Killer Ratings: A Susan Kaplan Mystery

by Lisa Seidman

  There was another pause and Linda slowly let out her breath.

  “Oh, my God. He killed himself?”

  “It looks that way, but I’m not sure.” I told her about Sherman’s visit to Zack and what Zack had told him about the car.

  I knew I could trust Linda; she had found Sherman and his band playing in some rinky-dink club and decided to become their manager. She had also hired Sherman to be our night watchman and was as interested in protecting him as I was.

  “What should we do?” she asked as soon as I brought her up to speed.

  “Do you think you can get hold of Michael Keller’s personnel file? Maybe it explains why Bob Berg hired him.”

  “I’ll try,” she said. “The HR director’s assistant might help me. She owes me one. I got her the job.”

  All the assistants at Romulus owed Linda for getting them their jobs.

  “Can you go into her office now?” I asked.

  “No. All her files are computerized and I don’t know HR’s password. I’ll talk to Gina about it first thing tomorrow. Better yet, I’ll call her at home tonight. She can get in bright and early and pull it for me.”

  “Linda, I owe you big time for this,” I said.

  “I’ll tell you what. If Gina can get the file for me tomorrow morning, I’ll swing by with it at lunch time. You can thank me by filling me in on everything over lunch.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” I replied and we said our good-byes and hung up. I then braced myself and called Jennifer, telling her the news about Zack.

  “Oh, my God,” she said. “Oh, my God.”

  “I can’t believe the police didn’t already tell the office.”

  “No.” Her voice sounded shaky. “Maybe they told Ray. Sandy said he got a call, and tore out of the office, told her he wasn’t coming back for the rest of the day.”

  Before we could really thrash it out, Craig’s frantic knocking on my door cut the call short.

  Zack’s death had made the news. Channel Eight had broken into its regular programming to bring its viewers a Special Bulletin. We watched from my TV, Craig leaving his take-out beef burrito to cool, forgotten, in the see-through plastic container sitting in his lap.

  Debra Chandler, the newswoman who had hounded Ray in the parking lot after we drove in from location, spoke sincerely into the camera, standing in front of Zack’s now deserted-looking home. “And although his death is an apparent suicide, police are seeking the whereabouts of Sherman O’Dell, a young, African American male seen at the North residence earlier today. He is thought to have worked as a janitor in the warehouse where Babbitt & Brooks is filmed. Is there a connection to the brutal slaying of Rebecca Saunders, the associate producer who was murdered just one week ago? If the police know, they are keeping those thoughts to themselves. Back to you, Chet.”

  “Damn. Damn, damn, damn!” I buried my face in my hands as Chet Williams, the Channel Eight anchor, thanked Debra and told us to stay tuned for more news at eleven. Craig turned off the TV then looked at me curiously.

  “What’s the matter?”

  I told Craig what I had told Linda. He stared at me, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  “How do you get yourself into these messes?” he asked.

  “I wish I knew. Sherman’s hiding out with his girlfriend—”

  Craig covered my mouth with his hand. “Don’t tell me! I don’t want to be an accessory.”

  His hand was warm and dry. I removed it in order to speak, trying to ignore the physical attraction I felt for him.

  “You won’t. It’s hearsay.”

  Craig looked thoughtfully at his congealing burrito. “Do you think this will make Sherman come out of hiding?”

  “I hope so. He told me he was going to find a lawyer.”

  “Do you think Zack killed himself?”

  I shook my head. “No.” Again, the memory of Peggy crying rose before me. “No,” I said again, more loudly. “I think he knew something about Rebecca’s death. And he told the wrong person. So he died.”

  “Who do you think he told?”

  Images swam before me: Peggy’s tearstained face; Ray’s angry mouth mangling his cigar; Charles’s lips tightening in anger and disgust at Ray; Michael Keller, good-looking and devil-may-care, as he posed for an anonymous photographer in the park, smiling into the camera.

  “I don’t know, Craig,” I said, liking the sound of his name in the back of my throat. “I wish I did.”

