Fade to Blue

by Bill Moody

  “We have a tape we want to show you,” he says. “I think you’ll agree that Ryan is impressive.”

  I hand Robbins the videotape and he inserts it in the player. I watch the investors move forward on their seats as the tape starts. It’s so close I don’t see how anybody could not think Ryan is actually playing Phil Markowitz’s solo. I watch Robbins sigh with relief and see smiles and nods all around. They all look at Ryan with new-found respect. They’re about to talk money when my cell phone rings.

  “Excuse me,” I say. I get up and leave the room. It’s Coop. “Hey, you’re interrupting an important Hollywood meeting.”

  “Sorry, sport, but I’ve got some news.”

  I listen, my mind spinning. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” Coop says.

  “Okay, let me know if anything breaks.” I close the phone and go back to the den, motioning Robbins out. He glances at me, puzzled, excuses himself, and joins me in the hall.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That was Danny Cooper. He has a friend with the Malibu police.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The photographer is missing.”

  Chapter Nine

  Ryan and I leave Robbins with the money guys, get in the Mercedes, and head back to Malibu. He’s so excited he yells out the open window. “Man, we fucking did it! Did you see their eyes as they watched that video? That was such a blast. Robbins will have their tongues hanging out to invest now.”

  “Yeah, it went down pretty well,” I agree.

  “Pretty well? Dude, it was awesome, and it’s all because of you.”

  “That was you on the video, not me.”

  “But it was you who put me there.”

  Robbins had told me not to mention the photographer being missing as he slipped a check in my hand. I hadn’t even looked at it yet. I wonder if I should tell Ryan anyway. I hate to break the mood, but he should know. My mind goes back to the lunch altercation in Santa Monica when the photographer turned to his buddies and shouted, “See that, he pushed me,” like he was planning something. I keep flashing on Ryan jerking the camera off his neck at the Anchor as Coop held him, then Ryan, roaring off in the BMW and not turning up until morning at his dad’s house.

  There was something else about that, when I picked Ryan up, but I couldn’t pin it down. Something about the car. I shook my head and looked at Ryan as we eased down the incline to the coast highway. He was still smiling, savoring his performance on video and how the investors had totally bought it.

  When we stop for a traffic light at Topanga Canyon Boulevard, I say, “Hey, come down for a minute.”

  Ryan glances over at me, the smile fading slightly. “What?”

  “I got a call from Coop while you were in that meeting. Your photographer friend is missing.”

  Ryan frowns. “Missing? What do you mean?”

  “Robbins said he’d made a settlement offer to him, through his lawyer, but he couldn’t make contact. I guess somebody filed a missing persons report. That’s what Coop’s source said.”

  “Good,” Ryan says. “I hope they never find him. He’s scum, man, a parasite feeding off me and other celebrities.”

  I wonder how it must feel to refer to yourself as a celebrity and think nothing of it. “Okay, he got out of line, but you did break his camera, and it’s you celebrities that he makes his living from, whether you approve or not. He was out of line that day at lunch too, but he’s just doing his job, and from what I can see, it’s a very competitive business.”

  “Yeah? The other photographers didn’t pull that shit. It was just him.”

  Ryan had a point. They all wanted just the right photo, but this guy did seem obsessed. Over the line or overzealous? It wasn’t for me to say. “Well, I just thought you should know.”

  Ryan nods, keeps his eyes straight ahead on the road. “No problem, but don’t expect me to worry about that asshole being missing.”

  For the next half hour or so, we drive in silence, neither of us saying a word until we get to the Broad Beach turnoff at Trancas. When we turn in the driveway at Ryan’s house, the gates are open and two cars block the way. One I recognize as Coop’s; the other is a Malibu Sheriff’s cruiser.

  “What the fuck?” Ryan says. He skids to a stop, jumps out of the car, and jogs up to the house. I follow close behind him. Inside are Coop, Melanie, and the sheriff, who I recognize from the Anchor benefit. He’s a short, heavy-set man with short cropped graying hair and steel-framed glasses. They’re all seated at the dining table, drinking coffee and talking. They all look up as we come in.

