Reel Stuff

by Don Bruns

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Kid, I do. Either you tell me what the hell you were doing on that walk up there, or I’ll have security get involved. Understood?”

  I knew security. Hell, I was security.

  “There’s a good explanation why I was up there, and I’ll be happy to tell you if you tell me who you are.”

  I am usually not the person who pushes back, but this pompous guy was getting on my nerves. And, besides that, I shouldn’t have been up there and I knew it. Anyway, what business was it of his?

  “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “I’m Clint Anders. I own this dog-and-pony show. I produce Deadline Miami and I will not have some upstart punk tell me—”

  “Ahhh, Mr. Anders.”

  Goodbye paycheck. Goodbye job.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m with the security team on this set, and I was up there—” I stumbled, searching for a reason why I was up there. And then it hit me. I didn’t have to make up a story.

  “I was up there trying to figure out if something on the grid caused Jason Londell to fall. Just following up, sir.”

  He stood there for a moment, arms still crossed. Finally, he took off the glasses and nodded his head. Reaching inside his jacket pocket, Anders pulled out a packet of cigarettes, lighting one with a gold lighter.

  “Cops were already there.” He took a deep drag, slowly exhaling, and watching me with a sly look.

  “Yes, sir, but I just wanted to cover the bases. I took it upon myself to—”

  “You took it upon yourself?”

  I nodded.

  “I actually admire people who take some initiative.”

  I let out a breath.

  He turned and walked away. After three steps, he stopped and looked over his shoulder, just like Londell was supposed to do.

  “Kid, don’t do it again. You hear me?”

  I didn’t have to be told twice.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Nothing’s up there, James.”

  We’d settled in for a glass of wine at Em’s condo. It was five o’clock, and we watched a cruise ship docking at the causeway, half a mile away. The view was breathtaking from her balcony.

  “Well, it was a shot.” He sipped his deep-red beverage, his feet propped on an expensive white wicker stool. “I did a little digging on this Juliana Londell. She is pregnant. Apparently, about three months along. Has only been married to Londell for a year. She met him at a party, he hired her as his agent, whirlwind romance, then he left her. When they broke up, he fired her.”

  “They’re still married?” Em asked.

  “I couldn’t see where they’d filed for divorce.”

  “And now Londell is banging her sister.”

  “Was banging her sister. But it’s Hollywood, Em. Movie stars. When you wish upon a star and all that.”

  She gave him a sly look. “It happens in Miami too, James.”

  “Yeah, but these Hollywood types. They’re a little different.”

  “So,” Em said, “she’s jealous? That’s why she bumped him off? Or does she collect a big insurance settlement if he dies?”

  The insurance thing again.

  “Here’s the thing,” James said. “I want to find out if she’s in California. If she’s still on the West Coast, then she hired someone here to—” He stopped, not sure where to go with his statement.

  “Exactly,” I stated the obvious. “To what? There’s nothing up on that scaffold, and believe me, I looked very hard. No sign anyone was murdered.”

  “Boys, you’ve got video, don’t you? Skip, you said that they filmed the second run-up there on the scaffolding.”

  As usual, she got to the heart of the matter. Ashley Amber’s five hundred bucks bought her my trip up the seventy-foot-high whatever it was, and it should have bought a review of the footage from two cameras. Another reason I was glad Em was on the case. Excellent point.

  I looked at James. “Weren’t you supposed to interview the camera guy and grips? You were going to get some copies of the shoot.”

  “I was filling in for your shift, amigo. Not much time. So where do we get the video?” James finished his wine, stretching and getting up. I knew he was headed to the refrigerator for a beer.

  “From the two camera guys, James. The ones you have yet to talk to. Remember? The two guys who you were going to interview.”

  “Settle down, amigo,” he yelled from inside. “You know these guys, am I right?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” I answered. “One of them. I talked to the guy on the ground the other day about his camera.”

  James returned with two beers. Beers I’d bought and paid for, because Em doesn’t have beer in her refrigerator. He handed me one, top already popped.

  “Thanks for the wine, Em, but it’s not my favorite beverage.” He gave her a patronizing smile.

  “Deadline Miami shoots in three perf thirty-five millimeter, so the show is all on film.”

  He took a swallow of his Yuengling and rolled his eyes at me.

  “Three perf what?”

  “It’s the same film stock as four perf, but it costs a lot less with three perforations.”

  “Why is this important to us?”

  “The perforations are what pull the film through the camera. And I assume, through the projector.”

  “Jeez, why don’t they just go digital?”

  “Hey, I only talked to the guy for about ten minutes. I’m not an expert. He did say that film gave the project a much cleaner look, but Clint Anders, the hotshot producer I met, had decided that starting next episode, he was going to go to digital, even though it wouldn’t be as crisp.”

  “Why would you reduce the quality of the show?” Em asked.

  “I guess all the shows are starting to go digital, but my camera guy said Anders is doing it for economic reasons, too. The production was having some problems. Going over budget, technical problems, inflated salaries, and then, I suppose, this Londell thing won’t help. Basically, you can save a lot of money if you go to sixteen millimeter and even more if you shoot digital. So he’s cutting costs.”

