“He may not have been on Hollywood’s A-list, but he’s certainly on mine.”
“So, how’s this for a plan?” Syd asked. “I’ll check Colin Wood’s cell phone and phone book for Adam Devlin’s number; if it’s there, then I’ll cross reference all the names in both men’s phone books looking for matching names. Then I’ll cross reference any matches to the names in Adam Devlin’s high school yearbook. And if we get lucky, maybe, just maybe, we can get the names of a few more potential victims.”
Ryan looked at Syd, impressed. “Brilliant.”
“Look, I know you need to meet Anne to go over stuff for the Lotto tomorrow, so drop me at the station and I’ll call you if I find a match.”
“No,” Ryan said, instinctively. “Fuck the Lotto. This is too important. I’ll help.”
“Don’t be silly, Ryan, I can do this alone. And you don’t really mean that, do you? Fuck the Lotto?” Please say yes, Syd thought.
Ryan did feel guilty leaving Syd alone to work. All his adult life, work was priority one. But, at the same time, he was only a few hours from getting the Lotto money and surprisingly found himself focused on all the things that could go wrong. What if he loses the ticket? What if the tow truck driver shows up at the presentation? What if the 7-Eleven clerk is there and says Ryan didn’t buy the ticket? What if they find the video of the tow truck driver buying the ticket? What if he oversleeps? What if he has a car accident in the morning and misses the presentation? What if Anne steals the money from him?
What if? What if? What if?
The growing obsession should have been enough warning to Ryan that his life would probably be much better off if he didn’t take the money. If he never took the money.
But he was far too gone for that.
In spite of himself, Ryan was dreaming about first edition books and hand crafted desks. He’d noticed all the things in the Devlin house: the plush carpets, state of the art appliances, beautiful furniture. And the familiar smells of freshly polished furniture and fresh flowers. Sights, sounds and smells that all reminded Ryan of his father’s house.
Ryan may not have cared much about money growing up, but living in luxury sure leaves a mark. His childhood memories of that house were like comfort food for the brain. His bedroom was filled with toys as a boy, gadgets and the latest computers as a teenager. His meals were prepared by Vivian, their black housekeeper. And with the musical chair nature of his father’s wives, Vivian was the only constant female influence on young Ryan’s life. The house was always clean, the bathrooms spotless, windows and mirrors sparkled, and furniture glistened. Each new wife would want to redecorate, so the carpets, drapes, pictures and furniture changed as fast as his father’s wedding rings. But it was always home.
After his father lost all his money and went to jail, Ryan rejected that part of his life. It wouldn’t take much time on a shrink’s couch to find out how betrayed Ryan felt by his father’s fraud. His father putting money before everything, including Ryan. So Ryan enjoyed his monastic life of a small apartment and forty-year-old car. Money wasn’t an issue because he didn’t have any, didn’t make any, and didn’t want any.
But that was all a lie, Ryan realized. It had to be because Ryan found himself more and more obsessed with the Lotto ticket. How it could change his life, how it was going to change the life of so many of his friends and family.
So the answer to Syd’s simple question, You don’t really mean that, do you? Fuck the Lotto? was simple. “No, Syd, I don’t mean it. It’s become too important to too many people.”
Like your money grubbing ex-wife, Anne, thought Syd. And Tony Ramirez and his mother’s meatballs, Chen and his mother’s mortgage, Katz’s fishing boat, your fucking stepbrother’s horses and sadly, you too, my dear Ryan.
But Syd said none of this. What she did say was, “Exactly. So go to your meeting with Anne; I’ll call you if I come up with something. And I think I better sleep at home, tonight,” Syd said. “I promised Eleanor I’d meet her for dinner and it might go late.” Eleanor had been Syd’s partner at Vice, and they got together every couple of weeks.
“Okay,” Ryan said. “But I’ll miss you.”
“Me too, you.” But Syd wasn’t planning on meeting Eleanor for dinner. She had other plans for this evening.
Plans she hoped Ryan never found out about.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Blake Hunter rarely dated. There were much easier ways to get laid and he couldn’t stand the hassle of wining, dining and being charming just to get into some girls panties. Hookers were expensive, but as actor Charlie Sheen said, “I don’t pay them for sex, I pay them to leave.”
Blake hated being stuck with some girl in his bed all night, then having to be civil in the morning, giving them coffee or a muffin and, worst of all, driving them home.
He hadn’t had a real girlfriend since college and that was just fine. A long-term relationship wasn’t on his radar right now. And though plenty of young girls wanted to date him — he was, after all, the Prince of the paparazzi and therefore able to get ambitious actresses plenty of face time in the world’s most-read magazines — Blake decided it just wasn’t worth the effort. For a thousand bucks, he could do whatever he wanted to whatever flavor of luscious young lady he desired; professional women who were only there to satisfy their client with every sensual trick they knew, and having relieved him of all his precious bodily fluids, would happily leave.
So Blake’s deigning to have the blonde in the red bathing suit come back tonight was unusual. No doubt he could order up a girl just like her from Millie, his madam. But there was something intriguing about the girl, and it was always fun to actually seduce a woman. It was thrilling when a woman surrendered herself to you with genuine passion. Besides, the blonde was not only going to cook him dinner but she was driving herself over, so getting rid of her should be easy.
Blake worked at his computer, checking shots of Jennifer Lopez nipple slip while getting out of a swimming pool, when he noticed the time, six fifty-five. Shit, she was due at seven. He saved his work on Photoshop and hurried into the bedroom. He grabbed the remote, clicked on the TV and started changing clothes as the news wrapped up. He was in his closet slipping out of shorts and into a pair of khakis, sandals and a Grateful Dead tee shirt when his synapses plowed through the meaningless blah blah blah of the newscast and focused in on the words “…Adam Devlin’s murder…”
Blake stepped into the bedroom in time to see the surveillance video from the Bel Air Regent Hotel and hear: “Police say this woman is a suspect in not only Adam Devlin’s murder, but also the murder of Colin Wood two nights ago and Orange County attorney Zachary Stone earlier this week. If you know the identity or whereabouts of this Lady in Red, please call the number at the bottom of your screen.”
Blake hit the pause button, freezing the image on his DVR.
Adam Devlin was dead, too? Murdered just like Colin? Blake had spoken to Adam just six months ago. One of Adam’s clients, a beautiful ice skater with four Olympic Gold Medals and a squeaky-clean-girl-next-door rep that had netted her millions in endorsements had been photographed giving the finger to an obnoxious paparazzi, Joel, as a matter of fact, Blake’s number one shooter.
Adam called Blake, asked him to kill the picture as a favor. Blake always liked Adam; they had great times in high school. So Blake did his old friend a favor and killed the picture. Now Adam was dead, too. What the fuck was going on?