by Gini Koch
“And the new script, but not Dawn? You met her, and word on the set was that Cliff was in love with her. Is in love with her, if we assume he’s still alive and doesn’t know she’s dead. And I find it hard to believe that a man who’s landed such a lovely young thing, who’s in love with him in return, would just leave her and run off. Especially since he could have run off with her by simply not having her go back to the set after lunch.”
“So, are we at the point of suspecting someone yet?”
“Everyone, Watson. The only person I don’t suspect of her murder is Dawn herself.”
I considered this as we walked on down this alleyway. “Do you suspect Dawn of something other than her murder?”
“I do love it when you learn. Yes, though in the same way that I suspect the others.”
We reached the end of the alley. It opened up to a parking lot. “This is the lot where we parked, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but we’re at the other end. It’s a large lot, but it’s a good bet that our quarry got into a car and drove away.”
“Will we be able to narrow that down to anything useful?”
“We can but try, Watson. We can but try.”
SHERLOCK HAD US walk through the parking lot; she wanted to see what cars were in the three Andenson spots. She’d expected to find one empty, but that wasn’t the case. I took shots of all three cars, just in case it mattered down the road.
Straude and Saunders sent uniformed officers over to the various gate exits that covered this section of the lot. Fortunately the exits and entrances all had security cameras, so there was footage to review. Sherlock demanded and got the tapes first.
Now that there was an actual murder to investigate, Straude was no longer reluctant to be here. Though I could tell it was taking everything Jackson, Antonelli, and Sherlock had not to mention that they’d all told him so.
Sherlock also requested a full listing of whatever anyone on cast or crew said was missing, personnel as well as lost or stolen items. Then we went back to search Dawn’s dressing room.
To find it in a state of utter chaos.
Sherlock walked in slowly, looking everywhere. She seemed excited.
“Sorry, but I’m confused,” I said as I joined her, being careful where I stepped. “This room has obviously been searched since we were last in it. And this is the happiest I’ve seen you. What is this room telling you that I’m missing?”
“You’re seeing all that I am, Watson. You have the same information as I do.”
“Yes, I know. And I’m saying that I don’t understand why you’re suddenly pleased. And I can tell you’re pleased—you’re humming ‘Bad Boys,’ the theme from Cops. And you only do that when you’re truly on the scent.”
“What’cha gonna do when I come for you? Right you are, Watson. You can note that, and yet are missing the glaringly obvious.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Whoever left through the back door is not the one who tossed this room. Meaning that we either have accomplices—always a possibility—or there’s even more going on than a mysterious disappearance and a murder.”
“Alright, that makes sense. So, whoever searched this room in this way was looking for something.”
“Presumably. They also didn’t know we’d been in this room with the police already.”
“Or they did and it’s all being done to throw you off the scent.”
“I’d agree with that, only the risk of getting caught was quite high—the police were here and already searching for a murderer within three minutes of our leaving this room.”
“So someone took the opportunity to search Dawn’s room for a mysterious something and then... what? Went back outside to be questioned? Ran away?”
“We’ll know if anyone’s missing soon. But this is where the cast dressing rooms are, as well as the production office and writers’ room. I believe a thorough search is in order.”
We went through every room carefully, but it was the writers’ room where Sherlock found what she was looking for. “Watson, we need to compare the pictures we took with what we see in here.”
“I see exactly what we saw before.” I dutifully pulled my phone out.
She swiped through my pictures quickly and stopped at one. “Ha. No, this stack is shorter.” She thumbed through the stack quickly. “We’re missing a script. An older one, based on where it was taken from.”
“You can tell that from the picture?”
“Yes. And from examining the room and its contents before.” She looked around. “The information on the whiteboards hasn’t been tampered with...” She was staring at the This Stays In board.
“Should it have been?”
“Possibly.” She was quiet for a long minute, and I didn’t disturb her. Her mind was sifting through all we’d seen, looking for connections, making leaps others might not, searching for what connected all of these things together.
I looked at the whiteboard she was staring at. From what I could tell, it was a dramatic scene where one actress was being threatened by another. From the little I’d seen on this set so far, it could easily have been taken verbatim from real life.
But finally Sherlock nodded, and headed out of the room, me following after like the tail to her comet.
She found Straude as quickly as possible. He was interviewing the cast and looking as if he’d wished he’d been the one hanged instead of Dawn.
“Lee,” Sherlock pulled him away without preamble or apology. “Where is Collin Toohey, the other writer on the show?”
“Not here. Not missing, either, in case you were worried. He was off the lot today.”
“Why?”
Straude shrugged. “Hasn’t been on set since Camden’s disappearance. Reason given was that he’s trying to recreate the missing script and will work better at home.”
“Having seen what this place was like when we got here, I can’t argue with that.”
Sherlock nodded, spun on her heel, and looked around. She headed for Jackson, who was talking to the craft services people. “Joey, I need a full description of Collin Toohey and his address and phone number. Oh, and the same on the AD you fired.”
