Private (Private 1)

“My pleasure,” said Justine.

“Can you give me a lift?” Marissa asked Justine. “My car is at the Beverly Hilton. I can be dressed in two minutes. Bobby, I hope you freaking get leprosy and die.”

“My car is parked on the side of the road,” Justine said to Marissa. “Blue Jaguar. I’ll be waiting for you.” She turned back to Bobby. “Lots of luck in the gubernatorial race, Bob. Don’t ever call me again.”

Part Four

SHOOTER

Chapter 77

A “DO NOT DISTURB” card hung from the doorknob of Andy’s third-floor suite at the famed, or perhaps infamous, Chateau Marmont off Sunset. It was almost eleven a.m. I pounded and pounded on the solid wood door.

“Andy. It’s Jack. Let me in.”

“Go away,” Andy said from the other side of the door. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying it.”

“Come on, bozo. I’ve already told the manager you’re on a suicide watch. He’s going to key me in if you don’t open up.”

The door finally opened.

Andy was in rumpled pajamas, holding a half-full bottle of Chivas by the neck. His hair was standing straight up, as if he hadn’t combed or washed it in a while.

“I fired you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did, asshole. I’m not billing you anymore. I’m here because I’m your best friend.”

I followed Andy into the sitting room. The room was dark, curtains pulled closed.

An old Harrison Ford movie was on the television, Witness. The suite looked like a set from the 1930s, or a West Side apartment in New York, except for the open pizza box lying on a chair next to the extralarge TV. I took the pizza box to the kitchenette and dumped it into the trash. Then I returned to the sitting room and sat down.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“Fucking fine and dandy, can’t you tell?”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Andy took a pull off the bottle and said, “So what now, Jack? Last time I saw you, you told me that my wife was a whore. What else have you got for me?”

“She was using.”

“What? What did you say?”

“She was a crack addict. Maybe heroin too.”

“Hey, fuck you, Jack. Oh, for God’s sake. I mean, who cares, anyway? She’s dead, Jack. Dead. And look what she left me. I got cops on my ass all day and night. Friends avoiding me, for good reason, I guess. And this fricking room is costing a bomb and a half. All because of my whore-junkie wife.”

“The thing is, Andy, her being a user maybe explains a few things about Shelby. Why she had a secret life, for instance. Why she needed the money. Maybe why she couldn’t tell you the truth.”

Andy picked up the TV’s remote control and surfed around while I talked. His eyes were vacant. He was already a lost soul.

“It’s also a lead of sorts,” I told him. “We already have a line on her dealer. As I’ve been saying, if we find out who killed Shelby, you stop being a suspect.”

Andy finally looked up at me. “Come here, Jack. I want to give you a big wet kiss.”

I got up and took the remote out of hi

s hand. Turned off the tube.