Big Jim nodded slowly, a knowing look on his fleshy face. “We’ll talk again, Maggie. You won’t be able to keep the secret forever. And when you’re finally ready to confess, I’m your guy. I’d want an exclusive, of course. ‘Docs Who Kill: A Big Jim Wilcox Investigative Report.’ Tonight at ten.” He stabbed his beefy chest with his thumb for emphasis. “I might get an Emmy for this.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Trust me, Maggie, your crime will eat away at you,” he said, edging even closer. “You won’t be able to eat or sleep; you’ll think about the murder night and day. Eventually you’ll have to tell someone or you’ll die or go crazy.”
I finally put my hands flat against his chest and pushed hard. “You’re the one who’s crazy, Big Jim.”
He wagged his finger at me in mock reproach. “You’ll be just like that guy in the story—remember, the guilt ate away at him so much, he finally had to confess.”
The guy in the story? “You mean Raskolnikov?” I couldn’t imagine Big Jim slogging through Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, but that’s the only name that came to mind.
“Who? Rasko-what? Sounds like some Russian commie pinko.” Big Jim shook his head. “Nah, that wasn’t it. This was a guy I saw on a Monk rerun last night. Did you happen to catch it?”
“A Monk rerun? Afraid I missed that one.” I pushed past him, my brain blanking on a snappy retort. Why was I letting this guy get to me? As Vera Mae says, you can’t win an argument with an ignoranus. An ignoranus, in case you’re wondering, is a person who’s both stupid and an asshole. I rest my case.
I sprinted down the hall and made a quick stop in the production office to drop off some time sheets. Irina was sashaying out on four-inch heels, her yellow silk Ann Taylor blouse and black pencil skirt molded to her Barbie-like figure.
It seems that Cyrus had asked Irina to put together a series of teasers about Adriana’s death. He planned to run them throughout the day, sticking them between PSAs (public service announcements) and spots (paid commercials). All in the spirit of boosting the ratings.
Interesting. The first WYME report on Adriana’s death was going to be a brief announcement on the six o’clock news, coming up in less than an hour. I figured it was going to be a pretty thin piece because the Cypress Grove PD had refused to issue a statement and I was sure no one on the Death Watch set was willing to talk.
No wonder the station was trying to hype the news with half-hour bulletins. I riffled through a pile of promos that Cyrus was rushing into production. I noticed the WYME news team was calling it a “death,” not a murder. Irina had done her best, but all the teasers sounded like they were straight out of a Lifetime Movie.
“Live at Five, Dead at Six—the Adriana St. James Story!”
“A Role to Die For—the Adriana St. James Story!”
Vera Mae came in just as I was reading my personal favorite. “Death on the High Seas—the Adriana St. James Story?” I raised an eyebrow. “The high seas? This is a joke, right?”
Vera Mae rolled her eyes and snatched the paper out of my hand. “Oh lordy, I’m glad you caught that one, hon. I told Irina it was just a little ole pond. She thought ‘high seas’ sounded more dramatic, bless her heart.” My lips twitched.
Whenever Vera Mae says “bless her heart,” about Irina, it’s code for “I want to wring her gosh darn neck.”
Chapter 8
I made tracks to my cubicle, my heart sinking at the mountain of press packets on my desk. It always amazes me that half of south Florida wants to be on my show. I can only guess they haven’t seen the ratings.
I hadn’t had a second to check in with Rafe, but Nick Harrison called at five to tell me that the Cypress Grove PD was privately calling it “foul play.” They had no plans to go public with it. Still no word on how Adriana died, and whether a live bullet was involved. I wondered how much they knew and how much they were holding back.
“I don’t see how it could have been an accident,” I said, chewing on the end of my pencil. “Someone must have tampered with the prop gun. The real problem will be winnowing down the list of suspects.”
“I figured the same thing.” I could hear a steady tapping in the background. Nick never has a spare moment and it’s not unusual for him to multitask; he works on stories and checks e-mail while he’s on the phone. Like most reporters, he’s constantly “on deadline,” a crazy-making aspect of his job. “I can’t believe I missed the shooting. I did the interview with Sandra Michaels and then headed right back to my desk.”
