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“To pay someone a visit,” I say.
CHAPTER55
THEVENICEBOARDWALKis empty even though it’s Saturday night. Usually, it would be filled with locals and tourists popping into the skater and surf shops, eating at restaurants a stone’s throw from the Pacific Ocean. But the rain has cleared everyone out tonight.
Billy’s address was easy to find through a quick Google search on my phone. Featured in theDirtsection of theHollywood Reporter, which covers celebrities, professional athletes, and other moguls’ real estate purchases and sales, it was described as a modern architectural stunner with walls of windows and sliding glass doors showcasing oceanfront views.
I pull up in front of a custom-made garage painted with four shiny-colored surfboards—blue, pink, orange, and yellow, bringing back echoes of 1970s Los Angeles, a stark contrast to the white sterile box of a mansion standing behind it.
I get out of my car and walk to the front entrance, where a very tall guard dressed in a long, black raincoat stands.
“I’m here to see Billy,” I tell him.
“Is he expecting you?” he says.
“Yes,” I say.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Beatrice Bennett. Irene Mayer’s daughter.”
He makes a call on his phone. A moment later, the enormous wrought iron front door opens.
I step inside the house, and it’s as sterile on the inside as on the outside. Sparse furniture. Little artwork. It feels like no one lives here, and nobody’s here to greet me.
“Hello?” I call out.
No one responds.
Whoever picked up the guard’s call must know I’m here.
I tentatively walk inside the house and notice several cameras positioned on the ceiling. I pass a large living room, dining room, bathroom, and bedroom when I see a bright light coming from a room at the end of a long hall. I tentatively walk toward it until I reach it.
When I peek inside, I see a man seated at a white marble desk in a large office with ocean views. His face and eyes are hardened compared to how he looked in the pictures with Mom when he was a fresh-faced NYU college student.
“Come in,” Billy says. “Close the door behind you.”
I step inside his office. There are no family pictures, no artwork except one huge Saint Laurent surfboard hanging on a wall, and no cameras either. Whatever happens here will stay here, like a vault.
Panic rises inside my body. Have I unwittingly surrendered myself to the enemy, raised my white flag, thrown my hands up in the air? This is the very last place on earth I want to be. But it’s the only place I can do what I came here to do.
I walk toward a brown leather couch at least a dozen feet from Billy’s desk and sit down. The distance between us provides little comfort.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
“I know about what happened to Sally,” I say.
His stoic face remains expressionless.
“How you knew TriCPharma drugs caused her death,” I continue. “How you were complicit in covering it up.”
He gives me an icy look. “If you’re here for an apology, you won’t find one. Your mother was an addict. She wasn’t fit to be anyone’s mother. What happened was for the best.”
Shamelessness is his superpower, and he has it in spades. It makes me burn inside.
“Was it also for the best that I lost her when I was fifteen because of your family?” I say.
“You have a lot of nerve coming here, talking about things you know little about when you should be thanking me,” he says.
