by Bill Moody
“Here we go,” I say to myself as my phone rings.
“I go away for a couple of days and you’re on the news,” Andie says. “What’s going on?”
I give her a quick rundown of my statement. “The sheriff said it wasn’t an accident. That’s all I know at the moment. I don’t know what they asked Ryan but he didn’t take well to being questioned and treated like a suspect.”
“What did they ask you beyond what you saw?”
“Nothing really, other than how I spent the night.”
“Lucky for you, you have am FBI agent as your alibi.”
“Isn’t it though? Just what the sheriff said. Don’t worry, I kept it PG rated.”
“Good of you,” Andie says. “How did the show for the investors go?”
“Couldn’t have been better. Robbins already paid me and Ryan gave me a thank you gift.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, a Swiss Army watch.”
“Oh that’s what that was about.”
“What?”
“He asked me what kind of jewelry you like. I said nothing but watches.” Andie is quiet for a moment. “You’ve been paid and gifted. Why don’t you come home now. Let Ryan work through this thing on his own.”
“Andie, I—”
“I know. I just had to ask.”
“And you already know the answer.”
Chapter Ten
They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity for the Hollywood crowd. The public seems to thrive on seeing their favorite stars embroiled in scandal. But I wonder how the investors will take yesterday’s news about Ryan. Are they still going to be enthusiastic about coughing up millions of dollars to finance a film with a star who’s a person of interest in a photographer’s death? I don’t sleep very well, spending most of the night tossing and turning, running things over in my mind.
I give up around six, grab a glass of orange juice, and take a long walk on the beach. There are a few other early risers, walking, taking their dogs for a run, but for the most part, I’m alone. When I get back to the house, I find Emillio busy in the kitchen, and Grant Robbins on the deck drinking coffee. He has a copy of the Los Angeles Times on the table.
“Have a look at this,” Robbins says, pushing the Calendar section across to me, as Emillio brings more coffee and an omelet for Robbins. I scan over the article with the headline:
MOVIE STAR QUESTIONED IN PAPARAZZI DEATH.
There are photos of Ryan and Darryl McElroy but nothing new except now I have more of an idea who Darryl McElroy was. According to the article, McElroy was thirty-two, a Gulf War vet, and formerly with the Times before turning to shooting the stars. An avid motorcyclist, he was one of the most successful and competitive paparazzi in the business. There are a couple of quotes from his colleagues, who confirm McElroy’s competitiveness, and his obsession with Ryan Stiles.
I look up at Robbins, watch him dig into his omelet, and decide I’ll have the same. I signal to Emillio as the doorbell rings. “Not good, is it?”
“That’ll be Cooper,” Robbins says. “I asked him to come over. “We need to talk about this,” Robbins says, tapping the newspaper. “I’m hoping he can give us an idea of how the police are going to proceed.”
Emillio lets Coop in. He’s in jeans, a sweatshirt, and some kind of boots. His gun bulges on his belt beneath a light windbreaker jacket, and his badge is clipped to his belt. He takes a cup of coffee from Emillio, smiles his thanks, and joins us.
“Gentlemen,” Coop says. “We have been busy, haven’t we?” He looks at us both. “Sorry I didn’t make the festivities yesterday.”
“Not a problem,” Robbins says. “All things considered, it went well. Ryan was very cooperative.”
“Good,” Coop says, “because there’s going to be more.”
Robbins nods. “I know. That’s why I asked you here, to get your, ah, police perspective on things.”
***
I watch Coop take a drink of coffee and put his cup down. He glances at me quickly, then back to Robbins. “You want it straight?”
“Please,” Robbins says.
“Okay. McElroy didn’t go off the canyon by accident. We already know that. He has an altercation with Ryan in front of a crowd of people, witnessed by several sheriff’s deputies, a cop, me, and a pianist, you”—he points to me—“and then Ryan roars off in his little red sports car, not to be seen until the following morning. Does that about cover it?”
