Fade to Blue

by Bill Moody

  “That’s probably our guest.” He gets up and goes to the door. He returns in a minute with Grant Robbins in tow.

  “Hello, Evan. Hope I’m not interrupting the flow. Just thought I’d stop by and see how things are going.” He looks at the monitor and the array of equipment. “Quite a setup you have here, Skip.”

  “Yeah, we do it all here. Want to see a few of the scenes? Evan’s written some killer stuff.”

  Robbins looks at me and smiles. “I’m sure he has. That’s why we hired him. Can we go outside for a minute, Evan? There’s a couple of contract details I need to go over with you.”

  “Sure, I could use a smoke.” I follow Robbins outside, leaving Skip a little confused.

  Outside, Robbins gets right to it. “I mentioned to Melanie you had asked her about Mario’s. I really don’t think she knew what I was talking about.”

  I light a cigarette, trying to gather my thoughts. Robbins unbuttons his suit coat and fixes his gaze on me. “Maybe she forgot,” is the best I can come up with.

  “Evan, let’s not play games. You and Cooper went there to check on me. Tony Torino already called me and said Cooper took the credit card slip with the time and date stamp. I told you I had pull with the manager.”

  “Look, Grant. I was with Coop, but as far as I know, it was just routine. Coop is helping out the investigating detective.”

  “Why? Be straight with me. Am I a suspect?”

  “I don’t know. Suspect is a little strong. Person of interest is more like it. You’d have to ask the police. If you were, they would already have questioned you.”

  “Detective Farrell did and I told him I was having dinner with Ryan and Melanie. Wasn’t that enough?”

  I shrug. “It must have been. He hasn’t contacted you again, has he?”

  “No, but I just want to know where I stand. I think I’m entitled to that.”

  “I’m not the one to tell you that. Detective Farrell hasn’t shared his thoughts with me.”

  Robbins looks away, clearly annoyed. “We’re almost finished with this film. I don’t need anything hanging over us now. We’re too close. I don’t know anything about Jerry Fuller.”

  It takes all my will power to not ask him about the camera strap right then. “Well then, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Okay, we’ll leave it at that for now,” he says. He glances at his watch. “I have to go. Tell Skip I think you’re both doing a great job.” He puts on sunglasses that probably cost more than the clothes I’m wearing. He turns then, walks to his car, gets in, and drives away.

  Before I can go back inside, my phone rings. It’s Coop.

  “Hey, I’ve got some big news.”

  “So do I. Grant Robbins was just here, asking me if he was a suspect.”

  “Shit. What did he say?”

  “I’ll tell you later. We need to talk.”

  “Yes, we do. I have to be in court in Santa Monica at two but I can meet you some place at, say, four.”

  “Okay, I can get away by then. Working on the music here. Let’s make it my hotel then. Andie’s gone back to San Francisco.”

  Back inside, Skip is confused when I tell him Robbins has gone. “He said something came up and to tell you he trusts your judgment.”

  “Nice if he could tell me himself.” Skip sits down and pops open a beer.

  “How well do you know Robbins?”

  Skip shrugs. “Not well. Limited contact on a couple of movies. Why?”

  “Just curious.” Skip looks like he’s going to say more.

  “Maybe just rumor, but the word on the street is he’s having money troubles. Bad investments, taxes, that kind of thing.”

  I nod, making a mental note to have Andie or Coop to look into the producer’s financial background if they can.

  We work a couple of more hours, and despite all the distractions of the past few days, we have things under control. More importantly, I like what I’ve written. I have to admit, seeing, hearing how the music fits with the film is a very satisfying feeling.

  “I’ll get this to Sandy Simmons,” Skip says. “As director he has final say, but I think he’s going to like every note.”

  ***

  Coop is still in a coat and tie from his court appearance. He takes them both off and heads for the mini-bar, grabs a beer, and settles in one of the easy chairs. He pulls out a small, spiral bound notebook, and flips through the pages.

  “You’re going to love this,” he begins. “Charlie Farrell let me see the ME’s report on Fuller. Guess what cause of death was.”

  “We already know, don’t we? He was strangled with a camera strap.”

  Coop studies me for a moment. “You were only in the trailer briefly. Besides Fuller’s body, do you remember what was in the bedroom?”

  I think for a minute, trying to picture the cramped bedroom. “The bed of course, small dresser, a chair, and a filing cabinet.”

  “Exactly. A tall, four-drawer, metal file cabinet.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “The crime techies found blood on a corner of the file cabinet. Pretty sharp corner, but that’s not all. They determined the cause of death was the head wound.”

  “What? I don’t understand. That means—”

  “What the ME calls postmortem. When that camera strap was wrapped around Jerry Fuller’s neck, he was already dead.”

  I stare at Coop for a moment, and sit down on the bed, trying to take this in. “Are they sure?”

