by Don Bruns
“I know James talked to you,” I said, nodding to my partner, “but we’ve come up with some other questions. Thoughts about Greg Handler. He was the camera guy up on the scaffolding, right?”
I handed him the copy of the driver’s license.
“James says he doesn’t think this is the Handler you saw.”
“No, man.” He studied the photo. “Not even close. This guy looks like makeup did a bad job on him. Is that his real stash?”
“Couldn’t be a picture from a long time ago?” I wanted to make sure. “Maybe four or five years ago?”
“No way,” he said.
“This guy,” James was explaining, “supposedly rented a camera from Howell Video and Sound. With a company credit card.”
“The guy in the photograph?”
“The same. Gave his name as Greg Handler. Said he was filling in on DM and paid in advance for the rental and the insurance.” James folded his hands in front of him. I wondered if we were giving this guy too much information.
“Scott Howell, he met with him?”
“No. One of Howell’s employees. You know Scott Howell?” James asked.
“Lot of people in this industry know him. Big-time camera guy. Invented some gear that would blow your mind. I actually did meet him on a set in New York with the Rolling Stones.”
“Anyway, you’re telling us there is no way the Greg Handler in this picture is the Greg Handler you met on that structure?” I pointed at the scaffolding that was still in place, towering over the set.
“Guys, it isn’t the same person. My Greg was a blond, short hair, and wore a big thick black leather bracelet. He was like thirty something. The guy in this picture is an aging hippy. And I’m too young to even know what a hippy was.”
“Can you explain it?” I asked.
“No.”
“Okay,” James said. “We’re just trying to get all the information we can.”
“Are you cops? You can tell me, man. I’m just wondering why the big press for details?”
“You haven’t heard from the cops?”
“Except for that short interview, no.”
“Well, I would bet that you will. In the very near future.” I smiled. So again we were ahead of the organized law enforcement agency? Maybe we really did have a clue as to what we were doing. We at least had an idea. Or maybe we were way off base.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
James headed back to the Airstream, and I strolled over to the scaffold. Standing about where Londell had landed, I gazed up, finding the fateful launchpad. I closed my eyes for just a moment and pictured the video we’d seen. The run, the slight hesitation or jerk of the body, then the fall from seventy feet up until he was out of the frame. I’d seen the real jump, and Londell never went out of frame in that version. I felt an involuntary shudder.
Dim security lights threw faint shadows on the ground, and the monolithic structure with its puzzle pattern laid ghostly images on the grass, almost like a maze where a rat has to find a piece of cheese.
I still had no idea what the scene they were filming entailed. And why did they need the steel configuration? Walking under the catwalk and gazing up seventy feet above my head, I wondered what was going through the mind of the three crew members moments before Londell went airborne.
Did they have a clue? Did they see a look on his face that would have told them he had lost it? Or were they all blindsided by the disaster? Or could one of them have been responsible for the jump? Responsible for his death. Did someone say something to him? Did they set up a trip wire? There was still that idea. Or maybe all three were in on this together. Dozens of ideas flooded my mind as I stood on the ground looking up.
The phony camera guy, Greg Handler; Chad Rich, the grip; and—I had no idea who the third person was. No frigging idea. Another stellar investigating job by More or Less Investigations. Sometimes we really missed the obvious. No one knew who the third guy was. I had to lay this one on James, but then, I always lay the blame on Lessor. And I’m almost always right.
When the breeze died down, the warm, still evening was almost cloying. The humidity coming off the bay and the eighty-plus-degree temperature covered me in a damp coating of moisture. As I turned, ready to walk back to the trailer, I heard what sounded like a cough or someone clearing their throat. Very soft.
Maybe a tropical bird. Maybe a motorboat starting up on the bay. Then faintly another cough, on the backside of the scaffold. Now stone-cold silence. Was someone out there watching me? Or just innocently having a cigarette break? I sniffed the air. No sign of tobacco.
“Is somebody there?”
No response.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
I considered walking toward the sound, making loud sounds like clearing my throat and stomping on the ground as I walked. I had several options, but I also possess the courage of the Tin Man. No courage at all. So I stood still for several minutes, then crept back to our trailer.
I was convinced someone had been following me, watching me. I just didn’t have the courage to find out who it was. And then I was confused. Maybe it was the lion who wanted courage. The Tin Man wanted the heart. I figured James would remember so I didn’t worry about it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
At midnight we met Em at Primos, a trendy club in the lobby of her condo building. Crowded around a small table, I watched the bar as leggy European women in short skirts, young men with airbrushed tans, and guys and girls in jeans and T-shirts all jockeyed for position, ordering outrageously priced drinks with infused vodka or spiced rum.
“Greg Handler is not Greg Handler,” I said.
“Is this a riddle?” she asked.
“No. The photograph doesn’t match the description that the crew recalls. Our picture doesn’t even come close.”
“Then who is he? The guy we have in the driver’s license photo?”
“The guy who is the head grip says the photo doesn’t look anything like the camera guy he met.”
