Death by Sarcasm (11 page)

She requested a double Jack Daniels on the rocks. Braggs quickly complied. Mary sat on the couch. She didn’t want to look out at the water, but she did.

“Have you ever had a lychee martini?” Braggs asked.

“If you live in L.A., you have to,” Mary said.

She heard him using a shaker and turned to see him pouring its contents into a martini glass. He came over and sat to her left, in a club chair facing the ocean.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. The smooth voice had taken on the role of trusted confidante.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know who Noah Baxter is?” she said.

“Of course,” he said, and took a sip of his martini. Mary looked down at her drink. A bunch of ice. She held it out and shook it at Braggs. He hopped up and refreshed it, then brought it back to her.

“So?” she said.

“We all knew him,” Braggs said. “He was a stand-up, just like all of us. But he was the worst of the worst. He had a really, really dark sense of humor that never came across well with audiences. He shocked them instead of making them laugh. Not a good trait for a comedian.”

He drank from his martini and Mary drained half of her Jack on the rocks.

“He ended up writing for other comedians, who would take his stuff and lighten it up a little bit. It really wasn’t that bad, it just needed a little bit of…sanity.”

“Yeah, that’s the impression I had of him,” Mary said. Already her brain was going slightly numb. It felt good.

“But eventually, his stuff fell out of favor and as I recall, he had some personal problems. Drinking, drugs, or something.” Braggs waved his hand around as if a mosquito were bothering him.

“And then?” Mary said.

“And then he bought a one-way ticket to the Land of Hollywood Forgottens. It’s a community that keeps growing, every day. Easy to get into, very difficult to get out.”

Mary nodded. Of course. He went where it seemed like every lead in the case of her uncle’s murder had gone: nowhere.

Her glass looked empty so she held it out to Braggs again. He refilled hers and his own, then came back.

“I thought I heard some rumors about him getting a job in Las Vegas or something,” Braggs said. “Managing some female comedian, but that was it. He fell off of everyone’s radar.”

Mary nodded. Her head felt like it had put on ten pounds.

“There’s a million guys like Noah Baxter,” Braggs said. “A little flash of success, then a disappearing act when they realize the big payday is never going to come. Most of them don’t even realize it’s over. Can’t admit it to themselves. It’s really kind of sad. Of course, I can’t speak from experience. It’s just that I’m very sympathetic-”

Mary stretched out and put her head on a pillow. She drank awkwardly from her glass, but she got the Jack down. Drinking Jack made her think of Jake. Jake the Jerk. She giggled.

“I might know someone who could tell us more about Noah,” Braggs said.

“Oh, yeah?” Mary said. Her voice was thick with sleepiness.

“Margaret Stewart.”

“Martha Stewart? The domestic goddess?”

“No,
Margaret
Stewart,” Braggs said.

“Who the hell is that?” Mary slurred.

“She used to be my agent. And Brent’s agent. And Noah’s agent.”

“Lady gets around.”

“In fact, she was everybody’s agent back then. A powerhouse.”

Mary closed her eyes and the first faint stirrings of sleep, like the start of the incoming tide, slowly slept across her forehead.

“I think I’m going to fall asleep,” she said, a sound suspiciously similar to snoring began to come from mouth. “You can let yourself out-” she started to say, but never finished the sentence.

“She knew everyone,” Braggs said. “But most of all, she knew where all the skeletons were. That’s more valuable than anything for sale on Rodeo Drive, that’s for sure.”

Mary fell asleep then saw an image of the old man she’d shot as a skeleton, dancing around in the dark.

H
er eyes grated open, like stone doors in an Egyptian tomb. Mary stared at the ceiling for several minutes, rewinding the film of last night, watching it in reverse order. She didn’t like what she saw.

Mary pushed back the blankets and sat up. Her head hurt and her stomach ached. She walked out to the kitchen and made coffee, then stood with her head hanging down while it brewed. Extra cream and extra sugar went in to bolster her recovery. She sat at the kitchen table and a little yellow note caught her attention.

10
A.M.
Margaret Stewart.

It was signed Whitney Braggs. And there was an address scribbled next to Margaret Stewart’s name. Mary looked at the clock.

