I took the case file back to my office. I sat at my desk, slider open, the sun slanting in and popping off the slick blue surface of my Ping-Pong table.
Keaton Albert Fuller, thirty-five, had been shot once in the chest by a Smith & Wesson M&P nine-millimeter handgun. From seventy-five yards away, as Ott had mentioned. The “M&P” stands for “military and police.” And a lot of military and police use the weapon. In fact, it’s the pistol issued to the LAPD. That being said, it’s also available to the general public, and the part of the general public that buys guns seems to like it. A lot. It’s one of the best-selling guns on the market.
At 6 a.m. Keaton Fuller had been walking to his car, when he was shot. His clothing suggested that he had been on his way to the gym.
Keaton’s house was in the Hollywood Hills, just a few blocks above the Sunset Plaza section of Sunset Boulevard. An expensive part of town. A lot of celebs live there. And a lot of celebs, wannabe celebs, and people who want to soak in the Hollywood scene in a somewhat obvious, somewhat bridge-and-tunnel way kick around the coffee shops, bars, and restaurants in the area.
The two lead detectives on the case, Rick Harrier and Michelle Martinez, determined that the shooter had been positioned just slightly higher up in the Hills than Keaton’s place, in a little clearing off the side of Rising Glen Road, which starts at Sunset Boulevard and twists up the minimountain. Crime-scene pictures showed a clear shot right down to Keaton Fuller’s driveway.
Harrier and Martinez had interviewed the following people extensively: Fuller’s parents, Jackie and Phil; his brother, Greer—yes, definitely also a pretentious name; his ex-girlfriend Sydney Scott, formerly Sydney Frost, who was now married to a man named Geoff Scott; and a former business partner named Craig Helton. They had also talked to a handful of other people less extensively.
As Ott had said, all of them had alibis, airtight alibis, and most of their statements were not particularly sensitive. Keaton, according to everyone but his parents, was a shit.
I looked at a picture of him premurder. Straight, dark hair that he wore kind of long. Blue eyes. And a pretty big guy. The picture was only the top half of him, but I knew from the file that he was just under six feet, so I filled in the rest of him in my mind. He wasn’t fat but just sort of soft all over, fleshy looking. Interesting, I thought, that he’d been headed to the gym when he was shot. Maybe he was one of those guys who go to the gym all the time but never seem to get much done. But that softness—it was especially pronounced in his face. He had a little double chin that sat underneath a smug smile, and there was a smug, contemptuous look in his eye.
I put down the picture and called the number for Jackie and Phil Fuller.
“Hello,” a cautiously friendly woman’s voice said.
“Hi, is this Jackie Fuller?”
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“My name is John Darvelle. I’m a private investigator. Detective Mike Ott, with the LAPD, contacted me and told me you were looking for some private help to investigate the murder of your son.”
Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Yes, that’s right.”
“Would you like to talk? In person?”
“Yes. Would tomorrow work for you? I realize tomorrow is Saturday, but my husband isn’t home from work right now and I’d like him to be here when we talk.”
“Tomorrow’s fine.”
I like working on Saturdays. When you work on Saturday, there’s an energy present that says: Nobody’s working today. In fact, the notion of you’re not supposed to work on Saturday has essentially been hammered into us. So when you do, it’s almost as if everyone around you is frozen. Not literally. People are moving, of course, going to the beach, hitting yoga classes, even working on little personal projects, puttering around the house, maybe screwing in a fresh lightbulb or two. But they’re not working-working. So when you do work on Saturday, it can be quite freeing, even energizing. You’ve got the day to yourself, and because no one else is doing much, the feeling of progress intensifies. Add to that, people aren’t usually calling you, annoying you. You’ve got this uninterrupted pocket. You’ve got hours and hours gifted to you. It’s like you’re stealing time.
“Thank you,” Jackie Fuller said. “What time works for you?”
“Any time.”
We settled on noon. Jackie Fuller told me that she and Phil lived in Hancock Park, then gave me her exact address.
“See you tomorrow,” I said. And hung up.
I called my friend Gary Delmore. Gary’s a TV director. A big one. Directs all sorts of shows for all sorts of networks. He’s done really, really well in that world. And he’s made a dump-truckful of money.
