Ziff glared back at her. “Geneva. You for real? For crying out loud.”
Grant walked around the heap of fallen humanity and opened the door to the office. Fairy lights still blinked on the ceiling. The laptop screen added a splash of color as the news feed replayed his exploits from last night.
He turned toward the porn producer and his star. “I can send the midget back in if you like.”
Ziff looked like he could burst into tears of frustration at any second.
The heat hit Grant the minute he stepped outside. He took the windcheater off and slung it over his shoulder. He wished he’d stayed long enough to get a shower but wasn’t sure if Zed Productions provided shower facilities. Probably did, if only to wash off all that baby oil and love juice. At least he’d been spared the baby oil.
He considered what he’d learned. Not much. What he did know was that Stuart Ziff wouldn’t take much persuading to stop using Senator Richards’ daughter in his porn output. That conversation was for later. For now he wanted to get a professional perspective on the porn industry from the police side of things. But not with an official request. He had to be discreet.
There weren’t too many numbers he could call, so he flicked his cell open and dialed the one most likely to help. He stood in the shade of Popeye’s Chicken & Biscuits while he waited to be connected. The phone rang for several seconds. Just when he thought the call was going to switch to voicemail, a familiar voice answered.
“LQ Productions. Robin Citrin speaking.”
“Howdy. How you doin’?”
“Jim Grant. As I live and breathe.”
It was good to hear her voice.
“You mad at me?”
“No. I’m glad you called. You get my message?”
“I did. Thought about calling last night, but it was late.”
“After your latest newsflash, I’m not surprised.”
There was only a hint of admonishment in her tone. He imagined her smiling on the other end of the phone.
“I haven’t seen that. How’d it play?”
“It played great. Don’t know what the police made of it though.”
“Those fellas pressing charges?”
“Said not on the news.”
“Good, ’cause it was self-defense.”
“Came over that way. The big guy charging at you like that.”
“Pleased to hear it.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Grant could picture her building up to the big question again. She didn’t wait long.
“So. Are you ready to talk business yet?”
“Won’t be long. Just got a couple of things to sort out first. Hoped you could give me a hand?”
“Come arrest somebody with you?”
“Share your infinite knowledge of the movie industry with me.”
This time the pause was longer. Citrin was no doubt weighing her options and wondering how much leverage helping Grant could provide. The ever-present helicopter hovered over downtown Long Beach. He couldn’t tell if it was police or news.
Citrin kept any suspicion out of her voice. “What do you need?”
Grant nodded even though she couldn’t see him. “Is there a listing of who’s filming where around LA?”
“You want to know what they were filming last night?”
“I want to know what’s filming today.”
“You want to meet Clint Eastwood?”
“He around?”
“Doubt it.”
“Shame. No. Can you find out where they’re filming CSI: New York?”
FIFTEEN
Grant stood on the fringe of the crew activity and tried to figure out which one was Chuck Tanburro. It didn’t take long to identify the retired LAPD cop turned technical adviser. Tanburro was standing behind the camera position looking at twin monitors showing the previous shot. He was shorter than Grant but broader. His shoulders were solid and his neck strong. The way he held himself gave him away as an ex-cop. Grant wondered if he gave off the same air of authority and knew that he did.
The CSI: NY crew were filming on West Sixth near Pershing Square. There were cars with New York plates and buses displaying destinations two thousand miles away. A couple of NYPD patrol cars and an FDNY ambulance were parked along the curb, waiting to be deployed.
Grant waited until Tanburro appeared satisfied with the footage, then dodged between a yellow NYC taxi and a family sedan that had been given their final positions and walked up to the monitors. The temperature had dropped in the shade. Grant slipped his orange windcheater on so he didn’t have to carry it. Tanburro sensed Grant coming and turned to face him—another instinct that marked him as a cop.
Grant nodded a greeting. “Chuck Tanburro?”
“Jim Grant? Bob Snow told me you might be dropping by.”
They exchanged a warm handshake. Tanburro lowered his head as if looking over glasses on his nose. He wasn’t wearing glasses.
“You’re not gonna start assaulting the crew today, are you?”
“Self-defense isn’t assault.”
“Everything physical’s assault. Self-defense is justified assault, is all.”
“Spoken like a true police officer.”
“You never lose it. I’ll be a cop until I die.”
Tanburro smiled as a woman pushed through the camera position, shouting above the noise. She pointed across the street, then held both hands up with her thumbs out to form a frame. The thin guy with the baseball cap she was talking to was obviously the director. Two Steadicam operators were standing beside the main camera. They looked at where the woman was pointing. A street sign high up on the opposite building line that was clearly Los Angeles.
Tanburro translated for Grant.
“Set dresser has most of the shop fronts with bits of New York stuff to set the background. Street signs we haven’t bothered with. Just need to keep a tab on the camera angles, make sure they aren’t in shot.”
Grant looked across at the West Sixth Street sign on the wall. Unlike the modern blue signs up in Hollywood, they had an addendum across the bottom in small letters that identified the street as being in Los Angeles. He leaned one hand against the black director’s chair with CSI: NY on the back.
