Full Black

CHAPTER 3

T he red Porsche 911 GT3 pulled to the top of the cobblestone driveway and stopped. “Are you going to be okay?”

The man in the passenger seat said nothing. In the middle of the motor court, a verdigris Poseidon watched over a group of nymphs carrying golden seashells. As water tumbled from one shell to another, the sound cascaded through the car’s open windows.

The two men sat in silence for several moments. The night air was heavy, damp from the marine layer moving in from the coast. The estate’s wrinkled oaks and towering pines swayed like sleeping horses in a neatly manicured pasture.

Behind a long row of brushed aluminum garage doors were several million dollars’ worth of high-end luxury automobiles. In the glass-and-steel house next to it were other expensive toys and priceless pieces of art. Behind the home was a hand-laid mosaic swimming pool, a three-hole golf course, and exotic gardens that would have rivaled anything in ancient Babylon. To most outside observers, the man in the passenger seat had it all, and then some.

Larry Salomon, a handsome fifty-two-year-old movie producer, was the man with the Midas touch, or so said those with short memories who seemed not to recall or not to care about how hard he had worked to get to where he was.

Even the politicians Salomon had hosted at his home for fund-raisers, back before he stopped doing fund-raisers, loved to smile and tell him how easy he had it. Hollywood, they would say, is a petting zoo, compared to the jungles of D.C.

None of them knew what they were talking about. Hollywood was a lot like a Charles Dickens novel. It could be the best of places; it could be the worst of places. Machiavelli, Dante, Shakespeare… all would have felt at home here. Tinseltown was a bustling contradiction.

It was a modern-day Zanzibar; a slave market where souls were bartered, sold, and stolen seemingly on the hour, every hour. It was also a place of incredible genius and beauty, where dreams still came true.

Hollywood was where some of man’s most endearing and compelling stories were told and retold. It was home to a globe-spanning industry that could frighten and terrify, but more important, could uplift and inspire.

Hollywood was a place where one creative mind could join with others to craft something with the ability to affect the lives of millions upon millions of people. It was a place, for most people, where magic was still alive. Unfortunately, and despite his success, Larry Salomon was no longer one of those people.

In his mind, magic was for the woefully naive. “Happily ever after” existed only in fairy tales and of course, their modern-day equivalent, the movies. It was smoke and mirrors, and Salomon knew it all too well.

“Larry?” repeated the man who had driven the movie producer home. “I want to make sure you’re going to be okay.”

“I miss her,” said Salomon.

Luke Ralston put his Porsche in neutral and pulled up the parking brake. He had worked on Salomon’s past six films, and the two men had developed a very deep bond. With his tall, fit frame, rugged features, whitened teeth, and expensive haircut, Ralston looked like he could have been one of the producer’s top actors, if you overlooked the limp that plagued him from time to time.

But Ralston wasn’t an actor. He was what was known in Hollywood parlance as a “technical consultant.” A former Delta Force operative, Ralston used his extensive military experience to make sure Salomon’s actors and actresses looked like they knew what they were doing in their action scenes, especially when those scenes had to do with firearms, hand-to-hand combat, evasive driving, or any number of other tactical situations.

“It’s supposed to get easier,” Salomon continued, staring into space. “That’s what everybody tells you. They tell you to stay strong. But it doesn’t get easier.”

A mist had begun to build on the windshield. The temperature was dropping.

Ralston pondered raising the car’s windows, but decided not to. It would have broken the mood and sent the two men in their separate directions too early. Salomon still needed to talk, so Ralston would sit and listen for as long as it took.

A pronounced silence grew between them. The only sound came from the throb of the GT3’s engine and the water cascading in the fountain. Eventually Salomon spoke. “I think I’ll go inside.”

“Do you want me to come in for a while?”

The older man shook his head. He unlatched his seat belt and searched for the door handle.

Ralston put a hand on his friend’s arm. “Skip the nightcap, Larry. Okay?” The movie producer had already consumed enough alcohol.

