“I’m afraid someone else beat you to the shock factor,” I said. “I found out last night that Berenbaum’s been protecting him, though I’ll confess I didn’t know he was giving him room and board. God, the brass balls on that man. Looked me right in the face and spun all kinds of bullshit. I don’t suppose you could tell me his address?”
He slid the photos possessively back into the envelope. “I will if you’ll tell me why David, John, and Vivian keep meeting in secret at the studio.”
“They’re not plotting against Inaya,” I said, handing him the burrito marked SPICY and then starting to unwrap mine. “I promise you that much.”
“Then why is she being cut out of the discussions?”
“It’s personal stuff between the three of them that it wouldn’t be right to talk about. But I know exactly what’s going on, and it has nothing to do with Inaya, cross my heart. It’s all Johnny drama.”
“And I’m supposed to just take your word for this?”
For a moment I didn’t have an answer for him, but after a bite of burrito to jump-start my blood sugar, my brain kicked back into gear.
“I have a better idea, actually. Give me David’s address.”
“What do I get in return?”
“I have an advantage that you don’t. Johnny actually wants to see me. If I can talk to him, maybe he and I can figure out how to put Inaya at ease. It doesn’t help anyone if she’s so para-noid she’s got people spying on him.”
Ellis exhaled. “Fine,” he said, standing and dusting off his trousers. “But if I don’t hear from you by tomorrow morning, I’ll be back, and this time I won’t be bringing you breakfast.”
? ? ?
The drive up into the Hollywood Hills in the back of a cab was both breathtaking and nauseating. Nice view, but I could have done without the speed at which the cabdriver decided it was safe to take the curves.
A gate closed off David’s neighborhood from random traffic. The gal working there asked for my name (“Millicent Roper”), identification (useless driver’s license), and reason for visiting (“friend of the Berenbaums”), then disappeared into her booth for a moment doing God knows what. Tense, I found myself wondering what exactly Ellis had told this lady, or if he had found a way to sneak past her that I hadn’t thought of. Finally she emerged, handed me back my driver’s license, and to my surprise waved the cab through.
Berenbaum’s house was situated along a narrow lane with houses on one side and a steep dropoff on the other. There was nothing to mark the house as his other than the street number Ellis had given me and the blush-peach stucco I recognized from the photograph. It wasn’t a palace; there were no peacocks or fountains, but anything in that location with any sort of yard was evidence enough of spectacular wealth. In lieu of a manicured lawn, the entire property was xeriscaped with native ground-cover plants, broken up by delicate splashes of California wildflowers and organic arrangements of rocks.
I knew Berenbaum was probably at work on a Monday morning, but it wasn’t him I was here to see. I made my way down the walk to the front door and rapped on it, taking a deep breath.
The baying of dogs approached like a roll of thunder, and then a young man with artfully disheveled hair answered my knock. He looked like he was waiting for one small reason to give a kill command to the pair of ginger Dobermans behind him.
Since he wasn’t glowing, I took off my sunglasses and conjured up a mental image of Rivenholt’s latest drawing.
“Hi!” I said, using the rush of pleasure it gave me to power up my smile. “It’s Millie. I’m here to see Johnny.” Dilated pupils are what make eyes seem to sparkle. People respond to this sign of joy on an unconscious level, warming to you without really knowing why. An old sales trick.
He seemed to relax a little. “Nobody named Johnny lives here. Are you sure you have the right house?”
“Pretty sure,” I said. “Johnny’s staying with David right now, I thought.”
“Uh . . . Can you wait here just a moment?”
“Sure!” I said, trying to project confidence.
I waited, and the dogs barked a few more times. When the door opened again, it was Mrs. Berenbaum.
I stood up straighter. David’s wife had silver-streaked red hair, a creased forehead, and the kind of thick-waisted figure that most people in Los Angeles would find revolting. She could have afforded any kind of work she wanted done, but she’d apparently abstained even though women half her age probably hit on her husband every day. For a moment I was tongue-tied by a paralyzing wave of respect.
“Hello,” she said with a wan smile. “You’ve caught me a little off guard; I’m not really set up for company. I’m Linda.” At further barking, she called over her shoulder, “Stefan, take Rick and Ilsa out back.” She turned to me. “Sorry, that’s our housekeeper, Stefan, and those are David’s dogs. Harmless, but loud. Kind of like David that way.”