by Alton Gansky
“His name is Andy Buchanan. He’s the director’s son.”
“Can you describe him?” West pulled the still-wrapped script closer.
“Of course, I just saw him an hour ago.”
West gave a genuine smile. “I mean, would you describe him to me?”
“Oh. Sorry.” Catherine blushed. “He’s a couple of years older than me, maybe twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He’s three or four inches shorter than you.”
“Hair? Eyes?”
“Thick brown hair, naturally curly. I think his eyes are blue.”
“White?”
“Yes, white. Why are you asking these questions?” Catherine asked. “You don’t suspect him, do you?”
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t?”
Catherine looked shocked. “He’s . . . he’s the director’s son. Why would he torture me this way? And I know he wouldn’t kill Ed.”
“How do you know that?”
“He’s a good kid. What would his motive be?”
“I don’t know, Ms. Anderson, but he did have possession of the script prior to you. I’ve arrested a lot of good kids. Some aren’t as good as they appear.”
Catherine bit her lip. Before West could ask another question, a server appeared with a wide round tray on one hand and folding metal stand in the other. With a practiced motion, he set the stand down, opened it, and then lowered the tray. Three plates of food waited to be lifted to their final resting place. Within seconds, all three plates were plunked down in front of us. A basket of bread and a small silver tray of butter followed. He also laid down linen napkins and silverware.
“No, thank you,” West said. “I didn’t come to eat . . . Is that London broil?”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter said.
West leaned over and took a sniff. His eyes widened. “Well, okay.” He slid the script from the table and set it on the seat next to him. West began to cut the meat, Catherine stared at the food, and I did something that still seemed new to me: I closed my eyes and offered a prayer of thanksgiving. When I opened my eyes, both West and Catherine were staring at me. I said nothing.
“Why was he delivering the script here?” West slipped a piece of the beef into his mouth. “Hey, this is really good.”
“The one I brought with me was missing. I have a script meeting tomorrow, so I called and asked for another.” Her hands rested in her lap.
“Remember, I called you to ask permission to go by her house to pick up the script,” I said.
“I remember. What does young Mr. Buchanan do for the movie biz?” West tasted the potatoes.
I tried a bit of the food. West was right, it was wonderful.
“Like I said, he’s the director’s son. He’s on the learning ladder. You know, working his way up. He runs errands, gets coffee, and carries messages. He also gets to hang out on the set and watch how it’s done.”
“You told me he just finished film school,” I said.
“That’s right. In New York. He was a party animal the first few years but then settled down. Chuck says he has a lot of talent.”
“Chuck?”
“Charles Buchanan. He’s the director and Andy’s dad,” Catherine explained.
West continued to question Catherine, and I sat listening and consuming the meal before me. West ate during the answers. Catherine didn’t touch her food.
“So, what happens now?” Catherine asked.
“I take the script to the lab guys and see if they can tell me anything. At the very least we should be able to lift some prints. I’ll need a set of your prints, Ms. Anderson.”
“Why?” She leaned back.
“You touched the script. We need to be able to distinguish your prints from any others on the paper and those found at your home.”
“Maddy touched it too. Will she have to be fingerprinted?”
West cut a glance at me. “Actually, we have her prints on file. She was fingerprinted last year to help out with a case.”
“It doesn’t take long,” I said. “It’s kind of interesting, really.”
The server returned and removed my plate and West’s. He reached for Catherine’s and stopped when he saw it was untouched.
“Was there something wrong with the food, ma’am?” the young man asked.
“Oh no. It was fine. I’m just not hungry.”
“May I bring you something else?” he offered.
Catherine declined. After he left, she looked at me. “I’m still a little upset about the script. I can’t eat when I’m upset.”
“I understand,” I said. “Oddly, I sometimes eat more when I’m nervous or frightened.”
West brought us back. “I’m concerned about your safety, Ms. Anderson. Clearly, some nutcase is drawn to you. It took a lot of work to arrange that scene in the script. I’m even more concerned that he knew exactly what was said in your house. Did you search all the rooms looking for your chauffeur?”
“No. I looked in a couple but then saw . . . I saw the pool.”
“Are you saying the guy could have been in the house with us?” That thought upset my dinner.
“He had to have heard your conversation one way or another,” West said. “That’s one way.”
“How do we know it’s a he?” Catherine asked.
“We don’t,” West said. “It’s just shorthand. Most crimes are committed by men, although women do their fair share. I’m not ruling anyone out; male, female; young, old; rich, poor. Right now, everyone is a suspect.” He looked at me. “Well, almost everyone.” He winked.
“What should I do?” Catherine asked. “I don’t want to hide away.”
West leaned forward, his expression serious, his eyes fixed on Catherine. “I want you to become a little paranoid. Limit your trust to those you know very well, and I mean very well.”
“But I deal with people I don’t know all the time.” She looked at the others. “There isn’t an actor here I’ve known more than a few days. I know Harold and Franco, but the others are strangers.”
“I’m not so sure about Franco,” West said.
