Video Kill

by Joanne Fluke

  “Erik?” Tony stuck his head in the doorway and shifted from foot to foot, a sure sign that he had a problem. “Alan called me back. He wants us in his office for a meeting at three.”

  “Fine. We can take this script in at the same time.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I told him. Look, Erik, I probably ought to leave well enough alone, but I think it would really improve our chances if we could get the press to use the name ‘Video Killer.’ I’ve got a buddy at the Times who owes me a favor, but I won’t cash it in if you’ve got objections.”

  Erik thought it over for a moment and then he shrugged. “Go ahead, Tony. The publicity can’t hurt.”

  “It’s really all right with you?”

  Erik nodded. “Whatever.”

  “Erik?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I sent flowers. Anonymously. I figured we might look like ghouls if we put our names on the card.”

  Erik stared at Tony’s earnest face and started to laugh. There were times when Tony had absolutely no sensibilities, but his heart was in the right place.

  4

  Alan Goldberg was in a rotten mood when he buzzed his assistant on the intercom. He’d spent the past forty-five minutes arguing with his uncle in Hawaii and he still refused to go ahead with the Video Kill contracts. If their option ran out while the old man was dragging his heels, someone else would be sure to snatch it up and make the profits that could have been theirs.

  There was a click as his assistant came on the line, and Alan spoke before she could even ask him what he wanted. “Would you believe it, honey? Video Kill’s the hottest concept to come along in years, but the old man says it doesn’t reflect the quality inherent in the Cinescope image. He actually told me it was cheap exploitation! And this from the man who made Attack of the Giant Slugs!”

  “I’m sorry, sir. He’s not in at the moment. Could I take a message?”

  Alan caught his assistant’s verbal cue. Whenever she called him “sir” that meant someone was waiting to see him. He switched on the closed-circuit television and scanned the reception area. Jerry Dietman from the accounting department was there. And accountants never had good news.

  “Get rid of Jerry, honey. And come in here with your personnel roster. We’ve got a lot to do.”

  A moment later his assistant opened the door and stepped in. Alan motioned to the chair next to his desk, and she sat down.

  “What did you tell Jerry?”

  Alan’s assistant smiled. “I said you were tied up with an emergency situation and it might be quite some time before you could get back to him.”

  “Good girl!” Alan reached out to run his hand up her silk-clad leg. He grinned when she uncrossed her legs and moved closer. “Later, honey. Right now I need you for something else. Who’s the best composer we’ve got under contract?”

  “For feature or episodic?”

  “Feature.”

  “Drama or comedy?”

  “Drama. Heavy drama. Lots of murder and suspense.”

  Alan’s assistant flipped through the personnel roster expertly. “There’s Ralph McCabe, but you usually give him the tearjerkers. You know, the kind of Love Story thing where one of the principals dies while the violins weep?”

  “Right.” Alan nodded. “We just bought a disease-of-the-week movie about Parkinson’s. I’d better save him for that. Who else have we got?”

  “The Bassingers. You like them, but I hear they’re having some problems. According to their secretary, he’s got something going on the side and she’s threatening to leave him.”

  “Okay, forget the Bassingers. There’s always a hassle when a team splits up. Who else?”

  “How about Ronnie Gruber? He’s had three months off and his secretary says he’s chomping at the bit.”

  “Gruber’s good. I’ll go with him. Now, let’s talk about art directors.”

  Alan’s assistant flipped the pages in her roster. “Hertzel’s available, but he just came back from the Betty Ford Center and it might be a good idea to wait and see if it took.”

  “Right. How about Ellen Payton?”

  “Ellen’s just winding up on that Civil War bio-flick, but she’s scheduled for surgery just as soon as the picture wraps.”

  Alan nodded. “Oh, yeah, let’s not forget to send flowers. Who else have we got?”

  “Stewart Scott’s between projects and his contract’s got six months to run. You used him on that last espionage film, didn’t you?”

