by Sam Christer
It’s a little after nine when Nic shuts his front door and begins the thirty-minute drive to Terminal Island, just east of San Pedro and west of Long Beach. The Al Larson Marina on Seaside Avenue is leased from the Los Angeles Harbor Department and has more than a hundred slips, for vessels between twenty and fifty feet long. Slap bang in the middle is Officer Karakandez’s pride and joy. The one thing that’s kept him sane.
Reunion isn’t a yacht that turns heads. In fact, the nine-ton Hillyard sloop is a real Ugly Betty of a boat. No bikini-clad supermodel or playboy prince will ever be seen near her, let alone on her. But after his wife and son’s deaths, Nic fell in love with the rust bucket and saved its cast-iron keel and white oak ribs from the breaker’s yard. The process of renewing something was good for his soul, if not his pocket. Every spare dime he’s made has gone on repairs – reframing and caulking, a new centre cockpit with wheel steering, three cabins refurbished in mahogany, fresh fibreglass over thick pine decks.
Nic passes the morning tending her thirty-four-foot mast and adding varnish to the back decking. Around 1 p.m. he steps ashore to get a bite of something hot. Across the quayside he catches sight of someone he thinks he knows. It needs a double-take, though – he’s never seen her dressed in anything like jeans and a sweater.
‘Dr Chang?’
Amy Chang turns from the water’s edge. Her jet-black shoulder-length hair bounces, there’s a flash of ice-white teeth beneath soft pink lips and a sparkle in her green-brown eyes. ‘Detective Karakandez.’ She says his name warmly as she walks towards him, hands in front pockets, a gentle rock of the hips against a large camel-coloured bag slung over her shoulder. ‘Little birdie told me you had a boat down here.’
He tracks her way. ‘Little birdie’s right. But I’m certain you don’t sail. Do you?’
‘No, not at all. Never been to sea in my life. Unless a ferry ride in San Francisco counts?’
‘It doesn’t. So what brings you to the water?’
She smiles. ‘Fresh air. Clear my head. Forget work for a while.’
‘It sure is a good place for that.’ He nods towards the metal whale occupying the slip to his right. ‘That’s mine. Quite a looker, eh?’
She smiles ironically. ‘Distinctive may be a better word for it.’
He laughs. ‘I’m going to grab coffee and a sandwich. You got time to do that?’
‘Sure.’ She falls in comfortably by his side as a flock of seagulls break from the deck boards and scatter skywards.
He turns to her as they walk. ‘That little birdie who told you I had a boat down here – its name wasn’t Mitzi, was it?’
Amy puts a finger to her lips. ‘Detective, you know better than to ask someone to betray their sources.’
They’re both still smiling when they walk into The Deli on the Deck. It’s as busy as hell on Judgement Day. Filled with families drawn out by a splash of decent weather and the lure of a weekend by the water.
Fortune smiles on them and they grab a newly vacated table right at the back, from where they order coffees, tuna melts and a bowl of fries to share. Despite Amy’s stated desire to get away from work, it’s the only common ground they have, so she can’t help but update him on his case. ‘I called a tidal expert. Turns out your lady on the beach went into the ocean in the early hours of Thursday morning. He reckons around 2 or 3 a.m.’
‘Any idea where she went in?’
‘From the pier. Perp probably thought she’d be dragged out to sea.’
‘Could you fix a time of death?’
‘You know how these things work, Nic. TOD isn’t a precise call. From the body temp I get about a three-hour window, so you’re looking at one, one-thirty, to four, four-thirty. Given the tidal pull and where she ended up, I’d say we’re nearer the one-thirty mark.’
He pulls off a string of browned cheese from the edge of the melt. ‘She’s a writer from over in Beverly Hills.’
‘Was a writer.’
‘Was.’ He licks grease from his finger and points to the heavens. ‘Maybe still is. Perhaps she’s working with Shakespeare and Orson Welles as we speak.’
‘Be nice to think so.’ She dips a fry in mayonnaise and ketchup. ‘Was she killed at the house?’
