by Marcus Sakey
Or if he was sleeping with your wife, and when you found out, you killed her.
As an actress, Laney would have been surrounded by ridiculously attractive men. Glamorous guys, millionaire actors. She would have had to kiss them—hell, he’d seen her kissing Robert Cameron as Emily Sweet on Candy Girls. Long shooting schedules, press junkets, time on the road together. An affair was hardly out of the question. Hollywood marriages were a running joke.
A wave of black despair rolled over him. Not so much at the thought of a betrayal—or not only at that—but at the larger situation. Whether she’d cheated, whether she hadn’t, it didn’t change his circumstances. Neither brought her back from the dead. If she and Robert had been sleeping together, that might provide a motive for the man to murder her. Maybe. Which would get the cops off Daniel’s ass, and let him return to . . . what?
A house he didn’t remember?
A job writing for the show his wife used to star in?
What was his life now? What would he make of it?
On his long trip across the belly of America, he had played a game, inventing possible identities: he was a firefighter with a gambling addiction; he was a homosexual insurance salesman with a passion for soccer; he was a songwriter living off royalties from penning “Macarena.” Trying on selves like clothing. If one didn’t fit, if it chafed or was cut wrong, he tossed it aside and reached for the next. But now he was closing in on the hard fact that the options weren’t limitless. He had been someone before. That person had been the result of a lifetime of choices, good and bad. And like it or not, he was drawing closer to that identity now. Not the freedom of infinite variety, but the tyranny of a decision made, a path walked, a life lived.
What if he didn’t like the view?
Then you’ll deal with it. You’ll make changes. You’ll take up fucking yoga. Whatever. Right now, stick to the plan. Do what the police won’t.
He climbed out of the car, headed for the stairs. Find out who killed your wife.
Coming to the studio was a risk. But he quickly discovered that no one really looked at a man carrying a clipboard and wearing gray slacks and a bright yellow shirt. His new haircut and fake tan probably helped, but most people immediately classified him as a member of a different caste, and didn’t spare more than a cursory glance. He adopted a blankly busy expression and walked with purpose. It wouldn’t fly if he bumped into someone who knew him well, but it was as close to invisible as he could manage.
This section of the lot was all concrete and buildings, none of the carefully maintained greenery of faux-America. Stage 16 had a marked entrance, but he figured there would probably be another round of security. Halfway down the enormous building, he found a tall cargo door rolled open, with a semi backed up to unload. Daniel nodded at a black-clad woman smoking a cigarette, dodged around a costume rack, and stepped out of the street—
—into his front yard.
He stopped.
The set in front of him was the truncated exterior of a house. Not just any house, though. His house. The one in Malibu.
This version ended twelve feet off the ground. Above hung a light grid of black pipe, two dozen glowing lamps flooding the porch with soft sunset colors, a sort of hyper-clarity that made the fantasy house seem more real than the world surrounding it: the cavernous height of the soundstage, the dolly track laid on the floor, the craft services table stocked with sandwich meat and protein bars and vitamin water, the people buzzing about—
the afternoon he and Laney closed on the place in Malibu, they’d driven straight from the lawyer’s office and wandered giggling around their new home. The first either had ever owned, and how lovely that it was the one they’d shot B-roll of in the early days. The one Cindi, the art director, claimed had the perfect Candy Girls energy. Malibu instead of Venice, but who would believe aspiring starlets lived in Malibu, so he’d rewritten reality, as he was paid to. A few taps of his fingers on the keyboard had lifted the house and whirled it south, plunked it down ready for the Sisters Sweet to live in. And now, two years later, paychecks from the show provided the deposit to buy the real thing. Reality in a feedback loop. A writer and a once-aspiring actress buying their home with money from a show that used the house as home for an aspiring actress scripted by that writer—
He shook his head. The memory had come strong as a vision, and he wished he were alone, that he could sit and stare at the façade of life and try to peer behind it. But he wasn’t, and it was only a matter of time before someone working at the other end of the soundstage recognized him.
