“What’s that?”
“This was perfectly orchestrated. Whoever did it knows all about the security station and the security cameras. Which, once again, suggests that this person is very familiar with the studio.”
“Then it could be Alistair Archer,” Knox said quietly. He’d returned to stand behind them.
“Nope.” Sean shook his head. “No murder weapon anywhere. No bloody trail away from the scene. Come on, Knox! The killer escaped somehow—in a manner we haven’t figured out. Don’t forget, the studio is missing its robe for the remake of Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum. That robe has to be somewhere—and when it’s found, it’s going to be covered in blood. Let me see the Friday footage again, toward the end of the day.”
Fontini looked over at Knox, and Knox shrugged. They rolled the footage again. This time, Sean concentrated on the dressmaker’s mannequin in the costume department. At one point, Mike Greenwood moved it because it was in his way, shoving it behind the curtained area used as a change room when actors came for fittings.
A seamstress passed by and it was shoved farther back. By the end of the day, it was completely behind the curtain.
“One more time?” Sean asked.
“The robe was on the mannequin,” Fontini said. “And it’s gone now, you say?”
“There’s a plain brown monk’s robe on the mannequin now.”
Fontini started to run the tape again, showing the different rooms. “Stop!” Sean said suddenly.
Fontini did, frowning as he studied the various screens. Then he said, “Got it!”
“Got what?” Knox demanded.
Fontini pointed excitedly to the screens. “There’s a gap in the video that covers the entrance. Look—there’s the time on the security station camera. It’s reading 4:48. And there’s the time on the clock in the workroom—4:50.”
“The clocks could have been wrong,” Knox argued.
“They could’ve been. Who would normally notice a two-minute time difference?” Sean said. “And then again, there could be missing footage. And that’s where I think we have a theft. The new robe for the new Amun Mopat. The one worn by the murderer.”
“It might still show up somewhere in the studio,” Knox said.
“Fontini, can we tell if any footage is missing? Could someone have frozen the cameras?” Sean asked.
“It’s possible. Anything is possible,” Fontini said. “But if something was done, I haven’t found it yet. I’ll need to go through just about every computer test known to man, and even then…” He looked at Sean. “But I’ll do it,” he promised.
* * *
Madison’s assistant, Alfie, showed up at her door about forty-five minutes after Sean had left.
“You’re home! Thank God,” Alfie said in his usual dramatic way.
“Well, if you’d called, you would have known that,” Madison told him dryly.
She didn’t have to ask him in; Alfie just walked through the door as if there was no question that he was welcome. He threw himself on the couch. Ichabod, who was fond of Alfie, immediately crawled up on his lap.
Alfie was an attractive man, tall and blond and elegant in his movements. Madison watched him with affection. He was really a big kid, one who loved the movies—and loved his job. But, right now, he clearly felt anxious.
“Have you had dinner?” he asked.
“No.”
“Do you have any food?” He clasped his hands as though in prayer.
“Sure. I have tuna,” she said. He made a face. “I buy a lot of it, Alfie. It comes in cans, and lasts a long time, so it’s good when we wind up working nights and I’m not home to cook.”
“Tuna sounds great.” He followed her into the kitchen, delving into the rack for one of her bottles of questionable red wine as she drew out tuna, mayonnaise, bread, lettuce and tomatoes.
“So?” he said, opening the wine as she prepared the food.
“So?”
“Oh, please! There’s a massive rumor mill! You’re helping the cops! Or the FBI. The ghost FBI.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insisted. She pushed him aside to get a knife out of the drawer. Act innocent, she’d been told.
Alfie rested his elbows on the counter and jiggled his brows. “Studly, macho FBI agent—old employee of the studio—arrives, and you’re assigned to be with him!”
“I showed him around the studio.”
“Aha!”
“Aha what?” she asked.
“So he is studly and macho,” Alfie said triumphantly.
