Authors: Cheryl Crane

Imitation of Death (11 page)

BOOK: Imitation of Death

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Another half hour passed and her plan was going well. Except that she’d seen no sign of Astro. (Who named their kid
Astro?
It
had
to be a stage name.) And she hadn’t counted on having to actually exercise. While keeping an eye out for the pecs guy, she watched the TV as she pumped her arms and legs.

After forty minutes on the elliptical, and a game show later, she thought she was going to die. But still no sign of Astro. In twenty minutes, she’d have to close down the stakeout, pecs or no pecs, and get her not so rock hard and aching butt to Malibu.

Panting, Nikki hit the
COOL DOWN
button on the elliptical machine. She’d spoken to several acquaintances and two clients, one past, one present. Maybe she needed to make an effort to go to the gym more often; it might be a good place to find new clients. The clock was ticking on her Malibu appointment and she couldn’t get the TV on her elliptical to change channels. She didn’t think she could watch a daytime talk show, not even for Jorge.

Just as she grabbed her fluffy white towel to wipe what she was certain was a beet-red face, she spotted Astro at the front desk. He spoke to Gwen, who pointed in Nikki’s direction. Nikki waved the towel.

Hunky Astro was wearing gym shorts and a tight sleeveless tank and carrying a gym bag. He walked toward her. “Ms. Harper, what a surprise! I didn’t know you were a member.”

“Call me Nikki, please.” She jumped off the elliptical, thankfully making a smooth landing.

“Nikki. Sure. And I guess you remembered my name.” He grinned. “So crazy what happened the other night, huh? I mean, can you believe it? Sure, lots of people threatened to kill Eddie, but I can’t believe someone really did it.”

“Lots of people threatened to kill him?” Nikki repeated, wiping the back of her neck with the towel. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah.” He dropped his gym bag between them. “Between the guys whose girls he slept with, the guys he picked fights with in bars, and the guys he owed money to . . .” He gave a wave. “It’s a wonder people weren’t standing in line to kill him.”

Nikki knitted her brows. “So you don’t think my mother’s gardener did it?”

“Does Ms. Bordeaux think he did? Oh my God.” His eyes grew big. “Wouldn’t that be something? Poor Ms. Bordeaux. She must be so upset.”

“No.” Nikki frowned, preferring the previous direction of the conversation. “Mother
doesn’t
think he did it. As you said, there were plenty of people who wanted him dead.” She eyed the clock. “Far more than Jorge Delgado.” She looked back at him. “So who
could
have done it? Who all was at the party?” she went on quickly.

“Oh, I don’t know. A lot of people. You were there. Things got pretty crazy, pretty fast.”

“I didn’t really know anyone at Eddie’s party. And I was only there for a few minutes.” She took a step closer, hoping she didn’t stink too badly. “You by any chance an actor, Astro?”

“Me? Nah.” He grinned. “I’m a personal trainer. I could get you a good deal on a few sessions,”—he glanced at her bare arms—“if you’re interested.”

She resisted the temptation to check out her own perhaps less than optimum biceps. “I just thought maybe the name . . .”

“Nope. My mother named me Astro.” Another guy, this one super pumped up, walked by and glanced at Nikki, then made eye contact with Astro. “Hey, Kaiser,” Astro greeted.

“Hey, man.” The guy kept walking. It wasn’t until he passed her that she spotted a swastika tattoo on his neck.

“You seem like a person who knows a lot of people,” Nikki commented.

“Him? Nah. He’s not a friend.”

Nikki watched Kaiser walk to an ab crunch machine. The woman on it had been there at least ten minutes. She was super fit, too. Nikki guessed she had to have done a thousand crunches by now.

“Well,” Nikki said. “You do seem like a guy people like.” She was totally surprised that he wasn’t an actor; every nice-looking young guy in L.A. was an actor.

“Well, I
do
know a lot of people in Beverly Hills,” he agreed, with obvious pride. “And I usually know what’s going on. No better place to hear gossip than a gym.”

“So any gossip about what happened that night?” She was still eyeing the guy with the swastika tattoo. What kind of person had a swastika
tattooed
on them? She could only imagine.

“No.” Astro frowned. “Not really. Not so far, at least. I mean, most of the people there weren’t really anybody; cocktail waitresses hoping to become models or actresses. People he knew from The Python Club. Guys from here. Kaiser was there.” He pointed in Kaiser’s direction.

“Kaiser.” She glanced at the guy again, only to find him and the woman on the ab machine watching them. “Really?” She looked back at Astro. “That his first or his last name? Kaiser?”

