Reel Stuff (5 page)

“Ambitious.”

“It would seem. Also billed as ruthless.”

“Ruthless?”

“Takes what she wants. Doesn't let anyone get in her way. A couple of comments on newsgroups used the words ‘ballsy' and ‘brassy'. There were some other choice words I won't repeat. For as young as she is, she apparently has taken down some pretty heavy players and,” he paused, “she's made some newcomers overnight sensations. Lady doesn't mess around.”

And I wondered how some people in their early twenties have the balls to take what they want and make things happen, when some of us are still floundering in our own insecurities.

James took the last swallow of his Yuengling beer, stood up, and walked into the trailer, leaving the door wide open. “I'd better dress a little better since I'm filling in for your security shift,” he shouted.

And that meant I was relegated to climbing the scaffolding and walking the catwalk where Jason Londell leaped to his death. What was I even looking for? Maybe I could just check with the cops. Surely they'd canvassed the area. I knew for certain someone had checked out the steel structure, and what would I find that they hadn't? Why should a rookie private investigator go up there, not even sure what he was looking for? I'd take any excuse at all not to make the trip.

“Good luck, amigo. I hope you break open the case.”

My heart leaped again and I broke out in a cold sweat.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Part of the makeshift framework was a ladder, allowing the climber access to a walkway twenty-five feet from the ground, and a similar walkway seventy feet from the ground. Seventy feet may not sound that high to you, but think about a friend who is six feet tall. Add another six feet. And another six feet. Another, another, another, another, another, then three more six footers and a couple more feet and you are higher than a kite, my friend. Higher than a frigging kite. James is about six one so I can compare. Me, I'm five ten, five ten and a half on my best days. James is in that elite club. Six foot and over.

I stared up at the tallest part of the metal structure, picturing myself up there, looking down at the catwalk, seeing through the porous grid and wondering how it would feel if I stumbled and fell. I was sick to my stomach.

Yellow vinyl tape ran across the entrance to the structure, warning me this was a crime scene. I didn't really care. I'd been hired to investigate this crime. And if a cop came by and said, “Excuse me, sir, you're not allowed to go up there,” I'd push him aside and start climbing.

No, that's not what I would do. I'd actually embrace him, kiss him on the cheek, and say, “Thank you. I didn't want to go up in the first place.”

There was no cop. The scene was quiet and filming of the series, which hadn't stopped, had moved to a parking lot across the way. I had no idea what they were doing. Cop cars were in the blacktopped lot, their red-and-blue lights flashing, and I could hear Randy Roberts on a bullhorn, shouting to a handful of extras. Something about making sure they avoided looking at a camera.

I'd never read the script. Had no idea why Jason Londell was supposed to jump. I just knew we were being paid a couple thousand dollars for a week's work, and I didn't want that to go away anytime soon.

I'd changed into jeans and a pair of canvas deck shoes, thinking the rubber soles would give me a better grip on the grid. Again, I was sure the cops had already been up there, and I'm certain they were better equipped to find any clues than I was. So I wondered, what if I just told James that there was nothing new to report? We weren't going to discover new evidence that they had missed. These were trained professionals who investigated crimes for a living on a regular basis. James and me? We'd been lucky in solving a couple of cases. That was it. Trained professionals wasn't exactly an accurate description of
More or Less Investigations
.

With fear, with trepidation, I grasped the sides of the ladder and took that first step. What is it they say about achievement and success? Something about it all starts with the first step. I took that step, doubting I would achieve any success, then another and another, the sun beating down on me and heating the metal ladder. Five feet above the ground and I'm thinking it's a big mistake. Ten feet, I know it is. By the time I reached the twenty-five-foot catwalk, my hands were sweating, perspiration
was running into my eyes, and my fingers were wrapped tightly around the warm handrails. If I was smart, I'd go right back down that ladder.

Partnering with James, I'd realized a long time ago I wasn't that smart.

The old adage is, “don't look down.” Looking up isn't much better. So I closed my eyes and felt my way up the ladder. When I opened them, I had one more step to go. One more step to seventy feet above the ground.

I was conscious of my heart beating fast and loud. I was short of breath and could feel a tremor in my right hand.

There was a steel bar mounted waist high on the far side of the walkway, and as I took that final wobbly step, I reached out and grabbed it, praying that this whole structure wouldn't come crashing down. I forced myself to look out at the Miami skyline as I fought the overwhelming urge to throw up. Taking a deep breath, loosening my death grip on the steel bar, I glanced down. Big mistake. My brain started swimming and the waves threatened to drown me. I closed my eyes again, trying to gain equilibrium.

Thirty seconds went by and I opened them. I was adjusting, but barely. I focused on the parking lot across the street. Cameras were aimed at a man and woman who appeared to be in a heated argument. The woman in a short, summer dress waved her hand in a dismissive gesture and opened the door of a black Lexus convertible. She started the engine and drove out of the lot. Roberts raised his bullhorn and yelled, “Cut,” and all the action ceased. I was certain the actress was Ashley Amber. She seemed to have recovered from her sorrow long enough to go to work.

