Wild L.A. Page 3

  I had to admit, the star treatment didn't suck.

  After a short drive, we pulled into the Château Montmar. Nash hopped out of the car and pulled open my door. He snatched my bag from the trunk, and I told him I could handle it from there. I put $20 in his hand, and he nodded with appreciation. He gave me his card and told me to call if I needed a ride anywhere.

  "Welcome back, Mr. Wild," the desk clerk said as I stepped to the counter.

  After a few keystrokes, I was handed keys, and a bellhop escorted me to my room. He showed me about the suite, and I placed a tip in the bellhop’s palm. With that, he was gone.

  I had the room to myself.

  The old hotel was full of stories, and the walls kept their secrets well. The accommodations were nice, but not opulent. I guess that was part of its old-world charm. It was a castle perched at the foot of the Hollywood Hills, ensconced by trees. A monument to Hollywood excess.

  Full of scandal and history, it exuded glamour and depravity at the same time—an enigmatic presence that was almost alive. A place where you could lose or find yourself. Another world where the conventional rules didn't seem to apply. The lure of pleasure and sinful delights beckoned.

  LA was the type of place where everything could be had for a price. And people would sell their soul just to pay the rent. Anything for a chance to stay one more day in the city of infinite possibilities. One more day to step through the looking glass. A city full of hopes and dreams, which often ended as broken nightmares.

  What happened at the Château, stayed at the Château.

  My suite had two bedrooms, a living area, a kitchen, and a small office space. A cozy crib, suitable for a brief stay, or an extended escape that could last weeks or months—if you could pay the bill.

  On the desk was a stack of personalized stationery.

  I called my agent, Joel, and let him know that I was in town.

  "Excellent. I take it you had a good flight?"

  "I'm alive and in one piece."

  “Always a plus. David’s already checked into the Château. He wants to sequester in for as long as it takes to get the first season of episodes outlined.”

  As nice as the hotel was, I didn’t want to be cooped up for days on end.

  “Whenever you’re settled in, give him a call, and you two can agree on a schedule. Keep me posted.”

  I ended the call. Before I rang David, I called Tracy Thomas and let her know that I had arrived in Los Angeles. I told her I would look into her daughter’s case as time permitted.

  Part of me thought I would come to the conclusion that Mia Sophia’s death was due to the excesses of a young starlet. But there was that voice in the back of my mind that said there was something more.

  From my hotel room, I could see the pool below where Mia Sophia had died. If only these walls could talk.

  6

  "Margot Wade," Tracy said, her voice crackling through the speaker on my phone. "That's who you need to talk to. She was friends with Mia in high school. That's who Mia stayed with when she first moved to Los Angeles."

  "Have you spoken with her?" I asked.

  "Briefly. She didn't have much to say. She was in a rush, heading out to an audition. Said she hadn't seen Mia in a long time. I got the sense that there was something she wasn't telling me. But maybe that’s just my overactive imagination.”

  "Do you have a phone number and an address for her?" I asked.

  "Yeah. I’ll text you after we hang up.” She paused. “Also, the reporter. The one who got the autopsy report that I sent you. Lyric Stone. You might want to talk to her. She sounds like a real go-getter.”

  “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  Tracy thanked me again for taking a look into the case before I ended the call.

  I glanced at the time. I had arranged to meet David Cameron in the bar shortly. I figured I'd give Margot a call after my meeting with David.

  I left my room and headed down to the bar. It wasn’t nearly as crowded as it would get in the evenings, but there were still quite a few people in the establishment. It was a typical Hollywood scene—people enjoying expensive happy hour drinks, closing deals, pitching projects. You couldn't take a step in Los Angeles without tripping over the business. It was everywhere. Everyone had a story to tell, a project to hustle, a dream to fulfill.

  At night, the bar was more seductive and alluring. More mystical. During the day, it seemed less mysterious.

  I scanned the secluded booths, the deep couches, the oak bar—David hadn't arrived yet.

