The Big Sheep (7 page)

“What?”

“There are two possibilities, as far as I can tell,” said Keane. “Either she's genuinely in danger, or…” He trailed off, seemingly lost in thought.

“Yes?” I prompted.

“Huh?” said Keane, apparently unaware of having left his rumination unfinished.

“She's in danger or…?”

“Oh, or she's a whole new kind of crazy.” He grinned at me. “Either way, though, it's exciting, isn't it?”

I shook my head. I was starting to think April was right. Priya Mistry needed professional help, and not from a phenomenological inquisitor. God knows how much damage Keane might do to the poor girl's psyche by the time he had tired of toying with her. On the other hand, it wasn't like I had the power to stop Keane from pursuing Priya's case—and there was a possibility she really was in danger. Probably the best thing to do now was to follow Keane's lead and try to step in if things got out of hand.

We caught up to Pavel at the foot of the driveway. His beat-up Suburban, parked on the side of the winding mountain road, was completely out of place in this neighborhood. I gave him a quick debriefing, which didn't amount to much: he had followed Priya's limo to the
DiZzy Girl
set, hung out there for the day, followed it back to her hotel, and then followed it to Durham's place. Security wouldn't let him up the driveway, so he had parked and waited.

Pavel was one of a handful of ad hoc operatives who were occasionally employed by Keane to do surveillance and other tedious legwork. Pavel was Keane's favorite, because the man had no ambition whatsoever. The way Keane figured it, no ambition meant no complications. Pavel never asked for a raise, and there was never any serious threat he'd fall prey to a bribe or blackmail. Other than the occasional check from Keane and a little income from selling synthetic drugs on the beaches around Malibu, Pavel had no visible means of support. He slept in his car and spent the vast majority of his time surfing. He used the occasional assignment from Keane as an opportunity to test whatever black-market synthetic stimulant had recently come into his possession. That was another reason Keane liked him: when Pavel was on an assignment, he didn't sleep. I sent him home, or wherever it is that he goes when he isn't working for Keane.

We pulled into the driveway. There followed an anxious few seconds during which I was convinced Priya didn't have the presence of mind to remember to have us added to the guest list, but the guard at the foot of the driveway waved us on after a cursory check of our IDs. We pulled up the long driveway toward Élan Durham's massive multilevel compound. Keane tossed the keys to a valet who did an admirable job of hiding his dismay at having to park a fifteen-year-old Nissan aircar, and we went inside. The house was suitably capacious, impressively appointed with expensive-looking abstract sculpture, and populated with scores of rich and beautiful people. I began to feel underdressed and out of place.

“So, now what?” I asked, scanning the attendees. “Wait for somebody with a lead pipe to lure Priya into the conservatory?”

“You keep an eye on Priya,” said Keane. “I'm going to poke around a bit.” With that, he snatched a glass of wine from a tray as a waiter passed, and then disappeared into the throng. I sighed and shouldered my way through the crowd, looking for Priya. It didn't take me long to find her. A sort of nexus had formed around her, with lesser celebrities loitering in her gravitational pull. A strange dynamic seemed to have asserted itself, with Priya's presence simultaneously attracting and repelling other guests according to some unconscious but inexorable social hierarchy, each guest finding his or her own place in relation to Priya. She looked stunning as always; tonight she wore a tight-fitting strapless red dress. Her long black hair was down, and she wore diamond earrings that glittered in the dim light of Élan Durham's vast living room. It was difficult not to stare.

I didn't intend to talk to her; Keane had made it clear we were to remain incognito, and he'd instructed Priya to play dumb if she ever saw us. My plan was simply to get close enough that I could keep an eye on her and intervene if I thought she was under threat. It was a little silly, since I didn't really believe she was in any danger, and couldn't possibly have protected her from every potential attacker in that room anyway, but maybe it would do her mental state some good to see me there.

