Hollywood Tough (2002) (27 page)

"I'm doing the best I can," he flared.

"It's like everything is coming apart at once," she complained. "Chooch is missing and that's got me worried sick. This damn gang war is escalating. Now I've got this mess with Valentine, and to top it off, Nora just told me she needs more help with the wedding. One of her bridesmaids
,
the one from Michigan, who was handling the flower arrangements and the chapel decorations, is AWOL and won't be out here till the day before the ceremony. All that got dumped on me this afternoon."

"So tell her no."

"How can I tell her that after all she's done for me?"

Shane knew it was absolutely the wrong time to tell Alexa about Farrell Champion. So why on God's earth did he ignore his instinct? But right there, on Sunset, just as he was nearing the 405, that's exactly what he did.

"Speaking of the wedding, it's just possible that Farrell isn't all we'd hoped for." Shane had his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, his stare locked on the street ahead, but he could feel her anger pulsing across the seat at him, heating the side of his face.

"Isn't all we'd hoped for? Just what the hell does that mean?"

'Well, remember his bad joke?"

"Oh, no. Please don't tell me you've been investigating that."

"Honey, it wasn't a joke. Farrell does have two dead exwives--both from food poisoning."

"You promised me." She sounded exhausted, or resigned, or maybe it was just that she was massively disappointed.

"I know I promised, but dammit, I had a strong hunch, a feeling I just couldn't ignore. I couldn't."

"Why?"

"Because this guy's not Prince Charming. He's not even a halfway decent frog. In fact, cutting to the sleazy bottom line, he's a complete shit who skagged two ex-wives, got busted for it by the A
. G
. in Washington, then rolled over on a drug-money laundering scam he was doing in Panama to beat the double-one." Shane pulled Fineburg's fax picture out of his pocket and handed it to Alexa, who studied it for a minute, then pitched it into the ever-increasing distance between them.

"This isn't him. It's somebody named Daniel Zelso.

Doesn't even faintly resemble Farrell," she said disdainfully.

"It's him before the face job. I got prints from his house, Alexa. He's running around testifying for the feds behind a screen while they protect his identity in WITSEC."

She was staring down at the picture on the seat; then she put her hands up to her face and started to weep.

Shane had just passed over the freeway west of UCLA and was now heading west toward Pacific Palisades. As he slowed, a line of angry drivers started honking behind him, so he made a right onto Barrington. The houses here were large, the lawns well cared for, the neighborhood made famous by O
. J
. Shane pulled to the curb away from the streetlight and parked. In the front seat, beside him, his beautiful, strong wife was slowly coming unglued.

"Honey . . ."

"Shut up." She turned her back to him. "Just please shut up." Now facing the side window, sobbing.

Shane knew a lot of things were causing her meltdown. Lack of sleep was probably at the center of it, plus the stress of not knowing where Chooch was. Everything seemed to be hitting them at once.

"Honey, Farrell's a bad guy. I know I made a promise. I know I broke it, and I'm really sorry. I'd do anything if it hadn't come out this way, but dammit, I love Nora, too. She's my friend as well as yours. I had a hunch Farrell was lying and now it turns out he's a money-laundering murderer."

Shane looked at the dashboard clock: 7:06. He knew they couldn't run a scam on Dennis Valentine with their personal lives falling apart like this. What was he thinking? Why the hell had he told her all this now?

Of course there were two reasons: first, Alexa was the strongest, smartest person he knew, and he needed to strategize with her; second, he simply had a horrible time lying to her.

Finally, she turned to face him. "We better get going. It's after seven," she said, opening her purse and taking ou
t a
pack of Kleenex. She blew her nose, then threw the tissues back inside the purse, snapping it shut.

"Honey, I'm sorry."

"We can't deal with it now. I've gotta get my wits about me. You said it's up on Mandeville Canyon. That's only a few minutes from here."

"Alexa . . ."

"Shane, stop it. I'll get over it. Let's go. I have to get back to Parker Center."