  I made my way to the bar and leaned against the counter. It didn't take long to get the bartender's attention. I flashed my badge quickly. I had no jurisdiction here, but the flicker of a shiny gold shield usually got people's attention. Most of the time they didn't really bother to look at it.

  I surveyed the bartender carefully, trying to place his face in my memory, but he didn’t look familiar. "You weren’t here the night Mia Sophia passed, were you?"

  He shook his head. "No. I was off that night."

  He wore a white shirt, black vest, and black tie. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and chiseled features. Probably a model or an actor looking to catch a break, paying the bills in the meantime by slinging drinks.

  "You want to talk to Marcel,” he continued.

  “Is he around?"

  "No. I think he's in tomorrow evening."

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see David’s smiling face. We shook hands.

  "Good to see you, buddy," David said.

  "And you. You’re looking well."

  "I feel great," David said, exuberant. "Not bad for a guy who was at death's door."

  I had to agree. There didn't seem to be any residual effects from the accident.

  David was in his mid-30s, had brown hair, and a well-trimmed goatee. He was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. The guy had been responsible for a few of the highest-grossing franchises of all time. He was surprisingly down to earth and devoid of any ego. From what I had observed in my dealings with him, he didn’t fall into the trappings of Hollywood. He seemed to have a true passion for the work and a commitment to telling stories that took audiences on an enjoyable ride.

  David motioned to a secluded booth. “Let’s grab a seat."

  We drifted through the dim bar and slid into a curved leather booth with a deep-buttoned Chesterfield-style cushion on the back.

  "What was it like?" David asked, leaning into the table, whispering.

  "What was what like?"

  "You know, dying?"

  I took a deep breath, not sure how much detail I wanted to go into about my near death experience. "It wasn't pleasant, let's put it that way."

  "Did you see the other side?"

  I shrugged. "I was a traveler on a journey to an unknown destination. A destination I didn't necessarily want to be at, if you get my drift."

  A wave of recognition flashed in David's eyes.

  "It was as real as anything I had ever experienced."

  “So, you went to the other place," David said, curious.

  I nodded.

  "But yet you’re back. You got a second chance."

  "Indeed. And I intend to make the most of it."

  The wheels turned behind David’s eyes.

  "What about you?" I asked, turning the tables.

  "When I was in a coma? I felt like I was hanging on between here and there. A weird dreamland. I can't make much sense of it. But I felt like I was given the choice to stay or go. And I remember saying I'm not ready to go yet. Though, it didn't seem like a bad place to go."

  "Lucky for you," I said.

  "You seem like a decent guy, Tyson. I'm curious as to why you would go to the other place."

  I forced a smile. "I guess it's just my charming personality."

  David chuckled. "You’ll have to be more forthcoming than that. We're developing a TV show, after all. We need drama and intrigue. Danger and excitement. Love and loss."

&nb
sp; "Don't worry. There's plenty of that."

  He chuckled again. "If you haven't gathered, I'm a very intense and focused guy. Over the next few days, I want to devote all of my energy to mapping out the basic series arc. From there, we’ll give the outline to the writers, and they will craft the episodes. I consider you a friend, Tyson. And by the end of this process, I hope we both will have a deeper understanding of one another. And hopefully, we won't want to kill each other."

  I laughed. "It's just a TV show."

  "Yes, but I’m passionate about everything I do. And I have a feeling you're the same way. Though, something tells me your passions are quite a bit more violent than mine. I just fantasize about car chases and helicopters exploding. Chasing down bad guys and saving the world. You actually do those things."

  I feigned modesty. "From time to time."

  "I figured we could lock ourselves in a hotel room, do a bunch of cocaine, and knock this thing out in no time."

  I gave him a look.

  "I'm kidding about the cocaine. But there's no law against overdosing on coffee."

  We shared a laugh.

  "How do we start?" I asked. "For the Bree Taylor project, I just told my story, and the writer turned it into something that was a reasonable facsimile of reality."

