by Don Bruns
I hadn’t seen her every day. The ‘gig’ as she referred to it required me to work a lot of weird hours, and I was trying to be respectful of her job and personal life. I was never certain that I was the main priority in her life. She was that in my life. No question about it, but I never took Emily for granted.
“As far as me and what’s-his-name—” Emily knew James very well, but there was always this friction between the two of them—“it’s been a little nuts,” I said. “We’re dealing with the street crazies, then dealing with the movie crazies.”
“The good thing is you’re being compensated well. And you could drop by during your free time.”
“I’m here now.”
I told her about James’s side deal with Ashley Amber.
“She’s a twit.”
One of Em’s secret vices was that she read the gossip magazines. People, Us, even the National Enquirer on occasion.
“We’ve had clients who are twits before.”
Sipping her tea, she smiled at me. “Your partner’s a twit. Maybe they’re suited for each other.”
“Should I jump in? Take a cut?”
“You could use the money, boyfriend, but I admire your ethics. If you don’t think there’s a case, then—”
“But there apparently are some people who do think he was murdered. So maybe there is a case.”
Nodding at me she said, “The lady has a lot of jack. She’s had a couple of movies in the last year, and now she’s on a successful TV series. I’m sure they pay her a boatload of money.”
As an actress on Deadline Miami, Ashley Amber played a high-priced attorney for a cable news show in The Magic City, and although producer Clint Anders was aiming for a highbrow West Wing kind of show, he didn’t have any trouble featuring the blonde actress in short skirts, low-cut blouses, and an almost obligatory bikini shot either at her pool or on the beach in every episode. So I kind of likened the program to a West Wing/Baywatch series where Amber played a smart Pam Anderson. But then, this was Ashley Amber so the smart part was a stretch.
“So, do I take the job?”
“Yes.”
“Really? You think I should? Even though I am quite certain that this death has an open-and-shut end?”
“Yes.”
“You have no problem with this?”
“Skip, you’ve just told me that Ashley Amber,” she rolled her eyes, “the lead detective on the case, your partner, and even the episode director are all wondering if this could have been a murder.”
“Yeah, but remember, they’re all a little suspect.”
Em cocked her head, her eyes wide open.
“Think about what you just said.”
“They’re all a little suspect?”
“Maybe they are. Maybe one of them is a suspect?”
Em always had a unique way of looking at things.
CHAPTER SIX
I am a pragmatist. I approach problems, situations, interests with a realistic viewpoint. I am practical. My father left us when I was young, and I grew up in a loveless home with a mother and sister who fought just to exist. And that is what we did. Exist. Barely. There were never dreams or visions of a grand future. The love of my life, Em, is sometimes even more of a practical person than I am. But James just floats out there on the periphery. That’s what drew me to him and why he has been my best friend since childhood. And just when I want to pigeonhole him, when I want to accuse him of being the dreamer I never could be, he surprises me.
“Skip, I want you to be a part of this investigation.”
“James, I can’t go over this again. You know what I saw and how I feel about the whole thing.”
“Amigo, compadre, hear me out.”
We sat on the steps of our Airstream aluminum trailer, James drinking a beer and me sipping coffee. He was off today, so he was wearing khaki cargo shorts and a faded T-shirt. I was dressed in a maroon, collared shirt and gray pants, about to report for duty. Security detail had to look presentable.
“Here’s where this all comes down.”
I couldn’t wait to hear the spin.
“You’re on a scaffolding seventy feet in the air.”
“Okay.” To go along with my partner, I pictured myself up there and felt my stomach turn.
“You are going to run maybe twenty feet, look over your shoulder, then leap and position yourself to land on a soft, helium-filled air bag.”
“Got it.”
“Maybe you’re in over your head with personal problems. You’re banging the sister of your pregnant wife. Possibly, this has caused you some serious concern. Suicide could be an easy way out.”
He was getting it. This was a positive sign.
“Or, maybe that didn’t enter the picture.” He shifted his perspective. “Look, Skip, there were two grips and a camera guy on that platform. Am I right? Isn’t that what you told me?”
“There were. Londell and three others.”
“Maybe these guys were contacted by the wife, this Juliana Londell. The lady, this Juliana, she knows he’s been having an affair with her sister, and maybe she sees a big insurance claim if he dies.”
Randy Roberts had made a point of telling me that the production company had paid a king’s ransom to insure Londell for the stunt. So possibly Clint Anders’s film company would benefit with the policy. And James was right, if Juliana Londell had taken out a large policy on her husband—
“One of those three guys up there finds a way to trip him. Or distract him. Come on, Skip, that track was narrow. A bump in the road could send him over the edge. It’s possible, am I right?”
And I’m sitting there, sober as a church mouse, thinking my partner, my roommate, was making sense. The entire thing could come down to an insurance claim. But it sure looked like suicide.
“James, I saw what I saw, but—”
“But maybe things were different up top. Up on that catwalk. You were down below, amigo.”
“I was.” Suddenly this situation was taking on a new dynamic. I was convinced he took a dive. But maybe there were extenuating circumstances.
“Damn it, I’ll try.”
