Good as Dead(16)

In my defense, I didn’t fully understand the job when I took it. I knew I didn’t want to work at a big firm, riding the same elevator to a top floor office every day, competing with other associates to bill a shit ton of hours. Or clerk for a stuffy judge, like some of my classmates were doing. I was young, and craved a lifestyle. After a lifetime of long winters, I loved the idea of California. I told myself it would be temporary—a break from the cold, an adventure in La La Land. With my mother gone, and my brother wrapped up in his kids and his God, I was already adrift—why not float in an ocean of beautiful people under perpetually sunny skies? In the beginning, I wasn’t exclusive to Jack and sometimes serviced other clients—moguls merging companies, partners unpartnering, a real estate tycoon or two—but Jack’s needs slowly took over my whole life. I hadn’t even had a serious girlfriend since the party nail gal, that’s how busy he kept me. I barely even had time to be lonely.

Jack had been involved with minor scandals before—alleged inappropriate contact with a personal assistant, an alliance with a corrupt politician, a shady real estate deal—but this was by far the worst. It was my job to fix, not to judge—today’s world had enough judges. A highly visible person like Jack lived under a microscope. His every move, his words, even his outfits were scrutinized and shit upon. I had compassion for him. If I didn’t, I couldn’t do my job.

Technically, the Holly Kendrick ordeal was over. We made a deal, she pledged her silence in exchange for riches beyond her wildest dreams. We should have all breathed a big sigh of relief. But we didn’t. Because deep down we all knew this was just the beginning.





ANDY


Three months ago

“He said he was really sorry,” Laura said when I finally called her back. I didn’t want to be pissy when I talked to my agent, so I had waited a day, until my bad mood wore off. “He still wants to meet with you,” she insisted. “In fact, in the end this might be a good thing, he might feel like he owes you one.”

I was dubious that one of the most powerful people in Hollywood would ever feel like he owed me anything, but I kept that to myself. “Right. OK,” was all I could muster. I wondered why I was getting a second chance. Maybe the someone better didn’t work out?

“He’s going to be on location most of the summer, but we’re rescheduling for right when he gets back, in early September,” Laura said, and I tried to sound pleased.

“Great.” Great that he was rescheduling. Not great that my potential payday was pushed another three months. My marriage was already strained. Our credit card debt was massive and compounding. I honestly didn’t know if we would survive the whole summer. Visions of making doll furniture and selling it out of my garage flashed through my mind. Though my marriage probably wouldn’t survive that either.

As I clicked off the phone, I felt simultaneously relieved—He’s still interested!—and ashamed, like an addict chasing one last fix. I was a junkie, and the business was my drug. I chased it to the detriment of my health, my home, my relationships. I got a knot in my stomach every time the mail came. As stressful as it was facing those envelopes rimmed with red with “past due” stamped across their contents, I was not ready to live my life as a raisin in the sun. I wanted to be a screenwriter. The desire was existential. Even my articles read like movies. I set the scene (“Misery wafted through the office like acrid smoke”), described my subjects like characters in a Greek tragedy (“Mr. X had a winning smile that belied his recent failures”). I never judged my subjects, but rather let their behaviors—a “nervous knee,” a “too-loud laugh,” a “pinched smile”—speak for themselves. When Clooney optioned my Sunday Times article on the WikiLeaks whistleblower, he said the piece already read like a movie script. When he paid me to adapt it, I was sure I’d stepped into my destiny. I worked on that script for five glorious years. It never occurred to me that they wouldn’t make the movie. Or that my career would grind to a halt.

I rationalized the heartbreaking setback as a test of my resolve. I couldn’t quit. I had built a home, moved a wife out from back East. Libby had given up everything—a promising career, a vast community of friends, weekend rituals she’d enjoyed her whole life—her generosity was boundless. I owed it to her to succeed, and succeed big.

I had to sell a script. After three bone-dry years, I finally had a meeting with someone who could pay big and get my movie made. I’d simply have to write something so compelling, so absolutely perfect for him, that he couldn’t say no.

I vowed not to let anything distract me. I would prepare for this meeting like my life depended on it.

Because at this fragile point in my career and my marriage, it did.





CHAPTER 9


I just wanted to know how he died. I wasn’t planning to go down some deep rabbit hole or anything. The word “suddenly” intrigued me, simple as that.

When people die “suddenly,” it can mean any number of things: a heart attack, an aneurism, a plane crash, a car crash, a boating accident. He could have committed suicide (often the case) or been murdered (very rare). Or maybe he was just really old? Holly was good-looking enough to be a trophy wife. A million possibilities ran through my head, I just wanted to know.

First, I had to find out his name. That should be easy enough. Just google the wife. I knew her last name was Kendrick because I saw it on a moving box. Perhaps that was a strange thing to notice, but after ten years working as an investigative reporter, my mind just took in details like that.