Changing the Script

by Lee Winter

  Alex held the tablet up to show everyone, turning it slowly. A photo of a blue-and-chrome cylinder was on the screen, with black flaps at the front. “This is what we’ve lost. The ARRI M90 EB MAX. Commit it to memory. It costs a fortune and weighs a ton, and we only have three on set. But we need all three to work together or we may as well have none.” She handed the iPad back.

  “Emphasis on costs a fortune,” Quincy chimed in, folding his arms.

  “Alice?” Alex called.

  The production assistant stepped forward, anxiety radiating from her. “Yes?”

  “You have one job now.” Alex grasped both her shoulders and crouched a little to meet her eyes. “Do nothing else but find us a replacement. Steven will get you the full specs. I want you to scour everywhere for another one. If you have to hire it, borrow it, buy it, or drive all the way to Auckland to horse trade for it, I don’t care. We need it, preferably within the next few hours. Okay?”

  The young woman’s head bobbed up and down.

  “Cool in a crisis, eh?” Sid murmured, nudging Sam.

  She folded her arms and refused to reply. Sort of.

  After Alice scampered away, Alex looked around. “Where’s the First AD?” she muttered. “Leslie!”

  A plump, intense-looking woman wearing red glasses stepped up, and Alex addressed her in a no-nonsense tone. “If we can’t shoot this evening, I need options. Work out a way to redo tomorrow’s schedule so we can squeeze in tonight’s poacher shoot, too.”

  Alex’s gaze shifted to Sam, and she waved her over impatiently. “Senior Constable Keegan. Thank God. This is a bloody nightmare.”

  “I’m here.” Sam projected confidence, suddenly wanting to reassure her.

  “The lighting team’s been gathered.” Alex pointed at the tent. “These are the last people to have seen the M90. All we know is it went missing between three and three-thirty today. Please get to the bottom of this.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I can’t overstate enough how much of a disaster this is.” Alex gave her a beseeching look.

  Sam inhaled. No pressure.

  Kev poked his head out from behind a towering stack of boxes. “We’re not pulling the plug on tonight’s schedule yet, are we? We should keep prepping, yeah?”

  Sam glanced at her brother in surprise. He actually sounded invested.

  “Correct.” Alex darted a look at him. “Let’s not give up yet.” She glanced back at Sam. “Our missing lamp is exceptionally powerful. When used with the other two M90s, it literally turns night into day. Without it we’re screwed, but I don’t want to scrap this evening’s schedule until the last gasp.” She pointed Sam to a tent. “This way. I’ve cleared a space which should be good for you to interview the crew. Oh, and thanks for coming so quickly, Senior Constable. It’s appreciated.”

  Her expression was laced with so much genuine gratitude that Sam was suddenly glad she’d hauled ass out here instead of first finishing her vehicular-arson report.

  Someone tugged at Sam’s arm just as Alex was also pulled aside by Quincy.

  Kevin’s hand was on her forearm, his face beseeching. “I didn’t do it,” he said quietly. “I promise, Sam. I love this job. I’m learning so much. I didn’t even know until a week ago you could make night look like day. And shit, I wanna see it in action! Why would I nick something like that?”

  “Then why do you look like you did?” Sam asked, to test him.

  “This is my resting face, eh?”

  Alex turned back suddenly. “Wait, you think the lighting PA did this? Kev?”

  Sam never shifted her gaze from the wide-eyed man in front of her, who began shaking his head vigorously. She answered with her gut instinct. “No, actually, I don’t think my brother did do this.”

  He sagged in relief.

  “Kev is your brother?” Alex asked in surprise.

  “I have a matched pair,” Sam said dryly, inclining her head at Sid. “All right, I’ll interview everyone now, one at a time, if you don’t mind.”

  Alex nodded. “Right in there.” She pointed. “Good luck.”

  Alex listened in briefly at the tent as Sam asked the gaffer, Steven, some questions.

  “How much does it weigh?” was the first.

  “About hundred and seventy pounds with change.”

  A silence.

