“So what am I paying you for?” Ira’s features sharpened.
Tommy stood before him, doing his best not to cringe or display any visible signs of weakness. There was something so primal about dealing with Ira—it was all about survival of the most cunning and fittest, though unfortunately, Tommy had just unwittingly rolled onto his back and displayed his soft white belly.
Still, it was a good question—one that Tommy often wondered himself. While he hadn’t exactly hesitated to take the job, the last few days he’d found himself with so little to do while the room was being readied he figured he might as well work on promoting his music career. Though sharing that with Ira was the quickest route to getting canned.
“Not sure how you want me to answer,” Tommy said, realizing immediately after that it was the absolute worst thing he could’ve said. Still, Ira had a way of wearing him down with little to no effort on his part.
“Pretty sure I warned you a long time ago about ever trying to second-guess me, or tell me what you assume I want to hear, because I guarantee you will always be wrong. In the future, when I ask you a question, do yourself a favor and answer honestly, regardless of how you think I’ll respond.”
Tommy nodded. There, he’d been properly chastised, maybe now Ira would allow him to leave. Unfortunately, Ira’s challenging gaze told him a quick escape was out of the question.
“So . . . you’re telling me I should ignore the sign on the door and go take a look?”
“How can you possibly promote something you’ve never seen?” Ira asked, allowing no time for Tommy to respond before he turned on his heel and started walking away. It was a moment before Tommy realized Ira expected him to follow.
After climbing the narrow set of stairs, Ira unceremoniously threw open the door and impatiently motioned Tommy inside, all the while studying him for his reaction. But the sight had rendered Tommy gobsmacked.
On the surface, the room was a mess of paint-spattered floor coverings and shrouded furniture piled high and shoved against walls, while the speakers blared an old Rolling Stones song Tommy hadn’t heard in a while, but that he instantly vowed to add to his playlist. The walls featured a riot of color that was impossible to take in at one glance, and at the center of it all stood Layla’s dad. Paintbrush in hand, he seemed totally unaware of their presence as he created a mural that was so vibrant, so full of life, so massively impressive, it was impossible to define.
Tommy let out a low whistle—the sound giving voice to the words he was unable to speak.
“He doesn’t come cheap, but he’s worth every penny.” Ira nodded toward the masterpiece in the making. “Do you know how much money these walls will be worth when it’s finished? And it will only increase from there.”
Tommy had no idea how much they’d be worth. The whims of the art world completely eluded him. Though he was captivated by the story unfolding—every brushstroke adding yet another layer to the history of rock and roll—the origins of the world—the soul’s journey—the almost supernatural ability of music to inspire, heal, and connect seemingly disparate people from all over the world. It was all there, and it was magnificent to behold.
Tommy had always been biased enough to believe music was the highest art form, but watching Layla’s dad illustrate what it was music did best, he had to admit that in the hands of the right artist, an artist who truly loved and understood his subject, maybe no one medium was better than the other. Maybe they were never meant to compete, but rather exist separately but equally.
“H.D.,” Ira called, displaying no qualms about disturbing what appeared to be the artist’s deeply meditative state. “I want to introduce you to Tommy Phillips.”
When H.D. swung around, Tommy once again was struck by the resemblance to Layla. He also saw that H.D. clearly remembered the last time they’d met.
“Good to see you.” H.D. offered a paint-crusted hand, and Tommy didn’t hesitate to clasp it in his.
“You two know each other?” For whatever reason, Ira looked more interested than Tommy thought the situation warranted. But maybe that was just because Ira was a control freak who prided himself on knowing things long before they had a chance to occur.
Tommy hesitated, unwilling to share the story of how he’d taken Layla home the night she’d overindulged in Ira’s top-shelf tequila.
“Tommy stopped by the house once.” H.D. cracked a knowing smile that sent a riot of creases around his blue eyes.
Ira’s calculating gaze moved between them. “Well, we don’t want to keep you. Just wanted Tommy here to get a sneak peek, since it’s his job to make this room profitable once it’s ready.”
“It’s amazing,” Tommy said, feeling humbled and in awe and a little guilty for the way he’d recently blown off Layla.
H.D. nodded, wiped his hands on the sides of his jeans, and went back to work, as Ira led Tommy out of the room and back down the stairs.
“Since I’m going to be stuck here for a while,” Ira said, “and since I’m clearly not keeping you busy enough, I’ve got an errand you can run.”
Tommy stood in the doorway of Ira’s office and tried to look amenable, but he was running seriously late for his meeting with Malina, and she was not the type to keep waiting.
Then again, neither was Ira.
Ira retrieved something from a drawer and was circling around to hand it to Tommy when his hip inadvertently brushed the edge of his desk and sent a handful of papers scattering to the floor.
Tommy watched the papers flutter and land, his gaze catching sight of one in particular with a picture of a cartoon cat bearing what looked to be some serious injuries.
Before he could get a better look, Ira took another step forward and covered the image with his black Gucci loafer.
Had he done it on purpose?
And what was it about the image that seemed oddly familiar?
Tommy searched Ira’s face, but his gaze was impassive and gave nothing away. “Drop this by Night for Night on your way out and give it to James. No one else, just James.”
