The Midnight Show Murders

by Al Roker

  “What about Tiffany?” I asked.

  “Well, that was the thing,” he said. “Glory and I weren’t in love. In lust, maybe. We didn’t get together all that often, maybe four or five times total. She had a husband, and I had Tiffany. The night I drove to the Springs was the first time I’d seen her in months. Her marriage was headed for the rocks, but she still had some hope for it.”

  “So rather than destroy what sounds like the ideal American marriage, you got Victor to lie,” I said. “You’re a regular Sir Galahad, the white knight of sleazy affairs. Can I go now?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “It’s not much of a story, Roger.”

  “I got there at around one-thirty and stayed the whole night. Even if the murder took place at one, no way could I have made it to the Springs before two-thirty, even by plane. Talk to her. Talk to Glory. She’s been divorced for a long time. She’ll tell you the truth.”

  “How would I know the truth from a lie? I don’t suppose you have a canceled charge receipt from Palm Springs? Or anything like that?”

  “Just Glory,” he said. “Talk to her.”

  The lawyer snapped open his briefcase and withdrew a sheet of paper that he handed to me. It had a neatly printed name, cellular phone number, a phone number at the Bank of California with extension, home, and email addresses.

  “Gloria Ingram,” I read.

  “You say that like you don’t know the name.”

  “Should I?”

  He stared at me for a beat, then said, “Guess not. L.A. always seems like a small town to me. Everybody knows everybody.”

  “I’m just a visitor, myself.”

  “Yeah, well, anyway, she’s expecting you to call.”

  “And then what?” I said. “Suppose I wind up believing her, and you? How does that help you?”

  “I trust you to do the right thing,” he said. He turned to his lawyer and gestured with his head toward the door.

  “What right thing?” I asked.

  Malcolm Darrow stood and headed for the buzzer. Watching him press it, Roger said, “Once you’re convinced that I’m no killer, I know you’ll do everything in your power to see justice done.”

  The door opened, and the guard checked the room before entering. He marched to Roger, freed him from the chair, and recuffed him.

  “Do the right thing,” Roger said, as the guard led him away.

  He seemed sincere, but as I joined the lawyer at the door, I asked, “Was that some kind of racist razz, him repeating that Spike Lee movie title?”

  “Oh, I think not,” he said. “Although with Roger one can never be quite certain.”

  Chapter

  THIRTY-THREE

  On my way from the lockup, I finally became aware of the black BMW. It was resting in a no-parking zone, engine running. The windows were too dark to see anything except vague outlines of a driver. His window had been lowered an inch or so to allow his secondhand smoke to add to his exhaust’s pollution of the atmosphere.

  He was a few cars back in the gathering traffic as I headed away from downtown L.A. toward the WBCW lot. But somewhere along Third Street, the BMW disappeared. And by the time I passed through the network’s east gate, I’d convinced myself that I’d let my imagination get the upper hand.

  I discovered an empty parking space and powered off the car at precisely two p.m., the time scheduled for the run-through and camera blocking for that night’s show. But those things rarely began on the dot, so I figured I’d have time to dial Brueghel and fill him in on the twin towers meeting.

  As I’d promised Roger, I omitted the subject of the infamous twenty-three-year-old alibi. I also made no mention of his appraisal of the detective’s mental state and the theory that insanity had probably induced Brueghel to turn bomber.

  The detective remained quiet until I’d stopped talking, then said, “You sound like you’re wavering, Blessing.”

  “Say again?”

  “I get the impression you’re starting to believe Charbonnet’s bullshit. Did that insidious bastard turn you?”

  The question stung, mainly because I was starting to doubt Roger’s guilt. “I’m trying to keep an open mind,” I said, too defensively. “I don’t know why he’d have left all that evidence on his property, especially after he knew you suspected him.”

  “These guys like to flaunt it. Sometimes they actually want you to catch them. You honestly think there could have been somebody else who planted that crap to frame him?”

  “It does sound far-fetched,” I said.