He put the Acura in gear, swung a U back to Sunset, then resumed his trip to Dennis Valentine's house. They turned onto Mandeville Canyon and finally pulled up to his brightly lit gatehouse. Shane looked over at Alexa. She was bathed in the glow coming through the side window. "Honey, are you sure you're up to this?"

"Just ring the fucking buzzer," she said and sighed.

Chapter
29.

They headed up the winding driveway and were met by two bodyguards in dark suits, who motioned them around to the side of the mansion. Another of Dennis Valente's long-armed, short-haired enforcers was waiting in the parking area for them. When Shane and Alexa got out of the car, the man walked over carrying the same 2300 Frequency Finder that Gino had used on him the day before.

The goon came to a stop a few feet away. "I'm Silvio Cardetti," he said respectfully. "Mr. Valentine likes to know that none of his conversations are being recorded. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but if you could both turn around, please."

Shane and Alexa complied, then one at a time, Silvio ran the wand up and down their bodies. The little StarTAC cell phone clipped to Shane's belt was turned off so it didn't register on the meter. But Silvio did find both of their weapons.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you leave your guns in the car?"

Shane unstrapped his piece from its ankle holster; Alexa took the Spanish 9mm Astra out of her purse. They locked both weapons in the trunk of the Acura, then Silvio led them to the front door of the estate.

"How's Gino?" Shane asked to make conversation.

"Back in New Jersey, recuperating. Mr. DeCesare sent the jet to pick him up."

They walked up onto the porch and Silvio rang the doorbell, which chimed the first eight notes of Kenny Rogers's "The Gambler." The carved oak door was immediately unlatched and Dennis Valentine stood there, smiling widely. He was dressed like the Easter bunny: white shirt, white silk tie, white pleated pants, Pat Boone bucks. A threequarter-cut white blazer with matching silk pocket square completed the ensemble. It took a very handsome, self-assured guy to pull it off. . . . Champagne Dennis was managing to stay just inside the boundaries of fashion comedy.

"They're clean," Silvio reported, holding up the state-of-the-art frequency finder.

Dennis stepped aside grandly, motioning them into the magnificent but overdecorated front room. It looked as if his interior designer had managed to sell him everything on the showroom floor. The large living space was packed like a furniture warehouse.

On the far side of the room, dressed like a Frederick's of Hollywood model, was Lynette Valentine. She was in her late twenties, with long blond hair and a centerfold's body magnificently displayed in tight, leopard-print stretch pants and a plunging black top. Decorating her dainty feet were plastic platform heels.

"I'd like you to meet my wife, Lynette," Valentine said.

She moved across the room and extended a slender arm to Alexa, while giving her a competitive once-over. It was no contest as far as Shane was concerned, but he guessed there might be some men who would prefer Lynette's neon flashiness.

"Hi, we're Shane and Alexa," he said to her.

Lynette turned to check him out before she shook hands. It was a frank, inviting appraisal.

"Can I get anybody a glass of Tat?" Dennis smiled warmly.

"Do you have white wine?" Alexa asked.

"Certainly ck). And scotch for you, right, Shane?" Fo
r s
ome reason, Valentine skipped his vitamin lecture. He crossed the room to the bar, then opened the built-in refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of chardonnay, and went to work on it with a fancy corkscrew.

"We have terrible party curfews in this neighborhood," Lynette blurted out unexpectedly. "It's because some guy who publishes a men's magazine used to live up the street. He was trying to be Hugh Hefner or some damn thing, throwing all-nighters, cars parked everywhere. The neighbors got an ordinance passed. Denny tells me you're a policewoman."

"Yes. I'm a lieutenant in the LAPD." Alexa smiled. "Is there any damn way to get this curfew shit eliminated?"

Dennis made a quick move back across the room with the drinks. "I'm sure they don't want to hear about that, Lynny." He handed Shane a glass of scotch, neat, and gave Alexa her wine. Nothing for Lynette. Then he picked up his flute of Taittinger.

