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by Lee Goldberg

"It's a plastic bag," Charlie said, stealing a line from a bad guy in episode three. Or was it episode four?

  "This is your gun. We found it in a storm drain a mile from Esther Radcliffe's house," Grubb said. "Your prints are all over it."

  Grubb handed the bag to the silent, stone-faced cop standing by the door. Cop #1. That's what he would be called in a My Gun Has Bullets script. He was significant enough to be a presence, but not enough to actually deserve a name.

  "Obviously, someone stole my gun and killed her with it," Charlie said, glancing at Cop #1. He even looked like the extra from episode three.

  "Funny, I thought the obvious explanation was that you killed her." Grubb responded.

  "That's why you're still in the North Hollywood division," Charlie said. "If I killed Esther, and was dumb enough not to wear gloves, why didn't you find any powder burns on me?"

  "Because you were smart enough to wash your hands with Ajax before you came home."

  "I was smart enough to do that, but so stupid I left my prints on the murder weapon and tossed it in a gutter a mile from the crime scene."

  Grubb shrugged. "Maybe you underestimated my intelligence."

  Charlie sighed. "I doubt it."

  Grubb paced back and forth, collecting his thoughts. "You know what we found in your house?"

  "The six hundred pairs of socks I've lost?"

  "Fifty grand in cash," Grubb said. Charlie didn't have to look too far ahead to see where this clumsy frame was going and who was behind it. Flint Westwood.

  He never figured the guy for a killer, then again, he wouldn't have thought Esther was one, either. The only thing Charlie couldn't figure out was how the whole thing went down.

  Maybe Esther was planning on killing Flint with Charlie's gun, and things went bad, and Esther ended up dead. Perhaps Flint framed Charlie as an afterthought. Or maybe a frame was Flint's idea all along, to get back at Charlie for ruining his little blackmail operation.

  Whatever the explanation, Flint was at the center of it and Charlie was the fall guy.

  "It's not my money," Charlie said.

  "So you're telling me someone took your gun and left behind fifty grand to cover the loss?"

  "I'm telling you someone stole the gun and planted the money," Charlie said.

  "There you go, underestimating me again," Grubb said. "I got another theory, you want to hear it?"

  "I don't know," Charlie said, turning to Cop #1. "Do you?"

  Cop #1 said nothing. Of course he didn't. Extras usually don't, otherwise their price jumps from $50 to $500 a day, plus pension, health, and residuals. The show could only afford seven or eight speaking parts an episode. If Cop #1 had any lines, he'd have a name. So Grubb was probably getting that guy's dialogue, too. If Charlie's life was a TV show, he hoped Grubb was a recurring character who'd get written out real soon.

  "It goes something like this," Grubb said. "You pullover this crazy old lady for speeding, and what does she do? She shoots you in the gut. The studio buys you off with a TV series, but you never really forgive the hag for popping you. So you blackmail her for fifty thousand."

  Charlie sagged in his seat. Lou LeDoux. It had to be Lou. The sonofabitch sold him out. His own brother-in-law. Lou wouldn't take the story to the police when Charlie wanted him to, but now, when it meant saving his own ass, Lou tells everybody. Now the truth made a tidy motive for murder.

  What was interesting, though, was what Lou apparently didn't tell—that he was following Flint Westwood for Charlie last night. Which meant Grubb probably knew nothing about Flint and Esther. Charlie wasn't sure if that was going to help him, but he decided not to volunteer it anyway. He could see now he would need every edge he could get if he was going to get himself out of this.

  Grubb pulled out a chair and sat down at the table with Charlie. "She gets tired of paying you, so she loads your prop gun with live ammo. But her plan goes wrong. You don't get killed, some other poor schlub does."

  At least I'm off the hook on that killing, Charlie thought, if only by virtue of being charged with another. He had no doubt about being charged. Even an idiot like Grubb could convince the D.A. to press onward with a ready-made case like this.

  Flint had done a good job.

  "So you hit Esther up for another fifty grand. When she won't pay, you go over and see her. Maybe you didn't plan to kill her, maybe you just lost your temper, and that's why you blew her brains out. Whatever the reason, you did it." Grubb looked at Charlie. "Did I leave anything out?"