“How did the interview turn out?” I know he was annoyed that he’d missed the biggest scoop of his career.
“A puff piece. She spent most of the time hawking her book deal, her movie deal, her television deal. I felt like I was talking to Suzanne Somers about the ThighMaster. I only have a few paragraphs I can use; I’ll pad the rest with some material from the press packet.” He paused. “Any leads on the shooting?”
“Not on this end. How about you?”
“Nothing credible enough to print.” He lowered his voice. “There’s a rumor that Hank Watson wanted to get rid of Adriana but I don’t know too many details. Keep your ears open, okay?”
“I will, but don’t leave me hanging. What was the problem between Hank and Adriana?”
“I heard he has a girlfriend waiting in the wings. A very young girlfriend.”
“And she’s an actress and looking for her big break into show business, right?”
“You got it. She figured the lead in Death Watch would look great on her resume. She’d be all wrong for the part, but I heard she was pressuring Hank to put her in the lead. And Adriana had a pay-or-play contract, so he couldn’t dump her. Not with an indie budget.”
“Wow, that changes things.”
Nick gave a soft chuckle. “Yeah, it sure does. In the immortal words of Madonna, ‘money changes everything.’ ”
“Anything else?”
“Maybe something funny about the backers, but nothing definite.”
“Funny as in . . .”
“Fugeddaboutit.” Nick’s Brooklyn accent made me smile, and then I remembered the Steven Van Zandt look-alike. Could there be a mob connection with Hank Watson and the production? Were they financing the production?
I flipped my phone shut and sat at my desk for a few minutes, mulling over the dilemma of the pay-or-play contract. It meant that Hank was stuck; he’d have to pay Adriana her full salary whether or not she acted in the movie. The backers would never agree to a replacement if it was going to cost them cold hard cash. Hank had seemed genuinely upset at her death, but I remembered Mom saying he’d started out as an actor, all those years ago in Hollywood. So maybe the grieving-director act was just a sham?
I glanced at my watch and made tracks to the parking lot. It was my turn to make dinner, which meant I’d get some quick take-out at Charlie Chan’s and head back to the condo where Mom and Lark would be waiting. Along with Pugsley, of course.
Pugsley’s a big fan of Chinese food, and I allow him one steamed dumpling as a special treat. I always order from the “Heart-Healthy” (no fat, no MSG) side of the menu for Pugsley and from the “Happy Family Feasts” section for myself. That probably explains why Pugsley’s cholesterol level is better than mine.
It was a beautiful evening; the air was soft and balmy, the sky streaked with rust and gold paint-box colors. I was just about to get into my little red Honda Accord when I heard someone behind me. I whirled around in full attack mode, weight on the back foot, semicrouched position, left arm blocking my face, right fist ready to land a serious upper cut on my attacker.
Uh-oh. Suddenly, I relaxed, my heart melting. It wasn’t an attacker, after all.
It was Rafe Martino.
I felt a little white-hot dash of excitement go through me.
“Easy there,” he said, smiling at me. He was standing just inches away, his dark hair falling boyishly over one eye, his teeth very white against his Florida tan. And t
hat smile! The sexy grin was my undoing. Vera Mae was right. The man was catnip to women, no doubt about it. He could give Simon Baker a run for his money.
“Sorry, I just—” I felt myself flushing. “You know, all those years living in New York.” I gave a sheepish smile. “I think they took a toll on me.” A toll? Who was I kidding? I was so hypervigilant, I practically qualified for a diagnosis of full-blown PTSD.
“And I see you’ve had a few Krav Maga classes along the way?” Krav Maga is a self-defense technique used by the Israeli fighting forces. Rafe was letting his eyes skim over my body and I felt a little thrill inside, even though I told myself his interest was strictly professional.
“A few,” I admitted. “I’m surprised you picked up on that.”
“I’m a cop, remember? I notice everything. Let me give you some advice, Maggie.”
“Uh, okay.” I had to stop myself from screaming, Anything!! I’ll do anything you say.
