by Al Roker
Hence my question.
“He’s gathering body particles,” the homicide detective said. “They’ll take all those little bits back to the lab and try to put Humpty Dumpty together again.” He was leaning against a wall across from me. He was older, grayer, and had put a few pounds on his wiry frame, but I’d recognized him the moment he entered the studio. Detective Pete Brueghel. One of the cops who’d investigated Tiffany Arden’s murder twenty-three years ago.
The recognition had been mutual. I could see it in Brueghel’s ever-alert brown eyes. “How’re you feeling, Mr. Blessing?”
“Not exactly my best.” The tech’s tweezers were like a hungry bird, pecking at my scalp. I turned to him. “Long as you’re drilling holes, could you fill ’em with hair follicles?”
“You’re lucky the explosion wasn’t more powerful,” the detective said. “The real damage was limited to a small area of the stage. Mr. O’Day seems to be the only fatality. Ms. Snapps and a cameraman named Assunto got shaken up pretty bad, along with five other members of the crew. The paramedics are checking them now, along with half a dozen audience members who got trampled trying to get out of the building.”
“What happened, exactly?” I asked.
“I was hoping you’d tell me.”
I gave him all I had: riding the moon up, relaxing when the show seemed to be over, then seeing a bright light like a camera flash going off in my eyes, followed by a roar and a brief fade-out. Then waking up to smoke and bad odor and screams coming from people rushing out of the building.
“Tell me about the bad odor,” he said, getting out a small notepad and a pen.
“I don’t know. Smoke. And something even more unpleasant.”
“Burning flesh?”
“Jesus. Maybe. And … a metallic odor, too. Like when a laptop overheats.”
He nodded, scribbling on the pad. Then those intense eyes were back on me. “How’d you get down?”
“One of the nin—The stagehands saw me up there, got the winch working, and lowered the moon to the floor.”
“What was it you started to say and then changed your mind? Nin?”
“The stagehands were dressed in these black outfits. In my mind, they’re ninjas.”
“I saw the outfits,” the detective said. “They wear something similar in those Cirque du Soleil shows in Vegas, so you can’t see them picking up after the performers.”
I wondered if that’s where Pfrank got the idea. “You spend much time in Las Vegas, detective?”
“Not so much anymore,” he said. “I had family …”
The technician stopped pecking at me. “All finished,” he said. He promised to send a medic over to dress my cuts, which were not serious but numerous and had to be cleaned and treated.
Brueghel waited for him to leave, then asked, “Any idea why someone would want to demolish Mr. O’Day?”
“I’m sure Conan O’Brien would have a few thoughts on that if we were talking about Jay Leno.”
“Do you know of anybody who felt O’Day had screwed him over?”
“If that was the case, I imagine we both would have heard about it by now.”
A tall black woman wearing a fitted dark blue suit and a badge entered the stage area, looked around, spied us, and headed our way. Brueghel introduced her as his partner, Mizzy Campbell.
“A few words, Pete?” she said.
“Sure.”
They moved beyond earshot, huddled for a minute or two, then returned.
“Mr. Blessing,” Detective Campbell said, “I understand from the show’s director that Mr. O’Day did a little improv shortly before the explosion. Is that correct?”
“Yeah. He went off script. He was supposed to get on the moon and sing his farewell as he was floating away. Instead, he got me to do it. Shamed me into it, actually. We were on a live telecast, and I couldn’t very well refuse.”
“Any idea why he changed things?” Detective Brueghel asked.
“No.” Then I remembered something. “The device nearly bucked him off at the start of the show. That could have spooked him.”
“But the switch was a last-minute decision, right?” Detective Campbell asked.
“It was a surprise to me.”
“Then if things had gone as planned and O’Day had taken the moon ride, where would that have left you?” Detective Brueghel asked.
I stared at him, suddenly realizing where they were headed. I guess I’d subconsciously been blocking it.
“You would have been standing precisely where Mr. O’Day was, right?” Detective Campbell asked.
I nodded.
Detective Brueghel applied the icing on the cake. “Then, Mr. Blessing, I suppose we can assume you were the intended victim.”
Chapter
TWENTY
Detective Brueghel accompanied me to my dressing room at the rear of the building, where he waited for me to shower away the remaining bits of Des’s flesh and blood. The hot water offered some comfort, but it was temporary. And it called attention to my own cuts and scratches, leaving them stinging and bleeding.
When I was dressed, a paramedic arrived and took care of my wounds. He didn’t think any of the cuts needed stitches. He taped one on my neck and two on my left hand. The ones on my forehead, cheek, and the back of my head were scratches, better left to “breathe.” He doubted any of the cuts would result in permanent scarring. “But you might want to get the opinion of a specialist,” he said.
At my request, he also took a look at my sprained ankle and taped it professionally.
When he’d finished and moved on, the detective said to me, “You know, I meant to look you up last week, when I heard about you and Charbonnet having that tussle. I don’t suppose it had anything to do with the Arden case?”
“That was a long time ago,” I said, sniffing. There was an unpleasant odor in the room.
“But not forgotten. And not solved.” He stared at me, as if that was my fault. “What was the fight about?”