He’s also very openly decided to be a lifelong bachelor and use his Hollywood clout to “date” as many actresses, and other attractive women who just might be impressed with his success, as he possibly can before he dies. He’s forty-six, tan, and has big, sort of eighties hair and too-white teeth. He’s a walking midlife crisis. And he’d be the first to tell you that. And that’s why Gary’s great. He knows who he is. We hang out from time to time. When we do, it usually involves beer and Ping-Pong. He beat me once. That fact annoys me to an astonishing degree. And that fact gives him an astonishing amount of pleasure. The other thing that’s usually involved when it comes to me and Gary is insults. Specifically, insulting each other. We enjoy doing that for some reason.
“Gary, what’s happening?”
“The Darv is calling. To what do I owe this distinct pleasure?”
“Oh, before I get to why I’m calling . . . you’re not in the middle of a spray tan, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Teeth whitening?”
“No again.”
“Are you sleeping with a woman who’s only interested in you to advance her career?”
“Not right now, no. I will later, but I’m not currently doing that.”
“Great. Then you can talk.”
“Well, I am in the middle of something. I’m at a toupee store. Looking at a couple of models I think would be good for you.”
“I don’t need a toupee,” I said with a hint, just a hint, of actual defensiveness. “That’s why I have a barbershop-level head shaver. When I zip it down, it looks good.”
“As good as it can. But I’m looking at a number here I think would look real nice on you. It’s called the Ferret.”
“Ha,” I said. Had to give Delmore that one.
Gary said, “So, what’s up?”
“Need a favor. Can you give a part to the niece of a cop friend of mine? Just a line or something in a show. I owe him one. His niece is a young actress. Probably mid-, late twenties or so. She needs a break.”
“Um. Is she talented?” Gary added a salacious spin to the word “talented.”
“Off-limits. If you sleep with this girl, this guy, her uncle, will shoot me. He literally will. He will sacrifice his badge, his career, his life, and shoot me. He already wants to shoot me. You bang his niece and it will happen.”
“Then I might do it just for that.”
“I walked into that.”
“Yeah, you did. But Darv, truth is, I can’t just promise you that I can give this girl a line. I’m going to have to audition her. She has to have some actual talent. I know you like to tell me how bad some of the shows I direct are, but at the end of the day you have to have talent to get a part in one of them.”
“Gary. You’re currently directing a show that stars MC Hammer as a preschool teacher.”
And he was. It was called Grammar Time!!! And yes, there are three exclamation points in the actual title.
I continued, “I mean, let’s face it, I know some of the shows you do are good. But a lot of them—we’re not exactly talking about Apocalypse Now.”
“Listen. I’m on set—”
“I thought you were at a toupee store.”
“I left and came to set. And while I’d love to listen to you insult me some more, I’ve got to go print some money while you follow around some guy’s wife who’s banging her tennis pro. Text me the girl’s info. I’ll get her in something.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it. And you will not sleep with her. Right?”
“I will most likely not sleep with her.”
That would have to do for now.
I hung up, sat at my desk, looked out onto the lot, head still, eyes not really focusing on anything, almost in a trance. I’d say that about seven minutes later the trance was broken. The gray Mercedes sedan that had been sitting at the exit to my lot the evening prior appeared, pulling right up in front of my office. The big grille was pointing at me once again. The car wasn’t technically in a space; those were around the corner from the entrance—my spot was there, and a couple of guest spots. No, the Mercedes sat rudely right in front of me like it might lurch forward and come at me. It was staring at me, threatening me.
I didn’t like it.
The same man I’d seen behind the wheel the night before got out of the driver’s side. The slicked-back hair, the goatee, the big, bronze-tinted glasses. I was able to see now that he was on the short side, maybe five-six. He was in pressed gray pants, Gucci loafers, a crisp white shirt, and a thin, expensive-looking brown leather jacket.
The guy who got out of the passenger side of the car was definitely not on the short side. He was large, very large. I’d say six-six. And big, muscular. In jeans, black biker boots, and a white V-neck T-shirt. He had dirty blond, semicurly, longish hair. Nineties hair.
The two men shut their doors simultaneously. I heard the car doors lock and the alarm engage as they walked into my office.
I looked at the older man. Again, no expression. None.
I looked at the big guy. One of his eyes sat just a bit higher in his head than the other. It gave him an inbred, psychotic look.
The older man said, “John Darvelle?”
“Yep.”
The older man continued to give me his expressionless expression. The big guy didn’t give me much more. A faraway but wild-eyed, almost ravenous, stare.
These two had confirmed who I was.
But I wouldn’t say they were glad to see me.