Reel Stuff (9 page)

Maybe a tropical bird. Maybe a motorboat starting up on the bay. Then faintly another cough, on the backside of the scaffold. Now stone-cold silence. Was someone out there watching me? Or just innocently having a cigarette break? I sniffed the air. No sign of tobacco.

“Is somebody there?”

No response.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

I considered walking toward the sound, making loud sounds like clearing my throat and stomping on the ground as I walked. I had several options, but I also possess the courage of the Tin Man. No courage at all. So I stood still for several minutes, then crept back to our trailer.

I was convinced someone had been following me, watching me. I just didn't have the courage to find out who it was. And then I was confused. Maybe it was the lion who wanted courage. The Tin Man wanted the heart. I figured James would remember so I didn't worry about it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

At midnight we met Em at Primos, a trendy club in the lobby of her condo building. Crowded around a small table, I watched the bar as leggy European women in short skirts, young men with airbrushed tans, and guys and girls in jeans and T-shirts all jockeyed for position, ordering outrageously priced drinks with infused vodka or spiced rum.

“Greg Handler is not Greg Handler,” I said.

“Is this a riddle?” she asked.

“No. The photograph doesn't match the description that the crew recalls. Our picture doesn't even come close.”

“Then who is he? The guy we have in the driver's license photo?”

“The guy who is the head grip says the photo doesn't look anything like the camera guy he met.”

“Makes no sense.”

“Chad, the grip, says our photo looks like a bad makeup job.”

Em smiled and rolled her eyes.

“We're in the middle of make-believe, boys. Movie magic.
Someone could make up anyone to look different. We women do it all the time.”

“And, someone can fake a driver's license. This entire business revolves around fooling one hundred percent of the people.” I realized Em was right. We were in the middle of make-believe.

“And,” Em added, “so far someone seems to be doing a pretty good job of fooling everyone.”

“You talked to Clint Anders?” James wanted to make sure she was earning her third of the take.

“I did, James. He was reluctant at first, but I told him I'd been hired by a third party and that I was harmless. I explained I just wanted some general information, so he agreed. The guy seemed genuinely broken up about the suicide. The death.”

Looking at me, James said, “There's a lot of money riding on this, amigo. You know if it was suicide, we don't have a case.”

“Well,” Em stated, “Clint thinks the man took his own life. When I talked to him, there was no question about it.”

“He was a good friend. Any reasons?”

“His marriage was over. He was distraught.”

“Distraught?” James frowned. “Over a failed Hollywood marriage? Man, if everyone out there who got divorced decided to off themselves, there wouldn't be any movie actors left. Look, he was murdered.”

“Okay,” I agreed, “let's assume he was murdered. After all, we're collecting a nice paycheck from Ashley Amber to prove that's the case. Anders flew in the day before the death—before the murder. Strange timing, since he hasn't been here in three weeks, don't you think?”

“He had to show up sometime. After all, it is his show.” Now Em was sticking up for him. “He was grateful Londell had agreed to do the guest shot. He thought it would boost ratings and he wanted to be here to thank Londell personally.” She folded
her hands and was silent for a moment. “I felt bad for him, Skip. The guy is taking it personally. He must have said it three times. If he hadn't invited him out to do the guest spot, Londell would be alive right now.”

Hard to dispute.

“He and Londell spent some time together the night before, and he said they talked about coming up through the ranks. It all sounded pretty heartfelt.”

“And I heard the time spent together was playing poker with Randy Roberts and a couple of high rollers from South Beach,” James said. “Apparently, our Mr. Anders and Londell play for serious money. Rumored to be one reason Mr. Anders is having a little financial trouble.”

I'd heard rumors about games on the set too, but James and I could barely afford to play for pennies. We weren't likely to be asked to sit in.

“Em, Greg Handler, or whoever the camera guy really is, used a company credit card to rent and insure the camera. Company credit card. How did Anders explain that? Or did he?” I asked.

“Stolen.”

“Convenient.”

“While I interviewed him, he called some finance lady. She apparently approves expenses. She told Anders that they did in fact hire an extra cameraman, and poker player Randy Roberts, the director whom you were next to when Londell died, was responsible for making it all happen. Apparently, Roberts thought everything was on the up-and-up and didn't worry about it.”

“What? That sounds very convoluted. Who put in a call for Greg Handler?”

“Randy Roberts.”

“Did he know him? Was he a friend?”

“Apparently, someone on the crew suggested Handler. Anders doesn't know who and he made it very clear he doesn't get involved in all the hands-on, day-to-day minutia.”

I made a mental note to ask Roberts. The director had specifically told us that Scott Howell's company had sent over the cameraman. Maybe I misunderstood the conversation.

“Did he say anything at all about Ashley Amber? She said she spent that night with Londell.”

And now we were hearing he spent the night playing poker.

