Lights. Camera. Murder

by C. S. Poe

  No.

  Not really.

  Not at all, actually.

  Marion was an actor. He gave no hints that he desired to be anything else. He appeared to love what he did. Marion was a darling to John, to the rest of the cast, to all of the crew. Even some lowly, nobody PA on his first day.

  And to top it all off, he clearly had unresolved issues with Ethan, who’d made my lifelong shit list.

  He deserved to have his kindness returned.

  I stepped closer and carefully leaned into his space.

  He didn’t move away.

  So I kissed his smooth cheek.

  Marion studied the linoleum floor. “That was the sweetest letdown I’ve ever had.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  He looked up. “I thought for sure I had a chance to figure out who Rory Byrne was.”

  “It’s not you.”

  “Ah.” Marion shrugged a little. Smiled a little. Broke my heart a little. “They always say that.”

  I touched his chin. Just a fingertip. But he looked at me again. “It’s not you,” I reiterated. I kissed his mouth. Soft full lips worked in contrast to the hard lines of Marion’s jawline and cheekbones.

  I backed away.

  And left.

  I recycled empty Altoids tins.

  They could be turned into basically anything.

  I sat at the table, Optivisor pulled down over my glasses as I stripped the ends of two cables to solder onto a panel small enough to fit into the box. This was the third solar-powered USB charger I’d built since getting home.

  The television murmured on the other side of the room. Some show called New York, New York. I didn’t know anything about it beyond: canned laughter sitcom and Marion Roosevelt’s first big break. According to IMDb, anyway. He’d come out in real life after the second season aired, à la Ellen DeGeneres, so said one comment. Marion was several years younger, practically baby-faced. But he still knew how to steal the camera in every scene.

  “Jack’s gay?” a woman asked, question delivered in over-the-top comedic acting.

  I glanced up, raised the visor, and watched Jack—Marion’s character—sink into a couch as two friends argued on either side of him.

  “Did you not just see the man attached to Jack’s face? It was like something out of Alien,” the second actor countered.

  Insert audience laughter.

  She looked down at Jack. “Is this true?”

  Jack stared up at her. “You know how you hate my dad jokes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When I have a family, my kids will hate them twice as much.”

  More laughter.

  Marion was a good comedian, even when he had a shitty script to work with.

  I heard the schiiik of a key being inserted into the front-door lock, and turned in time to see the apartment door open and my most recently acquired ex step inside. I took off the visor as I quickly stood. “Nate?”

  “Hi, honey.” He shut the door.

  I held my hand out. “Key.”

  Nate ignored the demand, unbuttoned his coat, and walked to the couch while watching the flickering TV screen. “Are you really watching this show?” He picked up the remote from one of the cushions and turned the television off. “It’s awful.”

  “It’s not bad,” I countered.

  Nate turned toward me, rolling his eyes. “And if I’d said it was great, you’d have said it was shit.”

  “Why are you here?” I asked sternly.

  He approached, drew close, and placed his hands low on my hips. “We broke up.”

  “Right.”

  “So—”

  “I’m not interested.”

  Nate blindly reached down to grope me through my jeans. “You feel interested.”

  I grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. “Not with you.”

  He huffed and stepped back. “You have something more pressing to do than getting some no-strings-attached sex?” Nate laughed and held his hands up to interrupt anything I may have tried to say. “Sorry. I forgot. You’re too busy working. What’s the investigation this week? Undercover work as a drummer for some punk band that meets in mom’s basement?” He motioned to the worn-out clothes I was still wearing from all day on set. “And what about next week? CPA? Stock trader on Wall Street? Living out of your car while you track—”

  “Nate.”

  “You need to get a fucking life,” he shouted.

  “Did you come here to fight with me?” I asked calmly.

  He might as well have not heard me. “I think it’s disconcerting,” Nate began, “that in the three months we dated I never knew what in your closet was actually something Rory Byrne would wear to the grocery store.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, keenly aware of the defensive posture I was taking with him. “I have my groceries delivered.”

  Nate raised his hands like he wanted to wrap them around my throat. “Your only friend is a cat. Your one hobby is studying wiring diagrams. Every scenario that doesn’t play out according to the Dupin Decree, you say fuck it. You only live once and this is it?” He looked around the room—a bachelor pad in every sense—and snorted.

  I pointed at Nate and said in a collected tone, “I have one rule I live by.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it. Your life is defined by a rulebook, Rory. You enforce no lying, which is pretty fucking ironic considering that’s all you do for a living. I mean—who are you? Really? So I screwed around. But in our three months, were you ever once yourself with me?” Nate reached into his coat pocket and threw the house key at me.

  I caught it against my chest and watched him storm to the door. “Hey—”

  “Get bent.” He slammed the door behind him.

  INT. CHAPTER SIX – DAY

  I didn’t sleep Wednesday night because of Talking Heads.

  The band, that is.

  “This Must Be the Place” was running on a nonstop loop in my mind, which considering I’d probably last heard that song in 1988… I don’t know. I couldn’t even remember the lyrics properly.

  Something about no money. Always for love.

