Lights. Camera. Murder

by C. S. Poe

  “Please do. I’m still undercover and may be able to salvage this case.”

  He shot me an amused smile. “You’d have made a better cop, you know.”

  I shrugged and adjusted my glasses. “I don’t like guns.”

  Grey set his pen to paper. “What time did you get in?”

  “Around 7:15 a.m.”

  “And you found the victim when?”

  I pulled back the sleeve of my shirt and checked the time. “Around 7:30 a.m.; Davey—the deceased—has a 7:00 a.m. call-time. I didn’t check in with him when I arrived, so I’m not sure what his movements were prior to death.”

  Grey took a folded sheet out of his pocket and waved it idly. “Mr. Anderson has already provided me with this.”

  I pushed off the wall and snatched the paper. It was cast and crew call-times for that Thursday. “Can I borrow your pen?” I took the offering, leaned over the table, and began to cross off names. “John is not a suspect. Mr. Roosevelt was in his dressing room—”

  “Marion Roosevelt,” Grey agreed, watching me mark up the list. “He looks hot as hell in the promos for this show. Is he really as short as they say he is?”

  I glanced at Grey over the rim of my glasses. “Yes,” I answered brusquely, returning to the call-times. “Mr. Lefkowitz… I had, well, ears on him.” Unfortunately. I circled a few more names and handed back the paper. “These ones with circles—you’ve got a few PAs who may have seen Davey come through the office. And he was certainly with someone, unless he strangled himself.” I said that last part dryly.

  “He might have,” Grey stated.

  I shook my head. “No. This was a murder.”

  “When folks have a mind to end it, they find a way.”

  “This isn’t a suicide,” I insisted.

  Grey stared at me for a beat, offered a sympathetic expression, then said, “The ME will decide that. In the meantime, I’m going to have to shut down production, at least for today. I’ve got to get CSU down here to comb over the scene.”

  “That’s highly problematic for me.”

  “A death trumps robbery, Byrne.”

  I could hear John speaking, his voice bouncing off the walls of staging as the remaining office staff and I were escorted from the area by the police. I poked my head into the doorway to see him addressing the entire cast and crew from set. Every single person listened in utter silence. I stepped quietly into the massive room, moved closer, and identified a few fellow PAs among the crowd. Grief-stricken, confused, one was even crying.

  The reactions of those immediately under Davey’s power-tripping little fingers all appeared sincere in their upset. Good for them—they weren’t suspects in the murder as far as I was concerned. Bad for me—because they weren’t suspects in the murder.

  “Rory,” someone whispered.

  I quickly turned to my left and looked down at Marion. His expression was disorganized heartache and a failing attempt at remaining stoic. “You okay?” I murmured.

  He nodded, indicated toward John, and stepped closer to me.

  John was saying, “The police have informed me that we will be closed down for the day.” The crew finally began to mutter among one another. “People—people! Please. I know this is unprecedented. There’s a deadline for the show, folks are working under contracts, and we all need our paychecks. But we are obligated to accommodate the needs of New York’s finest as they investigate what happened to one of our own.”

  “How’d he die?” someone asked.

  “I heard he hanged himself,” another called.

  John put both hands up. Even from the back of the throng, I could see his round face breaking out in a sweat. “We all want answers,” he insisted loudly over the raised voices. “But it can’t come from us. We must let the police do their job so we can come back and do ours and make Davey proud with a complete season of The Bowery.”

  “This is like that Supernatural episode,” someone in front of me muttered.

  “The what?” a coworker whispered back.

  “Where on-set deaths finally shut down production, but really no one cares, they just want to do their job. It was a funny one.”

  “Dude. Davey is dead.”

  “I know.”

  I felt Marion take my hand into his own, squeezing tightly.

  John continued, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” He reached into a pocket for his handkerchief. “And we will all get back to work as soon as humanly possible.”

