Chapter 41: Hatred Runs Deep
Los Angeles Cemetery, near the UCLA side.
Disguised with makeup, Hawk stood by the cemetery railing, gazing at the eerie tombstones. If they had succeeded in pushing me to jump in Provo, I wouldn’t even have a gravestone—just a gutted corpse rotting away.
A pudgy figure appeared in the distance.
Hawk waved him over.
Cole, visibly reluctant, trudged toward Hawk with heavy steps. “I’ve done everything you asked. Now give me my stuff back.”
“We agreed to ten days,” Hawk reminded. “It’s barely halfway.”
Cole hesitated, his voice heavy. “Deborah’s divorcing Downey. Was that your doing?”
“Not mine,” Hawk said, staring toward UCLA. “Ours.”
Realizing he’d unwittingly contributed, Cole’s face twisted with guilt. “You said this was just for the news…”“No news without a story,” Hawk replied nonchalantly. “I had to make one, didn’t I?”
He patted Cole’s shoulder. “Relax. This is just a warm-up. Bigger stories are coming.”
Cole’s face crumpled. “You never mentioned it would go this far. I’m out. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Are you sure?” Hawk’s tone sharpened as he laid out the stakes. “If Downey finds out what you’ve done, what do you think will happen? At best, he’ll fire you. But Deborah? Does she like you enough to let it slide? Or will she press charges and send you to jail? You can’t afford a lawyer without Downey’s support.”
Cole, like most of Downey’s entourage, had no income outside his association with the star.
“If you go too far, my life will be ruined either way,” Cole muttered.
“Money fixes everything,” Hawk said, dangling temptation. “What if you could walk away with a fortune? How much does Downey give you? Selling the odd trinket isn’t going to make you rich. Do you think Downey’s collection is limited to what you’ve seen?”
The gambler in Cole went silent, his greed beginning to stir.
Hawk said no more, letting Cole wrestle with his thoughts.
Minutes passed before Cole spoke. “If I take too much, it’ll be obvious.”
“That’s not the issue,” Hawk countered, sensing he had Cole on the hook. “Deborah’s moved out. If Downey loses control of his assets, who knows the layout of his home better than you?”
“Me,” Cole admitted without hesitation.
“Think it over. You won’t get a better opportunity. With enough money, you can disappear. Head south. Three hours, and you’re in Tijuana. No border checks.”
Cole’s hands trembled.
There’s no greater abyss than human greed, especially when fueled by addiction to gambling or drugs. A single nudge was all it took to send Cole teetering into the void.
The two talked for hours as the day gave way to evening.
Finally, Cole left, and Hawk drove his Chevrolet to Santa Monica.
Changing out of his disguise, Hawk returned to the West Coast studio.
Edward had brought back dinner.
Over barbecue, they discussed the day.
“Jacqueline took the money and won’t talk,” Edward reported. “What about the pregnancy props? What should we do with them?”
“Keep them,” Hawk replied. “We might need them again.”
Edward frowned. “Why would I need those? They’re for women! Boss, you’re not thinking of making me dress as one, are you? Look at me! Black hair, black skin—I couldn’t pass for a woman!”
Ignoring his rambling, Hawk said, “Drink less tonight and get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be big.”
“What kind of big news?” Edward asked, curious.
Hawk smirked. “The kind that could put someone behind bars for a few years.”
Edward’s face lit up. “Prison sounds great! Someone like Downey in gen pop? He’ll eat well every day.”
Hawk thought back to stories he’d heard in prison about “special recipes” for troublesome inmates. Downey might not end up jumping off a building, but there were other ways to fry a squid.
After dinner, Hawk reviewed his plans. No matter how meticulous, the unexpected could always happen.
Edward asked, “What’s my role tomorrow?”
“Find a public phone away from surveillance cameras and wait for my call,” Hawk instructed.
Brentwood, Downey’s mansion.
Robert Downey Jr. didn’t need much persuasion to spiral. By dinner, he’d downed one drink after another, quickly drowning himself in alcohol.
With Deborah gone, the house was eerily empty, save for Downey and Cole.
After helping Downey to bed, Cole locked the bedroom door.
He disabled the security system, then began rifling through the house.
As one of Downey’s closest confidants, Cole knew the mansion better than Deborah ever had.
He flushed most of Downey’s stash down the toilet, leaving only a small packet untouched. Then he entered Downey’s prized collection room.
Inside were several trophies, including a BAFTA award and smaller accolades. But Cole wasn’t interested in awards.
His gaze locked on the glass cases housing Downey’s collection of luxury Swiss watches, each worth a fortune.
His breathing quickened. Tens of thousands of dollars sat before him.
“Mine. All mine,” he whispered, as the last remnants of his moral compass shattered.
Cole left the collection room to retrieve a Glock 26 from the gun cabinet. He wasn’t stupid enough to use it himself but figured its presence might be useful.
The next morning, Downey woke up to a call from his lawyer.
Deborah’s attorney had filed for divorce, demanding an outrageous share of their assets.
“That b**** has lost her mind!” Downey screamed, hurling his phone at the TV. “She wants to take everything!”
Fueled by rage and withdrawal, he stormed around the house, smashing anything within reach.
Outside, Cole made a call. “Deborah’s lawyer sent the papers. He’s losing it.”
“Proceed,” came the reply. “Remember what I told you yesterday?”
Cole’s memory, sharpened by greed, recalled every word. “I remember.”
The plan was simple: take as much as possible and flee to Mexico.
Downey’s shout echoed through the mansion. “Cole! Where’s my stash? Where’s my stash?”
Cole pocketed his phone and ran back inside. “Is it gone?”
Downey, frantic and sweating, tore through drawers and cabinets. “It’s all gone! Who did this?”
“Deborah,” Cole said without missing a beat. “It must’ve been her.”
“That b****!” Downey growled, clutching his head. “I’ll kill her!”
Cole retrieved the small packet he’d saved. “Here, take this. It’s mine.”
Downey eagerly accepted, his temper cooling as he indulged.
Later, Cole watched as Downey, now calmer, declared, “Forget wives. Brothers like you are what really matter.”
But in Cole’s mind, the word “brother” rang hollow.
Why does he make so much money and give us crumbs? Are we beggars to him?
Downey’s demand for more “supplies” brought the scheme into motion.
Cole suggested stockpiling as much as possible before Deborah could use it against him in court.
Downey, his judgment dulled, agreed. “You handle it.”
Cole contacted a supplier. “We need a large shipment. Don’t worry—Downey himself will be there to make the deal.”
The supplier agreed.
Back inside, Cole told Downey, “It’s a big order, and LAPD’s been setting traps. They’ll only deal if you’re there in person.”
Too high to think clearly, Downey nodded. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Cole selected one of Downey’s registered Cadillacs for the trip and made sure to bring the Glock.
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