Stride began to do research on MJ’s father, Walker Lane, following dozens of links on the Web from the computer in his cubicle. There was no official home page about the man, just gossipy sites that rehashed the same dry facts from his Hollywood biography and spiced up the written record with hints about his reclusive lifestyle in Canada.
There was plenty of information about Lane’s early days in the 1960s, when he was a wunderkind producer-director who struck it rich with his first self-funded film. From the beginning, he was about money, not art. Cherry Tree featured a fifteen-year-old newcomer, sort of a Hayley Mills with breasts, whose huge eyes and innocent sex appeal won over audiences, despite a lame spy story about a teenager helping George Washington win the Revolutionary War. Two more family comedies followed, both hugely successful, and Lane won a reputation as Frank Capra Lite, the boy with the golden touch. Because he hadn’t thrown in his lot with the big studios, he reaped the financial rewards himself.
Scandal dogged him, mostly because there were rumors on the set that he had been having an affair with his underaged star since their first film together. Lane denied it, but he didn’t hide his playboy ways, partying in L.A. and Vegas, and leaving a trail of photographs of himself with starlets on his arm.
Then came the big disappearance.
As far as Stride could tell, it happened in 1967. Lane left Hollywood, moved to Canada, and essentially vanished from the public eye. From a distance, he continued to build his reputation as a mover and shaker. He chose and funded a series of monster hits throughout the next three decades, deftly moving in and out of comedy and drama as public tastes changed. He never directed again, not as far as Stride could tell, but he became a huge force, a star-maker, without ever setting foot out of his estate in British Columbia. He was the executive producer behind two of the twenty highest-grossing films ever.
He became almost fanatically private. Actors and directors who met with him signed nondisclosure agreements. Like Howard Hughes, he seemed to run his empire primarily by phone. Stride couldn’t find a photograph of the man taken in the last twenty years. There were rumors of a disabling illness that left him in a wheelchair and of facial degeneration that had ravaged his once handsome, boyish looks. There were also rumors of a scandal that had driven him out of the country, but as far as Stride could tell, no one had pierced the veil and uncovered the real story.
Lane married a young actress in the early 1980s, after she interviewed for a role in a science fiction film he was bankrolling. She didn’t get the part, but she got Walker, and two years later, MJ was born. There were no public details about the relationship between Walker and his twenty-something wife, but somewhere along the line, it went badly wrong. Stride found news reports from 1990 about the woman’s suicide. There was no public memorial, no photograph of a grieving Walker Lane, and no public comment. She might as well not have existed.
Stride couldn’t find any evidence that Lane had given an interview in decades. That wasn’t a good sign. He didn’t expect the man to open up and discuss all his father-son secrets with a police detective from Las Vegas.
“You ready for your close-up?” Amanda asked, dropping into the chair squeezed inside his cube. She looked scrubbed and rested, which made him feel old. He had taken Serena to McCarran to catch an early flight to Reno, and two cups of coffee hadn’t dented the haze in his head. On the other hand, his body still had the pleasant ache from cramped, sweaty sex with Serena a few hours earlier.
“I’ll be lucky if he takes my call,” Stride said.
“He’s still a father with a dead kid. He’s got to be anxious to find out what happened.”
Stride shrugged. “Maybe. Sounds like Sawhill practically had to beg the governor to get Lane’s number. Nobody wants me to make this call.”
“Except me, because I want to hear what the big guy sounds like. So make it.”
“Let’s go in a conference room.”
They took over a small, windowless office and shut the door behind them. Stride had another cup of coffee with him, and Amanda had a cruller and a glass of orange juice. They sat down on opposite sides of the conference table, and Stride dragged the phone to him. Amanda had a yellow pad in front of her. He punched the hands-free button and dialed the number.
He expected to go through five layers of secretaries, personal assistants, and senior aides. Instead, almost immediately, the man answered his own phone.
“Walker Lane.” His voice sounded exactly like the one they had heard on the answering machine in MJ’s condo, but flat, without the emotional pleading. It was a terrible voice, as gritty as sandpaper, an old hound trying to bark like a fierce dog in its prime.
Stride couldn’t help but think of the photo he’d found of Walker Lane in the 1960s: absurdly tall, a mop of blond hair, Clark Kent glasses. Cock-sure, as if he would someday own the world, which he pretty much did today. The price he’d paid was chiseled in his voice.
Stride introduced himself and Amanda. Lane didn’t sound surprised. Stride wondered if the governor had tipped him off to expect the call.
“Do you have any idea who killed my son?” he demanded.
Stride explained what they had found on the casino videotapes and the steps they were taking to retrace MJ’s movements. “We were wondering,” he added, “if you had any idea who the killer might be or why he wanted your son dead.”
“No, I don’t. I just want you to find him.”