  Alan smiled. “He’s perfect. Put him down. I’ve already decided on Tom Steiner to direct. He’s through with his last film, isn’t he?”

  “It wrapped last Friday and he flew out that night for a month’s vacation in the Bahamas. His wife’s still in town, but his secretary booked two seats on the plane and arranged for a suite at the Paradise Island Casino Hotel.”

  Alan thought for a moment and then he smiled.

  “That means he’s been there for almost a week. He gambles, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard. Mostly baccarat. Rumor has it he dropped over fifty thousand the last time he was there.”

  “Then his wife ought to be doubly grateful that I’m calling him back early.” Alan chuckled. “Make connections for him on the first flight back to L.A. I want him in my office by ten tomorrow morning at the latest. If he asks, you can tell him that he’ll be directing Cinescope’s new feature about the Video Killer.”

  “But . . .” Alan’s assistant looked puzzled. “I thought your uncle nixed the project.”

  Alan nodded. “He did, but I’ll talk him around. I’m just putting my team together in advance.”

  “And since everyone you’re calling in is already under contract, there’s no money expended?”

  “You’ve got it. I always said I had the smartest assistant in the biz.”

  “And I always said I worked for the smartest boss in the biz.”

  Alan watched appreciatively as she got up and walked toward the door. She stopped and smiled as she caught him staring.

  “Could I make a suggestion?”

  Alan nodded. His assistant seldom offered unsolicited advice, but when she did, it was good stuff.

  “How about using Lon Michaels for director of photography? I know it’s not really his type of project, but your uncle knows Lon won’t do anything but quality films.”

  “That’s brilliant. But will Lon do it? I barely managed to talk him into doing the Jubee trilogy.”

  “I have great faith in your persuasive abilities. Perhaps you could invite him in as an adviser, just until you find the right man, of course. And then if you can’t find another director of photography, he’ll just have to step in, as a personal favor to you.”

  “Dynamite! Get Lon on the phone for me right away. And thanks for the suggestion, honey.”

  “You’re welcome, but that wasn’t the suggestion.”

  Alan raised his eyebrows in a question as she walked back to his desk and put her lips to his ear. A few whispered words and he began to grin.

  “That’s your suggestion?”

  “That’s it. Of course, now might not be a good time if you want those calls placed right away.”

  “The calls can wait.” Alan pulled her down on his lap. “Uncle Meyer would have a stroke if he heard me say it, but there are some things even more important than making movies.”

  Lon Michaels was preparing for a scene in Return of the Jubees, the final movie in the Jubees trilogy. Just as soon as he’d finished setting up the lighting and cameras, Marvin Friedman would come in to direct the scene. Since it was one of the hottest days of the year and the temperature on the set was well over ninety degrees, Marvin was waiting for Lon’s call in the air-conditioned trailer parked outside the soundstage.

  “Miss DeMarco? Could I have full frontal, please?”

  One of the identically costumed Jubees turned to face the camera. “You’re uncanny, Lon. How did you know this one was me?”

  Lon laughed
. “That’s easy. Your left ear sticks up a little higher than your right.”

  Miss DeMarco reached up to feel her pointed pink ear. “I never noticed that before, but how about the rest of us? You can’t tell us all apart, can you?”

  “Yes.” Lon nodded. “Mr. Thielen’s fur is pinker right over his chin, Mrs. Jackson has a curly whisker next to her eye, Miss Evert’s tail has a little white spot near the tip, Mr. Heller’s paws are worn smooth on the outside, and Mr. Bromley has a nose that tilts to the left. Now, let’s get back to business. I don’t want to keep you under these lights any longer than I have to.”

  Lon made a minor adjustment in the camera angle and squinted through the lens. Six pink, furry Jubees were seated in a circle on the forest glade set. The trees towering over them appeared gigantic even though they were actually medium-sized pines in wooden pots. That was because not a single Jubee exceeded forty-two inches in height. The Jubees were played by little people. Cinescope had originally planned to hire children, but that was much more expensive. Child actors fell under social welfare rules. The length of their workday was severely curtailed, licensed tutors had to be hired so schoolwork could be done between takes, and the studio had to pay for a child welfare supervisor to sit in attendance at all times to watch for any infraction of the rules. It was much easier and cheaper to use little people.