Astro shrugged. “I dunno. Not the kind of guy you ask, if you know what I mean. He was Eddie’s . . . you know . . .
supplier
.” He whispered the last word.

“
Supplier?
” she repeated.

Astro glanced at one of the big TVs on the far wall. “Steroids,” he whispered, not looking at her. “At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Ah. So . . . Eddie did steroids?”

“A lot of people do. Not me.” Turning back to her, he flexed his biceps to demonstrate. “I might not be as buff as Kaiser, but I’m a hundred percent natural. Wanna feel?” He offered his arm. “Go ahead.”

She chuckled, waving her towel. “No, no, that’s okay.” She looked at the clock again. “Listen, I have an appointment, so I better get going. But, could I give you my card? Just in case you think of the names of anyone you know who might have been at the party that night.” She lowered her voice. “Or hear any good gossip. My mother loves gossip,” she added, almost shamelessly.

At the mention of Victoria, Astro perked up. “Sure. No problem. I’m just getting started on my workout, so I’ll be here for a couple of hours. Just come find me when you get out of the locker room.”

“Great. Be right back.” Nikki hurried to the locker room, took the quickest shower she possibly could, taking care not to get her hair wet, then dressed. She threw on some lipstick and mascara and hurried out into the main gym, business card in hand.

Only to find Astro missing . . .

Nikki asked Gwen at the front desk if she’d seen him. She glanced around the room of probably two dozen people working out. Kaiser was spotting
ab girl
lifting on a bench.

“He’s around here somewhere.”

Nikki looked at the clock again. She
had
to get to Malibu. “I told him I would give him my card.” She slid it across the counter. “But I have to run. Would you mind giving it to him when you see him?”

“No problem.” She looked at it, then up at Nikki. She raised one pierced eyebrow. “Real estate, huh?”

“Yeah.” Nikki headed for the door. “Didn’t you hear? Astro’s looking for something in Beverly Hills.”

Chapter 11

N
ikki was just turning off Pacific Coast Highway, onto Santa Monica, when Marshall rang her. It was almost seven o’clock; traffic was heavy, but she refused to let it get her down. “Wrap up shooting already?” Nikki asked.

“Even saw the dailies. Awesome day. Fire
and
guns.” Marshall was shooting the latest James Cameron action film, which explained the fire and the firearms.

“Glad you were able to exercise your pyromaniac tendencies. I sold the house in Malibu. And probably picked up a new client today, even though I had to cancel on her because the Malibu appointment took hours.”

“That’s my girl! Headed home to Roxbury?”

“Yeah.” Nikki groaned. “What I’d really like to do is go home to my own, quiet little house on Wetherly Drive. But, alas, it’s not to be.”

“Still in painting hell?”

“Dante’s third ring, at least.”

Marshall chuckled. “Well, if it’s any consolation, sweetheart, that’s all I want and it’s not happening for me, either.”

“Aw, what’s the matter?” Someone honked a horn at Nikki, for no reason whatsoever. She ignored the woman in the red Mercedes. Everyone knew Mercedes were not supposed to be red. “Big movie star can’t go to his little cottage tonight?”

“No.” Marshall sounded as if he was pouting. “My publicist says there’ve been paparazzi in front of the Beverly Drive house for hours. Apparently, someone
leaked
information about my affair with my leading lady—”

“You’re having an affair with Scarlett Johansson?” she asked with mock surprise.

“Apparently,” he sighed. “Nice girl, but not my type,” he added drolly. “Anyway, the paparazzi are all on stakeout, hoping to catch me taking her home tonight. So, I’m Beverly Drive bound. God, I hate that tomb of a house. Why did I let you talk me into buying it?”

“Because you told me you needed a splashy house in a splashy neighborhood.” He owned a seven-bedroom neoclassic on three acres: pool, tennis courts, and guesthouse. It was all for show. He spent most of his time in the little Craftsman cottage next door to her, living a quiet life with his Rob. “You could always come out of the closet,” she suggested.

“Right.” He laughed without humor. “My father would probably shoot an arrow through my heart from his front porch on the reservation in Onondaga.”

She smiled. Marshall and his closet was a whole other subject, one far too complicated for a Monday evening commute. “If it’s any consolation, you’ll make money on the North Beverly Drive house when you sell it.”

“I thought houses weren’t selling.”

“Yours isn’t for sale right now, so it’s a moot point. Listen to your publicist. Go home to your big house in the right zip code. Play nice with the media. Callie knows what she’s talking about. You’ve been on the cover of
People
magazine twice in the last six months.” She changed lanes and subjects. “So, should I call Rob, see if he wants to stop by Mother’s for dinner?”