“Wouldn’t it just be easier to film it in New York?”
Tanburro took a drink out of a small bottle of water. “For street signs, yes. For weather, no. They can get three seasons in one day over there. There’s a reason they chose California for the movie studios.”
He turned his hands palms upwards and looked at the sky. “Back in the day when they first started making movies, they didn’t have all these lights and reflectors and stuff. Indoor sets were built, three-wall. No front wall and no roof. They used natural light. Needed good weather.”
“You know a lot about the movie industry?”
“I’ve picked a fair bit up.”
“Then you’re just the man I need to talk to.”
There was a flurry of activity beyond the camera, and Tanburro held a hand up for Grant to wait. The next setup was ready. It was time for Gary Sinise to strut his stuff.
They filmed a scene where Gary Sinise and his female partner dashed across the road to an injured boy on the sidewalk. Two NYPD squad cars skidded to a halt and the FDNY ambulance pulled up. The sirens were turned off. The lights kept flashing. A booming voice shouted above the chaos: “Cut.”
Suddenly everybody was moving. The hurry-up-and-wait brigade went into action, redressing the set, repositioning the vehicles, and touching up Gary Sinise’s makeup. Traffic cops in fluorescent waistcoats directed annoyed travelers past the location, the street only blocked off on the half they were filming, an LA ordinance that precluded the complete closure except for major action scenes.
The director gathered his camera ope
rators to discuss the next setup. Tanburro came over to Grant, who had watched with interest from behind the monitors, where he could see each camera’s view of the fast-moving scene.
Tanburro was smiling. “And that’s what we do. A hundred times a day.”
“Makes you miss dealing with proper crime scenes, doesn’t it?”
“With real blood and dead people? Naw.”
“You’re right. Try gathering evidence after that lot have trampled over it.”
Grant stood back with his arms folded and watched the carnage of a movie set being dressed for a different angle of the same scene. They were setting up for a shot from the ambulance doors that only involved the paramedics and the casualty.
A small group of people sauntered away from the set, one wearing a blue open-necked shirt and sunglasses. A wardrobe assistant slipped Gary Sinise’s jacket off to protect it between takes. The attractive female partner had to take her own jacket off. Tanburro put an arm on Grant’s shoulders.
“You want to meet Gary?”
Grant had never met any movie stars before. They didn’t move in the same circles, so he wasn’t sure how he’d react being introduced on first-name terms with the star of Apollo 13 and Forrest Gump. Like anyone growing up on a council estate in Yorkshire, he had viewed all things American through the eyes of Hollywood. He’d heard about all those temper tantrums by petulant stars and was prepared to be given the cold shoulder as soon as politeness allowed.
Gary Sinise wasn’t petulant and appeared to be in no rush to escape the surprise visitor from across the pond. He smiled when the introduction was made and gave Grant a handshake almost as warm as Tanburro’s. When Tanburro explained that Grant was a cop from the UK, he seemed genuinely interested.
“Oh yeah? You do any of this stuff?”
“Crime scenes? I’ve attended a few.”
“You’ll be able to tell us if we’re getting it right, then.”
Grant shrugged. “Procedures are different over here. Principle’s the same though. Don’t walk all over the evidence. Make sure they’re dead before you start a murder investigation. You know. Basics.”
“That ever happen?”
“What?”
“The dead thing.”
“Almost. Once. I went to a suicide in a domestic garage where this fella’d hung himself from the roof beam. It was only a small garage, not very high. His feet were dragging on the floor when I arrived. Second officer along with SOCO.”
“SOCO?”
“Scenes Of Crime Officer. CSI, they call them now. Would you believe? Anyway, first thing you should always do is make sure the deceased is deceased. If he’s hanging there, cut him down and try and revive him.”
Sinise shook his head, still smiling. “And they didn’t do that?”
“No. They left him hanging for the photograph. His wife was in the kitchen, making tea for the police.”
Sinise shivered. “Don’t tell me he was still alive.”
“No. First officer didn’t follow procedure but he had a pretty good idea the guy was dead. His neck had stretched an extra six inches. That’s why his feet were dragging on the floor.”
Sinise sighed a half laugh. “We’ll have to remember that if we ever do a hanging. You seen the show?”
“Bits here and there. Time’s a factor when you work shifts.”
Grant realized he might have just slighted the star of CSI: NY. “I’ve seen a lot of your movies though. Not many actors can pull off being a cop, but in that one with Mel Gibson”—he flicked his fingers, trying for the title; Sinise got it first.
“Ransom.”
“Yeah, Ransom. I nearly said Payback. Well, in that you really nailed being a cop. Especially his dark side.”
“Do all cops have a dark side?”
“Everybody’s got a dark side. You just either control it or you don’t. That’s the difference between the good guys and the bad guys. Step to the wrong side, guys like me and Chuck put them away.”
Tanburro spoke up. “Used to put them away.”
Sinise patted him on the back. “Now he makes sure we look good while we put the bad guys away.”
Grant waved toward the set. “Well, the way you jogged across the street, holding the traffic up. You got that right too.”
