Nora Cronin sat beside Justine in the passenger seat.
Early in the year, Justine had worked for the DA’s office to help the LAPD catch a spree killer who had been terrifying the city and running the cops into the weeds.
The Schoolgirl Killer had been Lieutenant Nora Cronin’s case, but despite her initial outrage that the DA had assigned Private to work with her, she and Justine had meshed brilliantly, as if they’d worked together for years.
Nora touched up her lipstick as Justine drove into the garage, took a ticket from the machine, then cruised around the subterranean car park that consumed more square footage than the town where she was born.
“You know what’s freaky? More money passes through this building than we spend annually on national defense.”
Nora was big, built like a tank, and she had a good, hearty laugh, which she let loose now.
“You’re too funny, Justine. Actually, I can’t wait to see the inside of this place.”
“Yeah?” Justine said. “I think we’re in for a real gladiator-style face-off with an egomaniacal, money-driven jerk who may also be a killer.”
“We might not be able to pull this off. I’m just preparing you. If he says to leave, we’ve got to go.”
“Come on, Nora. A cop and a shrink are going to tag-team him. He’ll talk. He’ll beg us to listen to him.”
Nora laughed again. “What a pair you have, Justine. Anyway, this place may be the colosseum, but we only have to take down one lion. Only one. Here, take this.”
Nora reached down to the floor, picked up a file, and passed it to Justine, who stashed it in her briefcase.
“Let me do the talking,” Justine said.
“Fine,” said Nora. “I’ll be your bodyguard.”
Justine laughed. “Perfect,” she said. “I’ve always wanted one of those.”
CHAPTER 92
An elevator took Justine and Nora from the car park to the Creative Talent Management lobby, a vast, marbled space hung with imposing works of modern art. Glass-faced staircases fooled the eye and suspended disbelief, rising thirty feet through the reception area ceiling, itself made of glass.
The space was meant to impress and intimidate-and it did both of those things to Justine. She’d laughed about CTM as the black hole of greed, but now she felt the force of the place. The might of the money.
And she and Nora were on their own.
Justine gave their names to a receptionist, signed a log book, and she and Nora took seats at the periphery of the room to watch the show.
Actors practiced their lines, gesticulating in the corners; messengers came and went; groups of well-dressed people entered the agency through doors that blended so perfectly with the surrounding walls there didn’t seem to be doors at all.
Tom Cruise came through in one of those groups.
Ethan Hawke left the building.
Fifteen minutes after they had arrived, a young man floated down one of the invisible staircases. He was wearing a white linen shirt, dark pants, and a smug expression. Approaching Justine and Nora, he said, “I’m Jay Davis, Mr. Barstow’s assistant. Alan is ready to see you now.”
Justine lifted her briefcase, feeling like she was carrying a dirty bomb, thinking, I doubt Alan is ready for this.
When they entered his office, Barstow was standing with his back to the door, shouting into the mic of his headset, “I said no, you dumb prick. Lily Padgett will not do a screen test. You made the deal and if you dare to break it, we’ll sue you for breach. We’ll take everything you’ve got including the sweat on your balls. Yes. A network series. Jerry Bruckheimer. She turned him down. Do you get me now?”
Barstow clicked off the phone, turned, and saw the two women come into his large, transparent corner office. His smile was bright and cold, like winter sun on a frozen lake.
“How’s Danny?” he asked, shaking Justine’s hand. “I hope you have good news.”
Justine introduced Nora as her partner and they took seats around Barstow’s coffee table, where they had a view of a Frank Stella construction the size of a barn wall, and a panoramic view out the window of West Hollywood and Beverly Hills.
But Justine was scrutinizing Alan Barstow.
He had acne scars and thinning hair and narrow shoulders, but he had swagger to spare. That came from being a top earner at CTM, from making millions upon millions every year.
Justine sat forward in a five-thousand-dollar armchair, put the Waterford crystal goblet she’d been sipping water from down on the Brazilian cherrywood table, and said, “Alan, we think we know who is responsible for Piper Winnick’s death, but we need your help.”
Barstow pressed a button on the arm of his chair and said, “Jay, no calls.” Then, “I’m all yours.”
Justine said, “We think Piper was killed by someone who was jealous of her relationship with Danny.”
“No kidding. That’s bizarre.”
“A few people knew about Danny and Piper. You, Merv Koulos, Larry Schuster, Danny’s friend Kovaks, and his assistant, Randy Boone. But Danny’s relationship with Piper wasn’t public knowledge. Neither was his cabin in Topanga.”
“So obviously someone close to Danny did it.”
“Yes. We think this man expected Piper to be grateful to him for getting her the part in the film and attracted to him because he’s a powerful guy, and he was furious that she ran off with Danny. So it makes sense that he drove to the cabin, woke Piper up, and got her to take a walk with him on the trail. We surmise that he argued with her. That things got physical.”
Barstow broke in. “Justine, are you making a pitch or do you want my help? Who the hell did this to my boy?”
“Someone who likes young girls, Alan. A man who has a real passion for young girls.”
Justine took the folder out of her briefcase, opened it on the table, turned it toward Barstow, and fanned out the pages.
Justine said, “This is what we’re going to show the police. And I have a feeling these mug shots are going to find their way to the Internet. Millions will know that Alan Barstow is a sex offender. That’s you, Alan. You’re the real deal.”
CHAPTER 93
Barstow sputtered, “Whoa-whoa-whoa. Where did you get this? ”
A shiver danced up Justine’s spine. She watched Alan Barstow’s face as he stared at his mug shots and the rap sheet listing his arrest for sex crimes against minors. His arrogance was gone, replaced by more primitive stuff: fear, anger, and confusion, emotions that made people turn violent.
Justine said, “There’s software now, Alan. It can match faces to sex offenders in any police database, even if the crime happened ten years ago in New Jersey. Even though you changed your name.”
“So what? ” he said, pushing the file off the table. “You’re saying this means that I killed Piper? Are you fucking kidding me? Look, you. The only interest I had in Piper Winnick was financial. That’s all.”
He grabbed a copy of Variety off the coffee table and showed Justine the headline, “Shades of Red.”
Barstow shouted, “The film is dead. A great slamming summer movie is dead. You know what I got for a year of busting my nuts? Absolutely nothing.”
The angrier he got, the more relaxed Justine became. As long as he only yelled.
“Calm down, Alan. I’m not saying you planned to hurt Piper. I’m saying you were insulted. You tried to tell her who you were and who she was. Things got out of hand. She pulled away from you-”
Barstow cut her off. “Dr. Smith, you are totally, I cannot say this strongly enough, totally out of your tiny little mind. This meeting is over. If you repeat a word of this crap, I’ll sue you for slander, for defamation, for anything our legal department can throw at you.”
He got up from his chair, went to the door, and said to his assistant, “Jay. Show these people out. No. Call security.”
Barstow turned to Justine and Nora. “You have one minute to leave the premises.”