  “Mm,” James thought about it. “Film just sounds so old-school. I didn’t think anyone used film anymore.”

  “Two and a Half Men, Castle, Grey’s Anatomy, according to this guy, a lot of shows he’s worked for in the past have been filmed in thirty-five mil.”

  “Okay. Who is this guy?”

  “Guy’s name is Jerry Clemens. He gave me a card.” I opened my wallet and found it immediately.

  “Card? Old-school, my friend. Put the information in your phone.”

  I dialed the number, and he picked up on the first ring.

  “Jerry, this is Skip Moore. You and I talked several days ago about your camera and how they shot the episode.”

  “Hey, I remember. Man, I saw you there yesterday when that whole thing went down. Totally unbelievable.”

  “I was wondering. This isn’t from head of security or anything, but I wondered if I could get like a digital print on the two camera angles. The one from the top and yours. Just to review.”

  “I ran a digital copy for the cops. Sent ’em an attachment. I can send you the same thing.”

  “Man, that would be great. What about the shot from seventy feet up?”

  “Funny thing about that.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Guy was a sub. They hired him through a temp agency. He’d never worked the show before. Disappeared after the accident, and no one has seen him since.”

  “That’s a little strange.”

  “I think he freaked out. He’ll probably show later, all shook up.”

  “So, the footage is where?”

  “It was a handheld. Aaton Penelope thirty-five-millimeter camera. Pretty good piece. Apparently, he took it with him.”

  “Wow. No one stopped him, no one saw—”

  “Hey, Moore, it was chaos down there. Reme
mber? Were you looking for a runaway cameraman? I know I wasn’t. I mean, we had a dead celebrity to contend with. Am I right?”

  “The cops are looking for him?”

  “All I know is, I told them the same story. I know the agency where they hired him. I use ’em sometimes to get work.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Howell Video and Sound. Run by a guy named Scott Howell. Now there’s a guy who knows his way around cameras.”

  “Got his number?”

  “Sure.”

  He gave it to me, and I repeated it as my technical assistant, James, punched it into his phone.

  “Hey, Jerry, thanks for everything.” I gave him my e-mail address, and he promised to send the video in the next few minutes.

  “You want to explain the other half of that conversation? Should have put him on speaker,” James said.

  “The camera guy on the grid? He was a temp. By the time the dust settled, he’d disappeared. No one has seen him or his camera since.”

  “Skip,” Em stood and put her hand on my arm. I looked into her beautiful face, framed by her long blonde hair, and for a moment forgot that James was on the same balcony. “I think you have probable cause to take the case and bill this girl, Ashley Amber. Your partner is right. I’ve got a feeling there’s more to Jason Londell’s death than a jump off the scaffolding.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ten minutes later the e-mail arrived. Eagerly, Em opened the video and expanded it to full screen.

  There was no sound. Nothing had been miked. All sound effects would have been added later. And the camera was stable, a fixed focus, as it was mounted and there was no movement. The handheld camera upstairs was to be more fluid, to give the leap more urgency.

  “Was this a death jump?”

  Em raised her eyebrows. “What?”

  “No, no. Did the show call for him to die? Was it in the script?”

  “You know,” I looked at James, “I really never read the script. I have no clue. Did you?”

  “No, but he was only in this episode. And they’re still filming, so it could have been his last scene. God, I hope they don’t use the real splat scene in the show.”

  “That’s not going to happen, James,” Emily recoiled. “Sometimes you can be so gross.”

  If it was the last scene, they could show the jump, then move on. With Londell’s death, ratings would be through the roof. Maybe the entire show could be revived from an almost certain cancellation at the end of the year. But then they seldom shoot scenes in order, so there was a strong possibility that they didn’t have all of Jason Londell’s shots in the can and they might have to scrap his part in the show and recast.

  “Let’s see what’s on the film.” I held my breath, not wanting to relive the episode.

  Ground camera, as it was called, started a few seconds before Randy Roberts said action. Jason Londell stood still for maybe two seconds, then started running the grid. Three seconds into the run, he leaped, and I watched in horror as he plummeted toward the ground. The camera never picked up the final crash as the trajectory should have been to the inflated air bag. The falling body disappeared in the shot maybe ten feet before he would have landed. Thank God, we didn’t have to see it.

  “That’s it?” James seemed disappointed.

  “You wanted to see the body explode on the ground?”

  “No. I expected something to happen on the walkway.”

  “I told you—”

  “Run it again.”

  Em hit replay, and we watched the same scene. Again and again and again. There seemed to be nothing left to see.

  “Can we stop it at any point?” James asked.

  “Sure,” Em started it again, hitting the stop button, freezing Londell in mid-stride. “Just tell me where.”

  “A tenth of a second before he jumps.”

  She didn’t get it exactly, but we watched, anticipating the leap.

  “Stop it.”

  She did.

  “Right there. Watch his reaction. Run it again and let it go.”

