Bombshell

by Stuart Woods

  If anything was going to happen, it would happen soon. The Oscars were winding down. Peter had picked up his second Oscar for Best Director, which meant the Best Actor and Actress categories were coming up. After that it was Best Picture. That was the moment of most danger. It would happen then, as all the producers and writers and director and actors would mob the stage to celebrate the acceptance of the award. It would happen in that confusion.

  If Desperation at Dawn won, they would all be on stage, easy targets. If another picture won, the mob on stage would attract attention away from those left in the audience. Teddy and his friends would be sitting ducks. That was the only possible instance in which the man he had marked as a potential danger might strike.

  He considered walking the aisle to make sure the man he’d spotted earlier was still in his seat.

  Before he could move, the music swelled and they were back from commercial.

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  Jeremy Jenkins looked smug. The telecast had gone great. All his rehearsed bits were over. The songs and dances, always problematic when done live, had gone smoothly. His monologue had scored, his ad-libs had gone over well, and he had nothing left to do but introduce the presenters of the final awards. He did so with a flourish, as if he were personally responsible for the star status of the celebrities he was introducing.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, to present the award for Best Actress, here is last year’s Best Actor winner, Richard Kessington.”

  The handsome young actor, sporting the practically obligatory beard, walked onto the stage and stepped up to the microphone. He didn’t bother with a joke. There was no reason to run the risk of bombing, and due to his star status he didn’t need to.

  “The nominees for Best Actress in a Motion Picture are: Viveca Rothschild, for Paris Fling . . .”

  On a monitor behind him the square inset of Viveca sitting in the audience appeared. She was smiling and nodding, but she seemed clearly distracted and her eyes were stealing glances to her left.

  * * *

  As soon as Richard began to read the names, Bruce rose from his seat and edged his way out of the row toward the side aisle. His exit had been seen momentarily in Viveca’s headshot when the camera cut to her, as had the surprise on her face when he got up.

  Bruce reached the far aisle. He plastered himself to the wall, worked his way toward the stage, and went out the side exit just as Richard read the name of the last nominee.

  “And Tessa Tweed, for Desperation at Dawn.”

  * * *

  Bruce’s heart was pounding. He had to hurry. The damn actor presenting the award wasn’t wasting any time with it. He’d rattled through the names of the nominees as if he had a plane to catch. He was probably already ripping open the envelope. Any second he’d say, “And the winner is . . .”

  Bruce pushed the fire door open and went down the stairs to the area under the stage. He couldn’t see a monitor, but the audio was on speakers everywhere so there wasn’t a chance that he would miss it. Any moment now the actor would say the winner’s name.

  He prayed it would be Viveca.

  * * *

  Rachael Quigly had a lump in her throat. What the hell was going on? She was still in the greenroom watching the Oscars with the performers and production people, and it had been a lot of fun. The show was nearly over, at which point she would be able to sneak upstairs in her ball gown and mingle with the movie stars as the theater emptied out.

  Suddenly it was as if she’d been kicked in the head by a mule. The presenter, Richard Kessington, had read the name of the nominee, Viveca Rothschild, and as the camera cut to her, the young man sitting next to her got up from his seat. It was just a second and he was gone. The camera, of course, stayed on Viveca.

  Even so.

  She recognized him. She was sure of it. The man sitting next to Viveca Rothschild was the electrical inspector she had shown around the theater.

  She told herself it couldn’t be. Some people looked like each other, and she was dealing with the movie business where people were made to look like each other. She expected role-playing, make-believe, pretend.

  She’d no sooner convinced herself she was mistaken than she saw him again, coming down the stairs.

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  And the winner is, Tessa Tweed!”

  The applause was deafening. Tessa Tweed clearly was a popular choice. She rose from her seat, a look of wonder on her face, as her friends patted her on the back and cheered her on.

  Teddy was pleased, but cautiously so. He couldn’t help glancing over at Viveca to see how she was taking it. It was hard to tell. Her face was averted, and she was looking in the direction where her boyfriend had gone.

  As Tessa started up the aisle, Teddy scanned the audience for trouble. His eyes kept coming back to Viveca. She looked around now at Tessa Tweed, and her look was not one of jealousy or envy or anger, it was of alarm and concern.

  She rose from her seat. “Tessa!” she cried, but the words were swept away in the thunderous applause.

  * * *

  Bruce pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. This was it. The worst had happened. Viveca had lost yet again, and her damn costar would be walking up on stage at any moment.

  He’d promised Viveca she would not see Tessa Tweed accept the award, and he would keep his word. He reached the bottom of the stairs.

  A gaggle of men and women were clustered around a monitor. He watched as Tessa Tweed received hugs and congratulations from the people around her, and began to walk toward the stage.

  Suddenly a young woman in an evening dress disengaged herself from the group. Her eyes were wide, a look of incredulity on her face. She seemed familiar, though in that moment he could hardly have cared. His attention was drawn to the monitor, and—

  He suddenly realized. It was that damn production assistant who’d shown him around the theater. It had never occurred to him that she’d be here, but here she was, and apparently she recognized him.

