The Remake

by Stephen Humphrey Bogart

  There was a small clatter of footsteps and anxious voices behind them and they both turned.

  Janine Wright was coming in, with Captain Davis hovering anxiously at her elbow.

  “I promise you, Ms. Wright,” the captain was saying. “Every resource of the department will be devoted to catching this sick individual. I will take personal responsibility and leave no stone unturned—”

  “Cut the crap, Davis,” Janine Wright said.

  Davis stopped dead and R.J. thought he could see a small line of sweat pop out on his forehead. “Excuse me?”

  Wright turned on the captain, glaring. “First lesson of politics, Davis. Never shit a shitter.” She turned away from Davis, leaving him gaping for air, and marched over to the crew from the coroner’s office. “How soon can you get this garbage off my desk?” she barked.

  Anybody who makes a living poking at dead bodies is likely to be hardened. The people who do it for the coroner, even more so. They pride themselves on the fact that they’ve seen everything, and can’t be shaken. But the technician Wright barked at actually did a double take before answering.

  “I would have said another fifteen minutes,” the man answered. “But now I think we’re going to have to run a few more tests.” And he gave her a polite smile and turned away.

  R.J.’s attention was yanked away from that scene in mid-snicker when he suddenly heard Davis at his elbow, chewing on Portillo.

  Captain Davis was not pleased. He was so unhappy that he forgot himself and let Portillo and R.J. see that he was unhappy. While it made R.J.’s day to see the big bastard squirm, it wasn’t catching any killers, so the pleasure wasn’t as deep as it might have been.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Davis said, looking like he might cry. “I want to see a killer behind bars.” He glared around the room. “I at least want to know who it is.”

  “I’ll accept your apology,” R.J. said, turning to face Davis, and he got a lot of satisfaction out of seeing Davis’s head swivel to face him, and the look of pure, powerless, meanness on the captain’s face.

  “You’re not out of the woods yet, Brooks,” he snarled.

  “As a matter of fact, Captain, I am out of the woods. And if you don’t get off my ass pronto—” R.J. leaned forward and tapped on Davis’s chest to emphasize his words. “—I think you’re going to find out just how good my lawyer is. Because he’s going to hit you with so many law actions you’re going to have to get a judge’s order to take a pee.”

  Davis lost it. His face flushed bright red and he slammed his hands down on the desk. “All right, you smart-ass son-of-a-bitch,” he hissed. “If you know so fucking much, suppose you just tell me who did it and I’ll go pick him up!”

  R.J. shook his head. “Can’t do that. Sorry.”

  “Oh, you can’t do that.” The sarcasm was thick enough for a trowel. “You mean you haven’t figured out who did it yet? Been too busy buffing your nails?”

  “Sure. I know who did it,” he said, and as he said it it occurred to him he did. Except… “The only problem is, he can’t have done it, either.”

  “Why not?” Davis demanded.

  R.J. sighed. “He has a perfect alibi,” he said.

  “I can crack any alibi I ever heard,” Davis said.

  “Not this one,” R.J. told him. “The man is dead.”

  Davis just stared at him for a good long minute. Then he hissed out his breath and rolled his shoulders. R.J. could hear the knotted muscles cracking. He took a step toward R.J. and R.J. felt Portillo’s hand on his elbow.

  “Let’s go, R.J.,” Portillo said softly. “The captain has enough troubles right now.”

  R.J. stared at Davis for just a second longer, then let himself be dragged away.

  Portillo walked R.J. down to the parking lot. “That’s a very good alibi, R.J.,” he said as they approached his car. “Unless you were just yanking the captain’s chain.”

  “Wish I was, Uncle Hank.”

  Portillo nodded, opening his car door. “Dead men very rarely commit multiple murders.”

  R.J. sighed. “Yeah. Thing is, nobody else could possibly have done it.”

  They looked at each other across the blue roof of the car for a moment.

  “Tell me,” Portillo said.

