On the 101 freeway, as we drive toward the rehab facility that Hashim Swartz told us about, we are silent. Traffic hums and honks with the monotony of any other day, but inside the car my thoughts are racing to connect Phinneas with a random pickup truck. How does Devon relate? How do I?
We approach a domed building that broadcasts serenity and a costly price tag atop the cliffs of Calabasas. I try to focus on the here and now. On Seven Wells, a shining beacon of health, according to its brochure. We park in a small lot between two black Hummers. A man all in spandex walks his tiny white Maltese along a stretch of the sidewalk beside us.
“Maybe they were in a throuple,” I say.
“What?” Connor cuts the engine.
“If Phinneas and Devon each slept with the same woman, then they all end up dead—were they in some kind of business arrangement, or romance?”
“That’s a stretch. Devon was also engaged to a society woman, Hyacinth Aspen, and had an amazing career in tech. What in his background makes you think he’d have this totally alternate life that threatens all of that?”
“Oh, my mistake, I thought you were a certified PI,” I drawl. “Let’s not be naïve. Examples of double lives abound in your industry.”
“Based on what I know about Lim, which is a lot”—Connor shrugs—“that would be wildly out of character.”
“Wildly—you don’t have to emphasize how dumb you think my idea is.”
“I didn’t say that—”
“Look, at least I’m thinking of all the possibilities here. You’re not adding anything to the investigation the way that you said you would.”
“Really, Addison? You’d just dismiss all the work I’ve put into the last several weeks? Not to mention I’m doing the legwork with the DMV for this pickup-truck stalker—”
“Okay, okay.” I wave off his rant. “But I think we should find out if Phinneas and Devon met to discuss business at some point. Then determine how Annalise Meier plays a role here, or if she was only caught up in the middle.”
I huff, thoroughly annoyed that I’m having to do Connor’s work for him. Aren’t I supposed to be reaping the rewards of our partnership? I brought Connor to Devon, albeit after Devon had already died. Connor said he would help me figure out what happened to Phinneas since his benefactor still wants answers about Devon, apparently. The meeting we had with Hashim Swartz gave us the name of Phinneas’s rehab facility, but Connor wasn’t able to find anything else interesting about the guy. Not legally, he said.
Insert eye roll.
“You’re right,” Connor says. He takes a deep breath. “You’re totally right. I’m still noodling on these new developments, and not doing a good job of communicating that to you. Sorry.”
He shifts toward me to touch my hand across the center console. For a moment, he leaves it there, our skin connected. The memory of the rest of our bodies pressed together surges forward in my mind, my chest, my stomach—before I push it down.
Connor’s reaction is placating. I see right through it. “You’re the private investigator. And we’re running out of time.”
I exit his car, then stalk up the path to the glass doors of the facility. We shared a night together. A single night. I can’t let that distract from whatever nonsense is afoot here, trying to trip me up. The business card that I found in Phinneas’s office—a tailor shop in Beverly Hills—says we only have two weeks and change until my balance comes due.
Inside the facility, a woman smiles from behind the front desk. Her pearls and blue sweater scream yacht club, or Vineyard Vines. “Welcome. Are you visiting or checking in?”
I suppress a smirk. As if. “A friend of mine recently passed away, and I know he stayed with you in the past. Three times, actually. I was hoping to speak to someone who might remember him as a guest.”
If the vibe here is to pretend this is a luxury hotel, I’m game.
She purses her lips. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t be able to confirm any details about the stay of one of our guests, living or deceased.”
I crook a finger, urging her closer. “Your manager. Now.”
“I assure you, there’s no way we can—”
“And I assure you that I am two seconds away from calling my friend at the Beverly Hills Gazette and reporting the hideous bedbug infestation at this facility.”
The woman’s eyes widen. “We have no such thing.”
“Honey, if I waited for interesting truth tidbits to surface, I wouldn’t be in PR. Your manager. Now.”
“That’s me. How can I help?” A woman who wears all her stress in pleats across her forehead nearly fills the doorway beneath a plaque that reads GUESTS ONLY.
Thick black hair is styled in curls around a face with no makeup. Although this woman is easily five feet ten inches or taller, she slouches into her high-waisted trousers. “Posey Delacruz, director of the Seven Wells Wellness Resort. How can I help you?”