  He turned and walked away, hoping she wouldn’t follow. He could no longer see the monitor, but it didn’t matter, he could hear the audio. His cell phone still had a clear line to the detonator. Practically anywhere beneath the stage would do.

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  Teddy sprang from his seat. The moment he saw Viveca call out to Tessa, he had the picture. Viveca’s boyfriend—a troubled man with combat experience—was championing her, protecting her, defending her from all harm. He saw Tessa as a potential rival, and was doing his best to destroy her. He’d killed the gossip columnist to cover up his involvement in the attempt to tear Tessa down and make Viveca win. All else having failed, he’d planned one last desperate move. It involved making sure the microphone at stage right was in a specific location.

  Teddy sprinted down the aisle and skipped up the steps ahead of Tessa, as if he were some insane rock star about to claim Tessa’s Grammy for his own. He threw his arm about Richard Kessington, whispered, “Change of venue,” and, jabbing his thumb into a pressure point, marched the young man from the stage-right microphone stand to the microphone stand at stage left.

  Tessa, baffled by his behavior, nonetheless altered her course and met them at the microphone. Teddy stepped back and cautiously allowed Richard Kessington to present her with the award. She took it, stepped to the microphone, and said, understandably, “Oh, my God!”

  * * *

  Bruce heard Tessa’s voice on the monitor. He aimed his cell phone and pressed the button.

  * * *

  An explosion rocked the theater. The stage-right microphone stand became shrapnel, hurtling in all directions.

  Teddy threw himself in front of Tessa, shielding her body with his own. He could feel jagged bits of metal penetrating his skin. He crashed to the stage floor, pulling Tessa down with him, his arms shielding her face. He sensed the presenter, blown off his feet, falling upstage behind th
em. Teddy rolled on top of Tessa, protecting her from harm.

  * * *

  In the greenroom people were screaming and running, terrified by the debris falling from the hole in the stage above. Only Rachael stood her ground, transfixed and horrified at the sight of the young man she had known as an inspector, who had just activated a bomb. As she gawked at him, his eyes locked on hers.

  Rachael turned and ran. She mixed herself in with the actors in the greenroom, praying that there was safety in numbers, that he would not be able to thin her out of the herd. She didn’t look to see if he was following, she just ran as fast as she could, up the stairs and out the door to daylight.

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  A quick once-over told Teddy that while Tessa was rightly terrified, she was not hurt. He helped her to her feet and led her away from the cavernous burned-out hole in the stage.

  People were screaming and fleeing the theater. Naturally, it was those closest to the stage who reacted first, so a wave of movie stars were jamming the aisles and trying to get out.

  * * *

  Gino Patelli and Sylvester pushed their way through the crowd.

  “Did you do that?” Gino said.

  “Hell, no.”

  “Did he?”

  “He’s a shooter, not a bomber.”

  “Where is he?”

  * * *

  The shooter was gone. At the first sign of trouble he had slipped out of the building. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t the slightest thing to do with it, the shooter was a professional. He wasn’t about to be questioned by the police under any circumstances. As in any emergency, he was the first one out the door.

  The shooter had his equipment in the trunk of his car out front, in case he was able to make the ID and line up a shot as people were leaving. That wasn’t an option with half the police in L.A. descending on the theater. Sirens and flashing lights were coming from all directions as he drove off into the night.

  Of all the people in the theater, only Peter, Ben, and Hattie were rushing toward that tragedy. They surged up onto the stage, intercepting Teddy and Tessa.

  Ben’s face was a picture of anguish. “My God, are you all right?”

  Tessa showed her Best Actress Oscar was no fluke. For Ben’s sake, she mustered a smile. “Never better,” she said, then fell into his arms.

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  The police weren’t easy to deal with. They insisted on dragging all the principals down to the station for witness statements. By principals, they seemed to mean “famous movie people,” Viveca and Tessa and Billy Barnett chief among them. They’d have dragged Mark Weldon in, too, but they couldn’t find him. They found that highly suspicious.

  The police let Tessa go almost immediately. She was clearly the intended victim, not the perpetrator, and she had cuts and bruises that needed to be attended to. After a few questions, she was released to the paramedics standing by with an ambulance.

  Teddy had cuts and bruises, too, but no one seemed to care.

  Teddy gave his statement several times. The police kept coming back to what had motivated him to go up on stage and move Tessa’s Oscar acceptance speech from one microphone to the other. His answer did not thrill them, the fact that it was the simple truth notwithstanding. Viveca Rothschild’s young man had moved the microphone stand, and then left the theater just before the award. The cops couldn’t believe that was enough evidence from which to deduce foul play. The fact that no cop on the force would have made that deduction did not help. And Teddy, as movie producer Billy Barnett, could not point to a lifetime of experience in the CIA to explain why his judgment was better.