  Melanie, her hair pulled back in a pony tail, wearing jeans and a sweat shirt, looks scared and upset as she jumps up and runs over to hug Ryan. The sheriff stands politely, looking slightly intimidated and uncomfortable to be standing in big movie star’s kitchen. Coop’s eyes lock with mine. He stands and pulls me aside quickly. “Be careful what you say,” he whispers.

  Ryan and Melanie break their embrace. “So, what’s going on?” Ryan asks.

  “I’m Sheriff Burns, Mr. Stiles. There’s been an accident,” he begins. “The photographer who assaulted you the other night has been missing for several days.”

  I try to catch Ryan’s eye but he already knows what to say. “Yeah, so?”

  “He was found earlier tonight. He apparently went off the embankment on Malibu Canyon Road. A passing motorist spotted his motorcycle and called us.” He looks at Ryan. “He’s been dead for a couple of days, we think. It’s an ongoing investigation,” he adds quickly. “We’ll know more later.”

  Melanie gasps and puts her hand to her mouth. “That’s too bad,” Ryan says after a moment. I can see he’s trying to muster up a sympathetic tone and expression but he doesn’t quite make it. I can’t tell if the sheriff notices or not. “I’m really sorry to hear about that.” He glances at us, trying to measure how he’s doing. “He and I obviously didn’t get along, but, damn, that’s really terrible.”

  “Yes,” the sheriff says. “We’d like you to come down to the office tomorrow and make a statement about the, ah, confrontation at the Anchor. It’s just routine. We’re trying to retrace his movements that night.”

  “Sure,” Ryan says. “Anything I can do to help. What time?”

  “Nine, if that’s convenient,” Sheriff Burns says. He turns to me. “We’d like you to come down too, Mr. Horne. I understand you witnessed the, ah, confrontation.”

  Coop gives me an almost imperceptible nod. “No problem,” I say.

  “Good,” Burns says. He smiles in relief and shakes hands all around. “Well, sorry to interrupt your evening. I’ll see myself out.”

  We all stand quietly for a few moments after the sheriff leaves. It’s Ryan who breaks the silence.

  “Jesus, it’s always something, isn’t it,” Ryan says. He looks at all of us. There’s a funny kind of smile on his face. The three of us gaze at him for a long moment. “What? Am I being insensitive?”

  “Maybe a tad,” Coop says.

  “Well I’m sorry, but this was a very good, very important night for me. I had nothing to do with that guy’s accident.” He looks at Coop and shrugs. “What should I do?”

  “Just be at the station in the morning, and you might muster up a little concern. Might make a better impression on the police.”

  Ryan smiles. “Yeah, I can do that. You’re right.” He turns to Melanie. “C’mon, baby. I got lots to tell you.”

  Coop and I watch them go then I walk Coop out to his car. “He can be a real charmer,” Coop says.

  There’s a slight chill in the air as I nod and light a cigarette. “What will they ask him?”

  “Like Burns said, routine stuff. He’ll ask him to give his version of the incident, whether he saw the photographer anytime since. That kind of thing.”

  “It was an accident wasn’t it?”

  “Far as they know now. Burns didn’t tell me much. They’ll know m
ore later when they check out the motorcycle, whether he was drinking, cause of death. You know the drill. But given that angry confrontation, if there’s anything funny, Ryan Stiles becomes a person of interest, as we say in police circles.”

  “And me?”

  Coop shrugs. “Just your version of the incident at the Anchor and when you next saw Stiles.”

  “He called here and I picked him up the next morning at his dad’s house in the Valley. He stayed there apparently.”

  Coop gets in his car and starts the engine. “Should be nothing to worry about. Just tell it straight. I’ll try to be there too.”

  I stand for a minute, watching the gates close and Coop drive off. Ryan was right. I go in the guesthouse, thinking about calling Andie, when I spot something on my bed. It’s a small gift-wrapped box with a card taped on top. The card reads, I didn’t think you were a Rolex kind of guy. Thanks for everything—RS.

  I unwrap the box and flip it open. Inside is a Swiss Army watch. Black casing and black leather strap with a large face. I reach in my pocket then and look at the check Robbins slipped me earlier. The amount is way more than we agreed.