  CHAPTER 33

  Casey was too busy to see him. She was on several long distance lines at the same time, scrambling to bring in a new director to take over the picture.

  R.J. sat in a small waiting area, next to a framed art gallery poster and a small end table stacked with old film industry magazines.

  A few feet away stood a water cooler. It gurgled every time somebody walked past. After sitting for an hour and a half, R.J. was ready to gurgle himself.

  He was trying to stay cool and understanding. He was working hard at respecting the fact that Casey was at work and had a job to do. He was also just about to go ballistic.

  The new murder and his talk with Portillo had left him with a sense of urgency, and sitting here like some kid trying to pitch a screenplay to an important film producer was eating away at his nerves.

  The killer had been using R.J. as a screen. Portillo had agreed that there was no doubt about it. All along, wherever R.J. went, the killer had followed, building a mocking frame-up, leading on the cops, making them believe R.J. was guilty. Whatever his reasons, whether he had some secret grudge against R.J. or was just indulging his twisted sense of humor, the killer had been trying to stick it all on R.J.

  That was over. The killer had slipped, and R.J. was in the clear. Portillo and R.J. were both sure that meant the killer was about to make a final run for his twisted goal line.

  Before he did that, R.J. had to stop him. And before he could do that, he had to either put this stupid idea to rest or prove that dead men really do commit multiple murders.

  And that meant leaving Casey in the line of fire one more time.

  He couldn’t do that, not without talking to her first. He had to make her see that her danger was real, that she had to take it seriously. And he had to make her see, too, that he was on her side, trying to understand what she wanted and support her in it.

  But the longer he sat on the hideous molded-plastic-and-steel-frame chair with the secretaries smirking at him, the more his temper chewed up all the pretty things he wanted to say.

  He had thought about simply pushing his way past the willowy USC boy Casey had guarding her door. The kid crouched behind a desk the size of a small car with a haircut that showed most of his skull and hid his eyes.

  R.J. was pretty sure he could fold the kid up and stuff him in the trash can without wrinkling his suit coat. And he wanted to do just that, wanted it so badly his teeth hurt. Just put the kid in a drawer of that desk, slide into Casey’s office, and unplug her phone. Make her talk to him.

  He was also sure that if he did that, it would be the last conversation she ever had with him.

  He sighed heavily and picked up a glossy year-old magazine. He tried to pretend for the fourth time that he really cared about one of last summer’s sure-fire box-office hits that had never made it. He’d never heard of the movie, nor of its star.

  He put the magazine down and picked up another. There was an article there he’d only skimmed twice, about why screenwriters never get the respect they deserve. It was written by a screenwriter. There were four mistakes in grammar in the opening paragraph.

  He had just gotten to a carefully reasoned argument that screenwriters were more important than directors so they should get more money, when a cloud resembling some kind of fruit tree smell wrapped around him. He looked up.

  The USC kid was standing there, probably looking at him from underneath all the hair. “She’ll see you,” he said.

  R.J. stood. “Swish me in there,” he said.

  The kid stood his ground. “I know martial arts,” he said.

  “I don’t care if you know Marshal Tito. Fly me in there, Tinkerbell.”

  For a minute the
kid thought he was going to say something else. Then he changed his mind. He whipped away, his bangs flopping, and R.J. followed the gleaming, shaved back of his head a few feet down the hall and into Casey’s office.

  “Thanks, Bryan,” Casey said, dismissing him. R.J. felt his head clouding over at the sound of her voice and he barely noticed Bryan leave. “Hello, R.J.,” she said. “Quit gaping and sit down.”

  “Was I gaping?” he asked, swinging into a chair that made his back ache just to look at it. “I guess I wanted to remember you the way you were.”

  She tapped her fingers on the desk. “I don’t have a lot of time,” she said.

  “No, you don’t. So far everybody else close to Janine Wright is dead. It’s a safe bet that you’re in the line of fire.”

  She stared at him, then sighed. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “It may be my only virtue,” he said.

