Nickel Package

by David Chill

  "Yeah. I had taken a few film courses, but now I'm getting serious about it. And I wrote a script. That's what I'm here for this morning. I need someone to give me notes."

  "What's the story about?

  "Well, I got this idea. Off-duty cop sees a gang murder about to go down. He intervenes. But a couple of local guys jump him and take his gun. They hit him over the head, use his gun in the murder and then call 911. He wakes up next to a dead body and gets arrested. The cop gets charged for a crime he didn't commit."

  I drew in a long breath and again thought back on my own history. My bad luck had nothing to do with a murder, but it was pretty serious. And there were parallels. Many years ago I befriended a teenage runaway being charged with prostitution. The type of situation in which a cop should never be involved. I let my guard down and got burned. I was falsely accused of running a prostitution ring, something that was ridiculous beyond my wildest dreams. The fallout led to my being arrested, and I was looking at serious jail time. While I was eventually exonerated, I was also a changed man. And a changed cop, which ultimately led to my getting discharged from the LAPD. It happened years ago, but it still felt fresh in my mind. And hearing Demetrius detail his story made it seem like it happened yesterday. I felt the hairs standing up on the back of my neck.

  "So, Demetrius," I said, feeling a little apprehensive. "How does this story end?"

  "Well, that's what I want to speak with Dr. Kanter about. I'm not sure how to get a happy ending out of this. It's not so easy if you want to make it believable. Right now the ending looks kind of bleak."

  Chapter 6

  Century City is not really a city. It's not even a neighborhood. Wedged between Beverly Hills and Westwood, it is technically a part of L.A. , a cluster of high-rise office towers, hotels, condos, and a glitzy outdoor shopping mall. It is a compact community, a freakishly oversized business park, one where few people actually live, but where many go to both earn and spend their lofty paychecks. While Century City measures only about eight or nine blocks, they are a very valuable eight or nine blocks indeed.

  Malcolm Taylor's offices were in the gleaming Century Plaza Towers, a pair of silver, triangular-shaped structures that serve as a guidepost for any tourist or newbie trying to navigate through the Westside. The towers had been around for more than four decades, each one rising 44 stories, chrome pyramids that employed vertical black and gray lines to make them appear even more imposing than they already were. Over the years, other skyscrapers were erected in the L.A. basin, but outside of downtown, Century City still had the two tallest buildings in southern California.

  I rode the quiet elevator up to the 38th floor and entered an even quieter hallway, cloaked in a hushed coolness. At the end of the corridor was a door with "Celestial Productions" in gleaming gold letters on the nameplate. I walked in and came upon a well-built, handsome middle-aged man, hunched over a desk, combing haphazardly through some documents. He was looking intently for something, and either didn't notice that I had walked in or simply didn't care. He wore what looked like an expensive black shirt, open at the throat, and dressy black slacks. On his right wrist was a thick gold braided bracelet, on his left was a watch with a distinctive silver-and-gold band. I cleared my throat. He still didn't look up, but at least he acknowledged my presence.

  "You can just leave your script over there," he said in a smooth voice that sounded as if it had been the product of many years of training. The voice sounded like one I had heard before on the radio. Or maybe on a game show. "We'll get back to you."

  "I'm not peddling a script," I said.

  "Then what do you want?"

  "I'm here to see Malcolm Taylor."

  The man looked up. A closer look revealed he was indeed very handsome, the type of handsome that some people might even swoon over. His blond hair was very blond and his blue eyes were bright and sparkling. He had the type of look you sometimes saw in actors, the kind who always managed to get work.

  "Sorry. He's gone to a lunch meeting," the very good-looking man said. "Don't know when he'll be back."

  "That's strange," I said. "I had an appointment. Lucas Kanter at USC set it up."

  He looked up at me again. "You're Burnside."

  "I am indeed."

  "Why didn't you say so? I'm not a mind reader."

  "You're Taylor?"

  "Of course I am," he said, offended that I hadn't recognized him.