  Coop is right. There is always something.

  ***

  The Sheriff’s Office is in a complex of white buildings that include the courthouse and various other offices comprising the Malibu Civic Center. Ryan cruises the parking lot, on the lookout for photographers, but it seems all clear. He parks the Mercedes in a far corner of the lot.

  We go inside, through the electronic security device, and though I know everybody recognizes him, they just nod and smile politely. Plenty of stars have been arrested, booked, questioned, arraigned, and released here, so I guess it’s no big deal to see Ryan Stiles.

  We spot Grant Robbins farther in the lobby, his briefcase in hand, nervously pacing around. He almost breaks into a jog when he sees us. He pulls us aside for a quick conference. “Okay, nothing to worry about,” he says to Ryan. “Just a simple statement. I’ll be right there with you.”

  Ryan smiles. “Who says I’m worried?”

  Robbins gives him a look. “Always be worried when the police question you.”

  “Okay, okay,” Ryan says, putting up his hands. “I just want to get this over with.”

  Sheriff Burns comes down the hall then to greet us. “Mr. Stiles, Mr. Horne, thank you for coming in.” He turns to Robbins. “I’ve cleared it with the investigator for you to be present during Mr. Stiles’ statement.”

  “Thank you,” Robbins says. “We appreciate that.”

  “There are some new circumstances, however,” Burns says.

  “Oh,” Robbins says, raising his eyebrows a touch.

  “Yes, we’ll get to it inside. If you’ll just go down the hall to your right, the investigating officer is waiting.”

  Robbins and Ryan start to walk away and Ryan turns back over his shoulder and winks at me. “Mr. Horne, if you’ll follow me, we’ll get this over as soon as possible.”

  I follow Burns to a small room off the hallway. There’s a table, a couple of chairs and a clerk already there, I assume to record my statement. She’s a small, slim woman in dark hair and glasses. She sits next to Burns and takes out a pad and pencil.

  “All set, Peggy?” She nods and we all get seated. Burns starts with names, date, and purpose of the statement.

  “How long have you known Mr. Stiles?” he begins.

  “Just a few weeks. I’m tutoring him for an upcoming film.”

  “Really? Must be kind of exciting, staying with a big star like Mr. Stiles.”

  I smile at Burns. “It has its moments.” I’ve been in these situations enough to know he’s trying to make me relax, then perhaps catch me off guard with a surprise question or two.

  “Well, can you just tell us what happened at the Anchor Restaurant last Friday?”

  I give Burns a quick rundown of what I witnessed, trying not to leave anything out. He nods, makes some notes as I talk, but says nothing until I finish.

  “And you saw Mr. Stiles get in the car with Miss Thomas and Mr. Robbins?”

  “Yes. I didn’t see it, but apparently he stopped the car and got out before they left and took the BMW I’d driven there from the valet man.”

  “And Lieutenant Cooper drove you and Miss Lawrence back to Stiles’ house?

  “Yes.”

  Burns puts down his pen and looks at me. “When did you next see Mr. Stiles?”

  “Not until the following morning when I picked him up at his father’s home in the Valley. He called from there and asked me to come get him.”

  “So as far as you know, he spent the night at his parents’ home?”

  “Yes, that’s what his father said.”

  “And the BMW was there?”

  “Yes.” I was beginning to wonder where this was going now.

  “And you remained at Mr. Stiles’ house all night?”

  “Yes, with my girlfriend. She’s gone back to San Francisco now.”

  “Her name?”

  “Andrea Lawrence. FBI Special Agent Lawrence.”

  “Well, can’t beat that, can we?” Burns smiles a little, looks at his notes and nods to the clerk. She leaves and shuts the door behind her. “I think that about covers it,” Burns says. Peggy will get this typed up for you to sign. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  “Okay if I wait outside? I’d like to have a cigarette.”

  “Sure,” Burns says. “I’ll come get you when it’s ready.”

  I get up and start for the door. “I’m just curious. You mentioned there are some new circumstances.”

  “Yes, well, I can’t go into it, but I can tell you we don’t think this was an accident.”

