Bombshell

by Stuart Woods

  “I wasn’t happy with the disposition of the arraignment. Do you know how many defendants would have walked away without some kind of murder charge? Is it any wonder I’m keeping tabs on you?”

  “Bullshit. No one’s keeping tabs on me. Someone tipped you off.” Teddy flopped himself comfortably into a chair. “I’m not supposed to talk to you without my lawyer present, and if he were here he’d tell me to keep my mouth shut. Which is good advice, but I don’t choose to take it. So let’s explore a hypothetical, shall we? Someone’s trying to set me up. But they can’t, because they can’t find me. So they come crying to you, and they get you to find me. Now, I’m too nice a guy to believe you might be in collusion with these people, so I’m assuming you’re an unwitting dupe.”

  Felson flushed. “Now, look here—”

  “Oh, don’t start. I’m on your side. I’m actually trying to help you. If I seem rude, you might consider which one of us is trying to convict the other. The point is, if people are suggesting you check up on me, you might want to examine their motives. Not to sound immodest, but I’m an important guy in Hollywood, and nobody rises to such a lofty position without gaining a few enemies.”

  ADA Felson thought that over.

  “So if there’s nothing else, I’ve got to check in with my attorney.” Teddy smiled. “You’ll be happy to know he’s leaving town.”

  * * *

  Teddy donned the SCE gear, came out of the courthouse, and walked right by the goons waiting out front. He threw the slicker and hard hat into the back of the SCE van, hopped in the production car, and drove out to the Santa Monica Airport, where Stone had left his jet. The two men watched while the hangar pilot readied the plane.

  “Try not to get arrested between now and the Oscars,” Stone said.

  “I’ll try to see that trouble doesn’t find me.”

  “Just stay away from the cops. I know you’d like to solve this crime, but do me a favor: don’t. At least wait until after the awards. If not for your own well-being, do it for Peter. It’s not every day my son gets nominated for an Oscar.”

  “I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But in the spirit of full disclosure, I can’t let this rest. The cops have me pegged for the murder. They’re not looking at anyone else, or seeking out evidence that points elsewhere. The only way we can clear my name is an independent investigation.”

  “If it comes to that, there are people I can hire to do those things.”

  “Not as well as I can. I’d hate to go to jail because your investigator didn’t see something I would have.”

  “I don’t want to argue with you. I’m advising you as your attorney. If you don’t want to follow my advice, you can always hire another attorney.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I just want a little assurance before I get on the plane.”

  “Of course.”

  “So lay low, take it easy, and above all keep away from the cops.”

  “You got it.”

  62

  Teddy hauled his bulk up the steps of the police station. He’d opted for pudgy, middle-aged patrolman Frank Johnson, an out-of-shape, over-the-hill cop just going through the motions until retirement. He lurched through the door, leaned against the watercooler, and panted a couple of times, catching his breath.

  Teddy glanced over at the bullpen area, where a handful of cops labored away at desks, and said, “Who’s got the video?”

  A middle-aged cop looked up in annoyance. “You expect me to know what that is?”

  “I don’t expect anybody to know what that is. I expect it to be a major pain in the ass that ruins my day.” Teddy coughed and slumped into a chair.

  “What video are you talking about?”

  “Some gossip columnist got killed. They wanted video of his building, but there wasn’t any.”

  “Then you can’t get it.”

  “No shit. So now they want video of the whole block, to see if the suspect’s on it. So that’s my shit job for today. See if I can spot the guy walking toward the apartment.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “They don’t need to prove the guy was walking toward the apartment. They arrested the guy in the apartment. What does it matter if he was seen walking toward the apartment?”

  “Maybe they want to prove how long he was there,” a young cop suggested.

  “Whoa, look at the rookie cop, sticking up for his fellow officers, trying to justify the shit work they passed on to me.”

  “I been a cop for ten years.”

  “That’s a rookie to me. Do me a favor, will you? Point me in the direction of whoever can show me the video so I don’t have a heart attack going up and down stairs.”

  A half hour later Teddy was ensconced in a little cubicle with a laptop computer and thumb drives of surveillance video. He let the young cop show him how to use them, though he could have taught the kid a thing or two. Then he settled in to search.

  The problem was not having an accurate time of death. The police weren’t going to release one, not having arrested him in the apartment. The prosecutor would want the time of death to be as close to that as possible. Any evidence contradicting that theory would be quickly suppressed.

  Teddy’s impression had been that the body hadn’t been dead long, but whether that meant a half hour or two and a half was hard to ascertain without a careful inspection. The cops’ arrival had been unfortunate on so many levels. Not getting an accurate TOD was the least of it.

  Teddy looked at the video from the cameras that were closest to the decedent’s apartment building on the same side of the street. He found one that was focused on the building two doors down to the east, and another focused on the building two doors down to the west.

  He picked one randomly, punched in about an hour before his arrest, and ran the video forward, looking for anyone headed in the direction of the apartment. Several people went by, but no one he recognized. That didn’t mean he hadn’t seen the killer, but it was a fairly good indication. Gino Patelli was out to get him and would have sent one of his closest enforcers. No one he had seen fit the part.