  Marion let go of my hand as cast and crew began to turn around and head toward the door immediately behind us. He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. “A hell of a day, and it’s hardly ten,” he said, eyes cast down. His face had a decidedly gray shade to it. “I guess this puts a damper on our drinks.”

  I started to agree. Because that would have been following the rules. “No,” I abruptly answered.

  Marion looked up. “No?” he repeated, confused.

  “No,” I said again. “We—we should still go out.”

  He raised one finely shaped eyebrow.

  “You only live once.”

  Marion cracked a smile. “That’s true, I suppose.” He looked at the folks shuffling around us to the doorway to go home, then nodded. “All right. Let me change out of costume.”

  “Sure. I’ll be here.” I watched Marion head in the opposite direction of the crowd, pass crafty, and disappear down the side hall. I retrieved my phone from my pocket, walked to the far corner for a bit of privacy, and dialed Violet Shelby.

  “Morning, Rory,” she answered. Never good morning. Shelby was a realist.

  “Ma’am, there’s been a situation.”

  “Report.”

  “Murder. Well, I’m certain it will be a murder once the ME files the paperwork.” I glanced over my shoulder at the handful of folks left standing around John. “Davey—Key PA. He was my first boss in the film hierarchy.”

  “Was he a suspect?”

  “My most likely candidate.”

  Shelby muffled a curse. “What happened?”

  “It’s unclear. There’s a branch off the production office that’s unused due to partial renovation. I found him in the corner on the floor, a bunch of phone cords wrapped around his neck.”

  “Jesus. How’re you?”

  “Fine, ma’am.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s not my first dead body. I’m okay, really. But it throws a hell of a wrench into the works. Davey had motive, means, and he even talked about a recently acquired project that was going to get him into the big leagues.”

  “Guilty innocence,” Shelby said thoughtfully, almost to herself.

  “The police are shutting down production for the day,” I continued. “Someone killed him. I know it. And that person works for the show. There’s a chance it’s unrelated to the theft, but given my own belief that Davey possessed the missing script, I don’t put much stock into these being two distinct events.”

  “I’m inclined to agree. Listen, Rory… you be careful. Someone at Kaufman is so desperate for their fifteen minutes, they’re willing to lie, steal, and kill. If your cover is blown—”

  “It won’t be,” I said with absolute certainty. “Twenty years, ma’am. Have some faith in me.”

  “I’ve never doubted you.”

  I looked toward John again. He was mopping his face with the handkerchief while talking with Ethan and two other department heads. The director’s body language was interesting. He was rigid. Taut, like a rubber band about to snap. Ethan spoke with his hands, gesturing with concentrated intensity. I took a few steps to the side to change my angle. Ethan’s pant leg was discolored over his right knee, and a dusty white clung to the material.

  “Rory?” Shelby’s voice in my ear jerked me back to the conversation.

  “Sorry. What was that?” I turned away, saw Marion returning in street clothes.

  “I want you to keep me updated. I’ll phone Anderson, but let me—”

&nbs
p; “I will,” I said hastily. “I need to go, ma’am.”

  “Good luck,” she said and ended the call without another word.

  I put my phone in my pocket, fetched my coat from the crew lockers nearby, and pulled my arms through as Marion shot me a smile while walking past me. I discreetly followed him out of staging, down the hall, and to the elevator. We rode to the first floor in silence, stepped out the front doors and into the now-bright, crisp-cold morning.

  “Do you like beer?” Marion asked.

  “For breakfast?”

  He laughed a little, looked up at me, and squinted one eye as the sun hit him just right. “Steinway Bierhaus is only two blocks from here. They serve a mean pint-and-pretzel combo.”

  “This is a film neighborhood,” I started. “You don’t mind being seen out with a guy?”

  “I think the industry as a whole would be more shocked if I was out with a woman.”

  I stopped at the end of the block. “You know what I mean.”

  “Not if you don’t care.”

  It felt liberating to say, “I don’t.”

