Dead and Not So Buried

by James L. Conway

  Someone called “Action,” and the six stuntmen closed in on Tornado. Punching, kicking, leaping, rolling, he took them out one by one, until he was left facing one lone survivor, a giant wielding the fire axe.

  “Here it comes,” Hillary whispered.

  “What?”

  Hillary lowered her voice in a rough impression of Tornado. “You’ve just made a big mistake.”

  Tornado put up his dukes in a classic fight stance and snarled, “You’ve just made a big mistake.”

  Tornado sounded better than Hillary, but the line sounded stupid, nonetheless. The giant charged, swinging the axe. Tornado ducked, landed a punch to the kidney, another to the belly, then—in one of his patented moves—he boxed the giant’s ears with the palms of his hands. In another patented move, he finished him off with his RAT-A-TAT-TAT: a quick right, left, right, left to the chin. The biker’s knees buckled and, like a giant oak tree, he went down.

  “Cut, print!” the director called.

  “They really say it,” Hillary gushed. “Action, cut, print. Just like the movies!”

  “This is the movies.”

  “TV, actually, but who’s counting?”

  A mixed metaphor worthy of my agent, Elliot, but I didn’t say anything. Instead I scanned the dispersing crowd for a dreadlock-topped, overly pierced, 200-pound, surly black woman. I found her, just finishing a hug with one of the crewmembers. As she turned to go I called out, “Maggie!”

  She saw me, almost smiled, and came forward. “Hey, shamus, how you doing?”

  “Good, Maggie. The office told me I could find you on the set. Meet my secretary, Hillary Bennett.”

  “Former secretary,” Hillary said, shaking her hand. “I’m a field operative now.”

  “Then we have something in common. I’m a former secretary, too.”

  “Of course,” Hillary said. “Your boss is dead. They must be planning to shut down the show now that Barry Winslow is out of the picture.”

  Maggie snorted a laugh. “Shut down a top ten show? Are you kidding? Honey, this is television. Nothing shuts down the show. Not that they’re heartless or anything. Tornado led a minute of silence for Barry the morning after his murder, and there’ll be a special card at the end of the show dedicating the episode to him. Oh, and the crew all chipped in for a flower arrangement for the funeral. However, by ten o’clock that day the studio announced that Tornado would be taking over Executive Producer duties on the show, and that his first official act was to fire all the writers. A new writing staff starts next week, and they all have their own secretaries, so, as they say in Hollywood, I’m ‘at liberty.’ ”

  Hillary elbowed me in the side. I shot her a ‘what?’ look. She nodded her head toward Maggie but I still didn’t know what the hell she was trying to say. Finally she just said, “Gideon and I are looking for a new secretary.”

  “Really? Would I get to carry a gun?”

  “Absolutely not.” I said.

  “I don’t even carry a gun,” Hillary said. “But now that I think about it, I’d like to. I’m checked out on the range and everything, Gideon. What do you think?”

  “No. You might shoot someone.”

  “Duh. Like the Gravesnatcher.”

  “The only one shooting the Gravesnatcher will be me. And in case you forgot, that’s why we’re here. So before we find ourselves a secretary, let’s find him. Tell me something, Maggie, does the name Roy Cooper mean anything to you?”

  “Sure. He starred in Ramrod, a pilot we made a few years ago. Pilot sucked, but Roy wasn’t too bad.” Then, amazed, she asked, “You think he’s the Gravesnatcher?”

  “Maybe. How’d he get along with Winslow?”

  “Fine, as far as I know.” Then she thought about that for a beat and added, “Though, their relationship was a little more strained than most. What I mean is, Barry would always blow a lot of smoke up the ass of any actor starring in a pilot. He wanted the actor to think he was his new best friend, so that if the pilot sold, the actor wouldn’t even consider replacing him with another Executive Producer. That’s how it was with these two—at first. Just before the shooting something must’ve happened. They were still civil and all, but none of that back slapping, best-pal-of-mine kind of shit I was used to seeing.”

  “You have an address on Roy?”

