Dream a Little Death, page 17
And there he was, on the other side of a massive clump of agave.
Suffice it to say he wasn’t exactly what I’d been expecting.
Chapter 31
In his shrunken hoodie and skinny jeans, Charlie “Chick” Churchill was a classic L.A. type: young and slight, with a shaved head and gauges in his ears. He was a Moby fan, a juicer, a defender of animal rights. I could take him with one hand tied behind my back.
“Surprise!” I called out.
He spun around. Yeah, I’d nailed it. Right down to the black-framed glasses and “BITTORRENT IS NOT A CRIME” T-shirt.
“Oh, shit,” he said.
“‘Oh, shit’ is right,” I replied.
His face was bright red. “I can explain.”
“I hope so. Because I’m not exactly happy at the way our relationship has been going.”
“I like your sense of humor.” He grabbed the camcorder at his feet. “Do you mind if I record our conversation? There’s a release form you have to sign, but we can worry about that later.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He unzipped his fanny back and pulled out a fluffy brush and HD powder. “You are looking a little shiny.”
“That’s because I’ve been trudging up and down steps for the last half hour.” I bent down to rub my ankle. “And I now have a blister.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Are you also sorry about following me and trashing my car? And does Miles know you stole my money? Or were you doing a little unauthorized skimming?”
He put up his hands. “Slow down. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
“TMI, Chick.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I’m not sure you’re in a position to ask for favors.”
“Look, I didn’t steal any money, and I didn’t trash any cars. Stalking is all I’m admitting to. That, and filming you.”
“Filming me? Give me that camera.” I grabbed for it, but he clutched it to his scrawny chest.
“God, you’re aggressive,” he said admiringly.
“Don’t change the subject. Why have you been filming me?”
“I think you should sit down.” He pointed to a boulder with the words “Dare to Dream” spray-painted on it.
I ignored him. “Answer the question. Why have you been filming me?”
“Because you’re part of the story.”
“What story?”
“The Miles McCoy story.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you telling me you’re a paparazzi?”
“It’s paparazzo, singular.”
“Don’t you get there are laws in this state you’ve been breaking?”
“In all fifty states,” he said, “free speech and public interest trump any purported rights to privacy. In any case, I’m not a paparazzo. I’m a documentary filmmaker. Graduated from U.S.C. two years ago. And I’ve got the loans to prove it.”
This required some rethinking. I sat down and wiped the sweat off my forehead. “Let me get this straight. You’re making a documentary about Miles, and you’ve been following all the people who come into contact with him?”
“Like his proctologist? Or the guy who delivers his Chinese food? That would be stupid. I’m only following the important ones.”
I took off one of my moccasin booties and shook it out. Several pebbles dropped to the ground. “I can assure you I’m not that important.”
He shook his head. “That was part of the problem with Luke Cutt, wasn’t it? Your lack of self-esteem?”
This was getting weirder and weirder. “You know about me and Luke?”
“Of course. I do my research. On the women Miles sleeps with, in particular.”
“Hold on, buddy. You are way off base.” Even my mother wouldn’t sleep with the man.
“Hey, I’m not judging. I mean, just because he’s engaged.”
“Let me state it for the record. I am not sleeping with Miles McCoy.”
“I think we can let the audience decide,” he said.
I turned to him. “This is insane. Since you’ve done your research, you know that for the past two years I’ve been designing and leading custom tours of L.A. Miles hired me to design a film noir tour for his fiancée. That’s it. Not that I have to defend myself, to you of all people. Your ethics are pretty non-existent.”
Charlie gestured theatrically. “How far do I go? How dark do I go? These are important questions. In film school, they taught us not to upset the talent, but I’m not sure that’s always appropriate. Not when you’re going after the truth. And the truth is, Miles needs to be taken down. The man is toxic. Everything he touches turns to shit.”
Now I was getting interested. Charlie had been filming Miles and all the so-called important people who’d come into contact with him. He’d seen something. He knew something. It was time to stop antagonizing him.
“Sorry I accused you of stealing from me,” I said. “You’re obviously not that type.”
“Thank you,” he said grudgingly.
“It’s so good to be sitting down.” I sighed. “Do you by any chance have any water?”
He reached into his satchel and handed me a bottle. “It’s sparkling.”
“Perfect.” I took a long slug. “It’s really beautiful up here. You ever see rabbits?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Deer, too. And coyotes. One time, a hooting owl.”
“A hooting owl! Wow!”
“Okay, now you’re playing me,” Charlie said. “Don’t bother. I’m making this film, and no amount of cajoling is going to change my mind.”
I said, “There’s going to be no cajoling from me. I’m on Team Charlie. But I’ve got to come clean with you. I’m concerned about Miles’s fiancée. Maya.”
“I get it. I’ve been keeping a close eye on her lately. And I’m concerned, too.”
“Why? Because of what happened at the Mayan? Or because she’s missing?”
“Missing?”
“Miles took her out of the hospital, but she’s not at home.”
“Shit!” he said. “This is exactly what I worried about, after—”
“After what?” I asked. “Her so-called ‘suicide’ attempt?”