“I suppose. It’s not something you really notice when you’re worried because there’s been a murder and a friend is accused of that murder and our livelihoods are at stake.” That was a lie. Sad as it was, she’d noticed everything about Sean Cameron, down to the scent of his aftershave and the single ring he wore, some kind of coat of arms. He also wore a dive watch. His hands were large, his fingers long, his fingernails neatly clipped; his were the hands of someone who was clean in appearance and habits, yet heedless of artificial enhancements. His hair was cleanly cut and simple, too. The way it fell slightly forward was entirely unaffected.
“I don’t get it,” Alfie said. “I mean, how could anyone but Alistair have done it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not an investigator.” She took the glass of wine he held before her nose, sipped—it was indeed questionable—and set the glass down. “Alfie, I’m just a friend and an artisan and a fabricator. I showed him around the studio because I was asked to.” She cut the sandwiches in halves and bent down to give Ichabod his portion of tuna. “There are chips in the cupboard,” she said.
He went for the chips, poured them into a bowl, then put it and their plates on the kitchen table. He pulled out his chair, waiting for her to join him. When she’d done so, he practically pounced on her. “And you went to see Alistair!”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Has he confessed?”
“No! Alistair swears he didn’t do it—and I believe him.”
Alfie leaned back, sipping his wine. “If Alistair didn’t do it, then who did?”
“Alfie, we’re talking in circles. And I told you, I have no idea. If we knew who did it, the cops wouldn’t have to investigate, would they?” Madison demanded. “So, you tell me. How do you know my every movement?”
“Let’s see,” Alfie said, frowning, “I got the info from Mike Greenwood, who got it from Andy Simons, who apparently saw you with hunk-o-FBI man.”
“How’d you find out I saw Alistair?” she asked.
“That one is more convoluted,” Alfie said, grinning. “I heard it from Vickie at the coffee shop, who heard it from her boyfriend, Victor—Victor, Victoria, cute, huh?—who goes to the same manicurist as Pierce, who apparently escaped the bondage of the current Mrs. Eddie Alistair long enough to get his nails done this afternoon.”
“Well, the fact that I went to see Alistair is no secret,” Madison said.
Alfie laughed. “In our world, does anything stay secret?”
“Probably not. But it doesn’t matter because I don’t have any secrets to worry about,” Madison said.
Alfie chewed thoughtfully for a few minutes. Then he set his sandwich down. “This is all so horrible,” he groaned. “I know you don’t know anything. But who do you think did it?”
“Alfie! I already told you. I haven’t got any idea.”
“What I’m afraid of is that no one will ever find anything. That Alistair just snapped or something. That he doesn’t realize he did it—he’s too good a kid—but that he did do it. And then he’ll go to jail, Eddie will go crazy—and we’ll all be in the unemployment line.”
“He didn’t do it,” Madison said stubbornly. “And it’s way too early to worry about losing your job.”
“So…who could’ve done it?” Alfie asked.
“You tell me. Who do you think could have done it?”
; Alfie frowned. “Ah! The evil Mrs. Eddie Archer. The current one. No, no, never mind. That would mean breaking a nail or messing up her hair. Back to the drawing board. Hmm. Aha! Mike Greenwood. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Mike has access. No one knows the studio better. No, no, he likes his job.” Alfie looked frustrated. “Colin Bailey! He’s the guard, right? He’s in charge of security. But why? Maybe…somewhere, somehow, years and years ago, Eddie dated a girl Bailey was in love with. Yeah…no. No, can’t see Bailey and Archer being involved with any of the same women, nor would Bailey risk his cushy job. God knows, he gets to make a mint and snooze and read magazines. Hey! Maybe we did create something so real it came to life and killed her. What do you think?”
“I think you need to finish your sandwich and your wine, and go home. I’m exhausted.”
“I can’t even get you out for some boba green tea?” Alfie asked, clearly disappointed by the dismissal.
“I hate boba,” she told him.
“Plain green tea, then?”