  "Sorry," I smiled. "How stupid of me. I just didn't think a former CEO would drop such a casual lie."

  He shook his head. "What business are you in?"

  "Let's just say I'm transitioning."

  "Uh-huh," he said, nodding in a condescending way. "Well, if you want to make it in this business, you've got to know who the players are. You've got some work ahead of you."

  "I suppose. That assumes I want to be in this business."

  "Everyone wants to be in this business."

  "Sure. Look, I'd like a few minutes of your time. I have a few questions. Confidential. Did Dr. Kanter tell you anything more than I'd be coming to see you?"

  "No, Lucas just left a message," he sighed. "I thought it would be one of his students dropping off a script. All right, look, I've got a minute. Come on in."

  I followed him into what might be called a suite, a vast amount of space that could have easily been transformed into a bowling alley. The huge oak desk was set near the windows, with a sitting area nearby that held a couch and a few easy chairs. On the other side of the room were several tables, a few of which were piled high with scripts. Off in a corner was an 80-inch TV, mounted on a wall, with just one chair facing it.

  "So I figured you'd have an assistant," I said, handing Malcolm Taylor my business card and taking a seat across from his desk. He moved slowly around it, perusing a few papers before sitting down onto what more aptly resembled a throne rather than a desk chair.

  Taylor took off his watch, clearly a Rolex. He placed it face up on the desk, a trick I had seen before. This was a power move, the type of signal that communicates that this man's time is valuable. And time with him will be limited. When the watch is placed face down, it means the opposite; the visitor's presence is valued and they can take all the time they'd like.

  "Of course I have an assistant," he sniffed. "Adam wanted to come in late today. The slug. He thinks just because he worked until midnight last night he can slough off."

  "Imagine that," I said.

  "Ah, he's not a bad kid. Been with me since I ran Production over at BMB."

  "BMB. That's why I'm here."

  "Of course that's why you're here. Once the trades announced I was leaving BMB with a three-picture deal as part of my package, I've had everyone in town pay me a visit. Even some people I actually know."

  I put up my hands. "Relax," I said wearily. "Again. I'm not in the industry. I'm not looking to sell you anything."

  Taylor sat back and looked at me like I was from another planet. "Well, that's a first. I can't even imagine what you want then."

  "Uh, yeah. Well, it's a little delicate. I'm a Private Investigator. I started out by doing a background investigation for BMB. But after what happened last night, my work has expanded."

  "What happened last night?"

  "Hector Ferris?" I asked, wondering if these folks read anything beyond The Hollywood Reporter. "Did you hear?"

  He nodded grimly. "Yes, sorry. Awful thing. A real blow. But I've moved past BMB. My time there is finished and I'm starting a new chapter."

  "Okay. Did you know Hector well?"

  "No, not really. Didn't interact much with him. I had bigger things on my plate."

  "How about Patty Muckenthaler?"

  "Patty? Of course I knew Patty. I made her head of Production when I took over. Wait a minute. You think Patty had something to do with Hector?"

  "Do you?" I asked, answering a question with a question.

  Malcolm Taylor considered this as he glanced out of his of east-facing window. It was tur
ning into another clear day, and you could almost see into the San Gabriel Valley. The Library Tower capped the downtown skyline, its glass crown having made it another very recognizable landmark in L.A. The official name of the building had changed some years ago, but many Angelenos kept calling it the Library Tower rather than dignifying the soulless corporation that purchased it, and renamed the structure after itself.

  "That's an interesting question," he mused. "At first thought, no, who would ever think Patty capable of doing such a gruesome thing. No matter what the benefit to her."

  "Benefit?"

  "Oh, well, I may have been speaking out of turn. Patty's an ambitious woman. Hector was probably looking into a harassment case, that was much of what his job required. I heard this one involved a woman who reported up to Patty. It was mostly nonsense, but some people take these things seriously."

  "I thought you'd moved on from BMB. New chapter and all," I said.

  "I stay in touch with some people. You have to in this business. It's all about relationships."