Somebody called Sinise over for a consultation, and the star waved that he’d be right over. He smiled and shook Grant’s hand again.
“Got to go. Nice to meet you. Stick around—I’ll introduce you to the others.”
“Thanks.”
Sinise joined the director on the side of the street, and Grant turned to Tanburro, who was leaning on a pile of yellow equipment cases.
“Seemed a nice fella.”
“One of the best. They’re not all so obliging.”
Grant looked across at the star, then back at Tanburro. “First time I saw him, in Forrest Gump, I thought they’d got an actor with no legs. For years. Then I saw him in that Stephen King thing, The Stand. With legs. Surprised the hell out of me.”
Tanburro pushed off from the equipment cases. “Movie magic. Things aren’t always what they seem.”
“Sometimes feels that way, don’t it?”
Tanburro took another swig of water. He glanced over his shoulder at the camera position. His demeanor changed. Duty called, and the self-confident posture returned. He turned back toward Grant.
“I’m on deck again in a minute. Now I’ve shown off with the stars, what is it I can help you with?”
Grant watched the traffic cops marshaling the commuters. The glass towers overlooking Pershing Square were still in the sun, but the shadows had crept across the park. He considered how to phrase this, then decided to just come right out with it.
“I want to pick your brains. What do you know about the porn industry?”
SIXTEEN
Grant had to wait until the shoot broke for an afternoon snack before talking to Tanburro again. They each grabbed a coffee in Styrofoam cups and sat in one of the NYPD squad cars for privacy. The interior was almost as authentic as the exterior but without the computer terminal and police radio. There was no shotgun clipped to the ceiling either. Grant reckoned if they were filming inside the car they’d have a special one with the props added.
Tanburro sat in the driver’s seat, sipping coffee. “Porn movies? You’re not branching out, are you?”
“No. It’s just that thing I’m looking into.”
“For the friend you’re here to help out.”
It wasn’t a question. Grant threw him a look. Tanburro shrugged. “Bob mentioned it.”
“You two are close, huh?”
“Partners for six years until I retired.”
“How come he’s still in, then?”
“I know it’s hard to believe, but he’s younger than me. Didn’t join until later. His time’s not up yet.”
“And you’d swap with him in a flash.”
That wasn’t a question either. Tanburro shrugged again but added a shake of the head. “Naw. I’ve got a good job here.”
Grant didn’t believe him. Tanburro would be a cop until he died. He’d said so himself. You never stopped thinking like a cop. As if to prove the point, Tanburro put his coffee in the cup holder on the console and turned to Grant.
“So if the porn industry’s something to do with what you’re helping your friend out with, I’m guessing somebody’s daughter got mixed up with the dirty Mac brigade.”
Grant was impressed. “If you can teach Gary Sinise how to do that, they’ll have a show that’s halfway realistic.”
“You don’t think it’s realistic?”
Grant sipped milky coffee that was nowhere near as good as Starbucks.
“I watched ten minutes of an episode once. All jumpy camera moves and flash cuts. Cops find a homeless guy torched in
an alley. CSI turns up, Sinise and some other guys, and within seconds they’ve got this handheld machine sniffing all over the place. It proves not only that accelerants were used, which my nose would have told me anyway, but the exact chemical makeup of the petrol and a trail leading to the mouth of the alley.”
He put the coffee down and tapped the dashboard for emphasis. “Sinise finds a cigarette butt on the ground and says it’s probably what started the fire. Pardon me, but a cigarette butt in an alley? Last alley I went in was full of fuckin’ cigarette butts. Anyway. They lift prints off the butt, run it through the computers back in this high-tech control room, and immediately come up with the guy’s name, address, and driver’s license photo. Next thing they’ve got him in custody, sweating him about smoking in the alley.”
Grant snorted a disbelieving laugh. “This was within three minutes before the opening credits. I mean, fuck me. Forensic lab would be backed up three months before they even looked at the cig butt, and even then all it would prove was that the guy smoked in the alley. No way you could prove it was the butt that started the fire.”
Tanburro picked his coffee up and took a drink. “How’d it work out in the end?”
“Never got past ten minutes. The alley looked real though.”
“Glad you didn’t tell Gary about that.”
“It’s not his fault. He’s not the technical adviser.”
Tanburro threw up his hands and almost spilled coffee all over the seat. “Hey, I just make sure the cops act real and don’t shoot themselves in the foot. The rest of that stuff, it’s movie magic.”
“Things aren’t always what they seem. Yeah, I remember.”
Tanburro smiled. “So? This girl—she gone missing or something?”
“Not missing. Father wants her out of the business.”
“Understandable.”
“Does it work the same as prostitution? You know—are girls forced into this stuff? Intimidated into it? Drug habits? Pimps? Anything like that?”
“Some of the back-street outfits might work that way. This is Hollywood. Any studio making movies here is going to be legitimate. There’s no shortage of girls that have come here looking for the dream of stardom, only to end up waiting tables or working the streets or making porn movies. Puts food on the table.”
Montecito Heights Page 8