  "I need to absorb the information. I think we should have a few drinks and you just tell me stories. From there, I'll start breaking the ideas down into episodes, and create an overall season arc." David smiled. "Trust me. It's not going to feel like work. This is the fun part. The idea stage. It's not the brain-bleed stage."

  "What's the brain-bleed stage?” I asked with concern.

  "That's when you stare at a blank page and you have to make sense of all your notes."

  We laughed again.

  A cute waitress in a white blouse and black skirt swung by the table and took our drink order.

  I began to regale David with wild tales of adventure. Most of them true.

  7

  We drank into the night, shot the shit, and had a good time. It didn't seem like work at all. It was hard to believe I was getting paid millions for this. But, as David said, this was the easy part. Fortunately, I didn't have to deal with the hard part. I’d been keeping a daily journal, but that wasn’t for public consumption.

  After the sun went down, the bar filled, and the volume rose. The once subtle murmur of conversation turned into a roar, and the music adjusted to compensate.

  It was probably a little after 10 PM when we decided to wrap things up. David said he had enough ideas to kick around and that we would touch base tomorrow. We shook hands, and David left the bar, heading back to his room. I had a hunch he would stay up all night long writing and organizing his thoughts. Who knows, maybe he wasn’t joking about the cocaine?

  I texted Mia’s friend, Margot. [My name is Deputy Tyson Wild. I'm looking into Mia Sophia's death. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.]

  I wasn't sure if I'd get a reply.

  It wasn’t late by LA standards. But a text from a cop in the middle of the night might not be Margot’s highest priority to return.

  I hung out in the booth for a moment, taking in the scenery. The bar was filled with pretty people, impeccably dressed. There were tight dresses and low-cut tops. Men in casual business attire. There were expensive watches and glittering diamonds dangling from necklaces, accenting svelte collarbones.

  I recognized a few celebrities.

  The hotel bar was the kind of place where the famous could drift about almost unseen. It was one of the reasons they came here. A private playground in the middle of the Los Angeles jungle. There were no paparazzi inside. No one to chronicle your ill-advised indulgences. At least, not until you left the hotel property. Outside, there was a gaggle of paparazzi waiting to spring out of the bushes to capture embarrassing moments. Inside, the hotel was a sanctuary for the elite.

  A text from Margot dinged my phone. [Why do you want to talk to me?]

  [You two were friends at one point, weren't you?]

  [Yeah, but not anymore. I hadn't seen Mia in a long time before her death. I don't know how talking to me is going to help your investigation.]

  [Just trying to get a sense of who she was.]

  [Read the gossip blogs.]

  [That's not the information I'm looking for.]

  [She got carried away with the drugs, drank too much, and drowned. What is there to investigate?]

  [I was the one who pulled her out of the pool. Call it a personal interest. I think she may have been murdered.]

  My mildly inebriated eyes stared at the screen, waiting for a reply. Several minutes passed without one. Then I saw a text bubble forming on the screen. An instant later, another message buzzed through from Margot.

  [I’m working. Can we talk about this later?]

  [Sure. Where do you work?]

  [Girls Unlimited.]

  [I could stop by…]

  [Rent is due. I don't have time for chitchat.]

  [I’ll be a paying customer.]

  The screen was blank for a moment.

  [Ask for Jade. That's my stage name.]

  I slipped the phone into my pocket and slid out of the booth. It looked like I'd be paying a visit to the infamous strip club, strictly for professional reasons, of course.

  I left the hotel bar and stepped onto the sidewalk. Engines rumbled as cars barreled down Sunset Boulevard. Brilliant headlights squinted my eyes after an evening in the dim bar. The smell of exhaust filled the air. Buildings were illuminated with strategically placed lighting, and the glow of neon spilled across the boulevard. Billboards advertising movies and television shows towered overhead. Iconic structures lined the street.

  Girls Unlimited was only a few blocks away. Everything was at your fingertips in West Hollywood.