“That’s sweet, but I think he’s going to work late.” He sighed dramatically. “No need to rush home to an empty house.”

The woman in the red Mercedes changed lanes, trying to get around Nikki. Nikki zipped into the right lane, directly in front of her. “Can’t your driver just bring him over later tonight, after the paparazzi have gone home?”

“Nah. Callie is getting all Nervous Nelly on me. She wants me to be super careful. We’ve only got another month till we wrap this film. Then the locusts will likely descend on someone else. Besides, I’ve got an early call tomorrow. So what else is going on with you? Hear anything from Jorge?”

Traffic suddenly dropped to a crawl on Santa Monica; no zipping to be done, even in her little car. “Um, he went for his arraignment today. I talked to Rosalia, who had talked to Ina. Half a million.”

Marshall whistled. Nikki could just imagine him sitting in the back of his stretch limo, surrounded by tabloid magazines (he was a huge fan), diet soda in his hand. He wasn’t a teetotaler, but he rarely drank while filming. “Wow,” he said. “His mom going to put that up?”

“Apparently, Mother told her not to. Mother says bail bondsmen are crooks. Rosalia says Mother offered to pay his full bail.”

“I thought he didn’t want anyone’s help.”

“He was pretty adamant when I talked to him yesterday, but he’s been moved to the California State Prison. He might change his mind.”

“Can you force someone to accept bail?”

“I have no idea. But we’re talking about Mother; you know how persuasive she can be.”

“So anything’s possible,” Marshall agreed. “You ever catch up with Jorge’s cousin? The one Eddie was sparring with?”

“Nope. No one has heard from her. She won’t answer calls. Jorge’s sister sent her husband over to her place to check on her this afternoon. Hector says her roommate says she hasn’t seen her all weekend.”

“Interesting. Maybe
she
killed Eddie,” Marshall suggested. “The police think of that?”

“She’s only five feet tall, Marshall. How would she have carried him to the alley after he was dead? He was killed elsewhere, then posed in the alley.”

“How do you know that, Detective Smarty Pants?”

“No blood. No sign of a struggle. Just like with Rex. The body was moved postmortem.”

“I’m just throwing ideas out there. You’re the expert, not me,” Marshall said good-naturedly. “I heard the funeral is tomorrow. Should I come?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s not as if you’re close to the Bernard family.”

“Or Eddie,” he piped in. He paused for a moment. “Okay, so out with it, my little secret P.I. What else did you do today? Who did you talk to about Eddie’s murder?”

“I worked today, Marshall. I sold a six-point-five-mil house. How would I have time to—”

“Come on,” he teased. “You’re a lousy liar.”

“Actually, I think I’m getting better at it.”

“And?” Marshall asked.

“There was no lying involved . . . not today, at least,” she said preemptively. “But I talked to Ginny’s assistant, who says Ginny was upset that Eddie was already using—this was days before the party—and that she had given Abe an ultimatum.”

“Juicy . . .”

“According to Ashley, Ginny’s assistant, Ginny told Abe it was her or Eddie and it was Ginny who ended up at the Beverly Wilshire.”

“Oh my God. I knew Abe had a hard time telling Eddie no, but I had no idea . . .”

“I also found out that Eddie was doing steroids . . . or at least
had
been before his last stint in rehab.”

“Not that surprising.”

“The interesting thing is that the guy he bought from was there at the party that night.”

“Ooh! Maybe Eddie owed him money.” He hesitated. “Did Eddie look to you like he’d been using steroids?”

“No, definitely not,” Nikki said, thinking back to Eddie’s soft, flabby body.

“So maybe he owed him money from
before
rehab and the dude came to collect?”

Traffic had begun moving again, and Nikki was nearly to Wilshire and only blocks from home. “Sounds a little far-fetched. I don’t think people are killed over owing their steroid provider money. But it’s a place to start. And I talked to a guy who was at the party that night. I think he can give me names of some of the people who were there, so—”

“You’re really doing this?” Marshall interrupted.

“What?”

“You know
what
. Again, Nikki?”

“It’s Jorge.” She groaned. “You know, you sound like Jeremy. He thinks I should mind my own business.”

“Good for Jeremy. You should listen to him.”

“He says I need to consider the possibility that Jorge could have done it.”

“He thinks Jorge could have done it?” Marshall went back to his gossipy tone.

