“The fact is, I’m trying to find out what exactly happened to Dray,” I told Heather. “I know the director isn’t a regular on the set and you aren’t there every week, but you’ve done a number of episodes of Dead City and I’m willing to bet you knew the company pretty well, so I’m hoping you might be able to answer some questions I have.”
Heather’s “helpful” face had fallen as soon as I’d gotten the first sentence out of my mouth, and now she was looking somewhat short of hostile but not exactly mentor-like anymore. She wasn’t crazy about my mentioning that a TV director isn’t one of the most standard fixtures on a set either. So her voice had dropped a few tones when she spoke again.
“Why are you looking into this?” she asked. “Are you one of the security people Dray hired?”
Even in trying not to give me any new facts, Heather had immediately jumped to something I hadn’t known before. “Dray had private security?” I said.
Heather shrugged. “Most stars do,” she said. “They have a lot of crazy fans and you never know who’s dangerous and who’s not. Even the most accessible out of the bunch usually has a bodyguard hanging around. The past few weeks Dray had been trying out some new ones, apparently. It was like an open casting call. A different security consultant would show up on the set every day and confer with him between takes. Then that one was never heard from again and a new one would show up the next day.”
“How did you know they were security consultants and not, say, publicists or drug dealers?” I tried to slip that last one in there, but I’m as subtle as an anvil.
But Heather didn’t blink. “Every one of them was carrying a weapon,” she said. “If they were publicists, I think I want to sign on with them. So if you’re not private security, who are you?”
“I’m the parrot’s agent,” I told her.
She squinted. I felt like it had become harder to see me. “So why is the parrot’s agent trying to do investigative work on the actor’s murder?” she asked.
It was a fair question. “I’m also an attorney. I’ve been asked to work on the case for the lawyer handling the case of someone who has been questioned by the police but hasn’t been charged, and I don’t think that person killed Dray, so I’m trying to figure out who did, and why.”
Heather took a bite of her burger as a way to avoid talking for a moment. She chewed carefully and took a sip of her milkshake, which might or might not have been one of the “adult” ones listed on the menu. “Is this the crazy woman who said Dray had fathered her child?” she asked.
Swell. Now Patty had a reputation. “I’m not at liberty to say who it might be just yet,” I dodged. “Like I said, I’m not really the criminal attorney. I’m not going to represent anybody in court if it comes to that.”
“That’s a yes,” Heather said, sitting back on the high barstool (it had a back) and folding her arms in a gesture of victory. “So then you know who she is.”
Okay, that was just a little bit cryptic. No, it was a lot cryptic. “Don’t you?” I asked. I could be just as evasive if she wanted to play that game.
“No. No more than the nut at the memorial. As far as I know, nobody on the set knew who she was. We saw her a couple of times and then she stood up and accused Les Mannix of killing Dray. Never saw her since. So why don’t you tell me what you know?” Directors are just as vicious with their gossip as anyone else. Maybe more. But it at least did tell me that Heather apparently hadn’t heard about the suspicion around Patty, or was discounting it. She wanted to know about the mystery woman at the memorial service.
Luckily, I knew nothing about her, which is my comfort zone. I could vamp, which is a lot like lying but technically involves no untrue information.
“I can’t say anything about who my client is or isn’t,” I said. All of which was true, but irrelevant to what Heather was asking. “What I can tell you is there are a lot of possibilities. For example, I heard that Dray was unhappy about his job and his marriage. Did you know that?”
Heather did not miss a beat, although a french fry seemed to fascinate her for a moment as she bit it neatly in two. “I don’t know anything about Dray and Denise’s marriage,” she said, but I noticed she was still staring at her plate as she said it. “As for being unhappy on Dead City, he had no reason to sign a new three-year contract for truckloads of money if he wanted out. My guess is that if he was that fed up, he could have left.”
“Except he was making a bunch of money,” I said. “How about on set? Was he uncooperative? Moody?” I didn’t have any food to distract me, but watching Heather eat a hamburger (with arugula, sprouts, organic ketchup, some raw kale, and a multigrain bun, thus making the burger itself irrelevant) was spectacle enough. She was meticulous in her biting and chewing, never a spontaneous move even with the milkshake. How a woman can look thoughtful sipping on a milkshake was something I’d have to ponder for months to come.
“Never,” she said. “Dray was a complete pro at every turn, always knew his lines, always took direction well. I never had another actor complain about working with him.” That was what any director who wanted to stay employed would say about a star actor, even a dead one. Heather was reacting as if she were being interviewed by an investigative journalist instead of having lunch in the presence of a parrot’s agent.
“Okay, you’ve been diplomatic,” I said. “I can tell anyone who asks that you said all the right things. Now tell me what actually happened and I promise I’ll keep anything you say to myself.”
“I have no reason to lie about Dray,” Heather said, looking me steadily in the eye with an expression that was supposed to make me quiver in my boots. Luckily I wasn’t wearing boots. “Look, I’m a TV director and he was one of the stars of the show. My interaction with him was all on the set, and he was really good at what he did. He wasn’t one of those prima donnas who demand to have an ostrich in their trailers just to see if they can exercise that level of power.”
