Chapter 34
“What the hell is happening over there in Hollywood?” LAPD Police Chief Art Abner asked.
Con pressed the phone to his ear.
“I don’t know. Martin—”
“You know what, it doesn’t matter. I’m on my way.”
This got Con’s attention.
“AA, this isn’t your jurisdiction. This isn’t NAD territory.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. But remember that favor you owe me?”
“I already paid your tab. And I’ll put in a good word—”
“Fuck that. This is the favor I want.”
It made sense. Even if AA wasn’t aware of the details regarding what had happened, the intense police activity hinted at something big. And this was Hollywood. Solving, or even being involved in a crime involving a dead movie star or producer was a surefire way to catapult your career.
Con looked around. There were cops everywhere. LAPD, FBI, what appeared to be private security likely hired by Imperial Productions. And he knew it was only a matter of time before the California Bureau of Investigation came sniffing. Getting AA involved would only further muddy the waters.
“Art, you can’t—”
Con stopped speaking; AA had already hung up.
“Fuck.”
Con tucked his phone away and started after Alex and Marcus. He made it two steps before a car came to a screeching halt behind him.
LAPD officers shouted at whoever was driving that this was a crime scene and to turn around unless they wanted to be arrested.
Con’s first thought was that it was AA, that the man had already been driving when he’d called. But it wasn’t Art, it wasn’t even a man.
A Caucasian woman jumped out of the sleek gray Mercedes. She had black hair, pin straight, and oversized sunglasses covered most of her pale face.
“Ma’am, you can’t be here!” a young cop, wearing sunglasses of his own—aviators—shouted, walking toward the woman with his palm out in front.
His other hand was on the butt of his service pistol.
“This is my house. My house!”
Con decided to let Alex go and focus his limited attention span on this scene instead.
“Your house?” the cop repeated. “This is Martin Yeo’s house.”
“Exactly! I’m Julia Yeo! What the hell is going on here?” She stamped her feet like a child throwing a tantrum.
Con relieved the uncomfortable-looking cop.
“Julia? Julia, my name is Constantine Striker. I’m with the FBI.”
Her head jerked in his direction and Con continued forward, letting everybody else who was observing the spectacle know that he was in control.
“What happened to Martin?”
Con lowered his voice and his chin in equal measure.
“Mrs. Yeo, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but your husband died last night.”
“I know that!” Julia Yeo yelled angrily. “I fucking know that! I found out from the goddamn tabloids! I want to know what the hell happened!”
If he’d been more rested, Con probably would have picked up on the telltale signs that this woman wasn’t the grieving type.
Julia Yeo was bitter and angry. This was evident in her posture, her mannerisms, and her facial expressions.
But he’d missed the cues.
The fact that she’d shown up now, in the early morning, wearing what appeared to be something that she’d hastily put together, suggested that Martin and Julia didn’t live together.
Divorced? Separated?
“What happened?”
“Julia, I apologize that you had to hear of your husband’s passing through the tabloids. We’ve only just arrived at the scene and are still gathering evidence.”
Julia ignored the apology.
“What evidence?” The woman turned her face up toward the house. “Can someone please tell me what the hell happened to Martin?”
Several of the cops exchanged looks.
Con hated the idea of jumping to conclusions, especially because he hadn’t even stepped foot inside the McMansion this morning, but the situation had the potential of getting out of hand.
“As I said, we’re still investigating—” Julia opened her mouth, but Con stopped her from speaking by holding up his hand. “—but it appears as if Martin died from some sort of overdose.”
Julie crossed her arms over her chest.
“Figures,” she said flatly.
“I know this is hard to—” Con stopped. Figures? “What do you mean?
“Just another one of his vices.”
Con thought back to the party. Despite Dwight Dozier’s claims that Martin’s events were legendary, Con had pictured more overt drug use. Glass tables like the one that Adon had been sitting next to in the hidden video, covered in Scarface-sized piles of cocaine, maybe.
People were doing drugs, he’d seen several women exit the bathroom dabbing their noses, but they weren’t done blatantly and out in the open.
And Alex hadn’t mentioned anything about the men she’d eavesdropped on doing drugs.
Still, it was possible.
Con moved closer to the woman and lowered his voice.
“We’ll have more information in the next few hours. And we’ll be sure to keep you in the loop.”
Julia calmed down a little.
“Are you sure it’s Martin?”
“We’re sure.” He squinted. “Can I ask you something about Martin’s work?”
“He doesn’t talk about his work.”
This was an invitation to continue if there ever was one.
“Has he been more agitated as of late?”
“We don’t live together.”
Con nodded.
“I know, I know. But, between us, we believe that someone was extorting your husband for cash.”
Julia brayed. There was no other way to explain the noise that came out of her mouth.
“Well, they’re barking up the wrong tree. Martin doesn’t have any money.”
This took Con by surprise. He’d seen the man’s office, his house.
And Martin Yeo was— had been —the CEO of Imperial Productions, one of the largest film production companies in Hollywood.
Noticing his confusion, Julia said, “Well, you’re going to find out anyway.” The woman removed her glasses and wiped her eyes. She wasn’t crying, but her cheeks were slightly damp. “Martin is broke. Blew everything he made and everything we ever had down in Vegas. This house?” Julie waved a hand in the direction of the McMansion. “It’s being foreclosed on. He doesn’t have a penny to his name. Martin was too proud to admit it, but he was weeks away from having to declare bankruptcy. Probably why he decided to just make it all go away.”
What Alex had overheard last night, Martin refusing to pay what to the others seemed like a paltry sum, suddenly made sense.
A vehicle pulled up next to Julia’s gray Mercedes, this one an LAPD squad car marked with ‘Supervisor’ on the side.
AA got out and he signaled at Con.
“Any idea who might have been extorting him?” Con asked the woman.
Angry Julia returned.
“How the hell should I know? You’re the goddamn FBI.”
“Right. I’m very sorry for your loss, Julia.” Con gestured at the young cop in the aviators. “This officer will guide you through the next steps. And we’ll be sure to keep you in the loop.”
“You better.”
And then, without saying a word to AA, Con headed to the house with the big man. He was so exhausted that he was forced to use the metal railing to hoist himself up the stairs.