  “ ‘Far-fetched’? It’s pure fucking fantasy. That would mean some unknown party, who has it in for you, also knows enough about Charbonnet—mainly, that he’s capable of murder—to pick him for the frame. Is that in any way possible?”

  “You tell me. You’re the cop. But he and I did have a well-publicized scuffle last week.”

  “You embarrassed him at a party,” Brueghel said. “If that were motive for murder, this city would look like Tombstone. This fictitious mystery bomber would have had to know that Charbonnet killed his girlfriend twenty-three years ago to make him worth framing. And that he hated you for trying to bust his alibi. So we’re talking about somebody who was around then. Maybe even involved. Can you think of anybody like that?”

  I could. But it wouldn’t have been very diplomatic to remind him that he filled that bill. Instead, I asked, “What about Victor Anisette?”

  “Anisette? That old bastard and Charbonnet are partners in the restaurants and they’re thick as thieves. It’s a father-and-son deal. Anyhow, I can assure you that Anisette didn’t set off any bomb. He suffered a massive stroke. Can’t even go to the toilet on his own.

  “Anyhow, I don’t have time for this kind of mental masturbation. Stay strong, Blessing. Charbonnet’s the guy, and he’s where he should be. Now, if they can only find a jury that doesn’t have its head up its ass, maybe we’ll see justice done.”

  We ended our pleasant little chat on that note of hope. And I jogged off to Stage 7, where I found the usual suspects seated at the round table—Gibby; Max and his assistant, Trey; Whisper, with her Sony camcorder; Fitz, a little less hungover than the previous day; Tessa, our director, bigger than life; Lolita, her head still bandaged and unbowed; April; and the show’s new head writer, whose name I’d discovered was Howard Seymour.

  They were all gawking at me. And I noticed an unfamiliar face turned my way. It belonged to a dour, bald-headed man, probably in his sixties, with skin the color of dust.

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Blessing,” Gibby said. “Why ya late? McDonald’s run out of burgers?”

  He was evidently expecting this witty comment to be rewarded with gales of laughter. But he was the only one laughing. He faced his coworkers. “It’s the old fake excuse,” he tried to explain. “You know. ‘I’m late getting back from lunch because they ran out of burgers at McDonald’s and I had to go somewhere else.’ ”

  When there was still no reaction, he continued, desperate now, “Don’t you get it? They never run out of burgers at McDonald’s, which is why it’s such a dumb, obviously bogus, excuse. That’s what makes it funny.”

  Ignoring Gibby, Max asked, “Why are you late, Billy?”

  Squeezing a chair between Lolita and Fitz, I said, “They ran out of burgers at Jack in the Box.”

  This time there was laughter. But not from Gibby, who whined, “Why the hell is that funny? Jack in the Box? That’s funnier than McDonald’s?”

  “Shut up, Gibby,” Max said. “Billy. These rehearsals are crucial to the success of the show.”

  “I’m sorry, Max,” I said. “Won’t happen again.”

  “Now I’ll have to repeat what I already informed the others. Your participation in the show is changing. Explain it to him, Trey.”

  The assistant producer turned his pasty face toward me. “Last night, Billy, your Q-and-A with Marcus Oliphant was very popular. The usual ratings pattern for late-night shows finds
viewership dwindling in proportion to the lateness of the hour. This is the result of older viewers, the less-important over-forty-nines, opting for sleep. But there is some fallout for the eighteen-to-forty-nine demographic, too.”

  Gibby was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. Fitz was slumped forward, staring at his overhanging stomach. The rest of the table seemed to be equally disinterested in Trey’s information. Maybe because it was the second time they’d heard it.

  Or maybe it was just Trey’s monotone delivery.

  “Our show kicked off with an eighteen-to-forty-nine average of one-point-three-five million,” he was saying. “This is superb, considering the overall decline in commercial TV viewership, the number of talk shows at that hour, and the fact that most of them began twenty-five minutes before ours. Part of our success can be attributed to curiosity, people wondering what we were going to do, post-tragedy. This was especially notable in those time zones where Midnight is broadcast live.”