“I’d love to elaborate,” I begin, then shoot the receptionist a look. “In private.”
Posey ushers us through the opaque glass door into a sitting room with deep armchairs. “What can I do for you—?”
“Addison Stern, publicist with Ovid Blackwell, and this is Connor Windell. A client of mine was a guest here at one point, Phinneas Redwood. Three times. He passed away recently.”
Posey blinks twice. “As I overheard my receptionist explaining, I would never confirm someone stayed here. HIPAA and all that.”
“Right. Sure.”
Connor sits in the armchair to my left. He peers into the ceiling corners as if searching for something. Probably still “noodling on these new developments.”
“But I’m not interested in Phinneas’s official diagnoses or recommendations for treatment. I’m looking for notes from group therapy, visitation records, or the names of anyone he might have befriended while a guest here.”
“Everything you’re describing is protected under privacy laws.”
“Ms. Delacruz—Posey—Phinneas was killed. Murdered. And I’m hoping to serve his killer the justice they deserve.”
Both Connor and Posey lift their eyebrows. I’m laying it on a little thick. Dial it back, Addison.
“I guess I’m confused,” Posey says. “The police are investigating the case, aren’t they?”
“Of course. But my clients are my world. I owe it to him to find out what happened.”
The eyebrows lower. I’m getting warmer.
“And you think I have those answers?”
“I think Phinneas spent three seasons with you and your staff when he was at his most vulnerable. A person doesn’t complete treatment at one of these facilities without divulging certain information.”
“Speak plainly, Addison. I have a tour to give to an Oscar winner in ten minutes.”
“Did Phinneas suggest he was in trouble with his investors? Or that he misused company funds?”
Hashim Swartz was quick to point us toward Phinneas’s rehab stints, possibly trying to distract us with something shinier than his own misdeeds. But if Phinneas was throwing lavish drug parties in the Mediterranean, and that’s where Hashim first met our troubled CEO before becoming an investor in Thrive, Inc. himself, other investors could have been up to speed. Maybe they frowned on Phinneas’s antics. Maybe Phinneas wasn’t meticulous with how he paid for said illicit drugs. Company funds could have been redirected by him, jeopardizing a profitable enterprise with the federal government. And that would infuriate people with a lot of zeros in their checking accounts.
Posey shakes her head. “Honestly, I would love to ensure all our guests find peace. One way or another. But I can’t think of anyone who Mr. Redwood might have mentioned as bothering him—during any alleged stay. We try to check in with guests after they leave Seven Wells, but it can be hard to keep up with the myriad of vices these days.”
“Oh? In what sense?”
“Prescription drug use has exploded, most commonly. There’s been an uptick in diazepam abuse.”
“Which, for non-pharmacists, is…?”
Connor clears his throat. “Valium. Valium is the brand name of one kind of diazepam pill.”
“That’s right,” Posey says. “It was uppers for a long time, then downers, then chemically modified super uppers, and now the classics once again. Our facility is as busy as ever, and it has become untenable for us to keep tabs on our former guests. Any other questions, Addison?”
Although she is cordial, I get the sense that a gossip sesh won’t do it for Posey Delacruz—not when an actor with an addiction is waiting. “Anything unusual that you can recall while Phinneas was a guest here?”
Posey twists her mouth to the side. “We did receive several large donations from an anonymous donor while…a high-profile guest stayed with us. Each time.”
“Anonymous?” Connor asks.
“Through an attorney. That’s all I can say.”
We thank her, and she shows us to the main entrance. As we take the concrete path to Connor’s gas guzzler in the parking lot, a man emerges from a still-running Escalade. Wearing dark sunglasses and a zipped hooded sweater, the man nearly bowls us off the walkway as he stumbles into the lobby.
“Velvet, you look stunning.” I air-kiss my client on the steps of City Hall in Downtown LA. Today, overcast gray clouds contrast with Velvet’s purple puffed sleeves and silver buttons that reach all the way up to her neck. Sleek matte Lycra pants hug Velvet’s jaw-dropping curves.
She squeezes my hand. “I’m ready for this.”