  Charlie decided to see just how much Grubb really knew. "If I was blackmailing her, what did I have on her that was worth so much money?"

  Grubb took another evidence bag out of his pocket. The guy was single-handedly keeping Ziploc in business. Inside the bag was a bullet. "You threatened to reveal she shot a cop."

  So they didn't know about Flint and Esther, and they didn't have the tapes or the pictures Charlie took of Esther paying Flint off in Playa Del Rey. Flint must have taken everything, but Sabrina still had the photos that she showed to Esther.

  Even so, Charlie had to admit, it was a hell of a case. He'd appreciate it more if he was the hard-nosed cop who put it together instead of the recalcitrant suspect going to prison.

  "Now's your opportunity to shoot me down with your brilliant alibi," Grubb said. Yeah, so it was. And Charlie would have one, too, if only there was a script to read it from.

  Charlie thought about spilling the truth, telling Grubb he spent the night with Sabrina Bishop, but that would draw her into his mess. The press would go crazy. It wouldn't take much of an intellectual leap, not even for Grubb, to figure the two of them were in on the killing together, Charlie for revenge, Sabrina for her own show. He wasn't going to bring her down with him. Not that he planned on going down.

  "I couldn't sleep, so I drove around all night," Charlie said.

  "That's your alibi?" Grubb was surprised. Clearly, he'd been expecting better. "You got some witnesses, like a gas station attendant, a waitress, somebody?"

  "Nope," replied Charlie.

  "You want to call your lawyer?"

  "Yeah, I think I should." Charlie glanced at Cop #1. "You want to bring me the Yellow Pages?"

  # # #

  Shooting came to a sudden halt on the Frankencop set right before Flint Westwood's first scene of the day. For the last three hours, the crew had just been sitting around in the shade, eating from the craft services table and reading the trades. The director was on his cell phone, whining to his agent. The actors were in their trailers, enjoying the air conditioning the below-the-line grunts didn't have.

  It was bound to happen on any show. Eddie Planet had seen production shut down for a hundred different reasons. Faulty equipment, nervous breakdowns, bad weather, salary disputes, food poisoning, union problems, rattlesnakes, even a flood.

  He could even understand the news about Esther Radcliffe's murder having such an emotional effect on some crew members that they couldn't get the first shot for an hour or two.

  But never, ever, had he heard of a show shutting down because the lead actor's pecker couldn't get into character. And never before had a shutdown meant so much to Eddie personally. Each hour of inactivity was costing the production company tens of thousands of dollars. The losses would be added to the deficit. And the higher the deficit got, the fewer hours of life Eddie Planet had left. Daddy Crofoot had made that very clear.

  So now Eddie was in Flint's trailer, standing in front of Flint, who sat in his bathrobe, doe-eyed and depressed.

  "All you have to do in this scene is pick up the radio and call headquarters," Eddie said. ''There's nothing to it."

  "My cock doesn't want to call headquarters."

  "Your cock isn't on camera," Eddie said.

  "It doesn't matter." Flint stared forlornly at his groin. "It's part of me."

  "Yes, I know that," Eddie said impatiently. "But if the rest of you doesn't call headquarters, you won't know that the Slime Devil escaped from Cryopriso
n."

  "There's no cock motivation in that," Flint said. "I'm an actor, Goddammit—there needs to be cock motivation."

  "Okay, fine, cock motivation." Eddie drummed his fingers on the countertop. "The desk sergeant, her name's Monique."

  "I thought the desk sergeant was Harry."

  "Well, now it's fucking Monique," Eddie snapped. "And she's not wearing underwear."

  "She's not?"

  "No, she's not," Eddie said. "She's waiting for your call, for your cock to call, and just hearing your voice, knowing that magnificent cock is part of you, turns her on."

  "And what's in it for my cock?"

  "It wants to fuck her." Eddie pounded his fist on the counter. "What else do you think it wants to do?"

  Flint closed his eyes and concentrated. Eddie watched, drumming his fingers again on the counter. Flint opened his eyes and shook his head. "It's not working."

  "Maybe it would work if you tried it outside, in character, in front of the camera," Eddie said.

  "I don't think so," Flint said. "It's just not into it today." The fact was, his penis had retreated into his testicles and might not ever come out.

