3 of a Kind

by Rohan Gavin

  A large sign over the reception desk listed the names of all the companies in the building.

  ‘We’re here for the audition,’ Tilly began. ‘With Clorr Entertainment.’

  Knightley Senior loitered in the background, not wishing to cramp their style.

  ‘Well, I don’t have a record of a casting call today. What are your names?’ The male receptionist looked from Tilly to Darkus and back again.

  ‘The Knightleys,’ Darkus chimed in, presenting his ID. ‘With an E-Y. We’re from England.’

  ‘Knightley …’ The receptionist’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you related to Keir–?’

  ‘We’re her cousins,’ said Darkus. ‘Once removed.’

  ‘Well, Clorr Entertainment is on the fifth floor. Go on up and good luck!’

  Knightley Senior followed along behind. ‘I’m with them.’

  They took the lift to the fifth floor and stepped out to find a slick, dimly lit corridor lined with offices and hung with framed posters of recent blockbuster movies. An assistant brushed past them without a second glance. Darkus led the way past several glass doorways, until they reached a solid door with an eye-catching logo showing a C inside a circle. Beside it were the words: Clorr Entertainment. He tried the handle and found it unlocked. He teased it open.

  Inside, the office was completely empty. A reception desk appeared abandoned. The phone was unplugged. There were no posters on the walls, no computers or filing cabinets, just a handful of wheelie chairs scattered across a derelict boardroom. It was as if the office had never been used.

  ‘It’s a front company of some kind,’ remarked Darkus. ‘It’s not real.’

  ‘What about the script?’ asked Tilly. ‘That’s real. Someone must have written it.’

  ‘Dad, has Bill run the name yet?’

  Knightley glanced at his phone screen and nodded grimly. ‘Chuck Penn – perhaps unsurprisingly – is a pseudonym. A pen name. A fake. He’s not represented at any of the major talent agencies, and there’s no address on file at the Writers Guild. Like the company he works for, Clorr Entertainment, he doesn’t seem to exist.’

  ‘Is everything in LA fake?’ pondered Tilly.

  ‘It would appear so,’ Darkus responded.

  ‘Not everything,’ countered his father, staring into the middle distance. ‘I once solved a case here … the Mystery of the Fallen Angelino.’

  Darkus explained to Tilly, ‘Angelino is a term for a native Los Angeles resident … oh, wait a second.’ Darkus performed his own thousand-yard stare, consulting his father’s case files in his head. ‘I must be getting rusty myself. You solved that case with the help of a pair of local Angelinos: a pair of LA private detectives, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘You’re right, Doc, I did!’

  Tilly observed the two of them as if they were conjoined aliens, sharing one brain.

  ‘If my memory serves me correctly,’ Darkus went on, digging deeper into the Knowledge, ‘their phone number was 323-555-1200.’

  Tilly shook her head, half impressed, half spooked.

  ‘Excellent, Doc!’ said Knightley, beaming with pride, then checking his watch. ‘I’ll invite them to brunch.’

  ‘Brunch?’ said Darkus.

  ‘Surely you know what that means,’ demanded Tilly. ‘It’s a cross between breakfast and lunch.’

  Darkus nodded. ‘Yes, but we only just had breakfast.’

  ‘Correct again,’ replied Knightley, ‘but over here, no one’s counting.’

  CHAPTER 11

  BRADLEY & SON

  Contact was made and the agreed rendezvous point was a diner called Swingers. The trio were seated by a long window lined with plaid-patterned leatherette booths, formica tables and waitresses in T-shirts, skirts and knee-high boots. Knightley watched the door while Darkus and Tilly ordered two large, thick malt shakes to begin with, before struggling with an even larger menu than they’d previously witnessed. They each unfolded their copy as if reading a Sunday broadsheet and sucked on the shakes until their faces ached.

  At noon precisely, the glass doors swung open and Knightley stood up to greet his LA partners in crime-solving. This time it was Darkus and Tilly’s turn to do a double take: the local investigators were a father and son, both dressed in matching green plaid, three-piece suits – fashioned out of a more lightweight cotton than the Knightleys’ customary tweed, Darkus observed. The duo were African American, approximately the same height and build as Darkus and his dad, and possessed the same acute gaze that betrayed the minds of great detectives.

  Darkus stood up to join his father, out of respect and amazement, greeting their near mirror image standing before them.

