As was Jules’s skill in tracking down Dead Milt’s buddy-on-the-payroll Gavin LaCrosse to an IATSE-connected old age home in nearby Pasadena.
IATSE was the union for the behind-the-scenes crew in the TV and movie industry—Robin was a bottomless pit of info about that, since he was heavily involved in his own union, the Screen Actors Guild or SAG.
Robin had also done a deeper dive into LaCrosse’s IMDb page—the Boy Wonder had the Pro version of the Internet Movie Database, which gave him far more details than Sam had been able to see on his phone—and discovered that the octogenarian had been an assistant editor on nearly all of Dead Milt’s TV shows. It was only in the last few years of the man’s career that he’d done a bit of producing and directing—back about ten years ago—but none of his shows had been successful. Not even close.
Soon after that, LaCrosse had retired, and moved into assisted living. Jules had called the facility to find out visiting hours—and had made an appointment to talk to the old man in the early afternoon.
With the later afternoon reserved for meeting the fourth and final housekeeper, Rene Williams, over at the estate and hopefully getting that key to the library where that desk drawer lived, their morning had been left wide open for knock, knock, knocking on a random bunch of Emily Johnsons’ doors.
And wasn’t that gonna be fun?
Jules had already done the painstaking work of locating the Emilys who lived closest to both the Pasadena old age home, and to Devonshire Place. When Sam brought his sad little half-a-mug-of-coffee breakfast over to the table where one of the laptops was out and open, he saw the list of addresses. Jules had also printed out a hardcopy for them to take when they left the house as well as—yup—emailing it to them both.
He must’ve been up for hours in the night, doing some of that hardcore not-sleeping that was plaguing him these days.
As Sam glanced through the list, he saw that there were only four Emily Johnsons in those two specific areas, so Jules had added a few from Glendale and WeHo and even as far away as Hollywood to their list. Although if he honestly thought they’d manage to knock onthatmany doors in just a few hours, with all of the travel time, traffic, and parking involved, well, he was gonna be disappointed.
Still, this was Jules, so he was probably completely aware of how annoyingly frustrating the door-knocking was going to be, and he also probably figured that half of these Emilys wouldn’t even be home. So yeah, making a list of a cool dozen that would result in two or three actual contacts—if they were lucky—was probably exactly right.
Sam poured himself a second bowl of Cheerios to use up the last of his milk as Robin wandered into the kitchen in his bare feet and bedhead.
He’d pulled on shorts and a T-shirt—probably only because Sam was here. If it was just the two of them, no doubt he’d be in his boxers.
If that.
“I thought you were working today,” Sam said.
“My call’s not til later,” Robin reported, coffee filter in his hands, searching the cabinets and even the fridge for more coffee grounds.
Sam gave him the bad news. “We’re out.”
“That’s probably just as good,” Robin said with a heavy sigh as he pulled an apple out of the fridge drawer and washed it instead. “I really shouldn’t have a third cup. Jules was up early, so I had breakfast with him at around five.” He took a bite.
“Was he up early or just... up?” Sam asked.
Robin held up two fingers and touched his nose as he chewed—as if he were playing charades—meaning, the second thing Sam had said. Just up.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Robin swallowed and said, “I got him to go back to sleep for about an hour at around 5:30.”
Oh to be young enough to drink two mugs of coffee and then blithely go back to sleep.
“I’ve been thinking about that note,” Robin continued. “I even dreamed about it last night.I win. Too bad for you.Who punishes someone by leaving them twenty million dollars?”
“Hit me harder, Gramps,” Sam said as he finished the last of his coffee.
Robin laughed as he dug through the rubble of papers and files that Jules had spread out on the table. He pulled out the copy of the note that Dead Milt had written, and pointed to the bottom. “The asshole who just left you a fortune,” he read Dead Milt’s sign-off, then added, “I’d bet a million dollars, well, twenty million ofhisdollars, that Emily, whoever she is, called him that.Asshole. And he’ssuchan asshole—he’s an angry, mean, cold-hearted asshole—that he wears the label like a badge. Like he’s proud of it. And Jesus,thisline, right here?”
He pointed to the note, but Sam didn’t look too closely because he knew he was about to get a dramatic reading.
“Enjoy the freaking work of art—or burn it to the ground. I’ll be dead and will care even less than I currently do.” Robin laughed a little. “If I were given that line in a script, I’d add quite a bit of subtext. His words sayI don’t care, likewhatever, but that’s not awhatever. It’s the opposite of awhatever. This is someone who cares very deeply. Thewhateveris completely feigned. And he’s talking about the estate,which he obviously loves, right? Although, it’s afreaking work of art—which is clearly in air-quotes, like it’s something Emily said to him, because I sincerely doubt this angry old man calls anything afreakinganything.” He took another bite of his apple for emphasis.
“Huh,” Sam said. “So Emily’s an... architect?”
Robin made athat’s probably wrongface as he chewed.
“Or... someone who came in to do repairs,” Sam hypothesized. “Fix the roof or...?”
