“Couldn’t break that case, so now you’re over here messing in mine.”
“I’m here because somebody in the county wants it that way. I’m beginning to see why,” Michael shot back, jamming his sunglasses into place.
That was a sure sign that he was losing his temper. Molly had observed that he used those sunglasses to shut out the world when he’d lost patience with it nearly as often as he did to shade his eyes.
Sergeant Jenkins still wasn’t content to let it rest. “I can see the press hasn’t labeled you an ambitious hotshot for nothing. With an ego that size, I’m surprised you bother with us lowly mortals at all,” he said, and stalked from the office.
He was so angry he didn’t even notice Molly as he stormed by. Just her luck. Considering the furious expression on Michael’s face, she might have been better off with Jenkins.
When Michael finally glanced Molly’s way, she stepped into the office and inquired innocently, “All done being territorial?”
Michael lifted his hands in the air in a gesture of total frustration. “The man’s a jerk. I didn’t ask to be assigned to this case. The way I’ve got it figured, your boss whined to my boss, who whined to the County Commission, and the next thing I know I’m meddling in a case that belongs to the Miami Beach Police Department.”
He came over until they were toe to toe. She forced herself not to retreat. He removed his glasses so Molly could get a glimpse of his cold, hard stare. “Now how do you suppose that happened?”
Molly winced. “You sound as if you’re blaming me.”
“If the shoe fits.”
“It doesn’t. Vince whined, not me.”
“But who put the notion into his head? You’re not suggesting that someone just drew my name out of a hat, are you?”
Molly tried to recall her exact conversation with her boss. Unfortunately there might have been the tiniest hint that Michael O’Hara could get to the bottom of Gregory’s murder and end this public relations nightmare for the film office. Whether it was Vince’s conclusion or hers hardly seemed to matter. Michael was here and she had a pretty good idea why.
“No,” she said meekly. “I might have mentioned your name when Vince asked who solved that murder in my building.”
“I’m delighted the two of you hold me in such high regard, but the next time you get yourself tangled up in a murder, make sure it’s in my jurisdiction if you want me to be involved. I don’t like butting heads with other cops, especially when they’re perfectly competent.”
Hoping to get herself off the hook, Molly reminded him, “You just called Otis Jenkins a jerk.”
“It’s his general attitude I’m not crazy about. There’s nothing wrong with his intelligence or his credentials. I don’t even blame him for being mad as hell. I’m mad as hell. I was in the middle of another case, not as flashy maybe, but the guy was just as dead and his family is justifiably concerned with catching the killer.”
Molly winced. “You were pulled off that case?”
“Practically in the middle of an interrogation.”
“Someone took over for you, though, right?”
“Sure. Some other overloaded detective got another case dumped in his lap, so I could come over here and baby-sit this investigation.”
“I’ve got a motive worked out for Hank Murdock,” Molly said, hoping to distract him.
He responded in terse Spanish. She knew the word for “thank you.” The phrase he’d uttered hadn’t sounded much like that. Neither had the tone.
“Don’t you want to hear it?”
He sat down in Jenkins’s chair. “Sure. Why not. Start by telling me again who this Murdock is.”
Neither his tone nor his expression was exactly inviting, but she told him anyway. “Assistant director. My impression is that he’s always stayed in the background. You know the kind, competent but not ambitious. In fact, that’s exactly how Laura Crain described him. Now Endless Tomorrows is practically dumped in his lap. A lot of people will be watching to see if he can sustain Greg’s level of creativity.”
“How old’s this guy?”
“Forty-five. Maybe fifty, but I don’t think so.”
“Let me see if I’m following you here. You think this guy who is forty-five, maybe fifty, and has never displayed any sign of burning ambition decides to off the director of this particular film so he can finally have his big break? Is that right?”
Molly felt her cheeks burn. “It doesn’t sound so logical when you say it.”
“It isn’t,” he said flatly. “Not unless the man is having a mid-life crisis of gargantuan proportions.”
She glared at him. “There’s no need to be so sarcastic. I’m just trying to help.”
The reminder didn’t seem to placate him. “What are you doing here anyway?” he inquired. “Shouldn’t you be on location holding Veronica Weston’s hand or offering assistance to that barracuda who’s in charge of production?”
“Sergeant Jenkins summoned me here. I’m not sure exactly why,” she said, figuring Michael was in no mood to hear the specifics. Naturally, though, he couldn’t leave well enough alone.
He regarded her suspiciously. “Now why would Jenkins want to talk to you?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Molly?”
“Really, you’ll have to ask him. I guess since he’s gone, I might as well take off, too.” She backed to the door. “You want a lift over to the location?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ll be going with Jenkins.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“He just pulled out of the parking lot. If anyone else had pulled into traffic the way he just did, the chief himself would have gone out to ticket him.”