  ‘Doc, meet Irwin and Rufus Bradley. Also known as … Bradley & Son. Los Angeles’ finest private investigators.’

  Darkus extended his hand.

  ‘Rufus,’ the younger Bradley introduced himself, shaking Darkus’s hand, then making a fist. Darkus got the meaning, also made a fist and they bumped them together.

  ‘Bring it in, Alan.’ Bradley Senior embraced Knightley Senior fondly.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Irwin,’ he replied. ‘Meet our newest addition to the team. This is Tilly.’

  She stood up and shook Irwin’s hand before exchanging a complex handshake with Rufus that involved a fist bump, a snap and a flurry of fingers ending in an impression of an explosion.

  Rufus nodded, impressed. ‘Where d’you learn that?’

  ‘The web,’ Tilly responded.

  ‘Please,’ said Knightley, gesturing to the booth. ‘Order yourselves something and let’s begin the briefing.’

  ‘I should warn you, I gave up meat, wheat, caffeine and dairy,’ said Irwin. ‘Doctor’s orders.’

  ‘Me too,’ added Rufus.

  ‘Very wise, I’m sure,’ Knightley admitted. ‘But for myself, life’s too short. Now to business …’

  Bradley & Son listened intently as Knightley brought them up to speed on the investigation so far. When the Bradleys occasionally interrupted the flow with their own observations and deductions, Darkus had the uncanny impression of watching himself and his father talking, so similar were the Bradleys’ demeanours and intellects. Darkus and Tilly chimed in with any details Knightley had overlooked; but nobody mentioned the puzzle box, or the hard drive, out of respect for Tilly’s private mission to destroy all those responsible for her mother’s death – the details of which were still being decoded by her hacker colleagues online.

  As the briefing drew to a close, Bradley Senior turned to his son. ‘Well, Rufus, what do you make of this?’

  ‘Undoubtedly a trap of some kind,’ the boy began. ‘With Miss Bogna as bait. But then why would the Combination go to the trouble of playing games and trying to bump them off on arrival? Do the bad guys want them to find Bogna, or not? Beats me, because it appears your housekeeper is of no inherent value to the enemy.’

  ‘Not that I can think of,’ replied Knightley.

  ‘But she is of great sentimental value to all three of us,’ noted Darkus.

  ‘So is she just a pawn in the game?’ Rufus speculated. ‘And, if so … what is the game?’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Darkus.

  ‘Alan, I think you’ll agree, this calls for a reasoned approach,’ advised Irwin. ‘We begin with the facts, then arrange them into a number of possible theories until the most probable one appears.’

  Knightley nodded. ‘The only facts we have so far are that Bogna is missing, and this Clorr Entertainment promised her now deceased kidnapper a role in a movie called Area 51.’

  ‘You all know what Area 51 is, right?’ Rufus addressed the group.

  ‘Only a little bit,’ replied Darkus modestly, before elaborating. ‘It’s a top secret US Air Force base in the Nevada desert about four hundred miles from here. It was formally known as Groom Lake, originally founded in the 1940s as a reserve airfield, before later becoming a testing ground for experimental aircraft and cutting-edge military technology.’
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br />   ‘A-plus,’ said Irwin. ‘And it’s also rumoured to be where UFOs are taken when they crash-land. So the US government can harvest them for research. The ships, that is. Hell, maybe the aliens too.’

  ‘Hold up, Pops,’ Rufus interjected. ‘There’s no concrete evidence of any actual alien life reaching Planet Earth. Let’s stay in the realm of reality, shall we?’

  ‘Once again, I agree,’ said Darkus.

  Irwin glanced at Knightley Senior and shrugged. ‘Kids, eh?’

  ‘When will they learn?’ sighed Knightley.

  ‘Oh, you know they will,’ chuckled Irwin.

  Rufus continued undaunted. ‘Other nicknames for Area 51 include Dreamland and Paradise Ranch. The facility is classified above top secret. The airspace and a six-hundred-square-mile area are totally restricted. Obviously it’s ripe for use in fiction, which is probably why your mysterious screenwriter Chuck Penn decided to write a movie about it.’

  ‘Sounds like the perfect base for the Combination,’ said Tilly, licking her lips, either from the malt shake or the anticipated taste of vengeance.