She had forty-five minutes to shower, dress and get out to Beverly Hills.

Great.

Mary started for the shower and slipped off her robe, then froze.

She had on her pink pajamas. She thought for a moment, and then a horrifying through nearly drove her to her knees.

Had she put them on herself?

Or had Braggs?

Suddenly, her head hurt even worse.

Margaret Stewart’s face was so taut from plastic surgery that Mary worried it would snap and fly across the office like a Frisbee. She had the urge to go over and plunk out a rhythm on it like a tribal drum. Didn’t the woman have a constant headache? It gave Mary a headache just looking at her, which was laid on top of the one she already had from last night’s fling with Jack Daniels.

“That was quite a group,” Ms. Stewart said. Mary guessed the woman’s age to be seventy-ish, and thought the voice matched the skin: tight and unforgiving. Mary glanced around the office. Black leather, polished chrome, black-and-white photography. Typical power agent office.

“Yes, dysfunction in large numbers.” Mary said. “Always the hallmarks of a good time.”

They’d already done the necessary introductions and had started in on the history of Brent Cooper and his gang.

“They certainly took the party with them,” Ms. Stewart said. “And it was always a
big
party.”

“In what way? Drugs? Gambling? Monkeys in lingerie?” Mary asked.

“Lingerie, yes. Monkeys no. At least, no monkeys at the parties I went to. I’m sure at some point, animals were involved.”

“Anything criminal going on?” Mary said. “Anything that would make someone come back later and start killing people?”

Margaret Stewart shrugged her shoulders, then nodded at Braggs. “Why don’t you ask him? He was there.”

Braggs shook his head. “Not like you,” he said. “I had gigs, flew around, didn’t see those guys and gals for months at a time. You were there constantly.”

“Besides,” Mary chimed in. “You probably knew everyone. And you most likely knew them better than he did. Braggs here, from what he tells me, just hung out and partied. He was probably busy de-flowering the female population of Beverly Hills.”

“It would be arrogant of me to agree with you, but I must confess that’s a fairly accurate statement,” Braggs said.

“I’m thinking they confided more in you,” Mary said to Ms. Stewart. “You know, crying to the agent about all of their problems and issues. That’s the stuff we need to know about.”

“That’s very perceptive, Ms. Cooper,” Margaret said. “But I was their agent not their babysitter and I did not perform confessions. They didn’t tell me everything because if they had problems, they certainly didn’t want anyone to know about them, especially their agent.”

“Yes, I’m sure all actors and actress prevent their agent from witnessing their neuroses firsthand,” Mary said. “Come on, Margaret. This is L.A. Agents know where all the bodies are buried. Or at least who put the bodies where. And they’re good bodies because it’s L.A. and everyone works out.”

“Here’s what I meant,” Margaret Stewart said. “I just said they didn’t come and blab all of their war stories to me. Yeah, I heard some stories. Some were true, most of them were probably not.”

“Why don’t you tell us about the ones that were probably true? If there actually were any.”

The older woman pushed back from her desk and crossed her legs. She let out a long breath.

“That was a long time ago,” she said. “Let’s see. There was a core group. Brent Cooper was definitely one of the ringleaders. God he was a smartass. Arrogant, pushy, and a vicious mouth. You remind me of him,” she said to Mary.

“That’s one compliment I never get tired of hearing,” Mary said.

“Let’s see, there was also Harvey Mitchell,” Margaret said. “He was a star even back then. God, I had to turn away so much work for him. Even modeling agencies wanted a piece of him.”

“Harvey Mitchell?” Mary asked. “The host of The Night Talker?”

“The one and only,” Braggs said.

The Night Talker was a long-standing hit for NBC. Not quite the Tonight Show, but still a very powerful ratings earner. Harvey Mitchell was the silver-haired host. Interviewing stars, doing skits, and having a great time doing it. Making boodles of cash, too.

“There were so many of them,” Margaret Stewart said. “They floated in and out. Look, why don’t I just do this? When Mr. Braggs called me, I went into my archives and pulled my files for everyone I could think of. Including Noah Baxter’s. Obviously, there’s no longer anything sensitive in them. Half of the people are dead or disappeared.”

