Elvis Cole #5
Bantam Books
March 1996
On Sale: March 15, 1996
Featuring: Elvis Cole; Jodie Taylor
416 pages ISBN: 0786889055 EAN: 978078688905 Mass Market Paperback Add to Wish List
I met Jodi Taylor and her manager for lunch on the
Coast Highway in Malibu, not far from Paradise Cove and the
Malibu Colony. The restaurant was perched in the rocks
overlooking the ocean, and owned by a chef who had his own
cooking show on public television. A saucier. The restaurant
was bright and airy, with spectacular views of the coast to
the east and the Channel Islands to the south. A grilled
tuna sandwich cost eighteen dollars. A side of fries cost
seven-fifty. They were called frites.
Jodi Taylor said, "Mr. Cole, can you keep a secret?"
"That depends, Ms. Taylor. What kind of secret did you
have in mind?"
Sid Markowitz leaned forward, as if he viewed me with
suspicion. "This meeting. Like I told you on the phone, no
one is to know that we’ve talked to you, or what we’ve
discussed, whether you take the job or not. We okay on
that?" Sid Markowitz was Jodi Taylor’s personal manager, and
he looked like a frog.
"Sure," I said. "Secret. I’m up to that."
Sid Markowitz didn’t seem convinced. "Yeah, you say
that now, but I wanna make sure you mean it. We’re talking
about a celebrity here." He made a little hand move toward
Jodi Taylor. "We fill you in, you could run to a phone, the
Enquirer might pay you fifteen, twenty grand for this."
I frowned. "Is that all?"
Markowitz frowned back at me. "Don’t joke about that."
Very suspicious.
Jodi Taylor was hiding behind oversized sunglasses, a
loose-fitting man’s jean jacket, and a blue Dodgers baseball
cap pulled low on her forehead. She was without makeup, and
her curly, dusky-red hair had been pulled into a pony tail
through the little hole in the back of the cap. With the
glasses and the baggy clothes and the hiding, she didn’t
look like the character she played on national television
every week, but people still stared. I wondered if they,
too, thought she looked nervous. She said, "You wouldn’t
breach our confidence, would you, Mr. Cole?"
"No, ma’am. I wouldn’t."
She looked back at Sid Markowitz. "Peter said we could
trust him. Peter said he’s the best there is at this kind of
thing, and that he is absolutely trustworthy." Trustworthy.
I liked that. She turned back to me. "Peter likes you quite
a bit, you know."
"Yes. It’s mutual." Peter Alan Nelsen was the world’s
third most successful director, right behind Spielberg and
Lucas. Action adventure stuff. I had done some work for him
once, and he valued the results.
Markowitz said, "Hey, Peter’s a pal, but he’s not paid
to worry about you. I wanna be sure about this guy."
I made a zipper move across my mouth. "I promise, Sid.
I won’t breathe a word."
He looked uncertain.
"Not for less than twenty-five. For twenty-five all
bets are off." Sid Markowitz crossed his arms and sat back,
his lips a tight little pucker. "Oh, that’s just great.
That’s wonderful. A comedian." A waiter with a tan as rich
as brown leather appeared, and the three of us sat without
speaking as he served our food. I had ordered the mahi-mahi
salad with a raspberry vinaigrette dressing. Sid Markowitz
was having the duck tortellini. Jodi Taylor was having
water. Perhaps she had eaten here before.
I tasted the mahi-mahi. Dry.
When the waiter was gone, Jodi Taylor quietly said,
"What do you know about me?"
"Sid faxed a studio press release and a couple of
articles to me when he called."
"Did you read them?"
"Yes, ma’am." All three articles had said pretty much
the same thing, most of which I had known. Jodi Taylor was
the star of the new hit television series, Songbird, in
which she played the loving wife of a small town Nebraskan
sheriff and the mother of five blond ragamuffin children who
juggled her family with her dreams of becoming a singer.
Television. The PR characterized Songbird as a thoughtful
series which stressed traditional values, and family and
church groups around the nation had agreed. Their support
had made Songbird an unexpected dramatic hit, regularly
smashing its time slot competition, and major corporate
sponsors had lined up to take advantage of the show’s
appeal. Jodi Taylor had been given the credit, with Variety
citing her ‘warmth, humor, and sincerity as the strong and
loving center of her family.’ There was talk of an Emmy.
Songbird had been on for sixteen weeks, and now, as if
overnight, Jodi Taylor was a star.