Robbins nods and starts to say something but Coop cuts him off. “Not yet. Speaking strictly as a cop, if I were lead on this, Ryan would be my number one suspect, depending, of course on what they find on the motorcycle, and when they determine time of death.”
“What do you mean, what they find on the motorcycle?” I ask Coop.
He shrugs. “Paint traces that can be matched, damage to a car Ryan might have been driving.” Coop looks around. “By the way, where is Mr. Stiles?”
“Right here.” We turn and see Ryan leaning on the door jam. His arms are crossed over his chest. He walks over to the table and sits down. “Emillio, some coffee please.” He looks right at Coop. “So you think I killed Darryl McElroy?”
“I didn’t say that,” Coop says. “I said you would be my number one suspect.”
“Okay, let’s calm down,” Robbins says, sensing Ryan’s rising anger. He turns to Ryan. “I wanted you to know how the police are going to view this whole thing.” I watch Ryan and Coop stare each other down for a few moments.
“You don’t really believe I did it, do you? Ruin my career over some paparazzi asshole?”
“I would hope not,” Coop says, “but you’ve had problems with him in the past, your temper is well known. You broke his camera, took off, and nobody saw you until the following morning, so from where the police sit, that doesn’t look good.”
“This is what they call circumstantial evidence, right?”
“Actually, at this point, it’s just speculation,” Coop says. “I’m just trying to let you know how the police will be thinking and how further questioning is going to go.”
Ryan nods and smiles. “I know, and I appreciate it.”
“What about his alibi?” I ask.
“Good, if it holds,” Coop says. “They’ll be talking to your father for sure, and wondering why you took off like that. Is the car still there at his home?”
“Sure. Where else would it be?” Ryan says.
“A body shop, getting repaired and painted.” Coop spreads his hands and shrugs.
“Would I be that stupid?”
“I hope not.”
“Evan can verify the car was right where I left it, right, Evan?”
I nod. “When I picked him up, it was in his dad’s driveway.” But then I suddenly remember what had bothered me about the car when I’d picked up Ryan. I decide to keep that to myself for now.
“See,” Ryan says. “No case.” He shrugs and smiles at Coop, but he doesn’t smile back.
“For God’s sake, Ryan,” Robbins says. “We’ve got a real problem here. Pay attention to what he’s saying.”
“I have been,” Ryan answers. He takes a drink of his coffee. “How about this for a scenario. McElroy is pissed at me for breaking his camera. He sees me take off in the BMW, jumps on his motorcycle, and tries to chase me down. He follows me over Malibu Canyon Road. He tries to cut me off, bumps my fender, goes out of control and off the road, down into the canyon.” He looks around at all of us.
“Is that what happened?” Robbins says, his face ashen now.
“No. Jesus do you all think I’m responsible?” He gets up and paces around.
“In your scenario, why didn’t you stop, go back, and help him?” Coop asks.
Ryan stops pacing and sits down again. “Okay, Malibu Canyon is full of curves. I look in the rearview mirror, don’t see him, and think he just gave up.” He slaps his hands on the table. “End of story.”
Coop leans forward. “Believe me when I tell you,” Coop says. “the police will explore all these possibilities. They’ll go slow because of who you are, but they will go.” He holds Ryan’s gaze for a moment then stands up.
Robbins follows. “Well, I certainly appreciate your input,” he says.
Coop nods and turns to me. “Walk me out to my car?”
“Sure.” I get up and follow Coop outside.
“This could get messy,” Coop says. “Watch yourself.”
I nod. “Don’t worry.” Coop gets in his car and starts the engine. I lean in his window. “You think he did it?”
“I think Mr. Stiles could be capable of a lot of things. Let me stress the word could. But deliberately running McElroy off the road, I don’t think so.”
I step back from the car as Coop starts to back up. “Good. Glad to hear you say that.”
Coop smiles. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it accidentally, panicked when he realized what he’d done and just took off.”
“Thanks, Coop. I really need to think about that.”
“I think you have a lot to think about. Look at it this way. Hit and run is better than murder.”