  “Back in the office, but it’s old; he may not live there anymore.”

  “Could you give it to me?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “How’s your dental plan?”

  Meet John Doe

  Nobody was more surprised than Roy. Or happier. The plan had actually worked. Three ransoms, six million dollars. Barry Winslow and David Hunter dead. Lisa shivering in her Gucci boots, Gideon and the cops chasing their tails looking for Jason Tucker.

  Of course, for Roy’s revenge to be complete he’d have to kill Lisa and Gideon. But no one said that had to happen now. Better to take the money and run. Kick back for a while, let the heat cool down, and let them spend night after sleepless night wondering when the Gravesnatcher would return. Wondering when it would be their turn to die.

  Roy was driving North on the 405, coming from Inglewood, on the way to his apartment. He was back in his SL 550 and was listening to Jasmine sing her new hit song, “Dumped.”

  See me, smile me, talk me, touch me

  Manipulate

  Prevaricate

  The lyrics sucked but the song had a great beat, incredible bluesy piano riffs, and ever since Roy had seen a naked picture of the twenty-year-old redhead on the Internet, he always imagined she was standing naked in his bedroom, singing to him only.

  Roy had just spent an interesting hour with a guy named Rafe. Rafe owned a stamp and coin shop in a crappy strip mall in an even crappier part of town. But location didn’t really matter to Rafe. He didn’t get much walk-in traffic. In fact, he didn’t get much stamp and coin traffic at all. The store was a front for his real business, fake documents. Green cards, driver’s licenses, social security cards, passports. You name it. For the right price, Rafe would make it for you.

  Roy knew the Jason Tucker ploy wouldn’t work forever. They’d eventually tumble to him. Hell, for his plan to work, they had to. So Roy needed a new name. He worked with Rafe, trying to come up with just the right one.

  Truth be told, he’d never been crazy about the name Roy. Sounded soft. He’d always wanted to be a Maximilian or a Duncan or a Preston. Something with more than one syllable. He finally decided on Zachary because in the ninth grade, a kid named Zachary had the biggest dick in the locker room.

  Rafe said Roy should really change his look, too. Grow a moustache or beard, dye his hair, wear tinted contacts to get rid of his distinctive green eyes. Maybe even plastic surgery.

  This was tougher for Roy. Like a lot of actors, he’d spent thousands of hours staring at himself in the mirror. Practicing expressions, running dialogue. And he liked how he looked. Maybe he’d try a moustache, or darker hair. But the eyes stayed. Roy couldn’t even count the number of times his sexy, bedroom eyes had gotten him laid.

  The new passport and driver’s license cost Roy fifteen hundred dollars. A week ago, a fortune, chicken feed now. So was the first class ticket Roy booked on his cell phone as he drove away from Rafe’s shop. He was flying to Hong Kong tomorrow, the first stop in his round-the-world exploration.

  Roy pulled off the 405 at Wilshire, headed east. The idea of giving up acting bothered Roy. All he’d ever wanted was to be an actor. He had enough money to last a while, but he knew it couldn’t last forever. He’d have to find some sort of work. Or marry someone with lots of money.

  Of course, that was it! Do the round-the-world tour looking for a rich wife. And not the old, widowed type, nipped and tucked until the face looked like it was sheathed in Saran Wrap. He was thinking the forty- to fifty-year-old divorcee, the fading beauty whose husband had turned her in for a trophy wife.

  Hell, for enough money, Roy c
ould close his eyes and pretend he was fucking anybody—even Jasmine.

  On the radio she was singing:

  But fire turns my skin to steel

  I’m armorized

  Sanitized

  Yeah, Jasmine was definitely pissed off at some poor dude. Roy usually hated the “my heart’s been broken, woe is me” song. But “Dumped” had a great beat and Jasmine was so hot, he didn’t mind listening to her musical whining.

  Roy turned south on Veteran.

  Or he could stick with acting, he thought. Using his new name and face, he could take up acting in the new country of his choice. He’d never been good with languages, so it would probably have to be somewhere they spoke English—London or Dublin or maybe Sidney, Australia. Australia wasn’t that far from Hong Kong. Maybe Sidney should be stop number two.