Holding tightly to the rail, I carefully walked back to where Jason Londell had started his run. The camera guy had been at the far end of the runway, the two grips near him. I was not going
to replicate the actor's action. All I had to do was slowly trace his steps, not run them.

The webbed structure lined up east and west so Londell was running west. Straight at the camera. Cautiously I walked the path, staring at the walkway and trying not to look through the grate to the ground seventy feet below. Concentrating on the metal, looking for I didn't know what. Maybe a defect that he tripped over. Maybe something that was lodged in the metal web. Thirty feet of track, and I studied it all. Remains of a trip wire? I saw no sign of that. Then, back again. I took another walk west, feeling a little more comfortable, a little looser, and I gave a glance over my shoulder, just like Londell had done in the first take. But I never, ever, removed my hand from the rail. Not that secure.

The second take was freshest in my mind. Randy Roberts had said, “Action.” The cameras had captured the run to make sure the angles were right. I carefully knelt down at the spot where I thought he had jumped. Still reaching up with my left hand and grasping the bar, I ran my right hand over the metal grid. It was smooth. No screw sticking out, no rough metal edges. Standing up, I looked out and noticed the film crew breaking down the scene. I had no idea how Juliana Londell or anyone else could have engineered Jason's death. It was either an accident or suicide. No question.

I walked to the far end where the cameraman had been. It was a handheld so there were no mounts. Two grips, the camera guy, and Jason Londell. Three of them came back down the ladder. One of them took the express route. My final act was to look almost straight down where the now deflated air bag sprawled on the green park grass. I tried to picture myself jumping on that bag and immediately felt my stomach clench. I remembered Roberts's first words to me.

“Sometimes it's just stupid to do your own stunts.”

I had to agree.

Rubbing my rubber-soled shoes over the webbed surface of the walkway, I checked for any moisture. Maybe the scaffold had been a little slippery, and he'd slid as he was running. Everything seemed to be dry.

With a final visual sweep of the walkway, I eased myself down the ladder very slowly. When I came off the last step, I thought about kissing the earth. I may have done it, but a voice behind stopped me cold.

“What were you doing up there, kid?”

I turned around and an older guy, about forty-five, stood there, arms crossed, frowning at me.

“I was just—” I froze.

“Give me an answer.”

His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back in a rather severe style, his gray trousers creased razor sharp. Even in this heat, he wore a sport coat, and the shine on his shoes could have blinded someone. I stared at his eyes, but they were hidden behind a pair of Ray-Ban aviators.

“Who wants to know?”

“Kid, I do. Either you tell me what the hell you were doing on that walk up there, or I'll have security get involved. Understood?”

I knew security. Hell, I was security.

“There's a good explanation why I was up there, and I'll be happy to tell you if you tell me who you are.”

I am usually not the person who pushes back, but this pompous guy was getting on my nerves. And, besides that, I shouldn't have been up there and I knew it. Anyway, what business was it of his?

“Do you know who you're talking to?”

“Obviously not.”

“I'm Clint Anders. I own this dog-and-pony show. I produce
Deadline Miami
and I will not have some upstart punk tell me—”

“Ahhh, Mr. Anders.”

Goodbye paycheck. Goodbye job.

“I'm so sorry. I'm with the security team on this set, and I was up there—” I stumbled, searching for a reason why I was up there. And then it hit me. I didn't have to make up a story.

“I was up there trying to figure out if something on the grid caused Jason Londell to fall. Just following up, sir.”

He stood there for a moment, arms still crossed. Finally, he took off the glasses and nodded his head. Reaching inside his jacket pocket, Anders pulled out a packet of cigarettes, lighting one with a gold lighter.

“Cops were already there.” He took a deep drag, slowly exhaling, and watching me with a sly look.

“Yes, sir, but I just wanted to cover the bases. I took it upon myself to—”

“You took it upon yourself?”

I nodded.

“I actually admire people who take some initiative.”

I let out a breath.

He turned and walked away. After three steps, he stopped and looked over his shoulder, just like Londell was supposed to do.

“Kid, don't do it again. You hear me?”

I didn't have to be told twice.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Nothing's up there, James.”

We'd settled in for a glass of wine at Em's condo. It was five o'clock, and we watched a cruise ship docking at the causeway, half a mile away. The view was breathtaking from her balcony.

“Well, it was a shot.” He sipped his deep-red beverage, his feet propped on an expensive white wicker stool. “I did a little digging on this Juliana Londell. She is pregnant. Apparently, about three months along. Has only been married to Londell for a year. She met him at a party, he hired her as his agent, whirlwind romance, then he left her. When they broke up, he fired her.”

“They're still married?” Em asked.

“I couldn't see where they'd filed for divorce.”

“And now Londell is banging her sister.”

“
Was
banging her sister. But it's Hollywood, Em. Movie stars. When you wish upon a star and all that.”

She gave him a sly look. “It happens in Miami too, James.”

“Yeah, but these Hollywood types. They're a little different.”

“So,” Em said, “she's jealous? That's why she bumped him off? Or does she collect a big insurance settlement if he dies?”