“Andy Pfeiffer, and sure. Do you want all the paperwork I printed out, too? Unless you got it already, it’s waiting for you in the office.”
We hadn’t, and she did, so we headed for the production office. Jackson jotted Toohey’s information down and gave that to me, then he opened a box on the floor by the printer. We’d both noted it when we’d searched the office a short while ago, but Sherlock had been intent and, after a quick glance inside, I’d put the lid back on and we’d carried on.
Jackson stared inside. “It’s all gone.” A quick look showed that the box was indeed empty.
“Now, who would take all that paper and leave the vessel holding it, which would make carrying said paper far easier?” Sherlock mused.
“Someone who didn’t want us to realize they’d taken it?” I suggested.
“Yes. The plot thickens. Joey, once you verify that your files are intact on the main system, send them to me electronically. I’d prefer the paper, but since you’ve already lost confidential information once today, we won’t chance it again.” She turned to go. “By the way, what pages were you using for filming today? I understood your other writer wasn’t around.”
“Collin isn’t here, he’s at home. And I was using the original script, the first one we drafted. Why?”
“Did you take that from the conference room, by any chance?” I asked.
Jackson shook his head. “No, we all have it. Everyone saved their original first drafts, just because. Souvenirs and all that.”
“Why revert to the original?” Sherlock asked.
Jackson shrugged. “The scenes we were going to film are the only ones that haven’t changed from any version. The introduction to Dawn’s character.”
“The scene on the whiteboard?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” He swall
owed hard. “I honestly can’t believe she’s dead.”
“Have to cast the role all over again?” I asked, perhaps a tad too snidely.
Jackson glared at me. “You’re a callous bastard, aren’t you? Of course we will, but that’s not why I’m upset. A beautiful, talented young girl’s been murdered on our set. She had such a bright future ahead of her, and now she’s gone. And for all I know, Cliff’s gone, too.”
“With all the production money?” Sherlock asked.
“No. I’ve heard those rumors and they’re bullshit, Sherlock. We aren’t broke and our money isn’t embezzled, but we’re having to float this cast and crew while we can contractually, because we had some other big expenses hit out of the blue. We’ll be fine.” He shook his head. “Better than Dawn will ever be, at least.”
“Will you recast from your existing talent pool?” I asked. Sherlock and I hadn’t found anything to indicate that Jackson was lying about their financials.
“You’re really on about that, aren’t you?” Jackson replied. “Yes, probably.”
“I have my top suspect, then,” I said to Sherlock.
“Amanda. Yes, she’s the youngest and youngest-looking. Joey, would you move her into Dawn’s role?”
“Doubtful. She doesn’t have what we need. Though she might think she does. But killer? I don’t see that in her.” He sighed. “Of the others, the only one with the right screen presence is Irene.”
“Irene Adler?” I spoke without meaning to.
“Yes. We’re in rewrites anyway, we’ll just change the show to focus on an older star who’s trying to defend her position, rather than a new star fighting to get to the top.”
“What role was she assigned already?” Sherlock asked.
“She’s the villain, the faded star trying to get rid of the young starlet who’s taking her place. Dawn was the heroine, of course. The other women are all rivals of the heroine’s or friends of the villain’s, trying to help her bring the young ingénue down.”
“So they’re playing to type,” Sherlock said dryly.
Jackson managed a grin. “Yeah. George is the hero. He’s the bad boy love interest who’s trying to protect the young starlet while still supporting his mother, the fading star.”
“Irene is cast as George’s mother? She’s not that much older than he is.” I was surprised; he didn’t strike me as hero material. But then again, if I was surrounded by all those starlets—to use the term loosely—I’d probably be jaded and cynical, too.
This earned me a really? look from Jackson. “Yes. It’s called movie magic. Happens all the time.”
“He’s right, Watson. Joey, we’ll be in touch.” With that, Sherlock left the production office and headed back to craft services. She asked Henry for a description and contact information for Frank, the missing pastry chef.
She collected the surveillance tapes from Saunders, reminded him that she wanted the list of anything and anyone missing from the set, then we headed back to the car.
Sherlock checked the car carefully. “You thinking it’s been tampered with?” I asked her, as she popped the trunk for me.
“Always possible, even probable. Especially under the circumstances.”
“Ah, Sherlock?” I stared into the trunk. “We have something in here that confirms tampering. And then some.”
WHAT WE HAD was a box’s worth of paper that hadn’t been in here before.
“Well, at least it’s not a dead body,” Sherlock said, as she examined the trunk’s lid. “Whoever did this is an expert, or got my car fob somehow, because there’s no indication that the trunk, or any other part of the car, has been tampered with.” She looked thoughtful again.
“What is it? Do you think someone lifted your keys and then, somehow, put them back, all without you noticing?”
“It could be done, Watson. I’m capable of it, and I’m sure that others are as well.”
“Why do that?”
“To steal incriminating information in such a way that it will take time to determine what was stolen.”
“You’ve lost me. Why not just keep all the information? That makes the job just as hard.”