  “Maybe it’s a good thing you don’t,” he said. “At least you’re still alive.”

  4.

  I braced myself for another day of hell. The reporters were lurking on the street as I drove into the studio parking lot the next day. They called to me from the other side of the fence as I walked from my car to the front entrance. What did I know of Zack North’s death? Did he kill Rebecca Saunders? Was it a love affair gone wrong? I wondered if the Scoop article about Gail and Rebecca would now be forgotten in light of the new rumor that Zack and Rebecca were lovers.

  We walked around the office like zombies. Not many people liked Rebecca, and her death, I thought, was never treated very seriously. Or at least as very real. But Zack was a well-liked, talented member of the Babbitt & Brooks team. Charles sat behind his desk, head bowed, staring blankly at his script-strewn desk. Ray had blasted in, shouted to Sandy that he wasn’t taking any phone calls, and slammed his office door shut behind him. Peggy wandered in, looking like death warmed over. Her hair seemed to have turned gray overnight and there were purple shadows under her eyes.

  “Hold my phone calls,” she whispered to me before shakily crossing the bullpen and entering her own office. The door gently shut after her, and Jennifer and I pretended not to hear her muffled weeping from inside.

  The phones rang off the hook, and Jennifer and I wondered at the likelihood of Ray bringing in a temp to help us answer them. In spite of his desire not to take any phone calls, Ray did speak with Cliff Rosen and Bob Berg. Rumors floated around the office that production might close for a week. Zack’s script was scheduled to start shooting the next day and still needed more rewrites, and Peggy was in no shape to handle them. Charles had his hands full with a script of his own. The brief hiatus would give the writers time to whip Zack’s script into shootable shape as well as repair the disintegrating morale of cast and crew.

  Patrick Hager wandered into the bullpen later in the morning. He had Zack’s script tucked under one arm and the board under the other. The board was a large square of reinforced cardboard that folded out into two extra sections from the middle: Patrick used it to break down day/night shots, locations, and exterior/interior scenes. His white blond hair fell over one eye, his skin was pinkish white with stress.

  “You mean you’re actually going to work on Zack’s script today?” Jennifer looked from Patrick to the board in disbelief. Patrick shrugged.

  “I’ve been summoned by the king of the land and am at his mercy.”

  “But I thought production was going to shut down,” I said.

  “You may be right. But as the court jester, I am always the last to know.” He cited the words mechanically, as if thinking that’s what we expected him to say, but without actually believing in them himself.

  Patrick continued on into Ray’s office. When he was out of earshot, Jennifer turned to me and snorted.

  “Does he think he’s a character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?”

  “No,” I said. “Camelot.”

  She looked at me, confused, but I refused to elaborate. Patrick’s dreams were his own to share or keep secret, and it wasn’t my job to give them away. Twenty minutes later he returned, looking whiter and more stressed.

  “You’re right, Susan. Production’s closing down for a week.” The mechanical courtliness was gone, replaced by down-to-earth shock. “The writers are going to take the time to polish Zack’s script and Ray wants to bring in another staff writer.”

  Ray’s certainly not letting a
ny grass grow under his feet, I thought. But to be fair, shutting down production seemed like the only way of giving everyone breathing room to deal with Zack’s death.

  “That’s going to cost you a fortune,” Jennifer said.

  Patrick nodded. “At least it’s not coming out of my pocket.” He slowly walked out of the room, trailing the board after him.

  Linda Ramsay called to say she had Keller’s file.

  “I couldn’t help taking a peek,” she said. “You’re not going to believe it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Uh-uh. Wait ‘til lunch.” She hung up. I knew it wasn’t fair to leave Jennifer stuck with all the phones, but when I explained the purpose of my meeting with Linda, she practically pushed me out the door.

  “Just tell me everything you find out,” she said before I left.

  Linda agreed to meet me at The Oriental Enchilada, a cheap Chinese-Mexican diner not far from the warehouse. I didn’t want to take too long for lunch, in case Ray noticed my extended absence and complained. Not that he, Charles, or Peggy were noticing much that day. I took the last table available in the middle of the room. Not very private, but from the sounds of it no one around me was paying attention. Linda arrived ten minutes later, looking hot and out of breath.

