Chapter TwentyOne

The unmarked police car pulled up outside the Beverly Hills mansion. The sun was out now, and the automatic sprinklers hidden beneath the perfect lawns had sprung to life. As he looked about him, Detective Jay could see a hundred rainbows shimmering in the spray which hung above the deep green grass. Everything looked so peaceful and so rich.

Jay wondered if inside that glorious colonnaded house unspeakable mayhem had already been perpetrated. It was just a hunch, after all. On the other hand, nobody had cut up a major Hollywood star since Manson.

‘You know,’ said Crawford as they approached the vast front door, ‘this guy was a daytime soap star for years, started as a kid. That’s what’s so clever about Delamitri. He makes weird moves, like, you know, doing the unexpected, casting against type. Making uncool cool.’

‘What, like murder?’

‘You don’t buy that copycat crap, do you? What? Are we all going to have to go and watch Doris Day movies?’

Buzzz. Buzzzzzzz.

At first Kurt didn’t hear it. The pounding of the treadmill and the Van Halen in his headphones blotted out any outside sound. He rarely answered the intercom himself, anyway. The staff arrived by public bus at nine, and nobody ever visited before that.

Except today.

If he hadn’t stopped for a swig of salinating energizer drink and five minutes under the sunlamp, he’d never have heard it at all.

‘LAPD,’ said the intercom. ‘Sorry to call so early, sir.’

In contrast to the characters he played, Kurt Kidman was as dull as old brown paint. Like many people in LA these days, all he ever did was work and exercise. He had certainly never been visited by the police at six fifty in the morning.

‘The police?’ said Kurt. ‘But… but why?’ The receiver actually shook in his hand.

He had never done anything illegal in his life (although some of his acquaintances considered that squandering his huge wealth and fame on a boring, healthy lifestyle was something of a crime). None the less, Kurt was a nervous sort of fellow and anybody suddenly confronted by the police tends to feel an irrational sense of guilt, particularly at so early an hour. Had he done anything wrong? Was it possible that he’d gone over the speed limit when he drove back from the Oscars on the previous night? Or else maybe, like Dr Jekyll, he had a terrifying subconscious alter ego, who roamed the night committing terrible murders of which his conscious self had no memory in the morning.

‘Good morning, officer,’ Kurt said, attempting to sound calm, as he answered the door. He had tried to communicate with them only over the intercom, but they had asked him to come down in person. He half expected to be brutally handcuffed the moment the door was open.

‘How can I help you?’

Should he have said even that without his lawyer being present? Kurt couldn’t remember the rules. Was saying hullo incriminating? He longed to tell them that his copious sweating was the result of an hour on the treadmill, not because he was desperately attempting to cover up some guilty secret. But would that sound like protesting too much? Probably.

‘Just a routine enquiry, sir,’ said Detective Jay ‘Have you been visited or contacted during the night? Have any strangers attempted to speak to you?’

‘No,’ said Kurt.

‘In that case we won’t bother you further. Sorry to have interrupted your workout, sir.’

Detective Jay gave Kurt his card and asked him to call if anything out of the ordinary occurred, and then he and his partner departed.

Kurt worried about it all day.

Chapter TwentyTwo

In the doorway to Bruce’s lounge stood Wayne and Karl Brezner, Bruce’s agent. Karl was a tough, hardbitten operator from New York. He had been in the business for thirty years, but judging by his manner it did not seem to have made him happy.

‘Here’s your man, Bruce,’ said Wayne.

Karl threw a questioning glance at Bruce. Understandably he was wondering who the lowlife might be.

‘Hi, Bruce. Sorry to call so early,’ he said. ‘Coupla real important things. So, having a party?’

Karl looked round the room. Brooke was still kneeling on the carpet in front of Scout. Wayne was also taking in the scene. Both he and Karl were surprised to see the two women in this position.

Brooke got up from the rug with what dignity she could muster and returned to her seat on the couch.

‘Yeah, a party, kind of,’ said Bruce. ‘This is Brooke Daniels.’

Karl had eyed Brooke appreciatively as she crossed the room. He would have had to have been made of stone not to. She was extremely beautiful at any time and if anything she was even more fascinating now, looking sad and vulnerable in her increasingly absurd evening gown.

‘Brooke Daniels!’ said Karl with delight. ‘Well, well, well. Miss February, I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on. Great spread, by the way. I’ll bet the nozzle of that gas pump was cold, am I right? Who’re these two, Bruce?’

Karl spoke as if Wayne and Scout did not exist. He was not actually quite as rude as he appeared. He came from a brusque culture, in which good manners were commonly interpreted as bullshit and prevarication. His style would not have gone down well in Japan or over tea at Buckingham Palace, but in New York showbusiness circles it had served him well.

Bruce struggled for a reply to his question.

‘A couple of… actors. I saw them in an improv’ night out at Malibu… thought I’d talk to them. Might be right for Killer Angels.’

Killer Angels was the project that Bruce and Karl currently had in development. It was again to be about people who killed strangers, but this time for a reason, antiabortion, the environment, wiping out a sporting rival, whatever; the idea being to show that all murder is in fact arbitrary. Or something like that, anyway. They intended it to duplicate the enormous success of Ordinary Americans.

‘Seeing actors in the early morning after Oscars night? That is dedication.’ Karl turned to Wayne and Scout. ‘No offence to you guys, but for me talking to actors is only one step up from visiting with the dentist.’

As with most agents, being rude about actors was Karl’s favourite joke. He patronized them behind their backs, calling them childish and mad. He was, of course, just jealous. No matter how rich and powerful an agent gets, he still finds it difficult to jump queues in restaurants.

Bruce pursued his hasty improvisation, in the hope that detail would make it more convincing. ‘I just thought they had, you know… maybe they had the right look.’

Karl cast a doubtful glance at Wayne and Scout. ‘Well, I’m just the schmuck who counts the money, but these kids look about as much like psychopaths as my grandmother, God save her soul.’

Bruce was pleased at this response. The less interest Karl showed in Wayne and Scout the better.

‘You want a drink, Mr Brezner?’ Wayne asked.

This gave Bruce further cause for relief. Wayne appeared to be prepared to play along with the fiction.

‘Are you kidding?’ said Karl. ‘A drink? At seven fifteen in the morning? Have you any idea how much my current liver cost me? Body parts do not come cheap, my friend, particularly those of which the donor only had one and was hence reluctant to part with it… Only kidding. Since we’re celebrating, get me a scotch, kid.’

Karl sat down on the couch beside Brooke, taking the opportunity as he sat to cast an appreciative glance down the front of her dress.

His mentioning the time reminded Bruce that Karl had no business being there at all. ‘That’s right Karl, it’s only seven fifteen. What do you want?’

‘Lemme get this drink, then maybe we can talk down in the snooker room.’