As I got close to Priya, though, I began to feel uncomfortably self-conscious. It was bad enough I was underdressed and out of my element; I was also conspicuously alone. I told myself to pretend I was some eccentric investor who didn't need stylish clothes or the company of other people, but it was no good. I managed to get ahold of a drink, which at least gave me something to do with my hands. I felt the eyes of my societal betters boring into me, and while I didn't dare look, I was certain Priya herself was staring at me, those bottomless eyes demanding I account for my presumption. It made no sense: yesterday Priya had been on the verge of collapsing into my arms, but today I couldn't get within ten feet of her. One thought dominated my brain: I didn't belong there, and everyone knew it.

An opportunity to save my dignity presented itself as a balding executive type extracted himself from a conversation with a pretty young redhead in a green dress who was now drifting awkwardly at the periphery of the nexus. I walked over to her and whipped up one of my best lines.

“That dress looks really good with your hair,” I said.

“Um, thanks,” she said, eyeing me uncertainly. Under the guise of grabbing her a drink from a passing waiter, I maneuvered to where I could see Priya, who was chatting with TC Gemmel, a supporting actor on one of Flagship's other big shows,
Hal Correia, Street Doctor
. I held out the glass to the redhead.

“I don't drink,” she said. “Are you a writer?”

I shrugged and took a swallow of the wine. “No,” I said. “Why?”

“Well,” she said, “you're not dressed like a producer. And…”

“I don't look like an actor,” I said, picking up on her drift. “I'm a consultant. Working with Élan Durham on a new detective show.” I figured it was a harmless lie. I'm sure I wasn't the only guy at this party bullshitting about working on a show with Élan Durham. At least my motives were pure.

“Oh, how exciting!” she exclaimed. “Is it going to be casting soon? I just did a three-episode guest spot on
DiZzy Girl
, and I'm ready for what's next.”

More like desperate,
I thought. Poor thing. She was probably a beauty queen in Podunk, Missouri, but in LA she was just another aspiring starlet waiting tables in between bit parts.

“We start casting on Monday,” I lied.

“Really?” the girl asked. “I didn't see anything in the trades.”

“Closed auditions,” I said. “But if you're interested, I can see if I can get you in.”

“Wow, that would be great!” she gushed.

“Sure, just toss me your info. I'm Blake, by the way.”

“Gina,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Blake.”

“You too,” I said. “So, you worked on
DiZzy Girl,
huh? What was that like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, working with a big star like Priya Mistry…”

The enthusiasm drained from her face. “God damn it,” she said. “Are you even really a consultant?”

“Sure,” I said weakly. Damn it. I had pushed her too fast, and she had seen right through me.

“What's the name of the show?”

“
Street … Detective,
” I managed. Clever, Fowler.

“You must think I'm pretty pathetic,” she said. “Well, maybe I am. But I'll have my own TV show before you get in Priya Mistry's pants.” With that, she turned and stomped away. I hate parties. Serves me right for lying to the girl, but what was I going to do? Tell her I was on the lookout for signs of a vast conspiracy against Priya Mistry?

As I mulled this, I became aware that Priya's conversation with TC Gemmel was becoming animated. Heads began to turn. “… can you forget something like that?” TC demanded. “I thought I meant something to you!”

Priya was backing away helplessly, sputtering half explanations about being under a lot of pressure and not getting much sleep. I could tell, though, that this guy wasn't going to let it go. He was trembling with anger and hurt, and it looked like it wouldn't take much to make him turn violent. I started walking in his direction, but then I saw Priya's massive bodyguard, the All-Grown-Up Noogus, moving to intercept him.
Fine,
I thought.
Let Noogus handle it.

Priya looked like she was on the verge of a breakdown, and I was tempted to go to her, make sure she was okay. But there wasn't much I could do for her, and Keane had wanted me to remain incognito. So for the moment I just stood and watched as All-Grown-Up Noogus got TC Gemmel in a half nelson and escorted him away from Priya. But then two men in suits approached Priya, trying to calm her down. They were both over six feet tall; one looked like a Filipino, and the other was white, with bright red hair pulled back in a ponytail. All eyes were on Priya, so nobody noticed Red was pulling a syringe from his pocket. Nobody but me, anyway.

