Colored Waters

By Brad Stratton

Colored Waters, the first Michael Chamber's crime/mystery novel. Calloused and hardened as he has become, Michael has a difficult time watching the video someone is using to blackmail his client, Laurel Silverman, the beautiful daughter of a Hollywood producer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indigo Sea Press
• Release date: Dec 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781935171157

Brad Stratton

Brad Stratton's writing has been inspired by his personal experiences in the motion picture industry.  His long term love affair with the private eye novel and with the city of Los Angeles, where the passing of illusion for reality is a staple of commerce.He divides his time between Southern California and the place of his birth, a small town in the Pacific Northwest, where he does his writing.

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Also from Dagger Books

by Brad Stratton

White Lies

Colored Waters

Copyright 2008 By

Brad Stratton

At Smashwords

Dagger Books

Published by Second Wind Publishing

Kernersville

Dagger Books

Second Wind Publishing, LLC

931-B South Main Street, Box 145

Kernersville, NC  27284

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the author’s imagination, fictitious or use fictitiously. Any resemblance to any event, locale or person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2008 by Brad Stratton

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format.

First Dagger Books edition published August, 2008.

Dagger Books, Running Angel, and all production design are trademarks of Second Wind Publishing, used under license.

For information regarding bulk purchases of this book, digital purchase and special discounts, please contact the publisher at www.secondwindpublishing.com

Special acknowledgments to:

Cover design by Brad Stratton

Manufactured in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-935171-15-7

For Anne Elyse

—Brad Stratton

1

It was another cloudless morning and the sky was that deep, delft blue that comes only in winter to Los Angeles. One of those rare days, when hard night rain and ocean breezes conspire to sweep away the haze and the city is transformed. The air is fresh and clean, scented with a hint of jasmine, and the white stucco sparkles so bright against the deep green of the hillsides it hurts your eyes. It was a perfect Valentine's Day, clear and bright and full of promise; the kind that makes you wish you had someone to give flowers to.

I was busy gazing out my office window, watching the boats on the bay perform their random wind dance and listening to my telephone ring. It was too nice a day for sad stories and I was hoping whoever it was would decide their problems could keep until tomorrow, along with the smog. On the fourth ring my conscience got the better of me. I picked up and said, Floral delivery, forget-me-nots our specialty.

Mr. Chambers?

Yes.

Michael Chambers?

Yes.

The private investigator?

He sounded dubious.

It's Valentine's Day, I said, as though only a fool wouldn't know that.

Oh . . . I see . . . yes, of course it is.

His voice was deep and resonant, full of authority and used to giving orders but unsure of itself now, unfamiliar with nonsense. Perhaps remembering who he was, he barked at me.

Chambers, this is David Silverman. He paused to let the name sink in, I have a private matter I wish to discuss with you and I'd like to see you at my home this morning.

I recognized the name, as he obviously expected I would. It could be found among the opening credits on some of the biggest hits to come out of Hollywood in the past thirty years. Right under where it said Produced by.

Gee, Mr. Silverman, it was kind of you to think of me but I just committed on a Scorsese project. Marty has already sent the contracts. Marty was short for Martin, as in Martin Scorsese, but Silverman would know that. He would know, too, that I was lying.

There was so long a silence I thought he had hung up.

Mr. Chambers, I'm afraid I haven't much experience at this sort of thing. I apologize for asking you to come here on such short notice but I assure you this matter is urgent. It is imperative that I see you as soon as possible. I'm tied up in meetings all afternoon and I can't reschedule. The principals are flying back to Europe tonight. If you could see your way clear to come over this morning I would consider it a substantial favor.

That last line probably packed a lot of weight in his circles. Having David Silverman owe you one would be considered a big deal and, to be fair, it probably was.

He hadn't hung up on me and he had apologized.

Let's start over, Mr. Silverman, who gave you my number?

He was silent again. I could tell he wasn't used to being auditioned, nor did he like it much. Finally he said, Barry Mann recommended you. He said you once helped him with a personal problem and he was pleased with your work. He spoke highly of you. He also said you were discreet.

It looked as if Barry had moved up in the world and I was glad for him. He was one of the few movie people I knew who actually deserved to.