  Roy turned left onto Kelton, then braked to a sudden, surprised stop. Half a block ahead he saw Gideon Kincaid and that cute, blond secretary of his sneaking into the building’s underground parking lot. There was a security gate, but someone could sneak in by waiting for a tenant to open the gate with a key card by running inside before the gate had a chance to close.

  Shit! Kincaid had found him. He’d known it was inevitable, but hadn’t expected it so soon. He hadn’t dropped the final clues.

  Roy spun his head looking for police cars. None. He cocked his ears, listening for a siren. Silence. Good. True to form, Kincaid was cowboying it. He hadn’t told the cops that Roy was the Gravesnatcher.

  That little mistake was going to cost him his life.

  Getting To Know You

  Maggie had given us not only an address for Roy Cooper, but a phone number, too. I called immediately and got a recording, “Who, what, where, when, why, how?” BEEP.

  Roy didn’t give his name but I recognized the voice: the Gravesnatcher.

  Just because he hadn’t changed his number didn’t mean Roy hadn’t moved to a new address in the same neighborhood. So Hillary and I drove to Westwood in her Prius. I used the time to call David Hunter’s office, to ask if they knew if Hunter had ever worked with Roy Cooper. The receptionist I spoke to was new and didn’t know. She transferred me to Hunter’s line producer, a guy named Toby. He hadn’t been with Hunter too long, either, but the name rang a bell.

  “Roy Cooper? I think I saw his name on this old poster for a movie called Jailbait. David never talked about it though. His fiancée was killed during production, a car accident, I think, so the movie was never finished.”

  “You know of any reason Roy Cooper would want to kill Mr. Hunter?”

  “I’ve heard rumors about Mr. Cooper and David’s fiancée at the time. And there was a confrontation between David and Roy Cooper on the back lot. I honestly don’t know all the details. I’ll ask around and get back to you.”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  I gave him my cell phone number and hung up, satisfied. I’d now connected Cooper to all the victims. I had no doubt he was the Gravesnatcher.

  We pulled up to the apartment building, got out and checked the names on the building’s directory. There it was next to Apartment 308: R. Cooper.

  Now what? I couldn’t buzz his apartment, ask if he wanted to come out and play. Actually, I was hoping he wasn’t home. I wanted to search his apartment for proof he was the Gravesnatcher. You know, that incontrovertible kind that got me in so much trouble in the Ernie Wagner case.

  I called his number on my cell phone and got his machine again. Good, he was still out. Now we had to find a way to get in. Pushing all the buttons on the directory until someone buzzed me inside was one option—a device first used by Dashiell Hammet in The Maltese Falcon, by the way. Only it doesn’t really work anymore; people in L.A. have become much too wary to let anyone in unless they know or expect them.

  That left my favorite mode of entry, sneaking into the parking garage. The trick was not to run under the gate until the car you followed in has turned, so the driver doesn’t spot you in his rear-view mirror. You stay hidden behind a car until the driver is safely in the elevator. That’s what we did.

  “Hillary, you wait here,” I said, as we crouched behind a Ford Edge. “Call me on the cell if you see Roy Cooper pull into the garage.”

  “Oh that sounds like a lot of fun. Doesn’t an operative, like, ‘operate’? I want to sneak, skulk and search with you.”

  “Too dangerous.”

  “And keeping an eye on Lisa Montgomery wasn’t? I almost had a bullet sandwich.”

  “Exactly my point. They overpowered you.”

  “There were two of them. Now there are two of us. Besides, you’re going in there to find evidence, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, who’s going to believe old evidence-planting you? The D.A. may want a more reliable witness. Like, moi.”

  She had a point, and once we were in the apartment I could have her keep an eye on the corridor in case Roy showed up. Worried I was making a mistake, but not really having a choice, I said okay.

