Revenant Rising Page 12

She’s again asked to choose a favorite from a field of glittering objects. Although she begrudges doing so—this does constitute indulgence—she’s again honest about her choice. But she must have made that choice too obvious because an excited buzz goes through the spectators before they lose interest and disperse.

  Laurel loses her nerve when they make the turn onto 57th Street. The two crosstown blocks between them and the Russian Tea Room appear endless and open to ambush. She repeats the earlier argument about the Tea Room, adding that it’s routinely staked out by paparazzi even though she doesn’t know that for a fact.

  “Okay, okay . . . I’m convinced, and I’m sorry I ever got you into this,” he says. “Can we go someplace else . . . please?”

  The only place she can think of is his hotel—as in he should repair there without her and order room service. “Your hotel,” she hears herself say. “Do you know the Oyster Bar at your hotel? It’s at the rear of the building and fairly low profile. I’ve heard that some of the hotel regulars don’t even know it’s there.”

  “You’re talking to one. Lead on,” he says with way more enthusiasm than called for.

  “Very well. We can cut through Bergdorf’s to Fifty-eighth behind the hotel and zip in through the street door rather than through the lobby.” She deadens her delivery to eliminate anything resembling enthusiasm from her response. She’s only doing her job, after all, and she doesn’t have to be happy about it—not as happy as he is, anyway.

  He’s twice as happy when he’s introduced to the Oyster Bar of The Plaza Hotel with its dark paneling, frosted windows and many touches he says put him in mind of an especially posh pub at home. He admires the copper-clad bar that dominates the room as the maitre d’ leads them to a dark corner table where they’re undisturbed long enough to order beers and a dozen Blue Points each.

  Then, while the maître d’ has his back turned, a trio of matrons from another corner table make their approach and Laurel is on her feet the second she hears one of them utter the client’s name and refer to the Icon telecast.

  “I ask you.” Laurel meets them head-on. “Do I look like the sort of person who would be seen in public with a rock star? Really!”

  The intruders are dumbfounded into a fast retreat; the client is dumbstruck for several moments after she resumes her place at the table.

  “Bleedin’ hell.” He finds his voice, then studies her for another several moments during which she decides she’s gone too far. But she hasn’t. He laughs. At length. Takes a swallow of beer and hits her with another one of those paralyzing smiles.

  “You’re gonna be fine, Laurel. You’ll be just fine. Anyone can see you’ve got all the makings.”

  She doesn’t ask what that means, but does agree to share another dozen oysters with him. Halfway through their consumption, she’s caught giving him the eye.

  “Allow me to help you with that,” he says, tugging on one of his ear-lobes. “Virgin they are, never been pierced, and none of my distinguishing marks are tattoos or needle tracks. Hair’s natural, so are eyes and teeth. Other than a watch, I don’t wear jewelry of any sort. I generally bathe and shave once a day, more often if called for. I’m sober for the most part and don’t smoke anathing but cigars.” He says all this in a monotone, as though he’s been through it countless times before. “I’m not much of a primper and my preening I confine to the stage,” he drones on. “I’m not a picky eater and I snore and fart and belch just like regular blokes. And you may have already noticed I have large hands and feet . . . That about cover it, then?”

  She prickles from rebuke that may or may not have been intended. “You know,” she says around a mouthful of oyster, “you could have that information printed on handouts and save a lot of time and trouble.”

  “Yeh, I could, if I planned on ever offering it to anyone again.”

  “I . . . see.” For someone allegedly possessed of all the makings, that’s the best she can do.

  SIXTEEN

  Early morning, April 2, 1987

  Groomed and dressed for the day, Nate Isaacs pauses in the kitchen of his Fifth Avenue triplex long enough to prepare a strong jolt of Nescafé Gold in a go-cup. Last night’s fuck buddy was not a sleepover and Mathilde, the cook-housekeeper, won’t arrive for another hour, so there’s no small talk to tolerate.

