Blacklist

by Jerry Ludwig

  “Give me your reading on the room,” Alcalay asks.

  “She spends a lot of time here, but not all. He’s working on a script. Not bad. No sign that he’s about to fly the coop. No sign of a disturbed, deranged occupant.”

  “Don’t start on that again.”

  We look around. Where’s left to search? Then I notice that the empty wastebasket has a small pink message envelope clinging to the side. I open the flap, show it to Alcalay. The envelope is empty.

  “Let’s go talk to the guy at the front desk,” I suggest.

  The frazzled young night clerk listens attentively. He’s already called the manager, who’s on his way over, and the clerk has his orders: Do whatever is necessary to get the cops out of the building as soon as possible.

  “Yeah, there was a call for David Weaver at eleven o’clock,” the clerk tells us. “When I came on duty it was the first call I logged. David’s room didn’t answer, but the guy said it was important, so I had the bellman stick the message under his door.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of it.”

  “Sure do. We write ’em on a carbon pad.” Alcalay and I both read the message from “Uncle Leo.”

  “Logged in at 11:01.” Alcalay points at the time entry. “Which makes it the neatest trick since Harry Houdini—Vardian was leaving a phone message a half hour after his body was discovered.”

  “You think David called in the message himself?”

  “Sure. More fancy tap dancing,” Alcalay says. “I’m onto this guy’s style now. Probably trying to concoct another weird alibi.”

  “Lieutenant Alcalay?” the clerk interrupts. “Call for you. You can pick it up on the house phone.”

  “Alcalay,” he says into the phone. “Hey, Barney, how’d you find me? You oughta be a detective—what? You saw David Weaver? Where the hell are you?”

  * * *

  It’s chilly inside the temperature-controlled vault where Alcalay is but I can see he is simmering. The vault is a ten-by-twelve room with fitted shelves on two sides for the rows of theater-size film cans. From my aisle seat nearby in the screening room I can see they are prints from the Weaver & Vardian days up through those pictures Leo did alone. On the far inside wall there are floor-to-ceiling racks laden with vintage wines.

  A mousy-looking fortyish corporate type in dark-framed glasses, charcoal-gray suit, white shirt with French cuffs, and an old-school tie is busy checking the contents and making notations on a clipboard. Alcalay is ignoring him, focusing instead on Barney Ott, who’s leaning comfortably against the open steel door.

  “Are you saying you caught David Weaver cracking this safe?” Alcalay growls.

  “No,” Ott says, “actually we were in process of opening the vault—”

  “Which can be interpreted as one felony or two,” Alcalay cuts in. “Breaking and entering—at a crime scene under investigation.”

  “Didn’t see any crime-scene tape,” Jack Heritage says. Then he sneezes. He looks like a beached sea otter, slouched unhappily in an aisle seat. Wearing a beach robe from the cabana with Leo’s initials on it over his soaked suit, his hair all tousled.

  I’m in the row right behind Heritage. Hating his guts. No crime-scene tape! Another Declan Collins. The same kind of arrogant turd.

  “Hey, ex-copper,” Alcalay snaps at Heritage. “You know better, you knew we were working our way over here.” Alcalay gestures expansively with his arm to indicate the entire estate. The guy inside the vault with the clipboard cautions him:

  “Careful, Lieutenant, don’t knock any of the wine bottles off the rack, some of them are quite expensive.”

  “Who the hell are you anyway?”

  “I’m Eli Nugent. From Panorama’s legal staff.”

  “And what’re you doing with that damn clipboard?”

  “Taking inventory. It may be necessary for probate.”

  “Point is,” Ott resumes, “we had our locksmith working on the vault when Weaver snuck up on us and without provocation attacked Jack.”

  “Bastard came out of nowhere. Slugged me and shoved me into the pool.” Heritage sneezes again. He blots his nose with the sleeve of Leo’s robe.

  “And then Weaver just ran off into the night?” Alcalay is skeptical.

  “We tried to pursue but he got away,” Ott says.

  Alcalay steps out of the vault to confront him. “Before we get into why you were here,” Alcalay says, “any idea why Weaver was here?” Obviously Alcalay doesn’t feel like sharing the information about the phone message left at the Chateau.

