Dead by Midnight - Beverly Barton [54]
Travis Dillard had agreed to meet with them at four-thirty at his beach house on the Pacific Coast Highway. The Powell Agency office in Knoxville had quickly pulled together more info on Dillard, including the particulars of the property he owned. It seemed that he had been forced to sell his Bel Air mansion, which he had acquired through marriage to an heiress a good twenty years ago. The woman had been much older than Dillard and had died of an apparent heart attack after two years of marriage to the up-and-coming porno filmmaker.
“Wife number two financed Dillard’s first ten movies,” Derek read from his laptop screen. “But after her death, wives three through five pretty much bankrupted the guy, especially wife number five. All he owns now is the place in Malibu, a couple of antique cars, and the rights to more than forty of his films.”
Maleah turned their rental car off onto the drive leading from the highway to Dillard’s house. “How old is he?”
“Hmm…” Derek scanned the file that the agency had sent this morning. “Sixty-six. Why?”
“And his present wife is how old?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Figures. Is she a porno star?”
“She was, but once she married the boss, she became a silent partner in his business and gave up acting.”
Maleah parked the rental in front of a modern architectural creation of white stucco—two levels, walls of floor-to-ceiling windows, and a breathtaking view of the Pacific. She let out a long, low whistle. “What’s this place worth?”
“The estimated worth is $11,950,000, which makes it one of the less pricey pieces of real estate along this stretch of Malibu.”
“That means he’s far from broke, at least not until the new wife divorces him and gets her half.”
“Won’t happen. She signed a prenup. Unless she stays married to Dillard until he dies, she gets one million in cash and that’s it. Guess the guy finally wised up.”
Maleah grunted. As far as she was concerned Travis Dillard was a scumbag, the lowest of the low, who catered to the baser elements of human nature and preyed on stupid young girls with stars in their eyes.
She opened the car door and got out, meeting Derek under the vine-covered overhang that protected the front entrance.
“Pull in your claws and play nice,” Derek told her. “If Dillard senses your hostility, he’ll clam up immediately and refuse to cooperate. We want him friendly and talkative. Whatever you do, do not accuse him of anything. Got it?”
“Don’t talk to me as if I’m some green recruit who doesn’t know—”
The front door swung open, and standing just over the threshold, a small Asian man of indeterminate age stared at them.
“We’re here to see Travis Dillard,” Maleah said.
“We have an appointment,” Derek added. “We’re with the Powell Agency. I’m Derek Lawrence and the lady is Maleah Perdue.”
“Come this way, please. Mr. Dillard is expecting you.” Without a backward glance, the man walked off, leaving Maleah and Derek to follow him.
A rectangular tiger-print rug covered the foyer’s ceramic porcelain tile floor and an elaborately decorated Chinese cabinet, painted black and red, stood against the left wall. They entered the huge living room, at least 30' x 30', two of the four walls filled with windows that overlooked the Pacific. Maleah barely stifled a startled gasp when she saw the expansive view of beach and ocean. But she managed to focus on the bone-thin, bald man who rose from one of the two white sofas flanking the stucco fireplace.
This old, haggard, bald man was Travis Dillard? He looked much older than sixty-six, more like eighty-six. And although he still resembled the photo they had of him, she would have pegged him for Dillard’s father instead of the man himself. But then cancer could do that to a person, ravage their body and render them gaunt and pale.
“Ms. Perdue and Mr. Lawrence to see you, sir,” the man who had met them at the