All right, sir, I said, is there anything you want to tell me before I leave?

Not on the phone, Chambers. This is a very delicate situation.

Okay, tell me how to get there and I'll be along.

The directions were elaborate but impeccable. Just like the neighborhood.

2

As I eased my ancient Speedster through the curves along Sunset, I was hoping the locals might take me for a classic car collector or maybe a low-key broker whose assistants handled the early calls. I was dressed in my best: tan gabardine slacks, pale blue oxford shirt, a wine red foulard tie, dark, burnished loafers and a navy blazer. I looked the part but up close, the scuffmarks on my hands and face would probably give me away. If they didn't, the Beretta under my arm surely would.

Near UCLA, the usual contingent of joggers was loping alongside the road in a neon serpentine of T-shirts, shorts and too seldom, I thought, spandex. As a trained professional, I couldn't help noticing that, by far, the majority of them were attractive young women, rosy cheeked, pony tailed and determined as hell. Not that long ago it had been rare to see a woman jogging and I wondered if any of them were day dreaming about becoming the first Madame President. Probably not, probably they were thinking about the boys they had given Valentines to and how good they were going to look for them. Lucky guys. I wondered, too, if any of them preferred older men.

I turned north under the arch of the Bel Air Gate and wound my way uphill through a convoluted tangle of streets with French and Italian names. On this side of Sunset the houses run to estate size and the architecture is as eclectic as Hearst’s art collection. Traffic was practically non-existent and those few cars I did pass had out of state plates. Their owners were poking along with Maps to the Star's Homesspread out on the dash, pointing and gawking. I was doing a little of it myself, come to think of it.

Aside from the tourists, the streets were deserted. No pedestrians, no limousines, not even a stray poodle. Everything was tastefully manicured and it was very quiet and peaceful. The only noises came from the birds and even their warbling seemed to have an understated, almost reverent tone, not unlike extras on a movie set. If you were dropped from the sky blindfolded behind any of those walls, you would never guess that the busiest intersection in the country is less than a mile away.

After the ten thousandth switch back I found the address on Sorbonne where the street dead-ended at the front entrance to the property. A large, ornate, silver 'S' decorated the middle of a tall, wrought iron gate that stood sentry between high stone walls. A long, curving drive beyond that led to the main house. It sat atop the hill and had an unobstructed, three hundred sixty-degree view of the surrounding canyons. As I pulled up to the gate I spied a security camera mounted on one of the stone pillars. Below it was a speaker box but before I could push the buzzer it crackled to life.

A polite but firm male voice asked, How may I help you?

I suppressed the urge to order a Happy Meal and gave my name. The voice told me to wait and soon a long silver limousine glided down the drive and stopped on the other side of the gate. It had vanity plates that read SLVRSCRN. An extremely large man in well-tailored chauffeur's livery got out of the car and walked to the gate. He looked like André the Giant disguised as The Little Dutch Boy and when he spoke, his voice was the sound of gravel being scraped from the bottom of a dry well.

ID?

I'm just over six feet but I had to raise my arm to hand him the license. He removed it from its case and studied it, front and back, running a banana-sized thumb over the plastic, searching for evidence of tampering and then held it up, comparing my face to the picture. It looked like a postage stamp in his hand. Despite his size, his movements had a practiced ease about them and I would bet he had done some bouncing somewhere. Maybe for the Titans.

I appreciated his thoroughness but it was overdone. Silverman had called me less than an hour ago and not even Moriarty could have whipped up a phony private license that fast.

He handed back the ID, took a radio out of his pocket, spoke into it, and a moment later the gate swung inward.

Okay, he rumbled, follow me up to the house and park in back, out of sight from the gate.

I'll put on the trench coat and dark glasses but do I have to wear the hat? It messes up my hair.

He stared at me for a long moment with black, expressionless eyes, folded himself back into the limo, turned it around and headed up the drive. I got the impression he didn't think I was all that funny.

Silverman's house was modeled after an English country manor, constructed mostly of weathered gray stone and aged brick. Ivy covered much of the walls and it was at least three stories tall with gabled windows running the length of the top floor over a steeply pitched slate roof. Calling it a house was like calling an aircraft carrier a boat.

