Director's Cut

by Alton Gansky

  Last, I learned that Catherine was right. This was boring.

  Twenty minutes later my mind traveled back up the 101 to Santa Rita where I thought about a reporter in a coma and a broken six-year-old struggling to survive being run over by a car—two accidents that never should have happened.

  Chapter 17

  After ninety minutes of give-and-take, Buchanan called for a break. Judging from the scripts on the table, they had made it about halfway through the screenplay. Almost everyone left the room. Only Rockwood and Catherine stayed behind. I approached as they rose from the table.

  “Enjoying the exciting side of movie making, Mayor?” Rock-wood asked.

  “It’s been interesting,” I said. “Where did everyone go?”

  “The smokers are headed outside for some quality time with their cigarettes, some are making phone calls, and others are headed to the next room where the food is. We had a caterer come bring a few things in. Hungry?”

  “No, but thanks.” I looked at Catherine.

  She glanced around the room, then fixed her gaze on Rock-wood. “We need to talk.” Her words were blunt and emotionless.

  “Sure, kiddo. What do you want to talk about?”

  “It’s about the script you sent me. There was something wrong with it. That’s why I needed another one this morning. I couldn’t bring the one you sent.”

  “What was wrong with the script I sent you?” He tilted his head to one side.

  “It had additional pages.” Catherine’s words were soft as cotton.

  Rockwood blinked several times, looked at me, then back at Catherine. “I don’t understand. It had extra pages?”

  “Pages had been inserted into the script, and they described things that happened in my house . . . they described . . . they described Ed’s death.” Her lower lip quivered for a second, then became taut. She was fighting back the emotion. I moved closer to her side.

  “How can that be? It can’t be. I personally sent that script to you.”

  “Catherine’s right, Mr. Rockwood,” I said. “I saw it myself. The pages looked like the others in typeface and paper color. The only difference I could see was that they had no page numbers.”

  “I wish you had brought it to me,” Rockwood said with a frown. “With all due respect, Mayor, scripts are my bailiwick, not yours. I would be in a better position to judge than you.”

  “I’m certain you are, but the police took possession of the manuscript.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t bring it with me today. They still have it.”

  The revelation seemed to unsettle the producer. Rockwood lowered his gaze and worked his lips before speaking. “I wish you had told me sooner.” He paused, then raised his head. A smile revealed beautifully capped teeth. “You did the right thing. Of course, the police have the script and they should. I suppose they’re trying to get fingerprints.”

  “I suppose,” Catherine said.

  “Mr. Rockwood, Catherine has told me a little about how important scripts are and how they need to be protected. Asking me to sign the NDA just brought the point home. How could someone obtain a script and insert pages, then arrange to have it delivered to Catherine?”

  “Who actually delivered it?” Rockwood asked.

  The question surprised me. “You don’t know?”

  “No, why should I? I don’t know how your office operates, Mayor, but this business is like running through a minefield. I don’t handle details. I have people for that. I’m the Big Picture guy. I find projects I want to do then start hiring people to do it. If someone needs a document, a check, whatever, I usually assign someone to make it happen.”

  “So when Catherine asked for a new script . . . ?” I prompted.

  “I told Lindsey to make sure she got one. After that, I don’t know what happened. I have a full plate. I can’t be worried about details.”

  “I just thought you should know,” Catherine said. “I don’t know what happened to the first script, and then I show up without the second—I’m afraid you’re going to start thinking you hired a ditz.”

  He laughed. “A ditz, eh?” He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her close, planting a big kiss on the top of her head. “There are a lot of ditzy people in this business, but you’re not one of them. Everyone who knows you speaks highly of your personality, talent, and intelligence. Don’t ever demean yourself, kid. You are one of the bright lights in an otherwise dark business.” He let her go.

  “I understand you let the second chauffeur go,” Rockwood said. “That didn’t go over well with the limo company.”

  “That was my idea.” The voice came from the door behind me. I turned to see Judson West crossing the threshold. “I cleared them to pick up the limo Lowe had been driving. They have no room to complain.”

  A young man with chiseled features and pale eyes accompanied West. He wore a tan sport coat over pleated slacks and a crisp white shirt, no tie. On his belt was a shiny badge. West was as dapper as ever in a black shirt, light brown tie, black suit coat, and gray slacks. He carried a laptop tote bag.

  “Who are you?” Rockwood snapped.

  Lindsey pushed past West and his buddy. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rock-wood. I told them you were busy.”

  “And we didn’t listen,” West said. I’ve known West long enough and seen him in action sufficient times to know he doesn’t like to stand on formalities. “I’m Detective Judson West of the Santa Rita Police Department; this is Detective Brian Duffy, LAPD, Hollywood division.”

  “That’s all right, Lindsey,” Rockwood said, then to West he said, “Are you here to talk to me?”

  “Yes, to begin with.” West’s eyes covered the producer from top to bottom as if he could absorb the information he needed by mere scrutiny.

  “Will it take long?” Rockwood asked.

  “That’s hard to say,” West said.

