by Gini Koch
“Mine, too,” Sherlock said. Whether this was true or not I had no idea. I’d find out sooner or later, probably sooner.
“We did a talent search outside of our stable for the ingénue, though,” Jackson added. “Dawn Niles is just starting out, but that girl has star power like you wouldn’t believe.”
Antonelli nodded. “We expect her to be the breakout, and we have her signed to a seven-year contract. She’ll help us get to the next level.”
“A noble goal. However, I’m failing to see any issues, unless you want to film in front of a live studio audience and want Watson and myself in attendance.”
“We had no problems until a couple of days ago,” Jackson said. “That’s when Cliff disappeared.”
Sherlock’s eyebrow raised. “Excuse me? A disappearance should be a police matter.”
“We tried,” Antonelli said. “We called Detective Straude. He sent some uniforms, they did a cursory investigation, and found nothing. The police think Cliff’s off on a drunk somewhere.”
“Is he a drinker?” Sherlock asked. I hadn’t seen any evidence of that when Campus Queen was filming at New London College, and from Sherlock’s expression, she hadn’t either.
“Well, he’s not a saint,” Jackson said. “But he’s not an alcoholic, either.”
“He’s been drinking more since we started production on Glitterazzi,” Antonelli admitted. “There are different stresses with this kind of show, especially for the director.”
“Drugs?” I asked.
Both men shrugged. “Nothing major,” Jackson said. “Here and there, but Cliff’s not a big user. None of us are. Better ways to spend our money, you know?”
“So, Cliff didn’t show up for work two days ago?” Sherlock asked.
“No, he showed,” Antonelli said. “We filmed a bit, then there were some costuming issues, some minor script arguments, and Cliff went to take an early lunch.” He sounded casual, but he didn’t make eye contact with Sherlock.
She sighed. “Tony, Joey, if you want my help, you need to give me all the information. I don’t pass judgment on, in the vernacular, who’s zooming who.”
Both men again looked surprised. “How did you know?” Jackson asked.
She rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t have an issue with drinking or drugs. If he had gambling debts you’d be talking about those right off the bat. So he’s sleeping with someone, or several someones, that he shouldn’t be. And I need that information. I must stress that details and a coherent storyline matter for detective work as well as television shows.”
Jackson looked at Antonelli, who nodded. Jackson turned back to Sherlock. “Okay, well, Cliff’s got an eye for the ladies.”
“All the ladies,” Antonelli added.
Jackson shrugged. “Yeah, he’s not picky, and since his wife left him he’s been a little out of control. Sleeping with anyone he can get.”
“As a director for a successful production company, I’d imagine he can get a lot,” Sherlock said, sarcasm dripping.
“He can, and he does,” Jackson confirmed. “But since we cast Dawn...”
“He’s taken up solely with your ingénue?” she asked.
“Yeah, he has. Nothing forced,” Jackson added quickly. “Cliff’s all about mutual consent.”
“Which is so gentlemanly, since he can offer these women a chance for stardom,” I muttered.
“We’re familiar with the casting couch,” Sherlock agreed.
“It’s not like that,” Antonelli said. “We have a reputation to maintain. Half of our reality stars are underage. Andenson Productions has a strict sexual harassment policy, and Cliff’s always stayed well within it.”
“He’s a good-looking guy with charisma and a great career,” Jackson said. “All three of us have no trouble attracting women, without offering them jobs.”
I could feel Sherlock mentally telling me to keep my mouth shut, so I did. Money and power were aphrodisiacs; Jackson probably wasn’t actually bragging.
“We don’t want actresses, amateur or real, who think they have a right to be on our shows,” Antonelli added. “We make stars. They’re beholden to us, not the other way around.”
“And not in the sexual favors kind of way,” Jackson added quickly.
I wondered if Irene agreed with this statement. Perhaps I’d ask her if she said yes to dinner.
Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh. “Gentlemen. Stop making me drag the facts out of you. Stop worrying that I’m going to pass judgment on your lifestyles. I want to know why you’re here, why you think something’s happened to Cliff, and so forth, and I want to know it immediately. Or else, as much as I enjoy your shows and your company, I’m going to have to ask you to leave so I can get back to real work.”
I didn’t need to point out she had no real work. Besides, I shared her desire to make these two cut to the chase.
“Fine,” Antonelli said. “Cliff and Dawn went to lunch. For a tryst. She came back. He didn’t.”
“And has your young ingénue been questioned?” Sherlock asked, interest back.
“Yes, of course,” Jackson said. “At least, by us. Not so sure the police asked her more than her name. Anyway, Dawn says that Cliff told her to head back after… uh, because he had a meeting she couldn’t attend. It wasn’t an unusual request—they usually leave and return separately.”
“So the rest of the cast doesn’t know they’re sleeping together?”
“More so the rest of the cast can’t prove it,” Antonelli said. “We’re about to start filming Glitterazzi’s pilot. This is literally the most important week in our company’s history, and my director and half of my screenwriting team has disappeared. And no one but us seems to care.”
“Cliff also writes the scripts?”
“Yeah, he’s used to it, he does most of the scripting for our reality shows already. He was a theater arts major, which is also why he’s the director—he knows what actors need.” Jackson shrugged. “We’re very hands-on. It’s been the three of us from day one, and we’re doing our best to keep it that way. Less people to share the profits with,” he added with a grin.
“Joey and I write the rest of the reality scripts following Cliff’s formula for each show,” Antonelli said. “But we did bring in a professional to work with Cliff on Glitterazzi, Collin Toohey.”
“And what does Mr. Toohey have to say about all of this?”
“He’s freaked out because Cliff has the revised script for the pilot,” Jackson replied. “The only one. The actors’ scripts were pulled because Cliff and Collin weren’t happy and made a lot of changes over the past few days. Cliff was getting the new script copied.”
“You don’t have people for that?” I asked.
“We do,” Antonelli said, “but you have no idea what scrutiny we’re under. We have a lot of people desperate to get a hold of the script so they can tear it to shreds, do some kind of big reveal, or whatever lunacy the losers who live on the internet do for fun these days.”
“Was he going to make the copies when he sent Dawn back to the set?” Sherlock asked.
“Not sure,” Jackson replied. “But it would make sense. She’s not allowed to get her script any earlier than anyone else.”
“Did the police consider the idea that Cliff might have been taken because of this script?”
“For about two seconds.” Antonelli shook his head. “Sherlock, I’m begging you—come to the set and see what you can figure out. But please, do it soon. We have the potential to be ruined if this pilot doesn’t get filmed. If the show isn’t picked up, we’ll deal. But if we don’t even have a product to show the studios we’ve been talking to, we’ll be done in this town.”
“That seems extreme,” I pointed out.
“They’re right, actually, Watson,” Sherlock said. “Reality TV and scripted are in the midst of a sort of war, if you will. And those in the industry who despise reality TV—and they are legion—would be overjoyed to have the opportunity to point to the
fact that one of the top reality TV production companies can’t get their act together enough to handle one pilot. It could indeed mean ruination for Andenson Productions.”
“Exactly,” Antonelli said. “Sherlock, are you in or out?”
She stood. “We’re in, Tony. Give the address and directions for where we’re heading to Watson. We need to finish up some things here, so we’ll be on set first thing tomorrow.”
Antonelli stood as well, both men hugged Sherlock, Jackson gave me a business card and a parking pass with a map on the back, and I escorted them out.
I ensured the door was securely locked again and returned to Sherlock. “What do you think?”
“That I still appreciate your concern for my safety. Truly, Watson, it’s quite touching.”
“How do you mean?”