“Alfie, I just want to sleep.”
He sighed. “Okay, but no holding out. I’m your assistant, for God’s sake! Keep me in the loop,” he said, rising. “Hey, you want some help cleaning up? Doing the dishes—”
“Alfie, we ate on paper plates.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah. Okay, fine—send me out into the cold and the dark, feeling lonely and anxious!”
“Alfie, it isn’t in the least cold. Go home. Or go to a club. I’ve got to sleep!”
She steered him to the door and nudged him out. There, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll keep in touch, I promise, although we’re supposed to be back at work the day after tomorrow. Drive carefully…and go home!”
“All right, all right!” Grinning, he walked out to her drive where he’d parked his car.
When he was gone, Madison closed and locked the door. She turned to lean against it and realized she hadn’t seen Bogie, which was odd, because he loved to talk to her when she had company. He considered it amusing to see if he could push her into answering.
It wasn’t that late, but she really was tired. The kitchen received a lick and a promise, as her mother used to call it, she checked Ichabod’s food and water bowls and then went to her room and prepared for bed. Tonight, there was no drone of voices from the television in the living room, so she turned on the smaller set in her room, found a ridiculous movie about a massive snowstorm freakishly hitting San Diego and willed herself to nod off.
Just as she was falling asleep, she was awakened by the shrill sound of an alarm.
The noise was horrendous, shattering, shocking—and brought her leaping to her feet, terrified and disoriented.
She rushed into the living room and immediately saw that Bogie was back; he was at the window looking out. The sound was coming from her car. Somehow the alarm had been activated.
She rushed to find her keys, and discovered that they must have fallen out of her purse because they were on the coffee table.
“Bogie?”
He turned to her. “I did it. I managed to press that little key and set off the alarm. There was someone out there, Madison. I saw movement in the shadows across the street. There was someone out there—watching. Watching you. And I…I could feel the malice like a wave of hot air, the malice and the…evil. Madison, someone doesn’t like what you’re doing. Someone is out to kill you, too.”
8
Sean sat at the desk in his hotel room, studying the handwritten notes Benny Knox had given him. They were photocopies, and sometimes he had to squint to read them. They might be entering a brave new world where younger cops were working more and more with technology, but a lot of law enforcement officers still carried notebooks and wrote down their observations.
He had the crime scene photos spread before him, and from what he could tell, every single notation matched perfectly with what he saw. It could be argued that Alistair had enough knowledge of the studio to figure out someplace to stash the weapon, but Sean didn’t believe that was what had happened. And Alistair had been covered in blood. There’d also been trace and cast-off blood along the path he’d taken to summon Bailey.
Colin Bailey had been sitting in security. He’d been on the property. But Alistair had found him in his little booth, just where he always was. Bailey had not been covered in blood spatter.
He set down the photos and picked up the phone; he’d wanted to talk to Pierce—in privacy—ever since he and Madison had visited the Archer house.
He hoped Eddie wouldn’t answer, or Helena. If one of them did, he could just ask how they were doing.
He was glad when Pierce did answer, cordial and proper as ever. “Archer residence.”
“Pierce, it’s me—Sean Cameron.”
“Sean,” Pierce said with evident pleasure.
Sean first thanked him for the text messages he’d sent.
“I didn’t know if I should or shouldn’t, but…I mean, their marriage isn’t my business, but—”
“This is an investigation. You did the right thing,” Sean told him. He asked Pierce how he was, and sympathized with him for a moment. Pierce was a good man, always there for Eddie—no matter who he married.
“I have a few questions for you, Pierce. Private questions.”
“Whatever you need.”
“Why are they sleeping in separate rooms? Is the marriage on the rocks?”
“No, Eddie is still in love,” Pierce said dully. “Mrs. Archer complains that Eddie snores, and that she can’t get sleep if he’s there. But they do have connecting rooms.”
