White Lies Page 16

  "Denny, I know what I want. It's taken me a long time to sort it out and admit to it. I love acting and I think I'm good at it. Making that commercial has humbled me. I'm thinking about doing some theatre. Maybe that's a better way to repair my reputation. I'd appreciate any advice you're willing to offer."

  "Are you thinking about getting an agent?"

  "Mmm, well, I think that's something I need to earn back, too."

  Denny gave him a sharp look. "Accept a good behavior clause, and I'll sign you myself."

  Asher stared back at him. "Is it a good idea for us to walk that road again?"

  "You're not who you were, Ash. I'm not sure who you're going to be. But I'm getting a good feeling about you."

  Tears burned Asher's eyes. "That's amazing. Denny, I can't thank you enough." He took a few breaths to settle his emotions. "There's just one more question I've gotta ask."

  Denny gestured with his burger.

  "Why were you watching my house?"

  Denny snorted around his full mouth. He chewed for a minute and gulped down more ale. "You caught me."

  "Sharon told me," he lied, hoping for a confession of confrontation like Robby's.

  Denny laid the burger down and wiped his hands. He looked like he wanted to bolt again. "When was this?"

  Asher shrugged. "Awhile back. Before the fire." The look of relief on Denny's face puzzled Asher for a moment. "Geez, Denny, did you think I'd been communing with the spirits?"

  "I don't know what to expect from you these days."

  "I'm sorry," Asher said. "Until we get to know each other again, I'll try to be more specific."

  Denny went back to his burger and Asher sipped his coffee.

  "Why were you watching the house?"

  "Looking for trouble."

  "And?"

  Denny shook his head. "I didn't see any."

  "Did you see Sharon?"

  "Saw you with her. She wasn't a good choice, Ash. But it looked like you were keeping things together, which made me hopeful. I want you to be better, man. I always do. But I've learned that my wanting has nothing to do with your reality."

  "This time I want it too, Denny." Asher dragged a fry though a puddle of ketchup. "I had my epiphany." He licked his fingers and held out his scarred thumb. "See this? I got it in group. One of the guys went over the edge and freaked out. He bit me. And a couple other people, including the doc. They flattened him and drugged him and put him in restraints. And I realized I wanted out of there." He stared at the scar. "Every day this reminds me of where I don't want to be. And of all the years of living I've lost. I have a lot of things to live for now."

  "Like Thomas?" Denny smiled at him.

  "You knew, too?"

  "Everybody knows, Ash. I told Ellie that if she loved that kid, she shouldn't take him anywhere near you."

  Asher's shoulders slumped. "You think I'd be a bad dad."

  "That was then. Like I said, you've changed." Denny's sincere smile warmed Asher. They finished eating in companionable silence.

  Denny picked up the check. Asher started to offer to pay, but Denny waved him off. "Business deduction."

  "Oh, I almost forgot," Asher said, as they were leaving the restaurant. "Do you know where Scott is?"

  Denny's eyes narrowed, and his lips flattened into an angry line. "Stay away from him, Ash."

  "I promise." He raised his hand in a scout pledge. "Only asking 'cause the cops want him." Asher pulled Denny to the side of the building, away from the foot traffic on the busy sidewalk.

  Denny shook his head. "And I told the cops I don't know how to get in touch with him."

  Asher nodded, looking away from Denny's anger. "I need to help with this. It's my fault that Pam and Sharon and Larissa are dead, that Alanna was hurt. I know it sounds crazy, but I think Scott is doing this."

  "You can't afford to do anything crazy right now. And looking for Scott is more than crazy. It's dangerous. The guy's a major user in every sense of the word."

  "I think he's following me." Asher watched Denny's eyes to see how crazy that statement sounded. The emotions flashed past so quickly it worried Asher–suspicion, calculation, alarm.

  "Shit."

  "What?"

  "The day you came to see me." Denny dropped his voice and scanned the street. The light was fading, but the streetlights weren't on, yet. "Scott called me."

  "What did he want?"

  "I don't take his calls," he snapped. He shook his head and continued in a calmer voice, "I don't know what he wanted. But it is a weird coincidence."