  We walked the rest of the way in a comfortable, companionable silence. Marion kept his hands tucked into his pockets, shoulder bumping into me now and again. I took a deep breath of cold air scented with exhaust, garbage, and road salt, then draped my arm across his shoulders. Marion tucked into my side. Warm and perfect.

  A feeling of respite came over me. A calmness and gentleness that in all my forty-plus years I couldn’t ever recall experiencing quite like this moment. That it was okay to need this—human touch and tenderness—even in the midst of a job. Despite the job. I could uncover a thief, stop a killer, and still take a moment to love a man.

  I could take a moment to live.

  We entered Steinway Bierhaus, and a whoosh of warm air hit my face. I followed Marion up the steps from the front door. He gave a friendly hello to a man putting away glasses at a bar well stocked with high-end spirits, then led the way into a large communal drinking hall. Multiple big-screen televisions were turned on, each playing a different sports channel. A scattering of customers sat on benches at the long tables, mostly eating, but a few shared pitchers of beer while glued to a hockey game.

  Marion stopped at a counter on one end of the room, ordered for us both, and insisted on paying. I took the glasses of beer and followed him to a table near the back windows that was completely empty. He set the basket of hot pretzels and mustard down, unbuttoned his coat, and piled the winter garments beside him on the seat. I sat next to him and slid a beer over.

  Marion accepted the drink, considered for a moment, then raised it. “To Davey.”

  I nodded and tapped my glass against his.

  Marion took a sip and said, “It isn’t selfish to not want to think about it, is it?”

  “No,” I quickly answered. “Dwelling on death never helped anyone.”

  He reached for a pretzel. “I never would have guessed you were a PA when I first saw you.” Marion dunked one end into the container of mustard and took a bite. “I noticed you on set, when you first arrived.”

  “Did you?”

  “You carry a lot of confidence.” He sucked the salt off his thumb and then motioned to his shoulders. “Here. But you weren’t dressed like a producer. I thought, perhaps a stand-in gaffer for an episode.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’re usually big guys like you.” Marion reached for my hand, turned it palm up, and stroked my fingers. “But when I shook your hand—too soft.”

  “You are observant,” I answered, my heart thudding hard.

  “I told you,” Marion said with that cute grin. “I’ve been racking my brain, trying to figure out what you did before deciding to toss your hat into the film industry.” He tore off another bite-size piece of pretzel, coated it liberally in mustard, and ate it. “It wasn’t a physical-labor job.”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “But not paper-pushing like an accountant either.”

  “No.”

  “So what?”

  I turned my hand over to cover his. “Promise me it remains between us?”

  The delight in Marion’s face waned a little, but he tried for a casual tone. “Was it porn?”

  I laughed. “Definitely not.”

  “All right. I’m officially stumped.”

  “I don’t work in the film industry. I’m not really a PA.”

  Marion cocked his head. “I’m confused.”

  “I’m a private investigator. I’m working undercover on set.” I removed my wallet before Marion could ask another question, and showed him my PI license. “I work for Dupin Private Investigations.”

  The blood had all but drained from Marion’s face. “Why—I mean—what are you investigating?”

  I snapped my wallet shut. “A theft.”

  “Theft?” he echoed in a whisper.

  “Of a script.”

  “The—John’s script?”

  My heart missed a beat. “You know about that?”

  Marion stared at his beer. He rubbed his hands up and down his thighs. “He’s talked about it.”

  “To who?”

  But Marion shook his head. “It was at our Christmas party. John was drunk—first time I’d ever seen him have more than one glass. He doesn’t hold his drink very well.” Marion glanced at me. “John told me about it. He might have said something to James, my costar. I… I mentioned it in passing to Ethan. I don’t know if John told anyone else at the party.”

  I shifted on the bench, put a leg on either side, and took Marion’s hand in mine. I gave it a firm squeeze. “I need to know who’d steal that script.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Marion—”

  “I don’t,” he insisted. His hand was clammy. “Why would I?”

  “Because you’re perceptive.”

  “It wasn’t me,” he said hastily. “I would never.”

