Authors: Meg Gardiner
Jericho Point (28 page)
‘‘Booking the studio time,’’ he said, ‘‘and hiring the band. I know you’re tight with the guys you’ve been gigging with, but for this you need pros, session players from L.A.’’
She bit her lip with apparent excitement. She was beaming at him like a mystic having a vision. He was basking in it.
My temples were thudding, my black eye throbbing, but for the first time since the beating I felt no pain. Only heat. I pulled out the chair next to him and sat down.
‘‘And the producer won’t come cheap, but is he ever sweet. He’s—’’
‘‘Boo,’’ I said.
I saw shock on his face, and a streak of fear that went away when he inhaled. So. Game on.
‘‘Nice suit,’’ I said. ‘‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’’
He paused just long enough that I knew he was calculating. Warily he gestured at the young lady across the table from him. ‘‘This is Devi.’’
I extended my hand to her. ‘‘Howdy. Kathleen.’’
She had a guileless face, and didn’t suppress her surprise at my appearance. ‘‘Wow, what happened?’’
‘‘Didn’t he tell you? No, but he wouldn’t. He’s a sensitive person.’’ I set a hand on P.J.’s arm. ‘‘And he respects attorney-client privilege.’’
She nodded. P.J.’s arm was tense under my hand. I gave it a squeeze.
His index finger jittered. ‘‘Why don’t we go outside? It’s more . . . confidential.’’
‘‘I won’t be a minute. I don’t want to interrupt your date,’’ I said.
‘‘This isn’t a date.’’
Devi sat straighter, shaking her head. ‘‘No, no. This is a business meeting.’’ But her cheeks glowed pink. ‘‘Jesse’s helping me with my record deal.’’
I nodded. ‘‘Jesse’s a helpful guy.’’
She gave him a bashful look. It was full of longing. And full of sadness, as if she felt pain at the thought of his tragic life. Romantic pain. I’d seen women look that way at Jesse, and it made me want to scalp them. P.J. was eating it up.
I’d seen Devi somewhere as well. I wondered if she sang in local clubs, or did musical theater around town.
‘‘Let me guess,’’ I said. ‘‘You’re signing with Black Watch Records.’’
‘‘Right,’’ she said. ‘‘Are you signed to them, too?’’
‘‘I’m not a musician. But I know that Black Watch is Jimsonweed’s label, and Jesse’s tight with Ricky Jimson.’’
She smiled. ‘‘I know. That’s why Sin recommended him.’’
Bingo.
P.J. squirmed. I lowered my hand to my lap and eased it under the table to pat him on the knee. His mouth tightened.
He gave me what I presume was his most attorneylike look. ‘‘Why don’t we go outside, so you don’t have to worry about, ah, revealing . . . lawyer, stuff. Details.’’
‘‘That’s okay. I’m not embarrassed. She can hear the whole thing.’’ I squeezed his leg.
His knee jumped, and he worked to keep a straight face.
A waiter came to the table, asking if I’d like a drink. I ordered a double shot of Bacardi 151. P.J. squinted at me uncertainly.
I smiled at the girl. ‘‘Devi. That’s Indian, isn’t it— the name of a Hindu goddess?’’
She flushed, seemingly with pleasure. ‘‘Goddess . . .’’ Laughing, embarrassed. ‘‘Not me, hardly. It’s short for Devorah. Goldman. Hundred percent Jewish.’’
It took a second, but the switches flipped. I knew where I’d seen her photo. In a frame on a credenza, next to the photo of her dad the classics professor, Charlie Goldman.
She was Lavonne’s daughter.
She was Sinsa’s high school buddy, now in college. Which meant that P.J. was either incredibly ballsy, or incredibly ignorant. Casually I put my hand back on the table, covering my fork. I gave Devi an earnest look.
‘‘And you’re old friends with Sinsa? That’s why she sent you to Jesse’s firm?’’ I set my hand in my lap, with the fork.
‘‘She said Jesse’s the man to go to for entertainment law. And she should know.’’
I poked P.J. in the thigh with the fork. His shoulder twitched.
‘‘What about your mom?’’ I said.
Bemusement. ‘‘She does litigation, not entertainment. You know my mom?’’
‘‘Sure. Lavonne Marks—she’s top-notch.’’
P.J.’s face drained of blood. Ignorance it was. He had no idea that Devi was related to Jesse’s boss. I jabbed him again, harder. His eyes crossed.
Devi’s face had also paled, but for another reason. ‘‘Mom doesn’t . . . She wouldn’t . . . I mean . . . I’m doing this on my own.’’
‘‘She doesn’t know you’re signing a recording contract?’’
‘‘Not yet.’’
‘‘Because she’d rather you study law than sing in a rock band,’’ I said.
‘‘You see.’’ Her shoulders relaxed.