  The trailer door opened, and there stood Delbert Skaggs. That, in itself, was a surprise, since this was the first time he had ever shown himself on the set. But he was about to do better than that.

  "Hello, Eddie," Delbert said, closing the door softly behind him. "What's the problem here?"

  "His cock lacks motivation," Eddie said.

  Delbert nodded his head, took a seat beside Flint, and put his arm around him. "I think I have the solution." With his other hand, Delbert reached into his jacket, pulled out his gun, and jammed it into Flint's crotch.

  Flint let out a little yelp, sitting straight up, his eyes glued on the gun. This was the second time in twenty-four hours his stupendous studliness had been threatened.

  Eddie instinctively jerked back, pinching his knees together as if it were his own crotch Delbert was aiming at.

  Delbert spoke very calmly. "Why don't I just blow it off and it won't trouble any of us again?"

  "Daddy wouldn't like that," Flint stammered.

  "Daddy has invested millions of dollars in this project. Usually, when something endangers Daddy's investments, he has me remove it." Delbert forced the gun deeper into Flint's groin, causing Flint to ride up in his seat. "This is endangering his investment."

  "I think I found a motivation," Flint squeaked.

  Delbert removed the gun. "I thought you would."

  Flint quickly got up from his seat and hurried out of the trailer. Eddie watched Delbert slip the gun back into his jacket.

  Eddie willed his knees to separate and reached into the refrigerator for an Evian. "You certainly know how to talk to actors," Eddie said, shielded by the refrigerator door.

  When Delbert didn't respond with a hail of gunfire, Eddie figured it was safe to stick his head out again and close the door. Delbert just sat there, watching him. Eddie opened the plastic bottle, took a long drink, and forced a smile.

  "You and I make a hell of a team," Eddie said. "I'm the idea man, the creative talent if you will, and you're ..." Eddie looked into Delbert's dark, almost lifeless eyes, and it came out before he could stop himself. "... you're the killer."

  Eddie's knees involuntarily clacked together, his testicles shrivelled up, his back went rigid, expecting Delbert to whip out his gun and shoot. Instead, Delbert just smiled thinly. "You got something you want to say, Eddie?"

  "Don't get me wrong, I think things are working out great," Eddie said, relaxing only slightly. "An actor gets killed on My Gun Has Bullets. The Two Dicks get parboiled. Boo Boo disappears and Miss Agatha gets snuffed. It's all good news for us."

  Eddie finished his water and carefully set the plastic bottle down. "I was just thinking it's time to let the show compete creatively for a while."

  "Creatively." Delbert wanted Eddie to get out on that limb, to give him another reason to want him dead.

  "With compelling stories, strong characters, and interesting actors," Eddie said. "You know, maybe see how we do awhile the old-fashioned way."

  Delbert slowly rose from his seat to stand in front of Eddie. ''The old-fashioned way is dead, I thought you understood that."

  "I do, of course I do," Eddie said quickly, realizing his next few words could mean the difference between life and death. "I was just thinking maybe it would be better for the show, for Daddy's investment, if our competition stopped having accidents for a couple weeks. We wouldn't want anyone else noticing all our good luck."

  There was a long silence during which Eddie imagined Delbert trying to decide how to kill him. Should I slit Eddie's throat? Shoot him in the gut? Or smash his head against the wall until his skull splits open?

  Eddie didn't know it, but it was probably as close as he would ever get to actually reading Delbert's mind.

  Delbert motioned Eddie closer and then spoke quietly into his ear.

  "Thinking can be hazardous to your health, Eddie," Delbert whispered. "I would advise against it."

  "Say no more," Eddie whispered, giving Delbert the thumbs-up and stepping back, allowing his co-executive producer plenty of room to get to the door. The sooner the better.

  "I always appreciate your sound advice," Eddie said, "because you know this business like you were born into it."

  Delbert opened the door and stepped outside, but that didn't stop Eddie from talking.

  "I said it from the moment we met, you're a natural," Eddie said. "More than that, you're a visionary."