Nic holds off on his food. ‘Living room, by the look of it. I couldn’t see any trace when I was there but criminalists found blood spatters on the ceiling.’
‘Same type?’
‘They’ve not run DNA but it’s the same grouping.’
Amy gives a knowing nod. ‘But no spatter on the furniture, floor or walls?’
‘Apparently not.’ He can read her thoughts. ‘Yep, we guess the killer came prepared.’
‘Whoever invented plastic sheeting has a lot to answer for.’
‘You’re telling me.’ He sips coffee. ‘We found her cat; the perp had wasted that too. Did they send it your way?’
She nods and picks another fry from the bowl. ‘In the freezer. Something for the forensic vet to look at first thing on Monday.’
‘Tell me, does all the death ever get you down?’
‘Sometimes. Aside from your writer, I got another seven bodies this week. Three road fatalities, a suicide, a drive-by shooting, a rape-murder and a homicide that could be part of a serial.’
He wipes his fingers on a paper napkin. ‘I can’t wait to get away from these slimeballs. Get all those serial killers, gangsters, dopeheads and rapists a million miles out of my life.’
She studies him more closely. ‘So it’s true. You’re really handing in your badge?’
‘Already done. End of the month I’m history. Then me and that big lumpy boat you saw back there, we’re off to get married and start a new life together.’
‘I hope you’ll both be happy.’ She smiles softly. ‘Shame, though, I always thought I’d date someone who didn’t work in the job.’
He shifts uneasily. ‘Doc, when I’m not in the job I hope I may be ready to respond differently to a line like that. Right now, I’m still…’ He struggles for the right words.
She says it for him. ‘Screwed up. I know, the little birdie told me.’ She puts her hand on top of his. ‘No pressure, Nic. Just remember me – if and when that time comes.’
14
SUNDAY
CARSON, LOS ANGELES
It’s still early but neighbours are already out in Renton Street. They’re washing cars and windows, cleaning blown trash off lawns – making the most of what little they’ve got.
The man in the rundown fixer in the corner of the cul-de-sac takes the short walk from his front door to the rusty green mailbox at the end of the drive. It’s a chore he does just once a week. Always straight after breakfast on his way to church.
The mail in the box is addressed to John James. It’s the pseudonym he changed his given name to legally. James is the most common Christian name in the US, followed by John. With his desire to blend in, it seemed appropriate to combine the two.
JJ lives alone and is a creature of habit. Habit is important. It is close to ritual and akin to sacrifice. He never misses work and never misses Latin Mass on Sundays. Dedication and devotion are two of the most important things in his very strange and unusually private life.
St Patrick’s is one of the few churches where the traditional Catholic service can still be heard. He always sits in the same place. Centre aisle. Right at the back. It’s the perfect place. He can be last in and first out from there. Gone before the others mill around him and block his way.
For a moment he sits in his car and watches the unkilled mixing and talking to each other, kissing and shaking hands, waving and smiling as they go their separate sinful ways.
Liars. Cheats. Deceivers. He sees them for what they are.
JJ starts the Explorer’s engine and drives away, scripture rolling round his mouth, like a child with a hard-boiled sweet he’s trying to make last for ever: ‘Hóstiam puram, hóstiam sanctam, hóstiam immaculátam – a pure victim, a holy victim, a spotless victi
m.’
The neighbours are still cleaning and washing when he gets back. He ignores them, goes inside and upstairs to the bedroom. Straight to the razor blade. He stands naked. Naked before the eyes of God. Slowly, he cuts the skin of his chest, legs and arms in an intricate pattern of crosses. The steel slices deep enough to draw blood but not so far that it opens a wound that needs stitching.
It wasn’t always like that. During the early days of his devotion he caught a femoral artery and almost died. Now he’s more practised. More careful. It would be awful if he died before his time. Died before he’d completed his duties. In front of a long mirror screwed to the back of the bedroom door he inspects the patchwork of bleeding wounds. ‘Omnis honor et glória – all honour and glory.’ He whispers the words over and over. Deliberately. Slowly. Heavy pauses between each one.