  “Like, um, almost eighty kilos,” Steven added. “Of course, last I saw it, it was pelleted. Boxed up, it’s a crap-load heavier.”

  “Thanks for the conversion,” Sam said. “My imperial is useless. Okay, so this is not something you could haul out of here on your own, is it?”

  By the time the interview was done, Alex was still fixated on that first point. Only someone incredibly strong could have taken their lamp. It’s not like you could just back up a truck and drive off with it, either. If someone had tried, Sid would have noticed it leave.

  Alex returned to work and tried hard not to focus on the fact that her movie’s schedule was hanging by a thread.

  An hour later, Sam found her in the Production trailer.

  “Want a drink?” Alex asked, taking in the tired eyes.

  “I’m good.” Sam flipped through her notepad, brow creased, and sat on the hard plastic chair opposite the desk.

  “I can offer hot chocolate and marshmallows today.” Alex grinned. “It’s the weather for it.”

  “Figured you more for some organic, ethical, fancy tea for lefties, to be honest.”

  Alex tutted. “Dreadful cliché. I’ll have you know I usually prefer organic, ethical, fancy coffee for lefties. But at least I have the originality not to enjoy it.”

  Sam smiled.

  “So that’s a no to the hot chocolate?” Alex checked.

  “Can’t. That stuff’ll make you sleepy.”

  “Right. How’d you go?”

  “I’ve finished my interviews with anyone who was on set when the M90 went missing. Two things are clear: This lamp can’t be easily carried, and it can’t be easily sold.”

  “No.”

  “Your head lighting guy, Steven, tells me it’s worth thirty-thousand US. For one lamp.” Sam shook her head.

  “Sounds about right.” Alex shifted in her seat. “Any suspects?”

  “Going through the work schedule and everyone’s alibis, I can rule out all the lighting crew. That includes Kevin. The only time he was away from the crew, Sid was with him. Besides, he might be tall, but he’s a lightweight. Doubt he could even drag it, let alone lift it.”

  “But why did you think it was him in the first place?”

  “I didn’t really. It’s just, he’s had a few issues in the past so I keep a close eye on him. Stealing tech’s not really his MO, though.”

  “Okay, so if not the lighting crew, then who?” Alex asked.

  “Well, of the people with the physical ability, that just leaves the weight-lifting cook in Craft Services, but he only seems interested in food, and three stuntmen who didn’t even know the set had any lamps that do what this one does. On that note…” Sam’s lips twitched ever so slightly, “They’ve asked if they could watch when you find a new M90 and turn it on. They sounded pretty impressed by it.”

  “For God’s sake, I’m not running a carnival,” Alex growled. “Tell them to amuse themselves on their own time.”

  “I may have taken the liberty to already suggest something like that—only meaner.” The gleam in Sam’s eye was pure mischief.

  Alex chuckled. “Good.”

  There was a bang at the door, and it opened.

  “Alex?” Alice’s head poked in. “Um, hey. I have news.”

  Alice Benson was a damned genius. And she was getting a raise, Alex decided, as she watched their replacement lamp being driven off to their forest set. The brilliant production assistant had phoned Matamata,
the same town that had made a few Hobbits world famous. And someone there knew some people who knew a Peter Jackson second-unit crew sitting around who weren’t using their M90s this month.

  Her assistant had saved the whole day. Well, night. A bit behind schedule they might be, but they’d be able to shoot very soon.

  A group of crew members had gathered to cheer the borrowed light’s arrival. Among them was Sam, who was scribbling a few lines in a notepad.

  “Hey,” Alex said, drawing Sam away from the group, out of their earshot. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

  “I wasn’t. I came back when I heard a lamp had turned up. It wasn’t clear if it was the missing one or a replacement and I needed to know for my report, so…” She glanced back at the M90. “You weren’t kidding about the size of it.”

  “Yeah.” Alex shook her head. “So can you figure any of this out? If you can’t easily sell a thing, why steal it?”

  “Why did someone poke your little pool lining full of holes?” Sam replied quietly. “Seems to me that just because it’s less obvious this time, sabotage is still sabotage.”

