The pictures were worth a fortune. Blake would sell them worldwide through BHPIX, his photo news company that fed the voracious hunger of the worldwide tabloids.
Blake sat atop the paparazzi pyramid with a staff of six highly paid photographers willing to harass, intimidate, lie, cheat and steal to get a marketable shot. Blake also had a network of waiters and waitresses, bartenders, hostesses, valets and salesclerks who, for a cash commission, would call in when a celebrity showed up. Not to mention an army of publicists and agents who wanted their clients photographed.
It was a great business but not the one Blake had hoped for. He’d wanted to be a director. As far back as high school he always had his video camera with him, shooting events at school and small movies with friends.
He went to USC Film School, distinguished himself with a couple of student films and got a job directing a low budget independent movie right after graduation. There was this adorable teenage girl in the cast, only fifteen, and Blake flipped for her. He pursued her relentlessly during shooting, finally getting into her pants the last day of shooting.
And that’s exactly how her mother found her daughter when she unexpectedly walked into her trailer; her daughter’s pants off, Blake’s pants off and Blake’s reproductive organ inserted snuggly in her fifteen-year-old daughter’s reproductive organ.
Statutory Rape.
No matter that Blake was her tenth or eleventh lover, the girl couldn’t be sure. No matter that the girl tried to convince her mother not to press charges to protect her reputation and career. Her mother called the cops, Blake was arrested and on advice of his consul, Zachary Stone, he pled out to two years in state prison for statutory rape. The girl spoke in Blake’s defense at the sentencing, and Stone managed to convince the judge to send Blake to Avenal State Prison, a minimum security facility, where he wouldn’t be gang-raped, tortured or killed.
But talk about a career ender. When Blake got out of prison, he couldn’t get arrested. As a director, that is. He’d become friends with the guy who shot publicity pictures on his movie and the photographer moonlighted as a paparazzi. He asked Blake if he wanted to work with him and Blake was a natural. He was also an entrepreneur and within a couple of years put together his network of photographers and snitches.
He was also a master at digitally manipulating the pictures his staff shot, highlighting and sometimes enhancing things such as cellulite for magazines looking for Stars-at-their-Worst shots, or thinning a thigh here or increasing a breast size there for a Stars-at-their-Best story.
Blake lived in small beach house on Carbon Beach, one of the twenty-four beaches that make up the twenty-seven mile Malibu coastline. He got the down payment selling pictures of Angelina Jolie going down on Brad Pitt. No matter that the photo was later proved fake, a product of his digital mastery; he’d already raked in three quarters of a million dollars.
Blake was short, with jet-black hair and thick eyebrows. He spoke in rapid, profanity-laden bursts of words and was unabashedly rude.
He put one hand on the breast of each girl then twisted the nipple. With a start, both girls yelped and sat up in bed. They were both blonde and billed themselves as a sister act, but they weren’t related.
They’d treated Blake to an incredibly hot lesbian love fest, fueled by Stoli shots and cocaine, before he finally dove in and screwed them both. And he woke up horny.
“The snake needs servicing girls,” he said. It’s amazing how crude you’re allowed to be when you pay two thousand dollars a girl. “But first, do me a favor and warm up on each other.”
The girls were actually in love with one another so they happily fell into each other’s arms and began to make out.
Blake grabbed the remote control and turned on the 60-inch LCD hanging on the wall. As they girls ravished each other in front of him, the muted news played behind them. There was a weather map on the screen, another beautiful Southern California day in the offing and then the screen cut to a picture of Colin Wood.
It took Blake a couple of seconds to register it was the picture of his friend, Colin Wood. Blake hit the Mute button. “…found dead in his car outside the Havoc nightclub. Police aren’t speculating on a motive for the murder right now, but are asking for the public’s help in identifying a blonde woman who was last seen with the actor. Ironically, one of the detectives investigating the murder has just hit the Lotto. His name is…”
Blake hit the mute button. Colin was dead. Jesus. They’d been friends since high school and would still hang out every once in a while. Blake remembered Colin’s old girlfriend, Abigail. She was hot. Blake always wanted to take a shot at her, but resisted because he knew it would bug Colin. But now that Colin was dead…
Blake smiled; Abigail was a struggling actress so it would easy to get her number. His eyes shifted to the girls who now had their faces planted in each other’s vaginas. He watched them gobble each other up, but he was thinking about Abigail.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“I’ve got a good feeling about today,” Syd said. She was working her cell phone as Ryan threaded his way through morning rush hour traffic. She checked her notebook, and dialed. “Today we take one more step on the road to immortality. Today we’re going to get a lead on the Lady in Red case, we’re going to tenaciously follow that lead using intuition, skill and a little luck, and after a stunning revelation or two, we’ll break the case wide open, bringing the murdering bitch to justice.”
Ryan smiled, got to love her enthusiasm. “Before or after lunch?”
“That depends on when,” she glanced at the bottlenecked traffic, “or if you finally get us to the office. Yes, hello,” she said shifting to her official voice as the cell phone was answered. “This is Detective Syd Curtis, Los Angeles Police Department; I’d like to speak to Mr. Reade please.” Chris Reade was Kathy Tuttle’s lawyer, the attorney who handled the half-million-dollar settlement she received from Colin Wood’s father. “Yes, I know I’ve called before,” Syd said patiently. “In fact, I think I left two voice mails on your phone last night which speaks to the urgency of our situation. We’re in the middle of an ongoing murder investigation and Mr. Reade may have information critical to the case.” Syd listened for a few moments, scribbled down a note then said, “That would be great, thank you.” She hung up, turned to Ryan. “He’s out of town. He’s been in Miami for the last few days and is now on a flight to New York, scheduled to land in less than an hour. She’ll make sure he calls as soon as he checks in.”
“Great.”
Syd called Colin Wood’s father but just got his voice mail, again. “Still not answering,” she said. “Hello, this is Detective Syd Curtis, LAPD, we need to speak to you as soon as possible, Mr. Wood, so please call us back.” She left her number and disconnected. “Why is this guy so hard to get a hold of?”
“Think he’s hiding something?”
“Hard to say. I can’t imagine he’s involved in his own son’s murder, but I did get the feeling he knew more than he told us at the morgue yesterday.”
Ryan sensed the same thing. “Me, too.” Ryan’s cell phone rang; he glanced at the caller ID, Anne. An excited thrill shot through him, surprising him. Was he excited because of the money or because he’d be talking to her?
Syd read the same reaction. “Let me guess,” she said. “The former Mrs. Magee.”