Daniel raised his clipboard at an angle that screened his face, as if he were squinting to make out handwriting. Over the top edge, he scanned the people milling around his house. Though he probably knew them all, none of them were cast members. All crew then, setting up for a sequence.
He turned back the way he’d come and walked around the side of the soundstage until he reached the end, where a handful of trailers were parked. The third one had ROBERT CAMERONstenciled on the door. He took a breath, rocked his shoulders back, and knocked. “Arrow Courier. I have a package for you.”
“It’s open.”
With a glance over his shoulder—no one around—Daniel opened the door and stepped inside. The trailer was nicely outfitted: leather couches, a side bar with scotch and glasses, a Bowflex nestled in the corner. Robert Cameron sat at the table, script pages in front of him. He had a stone jaw and dark hair, wore expensive jeans and a thin cashmere sweater. “Need me to sign—” Trailing off as their eyes met. “Daniel?”
Daniel closed the door behind him, took in the room, the actor. The guy was preposterously handsome, his features even, a hint of stubble, the kind of eyes you noticed the color of. Daniel imagined him kissing Laney, her rising up on tiptoes, pressing against his muscled body, and the thoughts were bitter.
“My god.” Something washed across the man’s face, a surge of emotion it was hard to read. Surprise? Guilt? Fear? Hard to say. The first character every actor learned to play was himself. The expression was quickly supplanted by a wide grin. “I’m so glad to see you. Where have you been? Everyone has been looking for you.”
“It’s complicated,” Daniel said.
“I bet.” Robert rose, looked him up and down. “What are you wearing?”
“Yeah, I . . .” He gestured at his courier outfit. Daniel tried on a smile, said, “Sorry about this. I needed to talk to you, but I didn’t want anyone to know.”
“You could have called. My god, ever since the accident, everyone thinks—I mean . . .”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
Something in Daniel loosened. To hear it from someone else felt wonderful.
“I was just about to order lunch.” The man walking over to a desk. “Let me get you something, you can tell me all about it. Sushi okay?”
“Umm. Fine.” He glanced around, unsure what to do next. The actor picked up the phone, began to dial, his fingers shaking. In Daniel’s fantasies, the man had come at him fists flying, or else had cowered, guilt in his eyes. The last thing he had expected was this affable conversation, an offer of lunch—
Daniel lunged forward, knocking over a chair, and jammed down the button to hang up the phone. Robert looked up, the mask of camaraderie gone.
“Calling security?”
“I . . . Of course not.” The words falling lame. “Just ordering—”
“You thought you’d play nice, keep me busy while they came to get me.”
Slowly, the man hung up. “What do you want?”
“I want to hear about you and Laney.”
“What are you—”
“You’ve been telling the tabloids that you loved her. Tell me.” He knew that the actor wasn’t going to come out and admit to her murder. But Daniel wasn’t a cop. He didn’t need that. He just needed the man to slip, to let out one careless confirmation of impropriety, one hint of an affair. Bluffing
was his best option. “I want to hear how much you loved my wife.”
Robert seemed perplexed. “She was my best friend.”
Uh-huh. “Your costar.”
“Yes.”
“Long hours. Lousy shooting schedule. All that time together. Must have been nice to have such a good friend to help pass the time.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I know about the two of you.” Blink. Wince the tiniest bit. I’m watching. “Laney told me before she died.”
“Told you what?”
“About the affair.”
“The affair?”
“You and her.” He stared at the man’s eyes, watching for anything, any hint of hesitation, any sideways dart.
What he didn’t expect was for Robert Cameron to break out laughing. “How much have you had to drink today?”
“Don’t you lie to me, mother—”
“Is this a joke?” Robert shook his head. “I knew you were an asshole, but I never thought you were that kind of asshole.”
“What kind is that, Bob?”
“The redneck kind who thinks sexuality is multiple choice. I mean, really. I know you’re from cow country, but this is beneath you.”
“What are you—what?”
