Yesterday's Gone (Season 5): Episodes 25-30 (28 page)

“Max Torrino,” Acevedo said translating the code.

“Wait,
the
Max Torrino? The movie star?” Keenan asked.

“Yes.” Acevedo nodded. “Surely you knew he was a Designer.”

Keenan shook his head. “I don’t follow the gossip rags. But I’ve seen his movies.”

Max Torrino wasn’t just Hollywood’s biggest and best box office bet — a young actor admired for both his serious and action-heavy roles — he was also the church’s brightest star. Some might say Torrino was even bigger than the church, and had been rather critical of it, or specifically Marina, following her father’s death. Thankfully, he’d so far kept his criticisms within the inner circle and had leaked nothing to the press.

Keenan seemed to pick up on Marina’s consternation. 

“What is it? Can you get a hold of him? Is Torrino still with the church?”

“I can’t really comment on something like that; it’s privileged information.” Marina looked down, wishing the list had harbored any other name. 

“I’m not asking you to tell me how much he donated, what secret level of the cult he is, or whatever other bullshit you all discuss behind closed doors. I just need to know if you can get us in a room.”

“I don’t know,” Marina admitted. “We’re not exactly on the best of terms.”

Keenan’s eyebrows arched. “Go on.”

Marina sighed, then explained that she had never cared all that much for the pampered actor. Her father had discovered Torrino as a newcomer and had helped the actor kick drugs and overcome some emotional issues — all well documented in the actor’s biography, as if the church had written his IMDB page. But as her father’s health had deteriorated and Marina took a more active role in the church, Torrino had taken exception to some of her ideas, such as doing more work with impoverished children.

“But I thought the church was known for its altruistic efforts?” Acevedo interjected.

Marina wasn’t sure if Acevedo was truly that ignorant of the church’s reputation or whether he was secretly delighting in her admissions. 

“This is nothing on my father. I don’t think he intended it this way, but the people beneath him seemed more interested in helping those they could hold some power over — celebrities, addicts connected to wealthy families, and politicians. Other than the token gestures and tax write-offs, the church rarely helped anyone without getting something in return. I fought hard to change this, to make it so the church was truly helping people in need — people who didn’t provide the church with a steady income or help them win additional influence. 

“And Max Torrino didn’t like this?” Keenan asked.

“He’d never say so publicly, but I’ve heard from others that he thought I was ‘bringing down the church by introducing unclean elements.’ Seems that if you’re an addict not connected or in Hollywood, you’re weak and a threat to the fabric of the church.”

“Wow,” Acevedo said.

“Yeah, so he’s been sniping about me to anyone in the church who will listen, but has never had the guts to say anything directly to me.”

Keenan asked, “Do you think he’d agree to meet with you?”

“Why can’t you just storm into his house and put a gun to his head, maybe punch him?” Marina met Keenan’s eyes and smiled.

He ignored her bait. “We’d prefer to handle it quietly, without an army of lawyers making things difficult. If we can get a face-to-face between you and him, it might help us avoid any blowback.”

Marina sighed. “I might make things
more difficult.
”

Keenan stared at the van floor as if it might offer a helpful suggestion.

An idea popped into Marina’s head — Veronica Barrow.

Veronica wasn’t just a longtime friend, she was also Torrino’s agent. If anyone could arrange a meeting between them, it would be her. Marina would likely have to grovel at His Majesty’s feet, but what choice did she have? If Torrino really had one of the vials, they needed to get it.

But Marina wondered how long she and Acevedo, or hell, she alone, would play ball with the government. Could she trust them with the vials? Not likely. And the brutish behavior from Keenan and Steroid Case in the driver’s seat didn’t exactly warm her to their cause. 

Marina would go along with them, for now, but only because she had no other options. She wondered if Acevedo was thinking the same thing. She couldn’t help but think he was. He’d rolled over too easily. Yes, Keenan had punched her, and he’d threatened her with a gun, but still, he couldn’t think the agent would actually pull the trigger, could he?

“So,” Keenan said, “can you get us a meeting?”

“Well, first we have to assume he’s even here. He spends half his time in Paris, or one of his other homes out of the country. I have no idea where he is at this very moment.”

