Private: #1 Suspect

CHAPTER 42

After Schuster chilled down the ensuing scuffle with a garden hose, after Justine said, “Scotty. Watch and listen, ” Justine sat with Scotty and Danny Whitman in the music room on the third floor with its nice view of the Harlequin lot, one of the oldest film studios in Hollywood.

Danny was at the piano, plinking out “Lay Down Sally.”

Justine said to the movie star, “Tell us what happened, Danny.”

Danny sighed, came off the piano bench, fell into a cushy chair. Justine thought how much younger he looked than he did on the big screen. And he was bigger too, well proportioned, the famous dimple on one cheek, thick brown hair, could have been a high school ball player, although he was twenty-four.

She noted the number written in ballpoint pen on the cleft between thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Looked like a phone number.

Danny said, “This is going to sound idiotic, but I honestly don’t know what happened. We were at Alan Barstow’s house. My agent?”

Justine nodded. “I met Mr. Barstow.”

Danny said, “Alan was having a party. There were a lot of girls there. Dozens. I woke up in my own house in my own bedroom-alone. Next thing, before my alarm went off, the police are at the door. They say this…Katie Blackwell is lodging a complaint against me.”

“You say her name like you didn’t know her,” Scotty said.

“I know who she is, ” said Danny. “I’ve seen her around, but that’s all. I didn’t date her. I sure don’t know her age. I can’t even say she was at Alan’s that night, except that my boys saw her hanging on to me.”

“And Katie’s story is what?” Justine asked.

“She says we left the party together, that I made her have sex with me in my car, and that I dropped her off at her front door. You should see my car. Sex in that thing is physically impossible. But she has a girlfriend who says she saw us drive off together. Otherwise it would be strictly he-said, she-said.”

“Did Katie go to the hospital?”

“No. In her deposition she said she was embarrassed, took a shower, didn’t say anything to her parents until the next morning, then they called the police.

“Here’s the thing,” Whitman went on. “I was so stoned that night. If I did it, I deserve to be punished. But I really don’t think I had sex with that girl. I’m pretty sure I would have remembered.”

Justine said, “Pretty sure?”

“It’s all very sketchy. I just remember laughing. Falling down. Girls pawing me. That’s it. And none of my boys saw me leaving with Katie.”

“She could’ve been lying to get out of trouble,” Justine said. “If she was out late, that sort of thing.”

The star pulled on his lower lip, looking to Justine as if he was searching his memory, not making up a story.

Then again, Whitman was an actor.

“Dr. Smith, I might as well tell you, this wasn’t the first time I lost track of myself. My life’s kinda unreal, you know? I was just a kid when I came out here. A normal kid. Here there’s too much of everything and my time isn’t my own. Half the time it feels like someone else is running my life and I have no control over what happens to me.”

Justine said, “All I want to do is help you so that things don’t get worse, so that you can get through your trial without any more bad press. Do you want me to advise you?”

“Yes. Hell, yes. Tell me what you want me to do.”

Justine thought, Oh, crap. Danny was likable and now she was responsible for keeping him clean and celibate so he could make the hundred-million-dollar blockbuster.

She handed Whitman two cards, saying, “Here’s how to reach me and Scotty. It’s really simple. Don’t go out with girls at all. That way there will be no pictures, no headlines. Don’t spend the night out with anyone. Go to work, go home alone, keep your phone on, and stay in touch with us.”

“Done deal.”

“Whose number is on your hand?” Justine asked.

“I don’t know. This is what I’m talking about. Look. It’s gone,” Whitman said, spitting on his hand, wiping it against the leg of his jeans.

“Okay,” Justine said. “Starting now, pretend you’re a monk. And we’ll dig up what we can on Katie Blackwell.”