Robert sighed, reached for a frame on the desk, handed it to him. “Remember Alan?” The photo showed the actor and a blond guy with surfer hair, his arm slipped around Robert’s lower back, the tips of his fingers resting on the curve of a hip.
Daniel felt a flush come into his face. “You’re saying—”
“Oh for god’s sake. It’s not something to try on a Saturday night. I don’t just browse a little man-on-man porn to spice up my private time. I’m not gay when the wife isn’t looking.” Robert took the picture back, glanced at it before setting it down. “Yes, I loved your wife. Laney was funny and smart and way out of your league. But of course I wasn’t sleeping with her, you homophobe.”
It should have been a relief. And on one level, it was. Sure, it assuaged his ego, but more than that, he didn’t want to believe that she had been unhappy. That he had bored her, or hurt her, or driven her away. That the life he’d seen in their house was a lie. He had little enough to believe in. If he couldn’t believe in them, he was done.
So he was glad that she hadn’t been sleeping with Robert. But now the problem was that once again he had no idea what to do. Ever since he’d decided Robert Cameron might have been responsible for Laney’s death, he’d had a purpose, and a reason to believe in his own innocence. Now that was gone.
“I’m sorry. It’s not that at all, I promise. I just . . .” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
“You know I’m gay. You used to tease Laney about being a fag hag. You planning to just forget that inconvenient fact so you can write an ending in your head that makes things easier on you? She’s dead, so she must have been cheating on you, because that would make her loss easier to bear?” Robert shook his head. “I’m sorry, Daniel, I really am, but you’re not the only one who’s sad. I loved her too. And I won’t let you mess up her memory just to make yourself feel better.”
“Look, it’s not that. I really didn’t remember. I’ve got—I know this is hard to understand, but I’m . . . I’m . . .” Daniel found he couldn’t say the words. He didn’t want to tell Robert about his amnesia. Maybe it wouldn’t matter, but that secret was all that he had, and he was reluctant to give it up. Plus there was a trace of shame in it too. Shame at not knowing who he was, and at the way he’d come off, as a small-minded homophobe revising history. “Never mind.”
Robert snorted. “Of course.”
“What?”
“You were about to tell me something, right? And then you decided to hide. That’s you all over.”
Embarrassment and confusion were burning in his belly, but the actor’s words stoked them into something else. A cinder that was the beginning of anger. It felt better than shame. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“What do you know about me?” Thinking, Asshole, you don’t have the first clue what I’m going through.
Robert laughed mirthlessly. “Plenty.”
“Yeah? Try me.”
“I don’t think so, Daniel. I don’t really see the point.” He straightened, brushed his hands. “Now, I have work to do. Why don’t you show yourself out.”
“No. I want to hear what you have to say.”
Robert sighed. “You really want to do this?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. She’s gone, so we don’t have to make nice anymore, do we? You want the truth, here it is. I never understood what she saw in you.”
Daniel made himself smile, a thin thing that felt false. “Go on.”
“You’re a nice enough guy. But who are you, really? A mediocre writer in a town thick with them. Not particularly talented, not particularly smart, not particularly brave. The top of the middle of the bell curve.”
Daniel stared him down. “Well, I certainly wasn’t the star of Candy Girls.”
“And all the ways you hurt her,” Robert continued. “Exorcizing your relationship demons on national television. Laney playing Emily playing Laney, with you as the puppet master, and who cared if maybe these things were private, she didn’t want them out; this was art! Your drinking. Your distance. All of it.”
The smoldering in his belly caught fire. “Bullshit.”
“Oh, I know you were in love once. A long time ago, Laney told me that your wedding was the day her life began. But you know what I think? I think she outgrew you.”
Daniel’s fingers were curled into fists, the nails biting his palms. He didn’t reply, didn’t trust himself to speak. It’s not true. None of it is true. You loved her and she loved you. When she died, you tried to kill yourself, for Christ’s sake.
