.”
“He hasn't worked in what… a year and a half, two, three? Are you snooping around because something nasty's gonna pop, Aaron? Like he's over the edge and the studio's gonna be suing him for breach?”
“Nothing like that, Ken. Now tell me about Ax Dement.”
“Who?”
“Lem's oldest son. I hear he hangs out with Book.”
“News to me,” said Ken. “I've got no time for hangers-on.”
“Would you work with Lem?”
“You mean because he's a fascist and a racist and a fundamentalist hypocrite? Not my idea of integrity, Aaron.”
Aaron said, “What if the accounting was good?”
Ken laughed. “In that case, sure. But don't tell my mother.”
Aaron's second call was to Liana Parlat.
“How about another trip to Riptide, same fee structure.”
She said, “Sure. Maybe I'll run into Dr. Rau again. But could it be in a couple of nights?” “Busy?”
“Cartoon audition. I need to sound like an obnoxious twelve-year-old.”
“Not much of a stretch,” said Aaron.
Liana laughed and whined nasally: “Thanks. Dad.”
“You never called Rau, huh?”
“Not because I'm scared, Aaron. Because I've been working.”
“Another brat voice?”
“One of those classy animations under consideration at one of the so-called edgy networks. Disgusting family, even more disgusting flatulent dog.”
“Gas noise is part of your repertoire?”
“Actually, I'm under consideration for Sinead, the twelve-year-old daughter.” Putting on a high, reedy voice: “‘Oh man, Daddy-person, when you said this was a field trip, I didn't know we'd actually be out in the field listening to the growls and howls of Gyro's bowels.
“Here I come, Mr. Oscar.”
“Beats honest labor, Mr. Fox. As does lancing for you. What's the drill for my second visit?”
“Just sit around, soak up more atmosphere. If the topic ever comes up naturally, work Ax Dement into the conversation.”
“The son but not Lem?” she said. “You've got something concrete?”
“Not even close, Lee. The case is arctic but I'm sifting dirt wherever I can.” Smiling at his choice of words; the clearing at Carrillo was still on his mind.
She said, “It would sure be nice to dig up some downright filth related to that abusive asshole.” Resuming the kiddie voice: “‘Gee, sure, Mr. Fox-person. That would be a real field trip!’”
By ten a.m., Aaron had completed his fourth sally up and down the poorly paved, tree-lined highway that snaked past Len Dement's Solar Canyon spread, ten miles above PCH.
Each cycle raised the risk of being spotted. He tried to buffer the threat by stretching the time between passes, driving a good fifteen miles past the watch-zone before coming back down.
If nothing happened soon, it was back to the city with plastic bags and question marks.
Barely half a mile past the property, the real estate switched to public domain: undeveloped state conservancy land along an increasingly rutted road. Sloping granite on one side, shallow canyons on the other. Aaron eased the Porsche around curves, enjoying the way the four-wheel drive embraced the asphalt.
Small birds flittered above the brush, unaware or uncaring about hawks-man, there were a lot of winged creatures out here-gliding, scoping out the buffet. Swooping.
Google Earth had defined Dement's sixty-plus acres with an aerial shot. Only one access, a single-lane entry road from the roadside gate connecting to a few acres of flat pad. The big rectangle right of center had to be the main house. Farther back, to the left, several smaller outbuildings sprouted like buds. No sign of any church under construction, but maybe the picture was old.
Twenty Solar Canyon, a cinch to find. The gate was mesh, manually operated, nearly flush with the road. Barbed-wire fencing stretched from the posts a good five hundred feet in either direction.
No mailbox, no address numerals, no fake-o cowboy brand over the gate, like some of the other places he'd spotted driving up.
On the other hand, no snarling dogs or No Trespassing warnings, any other go-away.
On his third pass, he hazarded a stop, looked for a well-concealed security camera, failed to find one. So either high-tech developments had gotten past him, or Dement didn't bother to keep watch.
Figuring a camera would be too conspicuous?
The guy had tons of dough but chose to live away from the Industry hubbub of Beverly Hills, Brentwood, the Colony, Broad Beach.
A place meant to be ignored.
Beginning his fifth pass, Aaron was ready to call it quits when a black X5 crested the road above the gate and rolled down erratically.
He zoomed past, parked precariously on the narrow highway, just out of view of the SUV, ran down to where he could see and not be seen.
The X5 was idling, its driver's door open. A slim, fair-haired woman was unlocking the gate with a key. Once she'd pushed the heavy metal frame wide, she returned to the SUV, drove out a few yards, got out again, relocked the gate.
Aaron's long-range lens captured the whole tedious routine. Maybe Lem Dement didn't want people coming and going that easily. By the time the X5 was gone, Aaron was inspecting digital images, include a nice close-up of the woman's face.
But no need to guess; he'd memorized every face in the Malibu paper's family portrait of the Dement clan.
Gemma Dement hadn't changed a bit.
CHAPTER 27
Seven-hundred-dollar Fendi shades hid Mrs. Lem Dement's eyes. The rest of her face was blank.
Coming straight at him-had he gotten that rusty?
Bracing himself for a confrontation, Aaron chopsticked a phony shrimp, pretended to savor. As she got closer, he opened the book he'd brought for cover. Paperback biography of George Washington Carver. Looking intellectual never hurt, especially intellectually black.
Gemma Dement kept coming. Even with sunglasses on, he sensed she was staring at him.
Big mess, where had he screwed up? The designer jeans boutique? The organic market? The bikini shop?