“Well, can you find out?” Keenan asked.

“Can I have my phone so I can call my friend, Veronica? If anyone can get us in to see Max, it would be her.”

Keenan fished her phone from his pants pocket, then slipped the phone into her right hand, the one not cuffed to the seat.

“Don’t call anyone else or tip her off to our reason for meeting.”

Marina rolled her eyes, sighing as she dialed Veronica.

**

Marina didn’t know what sorts of things Veronica had said to grease the wheels, but she’d managed to land them a same-day (and virtually unheard of) meeting with Torrino at his palatial estate. 

Torrino had bought his LA mansion for $24 million three years before her father’s death, then spent another $6 million on renovation. The Montecito estate was just under fourteen thousand square feet and modeled after a Northern European mountain home. The estate had eight bedrooms, a dozen full and six half-baths, a 2,800-bottle wine cellar, two indoor swimming pools, an atrium, a thirty-six-seat movie theater, and a par-six golf course. Marina’s estate had different versions of all the same things, and still she found Torrino’s home ostentatious. 

Before the meeting they had to get Keenan into some clothes other than his black government thug duds. 

They stopped at T. Baker’s Fine Menswear, one of the nicer men’s clothing shops along the way, and managed to find a decent charcoal suit that fit relatively well off the rack, even if it was short on the cuffs and tight around Keenan’s muscular arms. 

Luther parked the van just outside Torrino’s estate, where he waited with Acevedo while Marina and Keenan drove up to the guard’s gate in a late-model Infiniti.

Luther had outfitted them both with hidden microphones and earpieces so he could track the conversation. A block away, several field agents were on standby in case things went horribly awry. Marina wasn’t sure if they were Guardsmen, Homeland Security, or something else. But she hoped they didn’t get involved. Escalation would give the government a near certainty of getting the vials. 

Marina was too smart to believe that she or Acevedo could ever return to a normal life after that.

Whether the government did something awful with the vials to the world as they knew it, or killed them for silence, the longer she stayed with Keenan the more Marina felt her old world slipping away.

After driving nearly a half mile, they came to the end of the drive, where a valet took their Infiniti. As they stepped toward the house, Marina silently prayed to her father.

Please, help me. I don’t know what to do. Please give me the wisdom to know the right path, and the courage to take it.

They were met at the front door by an older woman in a red dress. Her smile and perfect teeth couldn’t hide the contempt in her icy-brown eyes. Marina remembered the woman’s picture from the church’s dossier on Torrino. Her name was Viv Schwartz, Torrino’s right-hand woman and an old family friend. There was a rumor that he’d been sleeping with her since he was a teenager, even though he’d also been rumored to have bedded half of Hollywood’s young starlets.

“Hello, Marina,” Viv said through her teeth.

“Hello, Vivian.” Marina kissed her on the cheek.

“And this is?” Viv looked Keenan up and down, her eyes obviously liking what they saw.

“This is Mr. Edwards,” Marina lied, “my new head of security.”

“Ah,” Viv frowned, though her Botoxed forehead showed no wrinkles. “I’m sorry to hear about Steven. Absolutely tragic.”

“Yes,” Marina agreed, “such a waste.”

“Just this way.” Viv led them through the living room.

After walking down a long, warmly lit hallway, they stepped through two sliding glass doors leading to a large circular room. The room’s front half was made of stone walls and columns, giving the space an old, earthy look. Beyond that room terracottas and browns surrendered to modern glass walls and steel support beams running up to a high-pitched, glass-domed roof that looked nothing like the Old World estate outside. 

In the center a perfect circle glistened, ten feet deep of brilliant-blue water. Lying on a raft, wearing just shorts and shades, body glistening with oil, was movie star, Max Torrino, lounging without a care in the world.

As they made their way along the wooden deck toward the pool, Viv cleared her throat for Torrino’s attention.

“Ah,” he said, taking off the shades and sitting up on the raft, “Marina! How are you?”

Torrino hopped off the raft, dove underwater, swam to the side of his pool, and ascended the steps, smiling his billion-dollar smile. He was young, perfectly sculpted, and had blue eyes that women, and a fair share of gay men, swooned over. While Marina definitely found him attractive, his personality, his
true
personality, was toxic enough to make him repugnant. 