Lynette's expression had changed to a pout, but she stood her ground. "I'm just saying, we're trying to have some charity fund-raisers, like for the Children's Hospital and the Women's Rape Center. We understand you can get a lot of important actors and showpeople to these kinds of events, but this ten-thirty curfew shit makes it flicking impossible."

"Please, Lynny, not now," Valentine ordered. The smile he was giving her would have looked good on a reef shark.

"I'm just saying, maybe they could help us get the damned curfew canned," she persisted. "My God, Dennis, it was your fucking idea to do these silly parties, not mine."

"Will ya shut up?" he snapped, then turned to Shane and Alexa. "Why don't we go into the den?" Valentine escaped Lynette's whining by leading the way toward the back of the house.

"Nice to meet you, I guess." Lynette pouted as they left the room.

They were walking down a long corridor hung with colorful and expensive modern art. "These paintings are beautiful," Alexa said, pausing to admire one.

"You think? Personally, I don't get modern art. Thai' an Umberto Boccioni," Dennis said, flicking his thumb at the colorful, kaleidoscopic painting. "And that's a Gino Severini original . . . I think that's the Severini, maybe it's the Giacomo Balla, and the Severini is that one, on the other side, with all the circles and triangles." Then he stopped in front of a colorful brown and blue painting. "This is the only one I like," he said, smiling at it. "It's called Three Bluebirds Full of Marbles. I love that. Thing was painted by Jonathan Winters. Funny guy, but there was nothing funny about the price and they call me a criminal."

He moved on, stopping at another painting. "Lookit this thing. Cost me fifty grand. It's called Women with Flowers. So where're the fucking flowers? Lynette and the decorator picked all this stuff out. The art in this hall cost over two mil and except for the bluebirds, there ain't one of 'em I like."

They entered his den, which was masculine to a fault, hunting trophies and gun racks. Several game heads looked down from the walls with bored, glassy stares.

Alexa sat, but Shane remained standing.

"I understand you might be interested in helping me with a little project I got going here," Dennis began. He was smiling at Alexa, leering almost. Obviously he liked what he saw and seemed a little surprised by her beauty. She was a cop, so he'd probably been expecting a weight lifter with shoulders from Gold's and legs from Steinway. Instead, Alexa was beautiful enough to model.

Shane watched uncomfortably while the handsome mobster undressed his wife with his sexy bedroom eyes.

"If you have a business proposition," Alexa said, "then maybe we should hear it."

Shane reached under his jacket, took out his StarTAC and turned it on. Dennis was watching Alexa until Shan
e s
et the phone down on the bar top between them. His eyes flicked over to it.

"I'm expecting a call from Nicky. He's supposed to phone me with the time of Paul's casting meeting for tomorrow."

Valentine nodded, turning back to Alexa. "I'm new in town," the mobster started. "I'm sure your husband has told you about my family history. . . ."

"Yes. He said you're Don Carlo DeCesare's nephew."

Dennis nodded. "I'm also a businessman who occasionally takes a calculated risk with legal parameters."

"Are you trying to say you're involved in crime?"

A cold look suddenly appeared in Valentine's eyes.

"Listen, Mr. Valentine," Alexa continued, "you and I will do much better if we cut out the verbal calisthenics. Remember, cops have short attention spans and limited vocabularies. Why don't you just state what you want and we'll see where it goes from there?"

Good move, Alexa, Shane thought. It would force Dennis to describe his bribe in plain terms that wouldn't be subject to legal maneuvering in court where defense attorneys could argue "That's not what he meant." It would get Valentine to make a straight pitch, thus helping to avoid an entrapment defense.

"I'm looking to do a little price-fixing in the entertainment guilds," he finally said. "This could cause some of the hard-liners to go to the D
. A
. to seek relief. That happens, I might need someone on the cops to work something out for me. Make it go away."