  “So what am I supposed to do, R.J.? Lock myself in a bank vault?” She shook her head. “I have a job to do. You may not approve of my job, and it may not be that important in the big picture but it’s what I do, and I’m going to do it.”

  “Casey—”

  “No, R.J., listen for a moment. Just listen.”

  He closed his mouth and took a deep breath. He looked across the desk at her. For the first time since she’d come out here she didn’t look like she was hyperventilating. She was calm, centered, rational—she looked like Casey again. The sight made his heart hammer.

  “I’m listening,” he said with a tongue that was suddenly too thick.

  “R.J., I’m sorry we blew up like that at lunch the other day. I think we both assumed some things we maybe shouldn’t have.”

  He blinked. “Well, that’s—”

  She held up a hand to cut him off. “Let me finish. I appreciate your concern for my safety. I believe you when you say I may be in danger. But if I let this killer tell me what to do, I’m just giving in and letting a bully push me around. I won’t do that.”

  “Casey,” he said.

  “No. I’ll be careful, R.J., but I won’t hide. And I can’t have you following me around all day.”

  “I know that,” he said. “But I can’t let anything happen to you.”

  She shook her head. There was a slight smile on her face, but he couldn’t tell what it meant. “That’s not your job,” she said.

  “Yeah, it is. It’s the only really important job I’ve got.”

  Her lips twitched, and now he could tell. It was a real smile. Not a big one, but the first she’d given him in a long time. “In that case,” she said, “you need a life, sport.”

  “Look who’s talking. Miss Power-Suit Executive.”

  “That’s Ms. Power-Suit to you, ace.”

  “Yeah. Well—Maybe we both need a life.”

  “Uh-huh.” And there was something hanging there in the air between them. R.J. couldn’t tell what it was, but for a second it felt like the distance between them was shrinking and they were sort of sliding together without moving; then her telephone chirped and the thing between them, whatever it was, was gone.

  Casey jerked up the phone. “I said no calls, Bryan.”

  R.J. could hear Bryan belting out some sad song through his nose. The kid’s voice came through the receiver and through the wall at the same time, and he was obviously pretty worked up about something.

  “Oh,” Casey said. She sighed, raised an eyebrow at R.J., and shrugged. “All right. Patch him through.”

  She covered the phone with her hand. “I really am sorry, R.J. But I have to take this call.”

  He stood up. “Henry Portillo will have a couple of guys around. They won’t be too obvious. But if they tell you to duck or run for it, do what they tell you.”

  “I will,” she said.

  He took a deep breath, looking at her sitting there. She was so beautiful, so composed. “And Casey—” he said.

  But she was already gone. “Hello, Marvin,” she was saying into the phone, diving back into her crisis.

  He couldn’t even remember what it was he had meant to say. He looked at her for a few more seconds. Then he turned and walked out.

  CHAPTER 34

  He was on a plane again. It made him feel like he was stuck in some kind of weird dream where you try to fit things together and make them mean something, but you never quite manage. Besides, R.J. was wide awake. He was sure of that. Could tell by the pain in his back from the airline seat and the greasy rumble in his belly from the awful “snack.” At least they didn’t have the gall to call it a meal.

  It seemed to R.J. that he had spent most of the last few years of his life on an airplane, slumping between coasts in increasing misery. And here he was again, headed back for New York, probably on a wild goose chase.

  And probably this wild goose really was dead. All the experts agreed. Couldn’t be anything else. Certified, identified and buried. The cops said it was him, the coroner said he was dead, and R.J. had been at his funeral.

  So who the hell was he to buck the experts?

  He had started this whole mess with one good suspect, and the idea that he would protect Casey and catch the killer. But he’d been spending all his time keeping the police off his ass and Casey didn’t want his protection.

  R.J. ground his teeth. He was beginning to hope it really was a dream. He was running as fast as he could, and still somehow sliding backward. Maybe he would wake up in his own bed, with Casey next to him, and go to work on some nice, simple multiple adultery. Something straightforward, obvious. Something he could take a picture of and then send somebody a bill.

