Janet Orson was stunning in shimmering, clinging, white silk jersey—a floor-length Vera Wang gown that emphasized her long, sleek figure. Her golden hair was swept up in a twist and held by an oblong diamond clip. Diamond-and-pearl drop earrings accentuated her alabaster skin, and a pearl choker hugged her neck, fastened to one side with a wide diamond clasp.
“You are breathtaking!” Alan Bronstein proclaimed. “But you sure don’t look like a grieving widow.” His eyes twinkled. He had just arrived at the Beverly Hills Hotel to escort her to the big charity premiere of Serial Killer, her late husband’s last movie.
“Don’t start!” Janet smiled. She handed him her ermine jacket. He walked around behind her and placed it on her shoulders, then guided her to the door.
“The picture should only be half as good as you look,” Alan said; “then we’d make a fortune with it.” But they both knew that Serial Killer was not good. It was beautifully shot by a brilliant young French cinematographer, but the story was weak, and nothing could fix that in postproduction.
“Well, darling,” Janet said with a sigh, “you didn’t take this on to make money. You did it for Jack, remember?”
“Wrong!” he said. “I did it for you, Janet; let’s make no mistake about that. Still, the old man wouldn’t like to hear that I was running a philanthropic organization. It would be nice if we could make a few bucks with it.” Bronstein thought to himself but didn’t say, The only thing this turkey’s got going for it is that the famous sonofabitch who stars in it is dead.
He handed Janet into the waiting limo for the short drive to the Century Plaza Cinemas, where Monogram had taken over all four screens to premiere Serial Killer. The black-tie gala afterward would benefit AmFAR, and many luminaries who worked for AIDS research would be there, as well as several of the stars of the movie.
As their limousine pulled off Santa Monica Boulevard onto the Avenue of the Stars in Century City, Janet looked up at the high-rise apartment buildings and shuddered. Her eyes traveled up the cluster of towers with their lighted windows, and she couldn’t help thinking about actress Meg Davis, who had jumped off one of those terraces this morning, jumped nineteen floors to her death. That would be on everybody’s mind tonight, she knew.
In fact, the suicide had been discussed that afternoon in a meeting at Monogram. It had happened in Century City, just yards from where tonight’s premiere would be taking place. Would it put a damper on everybody’s spirits? It would be an industry crowd, and Meg Davis was one of their own. The story had been all over the media since the actress’s arrest last night, including her link to Jack Nathanson, and most of the 1,800 invitees would see the whole scenario played out again on the evening news before they arrived at the theater.
“Don’t think I’m being crass,” Alan Bronstein had said in the meeting, knowing, of course, that he was being crass, “but if anything, I think it just heightens the mood for this film. I mean, on the day of the premiere of Jack Nathanson’s final film, which happens to be about a serial killer, his killer is arrested and commits suicide. I have to say, Jack himself would’ve loved the timing.”
“Oh, are they saying that Meg Davis killed him, too?” studio chief Sid Levine had asked.
“No, not yet, but it’s looking that way, Sid. CNN says she was obsessed with him, actually stalked him, followed him around for years, and of course she was bonkers. Probably had a crush on him way back when she was a vulnerable kid, doing Black Sabbat. Jack was in his early thirties then, a big star, and a charmer, not to mention successful, powerful, rich.”
“Yeah, and didn’t they say she was seen outside Debra Angelo’s house on the day Nathanson was killed there?” put in Joe Austin, Monogram’s head of marketing.
“Gee, it is kind of a nice circle, isn’t it? But for chrissake, don’t anybody quote me!” Sid Levine had said with a chuckle. The subject was closed.
The driver eased their stretch limo to a stop in front of the theater complex, and Janet and Alan stepped out into a barrage of minicams and flashbulbs, but abruptly the cameras stopped, and the army of press practically knocked the two of them down to get to the couple behind them. Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones had just stepped out of their limousine and were making an entrance.
Bronstein laughed. The public was always more interested in the glittering faces they saw on the screen than the people behind the movies, and that was just fine with him. When one of his films scored big, he always walked away with the biggest chunk of the profits.
