The Last Story (8 page)

Roger had expensive tastes. We went to the restaurant inside the Beverly Hills Hotel, and after

we were seated, I found out that was where he was staying.

"But this place must cost five hundred a night," I said.

"My suite is actually closer to a thousand a night.

Why are you so shocked? You make twenty times that a day."

"But—" I began.

"But I'm not a famous writer like you?" Roger asked.

"I wasn't going to say that."

"But you were thinking it." He shrugged. "I come from an affluent background."

I remembered my comment to Henry about Roger's background. "What does your father do?" I asked.

"He's dead."

"What did he do?"

"I never knew my father or mother."

"Are you adopted?"

"In a manner of speaking. Tell me about your father."

I thought of Jean's father. "He died when I was young."

"Where did you grow up?"

"In east L.A."

"But Jo's from Huntington Beach. And you said the two of you went to high school together."

I hesitated. "We did. Didn't Jo tell you we did?"

"Yes. But I don't see how it's possible." He raised a hand as I began to protest. "It doesn't matter. I

have my secrets. You have your secrets. There's nothing wrong with that."

I held his eye a heartbeat too long to deny that what he had just said wasn't true. "I don't have many secrets," I said softly. There was something about his eyes that was so familiar. My response amused him.

"You have a few more every day, Shari."

He was referring to my being with him last night, this afternoon. His comment should have been enough to make me get up and leave. Yet I stayed.

Curiosity and pride kept me in my seat.

"We're both adults," I said. "Tell me about your adopted parents?"

"They were good people." He changed the subject.

"Where did you learn to write?"

"I'm self-taught."

"But you must have some inspiration?"

I had to smile. "Are you asking me where I get my ideas?"

"Why is that funny?"

"Everyone asks me that." I paused. "There's a troll in my bedroom closet. He inspires me."

"Have you ever met him?"

"He comes out occasionally."

Roger leaned over and took my hand, studying my palm, holding it close to the candle.

Close enough that I felt its heat. His face was serious.

"You know, they say you can read a person's whole life in the lines of their palm." He stroked my open hand gently with his fingertips—the sen sation was delicious. He traced a line that led from beneath my small finger in a straight line below my other fingers. "This is your heart line. It predicts your love life."

"How is it?" I asked.

"It forks at the end. A fork in one of the major lines shows great power in that area of life.

You have a big heart, Jean. You're compassionate and kind. But your heart line is also splintered." He pointed to a spot one-third of the way down the line. "Here, where the break is, you're about twenty-one years old."

"What does a splinter mean?"

"That your heart will be divided at that time."

"But I'm twenty-one now."

Roger nodded. "So you're in for interesting times. Let's see your intellect line. It comes from the other direction, and curves downward. You see it?"

"Yes. It's also forked."

"Yes. You're obviously intelligent. It has no breaks in it. Come what may, you will always keep your head."

I smiled nervously. "Even if my heart breaks?"

"That appears to be the case." He frowned.

"This is strange."

"What?"

"Your life line. It breaks around this time in your life. In fact, there are large gaps in the line. And then, a little later, it just runs out."

"What does that mean?"

He glanced up. "It means you're going to die."

I took back my palm. "I hardly think so," I replied sharply.

He sat back and chuckled. "It's only pretend, Shari. Don't get upset."

"I'm not upset."

"You're acting upset. Anyway, the first break in your life line occurred three years ago. If there was anything to it, you would be dead already."

Three years ago. That was when I was born.

CHAPTER

VIII

JL HAT SAME AFTERNOON I visited Private Detective John Garrett, who earlier had been Lieutenant John Garrett. Four years ago Garrett's brilliant detective work had been largely responsible for acquitting me of suicide and balcony diving. After I returned to Earth in Jean Rodrigues's body, and subsequently became rich and famous, I sent Garrett a cashiers' check for fifty thousand dollars.

I made the gift anonymously. Garrett promptly quit the force and set up shop as a private eye. I had kept loose track of his career, but never gathered the courage to visit him. Until today I'd had no burning need for a private detective. Now I thought I did.

"I have my secrets. You have your secrets. There's nothing wrong with that."

Had Roger's line been innocent? Or was he trying to tell me that he knew I was a Wanderer? I would have immediately dismissed the possibility except he had gone out of his way to point out the

discrepancy between Jo's story and mine. The guy was the star of my movie, I thought. I was making out with him. I had to know more about him.

The resume on the back of his picture, or headshot, was vague. He had done some Chicago theater, taken a few acting classes. Everything he listed had been done in the past twelve months. His permanent address was a P.O. box, his home phone number—a message service.

Briefly I considered trying to research his past myself, but decided I didn't have the time.

Besides, I didn't know the ins and outs of detecting. Garrett it would have to be.

I could have gone to any private detective, but I chose Garrett because I wanted to see him, with human eyes. See how he was doing. Thank him again, somehow, for what he had done for me.

When I walked into his office in Century City's twin towers and saw who his secretary was, I almost fainted.

"A leg! Give me her legs! They taste so good with sausage and eggs!"

His cute dark-haired daughter, the one Peter and I had gotten off drugs—by scaring the crap out of her—sat behind the desk. She seemed healthier and more stable than I was. She glanced up as I entered.

"Hello. May I help you?"

"I cannot stop him without your help, child. If you die on drugs, he will come for you."

I took a moment to collect my wits. "Is your father here?" I asked.

The young woman appeared surprised. "How

did you know Detective Garrett and I were related?"

I hesitated. "The person who referred me to your father told me."

"Oh. Who was that?"

"I can't remember his name." I nodded to her appointment book. "I called an hour ago. I was supposed to be here at three sharp. I'm sorry I'm twenty minutes late. I got caught in traffic."