“Roger was drunk.” I spotted the source of the malodor, got up from the chair, and limped to the table containing stale champagne, wilted carrots, and ripening feta cheese.
Brueghel watched me dump the offending items, then said, “There were a lot of people at the party. Why’d he go after you?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” I said, limping back to the chair.
“I don’t get you, Blessing,” the detective said heatedly. “Somebody tried to kill you tonight. According to all accounts, Roger Charbonnet took a swing at you last week. That makes him a standout suspect. But instead of helping me get the son of a bitch, you make little jokes. What’s going on?”
The honest truth was that I had no idea what was causing my reluctance to put Roger on the spot.
“You have any reason to think Charbonnet wasn’t responsible for the bombing?”
“No,” I said.
“Then work with me, for Christ’s sake.”
I nodded. “Roger went a little postal at the party because he thought I was talking about him.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
He smiled. “You’re a professional interviewer, right?” he asked.
“That’s part of what I do.”
“Then you know how hard you have to work when people answer with just ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ ”
“Another thing my profession has taught me: Be careful when you’re accusing somebody of criminal behavior. Too many lawyers in the world.”
“There’s nobody here but you and me. Just tell me what you think. Did Charbonnet murder Tiffany Arden?”
“I believe he’s capable of it. I’ve seen his anger.”
“At the party, you mean?”
“And back in the day.” As soon as that popped out of my mouth, I realized I was going to tell him about Roger confronting me with his gun and threatening to kill me if I didn’t leave Los Angeles.
The detective’s reaction was as expected. “Goddamn it, Bless
ing. What the hell were you thinking? You should have come directly to us.”
“I went directly to you about Roger’s broken alibi,” I said. “We all know how well that worked out for me.”
Detective Brueghel was silent for about a second. “Okay. I’ll give you that one. But you come out here last week. You find out this … sociopath has been harboring a twenty-two-three-old grudge against you, and still you do nothing about it?”
“Like what? He took a drunken swing at me, and he wound up in the pool. What exactly do you expect me to do with that, even if I could link it to a murder that’s over twenty years old?”
“I’m going to link it to a murder that happened two hours ago,” he said. “But two hours or twenty-three years, the dead … they’re depending on me to find justice for them. And I’ll do it, no matter how long it takes.” His eyes were moist. He blinked, and a tear worked its way down his face. “It’s my calling. The blue religion.”
Whoa. This guy was either a true believer or a megalomaniac. And I didn’t know of too many true believers in his profession. Good cops, sure. But homicide dicks who cried for the dead? Not too many of those. At least not in my hometown. In L.A.…?
He stared at the floor for a few seconds, then blinked and rolled his head in a circular motion, prompting little popping sounds from his neck. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I can get a little carried away.”
I nodded, as if I understood.
“It’s not just the dead I serve,” he said. “Whoever rigged that explosion is going to come at you again. I wish I could offer you some kind of police protection, but those days were over even before the latest budget cut. Does Charbonnet know where you’re staying?”
I told him about the break-in at the villa and the dead rat left in the oven.
He shook his head. “There must be a reason you were holding back that little event. Maybe you have a death wish? Or maybe you just don’t trust me, or cops in general?”
“It’s nothing like that,” I said, though he’d been close to the truth with the question about my trust issues. For much of my earlier life, I’d considered police the enemy. I no longer believed that, but old habits die hard.
“Well, the guy hates you. He’s a chef. Somebody breaks into the place where you’re staying and cooks a rat for you. More than a coincidence, right?”
“Right.”
He asked for the address. When I told him, he said, “Isn’t that near where you and Charbonnet had your party fight?”
“A few houses down.”
“A gated community?”
I nodded.
He got out his cellular phone and called Detective Campbell. He instructed her to send a forensics team out to the villa. Checking his watch, he said, “Tell them to wait for us at the gate. No, cancel that. They should follow us out. I want to make sure the gatekeepers don’t interfere.”
Detective Campbell evidently said something that reignited his anger. “Goddamn it. What next? Homeland Frigging Security?”
He snapped the phone shut and put it away. “The FBI has arrived, arrogant and an hour late. As soon as they force my guys to stop working long enough to fill them in on everything, they may want to talk with you.”
“Should I stay here and wait?”
“Your choice. As far as I’m concerned, you can forget I mentioned it.”
So I wasn’t the only one guilty of being uncooperative.
“About the villa in Malibu,” I said. “A real estate agent has been showing the place to prospective buyers.”
“Great,” he said, meaning just the opposite. “Wouldn’t want to make it too easy. Well, I know the fingerprint I’m looking for. It’ll match one we’ve had on file for twenty-three years.”
“If you and Detective Campbell are driving out to the villa, I’d like to come along and get my stuff out of there.”
“Not a good idea. Charbonnet knows the property. He’s had access. And he knows you’re still alive. The villa is the last place I want you tonight, even with Detective Campbell and myself on the scene. We’ve got work to do, and worrying about your safety would only slow us down. Find yourself a hotel room and try to get some rest.”