Coop is right. I do have a lot to think about. With the tutoring phase over, the investors satisfied with Ryan’s performance, there’s nothing to keep me here for now. I’ve been paid for my time, and very generously at that. I could bail out now, go home, and wait to see if the development of the film continues as planned.
Or, I could stick around, see how this all shakes out as the investigation continues, and maintain my rapport with Ryan Stiles. I know what Andie will say, and I know what Grant Robbins will say. As far as the police are concerned, I’m not sure.
I’m something of a corroborating witness for Ryan’s alibi. He called Melanie asking me to pick him up, and when I got there he and the car were there. What had bothered me about the car was simply the way that it was parked when I noticed it in the driveway of the Stiles home. It had been at somewhat of an angle, a little skewed, but that could be easily explained. Maybe I was making too much of it.
Ryan arrives home, still angry, parks funny, and goes into the house for a quick word with his dad. I can certainly testify that his dad told me he’d been there all night, as was the car. It was a little thing but it nagged at me.
I’m still standing outside thinking about all this when Grant Robbins comes out, heading for his car. “Evan, glad I caught you,” he says. “Your friend Cooper has given us all a lot to think about.”
“He gave it to you straight.”
“Yes, I know.” He looks away for a moment. “What are your plans now?”
“My plans?”
“Well, you’ve completed your contract, and did an excellent job. The investors were suitably impressed and they’re ready to go. But given what’s happened, I wouldn’t blame you for leaving now. Ryan would be very disappointed, as would I, but eventually he’d understand.” He pauses again, then turns to face me. “I’m going to ask you a very big favor. Would you consider staying around until this, this mess is cleared up and we see where we are on the movie? I know it’s a lot to ask but—”
“Did Ryan ask you to talk to me?”
“No.”
I nod. “I’ve been thinking myself. I’m sure the police are going to want to talk to me again as the investigation continues. If I go home now, I’ll just have to come back for that. I’ll go this far. I’ll stay until we see if Ryan is charged or not, if there’s a trial. I’ll help in any way I can.”
Robbins sighs and smiles. “God, I hoped you’d say that.”
“Wait, I’m not finished. I assume scoring the film is still an option. I want to see the script. I need to see what this movie is about so I can start thinking about the music.”
“Done,” Robbins says. “Not a problem.”
“But all this negative publicity. Won’t that scare the investors off?”
Robbins smiles. “Evan, remember this is L.A. O.J., Robert Blake, Phil Spector. Like it or not, this is publicity we couldn’t buy. Once Ryan is cleared he’ll be hotter than ever.”
I look into Robbins’ eyes. “So you have no doubt Ryan has nothing to do with McElroy’s death?”
“Not for a minute.”
***
When I go back in the house, Emillio tells me my omelet is being kept warm in the oven. “I’ll bring you some fresh coffee,” he says.
“Thanks, I need some.” I go out on the deck. Ryan is sitting at the table, gazing out at the ocean, looking troubled. He looks up as I sit down.
“Hey,” he says. “You taking off?”
“No, I’m sticking around. I want to see how this all comes out.”
“Really? Dude, that’s great.” He breaks into that wide grin. He starts to say something more but stops.
“Ryan, you don’t have to ask. I believe you.” Emillio brings my omelet then, and I take the first bite. It’s full of peppers, onions, and some kind of sausage. “Emillio, you are a master.”
He smiles and pours me some more coffee. “My pleasure.”
I point my fork at Ryan. “He’s the real reason I’m staying around.”
Ryan nods. “Keep this guy happy, Emillio.”
I take a few more bites, savoring the mix of flavors, then pause to drink some coffee. “There’s one thing we need to do,” I say to Ryan.
“What? You name it.”
“We need to go to your dad’s and pick up the BMW. Like Coop said, the Malibu police are going to want to look at it. Better it’s here than in the Valley.”
Ryan makes no argument. “You’re right. Finish eating. I’m going to grab shower, and wake Melanie up. She can go with us.”