  I strolled down the sidewalk, and the cool California air blew through my hair. Pink and blue neon lights flickered. The light tubes were curved into the outline of exotic dancers. Several outlines, attached to the side of the building, flickered through different poses, giving the illusion of movement. Overhead, GIRLS UNLIMITED shone bright and buzzed. Moths and gnats swirled around the glowing tubes.

  I stepped underneath a black awning and flashed my badge to the bouncer, who wore a dark gray suit with a black shirt. He waved me inside, then tapped his earbud and communicated with somebody inside the club. I couldn’t hear exactly what he said. Then he shouted to the cashier. "No cover."

  I nodded and smiled at the cashier, then strutted inside.

  Music pumped through speakers, and spotlights slashed the foggy air. Girls in spike-heeled shoes hugged chrome poles, twirling around, performing acrobatic feats worthy of an Olympic competition. They pranced like show ponies atop mirrored stages, undulating in rhythm to the beat. Dollar bills hung from G-strings. Voluptuous curves were on full display. Skin shimmered with moisturizer. Perky melons jiggled and bounced.

  The place smelled like cheap perfume, watered-down whiskey, and bad decisions. Guys drooled on themselves, huddled around the stages. Girls writhed, rubbing their wares against lustful laps. I was pretty sure in the dark corners there was a little more than just lap dances going on.

  A short man wearing a maroon leather blazer approached. He had dark hair, thinning on top, and a big nose. I noticed he had an earbud. The door guy had no doubt alerted him to my presence. I'm sure word was spreading through the club that law enforcement had arrived, allowing the girls to desist from any illicit activity.

  The short man greeted me with a smile. "How can I help you this evening?”

  "I'm looking for Jade."

  “She in any trouble?"

  "No. Nothing like that. Personal business. Relax, I'm just here to have fun."

  The manager seemed relieved. "Excellent." His beady eyes scanned the club. "She's right over there," he said, pointing to the gorgeous brunette giving a gentleman what looked like a mighty fine lap dance. "Why don’t you have a seat, make yourself comfortable. Fi
rst round’s on the house. I'll send Jade over as soon as she's done with her client."

  I nodded appreciatively and found a seat not far from the stage and surveyed the talent. This place was full of it. There was something for everyone here. No matter what your taste, you could find the woman of your dreams—willing to be yours until the money ran out. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Tall girls, skinny girls, healthy girls. There were retro-pinup Queens. Goth girls with raven black hair and black fingernails. Punk rock girls with blonde hair, blue hair, pixie cuts, and pigtails.

  The bass drum thumped my chest, and the DJ introduced performers to the stage. "Charity, stage II. Charity, stage II!"

  I watched the manager meander over to Jade and whisper in her ear. Her eyes flicked to me for a moment, then darted away.

  A waitress in black lingerie, garter belt, and fishnet stockings pranced by my table. She had short dark hair, cut in a severe, stylish bob. "What can I get you?”

  “Whisky. Rocks."

  She nodded, spun around, and strutted to the bar. It was hard not to follow her with my eyes for a moment.

  I thought about JD and wondered how things were going back in Coconut Key. I figured he’d love this place. But Sloan seemed to have tamed his wandering eye for the moment.

  The waitress returned with my glass and set it on the table before me. I took a sip, and it was anything but smooth. But by this point in the evening, I had already downed several and wasn't as picky.

  Jade sat with her client for another few minutes, then climbed out of his lap and got dressed—and when I say dressed, I mean she put on her bra. She bent over and gave her client a kiss on the cheek, then spun around and sauntered in my direction.

  8

  It was easy to see how Margot had picked her stage name, Jade. Her emerald eyes were almost luminescent. They caught the subtlest amount of light and reflected it, almost like a cat’s eyes. Her dark hair accentuated her creamy skin that was lightly speckled with freckles across the nose and cheeks. Her red, full lips could spark lustful fantasies.