  I mull that over outside, smoking near a concrete ashtray filled with sand, thinking about the implications of Burns’ words. If it wasn’t an accident then somebody forced the photographer off the road. With Ryan gone all night, following a major confrontation, he would definitely be a person of interest.

  I put my cigarette out in the sand and glance around the parking lot. It’s busier now, and to the left I see a small group of photographers looming nearby and a television news truck, a reporter primping, talking with a camera man, keeping an eye on the entrance. No Coop, so something must have come up. How do they find out so quickly?

  I go back in the glass doors and see Burns coming toward me, some papers in his hand. “All set, Mr. Horne.”

  I glance over the statement briefly, and sign and date it, and hand it back. “How long will Stiles be?”

  “I think they’re just about done.”

  “The press is already gathering outside. Is there a back exit? I can pull the car around and avoid the rush if it’s okay.” I point toward the front, where a now-sizable crowd is milling around.

  Burns nods as if he’s seen it many times before. “Ah, here we go,” he says.

  “No, wait. Stiles drove. I don’t have the key.” But I’m too late. We see Ryan and Robbins walking toward us, Ryan, in quick hurried strides looking very angry, Robbins, hand on his elbow, talking to him.

  “Bullshit,” we hear Ryan say. “I’m a fucking suspect.”

  “Ryan, calm down,” Robbins says. “Let’s get home and we’ll talk about it there.”

  Ryan pulls away then stops, sees reporters and photographers approaching the entrance. ”Perfect,” he says. “Just what I need.”

  “Ryan, give me the car key. There’s a back exit. They don’t know me. I’ll pull the car around.”

  “Fuck that, I’m going out the front door.” He hands me the Mercedes key.

  Robbins sighs and shakes his head. “Get the car.”

  I brush through the swarm of reporters and jog for the car. By the time I get back to the entrance, Ryan, in dark glasses, keeps saying, “No comment,” as Robbins guides him to the car.

  The television reporter sticks a microphone in front of him. She’s a petite blonde
in a dark skirt and blouse. “Can you give us anything, Ryan?”

  Ryan looks at her and smiles. “Not here.”

  I throw open the passenger door and Ryan climbs in and waves to one and all as cameras flash. “Go,” he says.

  I pull away, leaving Grant Robbins to deal with the reporters.

  It’s the lead story on the six o’clock news, delivered in typically sensationalist style by a typically styled anchor. “Good evening. I’m Tom Duran and this is news at six. Our top story, actor Ryan Stiles, the star of many blockbuster films was questioned earlier today by Malibu Police in the disappearance and death of paparazzi photographer Darryl McElroy,” the anchor says, his eyebrows raising, his head moving side to side. “Our own Kerri Thomas has the story.”

  They cut away to Thomas on the front steps of the Malibu Civic center. She’s the same petite blonde I’d seen primping that morning. “This is where it all happened,” Thomas says. “Malibu sheriffs confirm Ryan Stiles was called in to give a statement on McElroy’s disappearance and death when his motorcycle apparently went out of control and plunged into Malibu Canyon. Our sources say the investigation is ongoing.”

  Thomas puts on her pensive, concerned expression. “McElroy and Stiles have had several confrontations, the latest being at the Anchor restaurant, following a benefit appearance by Stiles last Friday night. Also questioned was jazz pianist”—she looks down at a note—“Evan Horne, who has apparently been working with Stiles on a new project, and was also appearing at the Anchor.”

  There’s some footage of Ryan coming out of the Civic Center with Robbins, ducking into the car amidst the swarm of reporters. Then it’s back to Thomas live. “Malibu sheriffs say the questioning was just routine, but as we know”—she pauses dramatically—“nothing is routine with Ryan Stiles. Kerri Thomas reporting live from Malibu. Back to you, Tom.”

  “Ryan Stiles and a jazz pianist? What do you make of that, Kerri?” anchor Tom wants to know in a split-screen shot.

  Thomas smiles. “Hard to say at this point, Tom, but I’m sure we’ll learn more very soon.”

  “All right. Thanks, Kerri. We’ll be following this story closely. In other news…”