Chapter 21
THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE at the core of our building is beautiful, like a cross section of a nautilus shell. It rises from the center of our reception area and expands outward as it winds to the top floor. The staircase ends just outside my office, where it is capped by a skylight that brightens the stairs all the way down.
Tommy was being escorted out by way of the elevator, so I left my office, paused at the railing, and looked down through the staircase to the ground floor. Once security had hustled Tommy to the street, I walked down one flight, to the fourth floor, where Justine’s office is right under mine.
I knocked, stepped through the open doorway. Justine’s office is a lot like her: tailored, witty, easy on the eyes. She was putting on her jacket, getting ready to leave for the day.
I said, “I think that Tommy set fire to my car.”
“Ummm. He’s capable of it, but what about all those other cars that were torched in your neighborhood?”
“That was Tommy. He was practicing,” I said.
Justine laughed, straightened her collar, packed up her laptop. She turned off her art-glass desk lamp depicting two fish doing the samba.
She said, “So why did he do it?”
I said, “He needs a special reason?”
My brother’s company, Private Security, provided bodyguards for Hollywood’s entertainment elite. He had a client list that looked like it had been ripped from the pages of Variety, and that list was like gold.
Private Security got lucrative, repeat business, and Tommy knew the rich and famous intimately: where they lived, where they were going, where they got their drugs—their weaknesses and vulnerabilities—and where they went when they didn’t want to be seen.
These A-list connections overflowed with perks for Tommy, including insider deals and young women who Velcroed themselves to him when he was attending to his clients in person.
But although he loved himself and the business he was in, what really turned Tommy on was springing traps and perpetrating dirty-dog schemes on his enemies—of which I was enemy number one.
Last year he framed me for murder. He tried to destroy me—and almost did.
Justine said, “I’m not saying you’re paranoid, Jack, but I don’t think Tommy, as low as he is, would stoop to torching your car. It’s too juvenile for him. Too small.”
“Maybe I am paranoid. But maybe firebombing my car is Tommy’s idea of lighting a fuse. Could be he’s just getting started.”
“Okay.” She shook her head, laughed, said, “I don’t see it. I’m going to work on Sci’s angle. But if you think it’s Tommy, get a lease car, Jack.”
I said, “Good idea. Want to have dinner?”
“Since I’m the one with the wheels, I guess I get to choose the venue,” she said, shooting me a grin, snapping her briefcase closed.
I talked Justine out of the keys and drove her Jag to one of our favorite places, the Water Grill.
I thought about what she’d said about Tommy.
It was true that Tommy was complex and devious and that a car fire, even a quarter-of-a-million-dollar-car fire, was small spuds. But he’d made his twenty-million-dollar offer just hours after this morning’s explosion.
Maybe I was wrong to connect the two events.
But Tommy and I both love sports cars. The big-bang wake-up call had Tommy’s warped sense of humor all over it.