“Makes no sense.”
“Chad, the grip, says our photo looks like a bad makeup job.”
Em smiled and rolled her eyes.
“We’re in the middle of make-believe, boys. Movie magic. Someone could make up anyone to look different. We women do it all the time.”
“And, someone can fake a driver’s license. This entire business revolves around fooling one hundred percent of the people.” I realized Em was right. We were in the middle of make-believe.
“And,” Em added, “so far someone seems to be doing a pretty good job of fooling everyone.”
“You talked to Clint Anders?” James wanted to make sure she was earning her third of the take.
“I did, James. He was reluctant at first, but I told him I’d been hired by a third party and that I was harmless. I explained I just wanted some general information, so he agreed. The guy seemed genuinely broken up about the suicide. The death.”
Looking at me, James said, “There’s a lot of money riding on this, amigo. You know if it was suicide, we don’t have a case.”
“Well,” Em stated, “Clint thinks the man took his own life. When I talked to him, there was no question about it.”
“He was a good friend. Any reasons?”
“His marriage was over. He was distraught.”
“Distraught?” James frowned. “Over a failed Hollywood marriage? Man, if everyone out there who got divorced decided to off themselves, there wouldn’t be any movie actors left. Look, he was murdered.”
“Okay,” I agreed, “let’s assume he was murdered. After all, we’re collecting a nice paycheck from Ashley Amber to prove that’s the case. Anders flew in the day before the death—before the murder. Strange timing, since he hasn’t been here in three weeks, don’t you think?”
“He had to show up sometime. After all, it is his show.” Now Em was sticking up for him. “He was grateful Londell had agreed to do the guest shot. He thought it would boost ratings and he wanted
to be here to thank Londell personally.” She folded her hands and was silent for a moment. “I felt bad for him, Skip. The guy is taking it personally. He must have said it three times. If he hadn’t invited him out to do the guest spot, Londell would be alive right now.”
Hard to dispute.
“He and Londell spent some time together the night before, and he said they talked about coming up through the ranks. It all sounded pretty heartfelt.”
“And I heard the time spent together was playing poker with Randy Roberts and a couple of high rollers from South Beach,” James said. “Apparently, our Mr. Anders and Londell play for serious money. Rumored to be one reason Mr. Anders is having a little financial trouble.”
I’d heard rumors about games on the set too, but James and I could barely afford to play for pennies. We weren’t likely to be asked to sit in.
“Em, Greg Handler, or whoever the camera guy really is, used a company credit card to rent and insure the camera. Company credit card. How did Anders explain that? Or did he?” I asked.
“Stolen.”
“Convenient.”
“While I interviewed him, he called some finance lady. She apparently approves expenses. She told Anders that they did in fact hire an extra cameraman, and poker player Randy Roberts, the director whom you were next to when Londell died, was responsible for making it all happen. Apparently, Roberts thought everything was on the up-and-up and didn’t worry about it.”
“What? That sounds very convoluted. Who put in a call for Greg Handler?”
“Randy Roberts.”
“Did he know him? Was he a friend?”
“Apparently, someone on the crew suggested Handler. Anders doesn’t know who and he made it very clear he doesn’t get involved in all the hands-on, day-to-day minutia.”
I made a mental note to ask Roberts. The director had specifically told us that Scott Howell’s company had sent over the cameraman. Maybe I misunderstood the conversation.
“Did he say anything at all about Ashley Amber? She said she spent that night with Londell.”
And now we were hearing he spent the night playing poker.
“I asked him about Ashley and her sister. He said even though the show is struggling, Ashley’s acting was helping with ratings.” Em rolled her eyes as she does, not believing for a minute that the ratings had anything to do with the lady’s acting skills. “But he said since Juliana Londell was out of the picture with Jason, since they’d split up, he hadn’t really seen or heard much of her. I think he blamed the breakup of Jason and Juliana on Juliana. I just didn’t get the feeling he had that much to share about the girl. And he was uncomfortable talking about her. My take, anyway.”
“Nothing about Ashley Amber spending the night with Londell?”
“Londell and Anders talked into the night. That’s all he shared.”
The three of us studied our drinks at the small, round table, listening to the din of conversation around us. I even heard two people at the bar talking about the “suicide jump.” We considered Anders’s involvement.
Sipping my gin and tonic, I spoke to Em’s interview with Anders.
Every time we get involved in a case, I look at everyone as a suspect. I just get into that mode. No matter what I think about this person or that person, they could be guilty. “So you say Anders gets in the day before Londell leaps off the scaffolding, and immediately I’m thinking was he here to facilitate the murder? Did he want to make sure of the outcome?”
“Amigo,” James said, “they were best of friends. You’re my best friend, right? Would I kill you? And if I was responsible for your death, would I come down a day early just to watch you die? I don’t think so.”