“Try what?” James had a wry smile on his face, and I knew he was channeling a movie. “Plummeting? I suppose you could try it once.”
I knew the quote. It was from The Muppet Caper. Said by the famous nasal-sounding actor and singer Kermit the Frog.
“I’ll try to believe that murder is a possibility.”
“Damn,” James said, smiling. “I was ready to take the entire five hundred bucks myself. Now, you’re asking for half.”
“There’s a but.”
“But what?”
“I’m in for the initial look. That’s it. If we see nothing that makes us suspicious, if there is no sign of any foul play, then I take my two fifty and go home. I’m not going to manufacture a scenario where there isn’t one, okay?”
He gave me a sideways glance, and I knew I’d tapped into his devious nature. James saw a fat paycheck from a rich movie starlet.
“I’m serious, James. We’re not going to make shit up just to string this lady along. Understood?”
“Fine with me, pard. We’ll play it straight. And, by the way, who’s going to climb the scaffolding tomorrow and check, from seventy feet up, whether there was any glitch in the grid?”
My heart skipped a beat. There was always an ulterior motive with James. I could count on it.
“This is why you’re making a case for me to be partner to this? Because you don’t want to go up on that catwalk?”
“Hey, I’m going to be interviewing the camera guy and the two grips. They saw the whole thing firsthand.”
“James, I can’t go up there and—”
“Skip, someone needs to go up there and look around. I am no good with heights. Dude, you know that.”
And I remembered a very scary time when I climbed up a very high, teetering carnival ride called The Dragon’s Tail to save my partner from a gondola car that w
as ready to crash to the ground. I’d been scared out of my mind, but I’d done it. Subtly he was reminding me that I had already proven I could do heights. Even if it was to save his worthless ass.
“I don’t even think we’re allowed up there. There’s yellow tape covering the steps and—”
“It’s going to take fifteen minutes, Skip. If that. You can pull it off.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Come on, Skip, you already have the answer to that question. ‘You’ll know it when you see it.’”
“Well, I need to do it soon.”
“Pard, I’ll sub for you on the ground. Right now. All you need is fifteen, twenty minutes tops. You go up on the walkway and see what you can see.”
“How many beers have you had?”
“Two.”
“It’s a good thing you aren’t the one going up.”
“Son, I’ve got better balance drunk than most people do sober.”
I should have made him prove it.
“James, you said something about the two grips and the camera guy. They were up there watching. There’s footage from that camera. I’m certain the cops have already questioned these three, but you really do need to find them and get their recollection. And get a copy of that shoot.”
“Like I told you, that’s a priority.”
“And what about Londell’s wife?”
“Born 1989, got a job with William Morris at the tender age of eighteen, DDO Artists Agency a year later, and she quit a year after that to start her own company.”
“Ambitious.”
“It would seem. Also billed as ruthless.”
“Ruthless?”
“Takes what she wants. Doesn’t let anyone get in her way. A couple of comments on newsgroups used the words ‘ballsy’ and ‘brassy’. There were some other choice words I won’t repeat. For as young as she is, she apparently has taken down some pretty heavy players and,” he paused, “she’s made some newcomers overnight sensations. Lady doesn’t mess around.”
And I wondered how some people in their early twenties have the balls to take what they want and make things happen, when some of us are still floundering in our own insecurities.
James took the last swallow of his Yuengling beer, stood up, and walked into the trailer, leaving the door wide open. “I’d better dress a little better since I’m filling in for your security shift,” he shouted.
And that meant I was relegated to climbing the scaffolding and walking the catwalk where Jason Londell leaped to his death. What was I even looking for? Maybe I could just check with the cops. Surely they’d canvassed the area. I knew for certain someone had checked out the steel structure, and what would I find that they hadn’t? Why should a rookie private investigator go up there, not even sure what he was looking for? I’d take any excuse at all not to make the trip.
“Good luck, amigo. I hope you break open the case.”
My heart leaped again and I broke out in a cold sweat.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Part of the makeshift framework was a ladder, allowing the climber access to a walkway twenty-five feet from the ground, and a similar walkway seventy feet from the ground. Seventy feet may not sound that high to you, but think about a friend who is six feet tall. Add another six feet. And another six feet. Another, another, another, another, another, then three more six footers and a couple more feet and you are higher than a kite, my friend. Higher than a frigging kite. James is about six one so I can compare. Me, I’m five ten, five ten and a half on my best days. James is in that elite club. Six foot and over.
I stared up at the tallest part of the metal structure, picturing myself up there, looking down at the catwalk, seeing through the porous grid and wondering how it would feel if I stumbled and fell. I was sick to my stomach.
Yellow vinyl tape ran across the entrance to the structure, warning me this was a crime scene. I didn’t really care. I’d been hired to investigate this crime. And if a cop came by and said, “Excuse me, sir, you’re not allowed to go up there,” I’d push him aside and start climbing.
No, that’s not what I would do. I’d actually embrace him, kiss him on the cheek, and say, “Thank you. I didn’t want to go up in the first place.”
