Killer Physique (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (17 page)

“We’re spoiled,” Savannah told him, “living where we do, there on the ocean. San Carmelita is nice.”

“That’s true. It is. I forget how nice until I come here to the val ey. Al the smog and the heat and the traffic and the noise.”

“I don’t blame the folks who live here for piling into their cars and racing to the beach every weekend.”

“I do,” Dirk grumbled. “I wish they’d keep their asses at home, where they belong.”

“That’s what I love about you, darlin’—your love for humanity.”

“I love humanity. But people . . . people suck.”

Uplifted by that sage bit of enlightened philosophy, Savannah turned her attention back to the business at hand. She glanced at the piece of paper in her lap and the address that Tammy had scribbled on it.

“We’re just about there,” she told him. “It should be in the next block on the right-hand side.” And sure enough, there it was. The simple little cottage Tammy had shown her on the computer screen. She recognized the curtain of red bougainvil ea nearly obscuring the right side of the house.

Savannah had two lovely bougainvil ea plants herself, one on each side of her front door. And even though she was very proud of them—and had even given them names, Bogey and Ilsa—she had to admit these were much larger and more lush than hers.

Down the driveway of broken cement at the back of the property sat the oversized garage she had seen from the satel ite image. One of the two doors was open, and she could see the rear end of a Cadil ac limousine.

She was pretty sure it was the one that had transported Jason Tyrone to the movie premiere on the day of his death.

Dirk parked the Buick at the curb. They both got out and started to walk up to the front door. But at that moment, Savannah saw a figure coming out of the garage.

It was the same man who had chauffeured Jason on the night of the show—Leland Porter, the proud owner of Diamond Transportation Services.

He looked quite different without his formal livery. Instead of the elegant black uniform, he wore a dingy, formerly white tee-shirt and jeans with ripped knees. And although it hadn’t been so obvious in his suit, his casual attire revealed a body that was nearly as muscular as the ones in the movie they had seen the other night.

In his hand he carried a portable vacuum cleaner and several attachments. When he spotted Savannah and Dirk, he set the vacuum on the driveway, brushed his palms off on the seat of his jeans, and walked over to them.

“Can I help you?” he asked with a friendly but curious tone.

They met him in the middle of the driveway.

Dirk extended his badge with his left hand and held out his right for a handshake. “I’m Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter with the San Carmelita Police Department.”

“And I’m Savannah Reid,” she said, “also from San Carmelita.”

Leland shook Savannah’s hand vigorously, then Dirk’s. “You two are a long way from home.”

“A half-hour, give or take,” Savannah added. “Three hours if there’s a nasty accident and everybody on the road wants to stop and gawk at it.”

“I hear ya,” Leland said with a chuckle. “I can’t tel you how many times I’ve been stuck in traffic for an hour, al because some blonde in a pair of short-shorts is changing a tire.”

Savannah and Dirk laughed along with him. But not for long.

“We need to talk to you about Jason Tyrone,” Dirk said abruptly. “I’m sure you heard what happened to him after you left him at the Island View Hotel.”

Leland nodded. “I heard he died in the middle of the night. Something about a heart attack and some drugs he was taking? I think that’s what they said on the eleven o’clock news last evening.”

Dirk nodded. “We were just at the hotel, looking at their security video. And as it turns out, you were the last one to see him alive.” Leland looked surprised. “Real y? Wow! That’s creepy. After I escorted him to his room, he told me that some friends of his were going to drop by very soon. So I figured he had somebody with him when he, wel , you know . . .”

“No,” Savannah said. “From what we know now, we think he was alone when he passed. By the time his friends had arrived he was already gone.”

Leland shook his head sadly. “Man, that’s too bad. Nobody should be al alone when they check out.” There was a long moment of silence, as though they were honoring the dead. Then he added, “It’s kind of ironic, when you think about it. Different magazines and newspapers had listed him as one of the sexiest men alive. There must’ve been ten mil ion people—especial y women—who would’ve been happy to hold his hand and comfort him until he was gone.”

“Yes, it is sad,” Savannah said. “But I reckon when it comes to the business of passing over to the other side, everybody’s pretty much on their own.”