A driveway leading to the back divided what was probably the guesthouse from the main structure and I turned into it, leaving André to carry on alone. Behind the house several cars were parked against a curb at neat forty-five degree angles. I pulled into an empty space beside a silver Jaguar and got out. Next to the Jaguar was a Rolls Silver Spur and next to that a shiny, red Ferrari. I was standing there thinking the Ferrari clashed with the estate color scheme and noting that my paint job looked even more faded than usual, when I heard someone open the back door. I turned to see a chubby, middle-aged Mexican woman in a crisp maid's uniform waiting to greet me.

Hola, Buenos dias, I said. She put on a pleasant smile that reached her eyes and with a pronounced accent, said, Please com' een, senor, Mr. Silverman, he es'pecting you. I followed her down a narrow hallway that led to the main foyer where black and white marble covered the floor like a vast game board. It looked about the right size for a game of checkers with the chauffeur.

She led me down the main hall and stopped in front of two large double doors that gleamed with age and polish. Without knocking she opened the door and held it for me. I went in and there he was, sitting behind an antique, walnut partner's desk. It had baroque corners and gold inlays along the legs. Inset in the top were two, identical, tooled leather writing surfaces. It looked old and genuine and, if so, would fetch a tidy sum at Sotheby's. Behind him was a mullioned, bay window with a full view of immaculately tended lawn and gardens. On either side of the window were oil paintings in large gilt frames and, if possible, they put the desk to shame. They were originals and had been done by a couple of long deceased Impressionists. One was a Pissaro and the other an early Manet. I had seen others like them but only in museums and, had I been less sophisticated, I might have whistled.

He was in his late fifties, I guessed, not very tall but tanned and fit looking with a full head of silvered hair combed straight back over deep-set, pale blue eyes. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw and, sitting as he was, he looked like a Forbes cover, right down to his pinstripe power suit and rep tie.

He rose to extend his hand and said, Please, come in and sit down, Mr. Chambers, waving me to a couple of brass studded leather chairs, thanks for coming. His grip was firm but his heart wasn't in it and his eyes wavered as we shook hands. Up close I could see the circles under his eyes and he looked tired, as if maybe he hadn't been sleeping much.

He swept a hand past his suit, Please excuse the formal attire, I have a business luncheon after this. Would you care for something, a cup of coffee, or a drink, perhaps?

I'll take some coffee, with cream and honey if you have it, otherwise black is fine.

He nodded at the maid, Elena, I'll have a Glenlivet, please.

I wondered if it was too late to change my order.

The maid left and Silverman turned his attention back to me. He looked me up and down but, despite his forcefulness on the phone, I could tell he was ill at ease now that he had me here. He began fidgeting with an octagonal, crystal paperweight that had a golf ball trapped in its center. It had a green crest stamped on it that read, St. Andrews. Except for the crest, it looked just like one I had.

I knew he was trying to work up the courage to tell me. This was always the hard part. By the time people got around to calling me, things had usually gone south. I assumed the scotch was to help him say whatever it was he had to say. If not, it could mean he had other problems, too. In my experience, all due respect to the late Mr. Fitzgerald, I haven't found the rich to be all that different. In spite of their efforts.

I sat there looking at him like an expectant puppy until he began.

I apologize for all of the . . . ah . . . cloak and dagger business at the gate. Rudy doubles as security for me and he takes it very seriously. This thing, this situation has us all on edge, it is, ah . . . it has just . . . well . . . anyway, it was good of you to come on such short notice. Did you have much trouble finding us? People often do, though you seem to have made good time so I guess not.

I was beginning to think he was an impostor. He had apologized to me twice in less than an hour and was as nervous as a politician without a speech. So far, I had done nothing but practice my well-criticized wit on him and his help and I couldn't afford the hood ornament on his Rolls. Still, here he was, apologizing to me. Whatever his problem was, it had him wound as tight as a cheap clock. I decided to help him out.

