I left Veronica Thompson and went directly to get some lunch at the Ivy on North Robertson, not far from my hotel. I had been told that this was the buzzy place to see LA in all its Tinseltown glory. I wasn’t much of a celebrity hound, but I figured, since I was in LA, I might as well do LA. So I took a small table outside on the raised white-picket-fenced veranda, with an unobstructed view of the entrance. I was perfectly situated to see all of the arrivals and air-kissed departures. It was not even noon yet, and the restaurant was already half-full, and the plastic surgery quotient was in overdrive.
I noticed an actress who played in a movie Carolina and I had watched on our flight to Morocco a couple of years back. She was extremely attractive on the screen, but in person, she looked no better than ordinary. I only recognized her by her hair. She had the brightest red hair I had ever seen and a smattering of freckles that spread across the bridge of her nose. She sat talking to a guy who had that slick look of an agent: sports coat with a black T-shirt, designer jeans, and riding loafers without socks. As soon as I placed my order of spicy fresh corn chowder and the fusilli with bufala mozzarella, tomato sauce, and diced chicken, my phone buzzed with a text message.
Are you still in LA?
I didn’t recognize the number, but I responded anyway.
Who is this?
Flavius Bechet. I got your number from Roland.
Any relation to Sidney Bechet?
Never heard of him.
Are you in LA?
Yes. I want to talk to you.
Lakers or Clippers?
I don’t follow basketball.
Tiafoe or Aliassime?
Who are they?
The best Black tennis players in the world.
Nice, but I don’t follow tennis either.
What do you follow?
Scripture.
I surrender. You found my Achilles’ heel. How can I help you?
I used to be Bishop Thompson’s personal assistant. I want to meet with you if you’re still here.
I’m heading home on the red-eye tonight. Can you meet before then?
I’m down in Long Beach at a youth ministry conference. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.
Can we talk on the phone?
I prefer not to.
Is this important?
Yes. I want to tell you about Bishop. I think there were other things going on.
Like?
I prefer not to do this over text.
I thought about it for a moment as I watched an actor, whose name I couldn’t remember but whose face I couldn’t forget, come strolling in with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. She carried a tiny dog in her tote bag. He carried an unlit cigarette in his mouth. The hostess greeted them effusively, then guided them into the restaurant. I looked down at my phone. Another twelve hours wouldn’t hurt.
After several more exchanges, we agreed to meet early the next morning at the Urth Caffé on Melrose. I continued my people-watching and quickly came to the conclusion that you had to be a certain type of person to live in LA, and I simply was not that type.
I arrived at the European-style café a little early and secured an outdoor table. Flavius Bechet pulled up in a candy-apple red 560 SL Mercedes. He was of average height, with free-form dreadlocks and a sharply trimmed goatee. He wore a powder blue polo shirt, fitted jeans, and a pair of blue-and-white Air Jordans that matched his shirt. He walked with confidence.
“Nice ride,” I said, as he sat at the table. “’88?”
“Close,” Flavius said. “’89.”
“How many miles?”
“Just under twenty-five thousand.”
“All original?”
“Just like it rolled off the showroom floor.”
“Where did you pick it up?”
“My grandfather left it to me.”
“Your grandfather knew his cars.”
“Better than he knew his own children, but that’s another conversation. I really wanted to tell you the truth about Bishop.”
“I’m all auricles,” I said.
“You work for the software company?” he said with hesitation. “I thought you were a private detective.”
“Different auricle,” I said, pointing to my ear.
“Why didn’t you just say the word ‘ear’? A little pretentious, don’t you think?”
“Pretentious would’ve been me calling it ‘pinna.’”
“Which is?”
“Another name for the outer ear, just not as well-known.”
“I thought you were a retired cop.”
“I am.”
“I’ve never met a cop who uses words like ‘auricle’ and ‘pinna,’” he said, laughing.
“And I bet you never met a cop that quotes both Giovanni and Dostoevsky.”
“Giovanni as in Nikki Giovanni?”
“Precisely.”
“Wait, what’s going on here?” he said. “I feel like I’m suddenly in some literary version of The Twilight Zone.”
“Not a bad place to be sometimes,” I said. “I felt the same way driving up to the Bishop estate yesterday.”
“You went to their house?”
“And had Abigail’s strawberry lemonade while watching planes land at LAX.”
“I’ve only been there once, but never inside the house. Bishop invited me to a reception in the yard. How was she?”
“She?”
“Veronica.”
“I thought you church folks used the term ‘first lady.’”
“She’s a bitch.”
I lifted my eyebrows.
“A bad bitch, but a bitch nonetheless.”
“When did you leave the church?” I asked.
“It’ll be exactly eight months tomorrow.”
“You’re counting the days?”
“And the hours too.”
“I take it you’re not missing your old job.”
“Bishop had a lot going on,” he said.
“I’m starting to figure that out.”
“He had a way of dividing up his life and sequestering the parts in different rooms.”
“Sequestering,” I said. “Nice word.”
“Thought you’d appreciate it,” he said, smiling. “Anyway, once he put his life in these rooms, he only allowed certain people access to a limited number of rooms. No one had access to all of his rooms.”
“Not even the bad bitch?”
“You’re funny. No, not even Veronica.”
“Which rooms were you allowed to enter?”
“Only the ones pertaining to the business of the church.”
“But you were his personal assistant,” I said. “Didn’t you need access to other parts of his life?”
“There were three of us,” Flavius said. “Belinda handled the family business, kids, school, dry cleaning. Ayanna handled the social stuff, like appearances, galas, golf, et cetera. I only handled things related to the ministry. The three of us had to coordinate to make everything work, but we each had our own domain.”