  This was like the song by Kesha, “Blah, Blah, Blah.”

  Beside me, Fitz mumbled something to himself and shifted on his chair.

  “But here’s the odd thing, Billy,” Trey continued, undaunted. “Your Q-and-A aired at approximately twelve-forty a.m. Instead of falling off by that late hour, the ratings peaked at one-point-three-eight mil for eighteen-to-forty-nine viewers, and one-point-six-one mil for the twenty-five-to-fifty-four seg. Some of that can be the result of mainly positive Internet chatter that began after the show aired in earlier time zones and its effect on West Coast viewers. Even so, it’s safe to say that viewers are tuning in to Midnight primarily to hear news about the tragedy from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

  “Very flattering, Trey,” I said. “Much better than being compared to the other end of the horse.”

  “That would be Marcus Oliphant,” Gibby said, proving he could get a laugh every now and then.

  Beside me, Fitz exhaled loudly. I wondered if he might be unwell.

  Trey continued on with his dry recitation. “This positive result has prompted two things. Carmen has arranged for a Des O’Day memorial section to be added to the WBC website. It will honor his memory and also serve as an up-to-the-minute account of information pertaining to the bombing. The latter will consist primarily of the network’s Twitter releases.

  “Of more relevance to the show itself—and to you, Billy—we’ll be devoting the last fifteen minutes each night, at least for the next few days, to a discussion of the crime and its aftermath. You will host the segment, Billy. And there will be an appropriate title, something on the order of the Blessing Report, for which we have April to thank.”

  The publicist gave him a wintry smile of acknowledgment.

  “Suppose there is nothing for Blessing to report in the Blessing Report?” I asked.

  Max said, “We’re asking interested visitors to the website to submit their questions. How many do we have so far, Trey?”

  The assistant producer flipped through his notes frantically and came up with the answer. “Over a thousand, but there is a high degree of repetition. Staffers are sifting through them, and we should have some for you to address tonight.”

  “I assume I can select the questions myself?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” Max said. “Judging by the ratings and the amount of hits your segment has scored on Hulu, I don’t give a shit what you do with the fifteen minutes, as long as it puts eyeballs on the screen.”

  “Max also feels that it would diminish the importance of the Blessing Report if you continue to announce the show,” Trey said. “Therefore, we’ve added Quentin Utach to the team.”

  The newcomer, who resembled the Crypt Keeper, nodded his head and offered what was almost a smile.

  I returned that with a genuine grin. I was happy to relinquish that duty. I turned to Trey and asked when I might see the questions.

  Max replied before Trey had a chance. “We’ve arranged for an expert to join you tonight. Dr. Benjamin Dover.”

  “Ben Dover?” I asked. “There’s a guy who took a lotta crap in high school. Other than the punch-line name, who is he?”

  Max responded with a sharp “Trey?”

  Responding to his master’s voice, the good dog Trey dragged a briefcase from the floor and split it open on the table. From it, he withdrew a hardcover book.

  Suddenly, Fitz’s cellphone beeped.

  “Turn that off,” Max ordered.

  Fitz looked at the phone and stood. “I gotta take this.”

  “Goddamn it!” Max shouted, as the big man strolled off with the phone at his ear.

  Trey stared at Max, waiting for instructions.

  Finally, sighing in helpless frustration, the producer waved a hand and Trey presented me with the book.

  The dust-jacket art was a garish Southern California coastline scene consisting of an orange sun in a bright red sky above a sinister purple ocean and a white beach. A naked female corpse lay beside a solo palm tree. The title read: The Barbarous Coast, a Benjamin Dover Novel of Suspense by Benjamin Dover.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Dr. Dover?” Trey said.

  I blinked at the book.

  “Dr. Dover,” Max said, “is a retired psychologist who consults with the LAPD on murder cases. Actually, he does most of the solving, but he’s too humble to take the credit.”

  “I’m guessing from the repetition of his name on the cover that he’s not above taking some of the credit,” I said.