  Lon was adjusting the lights when the phone rang. A moment later, his assailant signaled for him to take the call.

  “Not now, Susan.” Lon waved her away. “Take a number and I’ll call back after I finish this setup.”

  His assistant, a pretty brunette in her twenties, shook her head and put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Mr. Goldberg, Lon. I told him we were in the middle of lighting a scene, but he says he needs to talk to you immediately.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right there.” Lon turned to his camera operator. “Bring up the kicker on Mr. Bromley’s head about half an f-stop and see what you can do about side-lighting that big log to make it more three-dimensional. Then shut down the lights and crank up the air-conditioning. We don’t want our Jubees to melt into pink puddles on the forest floor.”

  There was a burst of laughter as Lon walked off the set. The cast really liked him. He treated them like the professional actors they were, and he didn’t pat them on the head the way the director did. Lon was one of the few people in the industry who seemed genuinely concerned for their comfort. On the first day of shooting he’d ordered the carpenters to cut five inches from the legs of their personalized director’s chairs so their feet could touch the floor.

  Lon took the phone his assistant handed him and leaned against the wall. He hoped this wouldn’t be a long conversation.

  “Hi, Alan. What can I do for you?”

  Alan countered with a question of his own. “When is this Jubee thing wrapping, Lon?”

  “Marvin thinks ten days, but I’d give us twelve to be safe. Why?”

  “Did you hear about the video-recorded murder last night?”

  Lon frowned. Surely Alan hadn’t called just to discuss this morning’s gruesome news story. “I heard about it, Alan. My assistant used to live in that building and she’s pretty shaken up over the whole thing.”

  “Right. Do you know anything about the treatment we optioned last August from Rocca and Nielsen?”

  “You’ll have to refresh me, Alan. Something about a serial killer, wasn’t it?”

  “Right. It’s called Video Kill, and the concept ties in perfectly with the murder last night. I’d like you to think about doing it.”

  “Me?” Lon was shocked. “Look, Alan, I really think you’d do better with someone who’s had more experience in the murder-suspense genre.”

  “Maybe, but I still want you. This one’s a guaranteed blockbuster, and I can make you a very good deal.”

  Lon was silent for a moment, trying to think of a way out. The details of the murder had sickened him and there was no way he wanted to be associated with a project that capitalized on it. At the same time Alan Goldberg wasn’t the type of man to take outright rejection lightly.

  “Alan, I’m flattered you thought of me, but I’m not sure I could do it. You’re talking to the guy who was fired from a slasher film for being too sensitive.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means the sight of blood makes me sick. Even fake blood.”

  Alan laughed. “That’s what I thought you’d say. Okay, Lon. I’d never ask you to make a commitment on something you didn’t want to do. How about helping us as an adviser? Just until we zero in on the right man for the job? I’d consider it a personal favor.”

  Lon knew he was being suckered in, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. “Of course, Alan. I’d be glad to help.”

  “Great! I’ll put the rest of the team together today, and we’ll all meet on . . . uh . . . just a second, Lon, and I’ll check my schedule.”

  There was a click and Lon was put on hold. A few seconds later Alan came back on the line. “Tomorrow’s clear for me. Can you be in my office tomorrow morning for a ten o’clock meeting? Unless you’re shooting, of course.”

  “No, I’m free.” Lon sighed. Alan had a copy of their shooting schedule and he knew they had a late call tomorrow. “Your timing couldn’t be better, Alan.”

  There was a frown on Lon’s face as he walked slowly back to the set. What he’d told Alan was perfectly true. He’d never been any good at blood and guts, and now that he recalled the details of Rocca and Nielsen’s treatment, he was positive he didn’t have the stomach for it. His forte had always been comedy and light romance.

