CHAPTER 9

Bertelli dropped him off at an address on West 33d Street. “I’ll send somebody for your piece, R.J.,” he said as R.J. opened the door. Then Bertelli winked. “Or do I gotta call you ‘Mr. Brooks,’ now you’re rich?”

“Knock it off, Angelo,” R.J. said. He was in no mood for that sort of kidding. “Talk to you later,” he said, and he slid out of the car.

Bertelli chuckled as he pulled away into traffic.

The building was a massive turn-of-the century thing with gingerbread all over the outside. Large gold letters on the door said INDEPENDENT PRODUCTIONS, INC.

The lobby was deserted except for a uniformed guard with a bank of telephones and a closed-circuit TV monitor behind his desk. He gave R.J.’s bruised face a suspicious look but called upstairs on the strength of his business card.

R.J. rode up in the elevator alone, pondering the contents of the letter from Jackson Yates. His mother had named R.J. the executor of her estate. And Bertelli had guessed right: He was also the primary beneficiary. According to Yates it was up to R.J. to settle all probate matters as expeditiously as possible. R.J. had phoned him from the restaurant and made an appointment for the following afternoon.

Upstairs, R.J. stepped out into a floorplan that resembled the shell of an uncompleted warehouse. The shooting studio was in the center, bound by corridors on three sides that serviced a warren of cluttered cubbyholes. The dress code favored jeans and sweaters, loafers and desert boots. The on-camera people were the only ones who dressed for the public.

A girl wearing an oversized sweater and glasses led him to an office with a hand-lettered sign on the door: CASEY WINGATE.

An attractive young woman stood in the middle of the room flipping through a file, a pencil clamped between her teeth. Her auburn hair framed a face that was both sensual and hard-edged, a face that said Private School, Smart and Ambitious. She looked up at him and raised a perfect eyebrow.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m looking for Casey Wingate.”

“I’m Wingate.”

“Say what?”

She slid the pencil out of her mouth and into a mass of hair, notching it behind her ear. “I’m Casey Wingate.” She looked him over, taking in the bruised face and battered trench coat with a slight smile. “And I know who you are, Mr. Brooks.”

“Well,” he said, sliding the business card back into his coat pocket, “I’ll be damned.”

“You may well be.”

He had the feeling she didn’t like him much. “You called my office this morning,” he said.

“And yesterday, and the day before.”

“I’ve been out.”

She gave him a scornful half-smile and closed the file. R.J. watched as she went to her desk. Probably taller than him in high heels. But today she wore sensible flats with a knee-length wool skirt. She was, he suspected, routinely looked at by men in restaurants, whistled at by hardhats on the sidewalk. A woman used to male attention and not bothered by it.

No wedding or engagement ring, but that didn’t mean much these days. Nails long and tapered, painted with clear polish. He liked that.

“Take off your coat. Sit down,” she said, and then her manner softened. “I’m sorry about your mother. I didn’t know her well, but I liked her. I think we might have become friends.”

“I didn’t even know she was in town.”

“There’s a lot you didn’t know about her.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She ignored the question. “I know why you’re here. The tapes. I’ve been looking for you because you play a role in the piece I’ve been working on. We need to understand each other.”

“You don’t beat around the bush.”

She looked at her watch. “And I don’t like to waste time.”

“Fair enough. Your tapes might answer some crucial questions about my mother’s death. I need anything you’ve got about her last few weeks. When did she come here? Why? Where did she go? Who did she see? What were her plans?”

“The sort of things most sons might already know about their mothers.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t think you’ve got me figured out too easily, Wingate.”

She sat on a corner of the desk, pressing the file against her chest and swinging her foot. “Oh, I think I understand you, Mr. Brooks. For a public figure, Belle was amazingly candid, and my research has been as thorough as time and money permit. But I’m always ready to learn more. And I’m willing to be proved wrong.”

He sat forward on the edge of his chair. “Then let’s get to work. When can I see some film?”

“I’m not sure you can.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’ve made a deal with the studio. They were financing the project. My boss might object.”

“Then get him in here. Who is he, what’s his name?”

A man’s nasal voice said, “Pike. His name is Colin Pike.”

R.J. turned to find a lump of dough standing in the doorway wearing a pair of white jeans and a USC sweatshirt.

“My boss,” said Casey Wingate. R.J. got the impression she was not too happy about the situation. He knew one thing at a glance, though: They weren’t involved, as the saying goes. For some reason, he was glad.

“I know what you want, and you can’t have them,” Pike said, like a petulant child. R.J. stood up and Pike held his ground. “The police have already been here, asking for them. I told them to come back with a warrant. I’m telling you the same thing.”

“You bastard. Those tapes might help solve a murder.”

“What do you care? From what I hear you didn’t even like her.”

R.J. clenched his fist, and Casey stepped between them. But Pike had already scuttled into the hall and summoned a nearby security guard. “Put this guy outta here,” he told the guard, a muscular black man. “And I want you in my office now, Wingate.”

Pike rolled back along the hall like an underdone muffin on skates. Casey went with R.J. and the guard to the elevator.

“It’s been…interesting,” she said.

They didn’t shake hands; they didn’t need to. When she had brushed past him to stop him from decking Pike, accidentally touching him, he had felt a jolt of electricity. He could see she was feeling it too, even without physical contact.

“I’ll see you again,” he told her, tossing his coat over his shoulder.

“Count on it,” she said.

The elevator door slid shut between them.

R.J. let out a long breath. So did the guard. “You lucky, mister. You got out without being skinned alive. That woman is one tough honky.”

R.J. grinned. “You can play that again, Sam.”

“Say what?” said the guard.

“Skip it.”