  “Is it my imagination or does traffic get worse every year?” she asked as she thumped into the seat across from me, blowing strands of silky black hair out of her face. Her large, sapphire eyes smiled at me in greeting.

  “Forget about the traffic,” I said, feeling my usual pang of envy at Linda’s peaches-and-cream complexion and tall, stylish figure. She wore a blue silk shirt that matched her eyes, a black leather miniskirt, and black high-heeled boots. “What’s the story with Michael Keller?”

  Linda smiled mysteriously and picked up a menu, ignoring the sly glances and nudges of the two men sitting at the table next to us. “What’s good to eat around here?”

  “Linda!”

  She looked coyly at me from over the menu. “Trust me,” she said. “This is worth waiting for.”

  With poorly concealed impatience I waited while she chose the cheese enchiladas with rice and beans (obviously, she was born with that figure) while I opted for the cheap, but filling wor wonton soup.

  After Mrs. Huang, the harried owner of the restaurant, had taken our orders and disappeared into the kitchen, I turned back to Linda.

  “Okay, okay,” she smiled, giving in to my pleading look. She reached into the capacious shoulder bag slung across her chair and pulled out a computer printout. “It was actually easier than I thought. Gina told me she had already pulled the file for the police. She just made a copy of what she had given them.”

  I wondered if that meant there was nothing helpful in the file that would link Keller to Rebecca’s murder. After all, the cops still hadn’t made an arrest; in fact, they seemed to suspect Sherman over Keller. Nevertheless, I eagerly scanned the pages; Linda had said there was something interesting in them.

  Everything seemed in order. Keller’s name, address, social security number. Previous job descriptions. I looked up.

  “He must never have been caught selling cocaine,” I said, noting where he checked the “no” box after the “Have you ever been convicted of a crime?” question.

  “We don’t know he was her drug dealer” was all Linda would say. “Skip to the end.”

  So I did. And stared in surprise. Under name to be reached in case of emergency, Keller had written, “Rebecca Saunders.” After relationship, he put, “Ex-wife.”

  I looked at Linda, speechless. She grinned broadly at me. “I told you it was good.”

  “He … Oh, God … I’m an idiot!”

  Linda looked at me, puzzled. “Why? How were you supposed to know?”

  I told her about my meeting with Lily Wainess, the former writers’ assistant. “She told me she was having an affair with Rebecca’s ex. Rebecca found out and that’s why Lily quit.”

  “So, why does that make you an idiot?”

  “She called him ‘Kelly.’ As in Keller. Michael Keller.”

  Linda’s mouth formed a perfect “O.” Jennifer was going to roll over and die when she heard this.

  “What else did she say? Are they still together?” Linda asked, leaning across the table.

  “She said no.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “At the time I had no reason to think she was lying. I still don’t. How could you not know Rebecca and Keller were married? Hollywood is a small town.”

  “They probably got divorced before she started working for Ray,” Linda said. I remembered Lily said something to that effect. “Was he at the memorial service?”

  “No, he wasn’t. And Rebecca’s parents didn’t seem to miss him. Maybe they didn’t approve of the marriage.”

  “Would your parents—if you had married an out-of-work actor you had to find construction work for?”

  My parents wouldn’t even approve of my marrying someone who wasn’t Jewish. But that was another story.

  “Obviously they still kept in touch,” I pointed out.

  “Rebecca must’ve talked Bob Berg into getting him this job, and even then kept slipping him money. I wonder why?”

  “He still could be her drug dealer.”

  “But why let him work at the warehouse?”

  “Easy. A convenient way for him to deliver the cocaine.”

  “Did Lily mention if he did drugs?”

  “It didn’t come up—because I didn’t know Rebecca’s ex and Michael Keller were one and the same.”

  “So, the sixty-four thousand dollar question is, do we think he killed her?”