He looked away.
“What?”
“Listen, all I know is that once you sleep with Miles, you’re screwed.” He shook his head. “I tried and tried to warn her, but she was totally in denial. She was too in love with the guy.”
“You tried to warn her? You’ve been talking to Maya?”
He grabbed his satchel. “I want to show you something. Back at my place. What do you say?”
I hesitated.
“C’mon,” he said. “What do you have to lose?”
I should have realized it was a trick question.
Chapter 32
Charlie knew all the shortcuts, so we made it back in under fifteen minutes. I started up the path to his front door.
“No,” he said. “This way.” He led me down the cobbled driveway into the backyard, which had gone to the dogs. I’m not talking potted plants in various states of decay or leaves in the pool. I’m talking mountains and valleys and rolling hills of dog shit. I literally didn’t know where to step.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been kind of busy lately.”
At the far end of the backyard, hidden behind a wall of cacti, was a rusted-out Airstream trailer. Charlie wiped his feet on the mat and removed his sneakers. Then he turned to me.
“Just in case,” he said.
I took off my moccasin booties, padded inside behind him.
Oh, god.
One look around, and my heart was pounding, my palms were wet, and my chest tight. I wanted out. But Charlie was already locking the door.
“I thought we should have some privacy,” he said.
I gave him a thin smile.
“Make yourself comfortable.” He pointed to a cot in the middle of the space. “Sorry, I didn’t make the bed. I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
“You live here?”
“Yeah,” he said. “My mom lets me park on her property. Like I told you, student debt is a bitch.”
We were avoiding the obvious. His trailer looked like something out of a slasher film. Every surface was covered with photographs—not of all the so-called important people in Miles’s life. Just one of them.
Maya Duran.
Maya getting into her car, Maya getting out of her car, Maya laughing, Maya crying, Maya eating. Aside from the night she’d shot herself, I’d only ever seen Maya in her gondola bed, unconscious and hooked up to machines. These photographs changed everything. Now I understood exactly what Miles had fallen for.
It wasn’t her beauty.
It wasn’t her youth.
It was her radiance.
You could see it in her eyes, in the way she moved her body. Even in a photograph, she was so alive. And Charlie had hunted her like an animal.
“Are you proud of this?” I blurted out.
He looked around the room. “Kind of. I mean, it’s been hard getting information on her. Maya’s wiped from the internet. I don’t know how Miles did it, but he did it. So I’ve had to do a lot of first-hand research.”
No shame, no regrets. “If this is what you wanted to show me, I’m leaving.”
“Wait.” Charlie walked over to the kitchen counter, pulled something out of a large file folder, handed it to me. “This is what I wanted to show you.”
It was a strip of pictures from a photo booth.
“Please,” Charlie said. “Just look.”
I saw a boy and a girl. Teenagers, it looked like. Goofing around, the way teenagers do. He was skinny, awkward, tow-headed. She was intense, with wild, green eyes. You could tell he adored her, but she wasn’t having it. This girl was waiting for bigger, better things.
I looked up to find Charlie staring at me. “Do you understand now? That’s us.”
I was confused. “You and Maya?”
“Maya?” He shook his head. “I don’t know Maya. I mean, not personally.”
Then I got it.
The girl Charlie adored wasn’t Maya Duran.
It was Carmen Luz.
Charlie spent the better part of an hour telling me the story.
Carmen was his best friend’s little sister. He’d known her forever. When they were kids, she followed the two boys everywhere. Bike riding, skateboarding, hanging out at the pool. When they got older, Charlie wanted more, but Carmen wasn’t interested in him that way. Charlie was fine with it. They stayed friends. After her brother overdosed, they mourned together, and Charlie thought he might have another chance. But then Carmen met Miles McCoy.
Carmen fell for Miles, hard. She was in love. She said she was happy. But there were problems. Miles was married, for one thing. Then there was the drugs and drinking. All of a sudden, Carmen was partying every night, surrounded by users, haters, bloodsuckers. Charlie warned her she was going to get hurt, but she didn’t listen. And then, one night, she was raped. She could’ve handled that, Charlie said. She’d handled worse. What she couldn’t handle was the fact that afterward, Miles wanted nothing more to do with her. Refused her calls. Wouldn’t see her. Never, in fact, laid eyes on her again. Carmen was devastated. Ashamed. She blamed herself for everything. And then, one day, she’d simply vanished, heartbroken.
And now Maya had vanished, too.
Charlie took the photo strip out of my hands. “It’s a lot to take in, I know.”
I nodded.
“But now you need to go,” he said. “I’ve got stuff to do. I can’t let that man destroy another woman’s life.”
I stood up, took one last look at Charlie. He seemed like he was telling the truth, but something was stuck in my head, something Miles had told me the day we’d met. He’d said Maya had stalkers, and that was why she couldn’t be found on the internet. Maybe Miles was talking about Charlie. How did I know Charlie was a documentary filmmaker? Maybe he was just a man with an unhealthy obsession with another man’s fiancée.