An hour later, we’re heading for Malibu Canyon Road in the Mercedes. Melanie is very quiet. She looks tired, like she hadn’t slept much, but when we got in the car she’d squeezed my hand and said, “Thank you for staying.”
Ryan has the radio tuned to the jazz station, the volume low as we streak down the Coast Highway. He makes the turn onto Malibu Canyon Road. A few miles in, on a sharp curve, we see evidence of what remains of the crime scene. Ryan slows the car.
There are some forgotten orange traffic cones along the shoulder and fragments of yellow police tape. At the apex of the curve, I can see where the metal guard rail is torn open like it’s been cut with shears. I close my eyes for a moment, imagining McElroy hitting the rail, breaking through, and being thrown off the bike and down the steep embankment.
“Pull over here for a minute,” I tell Ryan. Melanie doesn’t move. Ryan and I get out of the car. Instinctively, I look for skid marks on the road, but there are none. We walk to the edge and look down the embankment into the canyon. It must be a couple of hundred feet to the bottom.
There’s hardly any sign of the accident, other than a lot of footprints and tire tracks on the shoulder of the road, and some crushed shrubs where they probably dragged the motorcycle up from below. I flash on paramedics lowering a basket to bring up Darryl McElroy’s body.
I watch Ryan staring down, trying to read his expression, but he seems impassive. “Lucky the fucking bike didn’t catch fire,” he says.
He’s right. Fires are commonplace in Malibu and there have been some bad ones, with the dry underbrush going up and spreading like kindling. We stand looking down for another couple of minutes, then get back in the car.
Ryan doesn’t say anything until we hit the Ventura Freeway. “That’s kind of spooky,” he says, “seeing where he went over.”
“Yeah, it is.”
We hit only a little traffic before the Fallbrook exit, and when we pull into the Stiles’ driveway, Ryan’s dad comes out to greet us.
“Did he know we were coming?”
“Yeah,” Ryan says. “I called him.”
We get out of the car. Ryan’s dad gives him a hug and shakes hands with me. “Good to see you again, Evan.” He turns to Melanie and
hugs her. “You too, honey. It’s been too long.” Melanie smiles but she seems a little overwhelmed by the attention. “You guys come on in. Mom’s made some iced tea and sandwiches.”
I glance over at the BMW. It’s parked straight now, brilliantly gleaming in the morning sun. Ryan’s dad sees me look. “I had it washed and detailed,” he says.
“You didn’t need to do that, Dad,” Ryan says.
“Car like that needs taking care of, son.”
Ryan, Melanie, and his dad start into the house. I go over and look at the car, trying not to be obvious as I check for any paint scrapes or fender damage. There are none. When I look up, I see Ryan watching me, smiling.
“Everything okay?”
“Perfect.”
In the kitchen, Ryan’s dad introduces me to Mrs. Stiles. She’s a small, slender woman with graying hair and bright eyes. She takes my hand and smiles big. “So, you’re the amazing jazz pianist,” she says. “I’m Bonnie. Welcome to our home.” She’s a tad taller than her husband and still very attractive. She beams at Melanie and I can already envision her as a helpful mother-in-law. “Hello, dear. So good to see you again.”
On the table are a platter of roast beef sandwiches and a huge pitcher of iced tea. I’m not that hungry after Emillio’s omelet, but the five us make a dent in the sandwiches and the tea hits the spot. Ryan and his dad tell a few stories, with his mother making a correction here and there, but never once does either of them mention the news stories about Ryan.
“Tell it right, Tom,” she says, as Tom recounts some family tale about fishing.
Tom Stiles grins. “She won’t let me get away with a thing.”
Bonnie turns to me. “Evan, let me show you the backyard and we’ll have a smoke.”
I get up and follow her outside. We sit at a redwood picnic table and light up. “Have you ever tried to quit?” she asks. She lights an extra long menthol with a chrome lighter.
“Haven’t we all?”
She smiles. “I quit a couple of times, and of course Tom nags me all the time, but what are you going to do.” I watch her take a deep drag and exhale. “Non-smokers just don’t get it, do they?”