  “If he did, he also killed off a source of income.”

  “But maybe he was too angry to think about that when he killed her.”

  “And what got him so angry?”

  “She decided to stop doing drugs?”

  Linda and I looked at one another then simultaneously went, “Nah.”

  “You know, this is just pie in the sky,” Linda said. “We don’t really know if he sold her drugs.”

  “So, if the checks weren’t for drugs, but just to tide him over, maybe she decided to stop, and that’s what got him mad,” I said.

  Linda thought about it. “Could be. What else?”

  “He was blackmailing her. And she didn’t want to pay any more.”

  “Blackmailing her over what?”

  “Her affair with Ray … or Gail.”

  Linda only looked half-convinced. “Do you think he was the Scoop’s source?”

  “Why not?”

  “But why do that kind of damage after she was dead?”

  “They paid him big bucks for the story.”

  Before Linda could respond, our food arrived. We spent the rest of the meal talking about Zack’s death and wondering why Keller, if he was the murderer, would think Zack knew enough to risk killing him.

  Neither of us could come up with an acceptable answer, and I returned to the warehouse to fill Jennifer in on the latest news.

  5.

  Two things happened at once when I got back. The phone rang and Detective Wagner exited Peggy’s office. He said, “Susan, I need to talk to you,” just as I picked up the phone and answered, “Babbitt & Brooks.”

  “Is this Susan?” the voice on the other end asked as Wagner crossed to my desk. Jennifer appeared from over his shoulder; she must have run down the hall from Charles’s office to answer the phone, not knowing I was back.

  “Yes, this is Susan,” I said, not recognizing the voice. I was too intent on Wagner, in the pit of my gut knowing why he needed to speak with me and not looking forward to that discussion.

  “Hi, it’s Jesse Mendez. How are you?”

  For a second the name didn’t register, so focused was I on Wagner. Jennifer had slid around him to sit behind her desk. From her expression I could tell she was warning me about something but I didn’t know what.

  “I’m fine. How are
you?”

  “Great. I was calling to see how the new scripts are going.”

  I started to ask, “Why’s that any of your business?” then paused. Oh, God. Jesse Mendez. Pain-in-the-neck actor.

  “The scripts are going great,” I lied. Wagner helped himself to a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker on the credenza.

  “I heard about Zack’s suicide on the news last night. Did he really kill Rebecca?”

  What was with this guy? Was life at Babbitt & Brooks his daily dose of soap opera entertainment? I was now so distracted by his call, Wagner’s presence, and Jennifer’s unspoken warning that I didn’t pay attention to what I was saying. “Zack didn’t kill Rebecca.”

  Wagner turned to me so sharply he spilled coffee on the carpet. Jennifer buried her face in her hands and Jesse yelped, “He didn’t?”

  Too late, I realized my goof. Wagner set his cup down and walked toward me, looking like he was ready to jerk the phone from my hands. Quickly I said, “Jesse, I didn’t mean that. Look, it’s real busy here and I have to go. I’ll call you back.”

  I hung up before Jesse could reply and stared up at Wagner, looking, I’m sure, like a puppy who accidentally piddled on his master’s antique Persian carpet.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. “It just slipped out.”

  “Do you know something you care to share with us, Ms. Kaplan?” So, we were back to “Ms. Kaplan.” In spite of his struggle to remain expressionless, I could tell Wagner was angry.

  “I don’t know anything. Honest.” I suddenly remembered my lunch with Linda and our perusal of Michael Keller’s personnel file, and my face flushed red.

  Wagner didn’t look like he believed me a whole hell of a lot. He towered over my desk, his muscles bulging from his dark green T-shirt, looking about ready to burst through his Sons of Anarchy motorcycle jacket. My face flushed even redder and my hairline started to itch. Who needed a lie detector when anyone could just watch the color of my face?

  I broke eye contact first and glanced at Jennifer. She looked at me sadly and I read pity in her eyes.

  “Can we use Sherman O’Dell’s office to talk?” Wagner asked.