  “Well,” Ott says, “I assume after he killed Leo, the kid knew the coast was clear, so he came here to rob the place.”

  “No sign of a break-in,” I point out, “except for the little burglary job you guys did here.” I think I know what they were after: I’ve heard scuttlebutt about Leo snatching his movie’s sound track as a negotiating pawn. But before I can go there, Eli Nugent, the fussy little studio lawyer, emerges from the vault and clears his throat:

  “Pardon me, officers, but I must object to any intimations that my colleagues have broken the law.”

  “Thanks for your unbiased opinion, counsellor.” Alcalay is delighted to have someone engage with him. “We’ll have to see if the DA’s office agrees.”

  “Yeah, you do that.” Jack Heritage snickers and again blows his nose on the robe’s sleeve.

  “And I’ll have you in a cage downtown until we clear this up, cowboy!” Alcalay snarls.

  Eli Nugent moves between them. “Mr. Heritage is indulging in a bit of sarcasm. Possibly because of the trauma he’s sustained tonight. But the fact is that he and Mr. Ott—”

  “And who else was here?” Alcalay’s got his notebook out. “I need the names of all witnesses—or perpetrators—present.”

  Eli Nugent responds. “The name of the locksmith is Lester Morell. His firm is located in Culver City. Also present was film editor Keeler Barnes, who—”

  I jump in. “I thought Leo fired him.”

  Barney Ott shrugs. “Old news. Leo fired him, I rehired him. As Panorama’s new supervising film editor. Overdue recognition for a talented man.”

  “What did Leo say when he heard that?” I ask.

  “Didn’t get around to telling him. But he would have read it in the trades tomorrow.” I raise an eyebrow. “Hey, McKenna, directors don’t run the studio. Harry and I do.”

  “Why’d they leave? Keeler and the locksmith?” Alcalay asks

  “I sent ’em home,” says Ott. “They weren’t needed here anymore.”

  “You decided that,” Alcalay bristles.

  “You’re welcome to talk to them, of course, but after we sighted David Weaver we thought the most urgent thing was to notify you and—”

  “Second most urgent thing,” I correct him. “Opening the vault was top priority, right?” Ott says nothing. “Find what you were looking for?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact I did.”

  So he got the sound track. “The show must go on, huh, Barney?”

  “That’s what they say,” Barney Ott meets my gaze. Unblinking. Making me wonder: Would these guys actually kill Leo for a sound track? Maybe. But that wouldn’t explain Joe Shannon.

  Eli Nugent cuts off my speculation. “There was material here of a time-sensitive nature that Mr. Ott thought might be in the vault.”

  “Studio property,” Ott says.

  “Stolen from private property.” Alcalay gestures at the vault.

  “Now that’s rather harsh, Lieutenant.” Eli Nugent steps in. “When the studio, at its expense, built the cabana, the projection room and vault, Mr. Vardian sold his interest in the house and overall property to Panorama. He rented back the premises on a lifetime basis for one dollar per year.”

  He offers documents for Alcalay’s perusal.

  “We like our talented people, like Leo, to be happy,” Ott says.

  “So Mr. Ott and Mr. Heritage were here tonight as duly authorized representat
ives of the titleholders,” Eli Nugent affirms. “And therefore cannot be accused in any way of unlawfully entering the premises.”

  “We own the place,” Jack Heritage says with a fuck-you smile.

  But that smile transforms into another sneeze and I don’t bother to say “God bless you” while Alcalay looks like he’s ready to cart the whole conniving bunch of them away. I’m so tired of all this Hollywood horseshit I’m ready to help him try. But of course we can’t. They own the place.

  * * *

  After leaving Stone Canyon, Alcalay and I split up to cover other ground. He goes looking for Keeler Barnes and Lester the Locksmith, while I take the touchy but potentially more productive assignment of notifying next of kin. Assuming Jana Vardian hasn’t heard yet.

  I get her current address from the studio switchboard. When I reach the bungalow in Silver Lake, the street is dark. I thought a TV crew might have found her first, but it’s quiet.