  She played the short scene again, and I concentrated. A tenth of a second before he jumped I saw it too. A slight jerk of his body. His head went up, he seemed to tense up, but, then again, it was probably in anticipation of his final fall.

  “I don’t think you’ve got anything, James. It was probably a natural reaction.” I was as disappointed as he was.

  “We’ve got a cameraman who disappeared along with his film. That’s a start, don’t you think?”

  Em had agreed. It was probably enough to take the investigation a step further.

  “How are we going to handle this?” I asked.

  “I’d suggest five hundred a day plus expenses. One of you may have to fly out to L.A. And I might have to go along to assist,” she said, smiling at me.

  “Five hundred dollars a day. Not bad. We give it two weeks and see if we can find this camera guy and locate Londell’s wife. We check to see if she’d taken out a big insurance claim recently, see if Juliana Londell is on the up-and-up, and we make ourselves—” James was already computing.

  “Seven thousand dollars,” Em said.

  I was a business major in school, but Em was a math genius. She could do major computations in her head.

  “Split three ways, that’s two thousand three hundred thirty-three dollars apiece.”

  “Split three ways? Apiece? You’re suggesting—” James squinted his eyes, looking at her suspiciously.

  “Have you solved any of your cases without my help?”

  She stood there, hands on her beautiful hips, waiting for his answer.

  “Well, have you?”

  “Have you ever butted out?” he asked.

  “Come on, James. I’ve brought you guys more cases than you’ve found on your own. And in this case, the Jason Londell murder, I’ve already helped you.”

  As he started to interrupt, she held up her hand.

  “And I’m not taking any part of your five-hundred-dollar retainer. I’m not asking for any of Ashley Amber’s first check. That’s the kind of partner I am.”

  Em didn’t need the money. I was convinced of that. Her father paid her very well, but the truth was, the three of us did work well together, and she usually came up with ideas we never would have considered. And, if she was going to participate, she wanted to be compensated.

  James looked at me, a dejected, hangdog look on his face. I shrugged my shoulders. If we had any chance of solving this case for Amber Ashley, Em would be a huge asset. James knew it, I knew it, and Em definitely knew it. She really did have a high opinion of herself.

  My girlfriend stood, picked up the wine glasses and empty beer bottles, and walked to the kitchen.

  “Guys, I suggest we call Amber right now. Tell her what we know. Make the pitch and get her reaction. Then Skip finds an after-hours number for this Scott Howell. If we wait until tomorrow morning to talk to the temp agency, our cameraman will be that much farther ahead of us.” Tossing the bottles into her recycle bin and placing the wine glasses in the porcelain sink, she turned to James.

  “James, I think you should finish your research on Jason Londell’s wife, and we probably should run a background on our client. She was screwing her sister’s husband, so I’m guessing she’s got some kind of history.”

  James frowned. “And if we’re splitting this three ways, what are you going to be doing?”

  “Besides organizing this operation? I’m going to talk with Jason Londell’s good friend, Clint Anders. He hired Londell, they’ve known each other forever, and there’s probably a lot of light he could shed on the matter.”

  James shook his head in amazement.

  “You think you’ve got this thing all under control, don’t you?”

  “James,” she gave him her three-carat dazzling white-teeth smile, “I don’t think so. I know so. You know it too. These things have to be done. I’m just organizing them for you.”

  Nodding, he headed towa
rd the door.

  “Two thousand plus bucks for two weeks’ work. It’s a whole lot more than I make at my real job.”

  The door shut behind him, and as we stood there, Em grabbed my hand.

  “Did I get a little too full of myself?”

  “You?”

  “Come on, I was trying to goad him a little. I shouldn’t have.”

  “The day you two get along, I’m going to be very worried.”

  “I’m right, aren’t I? We’ve got to cover all bases.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Then let’s find this Scott Howell. He placed the temp cameraman and that could be the key to this whole thing.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ashley Amber said yes so fast, I wish we’d asked for more money. She asked when James and I could start, and I told her we were already on the clock. Another thousand down and everything was good to go.

  She asked for periodic updates and wanted to know if we were including a trip to California. I told her we were just formulating our plan, and she thanked me for everything. I made no promises, but told her we had a couple of leads already.

  Howell Video and Sound was open when I called. “Till eight,” the clerk announced. The building was on Northeast 4th Court, a couple blocks off Biscayne Boulevard. The area was industrial, with railroad tracks running behind the studio/equipment rental building. Scraggly live oaks and scrub brush grew on the sides of the road and pushed themselves onto a cracked, concrete sidewalk running along the far side of the street. We drove by long, low warehouses with front loaders and cargo haulers in neat rows out front. Miller’s Commercial Dry Cleaning, Eagle Logistics, and Marve’s Auto Body Repair Shop rounded out the block.

  Em drove her new Mercedes SL500 with retractable hardtop. Probably not the car to navigate this neighborhood, but Em had no fear. She never has had. As long as I’ve known her.

  We pulled into the parking lot next to a Chevy pickup towing an enclosed trailer.