“Damn,” Michael muttered. He was on his feet and across the office before she could blink. He yanked open the door, then glanced back at her. “Well, come on. There’s no point in trying to find two parking places on Ocean Drive.”
“You’re welcome,” Molly grumbled.
If he caught the remark, he chose to ignore it. When they reached her convertible, he held out his hand for the keys. “I’ll drive.”
“Hoping to strand me without a car again?”
“It’s a thought.”
“You really are in a nasty mood. Don’t take it out on me.”
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as they waited for an old lady pushing a shopping cart filled with groceries to cross the street. From the set of his jaw, she guessed he was struggling between fury over the circumstances in which he’d found himself and his normal decent manners.
“Sorry,” he said as if the word were one with which he was slightly unfamiliar.
She nodded. It was nice that she’d been able to wrench an apology out of him. She had a hunch, though, that the tentative peace they’d reached was likely to give way to another round of verbal warfare once she admitted the real reason Jenkins had probably called her to the station. She figured she might as well get the confession out of the way.
“Remember that model? The one Greg was supposedly involved with?”
Michael turned toward her. “Yes,” he said very slowly. “What about her?”
Before she could say a word, he apparently read the answer on her face. “You didn’t talk to her?”
“Actually, I did,” she said in a rush. “The photographer, too.”
Michael slammed his hand on the steering wheel. “I don’t suppose you just happened to run into them sunning themselves on the beach?”
She shook her head. “I went to the motel. I bribed the desk clerk to tell me which room they were in.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
“Fine. Of course. Tell me what you discovered on this little advent
ure.”
“Her name’s Francesca. She admits she and Greg fought. She was furious because Greg didn’t want her to stay behind with him. The photographer was furious because he’s in love with her and he resented the way Greg used her and dumped her. They both had motives and opportunity, but they both swear he was alive when they left him in Veronica’s trailer Saturday night.”
“And you believed them?”
“I believed her. Him, I’m not so sure about.”
“Why?”
“I told you, he was jealous. Besides, he all but warned her right in front of me to keep something a secret.”
“Like what?”
“He said they left together. Then he looked at Francesca as if he was trying to tell her not to contradict him.”
“That’s one possibility. The other is that he’s protecting her.”
“Yeah, I know. What are you going to do next?”
He pulled the car into a tight space at the oceanfront curb, then removed his sunglasses long enough to look her straight in the eye. “I’m surprised you intend to leave the next step up to me.”
“You are the detective,” she said dutifully.
“Try to remember that.”
“By the way, I almost forgot. Jeffrey Meyerson has an excuse for the delay between the arrival of his flight and the time he showed up at Veronica’s hotel room. He stopped by the location first.”
Michael groaned. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’ve talked to him, too.”
“Well, Veronica did call me and ask me to come by,” she said defensively. “She was worried that he might know something about the murder.”
“And did he?”
“Not that I could discover.”
“Any other little tidbits I should know about? Things perhaps the police haven’t stumbled on yet?”
Molly smiled brightly. “Nope. None that I can think of.”
“I’m sure you’ll let me know if you just happen across some evidence.”
“Absolutely.”
Michael put a hand on her elbow and turned her to face him. “Molly, I’m serious about this. Can I trust you to pass on whatever you discover, however insignificant it may seem to you?”
“Of course you can trust me,” she said indignantly.
“Can I?” he said. “You made me the same promise just yesterday.”
“And just look at all the information I gave you today.”
He shook his head. “There’s no arguing with you, is there? You have an answer for everything.”
“I try,” she said, purposely ignoring his exasperated tone. “You may not believe this, but I really do appreciate the fact that you listen to me. You take what I tell you seriously…even when you are furious with me.”
For an instant he looked taken aback. Then a faint smile touched his lips and was gone. “Yeah, well, don’t ever tell anyone I said this, but you’ve got good instincts when it comes to people.”
“Just think what I could do if I had access to an evidence lab and a few crackerjack technicians,” she said, winking at him as she went off to take the elevator back to Laura Crain’s suite.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned as the doors of the elevator slid shut. They didn’t close quite fast enough, though. She still heard the unmistakable sound of his laughter.
CHAPTER 11
Molly figured she’d escaped the worst of Michael’s wrath. Despite his anger and his protests, she felt much better knowing that he was on the case. In fact, she was downright cheerful as she went back into the production office.
Jeannette looked far more harried than she ever did in the film office, even on the worst days with Vince on her case. She glanced up from the phones and waved Molly over. When she’d put the caller on hold, she asked, “You have anyplace else you can be for the next couple of hours?”
Molly shook her head. “Why?”
“You might want to stay out of Laura Crain’s path. She’s convinced you carried some tale off to the police that explains why both Daniel and Hank were called in for questioning. They just left in the middle of one of her production meetings and went downstairs.”
Molly glanced around the room. Jerry Shaw was the only other person in here, and he was busy scribbling all over one of the scripts. “Where’s Laura now?” Molly asked.