  “The books are fiction,” Trey said. “But they are based on the doctor’s investigations.”

  “He doesn’t make many TV appearances,” Max said. “Just the ones with heavyweight hosts, like Bill Maher and Ryan Seacrest. We’re lucky to get his services. He says he’s fascinated by this killer, Charbonnet. He’s anxious to get your take on it, Billy.”

  “Call it a hunch, but my take is that Roger Charbonnet will sue our collective asses off if we label him a killer on the show. There’s a whole thing called a trial to go through first, not to mention a verdict.”

  “Good point,” Max said. “In any case, at least skim the book so you’ll sound knowledgeable when you plug it.”

  I stared at the novel. “Is there anybody on this coast who doesn’t write books?”

  Whisper raised a tentative hand. “I’m writing a spec script for the MILF and Cookie Show,” she said.

  “You need any help with it, honey,” Gibby said, “just drop by my dressing room. I’m one of the leading authorities on MILFs.”

  “As much as I love useless badinage,” Max said, “we’ve got a dozen trained cats arriving in less than an hour, and I would dearly love to get at least one run-through before we break out the litter boxes. Thanks primarily to Billy’s tardiness, we are now … how long behind schedule, Trey?”

  “Seventeen—” Trey began. He was interrupted by Fitz, who returned to stand at the table.

  “I … um. They’re releasin’ Des’s remains.”

  “In what? A cigar box?” Gibby said, chuckling.

  Fitz shot him an angry stare that froze the grin on his baby face. If looks could kill, Gibby would have been dead on the spot.

  No one else said a word.

  “So I’ll be takin’ him back home on the weekend,” the Irishman said.

  “Home?” Max said. “What home?”

  “Dungannon. We’ll be holdin’ funeral services there.”

  “The hell you say,” Max exclaimed. “You’ve got a show on Monday.”

  “I been meanin’ to talk to you about that. I’ve already discussed it with my guys. I’m through here. I was only doin’ the show for Des.”

  “You’ve got a contract.”

  “You’re payin’ me more than the job is worth. People who tune in, they don’t care if it’s me leadin’ my crew or a guy with a banjo.”

  Clearly, he was singing Max’s song. The producer turned to Trey. “How soon can the talent coordinators find a replacement?”

  “S
oon enough, I imagine. Lot of hungry musicians out here.”

  “Great,” Gibby said. “It’s not like we don’t have enough problems with this fucking show. Now we’ll have second-rate music, just so a bunch of fucking mackerel-snappers can put a pine box in the ground.”

  He was looking at Max. He didn’t see Fitz rushing toward him until the big man lifted him out of his chair by his shirtfront. “Ya mingin’ maggot. I’ll show ya how we snap.”

  He shook him like a maraca, then slapped his face with the back of his free hand. “Snap!” he shouted.

  Fitz repeated the word and hit him on the front swing.

  Gibby’s eyes were wide, the pupils rolling around like plastic buttons. Fear had turned his face ghostly white, but the slaps were rouging his cheeks. He was starting to resemble a kid’s doll. Or maybe a plump Pee-wee Herman.

  “Snap!” One final backhand, and Fitz dropped the comedian onto his chair. “Dribble one more word and I’ll rip out your yockers and stuff ’em down yer trap.”

  While we were all trying to figure out what “yockers” were, Fitz wheeled around and glared at us, his eyes red with fury. “Anybody else got somethin’ clever to say about poor Des or the true faith?”

  Judging by the stunned silence, none of us did.

  Fitz stood there a moment, then slumped. He shook his big head. “I … I beg your apology,” he said. “I didn’t think I still had the violence in me. If you want me to be stayin’ with the show till the weekend, Max, I owe ya that much.”

  “I think we’ll be okay, buddy,” Max said, with surprising calm. “But I appreciate the offer.”

  Fitz nodded. He raised an arm in a halfhearted wave to the rest of us, turned on his boot heel, and left the room.

  “Christ,” Gibby whined in what seemed like honest confusion. “What the fuck did I say, anyway?”