Ira handed Tommy a thick envelope that was most likely filled with cash. Having once been on the receiving end of one of Ira’s donations, he recognized the signs. Though he couldn’t help but wonder what James had done to earn it, or would be doing soon.
Tommy glanced between the envelope and the gleaming gold horse bit on Ira’s shoes, still unable to define exactly what was nagging at him.
“You don’t want to be late for your meeting,” Ira said, by way of dismissal.
Tommy nodded, slipped the envelope under his arm, and headed outside, steeling himself against yet another scorcher of a day. It wasn’t until he was climbing into his car that he flashed on Layla’s fearful look as she’d told him about the card she’d received along with Madison’s diary entry.
But you haven’t even read the card yet! There was a card that came with it—it had a cartoon picture of a seriously messed-up cat, and—
Only he’d cut her off before she could finish.
Was it the same cat he saw?
And if so, did that mean Ira was involved?
He adjusted his rearview mirror and looked back toward the Vesper, wondering if he should find a way to get inside Ira’s office and find that paper so he could bring it to Layla. His guilt over blowing her off was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. And what about her dad? Was H.D. getting sucked into this mess without even realizing?
Tommy knew Layla’s dad was short on cash and desperate for work, which was how Ira found most of his employees. It was certainly how he’d found Layla, and Tommy grudgingly included himself as well. And while it wasn’t exactly true for Aster, moments after she accepted Ira’s offer to stay on as a Night for Night promoter, she’d been arrested for first-degree murder as Ira . . . Tommy thought hard on the best way to describe it. While he couldn’t definitively say Ira had been expecting Larsen to show up at the Vesper with an arrest warrant, at the time, Ira had handled the detective’s sud
den appearance with such calm calculation it bordered on eerie. And now, from what Tommy had heard, Ira had taken on the role of Aster’s only hope for salvation.
While it was no secret that Ira was a control freak who liked to surround himself with people who were wholly dependent on him, the question was why?
Was it so he could keep a team of loyal minions on call?
Or did it go much deeper and darker than that?
And now that Ira had succeeded at snaring them all in his web, would they ever be able to find their way out again?
He sank deeper into his seat, thinking he should call Layla and relay his suspicions. But a moment later, Malina texted, demanding to know where he was. And just like that, Tommy was reminded of his earlier vow to get serious about his future and stay away from problems that weren’t his to solve.
If Tommy was ever going to fulfill his dream of not only leaving Ira’s employ, but confronting him with the truth of their connection once and for all, then he needed to do whatever it took to launch a successful music career.
Besides, they were all adults, and they’d made their own choices. And as Layla liked to remind him, LA was an ambitious place where friends were in short supply.
Without another thought, he jerked the mirror back into place, pulled away from the curb, and headed for the recording studio.
NINETEEN
BUILDING A MYSTERY
Trena Moretti sipped her red wine and reviewed the video of her interview with Aster for what she guessed to be the seventh time, or possibly even the tenth—she’d lost count after five. The first two viewings had been mostly celebratory in nature, with Trena grinning the entire time, reveling in the fact that she was headed for prime-time TV. Each subsequent viewing was watched with an eye toward critiquing her performance—the areas where she could stand to improve, openings she might have missed due to her nervousness.
When it came to her performance, Trena was merciless, tougher than most critics would ever venture to be, though her brutality served a purpose. Once she cataloged her mistakes and committed them to memory, she rarely, if ever, repeated them.
For the most part, she had to admit that the interview had gone well. Aster proved to be a much more challenging subject than Trena had expected, which would only help to increase the ratings. Trena saw herself as a storyteller, a narrator, and like any good story, the protagonist was only as good as the antagonist pitted against her. Aster’s feistiness and refusal to fold ensured that Trena stayed sharp, focused, and on top of her game. It was just a matter of time before the interview went viral and earned itself the hashtag of #mustsee status.
Early word from the network chiefs proved they were pleased, which Trena hoped would lead to more TV opportunities. Now that she’d gotten a taste of life before the camera, the idea of returning solely to print journalism seemed inconceivable.
It was time she set her sights higher, forged a plan to move up in the world. And there was no doubt in her mind that the Madison disappearance was her first-class ticket to permanent prime-time.
Thanks to her good luck in meeting Layla early on, Trena had been uniquely positioned to break the story in a way all the other competing journalists lacked. It didn’t hurt that Layla had looked up to her and viewed Trena as a mentor. Hell, there was no denying the girl had been totally starstruck, and Trena had willingly embraced her new role as a sort of journalism guru.
But lately, Layla had been acting slippery and elusive, making it nearly impossible to pin the girl down. And with the trial date set, Trena’s source at the LAPD claiming there was nothing new to relay, and Priya, her new assistant, so far unable to uncover anything meaty enough to be of any use, Trena found herself in the unenviable position of having to chase after Layla in the way Layla had once chased after her.
While the Madison scandal wouldn’t be fading from public consciousness anytime soon, Trena was far too competitive, and way too ambitious, to lose the momentum she’d worked so hard to gain. Meeting Layla at the quietly elegant Palmers, with its faux suede booths and large sepia-toned photos of wild mustangs lining the walls, was her first major step toward remedying that.