  Instead of this mess. Instead of Hollywood, and bad movies, and his parents’ ghosts, and bad cops on both coasts. Instead of losing Casey to the nightmare factory.

  Casey. Jesus Christ. Like this whole mess wasn’t bad enough. Why did it always turn out that anything you were sure of bit you on the ass? The simple things always ended up being the most complicated. She was at least speaking to him again, but was that good or bad? What the hell did any of it mean? What the hell did she want from him? For that matter, what the hell did he want from her?

  Well, whatever it was it could wait. It would have to wait. Because the killer wouldn’t.

  R.J. didn’t manage to fall asleep on this flight. For once there was no kid barfing and squalling next to him, no fat hostile businessman kicking his seat. The plane landed only forty minutes late. Pretty good for the way these things went nowadays.

  It was a clear evening in New York. It was still cold enough to make the city seem clean and R.J. caught a cab after only twenty minutes of watching his breath at the curb.

  Ilsa pretended she was glad to see him until R.J. got food into her bowl, and then she ignored him completely. For himself R.J. made a frozen dinner that was only a little better than what they’d fed him on the plane. Then he called a rental place and reserved a car for the morning, took a long hot shower, and went to bed.

  * * *

  There was a state trooper barracks only a few miles outside Torrington. They weren’t exactly happy to see him, but at least they weren’t trying to frame him for murder and throw him in jail.

  They made him wait an awfully long time, but R.J. didn’t mind. That was just standard cop behavior. Besides, it gave him time to work through the Times crossword puzzle. When he was done with that he whipped through one in the local paper that somebody had left on a scarred end table in the waiting area. Then he read the sports, comics, and obits.

  After almost two and a half hours there was a scuffle of feet and R.J. looked up. A big guy with a light-colored crewcut and a scar down one side of his face was looking down at him. His face was closed tight in that permanently neutral look the good cops get.

  “Mr. Brooks?” the big guy rumbled.

  “That’s me.”

  The cop nodded. “Captain Schmidt. Come with me, please?”

  R.J. followed Schmidt down a short hall to a small office at the back of the building.


  “Have a seat, Mr. Brooks,” the captain said, sliding his own large frame in behind the desk, very gracefully for a guy who had to be at least six-foot-four. “Now, what’s this all about?”

  R.J. took his license and a business card from his wallet and set them on the desk. Schmidt glanced at them and then fastened his eyes back on R.J.

  “My client is the daughter of William Kelley. He was killed here recently. Car accident.” Schmidt just nodded. “Captain,” R.J. said, playing it the way he had decided might make sense and might even get some cooperation, “she hadn’t seen her old man since she was just a kid. I located him a few days before he died, and he was dead before she could see him.” He shrugged. “That’s hard on a kid.”

  “Yes, it must be,” Schmidt said, still neutral and patient. R.J. got the idea that it might take heavy earth-moving equipment to get any expression onto Schmidt’s face.

  “Captain, I’m sorry to bother you with this, but I hope you’ll understand. She wants me to check into her father’s death, make sure it really was an accident, and that everything is entirely kosher.” He held up a hand, anticipating a protest from Schmidt that never came. “I’m sure it is—no reflection on anybody over here—she just asked me to look and be sure.”

  Schmidt still didn’t say anything. He didn’t even blink. R.J. had been sure he would have something to say, something defensive or derogatory. Cops hate to have anybody check up on them, and if it’s a private investigator that’s only one small step better than having Feds around.

  But Captain Schmidt didn’t look like he hated anything. Didn’t look like he could. Just sat and stared at R.J. for a full two minutes while R.J. tried not to squirm, feeling like a kid sent to the principal’s office for spitballing the teacher.

  But R.J. managed to sit and not break into nervous giggles while Schmidt looked at him. Finally, just when R.J. was sure he had to say something, anything, to break that awful silence, Schmidt spoke.