“No,” she said firmly. “He doesn’t. He just . . . thinks I need to take into consideration . . . the evidence.”

“Meaning the pruning shears.”

“Meaning the pruning shears,” she repeated, turning onto Wilshire. “Speaking of pruning shears, I was wondering if you would mind if I gave Rob a call? I’d love to know what was in the autopsy report.”

“Beyond the fact that Eddie was stabbed through the heart with a pair of pruning shears?” he asked dryly.

“We don’t know that.” She tightened her grip on the wheel. “We don’t know for sure that that was what killed him.”

“No, you’re right. But I doubt the gardening tool in his heart was good for his health.” He sighed. “I’ll ask him for you. It’s not his department, but you know cops. They’re like a bunch of teenage girls. They all talk.”

“No, no, Marshall. I don’t need you to do that. I can ask him myself.”

“I don’t mind. Besides,” he said conspiratorially, “it’ll give me an excuse to call him at work.” He sounded like a little kid. “I’m not supposed to call him while he’s at work.”

“I can do it.”

“I know you can, sweetheart. Let me do it for you.”

“Okay.” She smiled as she turned onto Roxbury. “I’m home. Call me later if you get lonely in that big house.”

“I will.” He made kissing sounds over the phone.

Nikki pulled through the white wrought-iron gate and watched it close behind her, eyeing a dark van parked on the far side of the street. More ghoulish paparazzi hoping to get a snapshot of one of the Bernards? As she pulled up the circular drive in front of the white Paul Williams Georgian, Stanley and Oliver sprinted around the side of the house, crossed the drive, and raced around the massive three-tiered marble fountain in the middle of the front lawn. No stone dolphins for Victoria, only sheer elegance.

Nikki got out of the car, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “What are you guys doing out here? I go to work and you two have the run of the place, is that it?”

The dogs barked and leaped and chased each other as Nikki leaned over to give them each a stroke down their silky backs. As she stood up, she realized she smelled a distinct aroma . . . one you didn’t often smell in Beverly Hills.

Barbeque?

Nikki followed a stone path around the side of the house, into the backyard. On the terrace, she found her mother lounging in a chaise, reading a magazine. Amondo stood at a stainless steel barbeque grill, the source of smoke and the heavenly smell.

“You have a grill?” Nikki asked.

“We do now.” Victoria didn’t look up from her copy of
The Economist
. On the table beside her chair were copies of
Women’s Day
and
The New Yorker
. Her mother had eclectic taste. “Amondo bought it for us at one of those do-it-yourself stores. You know, where they sell lumber and such. I went with him.”

Nikki could only imagine Amondo pulling up to Home Depot in the white Bentley.

“He put it together himself,” Victoria went on, turning the page in her magazine.

Nikki glanced at Amondo, dressed casually in slacks and a polo—polo tucked in, of course. An Italian ex-pat, Amondo had been a member of Victoria’s staff almost as long as Ina had. He was not only Victoria’s chauffeur and bodyguard, but her assistant and her friend. In light of his appearance Saturday morning from Victoria’s bedroom, Nikki wondered, for a brief moment, if she needed to revisit her interpretation of Amondo and Victoria’s relationship. The thought passed quickly. Eddie was dead. Jorge was in prison, accused of murder. Nikki’s brain could handle only so much stress.

“We’ll eat shortly,
mia cara
,” Amondo told Nikki, a pair of stainless steel tongs in his hand. One thing Amondo did
not
usually do was cook for the household. That was purely Ina’s domain.

“Where’s Ina?” Nikki asked.

Victoria looked over her reading glasses and took a sip from her glass. Apparently cocktail hour had begun without Nikki. “Working.”

Nikki glanced over her shoulder . . . as if Ina might magically appear in the kitchen doorway. “I thought she worked here.”

“There was a problem with one of Jorge’s employees.” Victoria sipped from her glass with great relish. “That Southern boy who works for him. The one with the unfortunate lisp.”

“Harley?”

“Yes, Harley,” Victoria confirmed. “Amondo, you’ve outdone yourself.” She held up her glass. She liked her margaritas in tall, slender glasses. “This is divine.”

“Limes Mr. Hefner sent over,
il mio amore
,” Amondo said.

Nikki felt a little like Alice. Was there any escape from this rabbit hole? “Mother,” she said firmly. “What are you talking about? Where is Ina and why is Amondo cooking dinner?”

“I’m trying to tell you, Nicolette. The boy with the lisp.”

Nikki closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. “
Harley.
Who’s probably thirty.”

BOOK: Imitation of Death

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