  Alex felt something inside her crumple. “But that means…it’s definitely an inside job.” Does someone hate us—me—that much?

  “I’m sorry. It does look that way.”

  “But…I run a good set,” Alex whispered. “I’m a fair boss. Fuck.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Sam said kindly. “And maybe it’s not you that someone has an issue with. You’re not the only boss, are you?”

  “Quincy?”

  “Not just him, although maybe he’s rubbed someone else up the wrong way, for a variety of reasons.” Her eyes crinkled. “You think like a director. This is your production, you’re at the top, and everyone works for you or Quincy. But every department has its own supervisors, doesn’t it? There are multiple bosses, any of whom could be in conflict with someone else.”

  Wait, there were dozens of suspects? That felt…horrible.

  Sam drew in a deep breath. “Look, sorry I have to ask this, but have you received any threats?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Any enemies?”

  Alex regarded her. “I suppose fewer now? Since we fixed some things, I mean. I’ve given the Duncan sisters permission to post the new costume pics, for instance. People in town are warmer now.”

  Sam nodded. “They are. But I wasn’t just asking about Ika Whenu people. Does anyone want you to fail?”

  Fail? What a disturbing thought. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Well, okay, just thought I’d ask. I’ll work my way through my list of people disgruntled with Shezan and see what comes up.”

  “You have a whole list?” Alex’s mouth went dry.

  “I do.”

  “Who’s on it?”

  “Frank Buddins, the man Quincy fired who does waste pumping. Fletcher and a couple of his aggro mates who like to cause trouble around town from time to time out of boredom. It’s a long shot. I’ll let you know if anything pans out. Leave it with me.”

  “Sure, I trust you.” Alex paused. Funny how true that felt given she barely knew Sam.

  “Thanks.” Sam’s eyes brightened. “I appreciate that.”

  “Right, I have to go,” Alex said, with a smile. “My evil poacher isn’t going to catch himself in Shezan’s traps. Well, actually, he kind of is.” She laughed.

  A sudden gust of wind whipped through, rattling equipment, and Alex shivered. New Zealand just didn’t get any warmer. She reached for the zip on her jacket but, in her haste to do it up, managed to catch her shirt in it. Bits of white cotton stuck through the teeth. Oh, smooth. A few tugs failed to fix it.

  Finally, Sam stepped forward, shoving her notepad under her arm. “I can’t take it anymore,” she murmured. With a sharp jerk, she brought the zip down, liberating the shirt.

  Alex’s cheeks were considerably ruddier than the wind had made them.

  Sam did it up again, neatly. “There,” she said. “Happens to the best of us.”

  Alex wasn’t sure what to feel about the invasion into her space. And Sam hadn’t moved back yet, either. “Thanks again, um, Senior Constable.”

  “No problem, Ms. Levitin.” Sam’s eyes were teasing.

  Alex sucked in a breath. Mercy.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Body

  Resplendent in her tartan flannel pajama bottoms and blue tank top, Sam tossed some bread into the toaster in her kitchen. The pitiful room had seen better days…most likely in the 1950s. She stared at the chipped Formica bench top, the brown lino tiles on the floor, the threadbare chocolate-brown carpet in the lounge. Her battered, hulking TV sat on six Yellow Pages because she’d never gotten around to buying a stand. Why hadn’t she?

  Sam’s worn-out, one-bedroom rental next to the police station had been home for so long that she’d stopped seeing it for what it was. For the first time in ages, she could see its morbid decay through the eyes of a visitor. A visitor who might pop around on a rainy day for a hot chocolate with marshmallows, for example. A visitor she hadn’t seen in six days.

  Everything was clean, of course; Sam ran a spotless, neat-as-a-pin house. She’d brightened her bedroom with nice curtains from this millennium and maintained fresh flowers in the kitchen. Okay, so, the orchids, a gift from Gina, hadn’t died yet despite Sam’s occasional neglect. That counted as “maintained,” right?

  Still, what her modest home lacked in charm, it lacked double in everything else. There was no disguising how dated it all was.