Back in the car, I picked up the box his neighbor had given me and studied the return address. Ship4U Mailboxes in West L.A. Not particularly helpful. I held the box up to my ear and shook it. No clues there either. I hesitated for maybe half a second before using the sharp end of my car key to rip through the tape, open the top, and shake out the Styrofoam peanuts. Out slid a DVD in an unmarked black case.
I was going to take a wild guess.
White Van Charlie liked dirty movies.
But now was not the time to confirm or deny my suspicions.
Now was the time to drive home to Venice, take a hot bath, and go straight to bed. Eight uninterrupted hours. In the morning, when I was rested, I’d sort everything out.
It was a lovely fantasy.
Which lasted until the very moment I turned onto my street, and saw the “For Rent” sign on Teddy’s front lawn.
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
Teddy was moving.
Teddy was leaving.
I was such a fool. I’d taken one of the best things that had ever happened to me and thrown it away. For Clayton Key, of all people. And why?
I knew exactly why.
Because Clayton was a cartoon character. A bad boy I could tame. A reflection of my own vanity. Anything but a real person. Which meant he could never hurt me. And two years after Luke Cutt, I was still afraid of getting hurt.
The phone was ringing as I stepped inside. I tossed Charlie’s DVD onto the couch, and ran to pick it up. It was Gram. She was calling to remind me that tomorrow was the day Ray was due at the criminal courthouse downtown. Department 30, fifth floor. I told her I hadn’t forgotten. She also wanted to remind me about what she’d overheard Lizeth saying to Ray. I remembered that, too.
“That woman warned your uncle he’d regret it,” she said. “I want to support his decision to do the right thing,” Gram said. “But I can’t just show up with things the way they are. You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” I said.
She was trying not to cry. “That’s why I need you to be there for him. Regardless of what’s happening between us, I don’t want him to feel alone.”
I told Gram I’d been planning on it. And then I told her how much I loved her.
After we hung up, I sat on the couch for a while, thinking. They were unbelievable, those two. Ray had asked me to be there for Gram, and now she was asking me to be there for him. Circumstances were keeping them apart, but they were going to find their way back to each other. I was certain of that. They were fighters, and both of them knew they had something worth fighting for.
Shortly before midnight, there was a knock at the door. It was Clayton, who’d just gotten off work. I let him in, and sat him down on the couch. He wasn’t in the mood for talking, but I had something to say. Afterward, he kissed me goodbye, and it was sweet, the way last kisses can be.
I set the coffeemaker for 7 a.m., and walked around the house, locking the doors and windows. Before I turned out the lights, I left a message on Teddy’s home phone. It definitely went on too long, but it came from the heart.
Turns out I had something worth fighting for, too.
Chapter 33
Tuesday morning, 8:30 a.m. The sky was gray, which is nobody’s favorite color. I descended into the underground parking garage kitty-corner from the courthouse, spiraling downward until I finally found a spot, between a hearse and a Dumpster. It didn’t bode well. Nor did setting off the metal detector in the lobby. But what did I expect?
The last time I’d visited the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center it was for jury duty, which I’d needed to get out of because I had plans to fly to New York the following day with Luke. The night before we’d brainstormed various strategies: I could show up in the jury pool dressed as Princess Leia; remind the prosecutor he’d once slept with my mother; proactively change my name from Dreama Black to Jesus Christ. As it turned out, I was put on a dog bite case that lasted two weeks, and Luke went to New York without me, to perform in the Victoria’s Secret fashion show. The rest is history. But I digress.
After removing my shoes, belt, and bracelets, I cleared the security line. From there I headed up to Department 30, which was a riot of activity: the bailiff was playing Fruit Ninja on his phone; the court reporter was plucking her eyebrows; the assistant D.A. was attempting to tear a file folder in half. There were maybe a dozen people in the audience. The jury box, however, was empty. And no Uncle Ray in sight. Knowing him, he was going to show up at the last minute, brandishing the key piece of evidence.
The room grew quiet as the judge took her seat at the bench.
“May I approach?” asked the A.D.A.
The judge nodded, then crooked her finger at the defense attorney. “Why doesn’t opposing counsel join us up here? Might as well get this over with.”
The defense attorney consulted with his client, who turned to consult with the older woman sitting behind him, who listened carefully, then started whooping in delight.
“Order!” snapped the judge. “Or the bailiff will escort you out!”
“Apologies, your honor,” the older woman said. “But he’s my only son.”
Just then the door to the courtroom swung open and banged loudly against the wall. Everyone turned around as a petite African-American woman in a tiger-striped maxi-dress made her way to the front of the room.
“Sorry I’m late.” She tossed her long, blond hair as she slid in next to the older woman. Then she brought a hot pink dagger finger to her lips, and whispered, “My bad.”
Hot pink dagger fingers, and a sexy blond weave.
I had a sudden flash of déjà-vu.
And then things started moving quickly. The lawyers returned to their seats and the judge said, “Will the defendant please rise?”
Up shot a small African-American guy in a sharp green suit. He could barely contain his excitement. His feet were tapping, his shoulders were twitching. I looked over my shoulder. Still no Ray. Was he stuck in traffic?