  “Bad news, Lon?” Susan looked concerned as she handed him his clipboard.

  “What? Oh, no, Susan. Everything’s fine. Will you ask the Jubees to take their places? I’ll run a final check before we call for Marvin.”

  Lon was still deep in thought as the Jubees took their positions on the set. He’d seen through Alan’s machinations and he was sure that the search for the right cinematographer would be halfhearted. For some totally unfathomable reason, Alan seemed determined to use him for Video Kill. It didn’t make sense, but Alan Goldberg was God at Cinescope and what God wanted, God got. Lon knew he’d have to come up with one hell of a good recommendation for a substitute cinematographer, or he’d wind up doing the blasted thing by default.

  5

  Sunday, July 11

  It was so quiet that Brother could hear the Rain Bird sprinklers click on in the front yard of the six-bedroom Tudor across the street. The sputtering noise disturbed his concentration, so he got up to shut the window, switching on the air-conditioning instead. One week had passed since he’d filmed the initial scene of his project, a week spent in meticulous preparation for tonight’s work.

  As Brother turned to look out the window, he noticed that the wind had picked up slightly. The yard was well illuminated with the carriage lights his mother had loved. They were on a photoelectric switch that turned them on at dusk and off at dawn. As he watched, an advertising circular skittered across the neatly mowed lawn and came to rest against the base of the huge coral tree that marked the edge of his mother’s property. Brother watched it flutter in the wind, snared by the thorny bark of the tree. It was a nice image, worthy of Lon Michaels. Perhaps he’d use it someday. Brightly colored paper struggling ineffectually against an immovable object and then a slow dissolve to a similar human struggle. Woman against man, perhaps?

  There was a sudden gust of wind from the opposite direction and the paper tore free, leaving a ragged, triangular-shaped shred on the thorn. Brother smiled. This, too, could be used. A second gust was violent enough to rattle a window in his mother’s section of the house. The sound reminded Brother of his obligations. He hadn’t checked the downstairs lately, and it was possible the cleaning woman had neglected to close a window.

  Brother pulled open his center desk drawer and got out the front door key. He used it so seldom, it was unnecessary to carry it on his
key ring. Then he locked up his own wing of the house and used the outside stairway to the side yard, where a winding flagstone path led him through his mother’s English rose garden.

  The formal garden held only unpleasant memories for Brother. His mother had ordered the bushes from England and had hired an English gardener to design and landscape the area. She had often boasted that the design was identical to the garden at Windsor, on a slightly smaller scale, of course, and she’d taken tea there at precisely four every afternoon. Brother still remembered how he’d rushed home from school to bathe and dress for the occasion. From four to four forty-five, Brother had been required to sit on his mother’s white garden furniture and make exceedingly polite conversation while they sipped Earl Grey tea, his mother’s favorite, and munched on dainty sandwiches that were as dry and tasteless as wedges of cardboard. Even now, years later, he cringed when he thought of those ordeals. Thank goodness he’d devised a way to escape them!

  When Brother had gone to England to attend Oxford, a family tradition, he had discovered that there was more to a formal tea than watercress sandwiches and a correctly steeped pot of Earl Grey. There were also hot buttered scones with a variety of tasty marmalades and English trifle, a huge glass bowl filled with choice berries, cake, excellent brandy, and rich whipped cream. Perhaps, if his mother had varied her menu, he might not have resented playing Little Lord Fauntleroy. But, as a result of those mandatory teas, he still had a deep-seated hatred for things that were English.

  Brother hurried through the formal garden without noticing whether the gardener was still following his mother’s standing instructions. The roses could grow wild for all he cared. When he arrived at the front door, he was slightly winded. As he unlocked the door and pulled it open, warm light from the interior spilled out to meet him. For a moment Brother was disconcerted, but then he remembered the new timer system he’d ordered last week. The electrician must have hooked it up while the housekeeper was there.