“Not really. We’ll now have to compare every record here with what Joey has on his mainframe. That’s meticulous work, Watson.” She pursed her lips. “I have a feeling that whoever’s done this knows my methods.”
“You think it’s Irene, don’t you?”
“I think the evidence, all of which is circumstantial, points in her favor, yes. And there’s the fact that she was in our home and we hang our keys right by the doorway. She could have cloned it with something in her purse.”
“I was watching her, Sherlock. And so were you.”
“I wasn’t watching for most of the time she was in our home, actually. And someone skilled could do it quickly, Watson. Technology is always advancing; she might not have needed to even touch the fob to clone it. She was in the hallway long enough, I’m sure. That said, I’m not allowing my active dislike of The Woman to cloud my judgment. You, on the other hand, should. Call her up and move your date to tonight.”
“Excuse me?”
“Time is of the essence, Watson. Make the change. She’ll go for it, I’m sure. Just use Dawn’s death as the excuse.”
I heaved a sigh but did as requested. Irene’s voice sounded shaky, but she seemed genuinely happy about moving our date up. “Thank you, John,” she said as we were getting off. “I just... I don’t want to be alone tonight and I can’t tell you what it means to me that you realized that. I’ll see you at seven.”
“Better make it eight. I imagine you’ll be on the set a while longer than anticipated now.”
She trilled a laugh. “Alright. I’ll call you if I escape any earlier.”
We hung up and Sherlock shook her head. “Watson, just a gentle reminder that she’s now a suspect in several ongoing investigations.”
“You’re the one pushing me to take her out.”
“I am indeed,” she said quietly. “And I do wish it wasn’t necessary.”
Once the car was deemed safe enough, we put everything else we had into the trunk and headed back to Baker Street. After all the chaos and stress, it was a relief to get home to our quiet little neighborhood.
We got right to work. While we studied the surveillance footage, Sherlock reviewed the descriptions of the three men. “All three of them resemble each other,” she said, as I paused the tape for a promising exiter.
“You said they were all of average height and weight, light brown hair, and nothing remarkable about their features. What does that mean?”
“No idea yet. But I believe you’ve found our backdoor sneak.”
The car in the frame was an older, late model sedan. It was dirty, and the license plate was covered with mud. “No one would take that car off-road,” I pointed out. “That’s why I stopped the tape here.”
“Well done. Yes, from behind, this man does look like who Beverly and the others described. Of course, he’s fairly nondescript.”
“You think it was one of the three men? The pastry chef, the writer, or the fired assistant director?”
“The probability is high.”
“Beverly thought he was a blond, the man she saw. “
“Yes, and Harry thought he had light brown hair, and Bill hadn’t paid attention. It’s a bright, sunny day, and that alleyway would have been in direct sunlight when our sneak left, meaning he could have easily looked blond.”
“Well, if this is him, we’re going to get nothing. The license plate is illegible.”
“We don’t need that. He’s stopped to check out. We just need to speak to whoever’s working the gate kiosk.”
She made a fast call to Straude and then, five minutes later, an email arrived, which I printed out: a listing of everyone who’d left via the winning kiosk in the time window Sherlock gave for when our quarry left the lot.
“No luck. None of our three names are here. None of the names related
to the case are here, for that matter.”
Sherlock took the list from me. “Hmmm, no obvious anagrams... he must have used someone else’s name or pass.” She stared at the list some more and started to laugh.
“What is it?”
“Whoever he is, he has a sense of humor. And I think I know who our mystery man is.” She handed the list and pointed to a name—Alan Smithee.
“Who is that?”
“That, Watson, is a name used by people in Hollywood who wish to disown themselves from a project.” She stood. “Back to the car. We’re going to visit Mister Smithee.”
WE HEADED TO Venice, the weird sister in between lovely Santa Monica and ritzy Marina Del Rey. Supposedly the arty types lived here, but if that was the case, I was doomed to stay pedestrian and dull, because I loathed every inch of Venice.
Sherlock, on the other hand, loved it. Apparently Venice reminded her of parts of London and New York she missed, and she found Venice Beach to be as entertaining as any reality show on TV.
The apartment we were headed for wasn’t on the beach, but that didn’t mean parking was easily found. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, however. “If we park a ways away and walk, he might not be prepared.”
As we circled the block, a man who fit the nondescript description we had was leaving the apartment building. He didn’t seem concerned, though he had something stuffed into his jacket pocket and his hand was inside it. He turned away from us out the door and walked off.
“That’s him,” Sherlock said softly.
“Think that’s a gun in his pocket?”
“No idea, but caution should be our watchword.”
She drove slowly up to the man. He was on our side of the street. He turned as we pulled level with him, and his expression told me all I needed to know—he looked shocked, panicked, and more than a little guilty.
Of course, his taking off running was something of a clue, as well.
While cars are faster and can be used as weapons, someone on foot, especially among small, dense streets, has the advantage. Our quarry turned down an alleyway made only for pedestrians. Old war injury be damned—we were not going to lose him.