The two men nodded in agreement, and al three stared down at the broken cement for a few seconds—again showing respect for the recently departed.

With her eyes averted, Savannah found herself looking at the front of Leland’s tee-shirt. The old fabric was thin, almost threadbare in places, and she couldn’t help but notice that he seemed to be wearing bandages on both of his nipples.

She did a quick mental scan of her memory banks, trying to think of any type of injury or medical condition that would warrant a man having to bandage his breasts.

She couldn’t help being curious. But it wasn’t the sort of thing you asked about. So she filed the information away for future consideration.

But not quite soon enough.

He had noticed her looking. She could see it in his eyes—the embarrassment, the humiliation. And she felt guilty for gawking.

After a few more moments of awkward silence, Leland said, “If you don’t mind me asking, why are the cops investigating his passing? From what they said on the news last night, I gathered it was an accidental overdose or something like that. One of the reporters even said it might’ve had something to do with him taking steroids—like doping, so that he could bulk up.”

“There’s no proof of that,” Savannah said. She could hear the indignation in her own voice. It was already beginning, the rumors, the sul ying of Jason Tyrone’s reputation.

So much for not speaking il of the dead.

Leland seemed to realize that he had offended her. He quickly added, “Right. The reporter even said that it was just speculation on her part, that they don’t know for sure.”

Savannah was eager to change the subject from Jason’s chosen medications. “How did he seem to you throughout the evening?” she asked.

“Anything unusual about his mood, or anything he said or did?”

Leland thought it over for a moment. “Not real y. He might’ve seemed a little nervous. Maybe a bit jumpy. But I figured it was just because of the premiere. Jason didn’t like that sort of thing. He was a big star and al that stuff, but he didn’t real y enjoy having the spotlight on him. He was always a little nervous at those sorts of events.”

“Sounds like you knew him pretty wel ,” Savannah observed.

“Had you driven him before?” Dirk wanted to know.

Leland smiled, and it was a sad, poignant smile. “Oh, I’ve known Jason for years. We were friends back when he first started bodybuilding. In fact, my claim to fame is that I was the one who first told him he should give it a whirl.”

“Real y?” Savannah was impressed.

“Yeah. He told everybody that if it hadn’t been for me, he never would’ve even tried it. But he was a big kid with way too much energy. I was into it myself, and I thought it might do him good.”

He paused and for a long, awkward moment, Savannah wondered if he was thinking the same thing she was. Maybe the thought had crossed his mind that if he hadn’t suggested that particular path to Jason, his friend might stil be alive.

“Now I feel guilty,” Leland admitted, instantly confirming her suspicions. “It’s almost like I kil ed him myself by even suggesting that he get into this mess.”

“This mess?” Dirk asked.

Leland shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’m sure it’s a positive thing for most builders. If you do it right, you wind up strong and healthy. Plus there’s the psychological boost it gives you—being your own personal best.”

A smal , shy smile crossed his face. “And then you’ve got the competitions. Nothing’s more fun than winning one of those big trophies with your name on it and sticking it on your mantelpiece.”

“Have you won quite a few of those?” Savannah asked.

“A couple of the major ones. But that was a long time ago.” He waved a hand in the direction of the garage and the limousine. “Now I mostly drive crazy teenagers to proms and stuff like that.”

“You don’t have a lot of celebrities on your client list?” Dirk asked.

“Naw. Just Jason. And that was only because he knew me from the old days, and he knew that I’m hurtin’ for cash. With the economy in the tank, not as many people pay for limousine service.” He paused, and a look of deep sadness crossed his face. “Jason was a real y good friend to me.

I’m sure going to miss him.”

“I’m real y sorry for your loss,” Savannah said. “I hate to ask what might be a painful question but can you tel me—what was the last thing he said to you, when you left him there at the hotel?”

“I don’t mind you asking, if you need to. I took him and his suitcases up to his suite. I set them down in his bedroom and asked him if he wanted me to stay for a while. Sometimes, when he had a suite like that, I’d hang out, maybe even spend the night on the sofa. A star like Jason has a lot of women after him. Guys, too, for that matter. The hotels do a pretty good job of keeping them away from the celebrity guests. But fans get pretty creative and insistent, too, pounding on the door at al hours. It helps to have somebody who can tel them to get lost.” Savannah considered his height and breadth. “And I’l bet you did that very wel .” He shrugged. “It’s not that hard. Most fans scare pretty easily.”

