got a client.”
The woman nodded. “The detective needs to speak to Mr. Weinberg.”
“He’s still got half an hour to go.”
Bax moved closer to the door. “I’ll be busy in a half an hour.”
“I checked with Piper’s office,” the woman whispered. “We have to let him in.”
The massage therapist was tall and wiry, not bulging with muscles as Bax would have thought. He looked strong though, strong and pissed. The one thing that did match Bax’s preconceived notions was the uniform. All-white T-shirt, slacks and shoes. Clean. Antiseptic.
After a meaningful shrug, the therapist stepped back.
Bax thanked the nice woman and went inside the even darker room.
Turns out it wasn’t dark enough.
Oscar Weinberg lay naked on the massage table. Face up. With no sheet covering any part of his large body.
Bax almost turned around and walked out, but his personal discomfort couldn’t possibly be worse than Weinberg’s, so why not go for it?
“What the hell is going on, Larry?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Weinberg. I was told to let him in.”
Weinberg looked Bax over. “Who the fuck are you?”
Bax took out his badge, making sure Oscar saw his holster as he did so. “Detective Milligan.”
“This can’t wait?”
“I figured I better catch you when I could. With that private jet and all.”
“Did I say I wanted you to stop the massage?”
That was to Larry, of course, who hopped to it.
Bax had no idea what Larry was in fact massaging as he was focusing one hundred percent on Weinberg’s face. “When did you get back to the hotel?”
“About an hour ago.”
“And the first thing you wanted was a massage?”
“Is that what you came here to talk about?”
Score one for the naked guy. “Tell me about your relationship with Geiger.”
“There was no relationship. We used Geiger on occasion to take pictures. We paid him. All above board, nothing special.”
“Was he on the clock the night of his death?”
“No. He was not.”
“You’re sure about that?” Bax didn’t wait for a response. “When was the last time you did hire him?”
“I’ll have to find out, Detective. It’s not something I keep at the forefront. Especially with Geiger. The man was an ass. Rude, greedy. He was one of the worst.”
“Then why use him?”
“He got the job done. He was useful.”
“What was Geiger doing in Peter Eccles’s suite?”
Weinberg rolled his eyes as if the question was too difficult to bear. “You’d have to ask Peter.”
“According to some reliable sources you’ve got a lot riding on this picture. The last four movies you produced haven’t done very well.”
“Reliable sources? Please, Detective. You should know by now that you can’t always believe what you read in the papers.”
“I imagine it’s costing a lot. Austen and Tamony don’t come cheap.”
“We won’t be selling off our company jet anytime soon.”
“Why do you think someone wanted Geiger dead?”
“He probably took a picture he shouldn’t have. Honestly, Detective, I wouldn’t know. The lives of the paparazzi are of little consequence to me.”
Bax was about to pepper him with yet another question, despite the fact that the naked guy was turning out to be pretty imperturbable, but then Oscar took hold of Larry’s left arm and Bax couldn’t watch as the man turned over.
Once the guy was facedown, Bax moved in a little, not willing to accidentally see anything that would burn his retinas. He looked at Larry, who had already gone to work on Weinberg’s back. The therapist had a look of such disgust on his face that Bax got a chill.
He’d seen that look before, and it was usually immediately followed by someone getting shot. Larry was not happy.
Why in hell didn’t Weinberg have a sheet on him? For that matter, why wasn’t this massage being done in his suite? According to the brochure, most everything could be done in the guest rooms.
After an unfortunate glimpse of Weinberg’s large white ass, Bax turned, ready to end this now. On a credenza, along with bottles and towels, there were three items of interest. A water bottle, a locker key on a bungee cord and a small tape recorder. No, wait. It was a camera. Bax recognized the small device as one he’d seen in the Vice department’s bag of tricks. Even from halfway across the room, Bax could see that the recorder was on. The red button glowed in the dark.
He turned back. “I’ll let you finish your business here, Mr. Weinberg. We’ll speak again.”
“I look forward to it, Detective.”
As Bax walked toward the door, he looked one last time at Larry. The disgust was gone. In its place, raw fear.
8
IT WAS ALMOST FIVE, and Mia, despite expecting every phone call to be Piper telling her she was fired, kept checking the elevator, waiting for Bax. It was possible, of course, that he’d left the hotel, but he wouldn’t do that, would he? Leave without saying anything?
Of course he would. She wasn’t his priority. She wasn’t even in the top ten. The man was investigating a murder, not obsessing about her. At least not the way she was obsessing about him.
Her private phone rang. “Mia.”
“It’s me. I found out about Mexico.”
“Carlane, that’s great.”
“One of the first films Weinberg produced was shot in Mexico. It was Bobbi Tamony’s first picture, too. Danny Austen was in it, and it was directed by Peter Eccles.”
“The whole gang, huh?”
“And, guess what?”
“What?”
“Gerry Geiger was the photographer. He wasn’t a pap back then. He worked for Weinberg Films taking publicity stills.”
“No.”