  "So who was the woman?"

  Malcolm Taylor smiled. It was the type of smile that was broad and powerful. "I'm not at liberty to say. Confidentiality and all."

  "That's going to be a tough line to maintain when the police start grilling you. And I assume they'll find out anyway when they look into Hector's records. You can save some time by talking to me."

  "Now listen," he said, his voice growing a little stern. "Patty's a colleague, we may work together in the future. As I've said, relationships in the industry are critical. I'm not going to be a party to getting her into any more trouble than she's already in."

  "Funny thing," I observed. "Everyone knows a little something here, a little something there. Yet no one wants to actually say anything."

  Malcolm Taylor held up his hands. "It's like a movie we've put in turnaround. Everyone wants to distance themselves from the stench. If you knew the business, you'd understand."

  "You guys have a strange way of talking," I shook my head. "And to think people complain about that with me."

  "How long have you been a detective?" he asked, giving me an odd look, almost like a museum-goer trying to make sense of an abstract painting.

  "Private Investigator. I had my own agency for years after leaving the LAPD. Took a break to coach football at SC. Now I'm back."

  "How long were you part of the LAPD?"

  "A long time. Why?"

  "I could maybe use someone like you," he said, thinking this through. "Technical advisor. Got a crime picture I'm developing, I need someone to make sure the police procedural stuff is accurate. Pays well. You interested?"

  I looked at him. After what I'd seen over the past few days, I didn't have the slightest interest in working in show business. But this investigation wasn't moving forward at the speed I wanted. And I didn't like saying no to anything right away. After my football career ended, my old coach, Bulldog Martin, made the comment that no one should ever dismiss an opportunity without considering it. And the older you get, he said, the less frequently opportunities come along.

  "How does maybe sound?"

  "I'll take that as a yes," he said presumptuously. "Adam will call you later. He'll have an agreement drawn up."

  I shrugged and said okay. That is, okay to reviewing the agreement. Signing it would be another story, something I'd need to think about. A business relationship was like any other relationship. Pick the right partner and it's great. Pick the wrong partner and you may have a lamp thrown at you at some point. My initial thought was it might be best to wait until my current case was put to bed. Especially since I was hired to investigate Taylor's potential successor, something I'd need to reveal to him sooner if not later. I finally decided there was no time like the present.

  "There's something else I need to ask you about," I said.

  "Oh?" he asked, looking down at his Rolex as if to signal my time was nearly up.

  "This is a little delicate, too."

  "What, is everything delicate with you? Come on. I've seen blood spattered all over a movie set. Not much is going to shock me these days."

  "All right," I said, starting to feel the need to rub the bridge of my nose. "I'm looking into Eric Starr. Anything you know about him? Anything you can share?"

  Malcolm Taylor looked at me like I had just vomited on his rug. "Eric Starr?! Yeah, I know him. I heard someone on the board wants to replace me with that retard. Guy knows nothing about the business, he's an Internet jock. But some people at BMB think that worm can just slide in and run the show."

  "Why do you say that? He built Laputa out of nothing."

  "Take a good look at Laputa and you'll see it's still nothing. It's falling apart. Half the people who work there hate his guts, the other half are scared to death of him. He murdered his partner. Or had him murdered, I guess."

  I blinked a few times. "You sound rather sure of that."

  "That was the rumor around town," he said and then began to backpedal. "Aw, look, the board can do whatever they like at this point. I don't care. I have an iron-clad contract to do three pictures with BMB. Might even be good medicine for them if Starr took over. Maybe they'd see I didn't do such a bad job."

  "Sounds like you've thought about it."

  "Of course I've thought about it," he said as he stood up. "What do you imagine I do all day? I think about things. And look, I don't mean to cut this short, but I actually do have an early lunch meeting I need to get to. As I said, Adam will follow up on our agreement. You'll like the money."

  Walking out of Malcolm Taylor's office took a surprising number of steps. Why anyone needed an office that was large enough to hold a touch football game was beyond me. An office fit for a king. Or maybe someone who liked to believe he was.

