by Lisa Seidman
Patrick sighed, putting down the deck of cards he held and motioning me to a wooden chair across from his desk.
“Why don’t you keep me company then and prevent me from tearing my hair out?”
I started to sit when I noticed the framed poster behind me. I moved around the chair to get a closer look.
“Where did you get this poster?” I asked. “I loved Knightriders.”
“My mentor worked on the movie,” he said. “Not too many people know of it.”
“I’m a big Ed Harris fan,” I said. “He did this before The Right Stuff.”
Patrick smiled. “You’re a movie buff.”
“I love movies. But I’m not a walking IMDB,” referring to The International Movie Database, a website that lists every movie and TV series ever made. “Are you a fan of the movie?” I pointed my thumb at the Knightriders poster. “Or of George Romero movies in general?”
“I’m a fan of the movie. Of the idea behind the movie.”
“Modern day knights jousting on motorcycles?”
“Modern day chivalry.”
I sat in the chair before his desk, fascinated. “What do you mean?”
“I like the idea of people being courteous to one another. Of having a code of honor.” He looked away, as if embarrassed at revealing so much.
“I think that’s terrific, Patrick. I really do. But isn’t that attitude tough to sustain in this business?”
He shrugged. “Treat people well, they’ll treat you well in return.”
“Or as my grandmother says, ‘You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.’”
Patrick grinned. “Your grandmother is a very wise woman.”
“She fought the Nazis in the Warsaw Ghetto,” I bragged. I had forgotten that at one point Patrick reminded me of an SS officer. He didn’t seem remotely like one now.
“She must’ve been a very brave woman,” he said.
“She was. Still is, I guess.” I looked over my shoulder at the Knightriders poster. “Is that why you were so nice to Rebecca? As part of that chivalry thing?”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them, but Patrick merely shrugged his shoulders, smiled at me with his eyes.
“M’lady Rebecca wasn’t all that bad,” he said.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He leaned back in his chair, amused at my discomfort. “I caught some of the backstage intrigue between you and Rebecca and the other ladies-in-waiting.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I think Rebecca was more comfortable around men than women.”
“I don’t think Charles liked her that much. But Gail seemed crazy about her.” I knew I was being indiscreet, but gossip was always my favorite hobby.
Patrick studied the solitaire pattern on his desk. “Charles is a smart man. And Gail likes people who play up to her.”
“So, in fact, you really didn’t like Rebecca?”
Patrick smiled. “Let’s just say I saw the good as well as the bad. Why do you care so much about what I think?”
I thought about this. “I guess I don’t want to feel that I was wrong about her. She’s like a mosquito bite on my ankle that’s driving me crazy with the itching. I think that if I can figure out what made her tick and who killed her, the itching will go away.”
Patrick frowned. “Let the police investigate, Susan. That’s what we pay taxes for.”
“You’re right,” I said. I started to rise from the chair.
“You’re not leaving so soon?” he said. “I didn’t mean to chase you out.”
“You didn’t,” I said. “I should get home.”
He nodded. “I as well. As long as there’s no script for me tonight, I might as well warm up my trusty steed to take me back to my castle.” He moved from around his desk, paused by my side to study the Knightriders poster.
“Do you think chivalry is dead?” I asked.
Patrick smiled. “Not as long as fair ladies such as yourself still exist in the world.”
His words were corny and slightly embarrassing, but I smiled anyway and preceded Patrick out the door.
9.
The next morning Ray came in, brandishing Zack’s script, the pages dog-eared where he wanted changes made.
“When Zack comes in, tell him I want to see him,” Ray said, mangling his unlit cigar between his lips.
“Zack’s not coming in today,” I said. “He told me we can reach him at home.”
For a minute, Ray looked like Thor, the God of Thunder, and I expected lightning bolts to flash from above and electrocute me. Instinctively, I ducked my head. Ray growled, “Get him on the phone,” before turning his back and heading into his office.
I left a message on Zack’s home and cell voicemails. And continued to do so every hour on the hour, per Ray’s request. Peggy had arrived to work late but calm, and she actually looked as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She volunteered to incorporate Ray’s changes into Zack’s script in order to get the script to production on time.
Ray, frustrated and furious with Zack’s lack of communication, finally gave her the go-ahead and Peggy set to work. Not even when Lainie Abbott emailed the weekly rankings did Ray lighten up. To no one’s surprise, Babbitt & Brooks ranked as the number one show in the country.
A few congratulatory calls came in, although we expected the bulk of them to be made the next day when the week’s numbers appeared in the trades. Ray’s joy was lessened by Zack’s continued silence and the resultant delay in getting the script out. I plugged the last set of changes in as quickly as possible, copied the new script for the writing staff, then made a couple more copies for Miranda and Patrick.
Patrick was pacing in front of Miranda’s desk when I hurried in with the scripts. It was the first time I had ever seen him look either ruffled or annoyed. Even his hair stood on end, and, when he saw me, he grabbed one of the scripts from my outstretched hand and hurried into his office, practically slamming the door in my face, our cozy chat the night before seemingly forgotten. Miranda looked equally annoyed. “He’s been like that all morning,” she said. “He kept calling me on his cell, asking if the script was in. For all the good it would have done since he only came in five minutes ago.”