  An icy prickle of fear rushed down his back. "Please be careful, Denny. I couldn't bear it if he got to you."

  They stood against the sun-warmed wall of the Spot until the streetlights were on. Asher said he'd call a cab, but Denny insisted on driving him back to the hotel. In the lobby, he and Denny sealed a probationary representation deal with a handshake. Asher had suggested the probationary bit. He hoped it underscored his intent to work hard. It replaced any heart-felt promises that he might make with cold, business logic. The look on Denny's face told him it was a good move. It was a business negotiation, and Asher had acted like a responsible adult. That the handshake was followed with a hug let Asher believe he'd been forgiven. Or given a second chance, again.

  Denny walked him to his room and made him promise not to go anywhere alone. Asher agreed, adding that Denny should do the same.

  As he turned to go, Denny raised a scolding finger. "And get some better clothes, dammit. You look like a refugee."

  Asher's spirits were high as he locked the door. A message from Fred was waiting. White's Hotel had been sold to a company by the name of Zsakmany. But that was all the information he'd been able to unearth. Asher put it aside to share with the detectives in the morning.

  He called George to give him an update.

  "Denny can be a stubborn ass, but he knows the business," George said.

  "So you don't think it was a bad idea?"

  "Nah. But you gotta know he'll drop you like a hot spud if you slip up."

  "That's good."

  "Right answer."

  "Ok. Good. Now I need to go buy some clothes."

  "I've got to run a bunch of errands tomorrow. You can come with. Let's meet at Third Street."

  "Okaaay," he said as he pulled out a pen and paper. "Third Street downtown?"

  "No, the Promenade in Santa Monica. I'll come get you."

  "No!" Asher heard the petulance in his voice. "I mean, you don't have to. I'll get a cab, just tell me where."

  "Third and Santa Monica Boulevard. There's a Starbucks and a Jamba Juice right there, in case one of us is late."

  "Eleven o'clock with bells on!"

  George laughed. "Now that I'd pay to see."

  After Asher hung up with George, he left a message for Fred at work thanking him for his research and warning him about imminent clothing charges on the credit card. Then he got out all his notes hoping that something new would pop out while he read them.

  The room phone rang. Asher smiled as he answered it. Only a handful of people knew where he was.

  "Mon ami, what are you up to?"

  "Harold," Asher said. His smile faded.

  "C'est moi!"

  "How did you find me?"

  "Sweetheart, the whole world knows you're hiding out in Torrence. God help us, why Torrence?"

  "Now isn't a good time..."

  "Oh, sure, now that the paparazzi are courting you again you haven't got a single second for poor little me?"

  Asher sat down on the bed. This might take awhile. He was determined to avoid burning any new bridges. "No, no of course not. It's been a long day, sorry. What can I do for you?"

  "Well muchacho, I have to say that I very much like this new and improved you!"

  "Thanks."

  "So it's you and Ms. Davis now, eh?"

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Hugs and kisses in the cemetery?"

  "Shit."

&
nbsp; "Loved the jacket, by the way."

  "Denny said there were pictures."

  "All over the scandal sheets, my dear. Now you promised I'd be the first to know when there was something brewing, so you owe me."

  Asher froze as the ramification hit him. Pictures of him with Ellie and Thomas would be all over. It was just a matter of time before Scott knew. He should call the police and tell them that Ellie needed protection. Although his word didn't seem to carry much weight with them. The thought of them in danger made his chest hurt. For a moment, it was hard to breathe.

  "Mon ami?"

  "Sorry, Harold, I was thinking."

  "So, is the boy yours? She can't be thinking of child support. She brings in mucho more bucks than you. Is she producing your comeback film?"

  "I...no, what?"

  "Your new movie?"

  "Whoa, slow down, my brain can't keep up." Asher took a breath and tried to sort out a reasonably juicy response. "Um. No, this isn't about a movie deal."

