Bombshell

by Stuart Woods

  93

  The cops were a little more interested in Teddy’s theories this time.

  “I don’t know what I can tell you about Bruce’s death. I don’t know any more than you do.”

  “Are you surprised he did it?”

  “You can’t say for sure that he committed suicide. He could just as easily have lost control and driven his car off the road.”

  “You think it was just a coincidence?”

  “I wouldn’t say coincidence. The young man had a lot on his mind. It was bound to affect his driving.” Teddy cocked his head. “Are we about done?”

  “I’ll tell you when we’re done.”

  “You keep going over the same ground. You pulled me off the set. No big deal, I’m a producer, they can film without me. But you have Viveca Rothschild down the hall, and she’s got scenes this morning.”

  “That’s too bad. This happens to be an attempted murder.”

  “She didn’t do it.”

  “Oh, no? C-four was found in her house.”

  “Where was it?”

  The detective didn’t answer.

  “You didn’t find it in any part of the house connected to her, did you? You found it in Bruce’s exercise room, or a workshop, someplace only he would have used. That’s why you’re so desperately questioning Viveca, to find some way you can connect it to her. Which you couldn’t do, even if she didn’t have a team of lawyers throwing roadblocks in your path and making your life a holy hell.”

  The detective scowled.

  Teddy grinned. “If I were you, I’d let me go, so you can sneak down the hall and get a look at her. I know it’s been distracting you the whole interview to think your buddies got a blonde Hollywood starlet and you’re stuck with me.”

  “Don’t be silly,” the detective said, but he seemed to be considering it.

  Teddy pressed his advantage. “If you do kick me loose, the least you guys could do is drive me back to the set. You pulled me off it, so I don’t have a car.”

  There was a knock on the door, and an officer stuck his head in. “They’re going to let the girl go. They said you’d want to know.”

  The detective frowned.

  Teddy suppressed a grin.

  * * *

  In the hallway Officer Murphy took out his cell phone and called Sylvester. “Billy Barnett.”

  “What about him?”

  “The cops brought him in for questioning. He’s here now.”

  * * *

  Sylvester hung up and called the shooter. “Billy Barnett’s at the police station.”

  “You guys are unbelievable.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Could you be any more outrageous? The Oscars? The police station? Do you think I have a death wish?”

  “Just passing along the information.”

  “Do me a favor. Stop. I don’t need your help. Your constant nagging is a pain in the ass. I’ll do the job when I do the job, on my schedule, not yours. You got that?”

  “Got it.”

  “And when I do, don’t be alarmed if a day goes by and you don’t hear from me. I find it advisable to put some distance between the job and the payment, in case someone is trying to run a trace.”

  “Of course.”

  “Meanwhile, knock it off with the ridiculous suggestions. The police station, for Christ’s sake!”

  The shooter snorted and hung up.

  * * *

  The shooter lay flat on the roof on a six-story office building and trained his sniper’s rifle on the entrance of the police station, three hundred and fifty yards away.

  Who were these amateurs? Did they really think he couldn’t find his target?

  As the shooter lay thinking that, his target came out the door. His finger tensed on the trigger, then relaxed.

  The target was not alone. Billy Barnett was flanked by two uniformed cops and was semi-concealed, flitting in and out of his sights in no predictable manner. It was almost as if the target was aware of the danger and had taken precautionary measures.

  Before the assassin could take the shot, the target climbed into the back of a police car, and the cops got in and took off.

  The shooter exhaled in exasperation.

  All right. At least he knew where they were going.

  The shooter rolled over, sat up, and began packing away his rifle.

  94

  The cops let Teddy off at the set.

  Peter was glad to see him. With both Teddy and Viveca gone, he had been reduced to shooting close-ups of Tessa to cut into sequences he’d already shot.

  “Thank God you’re here,” Peter said. He lowered his voice. “Go change into Mark Weldon and you can shoot some scenes with Tessa.”

  Teddy cocked his head and put up his hand. “I know you’re chomping at the bit to get some filming done, and that sounds like a good idea, but actually there’s something we ought to do first.”

  “Oh?”

  “We have a bit of a delicate situation here. The police are about to let Viveca go. She’ll be back any minute, and you’ll be able to shoot anything you want. Before that happens, we need to take care of business.

  “If you and Ben and Tessa could meet me in your trailer, I’ll walk you through what we need to do.”

  95

  Viveca was devastated. Bruce was dead, and under the most horrible circumstances. Her lawyers wouldn’t let her answer any questions, but from what the police were asking her, it was clear that their theory was that Bruce had killed himself in a fit of remorse, after failing to murder Tessa.