“You’ve taken care to lock all three locks—regular, chain, and deadbolt—in the middle of the day, and only since the thought that The Woman might have come in order to determine how to do me harm.” She smiled. “As for the case, it’s probably nothing. But visiting the set should be of at least a few minutes’ interest, and while you loathe them, I rather like the Unholy Three. If it makes them feel better that I take this seriously, so be it.”
“You think Cliff’s off on a bender?”
“The possibility exists that Cliff met another young lady of wild character and is off on another kind of a bender. However, the game could be afoot, so let’s have you arrange for your date with The Woman. Then I’d like us to do a bit of prep before we head to the set of Glitterazzi and see what we shall see.”
MAKING A DATE with Irene had been nerve-wracking for all the time I was dialing and then the easiest thing in the world once she answered. Per Sherlock’s advice, I asked for our dinner date to happen two evenings hence, and Irene accepted with evident delight.
I didn’t own a car, which made me a pauper by Southern Californian standards. However, Mrs. Hudson had two cars—her small commuter SmartCar and a far nicer Mazda3 sedan. I was allowed to borrow either car whenever I might need, which was rarely. But Sherlock had checked with Mrs. Hudson before I arranged my big date and the Mazda3 was mine for the night.
The rest of the afternoon and evening was spent with Sherlock researching Andenson Productions and Irene. She tried to force me to watch selected episodes from the various reality shows featuring the cast of Glitterazzi as we knew it, but I flatly refused. So, instead, she made me research everything on Cliff Camden I could find, which wasn’t all that much.
My researched matched what Sherlock found—Andenson Productions were hugely successful, with little to no controversy over the years. They were highly respected in the reality industry, but weren’t so popular among the rest of Hollywood. But they delivered hit series after hit series, and that meant that they had a tremendous amount of clout. They were, point of fact, a major player.
Antonelli had been married to the same woman for thirty years, Jackson was a confirmed bachelor, and Camden was, as we already knew, divorced from his first wife. He’d been linked romantically to a variety of women, behind the camera and in front of it, but no names stood out. Unless you counted every single starlet in Glitterazzi.
Cliff had apparently been involved with every one of them at one time or another, though all reports said things had ended in a friendly way each time. There were no scandals associated with any of these matchups—Cliff was just known for dating women from their reality shows, loving them, leaving them, and also apparently continuing to employ them.
Andenson Productions appeared to have no real enemies other than their business rivals. Sadly, and despite my best efforts, I couldn’t link them to organized crime. Clearly I needed to hone my research skills.
Irene had worked steadily since her time on Campus Queen—which, somehow, she had not won—but it was all guest appearances or small parts on pilots that didn’t get picked up. She hadn’t yet had her big break.
She had a profile, but it was low by Hollywood standards. As near as Sherlock could tell, Irene had been invited to the Gala for Everything because she was friends with the promoters.
“Why the ruse?” Sherlock asked, more to herself than me.
“She wanted to be sure you took the Andenson case?” I suggested without a lot of enthusiasm.
“Perhaps, but in that case, why not tell me that her employers were in trouble? Why lie about something specific? Why have me looking at the photos of the Gala for Everything if...” Sherlock’s voice trailed off and she was suddenly intent, tapping at her computer like mad.
“What is it?” I went over to see what she was looking at. “More pictures of the event?”
“Yes. That’s the only logical answer, Watson. There’s something here, in the pictures that are available from the event, that The Woman wants us to see.”
We perused the photographs on every website for the rest of the night, but if there was something we needed to catch, it escaped both of us.
Sherlock yawned. “Perhaps we’ll see the connection tomorrow, Watson, when we’re on the set.”
“Truly, I cannot wait.”
“The doom in your tone speaks otherwise. Look at it as another opportunity to broaden your horizons.”
“They’re broad enough already, thank you.”
Sherlock laughed. “Never think you have nothing left to learn or experience. Fate always lurks around the corner, waiting to prove to you that you haven’t seen anything yet.”