“Well, now he has it and everyone’s happy,” I said, fleeing her office before she could heap more frosty abuse on me.
“Doesn’t anyone wonder where Zack is?” I asked Jennifer when I returned to my desk. “He did say he’d be home all day.”
Jennifer shrugged. “Maybe he said it just to get Ray off his back.”
Maybe, but that didn’t sound like Zack, and I was starting to get worried. He had been acting strange lately, and I wondered how much that had to do with Rebecca—or even Peggy.
I knew a person had to be missing forty-eight hours before you could call the police, and Zack might not even be missing. I decided to ask Ray for permission to leave early to drive to Zack’s house and check on him.
Ray looked up from Zack’s script as I knocked on his door. “Come in, Susan. I told Sandy to find you.”
I paused, confused. “You wanted to see me?”
He nodded. “Have a seat.”
My heart started thumping as I sank into one of the chairs across from his desk. I forgot all about asking for permission to leave early.
“It’s about the next script.”
I looked at him expectantly, but couldn’t tell from his expression whether he was about to give me good news or bad.
“Charles thinks you’re a very talented writer and I respect Charles’s opinion. And now that the show is finally receiving the recognition it deserves, we have to be very careful in choosing writers for the next few episodes.”
I nodded, as if understanding completely, although I still wasn’t sure whether this was leading to good news or bad.
“I’ve thought about this very carefully, and although I’d like nothing more than to give you an assignment, I feel we have t
o hire writers with more experience. At least for this year. Next year, you’ll be first on the list.” Ray did look very sorry, but I knew firsthand what a good liar he was. There was nothing I could do but swallow my disappointment and nod politely.
“I understand,” I told him. “Thank you for telling me.”
Jennifer found me in the bathroom. I stood leaning over one of the porcelain sinks, my hands braced on either side, eyes closed. I knew if I opened them I’d only be sickened by the sight of hair, dried toothpaste, and bits of tissue clinging to the basin.
“What did he tell you?” she asked, leaning against the sink next to mine, her arms folded across her chest.
“I’m not getting a script,” I said.
“Why not?”
“They can’t risk an unknown writer with the ratings as high as they are.”
“Do you think this has anything to do with your going to the police about Ray’s alibi?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Ray didn’t mention it. But that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe …” I shrugged. “Who knows?”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“Stop feeling sorry for myself. Get on with my life.”
After all, there was always going to be something or someone throwing obstacles in my path, whether I lived in Manhattan, Los Angeles, or Oshkosh, Wisconsin.
Jennifer looked at me approvingly. “If I had the week you just had, I’d be in bed for a year. Or put a gun to my head.”
I don’t know why but suddenly I shivered, as if someone, or something, was crawling over my grave. I looked at my watch. It was only four o’clock.
“Jennifer, would you cover for me if I left early?”
“I thought you said you were going to stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
“I want to check on Zack. I’m worried about him.”
Jennifer nodded. “Charles and Peggy are as well. I heard them talking about it in Charles’s office. Go on. Sandy and I can watch the phones.”
I returned to the bullpen to pick up my purse, then headed outside for my car.
10.
Zack lived in Studio City, a suburb of Los Angeles in the San Fernando Valley. His home was north of Ventura Boulevard, the main thoroughfare in the Valley, which divided real estate values as well as the towns it ran through. South of the boulevard the homes were at least one hundred to four hundred thousand dollars more than the homes north of the boulevard.
I pulled up in front of Zack’s modest stucco ranch around four-forty, my growing unease about him replacing my own disappointment about the disappearing script assignment. His house was in the middle of a quiet, tree-lined street, the leaves just starting to turn color and giving southern California the only bit of autumn I’d seen to date.
Zack’s home was a depressing brown with an even more depressing darker brown trim. My palms started to sweat when I noticed his red Mustang parked in the driveway. Maybe he just got home. Maybe he was right now calling the office and checking on the status of his script. But I didn’t think so.
The neighborhood was quiet. Not even a dog barked as I walked up the stone path to the front door. I rang the bell. I could hear it echoing inside and waited, somehow knowing no one was home to answer. The house felt empty: the blinds were closed tight and Zack’s mail still sat in his box. I rang the bell again, then walked to the driveway to peer into his car. The hood felt cool to the touch. I peered through the driver’s side window but nothing looked amiss.
The driveway ran past an open, white gate, under an extension of the roof that served as overhead protection for the car, to a two-car garage. Nearing the garage, I could make out more clearly a sound that had provided faint background noise ever since I had driven up. The closer I got to it the more distinct it became. It was an engine running. As I ran up to the huge garage door I noticed the paned windows inset above. They were white with exhaust. I yanked on the garage door handle. It wouldn’t budge. Automatic garage door opener, I assumed, running back to Zack’s car looking for the battery-operated opener. I glanced through his window and saw it clipped to the visor. Unfortunately, both doors were locked and I didn’t know what I could use to smash the window without hurting myself.