“The bathroom.” The normally unflappable Jeannette looked genuinely distressed. “You sure you don’t have urgent business back at the office? She is a crazy one.”
Molly shook her head. “I can’t run off and have her accuse me of abandoning her in her hour of need. You can imagine how Vince would love that. I’ll stay here and take my chances. Thanks for warning me, though.”
She crossed the room and stopped by the production assistant. “Hi, Jerry. Anything I can do to help?”
He looked up at her and shook his head.
Molly persisted. “Has tomorrow’s schedule been worked out? I can start coordinating with the Beach authorities as soon as I know what locations you need.”
“You’ll have to ask Laura. She keeps changing her mind. It’s driving everyone crazy.”
“Why isn’t Hank making the decisions?”
Jerry blinked at her. “Well, he is. Sort of. Laura keeps countermanding him. She’s better at logistics and stuff. She wants Jonathan to make some adjustments to the script that’ll speed things along. Daniel and Hank agreed, but no one can find him.”
“Maybe he got tired of everyone ignoring his suggestions,” Molly said.
“Not everyone. Just Veronica. She made the guy’s life a living hell. If I were him, I’d be back in L.A. by now. Laura made sure that wouldn’t happen. She’s holding all the tickets.”
“Has he checked out?”
“No. He’s just laying low.”
“Then maybe he’s on the beach or having lunch at one of the cafes.”
“Could be, but I don’t have time to go look for him. I have to finish these script notes. Could you try to track him down?”
Since looking for the writer beat waiting for Laura to throw one of her tantrums, Molly agreed.
She found thirty-year-old Jonathan Fine some fifteen minutes later on the porch of a hotel five blocks south. He was sipping what looked like a double shot of Scotch and staring at the ocean, his expression bleak. Molly slid into the seat across from him, wondering how he stood the glare and scorching heat of the direct midsummer sun. She was drenched in perspiration just from walking a few blocks in the humid, 88-degree weather. It probably helped that each time the hotel door opened a rush of cool air breezed past.
“Hi,” she said, taking in the rumpled shirt with its exotic and colorful flowers and the khaki shorts. The clothes contrasted sharply with his bookish horn-rimmed glasses. He looked like a writer’s idea of what a screenwriter in Florida ought to look like. He also looked as if he’d feel more comfortable in a three-piece suit with his blond hair trimmed to executive neatness, instead of scraping his collar as it was now.
“You looking for me?” he asked, barely sparing her a glance. He sounded as miserable as he looked.
Molly nodded. “Laura wants some changes in the script.”
“So what else is new?” he said. If anything, he looked even more woebegone. He turned his gaze on Molly. “Maybe you can explain why they bought it in the first place. About the only thing left from the original is the title, and I understand some marketing guy at the studio hates that.”
“It must be frustrating. This is your first feature film, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I used to be in a business that made sense.”
“What was that?”
“Banking.”
No wonder he looked as if he ought to be wearing a suit. “From what I’ve seen of banks collapsing, you may have gotten out of that just in the nick of time. How
did you sell the script to Greg?”
“He banked at my branch in Santa Monica. One day there was a problem with his account and we got to talking. I told him I’d been working on this script. I’m sure people said that to him all the time, but he asked to see it. After he read it, he called me. He actually said then that he liked it.”
Jonathan finished off his drink. “Greg helped me find an agent, took out an option, and then started trying to put the financing together. Everybody told me it was a fluke, that I shouldn’t quit my day job, but would I listen? No. I was so sure this was it, my ticket to fame and fortune. Jesus, was I naïve.”
“What you accomplished is pretty incredible,” Molly said. “I’ve seen the statistics. The odds are against a beginner breaking in with a first script.”
“But how am I supposed to reconcile what’s on the screen with what I put on paper? Duke likes to ad lib and Greg let him. He said Duke’s an instinctive actor.”
“You don’t agree?”
“It’s bull. He just can’t memorize his damn lines. As for Veronica, she wants to play the role like she’s still twenty-seven. If the script had called for a woman that age, Greg wouldn’t have cast her. She blames me for making her seem old.”
“What’ll happen now that Greg’s dead?”
“God knows. Hank can’t control the cast and Laura’s more interested in the bottom line.”
He sighed heavily and blinked several times behind his thick-lensed glasses. “Sorry. You didn’t come chasing after me to listen to my gripes. What do you need?”
Molly winced. “Actually, Laura…”
“Has a few changes. You said that. I guess I blocked it. Well, come on. I might as well get it over with.”
He staggered a little as he stood up, then squared his shoulders. Molly wondered if perhaps she should have insisted on coffee before dragging him back to the hotel.
“Are you working on another script?” she asked.
For the first time he gave her a rueful grin. “Yeah, this one. Maybe once it’s done, I’ll be able to write something that a director and the stars will actually love as it is. I’m not holding my breath, though.”
Seaside Lies Page 10