  Coffee in hand, he leaves by the service entrance where he gathers up the morning papers, a couple of weeklies, and the overnight pouch from London—plenty of reading material to choose from for the ride downtown.

  On the way downtown in a cab hailed by the doorman, he leafs through the USA Today, first up for being easiest to absorb with the least potential to inflame. He skims three sections of predigested news before anything jumps out at him.

  Under a Los Angeles Times Syndicate dateline, he reads that an unspoken wish has come true: Cliff Grant, the dark prince of the paparazzi, is no more. Grant was murdered—no big surprise—and his body lay undiscovered for two to three days before a neighbor investigating an accumulation of newspapers on Grant’s front porch detected a foul odor and summoned the authorities.

  Nate pauses reading to estimate when the murder most likely took place and picks Monday, the day of the Institute Awards presentation, a red-letter day for paparazzi, which somehow makes his death seem even more like justice well served. In the company of other likeminded celebrants, Nate might fist the air and raise a cheer; alone, he indulges an interior jubilation that fast fades when he resumes reading.

  Grant’s was a particularly grisly demise. According to the medical examiner his head was cleanly removed from his torso with the precision of an executioner.

  Nate sucks in air he doesn’t let out until he’s read far enough to learn that Grant’s head was found with the body. A lesser gasp prepares him for the remainder of the account.

  Much of Grant’s notoriety came at the expense of Colin Elliot, recently resurgent rock superstar, and Elliot’s late wife, Aurora, both of whom were plagued by the obsessive attentions of the unrelenting paparazzo at one time or another. Over the years Grant was twice charged with intent to distribute pornography and with numerous failures to comply with restraining orders. There were no convictions. Police presently are without suspects and not yet able to establish if anything is missing from Grant’s cluttered Venice Beach home. Sophisticated camera equipment and video monitors, standard targets for theft, were found smashed at the scene. A fire possibly started to conceal the crime burned itself out without damaging the structure or alerting passersby.

  “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Nate mutters, inviting the cab driver to agree that all news is shit these days. Nate grunts an unintelligible response that distances the driver and reads the entire story again. As the core facts sink in he takes encouragement wherever he can find it. Colin Elliot could have been referred to as a lot worse than “resurgent” and a lot more could have been said about the late wife.

  He saves the rest of the material to read in private. At the landmark building housing his 49th Street offices, he pays the driver and sprints through the beginnings of a hard rain to a triple set of brass doors opening into a marble-clad elevator lobby that’s uncrowded this time of day. His floor is underpopulated as well. He has only the office manager–executive assistant to ignore on the way to his private office where he closes the door behind him, downs the last of the cooled coffee, and pores over the rest of the morning papers for further mention of the bizarre death in California.

  “Exultant” may be too strong a word for the way he feels after finding no other reports of Grant’s death, but it’ll do for now. He quick leafs through the weeklies knowing a clipping service will already have caught any mention of the Elliot name—in any context. He dips into the contents of the overnight pouch knowing he’s too distracted to give more than a once-over to the prospectuses and quarterly reports that were of critical interest when requested. He pushes everything aside and grabs the phone.

  In situations like this Bemus nearly always ra
tes the first call, but that priority can be let slip until additional info is obtained. The bodyguard’s not going anywhere, as was promised Tuesday when he reported in to say he’d been furloughed. Bemus will wait indefinitely for further instructions, so the first call goes to a paid contact at the Royal Poinciana Hotel in Beverly Hills.

  After mumbled apologies for waking the assistant manager at five-something California time, and repeated thanks for the manager’s cooperation earlier in the week, Nate cuts to the chase: “Did anything unusual occur while Colin Elliot and his bodyguard were guests there on Monday?” he asks.

  Nate is told that the only incident of note during the always-hectic period preceding the Icon hoopla was a minor assault and robbery that took place in the employees’ parking lot. The contact goes on to say that there were no witnesses and it was assumed both parties were of a local ethnic fraternity with their own brand of omertà because no charges were filed.