I was late because I had gone back to ask Henry what he knew about Roger. Garrett would need something to start his investigation, that is, if he took the case. The office was nice, the rent high.

Garrett was obviously doing well.

"Have a seat please," the daughter said. "I'll tell my father you're here. Ms—?"

"Jean Rodrigues." I couldn't meet him as Shari Cooper. That was one name he would remember, I was sure.

She stood. "I'll be just a minute."

I was left waiting ten minutes, but finally I was ushered into Garrett's office, which had a glorious view of Beverly Hills and Westwood, gold plaques on the walls, and leather furniture.

The smell of success. He was talking on the phone and gestured for me to have a seat in front of his imposing desk.

Settling myself, I recalled how I had described him in my book.

He was a man on his way down in life. In his midforties, he had on a frumpy green sports coat and a wrinkled white shirt with a loosely knotted purple tie caught beneath his oversize belt.

He needed a

good meal. His thin brown hair was going gray, and his red wizened face had seen either too much sun or too much life. He looked burned out. He was lifting a pint of whiskey to his lips when I tapped on his window.

Garrett had found a new chef and tailor. Besides having gained weight and improved his wardrobe, I believed he must have had a facelift. He looked five years younger than when I met him the night I died.

He showed no signs of being an alcoholic now.

Finally he set down the phone and glanced over at me.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," he said. "I have a few rather intense clients. They call at all hours and want to know that everything's going to be all right."

"I imagine that it would take an intense person to come see you."

He chuckled. "Let's just say I haven't met many normal people lately. Except perhaps you. What can I do for you?"

"I need background information on a certain young man." I handed him Roger's picture and resume. "I work for a production company and this actor has recently been hired to star in a new film. A few members of the company feel uncomfortable about comments he's made about his past. There's a lot of money riding on this film"—I shrugged

"so you can understand why we're curious about the guy."

"What is the name of the production company?"

Garrett asked, studying Roger's picture.

I paused. "Cooper Productions."

"What is your position in the company?"

Damn, I thought. He'd know I was the Shari Cooper before the week was out. God, what if he read Remember Me? I had changed his name to Garrison in the book, but that would stop him for maybe two seconds. Maybe Jimmy was right, I thought. I shouldn't have published the book, not and made it so close to actual events. I thought of my mother then and wondered if she had already read the story.

I had been naive, however, to think Garrett wouldn't question me about why I wanted the information. Obviously he had to be careful to protect himself. I took too long to answer his question.

"I'm the president," I said. He would quickly learn the truth if I lied. He sat up in surprise.

"Forgive me for saying this, Ms. Rodrigues, but you look kind of young to be president of a company."

"Thank you," I said, hoping my wit could deflect his curiosity.

He smiled again. "What is the title of the film you're producing?"

"It's called First to Die. It's a thriller."

He frowned. "That sounds familiar. I think my daughter may have read that book."

"It's a popular title." I didn't want to get into a discussion about the author, so I continued hastily.

"Our production company would be happy to pay you double your normal salary to research this guy.

We are about to start shooting so you can understand our need for haste."

Garrett was blunt. "Not really. What has the guy said that makes you suspicious of him?"

"He's been vague about his past."

"So? Forgive me, Ms. Rodrigues, but if he can act and stay sober throughout the shoot, why do you care about his history?"

I spoke carefully. "We have learned from past experience that it's risky to have an actor who is, say, addicted to drugs, on the set of a film." I added, "I'm sure you can understand how volatile that would make our working relationship."

My indirect reference to his daughter's past behavior had a settling effect on Garrett, but he remained wary. "What do you want to know about the guy?"

"Anything you can find out. Where he was born.

Who his family is. Does he have a police record.

Where he came by his money."

"He has money? How much?"

"I don't know, but he's staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel." I removed a scrap of paper from my purse. "He drives a brand-new black Corvette. I took the liberty of writing down his license plate number." I handed the paper to Garrett. "I would like you to run a DMV check on him as well. I assume that presents no problem for you."

He studied the number. "Is this a California license plate?"

"Yes."

He sighed softly. Something about the case both

ered him. "My normal fee is two hundred dollars an hour."

"Then we'll pay you four hundred dollars an hour." I took out my checkbook. "Speed is essential.

If you could start researching him today, it would be appreciated. Would a ten thousand dollar retainer be satisfactory?"

"More than satisfactory. Tell me, Ms. Rodrigues, are you personally involved with this guy?"

I paused as I wrote. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. Are you?"

"No." I finished writing the check and handed it to him. "When do you think you'll have something for me?"

"Probably tomorrow. But it would help if you could be more specific about what you want to know about him."

"I've told you what I want."

"Maybe, but I get the idea you're searching for a particular incident in his past. Am I correct?"

I paused. "I want to know if there was a point in Roger Teller's life when everything changed for him."

"For good or bad?"

I shrugged. "Either way."

I could see Garrett wanted to ask why I phrased my request the way I did. I was glad he didn't. How could I explain that I wanted to know if Roger was a Wanderer? With his charisma, he was definitely a candidate. And if he was a Wanderer, I wanted to know if he was aware of the fact. And what his mission was.

Garrett agreed to take the case.

I thanked him, left his office, and started back to Henry's to see how rehearsals were progressing. I had the yogi's lecture to attend that evening. Peter had made me swear I would come. Yet I wouldn't be going with Peter because Roger had insisted on going, too, and I planned to take him with me. Over lunch, after reading my palm, Roger had become unusually curious about this saint from India.

CHAPTER

IX

V V E ARRIVED at the lecture only minutes before it was to*start. The Unity Church in Santa Monica was already full. If Peter and Jimmy hadn't saved me a seat, I would have had to stand in the back.