“I’m good.” Marina shook his hand.

Torrino didn’t acknowledge Keenan, which didn’t surprise Marina at all. Keenan was seen as
the help
, and therefore unworthy of acknowledgment. Before she’d come up in the church, Torrino had viewed her in the same dismissive way.

“So, what brings you to Montecito?” Torrino walked to one of the lounge chairs along the pool’s side, grabbed a thick white towel, and began to dry himself.

“Is it possible to speak in private?” 

Marina didn’t need to look at Viv to know the woman was fixing her with a polar-cap stare.

Torrino’s face faltered for a moment before he returned the movie star smile to his face. “Sure, we can talk alone. Come on, I’ll show you my new office.”

He finished drying off, grabbed a robe from the bar in the back of the room, then led them through another pair of sliding glass doors along a hallway also decorated with giant slabs of stone.

The estate, downstairs at least, was a beautiful blend of past and present. The furniture was mostly custom, except for the Louise Bradley, Fleming & Howland, and Parnian pieces that Marina hated herself for admiring.

They headed up the stairs, then down a long hallway toward the west side of the house where they stopped in front of a pair of large ebony wooden doors carved with ornate flourishes.

Torrino opened the door and entered first. Marina followed into a room the size of two of her master bedrooms sandwiched together.

If downstairs was past meets present, Torrino’s upstairs office was future modern, with black metals blended with rich dark woods, a plush crimson carpet, and five Bang & Olufsen monitors mounted on the walls. One of the monitors — not much more than a sheet of glass surrounded by steel piping— showed a 24/7 cable news channel feed while the other four monitors, two on the back wall and one on each side, all showed what looked to be glowing purple lava flowing into black before melting into other colors. Marina wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be art or some sort of screensaver.

She had expected to see movie posters of Torrino’s many hits, or perhaps his two Oscars prominently featured but was surprised that the room was absent of any declarations of his stardom. Instead, a long recessed bookcase ate the bottom half of the back wall, though Marina couldn’t decode a single title from where she stood. She wondered if Torrino had actually read any of the books, or if they were only for show.

As Keenan trailed her, Torrino put a hand on Ed’s chest and looked at Marina. “I thought you wanted to talk alone.”

“It’s OK,” she said to Keenan, hoping he’d not cause a scene … yet.

Keenan nodded, stepped outside the door, and said, “I’ll be right out here.”

Torrino closed the door on Keenan’s face, then led Marina toward a massive desk in the room’s center — empty save for a silver laptop with two chairs on either side of it.

This is his meeting space, cold, dark, fancy. Just like him.

Torrino sat with his back to the rear wall, and Marina sat opposite him.

He folded his hands in front of him, smiling. “So, what do you want, Marina Harmon?”

She wasn’t sure which way to go: slow and smooth talk him into giving her what she wanted or short and direct, hoping to earn his respect. Torrino was too used to the Hollywood game, and was far better at it than Marina could ever hope to be. Feeding his ego would backfire, and likely piss him off. 

“I know you’re busy,” she said, “so I’ll cut to the chase. I need the vial my father gave you.”

“The vial?” Torrino feigned ignorance fast enough to fool probably anybody else. But not Marina.

“Yes, the vial my father asked you to hold onto. I need it.”

“Ah,” he said, “the vial. Wow, it’s been so long. I’d almost forgotten about that old thing.”

Torrino maintained eye contact even as his face went through the motions of trying to con her. Marina could tell he was fishing for a reaction, perhaps trying to judge the vial’s true value — if he didn’t already know.

She said nothing, waiting for him to nudge the conversation.

Torrino leaned back in his chair, crossing his fingers on the desk, also saying nothing. He could barely conceal the smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He was enjoying this moment too much for Marina’s comfort. She wondered how much crow he expected her to chew on, and what he’d demand in exchange?

“Tell me,” he said, “why do you want the vial?”

“My father asked me to get it.”

“Really?” Torrino said, thick eyebrows arching, his smile spreading wider. “Because I specifically remember him asking me to hold onto it shortly before he died. He said he couldn’t trust anyone else. Including you.”