  Viveca was racked with guilt. She had set the whole thing in motion. Everything that Bruce did was because of her insecurity, her jealousy, her desperate need to win. She would never have hurt Tessa, even before she came on the picture, even before they became friends. She had wanted her to fail, yes, but she had never wished her any physical harm. It was repulsive. She could not imagine it.

  Just as she could not imagine harming Manny Rosen.

  Had Bruce done that, too? She hadn’t let herself entertain the thought, and yet if Bruce was behind the attack on Tessa, who knew what he might have done.

  Viveca got back to the set to find the crew just standing around.

  “Where is everybody?” she asked the assistant cameraman.

  “Taking a break. We couldn’t shoot much without you, and Mark is AWOL, too. I think Peter and Tessa are in their trailers.”

  Viveca went right by her own trailer and knocked on the door of Tessa’s. She was too keyed up to wait for an answer, and pushed the door open.

  Billy Barnett was sitting there.

  Viveca was startled. In her anxious condition, practically anything would have startled her.

  “Oh,” she said. “Mr. Barnett. I didn’t realize you were here. I want to talk to Tessa.”

  “No, you don’t,” Billy Barnett said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You don’t have to tell her anything because there’s nothing to tell. Your boyfriend, a combat vet with PTSD, had a psychotic break and became convinced your costar was your nemesis. He did his best to tear her down and finally did something drastic, which I’m sure he regretted. He died as a result of the mess he’d gotten himself into. I wouldn’t rule out that he deliberately chose to miss that turn.”

  “Bruce wouldn’t do that.”

  “You have no idea what he might choose to do. You wouldn’t have thought he’d bomb a theater, would you? And now you’re here to tell Tessa it was all your fault, that it was your jealousy that set all this in motion. Well, Tessa knows you mean her no harm. I know you mean her no harm. And, more important, the police know you mean her no harm. Let’s not make anybody believe otherwise. We’re putting out a press release, a statement of solidarity stating that filming is going ahead i
n spite of this horrible tragedy. Let this be a wake-up call to everybody, a reminder that our wounded servicemen coming home from war are not receiving adequate care.

  “I’ve just come from a meeting with Tessa, Ben, and Peter, and they’re all agreed. As of right now, this film is dedicated to the memory of Bruce. It will be a single, full-frame screen credit, up front in the main titles. It will come right after the director’s credit, in a font as large as his.”

  Teddy put up his hands. “Now, that’s how we’re reacting to the incident. Tessa is ready to embrace you with comfort and support. Accept it, then if you’re up to it, Peter is chomping at the bit, and there are some scenes of you and Tessa he’d love to shoot. Think you can handle that?”

  Viveca straightened and raised her chin. Her eyes were gleaming.

  “Point me in the right direction.”

  96

  Teddy had one more thing to do.

  Dylan was hanging out by the coffee cart. Teddy walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. Dylan turned around. His face went white.

  “You weren’t expecting to see me?”

  “You’re not often here.”

  Teddy smiled. “And you know that, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “You shook my hand at the Oscars.”

  “I wanted to congratulate you. I hadn’t seen you, and—”

  Teddy put up his hand. “Yeah, yeah. That was the most reluctant congratulations anyone has ever gotten. You looked like you were telling me your puppy died.”

  Dylan said nothing.

  “What have they got on you? Someone must be making you do this. You’re clearly not doing it of your own volition.”

  “I can’t.”

  “It’s all right, kid. You don’t have to tell me who they are. I can figure that part out. How are they squeezing you?”

  “I owe them five hundred dollars.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “Five hundred dollars?”

  “They won’t let me pay them back.”

  “They got you the job?”

  Dylan nodded. “If I don’t do what they say—”

  “Yes, I imagine they have all kinds of grisly things planned for you. What did they make you do? Besides shaking my hand?”

  “I had to be at the Oscars.”

  “Obviously. What else?”

  “I had to get assigned to the set.”

  “That couldn’t have been easy, you being new and low on the totem pole.”

  “One of the other assistants got hurt.”

  “They arranged for that?”

  Dylan couldn’t meet his eyes. “No.”

  “Oh. You arranged for that?”

  “I feel so bad. I like everyone here. It’s like a family.”

  “Yeah, well, some families are closer than others. You’re out of this one.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re lucky, Dylan. You’re walking out of here because you’re just a dumb kid and you thought you had no choice. You got a production car?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Not anymore. Give me the keys.”

  Dylan handed them over.

  “Take off and never come back. Leave L.A., you’re out of the movie business. If you should come back, I guarantee you, if they don’t find you, I will.”

  Teddy could see Dylan’s mind racing. “And don’t contact anyone from this movie. If Viveca should come up to me and say, ‘What have you done to Dylan?’ that will be my cue to do something to Dylan. Do you understand?”

