Oliver answered on the first ring. “Give me some good news, Liz.”
“Thaddeus Owen the Second is Jarret’s lawyer. Do you know him?”
“He’s an asshole,” Oliver said. “You’re sunk.”
“Please quit saying that. You’re not making me feel any better.”
“You didn’t hire me to cheer you up. What do you want me to say? Everything is peachy? Owen is a snake. Do you have any other news for me?”
“Jarret lied to me.”
“Shocker,” he said dryly. “When?”
“Tuesday morning, I asked him if he knew Laycee was in town. He said no. But the bartender at the Sportsmen’s Lodge saw her with Jarret on Monday night. The bartender also saw Laycee’s husband at the hotel the night before she died.”
“Good. Lies are good. Jerome is hiding something,” Oliver said.
“Jar—are you testing me again?”
Oliver chuckled. “You’re wising up. I’ll be in court all day. I’ll get McCormick to check out the victim’s husband. Remember—if Detective Pratt tries to contact you, have her call my office for an appointment on Monday.”
“Pratt talked to a trainer at Game On yesterday afternoon. She asked him questions about me.”
“Covering her bases, putting the pressure on us for a meeting, or both. Sit tight. We’ll talk later.”
Erzulie hopped on my desk for a scratch and some attention as I dialed Mom.
“I drew the Seven of Swords in my tarot reading this morning, dear,” she said. “Sneaky. Lies. I can’t wait to talk to that lowlife Jarret.”
“You don’t need to call him anymore. I found out his lawyer’s name this morning.”
She sighed. I shared her disappointment—Jarret deserved a dose of Mom’s wrath.
“I left him another message an hour ago,” she said. “I almost hope he doesn’t call me back. I’m too angry to be civil.”
“I wouldn’t worry but if he does, don’t let him rattle you.”
“Your father and I are going downtown to talk to the people in the coroner’s office then have lunch at the Pacific Dining Car.”
I pictured Mom decked out in one of her pink suits and designer handbags, hanging out at the morgue. “Why is Dad taking you to the coroner’s?”
“I didn’t give him much of a choice,” she said. “Either take me along or let me go to the hotel to confront Jarret. He decided on my company. But I’m worried about you, dear. What are you doing today?”
“Nick and I are meeting with the devil worshiper.”
“You’re going along?”
“Nick didn’t have a choice either.”
Bustling to the kitchen fueled by nervous energy, I took my backpack to the laundry room, put my dirty gym clothes on top of the washing machine, and cleaned out Erzulie’s litter box. Then I puttered in the kitchen until I ran out of counters to wipe and dishes to wash. I was unpacking a box of winter sweaters upstairs in the guest bedroom when Nick texted he would pick me up at noon to meet Horus. Get ready in ninety minutes? Gee, I could try.
What would one wear to meet a devil worshiper? Red? Nick came with a colorful and unusual array of associates and I had to admit, the few I met fascinated me. The voodoo priest and Santeria santera I befriended through him turned out to be lovely people.
Robin called while I stood at the dusty mirror in my bathroom, adding a second layer of mascara to the slowest makeup job on record.
“You’re going to love this,” she said. “The gal I called at Atlanta Wife Life told me your Billy Miles is a fake.”
I put the mascara down. “A fake what?”
“Producer. William H. Miles, the producer of Atlanta Wife Life, is fifty and lives in Bel-Air with his second wife and their daughter, a freshman at USC Film School.”
Her description didn’t fit the Billy Miles I talked to at the gym earlier. “Then who—?”
“Billy Miles is William’s nephew and a professional slacker. Billy had one shot at a production and failed miserably. Uncle William demoted him to a useless job at the network to keep him out of trouble. Now Billy is little more than a gopher riding the nepotism train.”
“I spoke to Billy. He acts and talks like he’s connected.”
“Oh, he’s connected. Billy can speed-dial every ma?tre d’, car service, and florist in town.”
“He told me he spends half of his time on the set in Atlanta,” I said.
“Right. With William. Billy tags along to drive the uncle around, scout restaurants, get the laundry done. He’s sort of like his uncle’s road manager.”
“What about the party Billy threw at Dodger Stadium? Kyle was there.”
“The ATTAGIRL sales staff threw the party for advertisers. Billy has access to tickets to the ATTAGIRL suite at every sporting event,” Robin said.
“I can buy a pretense of importance. Billy Miles isn’t the first person in Hollywood claiming to be something he’s not. Can he audition actors for the ATTAGIRL shows?”
“They won’t let him near the cast,” Robin said. “Everything you heard about Billy Miles is a lie.”
Chapter Eighteen