Bronstein had turned down reserved seats in one of the smaller upstairs theaters in favor of the largest theater in the complex, which accommodated eight hundred people. Even though just about everyone here tonight was connected to the movie business, after all the hoopla of the limos and the press and the fans waving autograph books, the celebrities, the colleagues, the air kisses, and the champagne in the lobby, when they took their seats and the lights went down, they turned into movie fans just like ordinary mortals, and Alan Bronstein wanted to hear their reactions. Later, at the dinner, they would all tell him they loved the movie, it was a winner, it couldn’t miss, just as he would say at their screenings. But what they really thought of it would emerge inadvertently while they were sitting in the dark, immersed in the experience of the film. Alan would hear the gasps, the yelps of horror, the laughs, some in the wrong places—that’s what would give him a true sense of how Serial Killer would do at the box office.
Chris Rock was on stage doing a welcoming monologue. The newly svelte Bette Midler was dressed totally in orange feathers—later she was going to perform. Streisand wouldn’t sing, but she showed up, her husband James Brolin good-naturedly shielding her from the press. Actress Jennifer Lopez was in yet another dress that seemed glued to strategic parts of her body; actor Ed Burns was looking adorably confused, as he usually did. The massive Los Angeles Ballroom in the Century Plaza Hotel across the avenue from the theater complex was filled, and festive.
The lustrous crowd sat at tables set with peach-colored linens, fine china, and real crystal, and gracing each table were tall taper candles set in a lush centerpiece of lilies and peach roses. Tuxedoed waiters served an après-theater supper of crab and shrimp, cheeses and pâtés, lobster quiche, and baby grilled lamb chops, followed by lavish dessert trays with dozens of selections, along with wines, champagne, coffee, and liqueurs. Most of the participants, on stage and off, wore the AIDS red ribbons that were handed out at the doors.
For the silent auction to benefit AmFAR, Jean-Paul Gaultier had donated the famous pinstriped suit that Madonna made news in when she took the jacket off on the runway and displayed her perfect naked breasts; Bjork contributed the white froufrou swan dress that she sang in at the Oscars; Elizabeth Taylor had donated the pièce de résistance, the violet, chrome-bedecked Harley Davidson motorcycle Malcolm Forbes had given her. You could bid on a trip for two to Venice with a week at the fabulous Hotel Cipriani, or a week in Aspen with a suite at the Little Nell, along with ski outfits from the Aspen Mogul Shop. Artist David Hockney had donated a brilliant canvas; decorator to the stars Waldo Fernandez would completely redo a room in your house.
While Janet was chatting with friends, Alan wrote his name on the bidding sheet for a dazzling diamond-and-emerald necklace donated by a prominent Rodeo Drive jeweler. Its retail value, listed at the top of the sheet, was forty thousand dollars. Alan filled in his bid—fifteen thousand. He was pretty sure he would get it for that amount. He well knew the gentlemen’s agreement at these celebrity-filled silent auctions. If a member of the “club” wanted a certain item and entered a reasonable bid, the rest would stay away from it and set their sights on something else. Unless, of course, someone who couldn’t stand you wanted it. Or if someone who couldn’t stand you didn’t want it but enjoyed yanking your chain, they might bid higher and buy it just to piss you off, then, on their way out the door, clutching their purchase, smile and tell you it was a wonderful evening and let’s do lunch. A small example of the civilized knife-twisting that went on all the time in this industry town. The jeweler stood to gain some quality publicity with potential customers in this rich and famous crowd, as well as a tax write-off for donating the piece. And Bronstein’s own fifteen-thousand-dollar check would be made out to AmFAR, with a memo “for AIDS research” on the bottom, so he, too, could take a tax write-off. And not the least of it, he would be getting a terrific bargain on a fabulous piece of jewelry. It was a nice system where nobody lost, and everybody won. And he wanted to give that necklace to Janet.
“Do you mind if we stop for a nightcap on the way home?” Bronstein asked her now, as the star-studded benefit show was winding down. “Sid and the guys want to compare notes on how the picture played.”