“And Veronica?”
“She had two of her own assistants. The three of us would have to coordinate with the two of them when she and Bishop needed to do something together.”
“I’m getting a headache just hearing you describe this.”
“Imagine what we got actually doing it.”
“Is that why you quit?”
“That’s what I told Bishop.”
“But it was something else.”
“I felt betrayed.”
“That’s a big word.”
He looked at me quizzically.
“Not in the sesquipedalian way,” I said. “‘Big’ in the implications way.”
“You’re entertaining to talk to,” he said.
“Wait til you hear me sing gospel.”
Flavius smiled. “‘Betrayal’ is an accurate word for what I was feeling. Bishop recruited me from the youth ministry to become his personal assistant. He sold it to me as a big promotion from what I was doing. I didn’t want to do it at first, because I really liked working with the youth and all the new energy they brought. But Bishop was persistent. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. For two weeks, he filled my head up with conversations about virtue and this being my calling to serve God in a higher way. Then he added another twenty-five thousand to my salary and two extra weeks of paid vacation.”
“An offer you couldn’t refuse.”
“And he knew that,” Flavius said. “So I accepted it and started working in his office. It was challenging keeping up with all he had going on, but I enjoyed it, and I was damn good at getting things done. Then one night, I left work and forgot a bag that I was supposed to drop off at one of the deacons’ house. I went back to get it, thinking everyone had already gone for the day, but Bishop was in his office with his door cracked, talking on the phone. I was about to knock to see if he needed anything else, but then I heard him talking like I’ve never heard him talk before. He was talking about hair color, height, ass, the tit size he liked. I just froze. It was like he was putting in an order for a woman. I was furious.”
“Because the man likes a certain kind of woman?”
“No, because of the hypocrisy. All the sermons about fidelity. All the things he talked to me about being virtuous in the eyes of God. It was all bullshit. The man I was listening to was not the same man who had convinced me to join the church and then become his personal assistant.”
“Not to get into a debate about morality, but maybe you were being a little tough,” I said. “Preachers are human too.”
“But they should be held to a higher standard. They’re supposed to lead by example, not just words.”
“Maybe you were reading too much into the conversation,” I said. “He could’ve been just having guy talk with one of his friends. Men who wear robes and quote Scripture from memory still have a certain organ between their legs.”
“Having a dick is one thing but using it outside of your marriage is everything the Bible teaches us not to do. What was even more sickening was how he was talking about what he wanted, like he was ordering food at a steak house. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five, and she had to have a dominant personality. I didn’t hear everything he said from that point on, but he did say something I never expected to hear.”
“Which was?”
“He wanted a guy to come with the girl, and he wanted him to be about his height, muscular, very masculine, and as young as the girl. I missed some of what he said next, but then he said the words ‘Eagle Rock.’”
“What did he say about Eagle Rock?”
“I don’t know. I just heard those words. I don’t know why he said them or what they meant.”
“And you have no idea who the guy he was talking to on the other end was?”
“I know it wasn’t a guy.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because before he hung up, he said he was looking forward to the weekend. Then he called her Daphne.”
I drove the short ride back to the hotel to think about my next move. The legend of Bishop Keegan Thompson had grown significantly over the last twenty-four hours. His widow had definitely not been completely straightforward, which made me curious about the kind of relationship they had really had. Had they had an open marriage? I knew that was becoming a more common arrangement, but would a megachurch pastor and his wife risk public exposure of such an alternative lifestyle? Who was the scantily clad woman who had started to descend the steps while I was talking to Veronica? Was that her girlfriend? It certainly felt that way. And now Flavius Bechet had come forward with a conversation he overheard that sounded like Thompson was arranging a tryst with a young woman and man, ordered to his specifications. By the time I arrived at the hotel, I had made my decision. I needed to talk to Veronica Thompson again. I dialed her number as the valet drove away in the BMW.
“Afternoon, Ashe,” she answered. “I’m about to head into a meeting. Is this urgent?”
“This will be quick,” I said. “I remember there was something I forgot to ask yesterday, and it has me a little confused.”
“I’m listening.”
“What is Eagle Rock?”
She paused, not long, but enough to let me know she was calculating her response. I had learned a long time ago from interviewing thousands of witnesses and suspects that the words they speak might provide answers, but how they communicate those words and their body language can sometimes speak louder than the words.
“Where did you hear that from?” she said calmly.
I found that to be a curious response. No quick explanation or denial, but rather, questioning the question. Another tell.
“Came up in a conversation I was having, so I was wondering if you had heard of it.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“Just someone familiar with my case.”
“I understand,” she said. “It’s an interesting name, but unfortunately, I’ve never heard of it.”
I didn’t believe a single word coming out of her mouth, but I played along. Give them enough rope and let them finish the job.
“Well, sorry to bother you,” I said. “Thanks again for the lemonade and aerial view of the city. When I hear the words ‘Hollywood Hills,’ I will always have that image in mind.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “But now I’m a little confused.”
“Why’s that?”
“You called to ask me about this Eagle Rock. Are you suggesting this is something I should know?”
“Only if you do,” I said.
“You’re very quick,” she said. “And annoyingly clever. Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. Safe travels back to Chicago.”
I hung up the phone and looked around suspiciously. She had just wished me safe travels back to Chicago. I had told her I was leaving last night. How had she known my plans had changed? I was now convinced that the alluring Veronica Thompson definitely knew a lot more than she was letting on.