  Her gaze wandered over to the living room wall and the giant corkboard decorated with dozens of vibrant postcards from around the world. Originally, she’d set up the board to puzzle out ongoing police cases in her downtime, but it hadn’t worked out that way. Most cases in her first five years had been minor and easily solved, not requiring earnest, TV-crime-show level corkboarding.

  Sam inspected the postcards’ glossy surfaces. Paris, London, Rome, Spain, Singapore, and Sydney competed for attention in the middle. She picked out the one from Pfeiffer Beach, California. In the twelve years since her ex’s card had gone up on the board, very little had changed. And yet Sam still held the view that living minimally meant she was free to drop everything at any moment to scratch her travel itch.

  Except “any moment” had never come.

  And in all the years she’d lived here, she hadn’t bought a stick of serious furniture because that meant she was staying for good. Denial was preferable to admitting that.

  And now, here she was. Thirty-six, living in a (neat-as-a-pin) dump, doing a frustrating job, being largely avoided by the people she’d grown up with, and not once having left New Zealand’s shores.

  The toast popped. After heading back into the kitchen, Sam spread it with butter and Marmite, then made a coffee. “Travel’s overrated anyway,” she told the kettle. “Too many pushy and annoying tourists.”

  Which reminded her of Alex, who, okay, had stopped being annoying long enough to accept her apology. If she squinted, maybe Alex’s pushiness was more assertiveness really. She had to respect a woman ready to stand her ground. Couldn’t be easy in her line of work. Sam appreciated assertive women—especially those who punched well above their weight.

  Her mind slunk back to the Shezan case. Well, cases. None of Sam’s leads had turned up anything. Frank, the fired waste-management guy, was now happily working in Matamata on a road crew, resurfacing roads. It was Sid’s old road crew, as luck would have it, so it was easy to check the man’s alibi. That was how life was around here. Everyone knew everyone, and sooner or later, everyone worked everywhere at least once.

  Fletcher and his chaos-demon mates had had rock-solid alibis, too. So now she was stumped. Damn it. She’d really wanted to haul some bastard in and get this annoying business off her desk.

  That was
the only reason, of course. Sam was all about justice.

  Her phone pinged.

  Hey, officer K. Been stuck on night shoots all week. Any luck with my lamp theft? - Alex

  Sam replied: No leads. On the bright side, I haven’t given up yet.

  Bright side? Senior Constable Keegan, are you punning with me?

  Smiling, Sam texted back: That would be out of character.

  Would it though? Do you have a secret life as a stand-up comic? Hey, need me to coerce my cast and crew into dropping hundreds of glowing five-star reviews on your act? 

  Her phone pinged again a minute later. I was kidding btw. Not only would the optics look wayyy 2 suspicious, but I do have a few ethics, despite living in LA. Besides, didn’t u say u hated cons?

  Sam snorted. To confirm: No cons, no puns, no comedy routines. I bleed pure blue.

  There’s a depressing thought. I don’t like the idea of you bleeding one bit.

  Sam stopped chewing. Was Alex flirting with her? Wait, why was she assuming Alex was even single? God, and here was Sam trying to see her home through an arty Hollywood director’s eyes. For all she knew, Alex was married to some hot movie star and had ten adopted kids.

  Funny how I’ve decided she’s married to Angelina Jolie.

  Sam grabbed her phone and Googled the woman. Hundreds of stories appeared about Alex’s movies. Some titles sounded a little…eccentric. Heaven’s Blood? What on earth? An angel in demon form? Whatever. She clicked through to check out the box office. Ouch. That one had sunk.

  Working her way down the list, she saw that Alex’s work had grown in both budget and positive reviews every film. That climate change one, A Quiver in Time, sounded good. Maybe she’d see if she could get it on Netflix.

  She found a video of Alex at a GLAAD event where she’d won an award. Her speech had prompted laughs when she talked about being the “scariest creature in Hollywood—feminist, lesbian, and fiercely independent.”

  Fiercely independent? Obviously pre-Shezan.