“You are.” We reach the entrance of City Hall together as I scan the extensive walkway and the manicured lawns on either side. The property encompasses a city block and provides a beautiful place for LA residents to have lunch, mingle, take meetings, or relieve themselves on one of the dozen public benches. We pass beneath looping designs carved in the stone overhead.
Turning left down a tiled hallway, every other square painted with a detailed motif, I lead Velvet toward a conference room I secured with the council member’s secretary’s help. High ceilings decorated in painted gold designs and blue felt cloth that hangs along the foyer’s second-floor balcony could belong in a palace or old-money mansion on the East Coast. My kitten heels clack against the polished floor, energizing my steps. Despite the chaos surrounding my search for Phinneas’s killer, and the suspicion landing on me regarding Devon’s murder, business is rolling. Velvet is making progress among the fashion industry’s snobs. And she’s about to lock in a powerful partnership.
Meredith Gaines, the incumbent in next year’s midterms, was desperate for an edgy endorsement when I reached out. I suggested she meet with my client to discuss Velvet’s new fashion line. The two women could mutually benefit each other. Councilor Gaines will wear one of Velvet’s designs in a photo op for her upcoming campaign in exchange for Velvet’s public support as a formerly notorious woman with a new career—Gaines is a die-hard supporter of women-owned businesses and second chances. Velvet will gain legitimacy and acceptance as an entrepreneur peddling legal wares that are coveted by all. Even local officials.
Introductions are made. The two women smile, posing for photos. Tony Hopkins, a publicist I once saw at big-screen red carpet functions before he became a government fawn, whirls about his client, adjusting a hair here, smoothing a suit lapel there. He’s been practically living in this building for years, moving from one government insider to the next like a bribe tucked inside a handshake.
While the leaders spend a moment chatting about mundane topics—“How do you like the LA weather?” “The traffic here, my God!”—I approach Tony.
“Good to see you, Tony. It’s been ages.”
He glares at me. “Addison Stern. The last time we met you were telling TMZ that I was high on the job at the SAG Awards.”
I let a hand fly to my chest. “Was I? That doesn’t sound like me.”
“No, no, it was you. You wanted my client to move to Ovid Blackwell before her next big movie came out. She had just finished community service for stealing money from that orphanage, and everyone wanted her. The stunt you pulled that night made no one in the film industry want to work with me, so I had to move over here to City Hall.” Tony leans closer. “To these people, government officials. They’re even worse than actors.”
“Well, from what I hear, you’ve been very successful in these parts. So I guess you can thank me.” Tony does not mirror my smile.
“What do you want, Addison?” His tone turns annoyed. “I know you never give out a compliment for free.”
Councilor Gaines and Velvet are still enjoying themselves, laughing now about how petty people can be. “So astute, Tony, exactly as I recall. I was wondering if you’ve heard anything about the upcoming Fashion Week. Will the councilor be attending? She seems to be a fan.”
After I decoded the dates on Phinneas’s card, my power move that secured Velvet as a client was even sweeter. I’d be working in the LA fashion scene and attacking both goals without a dewdrop of sweat. But each meeting, photo op, and interview has only confirmed that Velvet has a tough hill to climb for acceptance in the industry she so admires—providing zero insight into what Phinneas could want me to know about the final night of Fashion Week. As far as I know he never met Velvet, unless he visited her gentlemen’s club at some point, all the way over in Chicago, and there’s no way he would have known I’d be working with her for the event. The Google Alert I set up has kept my inbox steadily pinging with news articles and op-eds wondering what happened to the small-statured CEO. Until October 13 arrives, I’ll be examining the business-card clue for answers. Even if it means playing nice with competitors.
Tony rolls his eyes. “Not if I can help it. The last thing she needs is to be seen as frivolous or spending taxpayer dollars on designer clothing.”
Behind Tony, framed photos line the white plaster walls at eye level: elected city officials from the last ten years. In the center of one, a man stands heads and shoulders above the rest of the group like the apex of a pyramid. Graying black hair is long on top and shaved on the sides. The same Frogger jogger who crossed the street with Fernando Castillo, whose truck was following Connor and me.
“Who is that? The tall one,” I ask, careful to keep my voice low.
“In the middle? That’s Jamie Mendez. A former city official, now seeking election in Congress. Why? Did he get in your way once, too?”