  I’ve had only glancing encounters with Jana in recent years, mostly at Hollywood screenings or social functions where she accompanied Leo. The few words we exchanged on the studio back lot recently are as close as we’ve ever come to a private conversation. I ring the doorbell. Wait, ring again. In a moment the lamp outside the front door switches on and I hear her muffled voice. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Brian McKenna.”

  Chain being unlatched and the door swings open. Jana looks sleep-rumpled, barefoot, wearing a terrycloth bathrobe. She looks at me and says nothing, but an awful dread comes into her eyes, realizing I’m the bearer of news that she does not want to receive. I’ve seen that look too many times.

  “We have to talk. Can I come in, Jana?”

  “Is it David?” she whispers, clutching at the collar of her robe.

  Clearly, as far as she’s concerned, the bogeyman has arrived. I’m uncomfortable causing that reaction, but I know how strategically valuable it can be. Like it or not, it’s part of the job. She steps aside so I can enter and I close the door behind us.

  CHAPTER

  41

  JANA

  Ring. Loud knock. I’m jolted awake. Grab a robe. Stagger to the front door. Who’s there? Oh, God. Yank it open. McKenna on the doorstep. Been trailing David for weeks, concocting evidence. I want to punch him, fall down and scream. What the hell’s he want? Somber as an undertaker. Suddenly my heart’s in my throat.

  “Can I come in, Jana?”

  Somebody’s dead. Must be. Another one.

  Please God. Don’t let it be David.

  Invite him in. Sit down. Hold my breath. He tells me. My father. Killed. Dangling like a side of beef. “No!” I scream, again and again. Then a flash of relief. David’s alive! And I’m swamped by shame. It smashes into me. Tears pour. Can’t stop, though I hate showing emotion to this manipulative creep. Daddy’s dead. Impossible. He survived the Blacklist. Survived cancer. Seemed immortal. But he’s gone.

  Just like that. Gone.

  I pretend to listen to the details. Not hearing McKenna. Who cares? Dead is dead. It can’t just be over like this! Not yet, when there’s no chance to make it better. Never another hug. Another smile. But one thing for certain. My father loved me. Always. How he loved me! And not just in the great glowing moments.

  But I have to stop. Suck it up. No more tears. Still gasping. I try to tune in. What is Slim Jim selling? Snake oil, as usual. Under the smarmy sympathy. The hidden agenda. He’s after David. Hunting David. Can’t be. David would never … could never … could he? And that’s when it hits me. Why McKenna really is here. To get me to help him catch David.

  “Jana, is there a possibility in your mind that David may have done this terrible thing?”

  So that confirms it. He’s nailed me. Because how can I be sure? Not totally. There’s a side to David that—

  Phone rings. Stare at it. Don’t want to answer. Have to talk to David! But not like this. Not with McKenna here.

  “Probably just a reporter,” McKenna says.

  As if he doesn’t care if I answer it. Really urging me to pick it up. Help him. No. I won’t consort with the enemy. That what I’m doing? Like father, like daughter? I reach for the phone. Slowly. Please don’t let it be David. Press the receiver tightly to my ear. Containing all incoming sound. Trying not to betray the identity of my caller. Say hello.

  “It’s me … did I wake you?” David’s voice is odd. Thick. Slurry.

  “No, I was up,” I say. McKenna staring at me.

  “You heard, huh?” David reads me. “Jana, I’m … so sorry. No matter what Leo did, he was your father and—”

  I’m crying again. No, I’m caterwauling. I can’t control it. There’s a sound. A high pitched keen. It’s coming from me. David’s trying to talk to me. I hear only a few words here and there. “… honey, I know.” “… be okay…” My hysteria blots him out. I want to speak, I have to speak. Finally through the floodgates I form the words that I must ask:

  “Did you kill my daddy?” I’m shocked at my little-girl tone.

  “No, of course not, how could you even—”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it, I—”

  Behind me McKenna insists, “Let me talk to him!” David asks, “Who’s there with you?” McKenna yanks the phone from me.

  “David, this is Agent McKenna. Come in, kid, make it easy on everyone, you—” McKenna blinks. Then lowers the phone. “He hung up.”

  McKenna turns to me. He wants David. But he’s got me. And that’s when he turns up the heat. Like he did to my father. Warning me. For my own good. Threatening in that velvet way. Working my hopes and fears. Offering me only one possibility.