The waiter brought my drink. The fumes from the rum could have peeled the paint from the walls.
‘‘Who’s fronting the money for the record deal?’’ I said.
She looked at P.J., as if waiting for a cue. The thudding in my temples deepened.
‘‘Let me guess. College fund?’’ I said.
Back to the fork. I gave him two hard jabs.
He inhaled sharply. ‘‘Kathleen, I don’t want to keep you. Why don’t I see you to your car?’’
He pushed back from the table, moving unevenly in the wheelchair. Okay. Pedal to the metal.
‘‘Got a light?’’ I said.
He turned, laboring at it, and looked at me with suspicion. ‘‘Why?’’
‘‘Devi? How about you?’’ I said.
‘‘Sure.’’ She took a lighter from her purse and handed it to me.
I pushed my chair back as though to stand, and hindered P.J.’s way. ‘‘Hang on—I almost forgot to tell you what happened to me.’’
‘‘Right.’’ Devi leaned forward on her elbows. ‘‘If it’s not too personal.’’
P.J. was beginning to sweat. ‘‘It is.’’
‘‘Not at all,’’ I said.
He nudged forward. ‘‘No, you shouldn’t put yourself through it again.’’
‘‘On the contrary, I need to vent.’’ I leaned toward Devi. ‘‘It was a screwup. On the set.’’
Her eyes pinged. ‘‘Set—like, for a TV show?’’
‘‘Like that. Have you heard of
Mistaken Identity
?’’
Mistaken Identity
?’’
Her expression turned vague. ‘‘It sounds familiar.’’
‘‘It’s a genre we call extreme reality. Your identity is assumed by another person without your knowledge. Then we see who gets into bigger trouble, you or the impostor.’’
‘‘That does sound extreme,’’ she said.
‘‘Hilarity ensues,’’ I assured her.
P.J. wiped his nose nervously. ‘‘Ev—’’
I settled a stare on him.
His eyes bugged. ‘‘Uh.’’ The
oh, shit
, was all over his face. ‘‘Ev . . . everything’s going to be all right, Kathleen. But I think it’s time for your medication.’’
oh, shit
, was all over his face. ‘‘Ev . . . everything’s going to be all right, Kathleen. But I think it’s time for your medication.’’
I turned back to Devi. ‘‘The thing about
Mistaken Identity
is, the participants can’t predict when they’re going to get hit with the consequences. That’s why we don’t stick to the studio. We go on location.’’
Mistaken Identity
is, the participants can’t predict when they’re going to get hit with the consequences. That’s why we don’t stick to the studio. We go on location.’’
She nodded, intrigued.
‘‘Because you never know what might trip up an impostor.’’ I gestured to P.J. ‘‘Right?’’
‘‘Kathleen, you’re looking awfully pale. I think I’d better get you home.’’
‘‘For example. Where’s your center of gravity?’’ I said.
‘‘I don’t—’’
‘‘Knees, butt, axle of the rear wheel?’’
He leaned back, raising his hands, before apparently realizing that this was a fact he should know. ‘‘Hip level. Middle of the seat.’’
I nodded, smiling, looking from him to Devi. ‘‘See?’’ I stood up. ‘‘This is why we do the show live.’’
I walked around behind him, so that I was at the window and he faced the restaurant as he would an audience. He sensed trouble too late. I grabbed his shoulder and flipped him over backward.
He pitched to the floor. Devi shrieked. Someone shouted, ‘‘Oh, my God.’’ Silverware clattered and conversation died.
‘‘A man’s center of gravity is chest level,’’ I said. ‘‘Lean back, you can tip over.’’
Devi leaped to her feet. P.J. lay splayed on the floor beside the wheelchair, shocked and scared. He knew he’d better move—but there was the rub.
‘‘What is wrong with you?’’ Devi said.
‘‘Nuptial dementia. Call the police.’’
Devi looked across the restaurant, where the maître d’ was stalking toward us, and cried, ‘‘Call the police—’’
P.J.’s arms shot into the air like a faith healer’s. ‘‘No! No police.’’
She ran around the table and dropped to his side, touching his chest gingerly, as though he might disintegrate. ‘‘Are you hurt?’’
‘‘Not yet,’’ I said, ‘‘but he’s coming close. Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen.’’
He reached for the wheelchair. I righted it and pulled it toward me, backing against the window, out of his reach.
Devi’s fingers hovered above him, fluttering. ‘‘What should I do?’’
I said, ‘‘You’ll have to pick him up. Seventeen. Or I might just blow, you know—out loud, shouting all kinds of things.’’
He shot me a crazed look. ‘‘No, I can do it myself. Everybody just back off.’’
Several patrons and the maître d’ were closing on me. The maître d’ gave me a supercilious little two-fingered wave. ‘‘Madam, you must leave. Come with me.’’