  One thing in his favor was that Bruce was gone; the cops couldn’t find him, and Viveca had no idea where he was. She admitted that he had become obsessive lately about her winning the Oscar, and promised her no one else would win. When he left the theater, she had panicked, not knowing what he might do.

  “That’s why I shouted a warning to Tessa. I thought he might do something.”

  “Like set a bomb?”

  “Good heavens, no. Like drop a sandbag on her head. Because he moved the mic. I come from a theater background, so that was my first thought. Line her up and drop a sandbag on her head.”

  “You thought that then?”

  “Not when he moved the mic. Later, when he got up and left the theater. I thought he was going backstage to untie a rope and drop a sandbag.”

  That statement sent the cops back to Teddy.

  “Did you suspect the boyfriend was going to drop a sandbag or set off a bomb?”

  “I didn’t suspect either one. I took precautions against any foul play.”

  “Why?”

  Teddy had had enough. “Because I find it more productive than taking precautions against fair play.”

  The officer scowled.

  There was a knock on the door, and a young detective stuck his head in. He had a rather frightened-looking young woman in tow.

  “Yes?” the officer barked.

  “Sorry, sir. There’s a young woman here I think you should see.”

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  Rachael Quigly was exhausted. It was nearly two in the morning when she finished making her statement. The police didn’t believe her story, or at least that was the impression she got in the beginning. By the time she was done, her story was harder to dispute. At least their attitude had changed. In the beginning they treated her like she was lying. By the end they treated her like she was an idiot.

  She felt like an idiot. She had let herself be duped, and nearly caused a woman’s death. All she wanted to do was get home, tear off her clothes, and cry herself to sleep. She paid off the cab, unlocked the downstairs door of her modest second-story walk-up apartment, and dragged herself up the stairs, wishing for once that she had an elevator. Her convertible couch hadn’t been pulled out into a bed. She didn’t bother doing that now. She hung her ball gown in the closet, flung herself down on the couch, and pulled her comforter up to her neck.

  She was too keyed up to sleep. She couldn’t stop her mind. She wondered how long it would be before she got up and pulled out the couch.

  * * *

  Bruce crouched in the shadows. He was calm. This was a guerrilla operation, and he was used to those. The young PA could connect him to the bomb. She stood between him and his chance to return home and resume his life with Viveca. With her out of the way, he’d be safe. His disordered mind hadn’t registered that he’d amassed so much suspicion from so many people that there was no way his life could remain the same.

  Bruce slipped out of the alley where he’d parked his car, crossed the street, and examined the front door. It was flimsy, at best. A thief would have no problem picking it. Bruce was no thief. He pushed hard with both hands and the door popped open.

  Rachael’s apartment was on the second floor. He’d seen the light go on when she got home. It was a piece of cake. Her apartment door would be locked, but there was a fire escape at the end of the hall, and it ran right by her window.

  Bruce started up the stairs.

  The next thing he knew he was on his face on the floor. Something cold and hard poked him behind his ear. He didn’t have to be told it was a gun.

  “Sorry, Bruce,” Teddy said. “It’s not your night.”

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  Teddy walked Bruce back to the alley from which he’d emerged. He took away his car keys and locked him in the trunk. He drove the car up into the hills overlooking the ocean, pulled off the road, and got out.

  Knowing Bruce was an ex-marine, Teddy was careful unlocking the trunk. He was prepared for Bruce to come out swinging, but the young man was subdued, compliant. If anything, he seemed baffled.

  He blinked at Teddy and said almost plaintively, “I don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a producer.”

  Teddy was dressed as Bi
lly Barnett. “So?”

  “How could you do this?”

  “What did you think producers did?” Teddy shook his head. “You’re unlucky, Bruce. You picked the wrong producer. You killed Manny Rosen, didn’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “The gossip columnist. So he wouldn’t tell anyone about the stories you planted smearing Tessa Tweed.”

  “I didn’t plant any stories.”

  So that had been Viveca. “I know you were protecting Viveca, making sure that if she didn’t win the award, no one else would have it. See, I know all that. So killing this witness wasn’t going to do you any good. Or Viveca, either.”

  Bruce looked forlorn and confused, as if there was no accounting for how he’d wound up in this place, under these circumstances. Teddy almost felt sorry for the man.

  With one swift motion Teddy brought the butt of the gun down on Bruce’s head.

  Teddy backed the car up and aimed it at the cliff. He wrestled Bruce into position behind the wheel. He revved the engine, slipped the car into gear, stepped back, and slammed the door.

  The car plowed straight through the guardrail and hurtled over and down. It hit the bottom and burst into flames.

  Teddy watched for a moment to make sure no flaming figure miraculously staggered out of the wreck. None did. He turned and walked down the mountain.

  About two miles away Teddy figured it was far enough. He stopped at a driveway, took out a burner phone he carried for just such purposes, and called an Uber.