THE CEO OF Supernova International kept his office in the penthouse suite of a former luxury hotel in Century City, where, local legend maintained, mega-producer Darryl F. Zanuck had kept his succession of mistresses during his reign at Twentieth Century Fox.
An armed man in uniform stood sentry before the entrance of the only elevator that went there, beside a white telephone on a fluted pedestal. He took Valentino’s name, checked it against a steel clipboard, and lifted the receiver without dialing. He repeated the name to whoever picked up and cradled it. He pressed a button and the doors to the elevator slid open.
The car was done in green marble and red mahogany—invoking Christmas year-round—with the corporation’s logo, the eye of a raptor in a circle like a camera lens, embossed on the paneling. As it climbed with no effort on Valentino’s part, the piped-in sound system played an orchestration without lyrics that the passenger quickly identified as “Saturday Night at the Movies (Who Cares What Picture We See?).” The illusion of purely emotional, non-commercial devotion to the lively art extended only as far as the room where the company conducted negotiations; that was where the raptor came out, talons first.
The doors opened directly into the suite. It took up the entire top floor without partitions. There was space enough for a vast and glossy desk, a huge table holding up a three-dimensional scale model of a resort on the Riviera, a Nautilus weight-trainer, a complete indoor putting green, and a bank of vintage pinball machines, restored to their original gaudy condition. Windows looked out on Los Angeles in every direction, with a Blu-ray–quality view of the Santa Monica Mountains to the west.
Inside this panoramic display stood a ring of seventy-inch plasma screens, blank at the moment, and inside that a bank of computer monitors on pedestals, a circle within a circle within a circle; this one affording a view of the globe from New York to London to Paris to Moscow to Tokyo to the parking lot at the base of the building, where a man in a uniform identical to the one worn by the guard on the ground floor walked around taking pictures of license plates with a camera phone.
In the center of the last sat Mark David Turkus himself, at a potato chip–shaped desk with nothing on it but a yellow pad and a mechanical pencil, slurping something green through a straw from a tall glass tumbler. Somewhere a mobile phone or tablet hummed incessantly and without response; it could be the president of Pakistan or a pitch for a time-share in Florida for all the attention it got.
As Valentino entered, Turkus rose and came around the desk to offer his hand. He wore an old pullover, tan Dockers, and boat shoes threadbare at the toes; GQ had featured him on the cover as “The Man Who Invented Casual Friday.”
His grip was tentative, representing years of practice. He’d learned the art of disguise from those ocean predators who camouflaged themselves as harmless creatures.
“I was surprised when you called me so soon,” he said. “Does that mean you’ve made some kind of breakthrough?”
“Some kind.”
Turkus indicated a pair of chairs that matched the desk, curved yellow plywood with aluminum frames. “They’re more comfortable than they look,” he said.
“I’m sure they are, but I don’t think this will take long.”
“That’s unencouraging. Bad news always does.”
“That depends on what you consider bad. I know what became of Van Oliver.”
The eyes behind the glasses were as flat as washers. “Did my uncle have anything to do with it?”
“Yes.”
No change in expression. “And our arrangement stands? You will withhold the information, and Bleak Street will remain out of view, with no publicity attached?”
“For the time being.”
The barometer in the room dropped. The man carried around his own climate.
“That’s not what we agreed on. There was to be no time limit.”
“Constantine Venezelos Turkus didn’t kill Oliver.”
A muscle twitched in the other’s cheek; it was invisible unless one looked close. “But you said—”
“I can’t give details. I promised someone I wouldn’t during the party’s lifetime. After that I’ll be free to tell you the rest. At that time I’ll expect you to honor your part of our bargain and lift the restraining order. The film won’t be exhibited and no mention of it will be made to the public until then.”
“Can you throw me a bone of any kind?”
Valentino hesitated, as if thinking it over, then nodded. He’d made up his mind on that point before he’d asked for the appointment.
“Whatever else your uncle may have done, killing Van Oliver wasn’t one of them. He had nothing to do with the disappearance that could damage your reputation or that of Supernova International.”
“Now I’m more curious than ever.” But he didn’t look confused. Perhaps for the first time in his professional life, an emotion crossed “the Turk’s” face; a look of profound relief.
“For some reason I get the impression we’ll be meeting again soon,” he said.
“Not too soon, I hope. This film’s waited sixty years to premiere. A few more won’t hurt it.”
Something whirred. The elevator doors opened and Teddie Goodman stepped into the room.
She wore yet another of her outlandish outfits, part Theda Bara, part Jane Jetson, an angular metallic thing of scarlet and black supported by eight-inch heels and crowned by a curving spiked comb of blackest jet angling along the part in her hair; for all the world it recalled the tailfin of a German U-boat. She stopped when she spotted Valentino, so abruptly she might have fallen on her face but for her catlike ability to stay on her feet. Her eyes flashed—quite literally—and went from him to Turkus. But she was too accustomed to self-survival—the law of the jungle—to ask the question that was obviously on her mind.
“Miss Goodman. I wasn’t aware we’d scheduled a meeting.”
Icy calm was restored. “We didn’t. I had something to report, something I thought you should know right away. On second thought it can wait.”
“If it has anything to do with Mr. Valentino’s recent activities, I’m well aware of them. But thank you for your concern.”
Her long black lashes lowered in what for her served as a bow. She turned, re-entered the elevator, and faced front. The doors slid shut on her frozen alabaster features.
Valentino broke the silence that followed. “I’ll pay for that.”
“Possibly. She frightens me, too, sometimes. The guard in the lobby is terrified of her, which is why she comes and goes as she pleases. It can be a valuable property in one’s representative. It can also be an intolerable annoyance.” He rolled a shoulder. “I can’t promise to call her off, short of firing her. She’d be a dangerous character set loose in the wild.”
“I’ll take my chances. I’d miss her, to be honest.”
Once again, Turkus put out his hand.
“Thank you. On behalf of myself, my company, and my family. Thank you.”
For the third time in two days, Valentino felt that deceptively mild grip. He’d heard there were close associates who hadn’t shaken the billionaire’s hand even once.