30

KARISSA

The next morning, despite the lack of sleep, Karissa drove to Vernon Healthcare Center again. After parking and entering the building, she approached the receptionist and asked if she could speak to Sylvia, the nurse they had dealt with on their first visit to see Ray Webster. Karissa lingered in the waiting room until Sylvia appeared in the open doorway to the facility.

“Yes? You wanted to see me?”

“Oh, hi, Sylvia. Do you remember me? I came here with my business partner a little over a week ago to see Ray Webster.”

She nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Could I speak with you privately? I’ll just take a minute of your time.”

“Come on back.”

When they were at the nurse’s station, Sylvia asked what she could do for her.

“I really need to contact Mr. Webster’s son, Gregory. I’d left my name and number the last time, and you’d said you would try to get ahold of Gregory and ask him to call me. Were you successful?”

Sylvia shook her head. “No, ma’am, I wasn’t. I did try and phone Mr. Webster—Gregory, that is—and the number was no longer in service. I meant to call you right then, but there was an emergency with a patient and then, well, I had to do something else and it slipped my mind. We’re always very busy here. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. Do you know where Gregory lives? I understand he had to drive a good distance to visit his father.”

“I seem to remember he lives up north somewhere. The only contact information we had for him was the phone number. He didn’t have financial responsibility for his father’s care. Medicaid handled all that.”

“Any idea where ‘up north?’”

She pursed her lips. “Hm. When I asked him where he lived, I’m pretty sure he mentioned the Bakersfield area.”

Karissa thought about that. Not tremendously helpful, but it was something. “Okay. Thanks.”

She arrived for her lunch date with Marcello at Musso & Frank Grill on Hollywood Boulevard, one of the oldest landmarks that was still in business. It had first opened in 1919 and was a favored eatery among Tinseltown’s elite for decades until it became more of a tourist attraction. Still, one never knew when a celebrity would pop in for a meal, as they often did. Karissa and Marcello liked the atmosphere of the place, the brown-and-maroon color scheme, and the first-class white tablecloth and red-jacket service.

Besides, Marcello had learned that Justin Hirsch ate there at least once a week, often a Tuesday, and often alone.

Today was Tuesday. Would they get lucky?

They were shown to a booth, and Marcello immediately asked for a beer, while Karissa requested just water. Not one to waste any time, Marcello promptly ordered the daily special—corned beef and cabbage. Karissa went for the salmon fillet. When the waiter departed, she then told Marcello about the previous evening’s events on her porch—and how it was a fluke that she was still alive and now sitting across from him and telling him the story. In the middle of it, the beer arrived and Marcello took a long swig. When she was done, he let out a loud breath and said, “My God, Karissa, I’m sorry. Jesus. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Just didn’t sleep much. I’ll probably go home after lunch, if that’s okay with you.”

“Hey, I’m not the boss. You can do whatever you want, my dear.”

“Gee, thanks. Can I ask for a three-week vacation, too?”

The waiter delivered the food and the couple began to eat, although Marcello slowly picked at his food.

“I thought you were hungry,” Karissa said.

“I was until you told me what happened. Jesus, Karissa, this is serious. Are we playing with our lives here?”

Karissa snorted and said with sarcasm, “Hey, when we made the decision to come and work in Hollywood, our lives went out the window!”

“I’m not joking! They better not come to my house and start shooting. I’ve got a wife and kids. I’ll go Jason Bourne on them if they try it.”

“Yeah, well, they might go American Sniper on you before you even know they’re there. Try not to worry. To tell you the truth, the more I thought about it during my sleepless night, the more I’m sure the shooter missed me on purpose. I think he was just trying to scare me. It’s made me more determ—” She inhaled sharply, grabbed him by wrist, and whispered. “He’s here. He just walked in the door.”

“Hirsch?”

“Uh huh.”

She knew the man who entered the restaurant was eighty years old, but he appeared to be younger. He was in excellent shape, obviously someone who remained physically active. His face was weathered and tan. He had white hair, was tall, and he carried himself with the distinguished air of someone important.

“Is he alone?” Marcello asked.

“Uh huh.”

“Oh boy, here we go!”

“Let’s wait until he’s seated and ordered.”