Mr. Silverman, perhaps we should dispense with the pleasantries. We both know you aren't the kind of man who hires a private investigator on the basis of someone’s recommendation, at least not someone as far down on the guest list as Barry Mann. With your juice, you've already checked downtown and they gave me the nod. Probably a very conditional one but good enough or I wouldn't be sitting here. I'll bet the Mayor called personally. You said it was urgent and I'm here. Why not tell me about it.

My little speech made him sit back in his chair and a hard glint came into his eyes. I could see some of his composure returning as I spoke. And some of what allowed him to afford the artwork. The paperweight thunked down on the desk, hard.

All right Chambers, let's get to it. They told me you weren't stupid. They also said you had something of an attitude and were too fond of your own wit, that you could be difficult, although that's not how they put it. I can see I was informed correctly. I was also told you were honest and could be counted on to see something through once you took it on, that you wouldn't fold if things got a little rough. I hope they were right about that, too. What I'm going to tell you is to be held in strictest confidence. Is that understood?

Is there any other kind?

He stared at me a moment, not sure if I was exercising my wit again, I'm being blackmailed, Chambers, that is, my daughter is being blackmailed. It is an intolerable situation. I want you to find out who is doing it and I want you to make them stop. We have already paid them what they asked for and now they want more. A great deal more.

They will do that. Once you pay them they know what they have is worth something to you. They will probably keep squeezing now, as long and as hard as you let them. When are you supposed to make the next payment?

I don't know. We received another note in the mail this morning telling us how much they wanted. They said they would call and let us know where and when to make the payment. That's when I called you.

Just then, the maid opened the door, again without knocking, and set a silver coffee service on the table beside me. She placed a highball glass, dark enough for a double, on a matching coaster in front of Silverman and poured my coffee into a bone china cup with silver edging. A dish of rose shaped butter pats sat on a bed of ice and was kept company by a plate of croissants and pastries whose names I could only guess at. Even if I turned the case down the drive was going to be worth it. I couldn't help wondering what color the service would have been if his last name had been Goldman.

I grinned at her, Muchos gracias. She smiled that smile at me again and turned to leave. As she reached the door Silverman said, Elena, would you find Laurel and ask her to come in here. Without turning around she said, She not here, senor, she say to tell you she go to see a fren'.

He flushed, Damn it, she was supposed to . . . oh, never mind, Elena, thank you, that will be all.

Still with her back to us and not saying another word, the maid left.

Laurel is my daughter, Chambers, you would think she might take at least a passing interest in this situation. It is, after all, her career that is being jeopardized. I suppose, in a way, it's my fault. I've been an indulgent and over protective father and I've probably given her too much. Do you have children? I shook my head.

Then you really don't know what it's like, how difficult it is to know the right thing to do. You want to give them the best, protect them from an unforgiving and frequently ugly world, provide them with the opportunity to live a childhood that you never had the chance at. I have tried to do that. Perhaps I have done too much. Maybe I've left them unprepared for life at all. I worry about her and especially her brother, Aaron. By now, I suppose they have come to expect me to be able to take care of any problem. It's just that I don't know if I can fix it this time.

He wasn't really talking to me. He had been staring over my shoulder as he spoke, not seeing anything except his own thoughts. No matter how often I watched someone catching a glimpse of their own mortality it never got any easier. I always wished I were somewhere else. His last thought seemed to bring him back and he glanced at me to see what I made of it all.

I've never met a perfect parent, Mr. Silverman, not even my own. I think the most important part of it comes with caring about the job you're doing. Giving it time and thought. It sounds to me like you've done that. In my line I get to see a lot of what happens to people when no one cared. You may not be able to fix it this time, but I probably can.

He didn't exactly smile but I could see some of the tension go out of him, I hope so, Chambers, I hope to God you can.

3

Silverman's empty drink was sitting in front of him and he kept glancing at it, as if he were debating having another but didn't want to embarrass himself by ordering one. I had only had time to take a few sips of my coffee. He seemed to make up his mind, unlocked a desk drawer, took out a padded manila envelope and handed it to me. A plain white label was pasted on the front addressed to Laurel Silverman at this address. It was postmarked Los Angeles and dated three weeks ago. Inside were a videocassette, a note on plain white copy paper and a standard number ten envelope. The envelope had the same postmark and was dated two days ago. Inside it was a second note. Both of the notes had been printed using some type of laser printer. That meant virtually no chance of a match.