“Whatever you say,” the man replied, waving him off. “The guesthouse is free if you want it.”

The younger man looked at his watch. They had left Salomon’s car at the restaurant when it became apparent he wasn’t in a condition to drive. “I’ve got an early morning run with friends,” said Ralston. “I’ll call you when I’m done and we’ll work out getting your car back.”

The producer grasped the handle and opened the door. “Don’t bother. I’ll figure it out,” he said as he climbed out of the car.

There was an edge to Salomon’s voice. He was making the alcohol-induced transition from maudlin to angry.

Ralston shook his head. He shouldn’t have let his friend consume so much booze. But, at the end of the day, that’s what sorrows were meant to be drowned in. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” he asked as the producer shut the car door and began to walk away.

Salomon didn’t bother to turn; he just waved over his shoulder and mounted the steps to the entrance of his home.

Ralston knew him well enough to know that he’d probably go inside and keep drinking. There was little he could do about it. “Try to get some sleep,” he recommended as the producer reached the top of the stairs and opened his etched glass front door.

Ralston waited and watched until his friend was safely inside before putting his Porsche in gear and pulling out of the motor court.

On his way down the winding drive, he wondered if he should turn back. Of all the nights of the year, this was the roughest for Salomon.

Had she not been murdered three years ago, it would have been his daughter Rachael’s twenty-first birthday. Within a year of Rachael’s murder, Larry’s marriage had fallen apart. Losing a child was a pain no parent should ever have to bear, having been abandoned by his spouse in the process was almost too much.

When his wife left him and moved back east, Larry never fully recovered. Though actresses, some very well known, threw themselves at him, he hadn’t been with another woman since. He had no desire. The only thing that had kept him going was his work.

What if this time he does something stupid? Ralston wondered. Alcohol and depression were a very bad combination.

The thought plagued him all the way down to the gate, and probably would have bothered him all the way home, had something else not captured his attention. Tire tracks.

How could there be tire marks on top of his? Ralston slowed down to study the tracks. They were different than those of his Porsche and appeared to have veered off to the left, taking the service drive that led to the rear of the property.

Salomon was one of the few wealthy Hollywood people he knew who didn’t maintain around-the-clock domestic staff. And while it was well after midnight and therefore technically “morning,” it was still too early for landscapers or any of Salomon’s other help to have arrived. Someone had to have come in through the gate behind them. Ralston decided to take a look.

Backing up, he killed his lights and turned onto the service drive. In a town like L.A., where you are what you drive, the red 911 had suited him perfectly. Because of the distinct engine whine, though, this was the first time Ralston ever wished he was driving a whisper-quiet Prius.

The service road was far less dramatic than the estate’s main drive. Instead of a lushly landscaped serpentine approach, it was a boring, blacktopped lane with two switchbacks abutted by cinderblock retaining walls.

After the second switchback, the service road opened up onto a darkened view of the far side of Salomon’s house and the silhouettes of outbuildings that supported the estate.

Ralston brought his Porsche to a stop using the parking brake so as not to illuminate his tail lights and watched. A Ford Econoline van was in the process of turning around so that it was facing back down the service road in the direction from which it had come.

Its driver killed the headlamps, but left the marker lights illuminated. Ralston waited, but nothing happened. No one got out. No one got in.

He couldn’t help but wonder if he was looking at some sort of getaway vehicle. Was Larry Salomon’s home being burgled?

It didn’t take him long to get tired of waiting. Removing his cell phone, he decided to call Salomon to see if maybe there was some other explanation.

He depressed the speed dial key for Salomon’s cell phone, but the call failed to connect. Scrolling through his address book, he tried the number again, but the call still didn’t go through. Looking at his signal strength, he saw he wasn’t getting any bars at all. He couldn’t remember ever having trouble getting reception up here before.

That was all it took. He’d been taught not to believe in coincidences. Releasing the parking brake, he put his car in gear, and as he did, a very bad feeling began to overtake him.