Chapter 9
We climbed aboard, settled into the comfy leather seats, and a cute cabin attendant took our lunch order. I went with chicken Parmesan. It wasn't bad for airplane food.
My phone buzzed with a call from my agent, Joel.
It had been a few weeks since I talked to him, and I knew exactly what he was going to ask.
I'd been working with the movie star, Flynn McQueen, on a script about the infamous drug runner, Mickey Malibu.
Due to circumstances beyond my control, that had gotten delayed, and I was past the deadline.
"I'm almost finished," I said before he had a chance to speak.
"That's not why I'm calling, but I'm glad to hear it.”
"What's up?"
"I need a favor," he said in a somber tone.
"Name it."
Joel was one of the good guys in Hollywood. The best agent in the business. He knew everyone and loved making deals. He’d been with me since the beginning of my accidental career in Tinsel Town. At this point, Joel was like family.
"My friend has been murdered," Joel said.
"I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?"
"Vivian was shot in her driveway when she came home late at night. Nothing was stolen. Not the car, not her purse, not the Rolex on her wrist.”
"Sounds like an assassination," I said.
"That's exactly what I'm thinking."
"When did this happen?”
"A month ago now.”
My eyes rounded. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"I didn’t want to bother you. I figured the West Beverly Police Department was handling it. But they closed the case."
"What?"
"They said they've solved the murder. The suspect is dead, and there's no need to pursue this any further."
"So what's the problem?"
"The problem is they rushed to close this case. I don't think they fingered the right guy. I think the killer is still out there."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because things aren’t adding up." Joel took a deep breath.
"Look, Vivian was a strong personality. She had a lot of friends in this business, but she also had a lot of enemies.
She had dirt on powerful people. There are a number of reasons why somebody would have wanted her dead.
You can't tell me that some random guy just shot her for the hell of it and didn't take anything.”
It did sound more than a little suspicious.
"What do you want me to do?”
"I want you to look into this. That's what you're good at. That's what you do.”
"I'm on a plane right now, we’re taxing to the runway. I’ve got to make a stop in Stillwater.
JD and I can be in LA in a day or two. We're working a case that’s taking us out that direction anyway.
I’ll look into it. It’s not my jurisdiction, so I can't make any promises. But you know I’ll do whatever I can. ”
"I appreciate that. Vivian was very special to me. She helped me get started in this business. I wouldn't be where I am without her. I’m not going to stand by and let this thing get swept under the rug. I want you to find out who's responsible.”
"I'll do whatever I can. But if the West Beverly PD has already closed the case, it's going to be hard to get them to take a second look, no matter what I turn up."
"You just find out who's responsible. I’ll take it from there.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you give me something solid, and I will keep making noise until the truth comes out.”
I told him we’d be in touch, then ended the call and filled in JD.
The flight took about four hours, and we touched down in Stillwater at 7,000 feet of elevation.
The tires barked, and the plane rumbled.
This wasn’t a bustling international airport by any stretch of the imagination.
Barely long enough for a G-750, the strip sat atop a narrow plateau.
There was no control tower. Pilots handled their own traffic via Common Traffic Advisory Frequency.
A black town car waited for us at the FBO. Isabella had arranged everything. We said goodbye to the cute cabin attendant and the pilots, grabbed our gear, and transferred to the town car. Marcus drove us to a motel off the highway. It wasn't the Plaza, but for Stillwater, it wasn't bad.
There were fewer than 20,000 people in Stillwater County.
Almost everyone in the town was employed by Applied Research Technology.
The rest were in hospitality or city services.
Several burgeoning startups, like Quantum Research Group and others, worked in some type of collaboration with ART, providing support services.
Canyon valleys stretched as far as the eye could see. Red-orange dirt and rough terrain. The sky was a deeper shade of blue, and the air crisp. The intense sun baked the dirt.
The Atomic Motel had a deco-style sign that lit up with swirling atoms at night. The driver pulled up to the carport and killed the engine. He hopped out and grabbed our doors. Marcus snatched our bags from the trunk, and JD gave him a nice tip.
“Isabella said I’m supposed to hang around and take you wherever you want to go,” Marcus said.
“We’ll get settled in, then we’ve got some errands to run,” I replied.
He gave a nod, then hopped into the car, pulled around, and parked in the lot.
We checked in and got an old-fashioned key to room #8.
The sound of the highway rumbled.
A Waffle Wizard next door served 24 hours a day.
The town was so small you could walk from one end to the other. But in this heat, it was best to stick to an air-conditioned sedan.
I slipped the key into the slot and pushed into the room. The wall unit hummed, blasting cold air. The room had a typical layout with two twin beds, a nightstand in between, a dresser with a large, flatscreen display, a hanging closet, a small desk, and a restroom.
Jack claimed the bed by the window. I didn’t have a preference. If all went well, we wouldn’t stay here long. Perhaps we’d even catch a flight back to LA tonight. But something told me this investigation might be a little more complex.
The hotel room was clean, but it wasn’t much to look at. Faded and stained teal carpet, orange comforters, and southwestern art.
Isabella had sent me Elizabeth Morgan’s contact info and address.
Marcus chauffeured us across town to her home in the hills.
It was a beautiful Tuscan-style with beige stucco and a clay tile roof.
A covered porch with round columns and graceful arches sheltered a wooden door with decorative glass.
Spruces and ponderosa pines dotted the yard, ensconcing the house.
The hazy mountains loomed in the background.
Michelle must have done well for herself.
Marcus pulled to the curb. We hopped out and walked the sloped driveway to the front porch and rang the bell.
This was a nice neighborhood. Peaceful. Quiet. A gentle breeze rustled the trees.
Elizabeth’s voice crackled through the speaker in the video doorbell. “Can I help you?”
I flashed my badge to the lens, not that it meant anything in this county. “Sheriff’s deputies,” I said. “We’re investigating Michelle’s disappearance. We just have a few questions.”
“I’ll be right there,” she replied in an eager voice.
A moment later, she was at the door and pulled it open. Her curious eyes surveyed us. “You don’t look like any of Dusty’s boys.”
I smiled. “We’re out of state, but we noticed similarities to a case we’re working back home. We’re just trying to put all the pieces together.”
Elizabeth was an attractive woman in her mid-50s with wavy, sandy-blonde hair that hung to her shoulders. She had a slim figure, a narrow face, and tawny eyes. The resemblance to her daughter Michelle was obvious.
Elizabeth invited us in.
We stepped into the foyer, and she closed the door behind us. She led us into the living room and offered us a seat on the sofa. The home was light and airy with bleached hardwoods and beige walls. Large windows offered a view of the patio and the mountains beyond.
"Can I get you anything to drink?" she asked.
"No, thank you," I replied.
"To be honest, Sheriff Rollins doesn't seem like he’s doing much. He came out and asked me some questions. I talked to him a few times since, but haven't heard much lately."
"Tell me about the day Michelle went missing,” I said.