  “You have to help us bring him in, Jana.”

  Never. Never. Never. My arms are crossed and wrapped tightly around me, clutching my own shoulders, trying to block out his words while I hold on for dear life.

  CHAPTER

  42

  DAVID

  I fling the phone down as if it’s molten lava. “McKenna’s there,” I yelp.

  “Of course he is,” Zacharias says, “he’s everywhere.”

  We’re in a motel in the Valley. I cannot recall how we got here. I’m back into trying to fill in mental blanks. I recall being in the rear of Zacharias’ tour bus. His showing me the newspaper with my picture. Guess I’ve read the story because I know what it says: Leo’s dead! I still can’t believe it. And they’re blaming me. Hunting for me. I remember Zacharias dropping the bus off at a big car barn. When the coast was clear, Zacharias toting me to his car. Then I must have passed out again.

  I woke up a few minutes ago, still aching but not as much as before. Zacharias in a chair next to the bed, where I’ve been conked out. My ribs all taped up. Band-Aids on bruises. Did we stop at a pharmacy somewhere? There’s a bottle of prescription painkillers with Zacharias’ name on it next to the phone. Must have taken some because my tongue is thick and my pronunciation fuzzy.

  The first words out of me when I opened my eyes and the room swirled into focus were:

  “I’ve gotta call Jana.”

  Now I can check that one off my list. She’s in the hands of the enemy. I feel new panic: what’s she telling McKenna? I know how he scares her, but she wouldn’t help him—how can I even think that? It’s horrendous, losing her dad like that, of course she’s hysterical.

  “They’ve got her,” I say to Zacharias. “Working on her right now. Convincing her the way to avenge Leo is to let them use her as bait to get me. She’ll resist, but the assholes will keep working on her, that’s their technique, they—”

  “Cut it out,” Zacharias says sharply. “You love her?” I nod. “Then believe in her. Don’t doubt her.”

  “But suppose—”

  “Fuck suppose! That’s their game. Divide and conquer. Turn us against each other, so we’ll do the job on ourselves that they want done. Don’t let it happen, kid. Close ranks. Stick together.” He stares at me. Gauging if his words are penetrating. “You get it?”

  I no
d. Ashamed that I doubted Jana even for an instant.

  Then the enormity of Leo’s death sweeps over me. The bad memories superseded by the loss of my Uncle Leo. I flash on how once he performed a miracle for me. On my tenth birthday party at the Stone Canyon house. We had received a War Department telegram a week before. Dad had been wounded in the liberation of Paris, but he was going to be okay. My mom and Jana and I were faking joy, when we really felt relief plus sadness that Teddy wasn’t with us today. By pulling Pentagon strings, Leo arranged for a phone call to go through during the party to a field hospital in France so my dad could wish me a happy birthday.

  “That was a gift,” Zacharias agrees.

  Then Zacharias fills me in on defense strategy. “They know we’re friends, I figure they’ll come to my place. So I checked you in here. Under my name. Paid cash, no credit card record. So you can lay low.”

  “You taped me up?” I touch the ribs gingerly. Wince. Even the merest pressure lights me up.

  “Yeah, too tight?”

  “It’s fine. The Army will give you a job as a medic anytime. How many of these did I take?” I point at the pill bottle.

  Zacharias holds up two fingers. “You were hurting pretty bad. Babbling a lot of stuff about tonight. Up at Leo’s house.”

  “Uh-huh. So what do we do now?”

  “I was hoping you had a few ideas.”

  “Maybe I do. Could be Ott and Heritage, they’ve been on Leo’s case real heavy lately. Or maybe—” I hesitate.

  “Y’got my attention, Duveed.”

  “The face I saw tonight. With that look when he spotted me. At Leo’s house with those assholes. Helping them recover the movie sound track. Making himself a hero to the studio.”

  “Keeler Barnes?”

  “He’s always had this love-hate thing going with Leo. Mostly hate, though. Keeler blames his wife’s death on the Blacklist—and Leo for naming him. Keeler also had it in for Joe Shannon.”

  Zacharias looks thoughtful. My eyes feel heavy again. Then he says, “Maybe you got something. But the question is, What can we do about it?”