Page 16 of Wild Idol
“What would those rumors be? “
She gave me a flat look.
“I’m sorry, but this is an ongoing investigation. I can’t release any details,” I said before stepping out of frame.
We walked back to the Porsche and set out to find the pop star.
JD and I drove back to Palm Haven and parked at the mansion at 743 Crystal Point Park. It wasn’t the largest house in Palm Haven, but it was nice. Fox wasn’t the biggest pop star in the world. She wasn’t Chloe C. But she was big enough. She had a place here, an apartment in New York, and a house in the hills in LA. I don’t really know how much time she was spending here, but Coconut Key had an addictive quality. If you stayed here long enough, you’d never want to leave.
We hopped out of the Porsche and strolled the walkway past the circular drive that was home to a lime green Lamborghini Urus.
I rang the bell at the gate to the courtyard.
A man’s voice crackled through the speaker in the video doorbell a moment later. “Can I help you?”
I flashed my badge to the lens and made introductions. “You reported a stolen vehicle not long ago. I just have a few questions for you. I think we found the car.”
Static filtered through the speaker as he disconnected. The gate buzzed. We pushed into the courtyard, strolling past the verdant foliage to the front porch. The home was sleek and geometric. Lots of glass and concrete and cantilevered spaces, reminiscent of John Lautner. It could be a set in a movie.
A tall guy in his mid-30s answered the door. His brownish-blond hair was slicked back. He had blue eyes, a square face, and an athletic build. He looked like he could have been a quarterback in his high school or college days.
“We’ve been watching the news,” he said. “I’m assuming that inferno is the Lamborghini?”
I nodded.
He extended his hand. “My name is Everett Sinclair. I’m Sable’s manager. Thanks for coming.”
We exchanged pleasantries.
Everett stepped aside and invited us in.
“Is Sable available? We have a few questions for her.”
“Certainly. Right this way.”
He escorted us through the foyer, past the metallic staircase that spiraled up to the second floor. The floor was covered with checkered tile. A sleek, modernist chandelier hungfrom the vaulted ceiling. Platinum records hung on the walls. Sable wanted everyone to know, from the minute they walked inside, what she had accomplished.
The living room had an open floor plan with plenty of mid-century modern furniture, light hardwoods, and a state-of-the-art kitchen with black stainless steel appliances. There were more black-and-white photos in black frames of Sable performing on stage. Photos of Sable and Everett together from the early days. Snapshots of the star strumming a guitar on stage in some dive bar with no one in the audience.
She had come a long way. Everett had been there throughout.
The large flatscreen display was tuned to the local news, but the segment had long since ended.
Sable climbed off the couch and strutted across the living room. She greeted us with a friendly smile. At 23, she had just released her second album and had a recent number-one hit that stayed at the top of the Billboard charts for six weeks. The prior record went platinum—hard to do in this day and age.
She had mid-length, platinum blonde hair, mesmerizing tawny eyes, full lips, and a petite figure that would make you lose all sense of reason. Velvety whispers from those luscious lips could inspire you to make bad decisions. I’m sure she had made plenty of men get a case of the stupids.
Sable smiled and shook our hands. “I guess it’s safe to say my car is not coming back.”
“That’s a good bet,“ I said.
She frowned and shrugged it off. “Oh well. It’s insured. I’ll just buy another one. I was getting tired of the color anyway.”
“Can you tell me about the theft?”
“The last time I saw it, the car was parked in the driveway.”
“What time was that?”
