CHAPTER 92
AN ELEVATOR TOOK Justine and Nora from the car park to the Creative Talent Management lobby, a vast, marbled space hung with imposing works of modern art. Glass-faced staircases fooled the eye and suspended disbelief, rising thirty feet through the reception area ceiling, itself made of glass.
The space was meant to impress and intimidate—and it did both of those things to Justine. She’d laughed about CTM as the black hole of greed, but now she felt the force of the place. The might of the money.
And she and Nora were on their own.
Justine gave their names to a receptionist, signed a log book, and she and Nora took seats at the periphery of the room to watch the show.
Actors practiced their lines, gesticulating in the corners; messengers came and went; groups of well-dressed people entered the agency through doors that blended so perfectly with the surrounding walls there didn’t seem to be doors at all.
Tom Cruise came through in one of those groups.
Ethan Hawke left the building.
Fifteen minutes after they had arrived, a young man floated down one of the invisible staircases. He was wearing a white linen shirt, dark pants, and a smug expression. Approaching Justine and Nora, he said, “I’m Jay Davis, Mr. Barstow’s assistant. Alan is ready to see you now.”
Justine lifted her briefcase, feeling like she was carrying a dirty bomb, thinking, I doubt Alan is ready for this.
When they entered his office, Barstow was standing with his back to the door, shouting into the mic of his headset, “I said no, you dumb prick. Lily Padgett will not do a screen test. You made the deal and if you dare to break it, we’ll sue you for breach. We’ll take everything you’ve got including the sweat on your balls. Yes. A network series. Jerry Bruckheimer. She turned him down. Do you get me now?”
Barstow clicked off the phone, turned, and saw the two women come into his large, transparent corner office. His smile was bright and cold, like winter sun on a frozen lake.
“How’s Danny?” he asked, shaking Justine’s hand. “I hope you have good news.”
Justine introduced Nora as her partner and they took seats around Barstow’s coffee table, where they had a view of a Frank Stella construction the size of a barn wall, and a panoramic view out the window of West Hollywood and Beverly Hills.
But Justine was scrutinizing Alan Barstow.
He had acne scars and thinning hair and narrow shoulders, but he had swagger to spare. That came from being a top earner at CTM, from making millions upon millions every year.
Justine sat forward in a five-thousand-dollar armchair, put the Waterford crystal goblet she’d been sipping water from down on the Brazilian cherrywood table, and said, “Alan, we think we know who is responsible for Piper Winnick’s death, but we need your help.”
Barstow pressed a button on the arm of his chair and said, “Jay, no calls.” Then, “I’m all yours.”
Justine said, “We think Piper was killed by someone who was jealous of her relationship with Danny.”
“No kidding. That’s bizarre.”
“A few people knew about Danny and Piper. You, Merv Koulos, Larry Schuster, Danny’s friend Kovaks, and his assistant, Randy Boone. But Danny’s relationship with Piper wasn’t public knowledge. Neither was his cabin in Topanga.”
“So obviously someone close to Danny did it.”
“Yes. We think this man expected Piper to be grateful to him for getting her the part in the film and attracted to him because he’s a powerful guy, and he was furious that she ran off with Danny. So it makes sense that he drove to the cabin, woke Piper up, and got her to take a walk with him on the trail. We surmise that he argued with her. That things got physical.”
Barstow broke in. “Justine, are you making a pitch or do you want my help? Who the hell did this to my boy?”
“Someone who likes young girls, Alan. A man who has a real passion for young girls.”
Justine took the folder out of her briefcase, opened it on the table, turned it toward Barstow, and fanned out the pages.
Justine said, “This is what we’re going to show the police. And I have a feeling these mug shots are going to find their way to the Internet. Millions will know that Alan Barstow is a sex offender. That’s you, Alan. You’re the real deal.”