Outside the Century Plaza Hotel, the horseshoe drive was lined with limos. Alan waved for their driver, who pulled up and took them to Mortons, where they found the group from Monogram at a front table.
“So?” Alan asked, as he and Janet joined them.
“So, okay… it went okay, I thought,” Sid Levine threw out. “And I got a not-too-bad feeling from the press. I mean, nobody looked away in embarrassment when I said hello.”
“Yeah, me too,” Alan responded. “Some nice laughs, no terrible gaffes… Shit, Sid, maybe we’ll make our money back.”
“You didn’t get ‘huge hit’ vibes, huh?” Sid asked hopefully.
“Come on, buddy.” Alan grinned. “We’ve both been in this business too long to kid ourselves. This one never smelled good, you know that.” Suddenly, he became aware that Janet was looking uncomfortable. This was, after all, her late husband’s picture, and he had been dead for less than three weeks.
“I’m sorry, Janet,” he said to her. “We’re being insensitive jerks. Maybe we should skip this—”
“No, no, no,” she assured him, and smiled at the group around the table. “I’m okay. It’s just all so hard to believe…. Would you order me an Armagnac?”
“You’re a trouper,” Alan said, signaling a waiter. “We won’t stay long; one quick drink and I’ll get you home.”
A young man approached the table, one of the restaurant’s parking attendants. He came over to Alan. “Mr. Bronstein,” he said, “I have those tickets I told you about.”
“Oh, great, Billy,” Alan said, and extended his hand. Billy gave him an envelope, and left. “Wants to be an actor,” Alan explained to the group. “Don’t they all, huh? These are for a play his workshop is doing; I told him if I couldn’t go, I’d give them to someone who counts.”
The waiter arrived and they ordered drinks. The group chatted about the film’s prospects, and congratulated themselves on throwing a very successful fundraiser—the morning publicity should get the movie launched in a climate of goodwill.
Later, as their limousine made its way toward the Beverly Hills Hotel, Janet felt suddenly drained. She longed to climb into bed and obliterate all thoughts of the murders, of Meg Davis, of Jack, the movie, the business, her future. Resting her head against the back of the car’s plush upholstery, she closed her eyes and tried to relax.
The sound of a siren behind them jolted her alert, and she opened her eyes to the strobe of flashing lights bathing the interior of the limo. “What the hell—?” Alan muttered, and they both turned to see a squad car behind them. They were in a tony residential area on Canon Drive. A voice over a loudspeaker invaded the neighborhood stillness: “Pull over to the side of the road. Please pull your vehicle over to the curb and park, and roll down all your windows.”
“I don’t know what I did, Mr. Bronstein,” the driver said, tossing back a nervous look to Alan as he pulled the cumbersome stretch limo over to the right and stopped. Quickly, he pressed the buttons to lower the windows, front and back.
An officer in the tan shirt, green pants, and helmet of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, his gun drawn, stepped to the window on the driver’s side and looked back into the interior of the car. “Mr. Alan Bronstein?” he asked.
“I’m Alan Bronstein—”
“Please step out of the vehicle, sir, and keep your hands above your head.”
As Alan did so, another man approached from the radio car, a tall black man in street clothes. He produced a leather ID folder with a badge and credentials bearing his name, Jonathan Johnson, and the inscription of the Sheriff’s Homicide Bureau, then he began with “You have the right to remain silent….”
When he was finished quoting the Miranda rights, he took a search warrant from his pocket, explained what it was, and presented it for Bronstein’s inspection.
“What are you looking for?” Bronstein questioned.
“We want the envelope you received from William Randall James at Mortons restaurant tonight,” Johnson said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alan protested, his arms raised.
Johnson nodded to the other deputy, who had his gun trained on Bronstein. With his free hand, he reached into Bronstein’s top left inside coat pocket and retrieved the envelope. He handed it to Johnson. Janet recognized Johnson as one of the detectives who had been at her house the day Carlotta was found murdered. Johnson tore open the envelope and looked inside, then put it in his own coat pocket.
“You can take Ms. Orson home now,” he told the driver. Then, looking at Alan, he said, “Mr. Bronstein, you’re coming with us.”