  Delbert slammed the door and headed for his car. The fact was, Delbert envisioned at least two, possibly three more deaths in the future. One was Eddie Planet, the other was Sabrina Bishop. She knew about Flint's blackmail scheme, and also had the potential to carry on the Miss Agatha franchise. She had to go. And if the American justice system couldn't take care of Charlie Willis, Delbert would.

  Back in the trailer, Eddie sat down carefully, breaking into an itchy, anxious sweat. Frankencop was on the verge of becoming a mega-hit, and he was thankful to Delbert for bringing them to the precipice. But Delbert's job was done. Eddie didn't need a co-executive producer anymore, certainly not one who jeopardized the success of the show. Surely, even Daddy Crofoot would appreciate that.

  And if he didn't, well, maybe Eddie didn't need him anymore, either.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Listening to television themes could usually lift Don DeBono out of the doldrums and energize him to action. Yet not even the throbbing rhythms of Barnaby Jones could stir him today.

  DeBono sat behind his desk in an office that suddenly seemed too big, making insignificant everything that he was and aspired to achieve. All because some bloodthirsty, psycho-killer asshole murdered Esther Radcliffe. If he had any tears left, he'd start sobbing again.

  He wasn't mourning Esther Radcliffe, it was the loss of Miss Agatha that he grieved for. Without it, he had no more hits left. His network was a wounded deer in cougar country.

  And just outside his door the vultures were circling. Buttonwillow McKittrick was sharpening her talons, ready to pick on his rotting bones.

  Esther's death wouldn't have mattered so much if he still had Boo Boo, the wonder dog, the hitmaker. Even Esther's sensational murder got second billing in the nation's newspapers to the burning question WHERE'S BOO BOO?

  The whole country loved Boo Boo. The ugly mutt was bigger than Elvis—already he was being sighted more often than the King, Big Foot and the Loch Ness monster put together. He was being sighted everywhere but Thursdays at eight p.m. on UBC.

  Gripped by a pang of anxiety, he aimed his remote at the stereo system and skipped forward to Ironside.

  The theme's familiar strains conjured up a rush of reassuring images. The main title silhouettes. Robert Ironside. Lighting his cigarette. Enjoying that first puff. Then ka-blammo. Shot in the back. Finished.

  But Ironside wasn't. Did he let a shattered spine stop him? Hel
l, no. He fought back. Even strapped in a wheelchair, no villain could best him.

  Okay, DeBono thought, sitting up straight. So he had no hit shows. He'd been shot in the back by lady luck. He was down. What could he do now?

  He zapped the CD player again. The Six Million Dollar Man. Steve Austin, astronaut, a man barely alive. Lost his arms and legs in a fiery crash. Did that stop him? No, it made him better than he was before.

  Better. Stronger. Faster.

  That's what his network was. Cut off at the knees. A cripple. What DeBono needed was bionic science. He got up from behind his desk, and walked toward the display case of TV Guides. There was wisdom here.

  He zapped again while staring at it all, every minute in the history of television, bound and cataloged on the shelves in front of him.

  Ratings and shares danced in his head. Series. Specials. Finales. Rescue from Gilligan's Island. The "Who Shot J.R.?" season premiere of Dallas. The final episode of The Fugitive.

  What did they all have in common?

  Popular characters. Everyone loved Gilligan, hated J. R., and rooted for Richard Kimble.

  Big events. The castaways finally rescued. Loathsome J.R.'s attacker revealed. Dr. Richard Kimble finding the one-armed man.

  But there was more to it than that. DeBono could feel it. He was missing that essential something that grabbed the nation by the throat and slammed them against their TV screens.

  What the hell was it?

  DeBono tapped the scan button on his CD remote. The themes from Mary Tyler Moore, Lost in Space, Branded, Wonder Woman, Saddlesore, Time Tunnel, The Honeymooners, and Batman shot past his head like bullets. He closed his eyes, paced, and tried to squeeze the answer out of his brain with sheer concentration.

  It was no good. Nothing was coming. If he had the answer, he wouldn't need Boo Boo. And how could he concentrate when another, bigger question was tormenting him, just as it did an entire nation?

  Where's Boo Boo?

  DeBono suddenly froze, his heart pounding so loud it drowned out F-Troop.

  Where's Boo Boo?

  Could it be so simple? So obvious? He switched off the CD player and stood very still, holding the thought, caressing it.