“I asked him about Ashley and her sister. He said even though the show is struggling, Ashley's acting was helping with ratings.” Em rolled her eyes as she does, not believing for a minute that the ratings had anything to do with the lady's acting skills. “But he said since Juliana Londell was out of the picture with Jason, since they'd split up, he hadn't really seen or heard much of her. I think he blamed the breakup of Jason and Juliana on Juliana. I just didn't get the feeling he had that much to share about the girl. And he was uncomfortable talking about her. My take, anyway.”

“Nothing about Ashley Amber spending the night with Londell?”

“Londell and Anders talked into the night. That's all he shared.”

The three of us studied our drinks at the small, round table, listening to the din of conversation around us. I even heard two people at the bar talking about the “suicide jump.” We considered Anders's involvement.

Sipping my gin and tonic, I spoke to Em's interview with Anders.

Every time we get involved in a case, I look at everyone as a suspect. I just get into that mode. No matter what I think about this person or that person, they could be guilty. “So you say
Anders gets in the day before Londell leaps off the scaffolding, and immediately I'm thinking was he here to facilitate the murder? Did he want to make sure of the outcome?”

“Amigo,” James said, “they were best of friends. You're my best friend, right? Would I kill you? And if I was responsible for your death, would I come down a day early just to watch you die? I don't think so.”

“Skip, really,” Em was pleading her case, “this guy gets a pass. He's feeling very sorry and guilty about Londell's death. He realizes that if he hadn't asked him to do a guest shot, well, you know—”

“Are you sure he gets the pass from you because he feels bad? It's not because he's handsome and charming as well? Was there possibly a little flirting going on?”

She just glared at me, not responding.

“What if you were involved with Em, James?”

“What?” He acted like I'd just accused him of murder or grand theft auto. “That's pretty far-fetched, partner.”

Em smirked. “You know, I could teach you some things, James. You might be surprised.”

My partner swung his attention to me.

“Pard, Clint Anders is the executive producer of
DM
. One of his best friends flew in to guest star and do him a favor.”

“Yeah. Anders has a legitimate reason for being here.” I was raising my voice to fight the crowd noise, but also to emphasize my point. “And so does everyone else, am I right? Let me make my point. If you want to show he was murdered, you've got to have suspects, and there doesn't seem to be a ton of them waiting in the wings. Consider this. What if Anders was interested in Ashley?”

“You're pushing it, pal.”

“And he finds that Ashley is making a play for his good friend
Jason Londell. So he sees an easy way to take care of Londell and get Ashley Amber on the rebound.”

“You're grasping at straws. This was a good friend.”

“Yeah? Well, I saw Anders and Amber this evening, and they looked pretty cozy. His arm around her, hushed conversation—”

Em reached out and touched my hand.

“It's been a tough time for the two of them.”

“You're right. But like I said, there doesn't seem to be a lot of potential killers out there.”

“Except a cinematographer who took off with evidence in his camera.” James frowned.

“And a young lady who probably lives twenty-three hundred miles away as the crow flies.”

“Boys,” Em sipped the last of her white wine and standing up, she said, “we've got our work cut out for us. If Jason Londell was killed, we need to find out how, why, and by whom. I'm with Skip. Everyone is considered a suspect until they aren't.”

“Chad Rich, the grip?” James was establishing parameters.

“Everyone, James. That guy especially. He was up there.”

“His partner. Jeez, we don't even know who the other grip was, do we, James?” I gave him a frown. “We don't know jack. We at least should know the two grips. It hit me earlier that you never talked to the other one.”

“I'll track down Chad,” James said. “He'll give me the name, and we'll do an interview. It was a slipup.”

It's hard to remember James ever admitting he could slip up until now.

“In the meantime, to answer our client's main concern—”

“Where is Juliana Londell?” Em asked. “Ashley Amber wants to know if her sister killed Jason Londell. She wants to know if Juliana was sending threatening e-mails to Jason. We have yet to address her questions regarding Juliana. And we're already spending
the check. Can we start thinking smart?” Em was obviously upset that we hadn't been doing enough.

“What if we call her agency?” I asked.

“Probably the first place we should have started. Boys, sometimes I wonder why we're even in this business.”

I think we were all on the same page.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Two in the morning doesn't seem that late when you're working. Somebody still had to discourage any drunks walking home from entering our precious set and disrupting the phony surroundings we'd concocted. The flow of people was surprising to me, since I thought you went to dinner, scored, then took the girl home. All before two a.m. But, it was all only make-believe. Emily had said it best.

A stream of cars and pickups passed by at three thirty when a few bars closed, and I was confronted by a gang of five guys who pulled up in an ancient Volkswagen bus. When they rolled the window down, I could smell the pot.

“Dude, somebody took over our park.”

“A TV show is all.”

“Dude, we usually go out there and get a little mellow, you know?”

“Dude,” I said. “find another place to get mellow. Either that or I call the cops and you will get busted for public intoxication and possession of a controlled substance. Got it?”

They moved on.

Two girls with a little too much makeup and skirts just a little too short tottered by on the sidewalk, balancing on five- or six-inch heels. “Any movie stars still up?” the short brunette asked. The closer she got, the stronger the smell from her cheap perfume.