I found myself wondering if I could have gotten an ostrich for Dray’s trailer if I’d been called, which was a problem with focus on my part. I shook myself back to the point. “I hear there were some problems after he got back from rehab,” I said. “That he might have relapsed, had people on the set who might have been suppliers. You seem to think they were different security agents. Do you know if Dray was using anything that might have gotten him in trouble?”
Heather looked impatient. Here she thought she was going to have her ego stroked for an hour while an aspiring director asked for her wisdom and instead she got interrogated by a crazy amateur detective. I couldn’t say I blamed her.
“I go miles out of my way not to know anything about what the actors on a show I’m directing might be doing or not doing when they’re not on the set, or even if they are on the set but not in a scene I’m directing.” She pursed her lips a little in either contemplation or weary irritation. In retrospect, I’d bet on the latter. “I did not have any interaction with Dray Mattone that indicated to me he was on drugs. But then I’m not great at those things. I’m worried about the whole show, not just one actor, even a star.” She looked at her watch. “And that means I’ve got to get back to my set. We’re on location today and the city doesn’t like us to go overtime when we have to close whole streets.”
Heather stood and pulled her purse from the back of the barstool she’d been sitting on. It opened briefly, and if I hadn’t simply happened to be attracted to the style of the bag, I wouldn’t have noticed the gun she was carrying inside it, next to the small box of ammunition.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“It doesn’t mean anything that she had a gun in her purse,” Consuelo said. “You know that’s not the gun that killed Dray Mattone because the cops have it. She’s a woman living in Manhattan and she owns a gun. It’s perfectly legal and it doesn’t give her a motive.”
All that was correct. And I didn’t have any reason to think Heather Alizondo had shot and killed Dray. I’m not nuts for guns generally,
and seeing it concealed like that was disconcerting. That’s what I was telling myself.
But Heather had been on edge during the lunch, she hadn’t told me anything helpful, and she had a gun in her purse. She’d also left a meeting to which she’d allotted an hour after only thirty-eight minutes. Something I’d said or done had unnerved her. I couldn’t identify what and I couldn’t explain why.
And there was no time to think about any of that because my (legal) client Patty Basilico was already on her way up the stairs to my office to pick up her parrot and I had to tell her she was not pregnant with Dray Mattone’s baby.
“Yeah, but a guy got shot and she has a gun.” It was the lamest possible response but the only one I could process at that moment. “We still don’t know where the bullets that shot Dray or the ones in Bostwick’s reenactment came from. She had a gun and bullets.”
“So does every cop in New York,” Consuelo said. “Do you think they all shot Dray Mattone in his trailer?”
“Not all of them,” I answered.
There was no further time for hilarious banter because the office door opened and Patty walked in carrying a box and humming to herself. She gave Consuelo and me a sunny hello and set the box on Consuelo’s desk.
“It’s chocolate chip cookies,” she said. “You two have been doing so much for me this week I felt like I had to bake you something special.”
My feelings were so conflicted I could easily have declared war on myself. On the one hand, my client had been consistently lying to me, to the point that I had no idea even who she really was.
On the other hand, she’d baked chocolate chip cookies and brought them to my office. You can see my dilemma.
I’d show Patty. I didn’t even open the box, although I saw Consuelo eyeing it with a look I wouldn’t want to cross. “Come on in,” I said as if I didn’t wonder if Patty had shot Dray Mattone in the head. “Sit down.”
But Patty was already at Barney’s cage. Consuelo had separated the two birds so Patty could take Barney home with her, but Maisie was not pleased and was squawking to let us know. Barney was simply sitting on his perch looking inscrutable because he’s a parrot and they don’t actually ever change facial expression except to open their beaks.
“Barney,” Patty cooed into the cage. “How’s my Barney?”
“A lot of people want you dead, Dray,” Barney said by way of greeting.
Patty looked embarrassed, of all things. “I can’t imagine who taught him that one,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll have to figure out how to get him to stop saying it.” She looked over at me. “I imagine it won’t be helpful if there’s a trial.” She was playing the role of the plucky client who knows she’s innocent to the hilt. And she was a good actress; she could easily have auditioned for a role on Dead City and gotten it, in my opinion.
“Patty, come over and sit for a minute,” I said, pointing to the chair in front of my desk. “I have to ask you about something.”
Consuelo clearly decided I was insane and opened the box of cookies. She put some out on a paper plate she got from the storage closet and asked Patty and me if we wanted some coffee. She meant to go to the Dunkin’ Donuts on our street, but Jamie and I wanted Consuelo in the room when I talked to Patty, so when our client told her she’d love a cup of coffee, I suggested Consuelo make it from the coffeemaker we have in the office, which we use only a few times a year because … did I mention there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts on our street?
Consuelo frowned a little but must have realized my intentions because she immediately began making coffee, but did it as quietly as possible so she could hear the whole conversation and no doubt quote from it verbatim later.
“Is something wrong?” Patty asked. “Have you heard something else from the police?” Her face was a perfect blend of fear and bewilderment, trying very hard to put a brave face on the circumstances. I wished Mom were here to study her technique.