“You need to relax,” he said, his voice low and husky. “You’re not in Manhattan anymore. Cypress Grove is one of the safest cities in the country.”
“I am relaxed,” I said, jutting my chin. I made a conscious effort to lower my shoulders, which seemed to be hovering somewhere in the vicinity of my ears. I forced myself to take a deep calming breath, but my pulse was still racing along at a good clip.
“Really? Then what’s this all about?” Rafe leaned over and gently rubbed my hand. His touch was warm and powerful; my whole body was pricking with anticipation. “Are you planning to gouge someone’s eyes out?”
“What?” I said, not wanting the delicious physical contact with his fingertips to end so abruptly. I wanted more, more.
“Look at your hand,” Rafe said softly. “Does that look relaxed to you?”
I looked down, and as if by magic, the spell was broken. I hadn’t even realized that I was holding my car keys and house keys between my fingers, jagged edge out, clasping them like a lethal weapon.
The good news was that all that self-defense training had really taken root! I had immediately gone into combat mode.
The bad news was that I felt like a total idiot.
“Sorry; it’s silly, I know.”
“It’s not silly,” he said softly. “It’s good to be cautious; just don’t overdo it.” He paused. “I wondered if anything else occurred to you about today.”
“Occurred to me?” Besides the fact I want to jump your bones? I nearly added. I don’t think that’s what he had in mind, because he whipped out his notebook.
He nodded, pen poised. “You were on the set for a couple of hours. I heard you had lunch with the cast and crew. Who did you talk to?”
“Sandra Michaels, mostly. She’s playing a forensic psychologist in the movie. Or at least she was. She asked me a lot of questions about the forensic work I did in my practice back in Manhattan. And then, as you know, I sat with Maisie and Hank and watched the shooting.” Oh God, I literally watched the shooting; no pun intended.
My mind flew back to the movie set. I suddenly realized I had no idea what was going to happen to Death Watch, Mom’s role, and my job as a consultant. It sounds callous, but if there was a significant amount of money tied up in the production, the show would have to go on. With or without Adriana. Maybe it was early enough in the filming that she could be replaced.
If anyone knew, Rafe would. “Do you know what’s going to happen to the film? Did Hank Watson say anything to you?”
Rafe looked up, squinting against the light from the setting sun. A golden haze had settled over the WYME building, and I remembered this was the time of day that photographers loved. “He’s closed down production for two days, that’s all. As far as I know, everything’s going to start back up midweek. The CSIs will be out by then, and we can clear the area around the pond.”
I shuddered, thinking of Adriana lying on the beach, her blood seeping into the sand. Who would ever want to go back there to shoot more scenes? Just the thought gave me goose bumps. And who would play the lead? Hank’s teenybopper girlfriend? Or someone else? It wasn’t like the theater, where an understudy is ready to jump into a part at a moment’s notice. I wondered if there would be casting calls and auditions, or if Hank had already worked all this out.
“What’s your take on Marion Summers?” he asked, interrupting my train of thought.
“Marion Summers?” I shook my head. “I didn’t meet her.” I struggled to remember what Nick had said about her and what I remembered from a Vanity Fair piece on Hank. “I’ve heard a lot about her, though. She’s supposed to be the driving force behind Hank’s company. He’s in creative control, but she keeps the money flowing and the movies made. The power behind the throne.”
I suddenly thought of Jean Doumanian. She was Woody Allen’s producer for decades, until they had a falling out over money and the case went to court. Could the same thing have happened with Marion and Hank?
“Anything else?” Rafe was busily scribbling notes.
“This is probably a stab in the dark, but was there trouble brewing between Marion Summers and Hank Watson? Any sort of a falling out?”
“Not that I know about. We’re going to have to dig hard on this one.” He paused to flip through his notes. “We’re just at square one—no idea about means, motive, and opportunity. It’s going to take a lot of manpower doing interviews. There were over a hundred people on the set today.”
“And one of them was the killer.” I fell silent, a little chill passing through me. “No strong leads?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Rafe was in Joe Friday mode, playing his cards close to his vest, as usual. It’s annoying, but he’s so heartbreakingly handsome I decided to forgive him for shutting me out.