“Okay,” I said. “But I’ll have to go out there and pack up tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I guess you’ll be needing your razor, fresh clothes, and the rest. If you want, I could throw your stuff into a bag and have it when we meet.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather do my own packing,” I said.
He withdrew a small white card from his shirt pocket, scribbled something on it, and handed it to me. On its front was an embossed detective shield and his name, office and email addresses, and office phone number. “That’s my cell number on the back. Call me when you want to get your gear, and I’ll drive out with you.”
“It might be early,” I said. “I’m going to try and catch a flight back to New York tomorrow.”
“No flight,” he said, getting that dedicated look again. “I want you out here. I can make it official, put you in custody as a material witness. That might not be a bad idea, with our deadly friend on the prowl.”
“No. Don’t do that,” I said. “How long are we talking about?”
“I can give you a better idea tomorrow, after I see what we have on Mr. Roger Charbonnet. You using a limo?”
“A gray Lexus convertible. In the lot next door.”
“Leave it until I get one of the bomb squad guys to check it out. It’s probably blocked in, anyway. It’s a mess out front. Fire trucks. Police cars. Media. Show that card to a patrol cop and tell him I said he should find you a ride.”
He took a few steps toward the door and stopped. “I almost forgot, there are some women from the network in that booth the director uses. They’ve been waiting to talk to you. Maybe one of them can give you a lift to a hotel? Be careful, Blessing. Start acting smart.”
As far as I was concerned, smart was taking the next flight out to New York City.
Chapter
TWENTY-ONE
Thanks to my nicks and scratches, I looked like my barber was Sweeney Todd. They stung. I was tired. And thirsty. And as always, I was hungry. More than that, I had zero interest in meeting with “women from the network.” That would most likely be Carmen Sandoval and her attentive slavegirl Whisper Jansen. And probably Vida Evans. Dedicated network employees, eager to discuss Worldwide’s response to the tragedy. That was the last thing I needed after experiencing what I could accurately describe as the worst night of my life.
Knowing the company mind-set, I suspected the first question could easily be a paraphrase of the old joke about Mrs. Lincoln: “Other than that, Billy, what did you think of the show?”
I’d have to meet with Carmen et al. sooner or later. But later was better.
I rolled up the probably ruined tux I’d been wearing and stuck it into my overnight bag, along with the other utensils I’d needed for the show.
I’d learned through experience to turn off my cellphone before leaving the dressing area. You don’t want an incessant ringtone annoying people backstage. I clicked it on and quickly scrolled through the calls it had registered. Apparently, once you’ve survived a fatal explosion, it seems everybody wants to talk to you. That included, among others, Cassandra, Carmen, Vida, Harry Paynter, and Kiki. Even Stew.
I’d return the calls later, when I’d settled in at a hotel. I slipped the phone into my pocket, picked up my overnight, and left the room.
Standing in the hall, I steeled myself and headed for an exit.
The LAPD had slapped an official yellow keep-out tape across the entrance to Des’s dressing room. Though the tape was adhering to the closed door, one end of it was torn and hanging free.
Somebody had broken the police seal.
Just as I was contemplating this breach of the law, the door opened and Fitz exited the room.
“Billy!” he said, jerking in surprise. “Jasus. You nearly put the heart crossways in me.”
He was still wearing his white tux pants and green T-shirt, but he’d dumped the coat and hat. I didn’t see any cuts or abrasions, but his eyes were red, and he had, past the slightly matted beard, the pasty-faced, frazzled look of a man who’d been through the mill.
He was carrying something. A bulging soft leather man-purse.
“Aw, but it’s awful, ain’t it?” he said. “Des … poor goddamned Des.”
“Poor Des, indeed.”
“You look like you took some damage,” he said.
“Nothing too serious. What about you?”
“The blokes and me, we were pretty far back from the blast. An’ that screen in front of us … it blocked the soot and crap that was flyin’ about. I jus’ keep wishin’ … aw, hell, if only he’d listened to me.”
“Des? If he’d listened to you about what?”
Fitz shook his head. “Nothin’. Not important now.” He was starting to edge away.
“The police talk to you?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. Tall black lady. Detective … Campbell. It was kinda weird.”
“Weird how?”
“I figgered the chin-wag would be all about Des. And there was a lot of that. But she also wanted to know about you.”
I suppose that figured, since Brueghel believed I’d been the target. “What kind of questions?”
“How long I’d known you. Did I know any of your friends? Had anybody been askin’ me about you? Like that. T’wasn’t much I could contribute. Like I told her, we just met last week. Ah, Billy, I better be runnin’…”
“Running because of that?” I asked, pointing to the broken tape.
He stared at me. “I didn’t harm nuthin’.”
“What’s in the bag?”
He hesitated, then sighed and said, “Medicine.”
“Drugs?”
“Nuthin’ heavy. Jus’ some oxy, Percocet, Ecstasy. A little pot. Some white.”
The man was carrying a portable drugstore. “Just light stuff like that?”
“Yeah. Still, I wouldn’t want people sayin’ Des was, you know, an abuser.”
I considered asking him what he planned on doing with the stash, but in truth, I just didn’t care.