“Skip, really,” Em was pleading her case, “this guy gets a pass. He’s feeling very sorry and guilty about Londell’s death. He realizes that if he hadn’t asked him to do a guest shot, well, you know—”
“Are you sure he gets the pass from you because he feels bad? It’s not because he’s handsome and charming as well? Was there possibly a little flirting going on?”
She just glared at me, not responding.
“What if you were involved with Em, James?”
“What?” He acted like I’d just accused him of murder or grand theft auto. “That’s pretty far-fetched, partner.”
Em smirked. “You know, I could teach you some things, James. You might be surprised.”
My partner swung his attention to me.
“Pard, Clint Anders is the executive producer of DM. One of his best friends flew in to guest star and do him a favor.”
“Yeah. Anders has a legitimate reason for being here.” I was raising my voice to fight the crowd noise, but also to emphasize my point. “And so does everyone else, am I right? Let me make my point. If you want to show he was murdered, you’ve got to have suspects, and there doesn’t seem to be a ton of them waiting in the wings. Consider this. What if Anders was interested in Ashley?”
“You’re pushing it, pal.”
“And he finds that Ashley is making a play for his good friend Jason Londell. So he sees an easy way to take care of Londell and get Ashley Amber on the rebound.”
“You’re grasping at straws. This was a good friend.”
“Yeah? Well, I saw Anders and Amber this evening, and they looked pretty cozy. His arm around her, hushed conversation—”
Em reached out and touched my hand.
“It’s been a tough time for the two of them.”
“You’re right. But like I said, there doesn’t seem to be a lot of potential killers out there.”
“Except a cinematographer who took off with evidence in his camera.” James frowned.
“And a young lady who probably lives twenty-three hundred miles away as the crow flies.”
“Boys,” Em sipped the last of her white wine and standing up, she said, “we’ve got our work cut out for us. If Jason Londell was killed, we need to find out how, why, and by whom. I’m with Skip. Everyone is considered a suspect until they aren’t.”
“Chad Rich, the grip?” James was establishing parameters.
“Everyone, James. That guy especially. He was up there.”
“His partner. Jeez, we don’t even know who the other grip was, do we, James?” I gave him a frown. “We don’t know jack. We at least should know the two grips. It hit me earlier that you never talked to the other one.”
“I’ll track down Chad,” James said. “He’ll give me the name, and we’ll do an interview. It was a slipup.”
It’s hard to remember James ever admitting he could slip up until now.
“In the meantime, to answer our client’s main concern—”
“Where is Juliana Londell?” Em asked. “Ashley Amber wants to know if her sister killed Jason Londell. She wants to know if Juliana was sending threatening e-mails to Jason. We have yet to address her questions regarding Juliana. And we’re already spending the check. Can we start thinking smart?” Em was obviously upset that we hadn’t been doing enough.
“What if we call her agency?” I asked.
“Probably the first place we should have started. Boys, sometimes I wonder why we’re even in this business.”
I think we were all on the same page.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Two in the morning doesn’t seem that late when you’re working. Somebody still had to discourage any drunks walking home from entering our precious set and disrupting the phony surroundings we’d concocted. The flow of people was surprising to me, since I thought you went to dinner, scored, then took the girl home. All before two a.m. But, it was all only make-believe. Emily had said it best.
A stream of cars and pickups passed by at three thirty when a few bars closed, and I was confronted by a gang of five guys who pulled up in an ancient Volkswagen bus. When they rolled the window down, I could smell the pot.
“Dude, somebody took over our park.”
“A TV show is all.”
“Dude, we usually go out the
re and get a little mellow, you know?”
“Dude,” I said. “find another place to get mellow. Either that or I call the cops and you will get busted for public intoxication and possession of a controlled substance. Got it?”
They moved on.
Two girls with a little too much makeup and skirts just a little too short tottered by on the sidewalk, balancing on five- or six-inch heels. “Any movie stars still up?” the short brunette asked. The closer she got, the stronger the smell from her cheap perfume.
“No movie stars tonight,” I said.
“How much you got, honey?” The blonde moved closer and put her hands on my shoulders. She had to be three or four inches taller that I was, and when she looked down at me and smiled, I could count the stained, crooked teeth.
“I’m sure I don’t have enough, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? I’m not your momma, boy. Do you want a little action or not?”
I shook my head, suddenly aware I hadn’t worked this shift before. It was a completely different group than I dealt with during the day.
“Too bad. We’ve had some fun with some of the others on this set.”
“Been a party week,” the smaller brunette burped and did a little bump and grind. “Party.”
“What kind of party?” I asked.
“That trailer over there.” She motioned to one of the leads’ trailers. “Why, two nights ago this guy who directs things, he—”
“Directs the show?”
She ran her hands down my chest, and when she started to go further I stepped back. Her forwardness and the boozy breath mixed with sweet perfume was almost nauseating.
“Randy Roberts?”
The short girl with the black skirt looked up at her very tall friend.
“Was it a guy named Randy?”
“Oh, hell,” the blonde started laughing. “There was Randy and Richard and a couple of other guys I can’t remember, but I do know that Jason Londell was there in all his splendor.”