“You know you can always call on me for deep psychological insights, right?” I said, half teasing. “I did my doctoral dissertation on forensic interviewing. It’s all about asking open-ended questions to elicit the most information from respondents.”
“Really? That sounds fascinating. I’ll bet it was a real page-turner,” Rafe said dryly. “I’ll be sure to keep your offer in mind.” Rafe has a low opinion of forensic psychology, which he usually refers to as psychobabble. It’s a standing joke between us, except occasionally Rafe’s digs get to me.
“You will? Do you mean that?” I knew Rafe was probably mocking me but I couldn’t keep the eagerness out of my voice. I was as shameless as Pugsley salivating over a liver treat; I wanted to work side by side with Rafe, damn it!
Rafe’s lips twitched as he dashed my hopes once and for all. “I think all we need is good solid detective skills, Maggie. That’s what will solve the case in the end. Police work. Not psychoanalyzing.”
At least he hadn’t said “psychobabble”! “Sure, I understand.”
“But thanks for the offer.” He snapped the notebook closed and put on his Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses, channeling Horatio Caine. “If you think of anything else, you know where to find me.” He turned and walked toward his unmarked car, a mud-colored Crown Vic that looked like it dated to the Pleistocene era.
He’d only gone a few feet when I suddenly remembered the Sopranos guy lounging outside the makeup trailer.
“Wait! There was something else I meant to tell you.” Rafe turned and ambled back to me, his dark eyes questioning. “I saw someone who looked a little out of place today.”
“Out of place?” He frowned, scratching his chin. He had just the beginnings of a five o’clock stubble, but on him, it looked sexy, not scruffy. Think John Abraham on the cover of GQ. Or Hugh Jackman, People magazine’s sexiest man alive. “You mean someone who looked suspicious?”
“Not suspicious exactly, but he just didn’t look like he belonged on the set. He didn’t look like anyone from the cast or crew and I’m sure he wasn’t a reporter. It’s probably nothing.” I flapped my arms in a dismissive gesture, wondering if I was making too much out of the whole thing.
“Tell me.” Out came the notebook.
&nb
sp; So I told him all about the Steven Van Zandt look-alike and was surprised when he nodded in recognition. “A guy who looks like he’s straight out of The Godfather? That was Frankie Domino. He tried to slip through the police lines and hightail it out of there, but we nailed him.” Rafe gave a mirthless laugh.
“That’s his name? Frankie Domino?” I raised my eyebrows. He really did sound like a Hollywood version of a mafioso.
“His real name’s Francis Domenici.”
“And is he . . . what I think he is?”
Rafe grinned. “A mafioso? He’s got a string of arrests in New York, mostly small-time stuff—running numbers, assault and battery, a few shakedowns doing collections. I haven’t figured out what he was doing on the set, and Hank Watson’s not talking. I think something’s up between them, but I’m not sure what. Just a gut instinct.”
He jammed his notebook back in his pocket and then surprised me by touching my upper arm very lightly. Just one finger tracing a white-hot path over my skin. I stayed motionless, wondering what was going to happen next. Was it a caress, a warning, a friendly good-bye?
“Watch yourself, Maggie, okay?” He locked eyes with me, looking very intent and serious. “I know you’re going to be spending a lot of time on the set. And—”
“And let’s be careful out there?” The words came out in a whoosh; I didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath. It was a line that Sergeant Phil Esterhaus of Hill Street Blues used to say when he finished roll call and I knew Rafe would get the reference.
Rafe laughed, flashing his killer smile. “You got it.” He dropped his hand to his side and reached for his car keys.
Okay, I got the message. Mood broken, back to reality time. No heavy relationship; we’re just pals.
I guess.
We left it on that note, Rafe heading back to the station to do some paperwork, while I zoomed toward Charlie Chan’s. A veggie stir-fry was waiting for me, a soft breeze was ruffling the palm trees, and the sweet scent of bougainvillea lingered in the air.
Life was good, and I tried very hard not to think about the little buzz I’d gotten from Rafe’s touch.
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