She said, "I’m an adopted child, Mr. Cole."
"Okay." The People article had mentioned that.
She said, "I’m thirty-six years old. I’m getting close
to forty, and there are things that I want to know." She
said it quickly, as if she wanted to get it said so that we
could move on.
"Do you want to locate your birth parents?"
"No. That isn’t what this is about."
Sid Markowitz said, "We’re not looking for a big thing
here, Cole. In and out, answer the questions, let the woman
get on with her life."
"In and out."
Jodi Taylor nodded. "I have questions and I want
answers. Am I prone to breast or ovarian cancer? Is there
some kind of disease that’ll show up if I have children? You
can understand that, can’t you?" She nodded again,
encouraging my understanding.
"You want your medical history."
She looked relieved. "That’s exactly right." It was a
common request from adopted children, and I had done jobs
like this before.
"Okay, Ms. Taylor. What do you know about your birth?"
"Nothing. I don’t know anything. All I have is my birth
certificate, but it doesn’t tell us anything."
Sid Markowitz took a legal envelope from his jacket and
removed a Louisiana birth certificate with an impressed
state seal. The birth certificate said that her name was
Judith Marie Taylor and that her mother was Cecilia Burke
Taylor and her father was one Steven Edward Taylor and that
her place of birth was Ville Platte, Louisiana. The birth
certificate gave her date of birth as July 9, thirty-six
years ago, but it listed no time of birth, nor a weight, nor
an attending physician or hospital. I was born at 5:14 on a
Tuesday morning and, because of that, had always thought of
myself as a morning person. I wondered how I would think of
myself if I didn’t know that. She said, "Cecilia Taylor and
Steven Taylor are my adoptive parents."
"Do they have any information about your birth?"
"No. They adopted me through the state, and they
weren’t given any more information than what you see on the
birth certificate."
A family of five was shown to a window table behind us,
and a tall woman with pale hair was staring at Jodi. She had
come in with an overweight man and two children and an older
woman who was probably the grandmother. The older woman
looked as if she’d be more at home at a diner in Topeka. The
overweight man carried a Minolta. Tourists.
"Have you tried to find out about yourself through the
state?"
"Yes." She took out a business card and handed it to
me. "I’m using an attorney in Baton Rouge, but the state
records are sealed. That was Louisiana law at the time of my
adoption, and remains the law today. She tells me that we’ve
exhausted all regular channels, and we’re at a dead end. She
recommended that I hire a private investigator, and Peter
recommended you. If you agree to help, you’ll need to
coordinate what you do through her."
I looked at the card. Sonnier, Melancon, & Burke,
Attorneys at Law. And under that, Lucille Chenier,
Associate. There was an address in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
Sid leaned forward, giving me the frog again. "Maybe
now you know why I’m making the big deal about keeping this
secret. Some scumbag tabloid would pay a fortune for this.
‘Famous actress searches for real parents.’"
Jodi Taylor said, "My mom and dad are my real parents."
Sid made the little hand move. "Sure, kid. You bet."
She said, "I mean it, Sid." Her voice was tense.
The tall woman with the pale hair said something to the
overweight man and he looked our way, too. The older woman
was looking around, but you could tell she didn’t see us.
Jodi said, "If you find these people, I have no wish to
meet them, and I don’t want them to know who I am. I don’t
want anyone to know that you’re doing this, and I want you
to promise me that anything you find out about me or my
biological relatives will remain absolutely confidential
between us. Do you promise that?"
Sid said, "They find out they’re related to Jodi
Taylor, they might take advantage." He rubbed his thumb
across his fingertips. Money.
Jodi Taylor was still with me, her eyes locked on mine
as if this was the most important thing in the world. "Do
you swear that whatever you find will stay between us?"
"The card says confidential, Ms. Taylor. If I work for
you, I’m working for you."
Jodi rocked softly and looked at Sid. Sid spread his
hands. He said, "Whatever you want to do, kid."
She looked back at me, and nodded. "Hire him."
I said, "I can’t do it from here. I’ll have to go to
Louisiana, and, possibly, other places, and, if I do, the
expenses could be considerable."
Sid said, "So what’s new?"
"My fee is three thousand dollars, plus the expenses."
Sid Markowitz took out a check and a pen and wrote
without comment.
"I’ll want to speak with the attorney. I may have to
discuss what I find with her. Is that okay?"