  Riding up in the elevator I remembered something Maggie had said the morning I went to her house with the latte—that even though she’d worked for Winslow for years, he’d never asked her about her personal life. How often had I asked Hillary about her personal life? Never, I realized. “This may sound like a stupid question, Hillary, but do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever had one while you’ve worked for me?”

  “I had one when I first started working for you. But we broke up about a year ago.”

  The elevator door opened. The corridor was empty. We started walking.

  “What’s with the 411, Gideon?”

  “Oh, it was something Maggie said about Winslow. That he only dealt with her as an employee. That he showed no interest in her outside of work. It hurt her. She even said, ‘I’m sorry he’s dead but I’m not about to shed any tears.’”

  “You’re worried that if you die I won’t, like, cry buckets?”

  “No. Well, yes, kind of. I mean, we’ve been together two years and I’m realizing I don’t know very much about you.”

  “You’re sounding seriously sentimental. This could ruin your whole image.”

  We reached 308. A Baldwin deadbolt guarded the door. I knocked just to make sure he really wasn’t home. No answer. I knocked again. Nothing.

  A quick glance told me the hallway was still empty so I took out my picks and went to work. Fifteen seconds later, the lock clicked opened.

  “You are so going to have to teach me that.” Hillary said.

  “Stay here in the hall until I give the all clear.” I pulled out my Glock, pushed open the door with my shoulder, and then spun into the room in crouched combat stance. I was in a small entryway. A living room was directly in front of me, a doorway to what I assumed to be the kitchen to the right. Quickly, I moved through each room—kitchen, living room, bedroom, both bathrooms, the two closets. Roy Cooper wasn’t home.

  “All clear,” I called, quietly.

  Hillary gingerly stepped inside. “This may be the first really illegal thing I’ve ever done.”

  “You never smoked grass? Drank booze as a minor? Rolled a stop sign or ignored a speed limit?”

  “Yes to some of the above, but they are a far cry from, like, breaking and entering.”

  “We didn’t break and enter. The door was unlocked.”

  “Oh, the cops’ll believe that.”

  “It doesn’t matter what the cops believe. It’s what they can prove. That’s why there are a hell of a lot more crooks on the streets than in the jails.” Then I switched subjects. “You have a compact mirror in your purse?”

  “Is this another of your getting-to-know-me-better questions?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take it out and prop it open in the doorway—that way you can stay inside the apartment and still keep an eye on the hall.”

  “Very clever,” she said, putting the m
irror in place. “Now what?”

  “Stay there while I search.”

  The apartment was small, cramped and depressing. It had the ugliest couch and love seat I’d ever seen. Red plaid. What had he been thinking?

  “What if he’s already left town?” Hillary asked. “Taken the money and run?”

  “Then I’ll find out where he’s gone and track him down.”

  “I hope he’s gone to Maui. I’ve always wanted to see Hawaii.”

  That didn’t even deserve an answer. I searched the living room first.

  “What exactly are we looking for?”

  “Proof that he’s the Gravesnatcher. The ransom money, the magazines he cut up to make the ransom notes, evidence that’ll link him to the two bombs, the Obama mask, the wig to make him look like Jason Tucker. Anything that can conclusively tie him to the case. I’d also like to find out if he really has a partner. And if it’s a cop, who the hell it is.”

  I looked under the couch, under the cushions, under the chair, under the chair’s cushion. I looked in the cheesy fake fireplace. Glowing electric logs? Please. The walls were filled with pictures of Roy. I figured I’d study them later. There was a DVD on top of the DVD player, the title was typed on the label, Ramrod. I picked it up. “This is the pilot he made with Barry Winslow. In fact, it looks like some of the DVDs I saw at Winslow’s condo. I bet Roy took this when he shoved Winslow out the window.”

  “Want to watch it?”

  “Later.”

  There was a huge pile of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter. I checked all the kitchen cabinets, the almost barren refrigerator and freezer, oven and microwave. Nothing.

  A search of the guest bathroom and hall closet showed more bad taste but yielded no clues. The bedroom was a mess—bed unmade, clothes piled on the floor. A familiar sight in a bachelor’s apartment. So was the stack of old Playboys on the closet floor.