She checked her watch and frowned. Layla was eighteen minutes late, which was something the once eager-to-please girl never would’ve chanced before. Clearly she was aware of the shift in power, and she was playing the moment for all it was worth.
“She’s here.”
Trena removed her earpiece and squinted in the direction Priya was looking. “I don’t see her.”
“She’s talking to the hostess.” Priya nodded in that direction.
“How’d you recognize her—have you met?”
“I do my research.” Priya started to gather her things. “They’re heading over now.”
For a moment, Trena considered letting her stay, then quickly decided against it. Layla was more prone to talk if it was just the two of them.
Priya had just slid away from the table when Layla arrived. The two paused, stared briefly at each other, before Priya moved on and Layla claimed her side of the booth.
Trena studied her carefully. Layla seemed upset, more tightly wound than usual. The way she ran a hand through her hair and looked all around as though she was rethinking her decision to meet left Trena uneasy.
“It’s been a while,” Layla said, visibly calming as her gaze finally met Trena’s.
“I assumed you’ve been busy.” Trena took a small sip of her wine and settled her fingers at the base of the stem. It was better to proceed slowly and let Layla lead.
“Everyone’s busy in LA.” Layla rolled her eyes. “Our social status is entirely dependent on our ability to keep the appearance of a jam-packed schedule.”
Trena grinned. Slowly, the ice was starting to crack.
“Aster says the interview went well.”
Trena lifted her shoulders and, in a display of false modesty, said, “It airs tonight, so we’ll see.”
“You haven’t watched it?”
“Haven’t had time.” Trena tapped her fingers on the base of her glass. No point in alerting Layla to just how much she had riding on this and whatever information she might or might not choose to divulge. “Have you seen a lot of Aster?”
“She just got out.” Layla’s gaze drifted toward the door, which was not a good sign.
“I meant that in relative terms.”
“Compared to her family, yeah, I guess I’ve seen her a lot.” She fidgeted in her seat, picked at the edge of her woven place mat.
“She still hasn’t met with her family?”
Layla’s features sharpened. “That’s a complicated situation, though it’s not really my place to discuss it.”
Damn. Trena had played that poorly by sounding too eager, and now she was forced to pull back and switch gears if she had any hope of moving forward again. “Should we order?” She motioned toward the menus placed on top of the square glass chargers. “They’re known for their perfectly aged grass-fed steaks, but trust me, the kale salad is not to be missed.”
Layla shook her head. Acting like she hadn’t even heard Trena, she said, “Who’s that girl?”
Trena met Layla’s questioning look with one of her own.
“The one you were sitting with.”
“You mean my assistant?”
“Assistant or bodyguard?”
Trena followed Layla’s gaze all the way to where Priya was seated at the bar with a clear view of their table.
“She didn’t want to disturb us,” Trena said, though in truth Trena was just as surprised to find Priya watching as Layla was. She’d thought for sure she’d moved on.
“I know her.” Layla’s brows pinched together as though she was trying to place her.
“Priya?” Trena glanced over her shoulder again, watching as Priya spoke furtively into her phone. It wasn’t all that unusual that she and Layla might know each other. After all, they were both young, both interested in journalism.
“I never knew h
er name, but I could swear she interviewed for the Unrivaled contest.”
Trena watched as Priya, still on her phone, slung her bag over her shoulder and left. It wasn’t until the door swung closed behind her that Trena turned back toward Layla. “Are you sure?” Trena’s mind reeled in reverse. She was positive Priya had never mentioned that, and it seemed like the kind of thing that would be strange to leave out. Especially in light of the Madison story Priya was helping her research.
“Well, I can’t be one hundred percent positive, no.” Layla shrugged. “There were a ton of people there, and we mostly kept to ourselves.”
“So she wasn’t chosen to be one of the contestants?”
Layla shook her head.
“Well, I guess that’s not all that surprising. She doesn’t seem like the nightclub-promoting type,” Trena said, less because she believed it to be true, and more to salvage her faith in her own instincts.
“And I do?” Layla laughed, took a quick glance at the menu, then pushed it away. “Who knows what Ira was thinking when he said no to her and yes to me?” She shrugged. “Anyway, I can’t stay. I just wanted to stop in and say hey.”
Trena fought to keep herself from groaning. Great. A hit-and-run. Not what she’d envisioned when she’d set up the meeting. Also, the brief mention of food made her realize she really was hungry.
“You seem upset.” She leaned across the table and peered at Layla with a look she hoped passed for concerned. “Is everything okay?”
Layla squared her shoulders as though summoning a strength she was beginning to doubt. “My friend’s on trial for a murder she didn’t commit, and now . . .”
And now WHAT? Trena wanted to shout, but instead she forced herself to sip her wine slowly and pretend as though it didn’t matter in the least whether or not Layla continued.
Layla shook her head in dismissal, and Trena was sure she’d just lost her, when she suddenly blurted, “What do you know about libel?” She pressed her lips into a thin, grim line as her cheeks flushed ever so slightly. “As a journalist, I mean. Under what circumstances can someone go after you and sue you for being libelous?”