“Tell me more about him.”
Tony sighs, but our charges are now discussing climate change and its effect on the supply chain. He’s stuck with me. “I don’t know. Jamie Mendez, he was over in the seventh district but got booted out by voters a few years back. There was a scandal with a rival that didn’t land well for him.”
I recall the black construction paper covering the windows of the business he disappeared within. “What kind of scandal?”
Tony surveys the room behind me. “I know a few things. But why would I share them with you?”
“Oh, honey.” I bat my eyes. “You must know what happens to people who cross me or, worse, withhold information from me?”
Tony scowls. “I’m a publicist who works exclusively with the LA city government. You think I’m hiding anything that hasn’t already been outed?”
“I think I once saw you exiting the Garage in WeHo a little over a year ago.”
Tony shifts his weight. He steps closer. “What of it? It’s not a crime to visit a place with good food and drink, no matter the neighborhood.”
“No, of course not. But I think your wife would be interested to know you were sampling the local fare. Is Charlie still the bouncer there? Or did he get fired after you were caught checking his dipstick in the palm fronds?”
Tony’s face loses its color. After a moment he picks his jaw up from the hardwood. “Jamie Mendez is blacklisted from most government circles. After his rival Greg Sistine, another former city official, died from a prescription cocktail four years ago, no one wanted to work with Mendez. They had each ranted in public about how the other guy would get ‘what’s coming to him’—very on brand for two Ovid clients.”
“They’re not ours. I’m sure of that. I’ve never heard of either of them before today.”
Tony lifts a haughty eyebrow. “The great and powerful Addison Stern is not all-seeing, all-knowing?”
“Don’t test me, Tony. You’ll fail that exam. Why was Mendez not arrested, if he threatened Sistine before Sistine died?”
Tony huffs. “No proof. But that didn’t stop the blowback. Even though Mendez was literally in a hospital visiting pediatric cancer patients when Sistine’s death occurred, Mendez had zero traction for a few years; everyone suspected him. Now I guess he’s running for election, though, to the House of Representatives this time.”
“Intriguing. Does he have a publicist?” Maybe I can strong-arm another PR colleague into dishing the goods.
Tony sneers. “I would have thought it was you for the way Mendez managed to escape the negative press. Addison Stern. The Teflon publi-bitch.”
I smile and press my palm to his cheek, stepping into his personal space. He flinches backward. “I’m going to have to update my LinkedIn with that. Thanks for the content.”
“I wouldn’t get involved with him, Teflon coating or no.” Tony shrugs off the discomfort of my touch. “Mendez has family rumored to be in with the mob all the way back to their heyday during the seventies. Half the bodies turning up in Lake Mead outside of Vegas are probably from the Mendez-mob collab.”
Velvet laughs, too loudly, signaling that her conversation is almost at an end. I whip out my phone to check the time. “Well, much obliged for the information. See you at the next red carpet eve—Oh. Silly me.”
“How did you know? About me and Charlie?” Tony asks, still fuming.
“Oh, sweetie. I keep notes on everyone I’ve ever met, just in case something comes in handy.”
“Wow. Does it ever get tiring, not trusting a single soul? Always poised to rip people apart?” Big brown eyes glisten.
“Does a bird tire of feeling wind beneath its wings? No, Tony. It doesn’t.”
Velvet and I leave a few minutes later. A council member’s time is precious, after all, and I walk Velvet to where her Tesla is parked in the adjacent guarded lot. I get to my own Mercedes and unlock my phone to call Connor when a new thought stops me: What if Jamie Mendez did have something to do with his rival’s death? If his associate is following Connor and me in his pickup, he could be watching us for reasons unrelated to Phinneas. As someone with ties to Las Vegas, Mendez could be keeping tabs on another desert flower: Connor.
When I make a left onto Spring Street, I check my rearview. A man stands on the stone steps leading up to City Hall closest to the busy road. His characteristic button-up shirt, paired with a garish necktie, is obvious from where I coast in traffic. FBI Agent Jonas lifts a hand in a wave, as if he saw me—or knows the dark blue custom shade of my Benz.
The stoplight at the upcoming intersection turns yellow, but I step on the gas and floor it toward the freeway.