Jodi Taylor said, "Of course. I’ll call her this
afternoon and tell her to expect you. You can keep her
card." She glanced at the door, anxious to leave. You hire
the detective, you let him worry about it.
Sid made a writing motion in the air and the waiter
brought the check.
The woman with the pale hair looked our way again, then
spoke to her husband. The two of them stood, and came over,
the man holding his camera.
I said, "We’ve got company."
Jodi Taylor and Sid Markowitz turned just as they
arrived. The man was grinning as if he had just made
thirty-second degree Mason. The woman said, "Excuse us, but
are you Jodi Taylor?" In the space of a breath Jodi Taylor
put away the things that troubled her and smiled the smile
that thirty million Americans saw every week. It was worth
seeing. Jodi Taylor was thirty-six years old, and beautiful
in the way that only women with a measure of maturity can be
beautiful. Not like in a fashion magazine. Not like a model.
There was a quality of realness about her that let you feel
that you might meet her at a supermarket or in church or at
the PTA. She had soft hazel eyes and dark skin and one front
tooth slightly overlapped the other. When she gave you the
smile her heart smiled, too, and you felt it was genuine.
Maybe it was that quality that was making her a star. "I’m
Jodi Taylor," she said.
The overweight man said, "Miss Taylor, could I get a
picture of you and Denise?"
Jodi looked at the woman. "Are you Denise?"
Denise said, "It’s so wonderful to meet you. We love
your show."
Jodi smiled wider, and if you had never before met or
seen her, in that moment you would fall in love. She offered
her hand, and said, "Lean close and let’s get our picture."
The overweight man beamed like a six-year-old on
Christmas morning. Denise leaned close and Jodi took off her
sunglasses and the maitre d’ and two of the waiters hovered,
nervous. Sid waved them away.
The overweight man snapped the picture, then said how
much everybody back home loved Songbird, and then they went
back to their table, smiling and pleased with themselves.
Jodi Taylor replaced the sunglasses and folded her hands in
her lap and stared at some indeterminate point beyond my
shoulder, as if whatever she saw had drawn her to a neutral
place.
I said, "That was very nice of you. I’ve been with
several people who would not have been as kind."
Sid said, "Money in the bank. You see how they love her?"
Jodi Taylor looked at Sid Markowitz without expression,
and then she looked back at me. Her eyes seemed tired and
obscured by something that intruded. "Yes, well. If there’s
anything else you need, please call Sid."
She gathered her things and stood to leave. Business
was finished.
I stayed seated. "What are you afraid of, Ms. Taylor?"
Jodi Taylor walked away from the table and out the door
without answering.
Sid Markowitz said, "Forget it. You know how it is with
actresses."
Outside, I watched Jodi Taylor and Sid Markowitz drive
away in Markowitz’s twelve cylinder Jaguar while a parking
attendant who looked like Fabio ran to get my car. Neither
Sid nor Jodi waved as they left, and neither of them had
said good-bye, but what’s mere rudeness to a tough guy like me?
From the parking lot, you could look down on the beach
and see young men and women in wetsuits carrying short
pointy boogie boards into the surf. They would run laughing
into the surf where they would belly flop onto their boards
and paddle out past the breakwater where other surfers sat
with their legs hanging down, bobbing in the water, waiting
for a wave. A little swell would come, and they would paddle
furiously to catch its crest. They would stand and ride the
little wave into the shallows where they would turn around
and paddle out to wait some more. They did it again and
again, and the waves were always small, but maybe each time
they paddled out they were thinking that the next wave would
be the big wave, the one that would make all the effort have
meaning. Most people are like that, and, like most people,
the surfers probably hadn’t yet realized that the process
was the payoff, not the waves. When they were paddling, they
looked very much like sea lions and, every couple of years
or so, a passing great white shark would get confused and a
board would come back but not the surfer.
Fabio brought my car and I drove back along the Pacific
Coast Highway toward Los Angeles.
I had thought that Jodi Taylor might be pleased when I
agreed to take the job, but she wasn’t. Yet she still wanted
to hire me, still wanted me to uncover the elements of her
past. Since my own history was known to me, it held no fear.
I thought about how I might feel if the corridor of my birth
held only closed doors. Maybe, like Jodi Taylor, I would be
afraid.
By the time I turned away from the water toward my
office, a dark anvil of clouds had formed on the horizon and
the ocean had grown the color of raw steel.
A storm was raging, and I thought that it might find
its way to shore.