  Teddy sped through an hour’s worth of video from the other direction. Once again, he saw nothing helpful.

  Teddy went back to the first video and started it two hours before his arrest. As the images danced across the screen, he suddenly blinked and took his finger off the fast-forward button. He rewound slightly.

  Yes, it was someone he knew, but from where?

  His mouth fell open.

  The odd young man he’d met at the party, Viveca Rothschild’s boyfriend. So, he was walking in the gossip columnist’s neighborhood not long before the crime. Could he be protecting his girlfriend? The gossip columnist wasn’t writing about her, but he was writing about her costar in the movie she was filming.

  It wasn’t much, but it was the only thing he had so far.

  Teddy ran the video the rest of the hour to see if there was anyone else of interest on the tape. There wasn’t.

  The boyfriend was the lead. He had walked down the street toward the apartment. But had he gone inside?

  That was a little harder to verify. Teddy took out the thumb drive and stuck in the other one. He watched the video from the camera to the west.

  Sure enough, halfway through the video, here came the young man. Teddy was frustrated. The guy had just been walking down the street, out of the frame of one camera and into the frame of the next moments later.

  Or was it moments later?

  What was the time on the tape?

  Teddy checked the time stamp. Viveca’s boyfriend was walking away from the apartment at 3:45. What time was he walking toward it in the other video?

  Teddy stuck in the thumb drive and rewound the tape. And here he came down
the street at . . . ?

  3:32.

  He was walking at a normal clip. The second camera should have picked him up within one minute. But the gap was nearly thirteen minutes long.

  There was room for discrepancy. But thirteen minutes? That was a hell of a disparity.

  Teddy rewatched the footage more closely, looking for any further clues. He ran it slow, backed it up, ran it again. Not that much to see. Just the young man walking right along. His arms were swinging freely.

  Except.

  Teddy froze the image. He ran it back and forth.

  The young man flexed the fingers of his right hand. He straightened them out, retracted them into a fist, then relaxed them again. It was momentary, but it was there. Just the sort of thing a fighter would do if he hurt his hand throwing a punch.

  Or stabbing someone in the heart.

  63

  Teddy drove to the set and changed back into Mark Weldon. It was fifteen minutes till his call. Not as much time as he’d have liked, but still it was better than nothing.

  Teddy hurried up the steps of Viveca’s trailer and pushed the door open. In his haste, he’d forgotten to knock.

  Viveca glanced up from her makeup table. “Why, Mr. Weldon,” she said, batting her eyes. “How impetuous of you.”

  Teddy grinned. “You’ve done drawing-room comedy.”

  “I was Gwendolen in The Importance of Being Earnest and Lydia Languish in The Rivals. I wasn’t always a femme fatale.”

  “And yet you’re so good at it.”

  “Why, Mr. Weldon. Are you flirting with me?”

  “Not likely. I saw that slab of beef you brought to Robert Vincent’s Oscar party. I wouldn’t want to tangle with him.”

  “No kidding. You may be tough on-screen, but he’s the real deal.”

  “How come he’s not watching the filming?”

  “My image. My publicist doesn’t want me to have a boyfriend hanging around the set. It increases my appeal to the male audience if I appear to be available.”

  “But it’s okay at the party?”

  “Someone has to accompany me. It’s a bit different than a jealous boyfriend mooning around the set.”

  “Is he jealous?”

  “That’s how the publicist paints it. I tell you, I’m lucky to have a life.”

  There was a knock on the door and Dylan stuck his head in. “Oh. Sorry, Miss Rothschild. I didn’t know you had company.”

  “It’s all right. Did you need something?”

  “Just wanted to see if there was anything you wanted.”

  “They didn’t send for me?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m all set. Thanks, Dylan.”

  He nodded and went out, closing the door.

  “See?” Viveca said. “That’s all it takes. By lunchtime it will be all over the set that you and I are having an affair.”

  “And if I weren’t here, it would be all over the set that you were having an affair with Dylan,” Teddy said with a smile.

  “He is cute, isn’t he?”

  “Not my type,” Teddy said.

  “Am I your type?”

  “You’re everyone’s type. That’s what makes you a star. Every man in the theater wants to be with you, and probably half the women.”

  Viveca chuckled. “So, what did you want?”

  “Oh, I like what you’re doing. In the scene, I mean. It’s coming across more and more that while I may be in charge, you’re actually calling the shots. I just wanted to say, it’s perfect, don’t change a thing.”

  Viveca looked at him. “You’re not the average actor.”

  “Hey, I’m a stuntman who got lucky. I’m happy just to be here. And I admire your talent in the scene. I just wanted to tell you I appreciate it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is that guy really your boyfriend?”

  “Dylan?”

  “No, not Dylan. The ex-military type from the party.”

  “I know he seems intimidating, but he’s really very sweet.”