  Dylan gulped. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Get the fuck out of here.”

  97

  The shooter watched from a second-story window across the street.

  Securing the apartment hadn’t been hard. The tenant had come right to the door. The elderly woman was in the midst of explaining that she hadn’t ordered anything from Fresh Direct when the shooter slipped a hypodermic needle into her neck. The sedative was harmless and painless. The woman would probably wake up with no recollection of how she had fallen asleep in her favorite overstuffed chair.

  The woman had been watching the filming when the doorbell rang, so the window with the most advantageous view was already open. The shooter was using it now.

  Billy Barnett climbed into a production car and drove off the set.

  The shooter sprang from the window. He threw his sniper’s rifle into the soft pool-cue case he carried for that purpose, and went out the door.

  His car was parked at a meter right downstairs facing away from the set. He’d left it there for just such an emergency. The shooter flung his rifle and case onto the back seat, hopped in, and pulled out.

  Billy Barnett had about a two-block head start. He was driving along casually as if he had no idea anything was wrong, which indeed he shouldn’t. The shooter’s targets never knew they were being watched. His surveillance was discreet and from a distance.

  The shooter closed the gap slightly so as not to get scraped off by any light.

  Billy Barnett drove for several blocks and pulled into the parking lot of a diner. He got out of his car and went through the door.

  The shooter pulled up next to a fireplug across the street and surveilled the situation. It was actually not bad. His car had tinted windows, so no one would see him lining up a shot through a one-inch crack at the top. For an impromptu duck blind, the car would do quite nicely.

  The shooter rolled the window down a crack and retrieved his rifle from the back seat. He double-checked the sight. He had to be ready the second the target came out the door.

  The shooter sensed rather than heard the back door of the car opening. He felt the cold steel on the back of his neck.

  The shooter’s jaw tightened and he smiled. “Well done.”

  “Glad you approve,” Teddy Fay said. “You don’t seem afraid.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a professional and you’re an amateur. You think you have the upper hand, but you don’t.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re a producer. You like to think you can do anything you want, get away with a murder the same way you’d dodge a parking ticket. But now that you’re faced with it, you don’t have it in you. If you were going to shoot me, you’d have done it already.”

  “I don’t like to kill in cold blood—it seems unsporting. On the other hand, if you still intend to kill me . . .”

  The man’s gaze was steady. “I don’t think you can stop me.”

  “You’re well trained,” Teddy said. “Ex-military or FBI, I would think. Probably not CIA, or I’d know who you are.”

  The shooter paused. “How? You’re a producer.”

  “I wasn’t always. I’ve done a lot of odd jobs in my day. Anyway, don’t beat yourself up over this. I’m sure you’re very good. You just ran into bad luck. You can make the safest bet in the world, and once in a blue moon, it doesn’t pay off.”

  The shooter gawked. “Who are you?”

  “I’m an Oscar-winning producer. Practically invincible.”

  Teddy shrugged. “So. Make your move.”

  98

  The Oscar for Best Picture was given out live on the early-evening news in L.A., and it went to Desperation at Dawn. Peter Barrington accepted the award on behalf of the producers. He thanked the usual people, adding a special thanks to Billy Barnett.

  “Billy couldn’t be here to accept this award, but no one deserved it more than he. I know he would be proud.”

  * * *

  Gino Patelli put the TV on mute. “He got him!”

  Sylvester didn’t look so sure.

  “Barnett won an Oscar but wasn’t there to pick it up? I’d say he’s out of commission and his team’s
hiding it to avoid bad press.”

  “If you say so.”

  A goon stuck his head in the door. “The car’s here.” In his capacity as a producer, Gino had received an invitation to a Hollywood party, and was taking the chance to hobnob with the rich and famous.

  “I bet everybody will be talking about that damn movie that just won the Oscar,” Gino complained.

  He and Sylvester made their way out to the car.

  Gino couldn’t help crabbing about everything. “Did you get a limo?”

  “I got a limo.”

  “Is it a stretch limo?”

  “You didn’t want a stretch limo.”

  “So you didn’t get a stretch limo?”

  “I got the car you always get. You want me to send it away and get you a stretch limo?”

  “Let’s see what you got.”

  It was a regular limo. Gino and Sylvester climbed into the back seat and it took off.

  “How far is this damn party?” Gino said as they drove out the gate.

  “I don’t know. They gave the directions to the driver.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Gino raised his voice. “How far is it to where we’re going?”

  “About fifteen minutes,” the driver said. “Not far.”

  Something was bothering Gino. He frowned, and looked at the back of the chauffeur’s head. “Say, you’re a new driver, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am,” Teddy Fay said.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

  However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.