  He could lie to Harold and say it was just business, or he could tell him the truth and get protection for Ellie. Whatever he said would be blasted around town on the internet, talk shows and supermarket checkout counters. He thought of Doreen and Drucilla, his stolid fans, scowling over the news, digging through for inconsistencies. What would they say when he and Ellie married? His stomach did a back flip at the thought. Marriage? Where had that come from? But the thought of a home with Ellie and Thomas in it was more than sweet. It was something he wanted with his whole being.

  "Yes, Thomas is my son. I love her, and we are going to try to make a family together."

  "Hmm. What else?"

  "That's the truth, Harold."

  "The truth is boring, sweetie. Give me something else."

  Asher knew it was a gamble, but if a mass of reporters could keep them safe, it was worth a try. "Now that everyone knows, I'm worried that the man trying to kill me will go after them."

  There was a gasp on the other end of the line. "Oh, juicy."

  Chapter 39

  Detective Smythe cursed as she hung up the phone. Bledsoe looked up from the paperwork on his desk.

  "O'Shaunessy says that they've been hearing about this guy for years, but they don't have much information." She read him the notes she'd taken. "Dabbles in drugs, maybe prostitution, but everything they've got is hearsay. Nothing solid and no description other than average height and weight, brown eyes and hair. He stays under the radar and hasn't been worth tracking down."

  "So how does a small time drug dealer fit into all this?" Bledsoe asked.

  Smythe leaned back in her chair and stared across the room as she thought it through. A lab tech arrived and peered around the maze of desks and cubicles. She got her hopes up until he crossed to another desk.

  "Well, I guess we're back to motive. Why did he want Alanna Wesley dead, and how would this guy benefit from her death?" she asked.

  "Murder for hire? How much is she worth?"

  Smythe pulled a notepad out of a pile of files and made a note. "Is she worth more dead than alive? As a self-help author, I kind of doubt that."

  "Depends on the estate, insurance..." Bledsoe sorted through some papers on his desk. "You think Blaine's in her will?"

  She shook her head. "That was a nasty divorce." She made another note. "I think that's a dead end, but I'll save it for later." She turned back to the computer. "All right, let's try this again." She initiated a search for the name Fayer.

  "I've got six. She scanned the descriptions. "No good. How else could you spell it?"

  "Well, if it's German the 'y' could be a 'j', right?" Bledsoe suggested. "Or if it's Spanish, that would be a double 'l'?"

  She typed in Bledsoe's suggestions. "Nope."

  "If it's German, maybe it's an 'e' not an 'a'," Bledsoe said.

  "This is crazy. We could go through every damn language in the world and it could turn out not to be him." She slapped the desk drawing glances from her coworkers. "I just wish I knew if Fayer was White!"

  Across the room a head popped up and the lab tech gave Smythe a puzzled look. She glared at him. "Is there a problem," she glanced at his name badge, "Simonyi?"

  "No, Detective, but you're right Fayer is White." He pronounced it like 'feather' without the 't'.

  Bledsoe shot a look at Smythe then turned to Simonyi. "How do you know?" he asked. "Do you have proof?"

  Simonyi cocked his head and frowned. "I think we're talking at cross purposes. Feher is the Hungarian word for the color white."

  He spelled it for her, and she started her searches again. Bledsoe thanked Simonyi and got a contact number in case they needed any more translations.

  Smythe leaned back from the computer, searches were running. "Finally. This better get us somewhere."

  Bledsoe folded his arms. "Smythe, if Feher is responsible for the murders, and White is Feher, that's a direct connection to Blaine."

  Smythe nodded. "And we might have him on a murder for hire. So the question is—is he killing for Blaine, or is Blaine next?"

  Chapter 40

  Asher woke the next morning fully dressed on the bed, surrounded by his notes and notebooks. He called first thing and left a message for the detectives about the sale of the hotel he'd given Scott. After a shower and breakfast in the hotel's restaurant, he took a cab to Santa Monica. Walking down the street, looking at all the shops felt surreal. For so many years, he'd lived in a cage of his own making. Fear and celebrity had walled him in, isolating him until he'd slipped the last tethers of reality and come undone. Yet here he was now, sanity carefully woven back into an identifiable whole. Not back to the shabby fabric that was, but a brand new cloth. He smiled at the idea, stretching cramped emotions that were puny with disuse. It had been a long time since he'd felt satisfied with himself.