  Rockwood frowned. “Lindsey, set up my office for a meeting of . . . what? Four or five?”

  “We’d prefer to talk to you alone. There are a couple of other people we would like to speak to while we’re here. I’m sorry if this disrupts your meeting.”

  “I understand,” Rockwood said. “Chuck is running the thing anyway. Let’s go to my office.”

  I floated a questioning look at West. No words were spoken, but he knew what I wanted. I had in the past elbowed my way into his investigations. Being mayor granted me more patience from city employees than I would ever get otherwise. He sighed and nodded.

  Just before I reached the door, some of the others from the meeting began filing in. I saw Rockwood take Chuck Buchanan by the arm and whisper something in his ear. Passing the mantle of meeting leadership, no doubt.

  Stewart Rockwood’s office was more an interior designer’s showroom than a place of business. It was wide, open, and filled with art by an artist I didn’t recognize. The walls were painted a trendy latte color, statuettes sat upon what I assumed were custom-made display stands. In one corner was a glass-and-wood desk and side table. Along one wall ran bookshelves devoid of books. More trinkets and objects of art filled the spaces. The carpet was blue and thick. A large table sat in the middle of the room and to the side of it, three leather sofas defined a conversation pit.

  “Please come in,” Rockwood said, adopting a cheerful air. “May I fix anyone anything?” He moved straight to a wet bar a few steps from his desk.

  “It’s a little early for drinks,” Brian Duffy said.

  Rockwood scowled at the LAPD detective. “I was thinking along the lines of juice, water, tea. The image of the hard-drinking, lascivious producer is inaccurate—well, mostly inaccurate. Some of us are pretty nice guys. Law-abiding guys, I might add.” He looked at us, quizzing us with his expression. “Nothing then?” He reached beneath the counter and removed a small bottle of orange juice. “Unsweetened,” he said as if the revelation meant something.

  He moved to the sofas and we followed. “Is this okay, Detective, or do you prefer sitting around
a table?”

  “This will be fine,” West said and sat.

  We took seats. I sat farthest from Rockwood and the others. I was trespassing on police business, and I thought it best to be as invisible as possible.

  “I can understand you being here, Detective West,” Rockwood said and raised the drink to his lips. He downed a third of it in two gulps. “But why is the LAPD involved?”

  “Common courtesy,” West said. “When you fish in someone else’s pond, it is always wise to invite them to join you.”

  “Ah, jurisdiction is the issue, is that it?”

  “Something like that,” West said.

  “As you know, a man was murdered and his body left in the pool of Ms. Catherine Anderson.”

  “I do know that, but only because Catherine called and told me.” Another third of the drink slipped down his throat.

  “Did you know the deceased?” West asked.

  “No. We’ve used several limo companies over the last year. I just place a call and tell them who to pick up and when. At the end of the month I get a bill which I promptly pay.”

  “So you’ve never actually met Ed Lowe?”

  “I didn’t say that, Detective. You asked if I knew him. I don’t. I have met him a few times and earlier this year when he was the driver for another actress. His employers speak well of him, and I found no fault in his work.”

  “Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill Mr. Lowe?” West asked.

  “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill anyone else. Violence in movies is one thing, but violence on the street is incomprehensible.”

  “Yet it happened,” Detective Duffy interjected.

  “So it seems,” Rockwood answered. “May I ask how he was killed?”

  West stared at the producer. “He was shot in the head with a Glaser blue-tip safety slug.” Rockwood looked puzzled. West filled in the details. “The bullet is filled with small fragments that spread out when they strike their target. It leaves a hole on the outside and a real mess on the inside.”

  “And it’s called a safety slug?”

  “It’s called that because it reduces the risk of overpenetration and ricocheting.”

  “Overpenetration? Never mind, I don’t want to know.” Rockwood blanched. “The poor man.” He looked at his orange juice and set it down. “I wish I had information that could help you, Detective.”

  “Perhaps you do,” West said. “I overheard Mayor Glenn and Ms. Anderson telling you about the script.”

  “The one with the supposed extra pages.”

  “Not supposed extra pages, Mr. Rockwood. They’re very real. As I understand it, Ms. Anderson called you and requested that a new script be delivered to her. Is that correct?”

  “It is. She called me, told me about the murder and later about the missing script. Of course, I sent her one.”

  “Tell me how that worked.” West crossed his legs as if settling in for a good movie.

  Rockwood looked puzzled, then shrugged. “It’s not very complicated, Detective. I received the call about the missing script. Catherine was calm but I could tell she was upset. She’s such a talented actor that I started to suggest that she just wait until today’s meeting. There have been very few changes in her part. So far anyway. This business feeds on change.”

  “But you didn’t make that suggestion. You had a fresh script sent anyway.”

  “I did. I thought it might provide a little comfort.”

  “Did you personally send it?”

  Rockwood shook his head. “That depends on what you mean by ‘personally.’ I didn’t actually package the thing up. I called Lindsey and asked her to take care of it.”