As the mantra fills his mind he takes a long white sheet and wraps it tight around himself. It’s a divine feeling – the crispness of the cloth, the smell of the soap, the sight of blood soaking slowly through the heavenly whiteness.
JJ curls up on the bare wooden floor and imagines that he’s dying – that he’s going straight to heaven.
15
MONDAY
CULVER CITY, CALIFORNIA
Ten a.m. and the Californian sun is comic-book bright. An end-of-the-world ball of blistering orange energy that’s already scorching everyone and everything beneath it.
Nic is giving ‘little birdie’ Mitzi a hard time as they drive to the film studio where Tamara Jacobs worked. ‘I don’t need matchmaking. It was so embarrassing her turning up out there.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’ Mitzi flags a hand at him. ‘You’re an idiot. Amy’s single and likes you enough to have travelled across town on an off-chance. You won the lottery then ripped up the ticket rather than collect. You’re the dumbest asshole I know.’
‘You shouldn’t mess with me like that.’
‘Apparently.’ She glances his way and shows her disappointment. ‘Nic, wake up and smell the beans – Amy Chang is nice and bright – beautiful – and available. I’ve known her since she came here. She’s a friend, a wonderful woman, believe me there aren’t many like her around.’
‘Look – I know she’s nice, but plee-eze just leave me be.’
‘By the time you’ve reached “be” you’ll be past your sell-by date and too old to be anything or be with anyone. You need a good push – that’s my job. I’m your pusher.’
‘Not out of work it isn’t.’ He almost says she’s the last one who should be dispensing relationship advice but stops short. Mitzi means well, no matter what she says or does, her heart is always in the right place. ‘Three weeks.’ He slaps a hand on the dash. ‘It can’t go fast enough. Three weeks and I’m a civilian.’
‘Thanks,’ Mitzi takes it personally. ‘I’ll miss you too.’ She’d lay into him some more, point out what an ungrateful SOB he is, but they’re already at the lot. She lifts her shades and shows her badge to the gate guard at Anteronus Films Inc. He raises the red-and-white-striped security pole and waves them in.
The two cops park and wait in the bone-warming sunshine, thinking about how much they need a quick end to a case that’s already threatening to do the unthinkable and turn itself into a major inquiry.
A uniformed security guard turns up and breaks their concentration. He ushers them into a cream-coloured electric kart and drives to a corporate red-brick building surrounded by immaculate lawns.
A shiny elevator of polished brass and streak-free mirrors takes them to the plush blue carpet of the executive floor, where they’re shown through a set of hand-carved walnut double doors to meet the company CEO.
Brandon Nolan is a sixty-something Hollywood exec who made his name thirty years ago as a fierce agent and brilliant film financier. Barely five-six in his stockinged feet, he’s one of the biggest names in Tinsel Town. The media make much of the fact that he never dates women more than half his age or less than five inches taller than him.
‘Detectives, come in, sit down. How can I be of assistance?’
‘Mr Nolan, one of your writers turned up dead on Manhattan Beach.’ Mitzi curses her bandaged fingers as she drags out a copy of a photo they took from the vic’s house. ‘Tamara Jacobs.’
Nolan seats himself behind a giant desk, steeples his hands together and looks thoughtfully at the picture. ‘I didn’t know her.’
Mitzi raises an eyebrow. ‘How can that be?’
‘We make fifteen, maybe twenty pictures a year. All the directors I know – all the stars I know. The writers? Only the clerks in accounts know who the writers are.’ He puts his hand on a telephone. ‘Were you offered coffee?’
‘We’re fine.’ Already Mitzi can tell the guy doesn’t care about anything other than the bottom line. ‘Articles we pulled says she was working a movie called The Shroud – what’s that about?’
‘Ah, okay, that’s hers, is it?’ Nolan replaces the phone. ‘It’s a religious thriller, set around the Turin Shroud.’
Nic’s interested. ‘What’s the plot?’
Nolan smiles. ‘Buy your ticket and popcorn, you’ll find out.’
‘Not much chance of me doing that. Will it still get finished without her?’