Hirsch sat at a table for two near the back, in the corner, away from most of the other guests. No one would have recognized him except for hardcore Hollywood history buffs. He was the type of studio executive who shied away from publicity and broadcast award shows—unless, of course, he was certain he’d be winning something.

He was now positioned behind Karissa, in Marcello’s line of sight.

“Has he looked our way?” she asked.

“Nope. He acts like he’s the only one in the joint.”

They continued to eat in silence. When Karissa had had enough of her meal, she stood. “I’m going. Why don’t you pay the bill? I have a feeling we won’t be welcome in here after I’m finished with him.” She already had her cellphone in her hand. “I’m going to record our conversation.”

“No. It’s illegal. Not without him consenting.”

“Oh.”

“I’m going with you. I can back you up and solve the recording problem. I can be a witness to the conversation.”

“All right. Let’s do it.”

“Hey. I said earlier that I wasn’t the boss. That title belongs to you. Now go get him.”

Karissa took a breath and they strode across the floor past other diners. She reached his table and Hirsch looked up.

“Mr. Hirsch?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Karissa Glover. This is Marcello Storm. Stormglove Productions.”

There was a slight pause. She thought she detected a little twitch in his right eye.

“I know who you are,” he said.

There was only one extra chair. “May I sit down?”

“I’m having lunch.”

“This will only take a second.”

He glared at her but gestured to the opposite seat. She took it and studied him for a moment. Marcello remained standing.

“Well?”

“Why are you trying to stop me and my partner from making a film about Blair Kendrick and what happened in 1949?”

Hirsch put down his fork and folded his arms across his chest. “What makes you think I’m trying to stop you?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Mr. Hirsch, in the past week, my partner and I have had our bank accounts hacked and money stolen. We have received verbal threats from your lapdog, Barry Doon. He does work for you, correct?”

“Mr. Doon works for me, yes. If he’s done anything to—”

“Someone tried to kill me last night at my home, Mr. Hirsch. He shot at me from the street. Was it Doon?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Karissa’s heart was pounding furiously, the adrenaline pumping hard. She paused and took a deep breath. The man was lying. She knew it. She felt it.

“Look, Mr. Hirsch, I don’t know how Blair Kendrick figured into your father’s death, but by all accounts, she had nothing to do with it. Whatever happened is history. You can’t censor history.”

The man’s face was gradually turning red. “Miss Glover, my father was murdered. A valuable fortune was also stolen from him that was to have been passed down to me and then to my own children. Blair Kendrick had something to do with it.”

“She was a victim, too! She was killed by whoever murdered your father.”

Hirsch pointed a finger at Karissa. “We at Ultimate Pictures don’t want her name to become known again. We’ve taken all her pictures out of circulation. A film about her will give her unwarranted attention, and that will put a spotlight on my father’s murder. We don’t want that. It’s a promise I made to my late mother, and it’s an oath I took when I became the head of my father’s studio when I was eighteen. Eighteen! And if you and your partner continue to go down this road, you will be playing with fire. Do you understand me, miss?”

“Is that another threat? You’ll have us killed? Is that what you’re saying?”

The restaurant manager was suddenly at the side of the table. “Mr. Hirsch, is there a problem?”

Hirsch growled, “This woman and this man accosted me while I was having lunch. Please get them out of here.”

“Better come with me, madam,” the man said, gently touching her arm.

Karissa violently pulled herself away from the manager and stood. “Is this really about Hank Marley, Mr. Hirsch?”

“Madam, please,” the manager continued, “I don’t want to have to call the police.”

“Let’s go, Karissa,” Marcello said softly.

“Huh, Mr. Hirsch?” she continued. “Did your father do something to Hank Marley?”

Hirsch exploded. “Get her out!”

Karissa held up her hands. “I’m going.” She started to walk away, but then turned and delivered a parting shot. “This isn’t over!” Then, ignoring the stares of the other patrons, she and Marcello marched across the length of the restaurant. She went out the front door while Marcello paused to pull out his wallet and count out several bills to the maître ’d.

Outside, she told him as they walked to their cars, “I’m not sure he revealed anything useful, but I recorded it anyway so we can transcribe exactly what he said in there. Then we can erase the recording.”

He laughed. “Good plan. By the way, you were great in there. Boss.”