  Nothing there to be concerned about; Nate ends the call and initiates another, this one to a contact with covert connections at the Pacific Division of the LAPD.

  This contact is less tolerant of being roused at the crack of dawn. But after a prologue of grousing and cursing, he agrees to share what he knows. For a price, of course. According to this source, Cliff Grant’s murder, despite its savage nature—or maybe because of its savage nature—is not considered that much of a standout by those investigating it. As the reasoning goes, Grant’s neighborhood has long been rife with drug dealings and warring gangs are a steady presence in the community.

  The contact continues, “All they’re sayin’ so far is that the perp may have had a specific ax to grind ’cause of the trashing that went on at the crime scene, and some are sayin’ it may not’ve been the plain ord’nary execution it appears to be, that there was rage involved.”

  “Keep me in the loop, okay?” Nate hangs up cheered that there wasn’t so much as veiled reference to Colin Elliot during the exchange.

  The following call is to a local number that’s answered by machine. Nate observes the ritual, states his name knowing the PI will then pick up. Nate engages him for a standard background check and a week’s worth of monitoring. He spells out Laurel Chandler’s name for the freelance gumshoe, states her place of employment, advises that the investigation may have to include the tri-state area, and requests that all activity be conducted as discreetly as possible.

  Then, on a whim, he gets in touch with a stringer for the New York Celebrity Journal. A brief discussion establishes that some well-placed tabloid exposure could nicely augment a word-of-mouth campaign to discredit the Chandler chick.

  The next-to-last call is to Amanda Hobbs, whose name and number he was careful to catch yesterday when sniffing around the Chandler chick’s office on the pretense of looking for Colin.

  Finding little Ms. Hobbs at work and picking up ahead of standard business hours comes as no big surprise. During yesterday’s brief exchange she struck him as perpetually bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—ready for anything—so that should be the case now.

  It is. And, without seeming either overeager to accept or annoyed by short notice, she agrees to have lunch with him today. He picks the Sea Grill at Rockefeller Center for being convenient to both and not the sort of place he usually frequents.

  “One o’clock, Sea Grill, Nate Isaacs,” she confirms. “That’ll work, no problem. Laurel—Ms. Chandler will be out most of the day with Mr. Elliot, so it won’t matter what time I have lunch or for how long, but you must already know that—that they’re holding the first full interview session at the Metropolitan Museum instead of Jockey Hollow because of the rain and it looks like they may get a late start because Laurel absolutely has to see her father this morning and . . .”

  He can’t tell if she stopped talking because she ran out of breath or because she was saying way more than necessary—a minor debate decided when she declares in a clipped manner that she’ll meet him at the restaurant and clicks off.

  Nate lights a rare cigarette and buzzes for a fresh cup of coffee before calling Bemus at his airshaft room a corridor removed from Colin’s Plaza suite.

  The first order of business is bringing Bemus up to speed regarding Colin’s knowledge of the conspiracy.

  “How’d he react?” Bemus says.

  “How do you think?”

  “Shit fit?”

  “That somewhat describes it,” Nate says. “Drama, yelling, the whole nine yards during which he pronounced you terminated and threatened me with the same.”

  “Then what’re you callin’ me about if I’ve been canned? Severance pay?”

  “I’m calling you to tell you to keep on doing what you’ve been doing all along.”

  “Doin’ the job and reportin’ back to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But—”

  “He’d no more fire you than he would me. Jesus, you ought to know that by now,” Nate says.

  “Still—”

  “Here’s what you need to know.”

  Nate quick fills Bemus in on yesterday’s developments and Laurel Chandler’s arrival on the scene. “I just found out they’re going to the Metropolitan Museum today and I want you with them every step of the way.”

  Bemus does some whining about a command performance at a museum while Nate reminds him who to call for a car rental on short notice.

  “You’re talkin’ a self-drive not a chauffeured limo, right?”

