The next morning’s forecast called for a temperature in the triple digits and a humidity level not too far behind. I got up while it was still dark and ran north to Sunset Boulevard, turned west, and headed toward UCLA. A few other runners had the same idea, but the streets were mostly deserted, and the slight wind was much cooler than I had expected on a day that was predicted to turn into an oven. I made it to the lush campus of UCLA, something I had always wanted to do after watching their basketball and football teams and constantly hearing how beautiful the campus and coeds were. The sun had just started to lift as I stood there, surveying the scrubbed brick buildings and tree-lined walkways. Just this view alone made it abundantly clear why almost 150,000 high school seniors applied for entry into the freshman class.
I walked around the campus for a few minutes, grabbed breakfast at a coffee shop in Westwood, then caught a rideshare back to the hotel. By the time I had showered, changed, and talked to Carolina, I was in the car with the top down and on my way to the Thompson manse.
I worked my way through the wide, palm-tree-lined streets of Beverly Hills with multimillion-dollar mansions partially hidden by tall privacy hedges and painted concrete walls. European cars sat in all of the driveways—at least the few that were visible from the road. I finally left the flat area of Beverly Hills and started climbing into the actual hill portion of the town’s name. The roads climbed and curved and were sometimes so narrow that oncoming traffic had to stop at times to coordinate alternate passing. After several near accidents, the road widened, and I arrived at the gated entrance to Beverly Park. A uniformed security guard stepped out with a clipboard and asked for my name and identification. He went back to his booth, got on the phone, then returned with my ID and instructions on how to get to the Thompson house.
If the security guard and ivy-entwined gate weren’t enough to indicate that I had entered an extremely exclusive part of Beverly Hills, the fact that as I drove up to the Thompsons’ none of the houses were visible from the road was confirmation that this was the land of Hollywood elite. I finally reached the top of the hill and the entrance to the Thompsons’ driveway. As I pulled up, the gate slowly rolled back, and a wide, immaculate driveway constructed of large rectangular pavers came into view. I slowly climbed the curving driveway lined with enormous trees and an assortment of lawn sculptures. As I neared the top, a gigantic brick Georgian manor swelled above the landscape. A black Rolls-Royce Phantom sat in the middle of the driveway, its chrome grille shining like a lighthouse against a dark sky. I pulled behind it and walked up to the portico. Just as I was about to ring the bell, the door opened, and staring at me was Veronica Thompson in a white silk pantsuit. Describing her as beautiful would be insulting. She was breathtakingly flawless, with honey-colored skin, her perfectly coiffed hair falling to her shoulders, and a sculpted body that could put a mannequin to shame. She offered me a restrained smile, but not her hand.
“Please come in,” she said. “Abigail has us set up in the sky room.”
After stepping into a vast foyer of Italian marble, I followed her through a maze of large, opulent rooms until we reached what felt like the back of the house and entered an enormous space with floor-to-ceiling windows occupying the entire fourth wall. I could see planes approaching and departing LAX, as well as the downtown skyscrapers to the east shrouded in gray smog. This view alone was worth a couple of million dollars.
We took a seat in two comfortable chairs that were separated by a marble coffee table and perfectly positioned in front of the windows. A tea service and glass pitcher of lemonade had already been set up for us, the handiwork of Abigail.
“Tea or strawberry lemonade?” Veronica asked.
“I’ve never been much of a tea drinker,” I said. “Especially when it’s a scorcher like today.”
She poured both of us a glass of lemonade.
“How was your trip in?” she said.
“Without incident,” I said. “By the time I finished my second movie, the pilot was activating the landing gear.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The London.”
“That’s a fun hotel,” she said. “Not as pretentious as the Peninsula or the Four Seasons over on Doheny.”
“Not as expensive either,” I said. “And breakfast is included.”
“Very economical of you,” she said.
I wasn’t sure if she was being condescending or just stating facts. I gave her the benefit of the doubt.
“This is a beautiful home,” I said. “Very impressive.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking a small sip of lemonade. “We bought this from the Zanucks.”
“Excuse my Midwest naivete, but the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“The father, Darryl, was a studio titan. Formed 20th Century Pictures. He was one of the pioneers of the studio system. His son, Richard, followed in his footsteps and became a big producer. You might be too young to remember Driving Miss Daisy with Morgan Freeman. It won the Oscar that year. Planet of the Apes, Jaws, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Dick Zanuck produced them all. He built this house and lived in it until he died.”
“I guess that’s what they mean when they say Hollywood royalty,” I said.