  As I moved into the reception area, I came upon a young man talking fast into a phone. He was smartly dressed in a blue shirt and tie. He also wore a watch with a silver-and-gold band, one that looked like a Rolex. On Malcolm Taylor it looked natural. On this young man, it did not.

  "Yeah, we need it now," he barked into the phone. "Five minutes? I guess. Mr. Taylor's leaving soon. Okay. Sure. No. Not ten minutes. Five. Four would be better. Thanks. Bye."

  He hung up and looked at me.

  "You must be Adam," I said.

  "I must be. Adam Gee. Who are you?"

  "Name's Burnside. I may be doing some work for Malcolm."

  "All right. What kind of work?"

  "Technical advisor. He said something about making a crime picture."

  "Hmmm. Maybe that's Day Shift. Or Day Watch. We have a few in development."

  "I wouldn't know. He didn't say."

  "All right. I'll check with him and get back to you. May I have your contact info?"

  I handed him a business card. "Tough night last night?"

  "Excuse me?" he asked, looking up at me with a quizzical expression.

  "Nothing," I said. "Just something your boss mentioned. You working late and all."

  "Oh yeah. Comes with the territory. We had an industry function. This AFI reception."

  "Must be fun to work here. Nice opportunity working with a high-level guy."

  "Yes. It's great to have a mentor like Malcolm."

  I sometimes wondered what my life would have been like if I had a mentor guiding my journey after I had graduated from college. Bulldog Martin had been my surrogate father at SC, but there was only so much career guidance he could provide beyond football. I had to figure everything out on my own. While it was satisfying to look back and see the life I had carved out, the path that led me here was a circuitous one. And rocky at times. Sometimes a helping hand pays off, but it was a luxury I could only imagine.

  "That's a nice watch," I said. "You must be doing okay."

  He held up his wrist. "This thing? It was a Christmas present last year from BMB. Everyone at the company got one. Looks like a Rolex, it even said BMB on the face initially. A lot of us around the company went and had new fa
ceplates put in that just said Rolex. You can fool a lot of people that way. Kind of an inside joke."

  *

  After grabbing a quick lunch in the food court of the crowded Century City mall, I drove slowly back to my office. This was my third day of working for BMB and Nick Roche. I had uncovered quite a bit, but not what I was actually hired to uncover. I called Roberto De Santos, and while the police were still chasing down leads on the Hector Ferris homicide, no obvious suspects were on their radar. I told him about my morning. Aside from Patty Muckenthaler being stunningly unaware that a colleague had been murdered, nothing else jumped out as suspicious. But as I drove past Westwood, an idea popped into my head.

  Parking at UCLA is always a challenge, especially for someone who enters that hilly campus infrequently and doesn't know the terrain. I finally found a space in a garage near Pauley Pavilion and was grateful I hadn't put any USC license plate holders on my new Pathfinder. Getting key scratches removed was a bother. After entering the Morgan Athletic Center, I found some interns but none of them could tell me anything about Coach Strong's whereabouts. Maybe they were trained to be obsequious, guiding an unknown visitor back out of the building, assuming he didn't belong there. Fortunately, one of the football program's assistant coaches recognized me.

  "Oh, you think this is an open house, Burnside," called a grinning, oversized man wearing a blue t-shirt with the word PERSEVERANCE in big gold letters.

  "Hey there, big fella," I smiled in return. Big fella usually works when addressing a coach, especially since I never bothered to learn opposing coaches' names. Networking in the coaching community was not a strong suit for me. In some ways, I always sensed my coaching career would be short-lived.

  "You planning to steal some plays from us?" he grinned.

  "Nah," I said, wondering if I should remind him USC had won five of the last six games between our cross-town rivals. "Not necessary. Just looking for Jay."

  "Oh yeah, your Trojan buddy. He's over in the gym pumping iron. Guy goes non-stop. Glad we took him off your hands."