There was no cop. The scene was quiet and filming of the series, which hadn’t stopped, had moved to a parking lot across the way. I had no idea what they were doing. Cop cars were in the blacktopped lot, their red-and-blue lights flashing, and I could hear Randy Roberts on a bullhorn, shouting to a handful of extras. Something about making sure they avoided looking at a camera.
I’d never read the script. Had no idea why Jason Londell was supposed to jump. I just knew we were being paid a couple thousand dollars for a week’s work, and I didn’t want that to go away anytime soon.
I’d changed into jeans and a pair of canvas deck shoes, thinking the rubber soles would give me a better grip on the grid. Again, I was sure the cops had already been up there, and I’m certain they were better equipped to find any clues than I was. So I wondered, what if I just told James that there was nothing new to report? We weren’t going to discover new evidence that they had missed. These were trained professionals who investigated crimes for a living on a regular basis. James and me? We’d been lucky in solving a couple of cases. That was it. Trained professionals wasn’t exactly an accurate description of More or Less Investigations.
With fear, with trepidation, I grasped the sides of the ladder and took that first step. What is it they say about achievement and success? Something about it all starts with the first step. I took that step, doubting I would achieve any success, then another and another, the sun beating down on me and heating the metal ladder. Five feet above the ground and I’m thinking it’s a big mistake. Ten feet, I know it is. By the time I reached the twenty-five-foot catwalk, my hands were sweating, perspiration was running into my eyes, and my fingers were wrapped tightly around the warm handrails. If I was smart, I’d go right back down that ladder.
Partnering with James, I’d realized a long time ago I wasn’t that smart.
The old adage is, “don’t look down.” Looking up isn’t much better. So I closed my eyes and felt my way up the ladder. When I opened them, I had one more step to go. One more step to seventy feet above the ground.
I was conscious of my heart beating fast and loud. I was short of breath and could feel a tremor in my right hand.
There was a steel bar mounted waist high on the far side of the walkway, and as I took that final wobbly step, I reached out and grabbed it, praying that this whole structure wouldn’t come crashing down. I forced myself to look out at the Miami skyline as I fought the overwhelming urge to throw up. Taking a deep breath, loosening my death grip on the steel bar, I glanced down. Big mistake. My brain started swimming and the waves threatened to drown me. I closed my eyes again, trying to gain equilibrium.
Thirty seconds went by and I opened them. I was adjusting, but barely. I focused on the parking lot across the street. Cameras were aimed at a man and woman who appeared to be in a heated argument. The woman in a short, summer dress waved her hand in a dismissive gesture and opened the door of a black Lexus convertible. She started the engine and drove out of the lot. Roberts raised his bullhorn and yelled, “Cut,” and all the action ceased. I was certain the actress was Ashley Amber. She seemed to have recovered from her sorrow long enough to go to work.
Holding tightly to the rail, I carefully walked back to where Jason Londell had started his run. The camera guy had been at the far end of the runway, the two grips near him. I was not going to replicate the actor’s action. All I had to do was slowly trace his steps, not run them.
The webbed structure lined up east and west so Londell was running west. Straight at the camera. Cautiously I walked the path, staring at the walkway and trying not to look through the grate to the ground seventy feet below. Concentrating on the metal, looking for I didn’t know what. Maybe a defect that he tripped over. Maybe something that was l
odged in the metal web. Thirty feet of track, and I studied it all. Remains of a trip wire? I saw no sign of that. Then, back again. I took another walk west, feeling a little more comfortable, a little looser, and I gave a glance over my shoulder, just like Londell had done in the first take. But I never, ever, removed my hand from the rail. Not that secure.
The second take was freshest in my mind. Randy Roberts had said, “Action.” The cameras had captured the run to make sure the angles were right. I carefully knelt down at the spot where I thought he had jumped. Still reaching up with my left hand and grasping the bar, I ran my right hand over the metal grid. It was smooth. No screw sticking out, no rough metal edges. Standing up, I looked out and noticed the film crew breaking down the scene. I had no idea how Juliana Londell or anyone else could have engineered Jason’s death. It was either an accident or suicide. No question.
I walked to the far end where the cameraman had been. It was a handheld so there were no mounts. Two grips, the camera guy, and Jason Londell. Three of them came back down the ladder. One of them took the express route. My final act was to look almost straight down where the now deflated air bag sprawled on the green park grass. I tried to picture myself jumping on that bag and immediately felt my stomach clench. I remembered Roberts’s first words to me.
“Sometimes it’s just stupid to do your own stunts.”
I had to agree.
Rubbing my rubber-soled shoes over the webbed surface of the walkway, I checked for any moisture. Maybe the scaffold had been a little slippery, and he’d slid as he was running. Everything seemed to be dry.
With a final visual sweep of the walkway, I eased myself down the ladder very slowly. When I came off the last step, I thought about kissing the earth. I may have done it, but a voice behind stopped me cold.
“What were you doing up there, kid?”
I turned around and an older guy, about forty-five, stood there, arms crossed, frowning at me.
“I was just—” I froze.
“Give me an answer.”
His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back in a rather severe style, his gray trousers creased razor sharp. Even in this heat, he wore a sport coat, and the shine on his shoes could have blinded someone. I stared at his eyes, but they were hidden behind a pair of Ray-Ban aviators.