“He’s a good man.” Catherine seemed offended.
“Perhaps he is, but he strikes me the wrong way,” West said.
“Maybe you strike him the wrong way,” Catherine flared.
West pressed his lips into a thin line. “I strike many people the wrong way, Ms. Anderson. It goes with the job. I’m just trying to get you to understand the danger you may be in. There’s been a murder at your home and someone is playing mind games. Just be extra cautious and limit your trust to as few people as possible until we get to the bottom of this. For example: are you thinking of getting another chauffeur?”
“I don’t get a chauffeur, Detective, one is provided for me by the production company.”
“Are they providing another?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Who will it be?” West folded his hands and waited.
“How should I know?” Catherine snapped. “I told you, the production company provides the driver.”
“So you’re going to allow a stranger to drive you around, even after the last chauffeur was killed?”
“What’s that got to do with—?” Catherine stopped. “You’re thinking that someone may have killed Ed because they wanted him out of the way so they could take his place.”
“It’s a possibility,” West said.
I had not made that connection. It made bone-chilling sense.
“But the production company is already sending out a new chauffeur. He should be here anytime.”
“Stay away from him. If you want, I’ll talk to the new guy and do a background check on him and the company he works for, but until he’s cleared, don’t get in the car alone with him. My suggestion is you send him home and arrange for your own driver.”
“Wouldn’t that be insulting to the production company?” she asked.
“I don’t care,” West said. “I’ll tell you what: Tell them I insisted on it
and although you’re unhappy about it, you feel compelled to follow my advice. Blame me. I have broad shoulders. They can yell at me all they want.”
“Okay,” Catherine said. I could tell she was unhappy about it.
“It makes good sense,” I said. “I think you’re wise to follow it.”
She looked crestfallen, and I knew it wasn’t from not having a chauffeur. Her life was changing against her will, and she was having to face being the center of unholy attention.
“I have a script meeting tomorrow,” she said. “If I don’t have a driver, I’ll need to rent a car.”
“Let me take you,” I said. “It will be fun. I can sit in the corner and be as quiet as a mouse.” I didn’t want her to be alone. The more I watched her, the more fragile she seemed.
“But what about your work?”
“The day is fairly light, and Floyd can rearrange things. There’s no problem.”
She gave a barely perceptible nod.
West said, “I suggest that you stay with Maddy for a while, or at least stay away from your home.”
I squashed a smile. Judson West seldom used my first name, let alone my nickname, when others were present. “I know it’s still early in the investigation, but have you learned anything yet?”
“A few things, but not much. We’re facing a difficult situation because the house and grounds are so new. We found footprints outside, but there were dozens of them. So many workers, especially landscapers, have been over that dirt that identifying which sole print doesn’t belong is going to be tough. Most impressions were left by work boots, but there are at least four sets of prints made by sneakers. We’ve taken casts of the impressions and plan on comparing them to as many workers as we can find, but that is going to take some time. And we can’t dismiss the work boot prints either. For all we know, the killer wore work boots. Or the killer may be one of the workers.”
“You went to the autopsy today, right?” I asked.
“Yeah. It was pretty straightforward. One shot to the head with a .38 caliber Glaser blue-tip, close range. The victim died quickly.”
“What’s a Glaser blue-tip?” I asked, uncertain I wanted to know.
“It’s a bullet filled with metal fragments. Once it enters the victim, the fragments scatter causing all kinds of damage. It’s called a blue-tip because the end of the bullet is blue.”
Catherine made a noise and raised a hand to her mouth.
“I think I’m done asking questions,” I said.
“We’re running a DRUGFIRE search on the blue-tip copper jacket.” West must have seen my blank stare. He explained. “DRUG-FIRE is to ballistics what AFIS is to fingerprints.”
That didn’t help.
“AFIS is the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. It’s a national database of fingerprints. We can electronically trace a fingerprint of a criminal, victim, or whomever. DRUGFIRE does the same thing with ballistics. So a bullet removed from a murder victim in Florida can be matched to one found in a victim in Oregon. You get the idea.”
I got it and Catherine’s face said she got it too.
He slipped from the booth, taking the script with him. “I need to get going. I’ll keep you posted on what I find out about the script.”
I thanked him and watched him leave. The moment he was out of the dining area, Franco scooted to our booth.
“What did he want?” he asked.
Catherine looked at him, then at me. “I think I’m ready to go,” she said. The words were just a few decibels above a whisper.
“Wait,” Franco said. “I want to know what he said.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Zamboni-” I started.
“Zambonelli.”
“Sorry. Mr. Zambonelli. With all due respect, if Detective West wanted you in on the conversation, he would have invited you.” I worked my way around the booth until I was standing next to the publicist. Catherine did the same.
“Look, lady, I don’t know who you think you are—”
“I know exactly who I am, Mr. Zambonelli-and it’s not ‘lady,’ it’s Mayor Glenn.”
He laughed. “You may think you’re something special, lady, but I deal with the biggest names in Hollywood and New York. I bring down more money than you can count in that pretty little head of yours—”
“Franco?” Catherine said.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Shut up. Go home. I’ll let you know if I need you.”
