Chapter 21

Morris and Bogle tracked Benjamin Chandler’s agent to a private room at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. The agent, Matt Brownstein, had a thick bandage wrapped around his skull and one of his eyes. The other eye had been blackened, his jaw swollen, and his left arm bent in a ninety-degree angle with a fiberglass cast that started at the shoulder and ended at the wrist. His blackened eye shifted toward Parker when the bull terrier made a pig grunt.

“Mr. Brownstein?” Morris asked.

Brownstein didn’t answer him and shifted his gaze back to the TV, his bruised face settling into a sullen expression. A soap opera was on, and a fiery brunette was staring angrily at a smug-looking blonde with big hair. Bogle used the remote to turn off the TV. Before Brownstein could object, Morris showed him his badge.

“I know about you,” Brownstein said, his voice slurring because of his injured jaw. “You’re that ex-homicide cop who caught all those serial killers. You consulted on The Carver. Another movie also. If you ever want film representation, give me a call. I’ll get you better gigs.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it. I also want to make sure you’re Matthew Brownstein because the hospital has you registered as Ira Gold.”

Brownstein winced as if from a piercing pain. When the pain passed, he acknowledged that he had checked in under an alias. “I don’t want clients seeing me like this,” he said. “In this town they’d flee me like rats from a sinking ship. Or fleas from a drowning rat.” He shifted his blackened eye toward Morris to give him an appraising look. “I’m surprised you were able to find me.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Morris said. “In fact, it took all morning.”

A knowing smile twisted Brownstein’s lips. “But you got connections.”

“I do,” Morris admitted. “You want to tell me what happened?”

“Why? You’re investigating what happened to me?”

From out of the corner of his eye, Morris caught Bogle smiling thinly and knew what his friend was thinking. Another Hollywood smart-ass.

“I’m looking for one of your clients. Benjamin Chandler. I’m guessing his disappearance and your injuries are related.”

“I doubt that.” Brownstein was a scrawny man with not quite enough flesh on his face. He reminded Morris of Niles from the old TV show Frasier, and the churlish look Brownstein showed made him appear even more like the sitcom character. “I slipped in the shower,” he insisted stubbornly. “I don’t know how that could have any connection with Ben going missing.”

“So you know your client’s missing?”

“Of course I do. The film company called yesterday to bellyache about Ben not showing up on set.”

Bogle caught Morris’s eye as he slipped his cell phone from his jacket pocket and stepped out of the room. He was going to call his bosses at Starlight Pictures and check whether they had called like Brownstein was saying.

“Your partner checking up on me, huh?” the film agent said, a glint of amusement briefly displaying in his eye before pain wiped it away. “He must be an ex-cop also.”

“Your client is in trouble,” Morris said. “The odds are good that the same bent-nosed thug who worked you over is going to do far worse to Chandler if he finds him before I do. You could help him by filing a police complaint against your assailant.”

“It wouldn’t help me any,” Brownstein complained bitterly under his breath. He caught himself and focused his good eye on Morris. “Look,” he said, “Ben’s a fun guy to hang with, and he’s been a good earner for me. But he’s only one client, and while I genuinely like him, I like breathing more. So all I’m saying on the matter is that I slipped.”

“Can you give me a name? Off the record?”

“Sure. Dove.”

Brownstein said this with a straight face, and it took Morris a second to realize he was referring to Dove soap and he wasn’t going to budge from his slipping in the shower story. Charlie Bogle walked back into the room and offered a curt nod to let Morris know the agent was telling the truth about the studio calling him yesterday.

“If Chandler was going to hide out for a few days, where would he go?”

The obstinacy in Brownstein’s good eye weakened. “He’d probably fly to Maui. He loves that island.”

“He didn’t fly anywhere. He’s too afraid to use a credit card. And he didn’t drive to Mexico either.”

Brownstein’s lips pursed as he gave the matter more thought. Half a minute ticked off before he turned back to Morris.

“Ben’s a bit of a hound dog. A guy with a girl in every port, or in his case, in every LA neighborhood. He’s also old-fashioned in that he keeps a little black book in his night table drawer. I think it’s something he read Sinatra did, or one of his other idols, I’m kind of fuzzy right now from the pain medication. Get that black book and check the addresses. You’ll find Ben hiding in one of the beds.”

Morris’s cell phone rang. Polk. He stepped away to take the call.

“I picked up Melanie Penza’s trail,” Polk said, sounding pleased with himself. “Some of the money I spread around paid off, and I got a call that she’s at a bistro on Rodeo Drive. The lady’s sitting alone at an outdoor table, and I’m parked half a block away looking at her right now with field glasses. A nice dish. Her, not the salad she ordered.”

“Good. Let me know how this progresses.”

“Will do.”

Morris turned back to Brownstein, kept his voice from dripping with sarcasm as he thanked him for his help, then signaled Bogle that they had a little black book to find. Brownstein seemed surprised by their imminent departure.

“Do you have a lead on where to find Ben?” he asked.

“Not exactly.”

Despite himself, Brownstein asked, “What did Ben do to get himself in this trouble?”

Morris said, “Either something incredibly stupid, or this is all nothing more than bad luck.”

Parker had been lying quietly on the floor. A short whistle from Morris had the bull terrier flipping himself onto his feet, and Parker happily led the way out of the hospital room.