“With doors between them—which, I assume, she closes at night, so she doesn’t have to hear his snoring?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else wrong with the marriage?” Sean asked.
“You know how much I love Mr. Archer,” Pierce began.
“I won’t repeat anything, Pierce. But I need to know.”
“I don’t think Helena ever really loved Eddie. I think that when she went to Benita and Eddie’s wedding, she saw that Benita had something she wanted much, much more than what she had herself. I think she waited for the right minute and stepped in. She’s been planning on marrying him for a long time. She doesn’t love Eddie, couldn’t care less about Alistair and, quite frankly, I believe she could be guilty of anything.”
“All right, Pierce, I need you to answer this one to the best of your ability. What time did Helena return to the house the night Jenny Henderson was killed?”
“I didn’t see the exact time, but I’d say it was about half an hour after young Alistair left the house for the studio.”
Sean had to acknowledge that if she’d come home and stayed home, that definitely removed her from the list of possible candidates.
“Is there any way she could have left after that without you seeing her?”
“Sure. The Archers generally use the grand stairway to the bedrooms, but there are stairs in the back—the family room area—too. I was up in my own room after Alistair left, and I didn’t hear her car start,” Pierce said.
Sean thanked him, wishing the phone call had allowed him to completely eliminate Helena LaRoux.
She wasn’t bright enough to have pulled it off. That was the general consensus. But…she could be a better actress than anyone knew. And if Alistair was locked up for life—or, God forbid, worse—Eddie would need her. Then, she’d have even greater power.
And she’d stand to inherit everything, unless Eddie had a will that excluded her.
He called Eddie and felt bad when his old friend and mentor answered, his voice filled with hope since he’d seen that Sean was the caller.
“You have something?” Eddie asked.
“Nothing solid yet,” Sean replied. “But—and forgive me, I have to ask certain questions for the purposes of elimination—do you and Helena have a prenup?”
“Yes.” Eddie’s voice sounded hard.
“What about your will?”
“I have small bequ
ests to various friends and workers. Alistair receives the bulk of my money and investments, and Helena is nicely cared for, as well. My family isn’t out to get me, Sean. I’m also leaving Benita nicely set up.”
“What happens if Alistair is out of the picture?”
“Out of the picture? How?” Eddie asked, his tone cold. He didn’t give Sean a chance to answer. “The killer could have killed Alistair, too. He didn’t. Why would I worry about Alistair now? He’s safe, isn’t he? Alistair is safe?”
“Where he is, yes,” Sean said. “Listen, Eddie, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to make sure I can eliminate certain people, you know?” And, of course, discover what their motives might be.
He bade Eddie good-night. Then he put down the phone and pulled out the crime scene photos again. He’d walked by the tableau of the scene from Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum dozens of times in the past; he hadn’t paid enough attention. He’d been a bigger fan of films like Laura and The Maltese Falcon.
He picked up the crime scene notes, which detailed everything the reporting officer had seen on the museum floor. There was no mention of the tableaux at all. That wasn’t unusual. The responding officer would have waited for a detective to arrive on the scene, once he’d assured himself that there was no help for the victim, and from the amount of blood on the floor, that must have been evident.
Knox had listed studio employees and recent visitors. Records had been checked and interviews conducted by a score of officers, but thus far, that hadn’t raised any flags.
Sean was so deeply involved in what he was reading that he started when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the time and realized the Krewe had come in, a fact verified by Logan Raintree’s name on his caller ID. “We’re here,” Logan said.
“Where? Airport, endless highway or hotel?” Sean asked him.
“Endless highway,” Logan said. “Endless highway after endless travel. We’re heading over to the hotel now. I want to keep your relationship with the local police positive, so we’ll use the suite rather than the station. Are we all set?”
“Yes, there’s a large dining-slash-work area between two bedrooms, and the other three are just across the hall. So we’re all set.”
Krewe of Hunters, Volume 2: The Unseen ; The Unholy ; The Unspoken ; The Uninvited Page 40