  La, la, la… find me or you?

  No.

  Did I find you?

  Something like that.

  But it wasn’t a coincidence—being stuck wide-awake in bed, humming the tune to an uncertain and uncomfortable love song while I mentally tended to the wounds Nate burned into my heart. In the solitude and darkness of night, I couldn’t dispute his accusations. I used my profession as a yardstick, keeping at bay anything and everything that threatened to make me lose control.

  To such an extreme, that I had instead lost my life.

  Nate was right.

  I didn’t have friends. I didn’t take in the sights of the city. I didn’t take a chance on the guy flashing enough signals that he could have landed a jumbo jet, because… why? I’d seen enough shitty human behavior over the last twenty years and wanted to protect myself? At the cost of not experiencing love at all?

  I guess, in a sense, I was a professional liar. And it was fucking screwed up that I could spin an untrue story to Marion as quickly and easily as breathing, but I couldn’t have a drink with the man because my job said no—he might be lying.

  It was barely after seven in the morning, but I was already stalking through staging. Past crafty, I turned down the back corridor and walked along the hall of dressing rooms. I stopped outside the closed door marked with Marion’s name and knocked loudly before I could stop myself.

  Before I could doubt myself.

  “Come in,” came a muffled response.

  I grabbed the knob and opened the door. Feeble, wintry sunlight was peeking in through partially closed blinds. An early morning talk show whispered from the television mounted on the wall. Marion stood in front of a full-length mirror, tugging suspenders over his shoulders.

  He turned, looked surprised. “Rory—”

  I shut the door, walked a
cross the room, took Marion’s face into my hands, and leaned down to kiss him. He opened to it without question, without coaxing. He tasted of coffee and something sweet—like pancakes and syrup. Marion drew his hands up my biceps, squeezed, and then settled them around my neck.

  He fit against my body as if he were made for no man but me.

  I broke the kiss, drew back enough to touch my nose against his, then pressed our foreheads together. “I made mistake.”

  “Did you?”

  “Last night. I shouldn’t have….” I leaned back a little, stared at his mismatched eyes. “Think we could do another take?”

  Marion’s mouth quirked, then broke into a wide smile. “Lights.”

  “Camera.”

  “Action.”

  “Can I take you out for drinks tonight?” I asked.

  “I’d love that.”

  I kissed his mouth again, sealing the deal.

  There was a loud knock at the door, followed by Ethan calling Marion’s name.

  Marion dropped his hands from me and took a quick look around the tiny room. “Shit.” He moved to the standing shower, pulled the curtain back, and motioned me inside. “Get in. You’re fired if he finds you in here.”

  I wanted to say, screw Ethan. Wanted to tell Marion then and there I wasn’t a PA and not to worry about me. But even if I was going to throw caution to the wind and take him out tonight, I’d still been hired to do a job. It was one thing to blow my cover with Marion, and another entirely with a hothead I couldn’t trust like Ethan.

  I obediently climbed into the shower and pulled the curtain. I listened to Marion open the door, quickly followed by the scuff of steps and someone backing into a chair, wooden legs dragging across the linoleum.

  “I don’t have it,” Marion said without prompting.

  “Then what the fuck are you doing?”

  “I’m getting ready for my job, Ethan,” Marion said firmly.

  The sound of bodily wrestling nearly undid me—the thought of Ethan trying to manhandle Marion against his will making me see red. My heart pounded in my throat as I debated for a split second whether to jump out of the stall and smash his face in with my fist.

  “I made you,” Ethan hissed. “And I can ruin you. Don’t forget that.”

  Another shove, and this time it sounded as if Marion hit the floor. Steps drew close to the shower, continued past, and retreated out of the dressing room. The door slammed shut.

  I left the stall in a rush to find Marion sitting on the floor. His knees were partially drawn to his chest. “Did he hurt you?” I bent down, took his hands, and pulled Marion to his feet in one quick, fluid motion.

  “I’m fine.”

  I barely heard him over the roar of blood pumping in my ears. I took his face into my hands, inspecting him for any visible damage. “What did he want?” I asked, tone severe and clipped as I struggled with unexpected anger.

  “Nothing,” Marion insisted. “Please—don’t worry about it.” He put his hands over mine, pulled them away, and stood on his toes to kiss me. “He’s an arrogant asshole. I can handle Ethan.”

  Marion was lying.

  I didn’t need deception training to know that.

  I’d left Marion alone at his insistence that he was quite fine and needed to get into makeup. But I wasn’t happy. At all. Which is why when I came around the corner and saw John at crafty, I made a beeline for him at the expense of the actual task I was being paid to do.

  “John. We need to talk,” I said when I reached his side.

  John looked sideways as he filled a cup with coffee from the airpot. “Oh. You’ve got an update?”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “You’ve got to give me something,” he murmured, grabbing a handful of Sweet’N Low packets. “I’m going stir-crazy.”

  He was not getting any names. Not until I had my Hercule Poirot moment. Because the second John knew about any suspicions I might have, he’d act differently around those individuals. It wouldn’t be his fault—human nature and all. But if the thief was smart, the change in John’s behavior would be the warning bell to get the hell out of Dodge before I was able to pin them to the wall.