  “Right. I want you behind the wheel, not some bozo that’s apt to sell out to the first tabloid that throws a crumb.”

  “Okay, I can handle that, but you’d better tell me what I’m lookin’ for. You still thinkin’ he’ll relapse or is there some kinda external threat I haven’t heard about?”

  “Both . . . neither . . . fuck, I don’t know, just do it. And trust me, he’s not gonna remember how pissed he was yesterday.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.”

  “Get on it and keep in mind the one sure way he will can you is if I recommend it,” Nate bullshits.

  “Okay, but—”

  “Wait . . . before you go, did you hear about Cliff Grant?”

  “Holy crap, I was meanin’ to ask you that.”

  “How did you hear?”

  “USA Today and funny thing is, Colin and I were just talkin’ about him on the plane from LA and wonderin’ why he was a no-show at the Icon gig. He’d never miss out on a media feast like that unless there was a serious reason—like bein’ whacked.”

  “That would be reason enough,” Nate says and hangs up with his focus already switched to Amanda Hobbs and what all she may be good for.

  SEVENTEEN

  Early morning, April 2, 1987

  Laurel enters the Wolcott, New Jersey nursing home by the fire door at the rear of the building. As usual, no alarm sounds, a violation with which she would take issue if this access didn’t save time and lessen contact with other enfeebled occupants of the facility.

  Her father’s room is only steps from the door, but somewhat removed from the nearest nurse’s station, so she seldom encounters staff on her biweekly visits.

  Benjamin Radcliffe Chandler, dressed in street clothes and a robe, is propped up in an armchair when she slips into his room with a hot breakfast brought from home. As has long been her habit, she talks to him as though he knows who she is, and practices extreme patience while feeding him as one would an infant just learning to take solids.

  Occasionally she has to look away from the sight of oatmeal dribbling out of one corner of his mouth as fast as she can funnel it into the other, and refresh her tolerance by letting her eyes rest on family photographs prominently displayed on a windowsill in case his mind-fog should ever lift.

  After the last of the oatmeal has been shaved from his chin she crumbles a blueberry muffin into manageable bites, paces the insertion of these morsels so he won’t choke and asks herself how much longer this can go on—the ritual attendance and endless disappointment.

&
nbsp; Like an infant’s, his sucking reflex is strong, she notes as she connects him to the pliant straw of his water container. So is his swallowing reflex. She has to disconnect him when it appears he’d go on drinking indefinitely.

  After wiping his face with a moist towelette, she rearranges the afghan covering his legs, kisses him on the forehead and gathers up her things. She’s almost made a clean getaway when the orderly for this section waylays her with his usual scolding about using the emergency exit. She responds the way she always does—that if the alarm worked the way it was supposed to, she’d come and go by an authorized door.

  Heavy rain adds a good half hour to the trip into the city—rain, and having chosen bridge over tunnel, an error in judgment that may have her playing catch-up all day.

  But when she reaches her midtown office there’s no crisis brewing, no client arrived ahead of time. The update Amanda delivers is all good. Especially the part about the client having called to say he’ll be delayed by a half hour or more.

  “Did he say why? Some problem about going to the museum instead of the park?” Laurel asks.

  “He didn’t say anything about any museums or parks. He only said he had to sort things out with his bodyguard and would call back when they’re on the way.”

  “I wonder if that’s because of yesterday.”

  “If what’s because of yesterday?”

  “Because of the attention he attracted on Fifth Avenue and at the Oyster Bar, I wonder if that’s what convinced him to bring a bodyguard today.”

  “I barely know what you’re talking about, you know.” Amanda follows her into the inner office where she unleashes her curiosity.

  Laurel fills her in, emphasizing that yesterday’s misadventure with the client was nothing more than that when Amanda wants to make it into something else.

  “Any other calls?” Laurel says to get off the subject.

  “Just some routine stuff and Nate Isaacs.”