  Darkus noticed her brooding demeanour and tried to keep the investigation on track. ‘Right now, that script is the only evidence we’ve got,’ he reminded them. ‘I started reading it on the way over here, and I must confess it’s extremely poorly executed. It concerns a group of campers and an escaped alien. The action is unrealistic, the plot is preposterous, and the characterisation is all over the place.’

  ‘Well, fortunately for you, Rufus and I are well connected within the industry, and I predict we can deliver you this “Chuck Penn” in a matter of hours,’ said Irwin.

  A waitress arrived with their orders. ‘OK, who had the tofu scramble with lettuce instead of toast?’

  ‘That would be me,’ Irwin confessed.

  ‘And the double bacon cheeseburger with chilli fries and everything on it?’ enquired the waitress.

  Knightley meekly raised a hand. ‘When in Rome.’

  CHAPTER 12

  THE BIG BREAK

  After a few well-placed phone calls, the Bradleys informed the Knightleys that Chuck Penn was a new writer on the scene, having previously worked in a now defunct DVD store in a place called Van Nuys in the San Fernando Valley. Penn’s real name was Melvin Neumann and he resided with his parents in a bungalow in a cul-de-sac by the noisy 101 Freeway: a ten-lane superhighway that linked Los Angeles in the south with San Francisco in the north and appeared to be congested with cars and big rig trucks at all times of the day and night.

  Bradley & Son drove their esteemed visitors to the Neumanns’ address in the back of their souped-up yellow Los Angeles cab – a Ford Crown Victoria, designed to blend in as effortlessly as Knightley’s Fairway cab did back home. On arrival, Bradley Senior and Knightley Senior made the first approach.

  After ringing twice, the door opened to reveal a middle-aged lady in a velour tracksuit with rhinestones embroidered on it. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘Mrs Neumann?’ Irwin held up his private investigator’s licence. ‘We’d like to interview your son, Melvin.’

  ‘Well, what’s he done?’ she demanded. ‘Tell me he hasn’t bought something he can’t afford. Melvin??!’ she hollered into the entrance hall behind her. ‘There are two men in suits to see you.’

  In the background, Knightley detected feet running across a carpet, followed by a window being raised in haste. ‘Madam, would you mind if we came in?’ he suggested.

  ‘Well, with an accent like that, you can stay for tea!’

  Knightley smiled and stepped past her, rapidly following the noises down a short corridor to a closed bedroom door. As Knightley opened the door he saw a leg vanish through the sash window and drop to the AstroTurf below.

  ‘We’ve got a runner,’ he shouted back to Bradley.

  In the yellow cab outside, Darkus saw a short man in his mid-twenties stumble away from the bungalow and attempt a sprint across the backyard, before hurling himself over the neighbour’s fence.

  Darkus, Rufus and Tilly leaped out of the cab and gave chase. Neumann, while not naturally athletic or coordinated, was unusually talented at evasive action. He dodged around the neighbour’s paddling pool, hopped on to a trampoline and ricocheted over the next neighbour’s fence. Tilly followed suit, hurdling the trellis while Darkus and Rufus tracked the runner’s progress from the row of tidy front yards lining the cul-de-sac. Before long, Knightley and Bradley Senior were jogging after their junior colleagues, panting and breaking a sweat.

  Neumann reached the end of the row of backyards and vanished into a bush at the base of a steep incline, leading straight upwards to the loudly buzzing 101 Freeway. A moment later the writer appeared halfway up the slope, frantically climbing towards the guard rail, which was only metres from the torrent of vehicles flashing past.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Rufus. ‘We only want to talk!’

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong!’ yelled Neumann.

  ‘No one said you had!’ Darkus called out.

  Tilly arrived at the base of the incline and joined the appeal. ‘What are you running for?’

  Neumann gulped for breath following his exertions, then flopped himself over the guard rail, half fell on to the other side and staggered towards the traffic, contemplating a hopeless escape route.

  ‘Stop!’ shrieked Tilly as all three of them raced up the hill.

  They found Neumann frozen in fear at the sight of five lines of cars and trucks zipping by at a dozen per second. Beyond the central divider there were another five lanes of fast-moving traffic travelling in the opposite direction.

  Darkus made a brief calculation then called over to Neumann from the hard shoulder. ‘I estimate your chances of survival to be less than one in a thousand.’

  Rufus nodded. ‘I concur.’

  ‘Melvin!’ shouted Tilly. ‘I loved your script,’ she lied. ‘You’re a brilliant writer.’