  “I’m considering several individuals,” I answered. “And that’s all I can say at this moment.”

  “I don’t like being told no,” John remarked, dumping the artificial sweetener into the black coffee. He stirred the concoction with a plastic spoon before giving me another look.

  “You’ll like a compromised investigation even less.”

  “Then what did you want to talk about?” His voice dropped to an almost inaudible whisper when a few crew members entered the staging area from behind us before retreating to the art department’s workshop. John took a sip of coffee, made a disgusted face, and started walking away.

  I caught up with him in a few easy strides. “Ethan,” I said.

  “Didn’t we discuss him last night?”

  “We did,” I agreed, following John into the hall and on toward the production office.

  “Then why are we revisiting an old conversation?”

  “I’m sorry you don’t want to hear this, but the reality is, he’s a caustic—”

  “Randy,” Laura exclaimed as we approached her desk. She looked to have just arrived herself, taking off her coat and shoving her purse into a drawer. Her lips were an almost neon pink today.

  I paused midstep. “Rory,” I corrected.

  She waved a hand, picked up a sheet of paper with the other, and held it out. “Close enough. I need a hundred copies of tomorrow’s sides. Distro when you’re done.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got to make a phone call,” John said as a means of excusing himself.

  “Hold on—John!” I said after him.

  “I need these right away,” Laura interrupted.

  Fuck.

  I took the sheet from her with a snap of my wrist and walked past her desk as John shut his office door. The same young man—the fellow PA who’d been forever relegated to office duties—glanced my way from where he was once again leaning against the top of the copier. He took note of the paperwork I held, then pointed down the long, dim hall.

  “The other—”

  “Slow as hell, I know,” I muttered, marching by.

  I passed the closed office doors, the darkened editing suite, and went to the lone photocopier in the unused portion of office space. It was especially eerie in the morning, with hardly a sliver of weak sunlight reaching between the tightly drawn blinds on windows. I opened the top of the machine, put the sheet down on the glass, tapped buttons more forcefully than necessary, and took a step away as the copier coughed to life.

  I hadn’t even made it to the tenth copy when a prickle of discomfort began to make itself known, tip-tapping along my spine and causing the hair on my neck stand on end. I glanced to the right. Lights and the voices of staffers seemed so far away, encased safely in a bubble I was given no access to. I looked to my left, studying the dark expanse, the nothingness broken only by the shapes of haphazardly placed furniture.

  I wasn’t alone.

  Taking another step back from the copier, I walked farther into the shadows, to the very end of the room, and took a peek around the corner where construction tarps blocked access.

  Nothing and no one.

  But the distinct edge of uneasiness was still there. Like a dull blade digging between my shoulder blades. I took a few careful steps through the office space before the loud crackle of an open walkie shattered the silence.

  “Anyone got eyes on Davey?” the voice of a crew member came through.

  I followed the tinny sound into the farthest corner of the room.

  Davey was dead on the floor, unwrangled phone cable wrapped around his neck.

  INT. CHAPTER SEVEN – DAY

  “Rory Byrne,” a plainclothes officer said as he was shown into a conference room inside The Bowery’s office. He reached a hand out. “It’s been a hot minute
.”

  “A few years,” I agreed, quickly shaking Detective Harrison Grey’s hand.

  Grey was about my age. He looked like James Bond—the Craig Someone-Or-Other one—although he was a bit more rumpled around the edges. Then again, anyone would look like they were slumming it when compared to a Hollywood actor wearing custom-tailored Tom Ford suits. A lifetime ago we’d been briefly acquainted, but like all my relationships, it’d gone the way of the dodo. Unlike the rest of my exes though, we’d severed ties amicably and kept in touch professionally.

  “What the hell mess you get involved with now?” Grey asked. He turned and watched through the glass wall as a medical examiner, flanked by uniformed cops, wheeled a gurney down the hall.

  John and Laura were hot on their heels before the producer gave an instruction that sent Laura to make phone calls at her desk, directly across from us. Damage control for the production, no doubt. John disappeared out of view as he rushed after the ME.

  Grey looked at me again.

  “Theft,” I stated. “John Anderson is my client.”

  Grey put a hand on the back of a chair and inclined his head in the direction of the ME’s plus one. “So was that an unfortunate coincidence or relevant to your case?”

  “The victim was actually my number-one person of interest,” I answered, keeping one eye on Laura over Grey’s shoulder. “So I’d say it’s pretty relevant.”

  “Sorry.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned back against the far wall. “It obviously wasn’t him.”

  “Hmm. What’s this do for your pool of suspects?”

  “I’ve still got a few.”

  Two, really. Ethan Lefkowitz was going to remain a suspect until I could piece together his hostility toward talent—Marion especially. And Laura Turner, based on the fact that she flanked John’s office, that I’d not been able to prove her innocence via the current timetables, and that she harbored an intense dislike for set crew in particular, which was decidedly strange.

  Grey took out a notepad from his coat. “Mind if we play Twenty Questions?”