Chapter 78

The problem with spending the night in San Diego was that it put us three hours behind Miami. We had to get out of our comfortable bed at 6 a.m. to start the car ride northward in time to greet Liz’s downtrodden “friend.”

Liz had made arrangements for a car service to pick us up and drive us to the center, and we watched Caley’s performance on her tablet. I had to admit, it was inspiring. I could see a real future on reality TV for Miss Cross. I would need to make sure that didn’t happen.

She was tearful and remorseful as she recounted how a sexual liaison had produced problems for one of her “dearest friends.”

Caley had deftly dodged questions about the now-public extortion attempt against Liz Larimer, saying simply that she was OK when her transgressions caused problems for her but she drew the line at bringing trouble to those that had always stood beside her.

One reporter kept pressing, asking if Liz was upset and avoiding her.

“No!” Caley’s said. “She’s making arrangements for my care. She is the person that forced me to look at what I’ve become. Just because she isn’t here right now doesn’t mean that she’s forgotten about me.”

I rolled my eyes but said nothing. The car we were riding in didn’t have a privacy shield between us and the driver. Jill said she had used the service before the San Diego concert and Ryan had given his approval but we were still quiet on the trip up the coast.

Anastasia had become an unlikely ally in convincing Caley that walking away was for the best. Liz had pointed out that Anastasia would be in prime position to pick up Caley’s contracts. I had tried to verify without luck Liz’s account that there was a young girl of about 14 running around somewhere with 13 chromosomes from Anastasia Yurchenko and 13 from a dead Ukrainian gangster.

I had a few things to hang over Anastasia’s head but I worried that they wouldn’t be enough to see her walk away from $10 million. But, at that point, it was nice to have a spy in the enemy camp. She said that Caley’s manager had been trying to convince her to stay since Caley had announced to him a few days earlier that she was retiring.

Anastasia also said that Caley’s mother was unhappy with the news. Neither revelation surprised Liz, who characterized both as “bottom feeders.” In fact, Caley’s mother was no longer permitted within 100 feet of her daughter, thanks to a restraining order that had followed the news that the mother had squandered several million dollars on poor investments.

I had a few weeks to ponder the situation and, after Dallas, I could give it my full attention.

I finally got the chance to meet Svetlana Svencova when we arrived at the “undisclosed” rehabilitation facility near Los Angeles. The only problem was the location had been “disclosed” to damn near everybody.

There were perhaps a hundred photographers and videographers being held back by a cadre of Los Angeles County Sheriff’s deputies. They started to shout questions as soon as I stepped out of the car.

The driver stationed himself just as Dom or Brian would have and I gave him a nod as Liz emerged. He tipped his cap to us and drove away. He would come back to get us when we called him.

Svetlana was the first person to greet us. She gave Liz a warm hug and then did the same to me.

Svetlana was perhaps a year younger than Liz and me. A model’s age is sometimes nebulous. Some brands won’t hire a woman until she’s 16 or 18 so they fudge their age upward. Others shave a year or two in the other direction to prolong their shelf lives.

The redhead in front of me looked like she might be in her early 20s. She didn’t have the creases on her face that I had noticed with Anastasia, Caley and Emelda. Even Liz had small lines forming around her mouth and between her eyes. Svetlana had neither. I wondered if she had spent some time under a surgeon’s knife.

Liz had told me that Svetlana knew absolutely nothing about what had transpired in Italy a decade before. The model had been there but she had always espoused a healthy lifestyle – one that didn’t include drugs or even alcohol. She did public-service announcements for physical education in schools and had her own line of healthy snacks that she took a substantial loss on each year because she insisted the price be kept to where low-income families could afford them.

I had learned that she and Mitch Detwiler had been a couple for almost six months and that he was still in New York.

“He is coming to the end of his playing days,” Svetlana told me. “He said his cap number is too high for a backup and he is worried the team will release him in a couple of weeks. He’s at a team activity so the team might see his leadership as valuable enough to keep him.”

I nodded. Baseball had no salary cap but pro football and pro basketball did. Those two leagues didn’t have guaranteed contracts either. In the NFL, a player released before a certain date would not get paid at all.

“You should make sure he calls Travis,” Liz said. “He went through a lot of the same things as Mitch will. It might be good for him to have a sounding board.”

“I will,” Svetlana promised. “Mitch said he could tell you some stories about your boyfriend if you want to hear them.”

The smile she offered was mesmerizing. Her voice was gentle with just a hint of her Russian roots under the surface.

“I pointed out that Travis probably has the same sort of stories about him,” she added. “It is very good to see you smiling again, Lizzie. I worried about you. We’ve ... we’ve grown apart over the past year or so. I do not wish that to continue.”

“Me neither,” Liz said. “We’re going to take some downtime after the last concert. If you’re free that night, you and Mitch could come as my guests.”

“I will have to see,” Svetlana said. “Caley’s abrupt departure has caused some major advertisers to panic. My manager has called me a dozen times in the past two hours. Already rumors start about the other two problem children walking away. I think it’s for the best. The new generation does not do the things they do. They are hitting the runways already polished from hours of elocution lessons and dance classes. They are managed by their parents or older siblings and they are not falling into the lifestyle as easily. I had heard that several brands planned to cut ties with Caley at the end of the year. Most of them had held onto her hoping she would grow up but I think we both know that she won’t. I’m surprised that she didn’t simply ignore this, as well.”

Liz glanced at me for a moment before leaning in to whisper something to Svetlana. The model’s head turned on her long, graceful neck and she gave me the sort of appraising look I knew I would never grow accustomed to.