“Well, yes, but not that you’re being charged, at least not yet.” Maybe I could ease into this. It was a question of prioritization: Which challenge would be the most upsetting so I could build up to that. “See, they’ve been running some background checks on you, stuff they do routinely in cases like this.”
Patty’s demeanor did not change. She was still upbeat with a tinge of false hope. “That’s not very upsetting. I’d expect them to do that.”
“Yeah, but they have questions they can’t answer. They say you just rented your house recently and that they can’t find any verifiable identification for you.”
Not a twinge, even as Consuelo, placing the plate of cookies on my desk, was clearly scrutinizing Patty’s face for surprise or anger or … something. “Well, that’s silly,” Patty said. “I have a driver’s license and a passport and credit cards and everything.”
“There’s something else,” I said. Might as well jump in with both feet. “You’re not carrying Dray Mattone’s baby.”
That statement evoked the first false note in Patty’s performance. Instead of looking stunned, she seemed to be trying for defiance and came up with confusion. “What do you mean? Of course I am.”
“No, you’re not. Denise Barnaby produced records that the police and Jamie’s expert have confirmed. Dray couldn’t father a child. And so far you haven’t produced any medical records or even the name of a doctor who can confirm that you’re pregnant.”
Consuelo sat back down at her desk, but she didn’t even pretend to be interested in any paperwork there. She was watching Patty and me intently.
“I don’t see why you would believe the word of that woman over me.” Patty’s voice was lower and had a harder edge on it than before. “Dray and I had an affair that she doesn’t want to believe really happened, and I got pregnant. Why would I make that up?”
“I don’t know,” I said, because I truly didn’t.
Patty’s eyes darkened a little. “What are you saying?” she asked. “Do you think I shot Dray because he didn’t get me pregnant? Is that the new version? Whose side are you on, Kay?”
“I really don’t think you shot Dray at all. But I honestly can’t figure you out, Patty. It seems like everything you’ve told me hasn’t been true and everything you’ve done looks like it was designed to make people—especially the police—think you did kill him. Most people would have acted relieved and glad to get out of police custody; you seemed a little disappointed. I want to believe what you tell me, but so far you haven’t given me a reason that I should.”
To be fair, that little diatribe went above and beyond the mission statement Jamie had given me for this conversation. But if I knew Patty—and that was certainly in question at this moment—I had to push a few of her buttons, particularly those regarding loyalty, in order to make her more open to laying her cards on the table.
It certainly seemed to have worked on Consuelo. She was staring openmouthed at me and had not even eaten the second cookie she’d taken off the plate. It sat in her hand unbitten.
Patty leaned back in her chair as if she’d been pushed. She let out her breath and looked at me for a long moment. “Wow,” she said.
I felt like agreeing but kept my feelings unspoken. It was best to let her speak when she was ready.
“Put down the gun,” Barney said.
“Enough, Barney,” Patty said to him. “I’m sorry I taught you that one.”
Consuelo dropped the cookie.
“Wait,” I said when I could control my voice again. “You taught Barney to say, ‘Put down the gun’?”
Patty closed her eyes and sighed again. “Yeah. And the one about how everybody wanted Dray dead, I taught him that. He really is a very fast learner. That part is true.”
My instincts were apparently in opposition to Consuelo’s: I immediately picked up one of the larger cookies on the plate and took a huge bite. When I could talk without being disgusting, I said, “Are there any other parts of what you’ve told me that are true?” My voice sounded weak and a little frightened
. I had clearly lost whatever authority I had once possessed in this conversation.
Patty didn’t even open her eyes. “Not much,” she said.
I saw Consuelo reach into the drawer at her right hand and pull out a voice recorder, which she turned on and placed on her desk. Consuelo, if she ever becomes a full-time agent, will be impossible to replace as an office manager.
“Why don’t you break with tradition and tell me what’s really going on?” I said.
“You wouldn’t believe me.” That was overplaying it, although she did not put the back of her hand to her forehead, and that’s when it struck me.
“I probably would even if you kept lying to me,” I told Patty. “You’re really a very good actress.”
She opened her eyes and perked up instantly. “You really think so?” Ah, the ego in showbiz. You can’t ever go wrong appealing to it.
“I do, and I used to act, so I know what I’m talking about.” If you wanted to call that acting.
“That’s so nice!” Patty hadn’t exactly reverted to her old persona, which I now realized was a role she was playing, but she was definitely sunnier than she had been a moment earlier. “Thank you!”
“But I don’t get what role you were playing,” I said, trying to get the conversation back on topic. “You seemed to be the perfect suspect in a murder.”
“That’s it exactly!” Patty pointed at me as a teacher does a pupil who just got something right for the first time. “I was supposed to be the person who looked like the killer. Well, no. That’s not what I was supposed to be. I realize now I was being set up.”
Consuelo, literally the voice of reason, cleared her throat. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and walk us through it?” she said.
“I could get in a lot of trouble,” Patty told her earnestly.
“You think you’re not now?” Consuelo asked.
Patty’s eyes welled up. Actors can go from emotion to emotion literally in the blink of an eye. They have to at auditions, and Patty had obviously been on a great many auditions.
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