‘Sure. Writers are a dime a dozen. It’ll get finished.’
‘Did Tamara have an office here?’ asks Mitzi. ‘Any desk she worked from? Any place she kept research notes, diaries, that kind of thing?’
Nolan scratches an eyebrow. ‘I don’t know. I’ll get someone from Human Resources to talk to you.’
‘Only she had no computer at home,’ adds Nic. ‘I guess a writer has to have a laptop, or tablet, or netbook or such like.’
The CEO nods. ‘I’d expect so. Anything else?’
‘We’d like a copy of the script she wrote,’ says Mitzi. ‘Plus copies of any more footage that’s already been shot.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘I don’t know, not until I’ve seen it. Might be a complete waste of time, might be a big break for us. Please just make sure I get it.’
He lets out a disgruntled sigh. ‘Very well.’
‘And her colleagues,’ adds Mitzi, like she’s remembering things for a shopping trip. ‘We need to interview any work colleagues she had. I guess the director and entire cast.’
Nolan grimaces. ‘Is there any hope you can do all this discreetly and in the staff’s own time? Maybe after work so the picture isn’t disrupted?’
Mitzi smiles. ‘Sure there is. There’s Bob Hope and No Hope. Which do you prefer?’
16
ANTERONUS FILMS, CULVER CITY
An uncomfortable fifteen minutes pass before there’s a knock on the CEO’s door. A pencil-thin young woman in a light-brown suit steps in and looks to Nolan, who nods towards the two cops. ‘Sarah Kenny,’ she says. ‘I’m from production and I’m here to take you to the set.’
As they walk out, Mitzi sees she’s red-eyed and guesses she’s been told the news. ‘Did you know Tamara well?’
‘Not before the movie. She was always very nice to me.’
The well-dressed graduate doesn’t say much more as she drives them half a mile across the lot to a security barrier, where she shows her ID to a guard. They drop the kart and walk towards what she proclaims is the studio’s biggest stage – a vast space the size of three aircraft hangars, housing an historic landscape.
‘Sheesh, it looks like the whole of the Middle Ages just fell through a time tunnel and ended up here,’ says Mitzi, feeling like a tourist.
‘Thirty-three AD to be precise,’ says Sarah, still sounding sad. ‘You’re looking at Pilate’s house in Jerusalem. Mr Svenson had a team of historians in here for weeks supervising the build just to ensure accuracy. He’s such a perfectionist.’
Nic reads the signs. ‘You got a thing for him?’
‘No.’ She blushes a little, then motions off-stage to an area filled with drapes, dead-eyed lights and unmanned cameras.
‘Sure you have,’ Mitzi insists. ‘Honey, be careful what you do. Tongues wag like you’ll never believe. Things you do, people you do, right at the start of your career – they have a nasty habit of coming back and biting you in the ass.’
Sarah turns bright red. She reaches across a table filled with scripts and pulls over a copy each for her guests. ‘The scene about to be filmed is just after the execution of Christ.’
They hear a male voice shout ‘Action!’ and dip their heads to the script.
EXTERIOR. Pilate’s House. Night. Building illuminated by strong torchlight in plush green gardens. Centurions pacing on guard duty.
Scene 31
HIGH CRANE SHOT, SLOW ZOOM IN TOWARDS GRAND PILLARS. CUT TO –
INTERIOR
Scene 32
PONTIUS PILATE sits on an ornate red and gold chair on an elevated platform as befits his position. He looks anxiously (camera left) as an out of vision SERVANT makes an official announcement:
SERVANT
Nicodemus of the Pharisees and Joseph of Arimathea, my Lord.
PILATE gets to his feet and forces a business-like smile as he steps from the podium. He glances towards the SERVANT.
PILATE
Leave us. Clear the room.
PILATE walks towards the two men and embraces Nicodemus, a man he knows is a powerful figure, capable of causing him immense problems – or doing him considerable favours.
PILATE (continued)
Nicodemus, guiding light of the Sanhedrin, always a delight to see you – though I suspect it is not pleasure that brings you to my home in the dead of night.