“Very nice,” she said. “Mitch said there was a lot more to you than a person sees on the outside. He told me that you’re ... intense. The public doesn’t really see that in the photos. That first day ... when you told the paparazzi to behave ... he said that you were the type that would put yourself in front of Liz if someone tried to hurt her. I can see that. I am even happier that you are in her life.”

“Excuse me,” a young police officer said as she approached. “I’m Sgt. Brewer. I understand the plane has arrived and they are on their way. It will be another 45 minutes or so.”

“Thank you,” Liz said. “You’re doing a good job of keeping things organized here.”

“I work the high-profile detail,” the young woman said. “Uh, my brother is a pretty big name in Los Angeles so I’m used to dealing with famous people.”

“Oh?” Svetlana asked.

“I don’t want to name drop,” the woman said. Liz looked at the woman’s nametag and then to her face. She frowned as she tried to place her and failed.

“I’ve met you before,” Liz said.

“I’m friends with Randi,” the woman said conspiratorially. “I texted her when I got my assignment today. She said to tell you hello if you showed up. We’re all very sorry about what’s happening.”

“Zoe!” Liz said as the name came to her. “I thought ... I thought your last name was Miller. Is that your maiden name? I thought...”

“He’s my half brother,” Zoe said, glancing back over her shoulder. “Different mothers.”

“I didn’t mean to intrude on your personal life,” Liz said.

“No, it’s OK,” Sheriff’s Department Sergeant Zoe Brewer said. “My relationship with Brock and his friends is what got me this assignment. Dealing with celebrities is old hat to me now, I guess. I have dinner once or twice a week with Randi Raver or Al Perez. Al is ... I suppose he’s my uncle-in-law.”

“Emma?” Liz asked, narrowing her eyes slightly.

“Emmy,” Zoe corrected with a slight blush.

“I totally tried to get Zoe’s wife to audition as a backup dancer for me,” Liz said, smiling. “She’s a real stunner.”

I nodded as I put pieces together in my head. The police officer was Brock Miller’s half sister; she was gay and married to the niece of another Dodgers player; and she had parlayed those ties into a plum assignment on the “high-profile” squad.

Then I looked around at the people the woman would need to deal with on a routine basis. This was not a “plum” assignment – unless she were to be given freedom to use her firearm, Taser or pepper spray as she saw fit. Then it might be fun. Somehow I figured the Sheriff’s Department had pretty strict guidelines about weapons usage.

“If you’re staying in L.A. this evening, I’m sure we could get everybody tickets to the game tonight,” Zoe offered. “We all sit together.”

“No, thanks,” Liz said. “We’re leaving as soon as Caley is tucked safely away. We appreciate the offer.”

“Anytime,” Zoe said. “The Dodgers aren’t playing well so it’s pretty easy. Brock can’t give his tickets away most nights.”

We talked with Zoe Brewer and Svetlana Svencova until the young sheriff’s sergeant got a call over her earpiece that let her know the parade was about to get under way.

Liz suddenly pointed at a woman in a floppy hat and oversized sunglasses.

“She cannot be here!” Liz declared.

The sergeant turned to see who was at the opposite end of Liz Larimer’s finger. It should have been obvious: The woman was giving Liz the finger.

“Who is it?” Zoe asked. The paparazzi was making quite a ruckus, pushing each other to get the woman and Liz into the same photo. I slid in front of Liz. I figured I had been flipped off by better people.

“That’s Caley’s mother,” Liz said from around my shoulder. “There is a permanent restraining order in place.”

“Oh?” Zoe asked, interested in the news. “What were the grounds?”

“She used to live with Caley,” Liz said. “Caley found out that she was stealing. She confronted her mother and that woman hit her with a whisky bottle. It wasn’t the first time. The courts made the order permanent ... six or seven years ago. Her name is Catherine Cross. You can check her out.”

Zoe gave a nod and lifted a radio to her lips. A second later, two uniformed deputies closed in on Catherine Cross as Zoe Brewer approached from the front. The woman threw a fit when she saw that she was boxed in.

“This is your fault!” she screamed at Liz and Svetlana. She didn’t seem to care that everybody near to her had quickly moved away. “You got her into that life! You and those other pieces of shit she surrounded herself with!”

I tried to shield Liz (and Svetlana) from her venom but both women just pushed me aside.

Svetlana was taller than me even in her low-heeled sandals. I put her height at almost 6-feet-2. She pushed me to the left at the same time Liz pushed me to the right. The effect was to turn me in a circle.

“I never hit her with a bottle of booze!” Liz said angrily. “I didn’t sell her out to an agent!”

“And I was not the one to steal millions from her bank accounts,” Svetlana added. I hooked Liz around the waist (carefully dipping my head to avoid any flying elbows that might be coming my way). Zoe turned away from the bleached-blonde woman and cut in front of the redheaded supermodel.

I decided the police officer was a braver person than me. I was willing to attack from the rear but I was not going to try to face down the two angry women head-on.

Zoe held up a hand and slid in front of Svetlana when the taller woman tried to slide around her. I had managed to pull Liz off the ground and she was doing her best to get free (including kicking me in the shins a time or two with her heels).

“Calm down,” I whispered. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

“Then let me go,” Liz said. “I’ve wanted to kick that woman’s ass for years.”

The photographers and videographers were extremely happy with the drama. I was not. The last thing I wanted was a photo of Liz on the cover of the Los Angeles tabloids as she bludgeoned a woman.