  Breathing deeply he soaked in his surroundings. Women in skimpy clothing passed him. Tourists snapped pictures of storefronts, street signs and each other. The sky was a rare, sparkling blue, and there was a cool breeze blowing off the ocean. All in all, it was a very good day to be alive.

  He'd gotten here early. He wanted to surprise George with some sort of statement. Maybe an outfit, a hat, he wasn't sure what shape this statement was going to take. Restlessly, he window shopped until a leather jacket caught his eye. Once inside the store, he let the staff do what they were good at. The salesman was delighted to create a stylish outfit for him and suggested a nearby salon for the finishing touches.

  Only one of the older stylists recognized him. She scooped him up and had him in her chair before anyone got a second look. He gave her free rein. If it was bad, he could wear a hat for a few weeks. His hair grew very fast. She trimmed his sideburns and eyebrows. The actual haircut seemed to involve microscopic snips from carefully selected strands. It didn't seem like she was doing much, but the floor was telling another tale. Finally, she piled goop in his hair and tousled it. His first glance in the mirror startled him. It didn't look like him. Not the old him, at least. But maybe it looked like the new him. He smiled at his reflection. The man in the mirror looked like he had confidence. He looked like he could be a movie star. The stylist got a fat tip, and he let her take a picture for her wall.

  Back on the street, he had that surreal feeling again. He wondered what statement the clothes might say about him. Gray pants with a gray cotton knit pullover under the softest leather jacket he'd ever owned. The clerk hadn't created the outfit, he'd just offered advice and choice. Was that cheating, he wondered? He needed to figure out where to draw the line between delegating and relinquishing responsibility. The new clothes and haircut made him feel like he'd been through wardrobe and makeup. A few casual glances had followed him, unleashing a flurry of nerves. Who was he supposed to be in this story? That thought stopped him. Should he be the well dressed man in the trendy restaurant making business deals? He was absolutely sure that he hadn't been that person before. Surprisingly, the thought didn't frighten him. Surely he'd played that ro
le before.

  It had been ages since he had spent time just wandering through shops. Fred would probably scold him for the extra money spent, but he did need new clothes. Fashion had changed since he'd last been aware of it. He'd never paid much attention to his clothing. In retrospect, he wasn't even sure where it all had come from. There were always jeans and shirts in the closet. Denny would bring him a tuxedo or such for some event. As he stared in the shop windows, a suffocating sense of loss crept over him Had he been so dependent and helpless that he hadn't even bought his own clothes? A revelation poked its thorny head up through his brooding thoughts. All those people who had run his life hadn't wrested control from him; he'd handed it over. Every pill taken and every problem avoided had sucked the choices out of his hands.

  When had he started needing something to help him leave the house? When had he started to fear Denny? They'd started as partners. As the success came, Denny became gatekeeper, then warden and finally nanny. Asher shivered, acknowledging his backward metamorphosis from butterfly to worm. He was back in the cocoon now and wondered how he would know when it was time to emerge.

  A sudden flood of tourists lugging shopping bags with famous logos mobbed the street. Somewhere a tour bus had just unloaded them. He kept his head down and hoped no one would notice him. Despite his earlier bravado, he wasn't ready for the brutal scrutiny of fans. He paused at the corner, looking at the displays in store windows and wondering if he would have to wear his pants that low.

  A two-note whistle brought him out of his dark reflections. He'd ended up back on Santa Monica Boulevard. Across the street, George waved to him. Asher responded with a quick salute and headed over. He slipped through the traffic backed up from the light and crossed into the opposite lane. The rumble of the engine and squeal as a car laid rubber gave him the only warning. It sped straight at him. His body moved automatically without a clear thought from his head. He launched into a forward roll, clearing the car by inches.

  "Jesus Christ! Are you all right?" George knelt by his side, his hands searching for injuries.

  "Haven’t done that in a long time," Asher said with a slightly hysterical squeak in his voice.