The first note was short and to the point. Watch this and wait for further instructions. We want $100,000 in cash, non-sequential bills in small denominations, nothing larger than hundreds but mix it up. Put them in a box 2 high, 9 wide and 12" long. Wrap the box in plain brown paper and tape it securely. No cops, no tricks, no negotiation. Have it ready in 72 hours. Stay by the phone and follow these instructions exactly unless you want to see a copy of this tape sent to every studio, tabloid and gossip show in the country.

That was it. No telltale signature, no smudged fingerprints, no bloodstains, no marks of any kind. The most remarkable thing was the packaging request. What they wanted seemed about the right size to fit in a briefcase. The only other thing of note was the use of the plural 'we'. It could mean there were more than one of them. Or it could mean nothing.

How many people know your daughter has acting aspirations?

The question startled him. Not that many. Outside of friends and family, just a few people in the Industry, but how on earth would you know she wants to be an actress?

You mentioned her career being jeopardized and the only people those sleaze merchants care about are celebrities. Unless your daughter is marrying into the Royal Family she must be an actress. Add yourself to the equation and it's an easy jump. The reference to the studios could have been included more to pressure you than your daughter. I assume whatever is on this tape is not something you would like to see floating around the studios or making the rounds on the Bel Air circuit?

I haven't seen the tape and I have no intention of seeing it. From what my daughter has told me, release of it would be embarrassing in the extreme. For all of us. Laurel's description of its content was far more detailed than I would have wished. It hadn't occurred to me that the blackmailer must know of her acting ambitions. I assumed they were just using the tape to get to me. I have lived around celebrity so long that I guess it seemed natural to fear exposure of this kind.

I read the second note. They wanted more all right.

This time we want a million. Divide it equally into four boxes, same dimensions as before. Same drill, exactly. Remember, every gossip rag and studio. This will be it for a while so don't screw up. Pay the money and you're off the hook.

They weren't dumb. It was a big payoff but not too big. Not something he probably couldn't handle and then an offer to leave him alone. At least for a while. They were greedy but not too greedy.

I thought I already knew the answer but I asked anyway.

Why pay them at all, Mr. Silverman? It seems to me the public has become fairly tolerant of other people's, ah, singularities. Not that long ago we elected and then re-elected the first President in history whose mistress held a press conference before the primaries. And there was a number one selling book with pictures of a well-known woman acting out her sexual fantasies with everything but an aardvark. It was a coffee table book just like the ones by Ansel Adams. Isn't there an old show business axiom about no such thing as bad publicity?

I had been eyeing a small layered pastry with snow-white icing. Now seemed as good a time as any. Umm. It had a faint raspberry taste and a hint of something else, maybe almonds. It was as good as the coffee. I decided I would work for food.

What you say is true enough, to a point, but this is my daughter we're talking about. I won't allow her or, for that matter, her mother and I, to be subjected to the kind of media circus the release of that tape would engender. I simply won't have it. Not at any cost. Aside from personal considerations, something like this could ruin Laurel's career before it has a chance to get off the ground. Madonna she is not. Surprisingly, I think Laurel has talent and acting is what she wants to do. No, I have to pay what they want. I really don't have a choice.

It was more or less the answer I expected.

You haven't contacted the police I take it?

You read the note, Chambers, they said no police. I can't take the chance. I won't risk my daughter's future with those incompetents.

I thought about reminding him that I was sitting here because of them but I let it pass. I had another pastry instead. It was hard not to make small animal noises of pleasure.

How did they handle it the first time? When did they call, what did they say, how did they say it? Any accent, young, old, what were you told to do? That sort of thing.

"The call came about five days after the first note. It was a man, in his thirties, maybe older. Laurel thought he might have had a slight Hispanic accent but she wasn't sure. It was the middle of the night, a little after three when her private line rang. The man told her to drive to the public phones at the Federal Building in Westwood and gave her twenty minutes to get there. He said if anyone else came with her or followed her, the deal was off and they would release the tapes. Even so, I refused to let her go alone. I lay down on