‘‘Back off, Pierre.’’
I fended them off with the wheelchair. P.J. waved his arms.
‘‘Don’t touch her.’’
Devi’s hand was at her throat. ‘‘He’s paralyzed. Leave him alone.’’
‘‘Remember, I gave you a two-minute warning about me getting mad. You’re down to sixteen seconds.’’
He pushed himself up to a sitting position. ‘‘Kathleen, you need help. Let me take you somewhere safe.’’
‘‘Fifteen. Credit card fraud. Fourteen. Practicing law without a license.’’
‘‘Jesse, what should I do?’’ Devi said.
‘‘He’s not Jesse,’’ I said. ‘‘Thirteen.’’
‘‘What do you mean? Of course he’s Jesse.’’ She looked on in horror as he pulled himself along the floor, trying to reach the chair.
P.J. had broken out in a full sweat. ‘‘Everybody just . . . go back to eating. Please, for God’s sake. Give me some dignity.’’
The maître d’ stepped back. I picked up my double Bacardi shot.
‘‘Twelve, P.J. Eleven.’’
‘‘P.J.? Who’s P.J.?’’ Devi said.
‘‘He is. Ten. Grand theft. Nine. That suit. Eight. Sinsa’s dress. Six. The flowers you sent me. Five.’’
He kept dragging himself backward. ‘‘What happened to seven?’’
I pulled the chair out of his reach. ‘‘Four. First-class airfare to Barbados. Tell her who you are.’’
‘‘Ev—Kathleen . . .’’
‘‘Three. Faking paralysis, when you’re perfectly able-bodied.’’ Heads turned. The maître d’, the waiters, and every diner in the room were watching. ‘‘And doing it to con this girl out of her money.’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Two. Breaking your—’’ My voice caught. ‘‘Breaking your brother’s heart.’’
‘‘I haven’t done that.’’
‘‘You’re doing it right now. One. Blaming everything on Brittany Gaines.’’
He backed into the table and stared at me, breathing hard, saying nothing.
‘‘Zero.’’ I threw the rum in his face.
More gasps, and a ‘‘Hell, what a bitch.’’
‘‘Now I’m mad,’’ I said.
From the sling I pulled out Devi’s lighter. I held it up, thumb on the striking wheel. P.J.’s face went blank.
‘‘Ever hear of a drink called a Flaming Asshole?’’ I said.
‘‘Plain Bacardi isn’t a . . .’’
‘‘No. You are.’’
I flicked the lighter. The flame jumped alive. So did P.J., leaping to his feet and dashing for the door.
28
A quarter of a mile down the road from the Ranch, I caught up with P.J. He was walking along the shoulder with his thumb out. Hearing an engine approach, he looked over his shoulder expectantly. He did a double take, jumped, and broke into a run.
‘‘Oh, please,’’ I said.
We were going downhill through wooded countryside, heading toward Montecito village. I gave him a head start before pacing him, close enough for the motor to sound threatening. Ten miles an hour; he could do better. I put the car in neutral and gunned the engine.
He burst into a wild sprint. Nineteen mph—now we were talking.
But after seventy yards his form disintegrated and he began staggering. When he floundered to a walk, I pulled alongside him and rolled down the window.
‘‘How long do you want to do this? I have a full tank,’’ I said.
He was grabbing for breath, mouth hanging wide. His glare crumbled with defeat. He faltered toward some boulders off the shoulder and flopped down. I stopped and got out.
‘‘I paid your lunch bill,’’ I said.
He was panting. ‘‘Great.’’
‘‘Otherwise Devi would have been stuck with it. But you’re going to pay me back. For a lot of things.’’
He stared at his feet, shaking his head. ‘‘Save it, all right? One Jesse in my life is plenty.’’
If my ribs hadn’t been broken, I would have collapsed with hysterical laughter. ‘‘You’re not even being ironic, are you?’’
‘‘The big nagging finger, wagging in my face. Always perfect, always smarter than everybody else. And off-limits from being criticized, because of everything.’’
‘‘Oh, P.J.’’
He slid off the rock slowly, his coat riding up, his hands raking his hair. Dropping to the ground, he wrapped his elbows around his knees and put his head down.
‘‘You’re going to tell him, aren’t you?’’ he said.
Did he really think Jesse was his big problem? Well, duh.
‘‘How long have you been doing this? How many people have you scammed?’’ I said.
He sat with his head on his arms, his knee beginning to jitter. ‘‘I’m so screwed.’’
‘‘Did Brittany take part in any of it?’’ I said.
He rocked back and forth. ‘‘No.’’
He said it softly, but it felt like a punch in the gut. ‘‘P.J., why?’’ When he didn’t respond, I touched his face and turned it so he had to look at me. ‘‘Why did you do this to me?’’
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