“Did MJ talk to you about any problems he was having?” Stride asked.
“No.”
“Do you know of anyone in Las Vegas he was particularly close to?”
“No,” Lane repeated.
“What about women in his life? Did you know who he was involved with?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Walker Lane didn’t waste unnecessary words. Stride realized he was just going to have to lay down his cards.
“Mr. Lane, we heard the message you left for MJ on his answering machine. We know you talked to MJ shortly before he was killed. There was obviously a significant disagreement between the two of you. Can you tell us what it was about?”
This time there was a long pause.
“That’s a private matter, Detective. It has nothing to do with his death.”
“I understand you feel that way, Mr. Lane,” Stride said, choosing his words carefully, “but sometimes we find connections in ways we don’t anticipate. Or we can pursue more productive areas of investigation because we can cross things off the list.”
In other words, we’ll keep digging until we find out, Stride wanted to say.
Lane didn’t take the bait. He didn’t say a word.
Stride finally gave up after the silence stretched out too long. “How long had MJ lived in Vegas?”
“Since he turned twenty-one.” Lane’s tone was clipped, unhappy.
“You didn’t approve?” Stride asked.
“No.”
Stride began to understand why the man had never made a movie longer than eighty-seven minutes. “Why is that?”
“Because the city is a sewer,” Lane snapped. “It’s immoral. A wasteland. There are only two kinds of people living there, users and suckers.”
Amanda casually held up one hand and extended her middle finger at the phone. Stride shrugged.
“When were you last here?” he asked.
“A lifetime ago, Detective.”
“A lot’s changed since then,” Stride said.
“Nothing’s changed. Nothing at all. Now, if you have nothing else, let me go back to my job, and you can go back to yours. Finding out who killed my son.”
“I do have a few more questions,” Stride said.
Lane’s impatience crackled through the phone line. “What?”
Stride was running out of ideas for making the man talk and decided to take a wild leap. “MJ seemed to be very interested in that new casino project near his building. The Orient project that Boni Fisso is launching. Do you know why?”
“I have nothing to say about Boni Fisso,” Lane hissed.
Stride and Amanda looked at each other. Boni’s name had obviously struck a raw nerve.
“Was MJ somehow involved with the Orient project?” Stride persisted.
Lane exhaled in disgust. Stride wished he were there in person to read the man’s body language.
“MJ didn’t care about the new casino,” Lane retorted. “All he could talk about was the Sheherezade.”
“Why is that?” Stride asked.
There was another stretch of silence.
“The Sheherezade,” Lane said. “When I read it was coming down, I thought finally it would all be over.”
He paused, but Stride could hear the fissures in the dam grow wider. Lane wanted to tell them. Just like he had wanted to tell MJ.
“Boni couldn’t just drop it in the dead of night. Let everyone wake up and find a pile of rubble. All its secrets leveled, ready to be carted away. No, no, make it another goddamn tourist attraction. The governor’s going to push the button. Half the congressional delegation will be there applauding. Like it was something noble. Like they were saying good-bye to something sacred.”
“What happened there?” Stride asked.
“Las Vegas killed me, that’s what happened,” Lane retorted. “Now it’s killed my son. Both of us. My God, it never ends. Sins live forever in that city. I just never believed it could reach out and destroy me again.”
Stride waited until he was done. He could hear Lane gasping for breath.
“You sound like you think you know why MJ was killed,” Stride said. He added, “Does it have something to do with Boni Fisso?”
“No, Detective, I don’t know why. The past is the past, and I have no reason to think what happened then has any relevance to what happened to MJ. Or any connection to Boni. I don’t see how it could.”
“Still—” Stride began.
“Still, you want to know. You’re curious. That’s your lot in life. I’m sorry. I’ve said more than I should have already, and I can’t say anymore.”
Amanda leaned closer to the phone. “But if it was so long ago, Mr. Lane, why not tell us?”
“No, I can’t. I’m grieving over MJ. I’m wishing I had been a better father. That’s enough pain without dredging up mistakes I made when I was a young fool.”
“Mr. Lane,” Stride said, “we know that MJ called you a murderer.”
“Yes, he did.”
“Why?”
Lane sighed. “You’ll have to ask Rex Terrell about that, Detective.”
Stride remembered the answering machine message in MJ’s condo. He quickly checked his notes.
MJ, it’s Rex Terrell. I thought we could trade some secrets. I showed you mine, how about you show me yours?
“Who’s Rex Terrell?” Stride asked.
“He’s a writer,” Lane replied, his voice curling around the word with contempt. “He’s the one who dragged this trash up about the Sheherezade and put ideas in MJ’s head. Ask him to tell you what I did, and maybe you can find a way to kill me again. I’ve died many times, Detective. What’s once more?”