  “I know it wasn’t you.” After a pause, I asked, “But did Ethan?”

  Marion’s head jerked, and he looked at me. “No.”

  “Why are you lying about Ethan? You’ve been covering his behavior and protecting others since I met you.”

  “Don’t worry about—”

  “I have to,” I replied. “He’s a suspect.”

  Marion pulled his hand free, shifted to mimic my sitting position so that our knees bumped together, and said, “Ethan is an asshole. But I’m telling you, if that script is already missing, it’s not because of him.”

  That was the truth.

  A truth stuck in the middle of lies, but a truth nonetheless.

  Marion reached up, scrubbed his face with both hands, and blinked his pretty eyes a few times. “I need this show,” he said, voice low. “I can’t give up Tommy’s character. Being able to lose myself in him. He—he loves with a love that is more than love.”

  “Poe.”

  Marion flashed a weak smile. “There’s a dichotomy to Tommy’s character. He can be violent. Cruel, even. It’s a cathartic experience I need.”

  “Why?” I dared to question.

  “Because I’m angry,” Marion said, as if it were an admission of guilt. “And Tommy O’Sullivan gives me a constructive outlet to work through some shit.”

  “We all get angry.”

  Marion snorted. “We didn’t all date Ethan Lefkowitz.” He stared at me, and the grim line of his kissable mouth said a lot about what my facial reaction must have been. “So even if it means running interference and taking the brunt of his anger, fine. But I won’t have this show taken away from me. I’m doing my best to keep James on for another season as it is. He’s been thinking of quitting the industry altogether. It’s important, you know?”

  “What is?”

  “That viewers see Tommy and Hugh together forever. It matters. To people like us. Doesn’t it?”

  My shoulders dropped a bit. I slipped my hands around Marion’s wrists, petting his forearms. “It matters,” I agree
d.

  “I understand you’ve been hired to do a job,” he continued. “But please—don’t do anything that would jeopardize this show.”

  “My ex,” I murmured.

  Marion glanced up. “What about him?”

  “He made me angry too.”

  “Why? I mean, besides being an ex.”

  I slid my hands free, reached behind me for my peacoat, and removed the folded grocery list I’d been carrying for three days. I offered it to Marion.

  He unfolded the note and laughed a little. “Oh… Rory.”

  “I broke up with him in a text.”

  “Did he run over your mother?” Marion asked, his chuckle growing a bit stronger, more authentic.

  “He broke my one rule.”

  “Which is?”

  “Don’t lie.”

  Marion sobered again. “Even a white lie?”

  “If I fuck up the pancakes but you don’t want to discourage my culinary interests, that’s one thing. But if you lie and I catch you, I can’t forgive that.”

  “I’d never deter a man from pursuing the perfect pancake.” He folded the note, still staring at me. “Are you over your ex?”

  “Oh yeah.” I reached out, touched Marion’s smooth cheek, traced an eyebrow. “Are you over yours?”

  He tore the dipshit note into several pieces and tossed the confetti onto the tabletop. “I’m onto bigger and blonder things.”

  “Have you ever been to the Observation Deck of the Empire State Building?”

  Marion looked particularly confused at the sudden subject shift. “No….” he drew out, almost as if it were a question.

  “Me neither,” I said. “I’ve lived here my entire life, and I’ve never gone to the top.”

  “So?”

  I looked at the table, picked up my beer, and took a sip. “So let’s do it.”

  INT. CHAPTER EIGHT – NIGHT

  Wind in our hair on the eighty-sixth floor.

  Bags of honey-roasted Nuts 4 Nuts.

  Shopping at Macy’s.

  Too many Manhattans at dinner.

  Caresses and kisses in the taxi to my apartment.

  By nightfall, I was at the mercy of my own uninhibited desire. An animalistic lust so visceral, so ancient, it seemed to vibrate outward from the marrow of my bones. My entire body thrummed like a musical instrument. And every chord, every note, played only for Marion.