I dove forward, grabbing Red's wrist tightly and then twisting his arm behind his back while squeezing hard. The syringe dropped to the floor. Priya was now screaming and crying, trying to free her arm from the grip of the second man. I gave Red a shove between the shoulder blades, and he stumbled into his friend. The second man released his grip on Priya, and the two men fell in a heap on the floor. So far, so good. Now to get Priya somewhere safe. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Keane approaching, a concerned look on his face. “Fowler!” he yelled, as if to warn me.

Then something hit me on the back of the head, and everything went black.

 

SIX

I came to on a couch inside a luxuriously decked-out office. My head throbbed.

I sat up and saw I was not alone. A few feet away, facing a large walnut desk, sat Erasmus Keane. Behind the desk sat Élan Durham.

“Good morning,” said Durham, with a smile. He was nursing a drink.

“Priya,” I managed to grunt.

“Priya is fine,” said Durham. “That drama queen TC Gemmel got her a little worked up, but she's resting in a bedroom down the hall.”

I glanced at Keane, who gave me a slight nod.

“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Fowler?” Durham held a half-empty tumbler in his hand, and I noticed Keane was working on one of his own. A very large man in tan slacks and a black turtleneck, who had at first escaped my attention, stood stock-still against a wall to my right. I wasn't sure how long I'd been unconscious, but it didn't seem like it had been more than a minute or two.

I shook my head and immediately regretted it. “Maybe some water.”

“Sure,” Durham said. The large man disappeared for a moment into an adjoining room and came back with a bottle of water, which he handed to me. He returned to his post without a word. The guy had to be six-foot-four, an inverted mountain of muscle. He moved like a wrestler and wore a gun in a shoulder holster. My own gun seemed to be missing. I wondered if I could get across the room and disarm Turtleneck before he could react.
Maybe,
I thought,
if the pounding in my head would stop for five seconds.

“Sorry about your head,” said Durham. “My security people are very protective of Priya. Brian may have gotten a little carried away.” Turtleneck, whose name was evidently Brian, gave a little smirk. “Now, would one of you gentlemen care to explain why you've been sniffing around my house, asking questions about Priya?”

Neither of us said a word.

Brian took a step forward. He was squeezing his knuckles in his thumbs, cracking them one by one. You could see his muscles moving even under the fabric of the sweater. I imagine this was supposed to intimidate me. It did, a little.

I leaned forward on the couch, rubbing the base of my skull with my right hand. Brian was maybe fifteen feet away. I rolled my shoulders, then twisted my spine until it gave a satisfying crack. I straightened my legs, then bent them again. I leaned forward, spreading both of my palms out on the carpet. The throbbing in my head got exponentially worse. I leaned back and closed my eyes.

“Nothing to say for yourself, Mr. Keane?” said Durham. “I thought you were the brains of the operation.” He turned to me. “I suppose that makes you the brawn, Mr. Fowler. What a pathetic operation you two are running. I've stumped the brain and incapacitated the body.”

“Let me explain something to you,” I said, opening my eyes and fixing them on Durham. “If you want to know why Mr. Keane and I are here, you have to understand what it is I do for Mr. Keane.” Flex muscles, release. Get the blood flowing. Fifteen feet. Could I do it? If I didn't black out from the pain in my head, I thought I could.

“You're stalling, Fowler,” said Durham. “If you like, I can have Brian give you a reminder of the seriousness—”

I leaned forward again, mimicking my hunched-over stretching pose of a moment earlier. Except this time I dropped into a sprinter's crouch. Held it for just long enough to get my balance, then shot forward, making a beeline for Brian. My legs were rubbery, but they held. I'd done my best to get the blood moving to my extremities, but there was a pretty good chance the sudden movement would cause me to black out. And any second now the pain in my head would register.

It hit just as I reached Brian, like a grenade exploding at the base of my skull. I was relying on momentum now, coasting on a wave of agony. I brought my right hand back and made a fist. Brian saw it and bobbed to his left, which is what I was counting on.

Here's the thing about bodyguards: they weren't born bodyguards. They did something else first. Most are ex-military or civilian law enforcement. But the really high-paid ones, the ones who work for people like Durham, tend to be heavyweight boxers or wrestlers, for the simple reason that they look impressive. Appearances are important, particularly in Hollywood.