“I think that she was getting tired of all the things I always saw in you,” Robert continued. “I think that scared you, because you knew those things too. I think that’s what all those fights were really about.”
“What fights?”
“Sure, revise again. Just forget about all the yelling, erase that whole week before someone drove her off the PCH.”
He never liked you, he admitted it. So you can’t trust what he says.You and Laney loved each other.
“My god. You killed her, didn’t you?” Robert asked in a low voice. “I didn’t. I hadn’t believed it before, but. You did it, didn’t you?”
“No.” I’m not that man. She loved me. If I can’t believe that, I may as well not have made it off that beach. She loved me.
“You killed her. She didn’t love you anymore, so you—”
Daniel rocked forward and punched the actor’s perfect nose. His hand and wrist exploded, but it felt distant somehow, something to deal with later, and he swung again, sunk a fist in the man’s gut. Robert’s eyes went wide in shock and pain, and he staggered into the trailer wall. Daniel followed, arm cocked back, looking the actor right in his fucking movie star eyes—
—and saw the terror in them.
The anger blew out of Daniel in an instant, and in the void, a terrible sick feeling crept in. What had he done? He reeled back. The room spun. Where had that rage come from? And what had he—he had almost . . . He bumped into the desk, knocking over the framed photo.
“I— Robert, I’m.” He rubbed at his forehead, feeling the pulse throbbing. Think. He had to think. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The man wiped at his bloody nose with a shaking hand. “You broke my nose.” The magisterial tone replaced by a stunned trembling that filled Daniel with shame.
Get out of here. This is not you. You have to get away.
He looked toward the door. If he left now, the man would have every security station locked down. Guards watching. Police on the way.
The sick feeling in his gut grew as he glanced around the room. His eyes stopped on the phone, and Daniel unplugged the cord from the base, then yanked the rest out of
the wall. It was about eight feet long. He walked back to Robert, who stiffened at his approach, simultaneously raising his fists and sliding farther away.
“Get out of here, Daniel.”
“I need to tie you.”
“Get out!”
“I’m sorry. I just—I couldn’t—the things you were saying, I couldn’t.” He sighed. “I can honestly say that I’ve never felt worse about something than I do about hitting you. But I still need to tie you.”
“No—”
Daniel grabbed one of the man’s arms, yanked it ineffectually. The actor was far stronger than he was, and Daniel doubted he would have had a chance in a fair fight. “Look,” he said. “I’m not going to hit you again unless I have to. But I need to tie you. So put your hands out.”
For a moment, it looked like Robert might resist. Then he held his arms forward, wrists together. Daniel lashed the cord around and around, threaded the rest around the leg of the desk, then tied a couple of clumsy knots. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it would do.
“I’m.” He sighed. “I really am sorry, Robert. I . . .” What was the point of explaining? It wouldn’t undo the damage. Daniel walked to the door, opened it, then turned back and said, one more time, “I’m sorry.”
Outside, it was a perfect day, but laid atop the bustling lot and the beautiful people and the bright sky, Daniel could see Robert Cameron’s eyes. See the way they had stared as he closed in. The wet panic in them, the animal fear. Daniel walked for the parking deck as fast as he dared.
Thinking, It wasn’t the punches. He wasn’t scared of me as a fighter.
He was scared because he believes I’m a killer.
And as he remembered the blind red fury that had taken him, Daniel wondered if it might be true.
F
or a lawyer, Sophie Zeigler had remarkably little experience with cops. She was a negotiator, a contract maven, a front-woman, the person who said no comment. A hired fountain pen. On the occasions her clients got themselves arrested—DUIs, scenes in nightclubs, drugs—she held their hand, listened to the sob story, and then referred them to a criminal lawyer.
But in the last two weeks, she’d learned an awful lot about the police. Especially about Detective Roger Waters—I know, he’d said with a shrug, go ahead with a David Gilmour joke if you like—who had called her pretty much every day, asking the same questions. Where was Daniel? Why had he fled? Did he understand the serious nature of the charges? Did she?