The first edition of the Blessing Report seemed to pass even quicker than its actual thirteen and a half minutes. I began by eliciting the doctor’s opinion on the sort of sociopath who’d plot a complicated assassination like the one that took Des’s life. His response was more or less as it had been during our pre-show discussion.
“From the little I know of the man they arrested,” he added, “he would seem to fit that profile.”
“So far, he’s just a suspect,” I said. “I know you’ve worked closely with the police on numerous occasions, Dr. Dover. Any suggestions for them?”
“This is a very unusual act of homicide,” he said. “Not merely premeditated but elaborately so. I imagine the detectives should be wondering why the killer wanted the crime to be telecast. And why did he use an explosive when there are so many other weapons available today?”
“What do you think?” I asked him.
“The venue indicates a certain flamboyance. It’s the act of a show-off or a showman. The explosive adds to the display. It’s Hollywood’s influence. Thanks to computer graphics, unless a contemporary action film destroys a city, nobody takes it seriously. I think this killer wanted his victim to go out with a bang, literally. A shooting or a poisoning wouldn’t have been dramatic enough. And a shooting would have made it particularly hard for the killer to get away clean.”
“Right,” I said. “By using an explosive device and a timer, he might have been in Pasadena when the murder took place.”
“Have the police identified the device?” the doctor asked.
“As far as I know, not yet,” I said. “I’m just assuming there was a timer.”
“Well, if true, might I suggest detectives look into their suspect’s television setup at home or in his restaurants. With a plan this complex, I’d be surprised if the killer wouldn’t have wanted to see it play out. That means he’s probably got a satellite receiver that picks up shows as they’re being telecast to the East Coast.”
“Clever,” I said.
“It’s what I do.”
From the corner of my eye I saw Lolita standing beside camera two, grabbing air with one hand, a sign that it was time to wrap up the interview.
I thanked the doctor, held up The Barbarous Coast, and urged viewers to pick up a copy at their neighborhood bookstore. I ended by mentioning the Desmond O’Day memorial section of the network’s website, where tonight’s Blessing Report would be available for viewing.
Since the very gray Quentin Utach was handling the announcing chores, I was free to go. So I accompanied Dover to the parking lot. At his Lamborghini, we shook hands. He invited me to have dinner at his home on Sunday, noting that his significant other, Raven, was a third-generation luthier who made Celtic harps and loved playing for guests.
As appealing as was the aspect of Sunday dinner and a harp recital at Chez Dover, I regrettably declined, claiming a previous engagement. If things went as I planned, that wouldn’t be a lie. With visions of Vida and me spending a languorous weekend, probably my last, at the Villa Delfina, I headed off in search of the biggest, baddest fast-food emporium I could find.
“Fatburger. The Last Great Hamburger Stand,” the sign read.
To a man who hadn’t eaten since ten that morning, the bright yellow-and-red banner was like the North Star to a lost sailor.
I surveyed the menu printed over the counter and made a modest selection: a Triple King and, to wash it down, a Maui-Banana shake. If I’m going out, I’m going out with a full, contented belly.
My driver in New York, Joe Yeung, won’t let me eat in my own car. He claims the crumbs attract vermin, and he’s probably right. But I was on the final frontier. I planned to kick it, SoCal style. Top down, loud music, zooming down the Pacific Coast Highway under a starry sky with a burger in my face.
Alas, the Fatburger Triple King was the sandwich equivalent of Trump Towers, literally as high as the shake. Nor was it what you’d call self-contained. There was no way to eat it, keep an eye on the road, and avoid dropping bits and pieces of the burger, bathed in special savory sauce, on my lap.
Courting minor back strain, I carried my supper to a table.
I was the only customer dining in. Showing remarkable restraint, I got out my cellphone, reactivated it, and checked the calls.
Savoring the first bite of the night, I saw that there were three messages. The earliest was from Cassandra, requesting a callback. The machine had logged it at a few minutes after nine, Pacific Coast Time. After midnight in New York. It was then close to one-thirty there. Since she hadn’t demanded a return call, I figured it could wait until the morning.
I gnawed the Triple King down to Double King size.
The second message was from Fitz, left at nine-thirteen.
“Uh … me, Billy. I’m an eejit, phonin’ you while the show’s on. Call me soon’s ya free.” He reminded me of his cellphone number.
Holding the monster burger in my left hand, I awkwardly thumb-dialed the musician. After a half-dozen rings, my call was directed to voice mail. I wondered if Fitz had decided to fly out that night. Maybe he was in the air.
I did a little more damage to the Fatburger, which was now seeping through the once-neat napkin panty.
Message three was left at a few minutes after ten by the demon writer Harry Paynter. “What the hell you doing with that hack Dover, bro? That guy couldn’t write his way out of a … out of a … I don’t know, into a whorehouse with a hundred-dollar bill taped to his dick.”
My classy collaborator seemed to be speeding on more than just anger.
“It’s not me gives a shit,” he continued, motormouthing. “I didn’t even see the goddamned Blessing and Dover Show. I’m too busy under the gun, working on the outline. Fuckin’ Sandy calls me and wants to know what’s going down. Sandy Selman, bro! The guy providing the moolah. He thinks you’ve sold us out to Benjamin ‘I’m a fuckin’ New York Times bestseller’ Dover. Sandy wants to know what’s what, bro. He wants a face-to-face. Call me tonight. I’ll be up till two at least, working on this fucking thing. Benjamin Dover? I can’t fucking believe it.”
Wow, I thought, people take their writing seriously out here. No wonder the publishing houses on the East Coast think Southern Californians don’t read books. They’re too busy writing them.
I could have phoned Harry back, but why? Better to wait until tomorrow, when he might even be sober. In any case, I wanted to finish the Fatburger while it was still deliciously warm.
That accomplished, I ordered a side of onion rings. I carried them and what was left of my shake to the Lexus, lowered the top, and settled on a jazz FM station broadcasting from Manhattan Beach. Nibbling, drinking, with the clear, starry night sky high above and the late great Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers playing their soundtrack song from Les Liaisons Dangereuses loud enough to be heard above the wind, I roared down the nearly empty Pacific Coast Highway toward Malibu, satisfied and at peace with the world.
A self-delusion, soon to be corrected.