  “She’s in charge of the scripts?”

  “She keeps track of who has what and makes that information available to Chuck and Patty.”

  “Chuck and Patty?” West pressed.

  “Charles Buchanan, the director. Patty Holt is his right-hand girl. Lindsey and Patty keep track of actor schedules, script possession, and a thousand other things.”

  “Sounds like you keep them busy,” Duffy said.

  “Movie making is the art of managed chaos,” Rockwood said. “To be a success in this business one must manage people well.”

  “So,” West continued, “your aide grabs a script, then what?”

  “She doesn’t just grab a script, Detective. She would have notified Chuck that she was sending an extra script out. Most likely she spoke to Patty who would also note it.”

  “Ms. Anderson tells me that an Andy Buchanan delivered the script and that he is the son of the director.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Chuck has been putting his son through the paces. The boy has a talent but next to no experience. Like every third person you meet in this town, he wants to direct. His advantage is that he has a father who is well respected in the business.”

  “So when Ms. Anderson calls him an assistant-assistant director—”

  “It means he gets to do the grunt work other directors don’t want to do. It’s a good way to learn the business.”

  “There’s more than one director?” I asked. West gave me a hard stare. I got the message.

  “Yes, Mayor, there’s more than one of everything,” Rockwood explained. “Have you ever gone to a movie?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Have you ever stayed to watch the credits at the end of the show?”

  He had me there. “No. I usually move on.”

  “Typical. Very few people do. Those who do stay know how many people are involved in making a movie. I have two other executive producers, three coproducers, and scores of other employees. While there is one director who is responsible for getting the movie shot, he has assistant directors, and a director of photography. At the end of every movie a list of hundreds of names goes by on the screen. What you’ve seen here today are just the principle actors and staff.”

  “But only a portion would be in a position to make changes to a script and deliver it.”

  And know enough to use the right typeface and the correct color of paper.

  “That’s true. So now you want to know who would be able to do such a thing. I can’t blame you. Unfortunately, almost anyone in the business would know the format to use, but the person you’re looking for had to have access to the most recently revised script.” He paused and thought. “That would limit it to maybe fifty or so people.”

  “Fifty?” West said.

  “Give or take. Scripts have already gone out to site hunters, costumers, special effects, and various people and businesses in the chain of production.” He paused and toyed with the orange juice bottle. “The key, it seems to me, isn’t who has a script, but who knew Catherine would need a new one.”

  “We believe it was stolen to force her to ask for another,” West said.

  “That makes sense, but . . .” He trailed off. I had a feeling I knew where he was going. “But there is another crucial issue, and I’m afraid it doesn’t make me look very good.” He studied West. “This is what you’ve been leading up to, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps.” West smiled.

  “I’m a few beats behind here,” I admitted. “Someone care to fill me in?”

  “Let me try,” Rockwood said. “That is, if you don’t mind, Detective West.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The question is, Mayor: why didn’t Catherine receive two scripts? I took the call. I started the ball rolling. A script—an altered script—was delivered to her. If someone on the outside was delivering a script, then Catherine should have received two, one from them and one from me. Since only one script arrived, it must—”

  I finished his sentence. “Be one from this office.”

  Rockwood nodded.

  “Couldn’t the one you sent be intercepted somehow and another substituted?” I asked.

  “I suppose it could,” Rockwood said. “I’m impressed, Mayor. Maybe you should give up politics and become a det
ective.”

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “Mr. Rockwood,” West said. “I’d like to get your fingerprints to compare with those found on the script. I would also like to interview Lindsey, Patty Holt, Buchanan, and his son.”

  “You’re welcome to my fingerprints, Detective,” Rockwood said, “but you’re on your own with the others. I’m just their producer, not their lawyer.”

  “I’m sure your cooperation will go a long way to encourage their cooperation,” Duffy said with a small smile.

  Rockwood looked down at his feet. “I suppose I need to go to the police station for this.”

  “No need,” West said. “I brought a field kit. It will only take a few moments.”

  “Tell me, Mayor,” Rockwood said as he watched West set up, “these inserted pages you saw, where were they in the script?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. His question was odd.

  “Were they at the front, in the middle, or toward the end?”

  I thought back to what Catherine had said. “Catherine said it was at the end of act one and she called it a plot point.”

  “Interesting.” His tone was dismal.

  “What’s a plot point?” West asked.

  “In a three-act screenplay it is the culmination of events or a significant event that sets act two in motion. Usually there’s one at the end of act one and another at the end of act two.”

  “And that is interesting, but why did you ask?” West said.

  Rockwood shrugged. “It’s probably just me, but it makes me wonder if there will be a second act.”

  West stopped cold.

  So did my heart.

  Chapter 18

  The script meeting lasted longer than planned. West and Duffy’s presence had caused everything to grind to a halt. An exasperated Charles Buchanan finally called an end to the meeting. West spoke to the group for a moment, gathering names and addresses. Catherine and I slipped out as soon as we could. We were already an hour behind our planned departure time and Catherine had to be at the theater early.