“Oh, come on, Catherine. I’m just looking out for your interests.”
“I’m leaving now, Franco. I’m going home with Maddy and getting a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow she will take me to the script meeting, then we’ll come back and have a great opening night here.”
“Catherine—”
She didn’t wait for the rest of the sentence. Instead, she walked to the long table, whispered something in her director’s ear, said a few good-byes, then started for the door.
I motioned for Floyd to follow, and we left the Curtain Call behind.
Chapter 15
We dropped Floyd off in the city hall parking lot, and I began the drive home. I was looking forward to being in familiar surroundings, wrapped in familiar smells, and cocooning myself away from the outside world. Catherine sat like a stone in the passenger seat.
“Do we need to swing by your house for anything?” I asked. It was my third attempt to start a conversation.
“No. I brought a few extra things last night.” She gazed out the window. “I don’t feel good about going to the house.”
I guess not. “You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you like.”
“I suppose I’ll have to face it someday.”
“Living in your new home? Yes, you will and you’ll handle it just fine. The key is not to rush things.” To avoid traffic I steered the car along the surface streets. I wanted the decompression time for me as well as for Catherine.
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe I should just sell it. I can’t get the image of Ed’s body out of my mind and now knowing that someone was listening to us—it creeps me out big time.”
“Well, it’s good to know you’re normal. If you felt any other way, I’d be worried about you.”
“I’m not so sure normal is all that good.”
“I think it is.” I glanced at her. She was holding up, but looked as if she were standing on the precipice of a breakdown. A murder at her home, being spied upon, tormented in a script, opening a new play in a day, and getting ready for a big Hollywood movie—she had every right to teeter.
“Dr. Jerry Thomas is coming over tonight.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” she said.
I laughed, and she tossed me an annoyed look. “I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. Jerry’s a dear friend. We go way back. We were friends in high school. He’s a pediatrician, so even if you did need a doctor, he wouldn’t be the one to call.”
“Oh,” she said and returned her gaze out the window. “Is he your boyfriend?”
I paused on that question. I had lived alone so long and put off Jerry’s advances so many times I found it difficult to own up to our relationship. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. How’d you figure that out?”
“Your eyes light up when you talk about him.”
“I didn’t know I was that obvious.”
“Detective West’s eyes light up the same way when he talks to you. I think he has a thing for you.”
She was perceptive; I had to give her that. “He does, but I don’t think it could work out. We’re very different people.”
“Is that bad?”
“No, I suppose not. It’s odd, really.”
She looked at me again. “What’s odd? Having men interested in you? You’re a catch, Maddy.”
“So is a catfish,” I said with a smile. “I meant the whole thing with Jerry and West is odd. West is the dashing one, but Jerry is steady. Both are brave. You’d expect that from a detective but not a pediatrician.” My thoughts drifted bac
k to January when Jerry risked his life to save mine.
“Life is full of surprises.” Her words were morose. I couldn’t disagree.
“Tell me about scripts,” I said, as I pulled to a stop at one of the many stoplights that dot our city. “How could someone change pages like that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me how the system works,” I insisted.
“A script is bought or a writer is hired to produce a script,” she said. “Some scripts are adaptations of books, others are original. Once the script is finished, revisions begin. Some writers hate Hollywood. In college, a successful screenwriter spoke to our drama class. He said the biggest mistake a writer could make is falling in love with his own work.”
“Because it’s going to get changed?”
“Yes. Sometimes the screenplay will be given to another writer who then reworks the whole thing only to have some other writer rework that. The screenwriter called it writing by committee. He said the first thing they do is tell you how wonderful you are, then how fabulous the work is, then they begin to pick it apart, page by page.”
“That’s why there were so many revisions listed on the title page,” I said.
“That was nothing. My last picture had fifteen revisions in the last three months. I imagine this script will be changed at least a half-dozen times.”
“So, there are lots of scripts of a movie floating around.”
“Not floating around. The production companies like to keep scripts a secret until the movie comes out. They like to know where every script is. These things have a tendency to end up on the Internet. That’s why I was so upset when mine went missing.”
This was too weird and weird worried me. Someone had broken into Catherine’s house, despite a state-of-the-art security system, and stolen a script, forcing her to request another, then somehow, changed the contents to reflect events and conversation that happened the day before as well as kill someone. How could that be done? No wonder West’s first suspicion fell on the delivery boy.
I chewed on those thoughts as I pulled into the garage. Two minutes later we were in the house, and I was glad for it.
Jerry arrived just before eight. A tweed sport coat with patches on the sleeves had replaced the doctor’s smock. He looked positively professorial. I greeted him with a kiss to the cheek and a wide-open door, something I closed and locked once he was inside. I introduced him to Catherine, who was seated on my sofa. We had been drinking tea and watching wood burn in the fireplace. I had turned on an easy jazz station and a miasma of music wafted through the living room. Jerry was carrying a pink box with the words Benny’s Bakery.