“But you didn’t stay that night, right?” Dirk asked.

“Right. He said a couple of his friends were going to be showing up any minute, and they were FBI agents. So he didn’t need any extra security.”

“And that’s when you left?” Savannah said.

“Yes, I thought he’d be al right. He seemed fine.” Leland’s entire body seemed to sag with the sadness of the memory. “Believe me, you never, never would’ve looked at him and thought, ‘He only has a matter of minutes to live.’ ”

“What do you think kil ed him?” Dirk asked.

Leland took a long time answering, and when he did, his voice was shaking. “I think that years ago a wel -meaning friend turned Jason on to bodybuilding. And in the end, the sport kil ed him. That’s what I believe happened. And I can tel you, thinking about that is going to keep me awake at night.”

No sooner had Savannah and Dirk left Leland and gotten back into the Buick when Savannah’s cel phone rang.

“It’s Tammy,” she said, looking at the cal er ID. “Wonder what she’s got.”

“What makes you think she’s got anything?”

“Tammy has her faults. But cal ing people to chat endlessly about nothing—that’s not one of them.”

“True. She waits until she’s face-to-face with you to bore you to death.”

“Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“There’s room for improvement.”

Savannah answered the phone. “Hi, puddin’ cat. What’s shakin’?”

“Dr. Liu cal ed,” was the cheerful response.

“Oh, yeah? What did she want?”

“To tel you that the funeral’s tomorrow at Forest Lawn.”

“Which one?”

“The one in Glendale where so many celebrities are buried. Sorta fitting, huh? It’s going to be at two in the afternoon. Are you going?”

“Absolutely. And so are you and Waycross.”

“Real y?”

Savannah could tel that Tammy was trying to stay calm, col ected, and respectful. It simply wasn’t couth to dance in your bloomers at the thought of going to someone’s, anyone’s, funeral.

“Yes,” Savannah told her. “We need your young eyes there to scope out the crowd.”

“To see who’s taking it hard . . . who isn’t taking it hard enough? To see who appears to be sincerely grieving and who’s just putting on a show to draw attention to themselves?”

“Exactly. Just like at your average Southern funeral, I’m sure that each of those groups wil be represented among the crowd.”

“I have to go buy a black dress.”

Savannah chuckled. “This is California. I’m pretty sure that anything even moderately somber wil do just fine.”

“Just no tropical or animal prints?”

“A quiet leopard would probably be okay.”

“And there’s something else I want to tel you about. Something I uncovered when I was researching.”

“Tel me al about it, kiddie-o.”

“Okay.” Tammy drew a deep breath. Such a big one that Savannah knew she was in for a long-winded tale and a half. “Here goes . . .”

“I told you she was a bag of hot air,” Dirk said when Savannah final y hung up the phone.

“You said she was an airhead.”

“And the discernible difference would be . . . ?”

“Before you switch al the way into Bash the Bimbo Mode, you should hear about the article she found online about Jason.” He drove the Buick south, heading for the Ventura Freeway. “Okay, lay it on me. What did she find that was so interesting?”

“It was an article on one of the bodybuilding sites about Jason and a problem he and some others were having. It’s what Ryan was tel ing us about in the hotel, where they obsess about getting bigger. Tammy says it’s a real disorder, sort of like anorexia.” Dirk snorted. “You can say what you want about Jason Tyrone, but he sure didn’t look like he starved himself to death.”

“I didn’t say it was exactly like anorexia, just similar because they’re both body dysmorphic disorders.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Wel , I’m no expert. But according to what Tammy just told me, the people who have these disorders don’t see their bodies the way they real y are.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw one of those gals on TV one time. She was talking about how fat she was, and she was nothing but skin and bones. She was regular height, but she weighed something like eighty pounds.”

Savannah nodded. “That’s right. And apparently, if you have this bigorexia disorder, you worry that you’re a wimp or whatever. No matter how big and muscular these guys are, they worry about being too smal . They think their muscles are underdeveloped and obsess about working out to make them bigger.”