Frantic, I ran to the back of the house again, looking for the circuit breaker box and praying it wasn’t locked in the garage. Once, when the garage door at home had jammed, my father shut off the circuit breaker and was able to open the door. I was going to try and do the same, not consciously thinking about it, but simply running on automatic pilot, hoping that I might be able to open the door and reach Zack in time.
The breaker box was next to the back porch, and I swung the hinged door open, shutting off the switch labeled garage. Then I ran back to the garage door and once more tried to open it. It slowly, creakily opened, but the exhaust that came rushing out from underneath overwhelmed me, and I shut the door again with a bang. The fumes were overpowering and I became dizzy and nauseous. I staggered away, knowing I wouldn’t have the strength to hold my breath long enough to try again. Desperately trying not to throw up, I called 911 on my cell.
I waited anxiously by the garage until the police and paramedics showed up. They managed to open the door with little effort, coughing as they waded through the exhaust, returning barely a minute later with Zack in their arms. His eyes were closed and his face gray. He lay unmoving and I stared at him in fear, noticing the stillness of his chest. The EMTs made an effort to revive him, but there was little doubt in anyone’s mind that Zack was dead and had been for a long time.
END OF ACT THREE
ACT FOUR
1.
God knows I liked Zack a hell of a lot more than I did Rebecca, but I was too stunned to cry. I stood among a growing crowd of neighbors as a forensics team arrived to dust the car in the garage and take photographs of Zack. I had told the two uniformed cops who had arrived about Zack’s connection to Rebecca, and within twenty minutes Lu and Wagner arrived, with little notebooks and grim expressions.
After the usual questions about why was I there and how did I come to find Zack, the detectives led me into the garage to take a look at the car in which Zack was found. I had assumed it was his second car, one he used when the Mustang was out of commission or when he didn’t want to drive it someplace where it could be stolen. (In Los Angeles, however, that could be anywhere.) The fumes from the car had by now dissipated and I gingerly stepped inside the garage, careful not to touch anything or get in the way of the technicians.
“Recognize it?” asked Wagner as we stared at the Cadillac Escalade. The tone of his voice made me realize that there was no doubt I would.
“It’s Rebecca’s car,” I said, stunned. I didn’t know why I was so surprised. If Zack had killed Rebecca, then it made sense he’d take her car to make her death look like the result of a burglary.
Wagner nodded, confirming his own suspicions, and we stepped back out into the sun. Although no police barricades had been set up, the small crowd of neighbors stood slightly away from us, near Zack’s Mustang, craning their necks to view Zack’s body and stare at the police.
One of the uniformed officers went through the crowd, taking names, asking if anyone had witnessed anything. I doubted people would be helpful. No one would want to get involved or admit they had seen something strange and then chosen to do nothing about it.
“Do you have a key to his house?” Wagner asked me, and I turned back to face him.
“No. I’m sorry.” Then felt bad because I couldn’t be of further help. One would think identifying Rebecca’s car would be enough. “Maybe Zack didn’t lock the door because he knew it wouldn’t matter anymore.”
The detectives didn’t answer but they nevertheless turned to the back door and tried the handle, first placing thin, rubber gloves on their hands. The door swung open into Zack’s laundry room. I caught a glimpse of a white washer and dryer on one side and dark wood pantry doors on the other. Wagner turned to me.
“Have you
been to the house before?” he asked.
“No.”
“Stay out here,” Wagner said. “And don’t go anywhere.”
I nodded and stepped away. The coroner’s attendants zipped Zack’s body up into a bag and then Velcro-strapped him onto the gurney. I watched as they wheeled him down the driveway, cutting through the crowd that quietly, almost reverently, parted for them.
Good-bye, Zack, I said silently. Be at peace. I hoped he hadn’t killed Rebecca and then himself out of remorse. But if he had …, why now? Was the weight of guilt finally too crushing to bear? Or was he merely acting the gentleman by waiting until after he finished his script? And what was that scene with Peggy in her office about? Was he saying his final good-byes to her? Had he confessed to the murder and told her he was going to kill himself “tomorrow”? If so, why didn’t she try to stop him? Why did she sit in her office and cry instead?
Restless and bored, I walked back down the driveway. The crowd was breaking up now that Zack’s body had been taken away, but the cops were still taking statements from those who remained.
I walked to my Honda and leaned against it, wanting to leave, to call Jennifer, to do something, but too afraid of the detectives’ reactions if they came out of the house and found me gone or on the phone.
A green Prius pulled into the driveway next to Zack’s, and a pleasant-looking, middle-aged woman got out of the car holding a canvas bag of groceries. She looked at the black and white police cars, red lights silently flashing, at the police officers, at the crowd of dwindling neighbors, and walked down the sidewalk until she was standing a few feet away from me.
“What happened?” she asked, clutching her bag of groceries to her chest.
“Zack died.” I didn’t feel right about going into the gory details.
“Oh, my God,” she said, staring in horror at the police. “And he was such a nice man.”
I nodded in agreement.
“Maybe I should’ve called the police. But I thought I was being a racist; Zack was entitled to see whoever he liked. And now he’s dead.”