She gestured at a chair near a filing cabinet. There was a box full of faded yellow folders, thick with papers inside.

“Like I mentioned before,” Margaret said. “People came, people went. Men, women, kids, animals. Everything that could have possibly gone on among prosperous entertainment people in Los Angeles during those days definitely went on. So you can guess most of what was occurring on a daily, and nightly, basis. Why don’t you just look through all that, and then if you have any questions, call me. It’s not like I have time to sit here and tell you about every last thing, plus, at my age, I’d probably get most of it wrong. So just take the stuff, look it over and call me if you have any more questions. Okay?”

Braggs walked over and picked up the box.

Mary stood. “Thank you Ms. Stewart. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I most likely am going to call you again. I always have questions to ask. It’s one of my character traits that makes me irresistible to both sexes.”

“Brent Cooper. Reincarnated,” the older woman said and turned back to her computer as if they’d already left.

“Ouch,” Mary said on her way out.

M
ary ditched Braggs as soon as possible.

“Don’t you want to go through that stuff together?” he’d asked, looking at the files.

“I think we’ve gone through enough together, don’t you?” Mary said.

“Not really,” he said. “But everyone’s certainly entitled to their opinion, no matter how wrong that opinion may be.”

“Very eloquent, Braggs. Almost as good as the racial slurs you dropped on Jimmy Millis.”

“Old news, Mary. Old news. And speaking of old,” he said. “The rest of your clients are here. You remember the consortium of Brent’s old gang that together sent me to hire you?”

“I’ve been thinking of nothing but. Obsessing would actually be the better term for it.”

“Well, they’re all here and would like to get together with you. You know, go over the case and how they can help you catch the killer. I know it’s short notice, but does tonight work?”

“I’ve always got time for senior citizens,” Mary said. It would be a good chance for her to dig for more information anyway.

“Don’t look so excited, Mary. They’re actually a fun bunch.”

“Laugh a minute, I’m sure, Whitney.”

Braggs smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the late Hollywood sun.

“I understand,” he said. “I’m cramping your style. Too much too soon, I take it?”

“That would presuppose I have a style, Mr. Braggs.”

“Oh you’ve got style. Plenty of it.”

“Are you hitting on me?”

“Absolutely not, dear lady,” he said, holding his hands wide, a gesture of pure innocence. “That would be scandalous. A man my age making improper advances on a deceased colleague’s lovely, sexy niece? One who is clearly entertaining the idea of benefiting from an older man’s heard-earned experience in the bedroom? Complete balderdash, my lady!”

“The only thing I’m experiencing right now is revulsion mixed with a small amount of nausea.”

“Understood, Mary. Understood. However, I’m not hitting on you, despite the wonderful curve of your buttocks, the firm ripeness of your bountiful breasts-”

“I am armed, Mr. Braggs.”

Braggs snapped his mouth shut, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Mary walked away, wondering if some old ladies somewhere were supplying Braggs with Viagra. If not, she should set him up with the Golden Girls at Brent’s place. They’d tear him apart.

Margaret Stewart hadn’t been lying. At least not about the files. They were old. As old as the Hollywood Hills that had spawned the careers of these actors, comedians and writers. She set the stack of files down on her desk next to her computer and fired up the machine.

Mary clicked on the iPod that ran her office sound system, and chose an album by Brandi Carlile, an immensely talented singer songwriter from Seattle who Mary had seen in concert. An incredible voice.

She launched her Internet browser, then followed that with her People Search software. It was a proprietary program developed by a friend of Mary’s, a software developer at a large corporation who had been fired for trying to improve the company’s product. It’s never a wise move to be so good in corporate America that you threaten your boss’s livelihood. Mary had helped out on his case and in return he had pirated software, improved it, and given it to her as a gift.

Now, Mary began alphabetizing the files. After fifteen minutes, she had all seventy-five files in order by last name.

With that, she launched into the job at hand. Namely, using her software to find, locate, and hopefully eliminate as many people as she could from the pile. The good thing was, one of the forms required by Margaret Stewart had included a section for personal information, and a line for the client’s social security number. That eliminated any problems with two Michael Williamses.