  Neumann turned, his face breaking into a snaggle-toothed smile. ‘Really? You think so?’

  ‘You bet. Come back over here and I’ll tell you everything I loved about it,’ she went on, admittedly feeling a little bad about the deception.

  Darkus and Rufus watched in amazement as Tilly talked him back from the edge.

  Mrs Neumann made coffee while her son Melvin wept in the front room.

  ‘So you didn’t read it at all?’ he sobbed.

  ‘Well, I loved the title,’ said Tilly, on the sofa next to him. ‘Short and punchy. Just like you.’

  Rufus took over the interview. ‘Melvin … Why d’you skip out on us? What are you so afraid of?’

  Neumann blew his nose loudly, then squidged the handkerchief back in the front pocket of his chino trousers. ‘This was my big break. The producers told me the script had a green light, casting was under way and the movie was going into production next month.’

  ‘Well, technically, casting had started …’ said Darkus, before realising he probably shouldn’t disclose the fate of the intended star, Humphrey Sturgess. ‘But one of the actors, well … dropped out.’

  ‘What are the names of the producers?’ asked Knightley. ‘Can you give us a description?’

  ‘No. It was all done by email. They never used names, only initials, and they were different initials each time. Two days ago I got a message saying they’d pulled the plug. The money fell through.’

  ‘That must have been a hard knock,’ Tilly consoled him.

  ‘But that wasn’t the worst part,’ Neumann confessed. ‘They said their backers weren’t happy, and they weren’t the sort of people to mess with. They said I couldn’t breathe a word about the script. They threatened me with legal action … or worse. So when two dudes in suits show up …’ he said, gesturing to Knightley and Bradley Senior, ‘well, I assumed the worst.’

  ‘What were the producers so hung up about?’ asked Irwin.

  ‘They told me they owned the rights to the story, and I had to keep my mouth shut about it. Espe
cially about Yucca Flats.’

  Darkus’s ears pricked up. ‘Yucca Flats?’

  Rufus explained to his British colleague privately: ‘Yucca Flats is a former nuclear testing range in the Nevada desert. A total no-go zone. Over eight hundred nuclear tests took place there between the years 1951 and 1991. It sits directly next to Area 51.’

  Darkus felt his catastrophiser hum to life, ticking persistently, telling him that something was afoot. ‘So the movie you wrote was going to be filmed there, in Yucca Flats?’ he enquired.

  Neumann nodded. ‘That’s where they wanted it. They wanted somewhere remote and cut-off. Impossible to find. They asked me to do some research on the ghost towns out there. The ones with all the mannequins in them. The ones they used to use to simulate nuclear explosions.’

  Darkus had seen the images before: houses being turned inside out and swept away by an unnatural man-made power; windows shattering and paint being scorched off; life-sized plastic figures of families sat around the dinner table before being incinerated by the hot fission blast of an atomic weapon. It was the stuff of worst nightmares.

  Neumann went on, ‘They wanted me to write a scene in one of these towns. Where a hostage is being held prisoner against her will.’

  Darkus felt his catastrophiser shift up a gear. ‘Bogna …’

  Tilly looked at him and nodded in agreement. ‘Melvin, do you know the exact location where they were going to be filming?’

  ‘Sure, it’s called Survival Town. But you won’t find anyone living there. Except a few plastic dummies.’

  ‘The scene you wrote …’ Darkus pressed him, ‘how did it end?’

  ‘A bomb went off and they were all wiped out,’ replied Neumann, with tears in his eyes. ‘It was awesome.’

  Improbable as it may have sounded, it was perfectly possible for an out-of-work screenwriter to be hired to construct the plotline for a real-life kidnapping. Darkus had heard rumours of a group of Hollywood screenwriters hired by America’s Central Intelligence Agency in the aftermath of September 11th for a very similar purpose: to construct possible scenarios for future terrorist attacks, so these attacks could be prepared for and hopefully thwarted. The writers were asked to give their imagination free rein – just as the terrorists had. Melvin Neumann may not be winning any Oscars any time soon, but he had successfully found a location so far off the map that it perfectly fitted the bill for stowing a hostage. Melvin might have missed out on his big break in Hollywood, but Darkus had just got his big break in the case. It was only a lead, and not yet a certainty, but he was convinced that Bogna was being held in Survival Town, Nevada.