  “You’re not going to give me a straight answer?”

  “And piss off my publicist?”

  “That’s what I thought,” Teddy said. He smiled. “Well, I can understand your publicist being nervous. This certainly is a snakebit production. Tessa getting all that bad press, just when she should be coasting on the Oscars publicity and the news of the two of you starring together in this picture. We don’t need stories of you hiding a secret boyfriend. There’s only so much gossip one film can take.”

  “No kidding.”

  “See you on the set.”

  Teddy went out the door not having learned much. The only telling phrase was “jealous boyfriend.” It was something to be considered. A jealous ex-serviceman relegated to the sidelines while his girlfriend’s star was on the rise could harbor resentment.

  Teddy wondered what the young man thought of all this.

  64

  Viveca got home, mixed herself a martini, and flopped onto a deck chair on the veranda.

  Bruce padded out in a bathing suit and T-shirt. He looked happy. Viveca felt horribly conflicted, what with Manny getting killed, and her producer a prime suspect. Had Billy Barnett done it, to stop him from spreading lies about Tessa? If he had, it was all her fault.

  Damn the Oscars. If the award hadn’t pitted Tessa against her, everything would be fine. Manny would be alive, and Viveca would be swept up in filming her exciting new picture.

  Then Viveca realized that no, she wouldn’t. She’d only taken the part in the film in order to undermine Tessa. Now that they’d become friends, her plans had all gone to hell. And yet . . . the lure of the Oscar was still undeniable. The recognition, the respect. If she were honest with herself, Viveca knew she’d be devastated to lose, even to a friend.

  “’S’matter?” Bruce said. It was one of his favorite contractions. Viveca usually found it cute. Now it just irritated her.

  She didn’t know what to tell him. Certainly not the truth. Bruce had enough trouble with straightforward concepts, but her convoluted mixed feelings were beyond his scope.

  “Just worried about the Oscars.”

  Bruce flopped down in a deck chair. “You’re going to win.”

  “I might win.”

  “You will. You were great.”

  “Tessa was great, too.”

  “Tessa was okay.”

  “You saw the movie?”

  “Everyone saw the movie.”

  Viveca frowned. It was the wrong thing to say, but Bruce didn’t know he was being unconsciously gauche.

  “She won’t win,” he said.

  Lately it was his go-to answer for everything. He didn’t realize how grating it was for her to hear it.

  “If she wins, she wins. I don’t mean to be a poor sport. I just can’t stand the idea of sitting there, keeping a smile on my face for the cameras while I listen to her acceptance speech.”

  “You won’t have to.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll stop her.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll run up the steps and tackle her.”

  Viveca smiled at the thought. She shook her head. “No, you won’t.”

  “Yes, I will. And that’s all they’ll write about. How the wrong person got the award.”

  “You’re not going to do that.” Viveca looked Bruce in the eyes.

  “Yes, I am.”

  Viveca took a breath. “Promise me you’re not going to do that.”

  That caught him up short. Promise me was Viveca’s safe word, the line he could not cross. When she asked him to promise her something, he knew better than to break that promise.

  “I promise. I won’t do that.”

  “Good.”

  “But
she’s not making that speech, I promise you that.”

  Viveca smiled. That was also Bruce’s MO. When she made him promise something, he always promised something else he would do instead. Usually nothing came of it. She did what she always did, accepted his promise without argument and moved on, hoping it would be quickly forgotten.

  Viveca’s martini was empty. She smiled at Bruce, got up from the deck chair, and went to make herself another.

  Bruce leaned back in his deck chair and thought. This time he had not made an idle declaration. He had a very definite goal in mind, one that was in keeping with his military training and would allow him to keep his promise to Viveca.

  If she won, Tessa would not be giving her speech.

  Smiling, Bruce heaved himself out of the deck chair and dove into the pool.

  He swam laps, and laid his plans.

  65

  Teddy called Strategic Services. “Hi, Mike, any news?”

  “None.”

  “No one’s made a move on the protectees?”

  “Not at all. From the reports I got, no one’s paying the least attention to any of them.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Do you want me to ease back on the coverage?”

  “Not at all. Your report is the best news I’ve had in a long time. You’ve made my day.”

  “Our best work is when we do nothing.”

  “Damned if it isn’t. Keep at it until the Oscars.”

  Teddy hung up the phone. He couldn’t help feeling uneasy. It was the old cliché: “It’s quiet. Too quiet.” The thing was, no one was bothering him, either. Granted, no one could find him. Still, it didn’t seem like anyone was looking.

  What was Gino Patelli up to?

  66

  Couldn’t he have come to us?” Gino Patelli said.

  It was not the first time he had said it. Gino and Sylvester were making their way up the narrow dirt road of the Royal Academy Long-Distance Rifle Range. The name of the place was misleading. The range had nothing to do with anything royal, and was not affiliated with any academy. It was merely a place up in the hills where gun enthusiasts could discharge high-powered rifles without the danger of shooting up a pool party a quarter of a mile away.