Not So Model Home

CHAPTER 27


Okay, You Can Open Your Eyes Now

I slept soundly that night. When I got up in the morning, I got my chance to do what I came to Alex’s house for in the first place: snoop through his things. I wanted to see if his tales of “not seeing anyone special” were really true. They were. There were no pictures of new boyfriends in his clothing drawers, in his office, or the bathroom. And my photograph in a silver frame was still there on his bedside table that had the look that it was probably never moved, even when he brought a date home for the evening. Every time I came to his house, I always had to use the restroom so I could pass his bedroom and take a peek inside. I guess I was just looking for proof that we were soul mates. We still were. I just knew it was going to be a good day.

At 6 A.M., I drove over to Ian’s house for another day of shooting. The plan was to start off with a quiet memorial service at Ian’s house since Aleksei’s parents had disowned him years ago for first being gay, then being a model, then getting hooked on crystal meth. I can see tough love with a son on crystal, but for being gay and a model? What can you expect from Christian fundamentalist parents living in Indiana? So much for forgiveness and acceptance.

The service was small and, of course, being taped for the show. The difference between Keith’s and Aleksei’s services was that this one was being held indoors, away from hawks. And to avoid tempting fate, there would be no releasing of doves this time. Ian did summon his guru Sai Baba Shu Baba again to collect another five thousand dollars and lead us in a prayer for Aleksei’s soul so that it would transmutate or something into a tree or cow or merge with Shiva. I couldn’t understand half the things the guru muttered.

We stood, holding hands in a circle in Ian’s living room with our heads down for what seemed like an eternity. I kept staring down, noticing everything from the guru’s shoes (this time, monk straps probably by Crockett & Jones or maybe Church’s—I have to admit, the con man had great taste in shoes) to the other shoes in the cast, Drake’s, David’s, Ian’s, Darryn’s, then Aurora’s. I didn’t dare look up or around the room since the cameras were rolling. God, my neck was getting sore, I thought. How long can this guy go on chanting?

And then it hit me. Or rather, I saw it. Something I had seen somewhere else. And why it all bothered me from the moment I saw it. It was in front of me all the time. Staring me in the face and I missed it! I almost shouted, I was so excited about the possibility, but we had a whole day of shooting ahead of us. I could, however, slip out at lunch break since what I was looking for was right here on Ian’s grounds.

We were supposed to be, in Jeremy’s words, reaching the peak of the story arc, with the members of the show moving from “weakness to a place of strength,” whatever that was. All I saw was bitchiness, territorial marking, tempers flaring, and Aurora keeping a scorecard at the end of each show. It was hard to tell who was winning, but the viewers’ favorite was Darryn. Everyone loved Darryn, despite the fact that Aurora reiterated her belief that the winner had to be able to stand up to Ian’s reprehensible qualities. But make no mistake about it, the show had shot into the stratosphere in the ratings category. And although the Q Channel cable network was eager for even more people to add the premium channel to their home lineup, millions of viewers were watching the episodes on the Q Channel’s Web site, which was riddled with advertisements from some very happy companies. Then, during filming, Aurora announced that she was close to making a decision with Ian about the winner of the program. The timing was perfect, I thought.

We broke for lunch and I made my move. I went back out of the house, through the yard and directly to the potting shed, and went inside. This time, there was no creepy feeling of being followed or watched. There, on a bottom shelf was the one item that shouldn’t have been there: the dented paint can. A dent in the side or, to be more precise, a crunch in the side. Even more telling were the two dents in the bottom—each approximately one-fourth of an inch in diameter. Dents created from the outside of the bucket, not the inside. Exactly three inches apart. They were extremely significant, but they didn’t tell the whole story.

I put my find back on the shelf and went to my car to make a call to Detective Hallander where I wouldn’t be overheard. I told him about my discovery and said that we needed to talk to Jeremy as soon as he was finished shooting this afternoon. I also said that we had a lot of work to do over the weekend. Early next week, during a show’s taping, and just after the winner of the contest was announced, we would pounce.

I finished my call and as I was getting out of my car, I spotted a homeless man poking through the trash. Like so many of us, I normally move on after seeing them, and this only serves to make me feel guilty, since being invisible is the one thing they complain about the most. Anyway, something about this particular man struck me: He looked well dressed. Palm Springs has always had snappy dressers: Cary Grant, William Powell, and, ahem, Liberace, but our homeless have never made the pages of GQ. Something was wrong here, or actually, right here. There was a connection to the models in Ian’s house somehow. I crossed the street and approached the gentleman. As I looked him up and down, I saw that at the bottom of his pant leg there was a piece torn out about the size Knucklehead had removed from the cuff of my assailant last night. Eureka! I was right: This was going to be a great day.

“Excuse me, sir. Please don’t think I’m an a*shole, but where did you get your clothes?”

“These?” he said, somewhat startled. “They’re mine.”

“Yes, I see. I was just wondering where you got them from? They’re very nice . . . you look very nice. Snazzy,” I said with complete discomfort.

“I got ’em from the f*ckin’ Armani boutique in Milan.”

“I was just asking a question, sir, you don’t have to be rude about it,” I shot back, having screwed up my courage.

“You trying to have sex with me, lady?” he said, looking up at me. He then returned to pawing through and examining several empty bottles of men’s cologne.

“No, I was just wondering what charity organization gave you those clothes.”

He looked at me, exasperated. “No charity organization gave me these, ya goddamned bitch. I found them in the Dumpster behind the Hyatt.”

“You mean the Hyatt just down the street?”

“You know of any other Hyatts in town?” he sneered back.

Okay, easy now, Amanda. You’re getting somewhere. He just doesn’t like revealing his fashion sources.

“If you could give me those clothes, I’ll . . .” I said, thinking fast, “see to it that you receive a lot more nice clothes.”

“Get lost, you bitch, I’m not six years old. Give me more nice clothes! . . . F*ck! . . . You goddamn bitch!”

I was hit by a ray of light.

“Maybe this nice Mr. Jackson will help you change your mind,” I said, pulling a twenty-dollar bill from my purse and waving it as if it left a scent wafting through the air toward starving noses.

“A twenty! What do you think it is, lady? 1940? I wanna see more than that if you want me to give up these fancy duds. This suit was made by Anderson & Sheppard, the best tailor in London.”

“You know about them?” I asked.

“Yeah, I used to own four of their suits.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah, I used to be a Realtor. Until things got bad.”

“Shit. I’m about one commission check from joining you. But sir, please, I really need that suit!” I pleaded. I opened my purse and pulled eight more twenties and a fifty from my wallet. “Perhaps these will help. They’ll help keep that lonely Mr. Jackson company . . .” I tried to say, but Mr. Charming had already snatched the group of bills from my hand.

“Cut the private-eye crap, bitch. Like I said, it’s not 1940! I’ll get out of these right now if you’ll just leave me to my hunting and shut up about all the Dashiell Hammett shit.”

And he took everything off right there, standing naked right in front of me as cars drove by and mothers struggled to cover the eyes of their children in the backseat. I wandered over to my car, popped the back hatch, and threw the clothes inside, vowing to have them dry-cleaned at least twice. I looked at the label: Anderson & Sheppard. Oh man, this was going to be easy, I thought. As I turned around, my homeless man had already pulled out a T-shirt and shorts from Ian’s garbage and put them on. The T-shirt said, and I’m not kidding, GIORGIO ARMANI.