“Old school,” she said.
We both quietly looked out of the windows. I could see the rooflines and swimming pools of other mansions perilously hanging above the cliffs.
“It’s very peaceful up here,” I said. “A world of its own.”
“That’s what we liked about it so much,” she said. “Isolated in some respects but still convenient. We can get down to the church in thirty-five minutes or so depending on traffic, and if we want to go to the valley, that’s just minutes away on the other side of the hill.”
I couldn’t help but wonder how many of the parishioners who dug in the bottom of their handbags on Sunday morning to find money for the offering had ever seen where their pastor and first lady called home.
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” I said. “I just had a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“You said you were working a case similar to my husband’s.”
“Very similar,” I said.
“And you think they’re connected?”
“I’m not sure, but there’s a strong possibility.”
“Can you tell me about the other case?”
“Not as much as I’d like,” I said. “Confidentiality issues. But the deceased was a very prominent man, like your husband, and his death was very unexpected, also similar to your husband.”
“That’s all that’s connecting them?”
“I didn’t say that was all. I was just giving you a couple of similarities.”
“Was this man found in bed also?” she said.
I smiled.
“Was it his or someone else’s?” she said.
“So you’re aware of all the details of your husband’s death?”
“Aware of as much as I need to know.”
“I just wasn’t sure how much you were told.”
Veronica smiled, and the room’s brightness instantly increased by about five thousand lumens. “You seem like a man who appreciates directness,” she said.
“I am.”
“Then we’ll get along well. Keegan was my husband of fifteen years after five years of dating. There’s very little a police officer in Chicago can tell me about him that I don’t already know.”
“Well, since you don’t mind me being direct, were you aware of your husband having relationships outside of your marriage?”
“I take it you’ve seen photos of my husband,” she said.
“I have.”
“Then you’re aware of how handsome he was.”
“I am.”
“I also take it that you’re aware how much he was loved by his followers not just here in LA but around the country.”
“I am.”
“And being the good investigator that I have every reason to believe you are, I’m sure you’re aware that we paid twenty million dollars for this house.”
“I am.”
“So, given all that you know, would you find it surprising that someone like Keegan would entertain relations outside of our marriage?”
“Well, considering what’s sitting across from me right now, I would certainly question his need for doing so.”
She smiled. “They told me you are as charming as you are handsome.”
“‘They’?”
“I do my homework too.”
I took a sip of lemonade. “How are you doing?” I said.
“It’s extremely painful to know my husband, who I loved deeply, died the way he did in that small, strange room. But I have to keep it together for our two daughters. They motivate and anchor me. I stay strong on the outside while my heart aches on the inside.”
“‘Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep,’” I said.
“You read Shakespeare,” she said.
“When I’m not catching bad guys or trying to reach the green in regulation.”
She looked confused.
“I’m a bit of a golf junkie,” I said. “Difficult for me to go an entire day without some kind of reference.”
“Keegan was too busy flying around the country to be any good at the game,” she said. “But he did belong to the Los Angeles Country Club.”
“Not as pricey as Riviera, but a lot more difficult to get into. Lots of old families and a no-movie-star policy.”
“You would’ve liked Keegan,” she said. “And he would’ve liked you. You’re similar in many ways.”
I nodded. “I’m curious as to why you didn’t want an autopsy performed. That didn’t make sense to me, especially given the circumstances.”
“Because it wouldn’t have brought him back, but it could’ve brought me a lot of aggravation and public humiliation from annoying journalists, who always find a way to get their hands on leaked information that was supposed to be confidential.”
“Do you think your husband was murdered, Mrs. Thompson?”
“Keegan might’ve had his critics, but he never had enemies. Do you think someone intentionally killed him?”
I thought for a moment before answering. “I don’t know what happened,” I said. “But I’m a firm believer that in most cases, anything is possible.”
I heard footsteps descending a staircase adjacent to the room. A gorgeous and very curvaceous olive-skinned woman who was barely wearing anything appeared, then quickly returned up the stairs when she saw me.
Veronica Thompson stood up calmly and smiled. She then said, “‘Women may fall when there’s no strength in men.’”
“Romeo and Juliet,” I said.
“You certainly do know your Shakespeare,” she said, smiling. “How much longer are you here?”
“I leave tonight.”
“Well, if you’re ever back in LA, you have an open invitation to come visit.”
I walked out of the mansion and toward my car that had been carefully washed and dried. Nice touch. I couldn’t help but think about what Roland had said. Brain like a computer and the heart of a lion.