THE MORNING DAWNED bright and early and we headed out in Sherlock’s sleek, silver Aston Martin DB9 convertible sports car. It was an older model, but you’d never know to look at or drive in it. There was a story behind the car—it had been gifted to her by a thankful client so that she’d have good transportation when she came to the States—but so far I’d been unable to get the details out of her.
Sherlock kept two leather duffle bags that contained the same equipment in each—a magnifying glass; a jeweler’s loop; fingerprint dusting kit; a variety of other kits that tested blood, saliva, and more; plastic gloves; rope; duct tape; a voice recorder; a notebook and several pens; a black light; and some things I couldn’t identify and hadn’t yet seen her use. One bag remained in the trunk of her car, one was in our home.
Even though one of the bags remained in the car, she always verified that it was there and that the contents were secure before we left the garage. “Better to take the minute and a half to be certain, than to arrive and discover I’m missing something key,” was her reply when I’d asked why she bothered.
As we headed out of our neighborhood and up Wilshire, top down and wind in our hair, Sherlock had me call Detective Straude.
“John, what can I do for you—and, I assume, Sherlock?” he asked when he came to the phone.
“Putting you onto speaker, Lee. We want to find out any information you had on the situation over at Andenson Productions.”
“It’s nothing.” Straude heaved a sigh. “They hired you to look into this?”
“Yes.”
“Lee,” Sherlock said, “we’re on the way over. Just in case, why don’t you meet us there?”
“Sherlock, we’ve investigated. There’s no proof of foul play.”
“It’s a missing person case at the least,” I pointed out.
“True enough, but it’s not a homicide, so my being involved is a ridiculous waste of time.”
Sherlock pursed her lips. “Lee... humor me. And them. They’ll quiet down if I don’t find anything. And, if I happen to, then you’ll be there, all ready to leap into action by doing exactly what I say.”
Straude snorted. “I’d be offended, but it’s the truth.”
“That’s why I enjoy working with you—you accept reality. By the way, I don’t really expect to find anything, but let’s ensure that a company that has myriad opportunities to run down the L.A.P.D. isn’t given a reason to do so.”
“You do look out for us, don’t you, Sherlock?”
“I consider t
hat part of my job, Lee.”
“Really?” he chuckled. “Scotland Yard would say differently.”
“As would the N.Y.P.D. Which is why I’m so happily settled out here in the City of Liars enjoying the constant, unbearable sunshine.”
“Some people enjoy it, you know. Though I can’t argue with you about it being the ‘City of Liars.’”
“I just look at it as ensuring that I never have to contend with the elements at outdoor crime scenes.”
“Whatever makes you happy, Sherlock.”
“Luckily for you, it’s solving crimes. We’ll see you there?”
“Oh yes, I’m ever your obedient servant.”
“I’d laugh my head off at that, Lee, but I’m driving and don’t want to take my eyes off the road.”
“Good. We at the L.A.P.D. appreciate good driving habits.”
We hung up and drove on in the sunshine. Glitterazzi was filming on the Paramount lot, so we stayed on the surface streets. Sherlock was quiet, which wasn’t unusual. I spent the time thinking about Irene. I wondered if she was involved and, if so, how. And if she wasn’t involved, why had she come with a bogus case? I had no answers, but I had a date with her and perhaps I’d find the answers then.
We flashed the parking pass at the Paramount main gate and were allowed inside. The map that Jackson had given us was easy to follow, and we soon reached the parking area for Soundstage 12. We had to walk a ways to get to the actual stage, but Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. In fact, after she pulled out the duffel bag, handed it to me, and locked her car, she examined the parking area.
“Why?” I asked her, as she strolled through the parking spaces, most of which were filled.
“Andenson Productions has three assigned parking spaces—which isn’t a surprise, seeing as the studio also has an interest in the majority of their reality shows. However, the spaces are assigned to the production company itself, not to anyone in particular.”
“Is that relevant to the case?”