  “Oh yeah, there’s no question. Charlie Farrell thinks there was a struggle, Fuller was pushed, fell back against the file cabinet, hit his head, and that was it. Most likely an accident. Certainly not premeditation. Then, the body was moved to the bed and made to look like he was strangled.”

  “But why? That makes no sense.”

  “That, my friend, is the big question. Maybe to complicate the crime scene. If you plan to kill somebody, you don’t push them into something with a sharp corner and hope for the best. No, I think it was accidental, too, a argument, a struggle that got out of hand. The killer panics when he realizes Fuller is dead, but it was an accident. Depending on who it was, natural instinct would be to call 911, wait for the police to arrive, and accept the consequences. Lots of questions, like what was he doing there. There’d be an investigation, a trial, the whole process, which could mean going to jail.”

  Coop gets up and paces around. “Or, if it were a different kind of person, one who wants to avoid publicity and has a multi-million dollar project going, get out of there as fast as he can.”

  “Or he could have said, he came to see Fuller and found him dead.”

  Coop shakes his head. “But he didn’t. Even if he had, there would still be a lot of questions to answer, and a headline like ‘Hollywood producer found at death scene.’ The press would start digging into Fuller’s background and eventually make the connection to Stiles.”

  “Okay, so why didn’t he just run?”

  Coop presses on as if he hasn’t heard me. “Instead, he moves the body to the bed, looks around, grabs the first thing he sees—a camera strap—tries to make it look planned, something nobody would think this person, whoever he is, would be capable of.”

  “Making him the least likely suspect.”

  “Exactly.”

  I pace around the room trying to digest Coop’s theory, the ME’s report. “I don’t know, Coop, that’s a big stretch isn’t it?”

  “For now, a big stretch is all there is.”

  “So where does that leave Robbins?” He might have killed Fuller accidentally, but there was still the mention of the camera strap. “By the way he knows we were at Mario’s. Torino told him. Robbins came out to see me today, to let me know that he knows you got the time stamp on the credit card slip from their dinner.”

  “Doesn’t really matter,” Coop says.

  “Why not?”

  “When Robbins left
Mario’s, he had some kind of alleged car trouble, and of course he didn’t want to get his hands dirty or muss his expensive suit, so he called Torino, who called a garage. It’s all documented by the tow truck driver.”

  “Farrell verified all this?” Coop looks up at me and raises his eyebrows. “Okay, of course he did. It’s just that—”

  “It’s too well-covered?”

  “Yes.” I sit down again. “I can see Robbins confronting Fuller, pushing him, cracking his head on the file cabinet. But moving the body, trying to make it look like Fuller had been murdered? I don’t buy it.”

  “Neither does Charlie Farrell. Neither do I, but we both like Robbins for this. But there’s no physical evidence at the scene to link Robbins. I’ve told Farrell as much as I know about Robbins, but you know him better than either of us. You’ve been working with him, spending time, since that first night at the Jazz Bakery when he offered you this job.”

  I nod, thinking I know where Coop is going. “You’re looking for a way to pressure him, get him to break down and confess.”

  “Yes. Any ideas you can think of.”

  “Robbins is big on control, that’s his thing. The press, the media, Ryan, all aspects of the movie.”

  “Don’t forget yourself.”

  “I haven’t.” Like it or not, Robbins had manipulated and, to an extent, controlled me.

  “I know this is a big thing to ask, but Farrell and I agree this could do it.”

  “What?”

  “Push his buttons, get him shaken, off guard. Stiles caved and told you everything. We think Robbins might too under certain circumstances.” Coop takes a deep breath. “We want you to threaten to quit, pull out. Tell Grant Robbins you’re not comfortable continuing, it’s just gotten too complicated for you.”

  Coop sits down again. “Tell him you’re not going to finish doing the music.”

  For a long time after Coop leaves, I sit out on the balcony, smoking, sipping a beer, gazing at the lights of Santa Monica Pier, and running everything through my mind until I’m dizzy. So much has happened since that night months ago at the Jazz Bakery when Grant Robbins offered me a job.

  And now, given all the information Coop and Charlie Farrell have gathered, everything seems to point to Grant Robbins. As Coop said, it’s a very strong circumstantial case but not enough to get an arrest. The District Attorney would want more, and more meant one thing: Robbins’ confession. It suddenly strikes me as ironic. Even if Robbins had killed Fuller accidentally, as it most certainly seemed, he had done almost the same thing Ryan had done about Darryl McElroy’s death.

  Instead of calling 911, Ryan had panicked, got Jerry Fuller to cover for him, and left the scene as soon as he could. Robbins had done the same. But he didn’t have a Jerry Fuller to call to cover for him. Or did he? I try to visualize the scene. He confronts Fuller, they get into a shoving match, and suddenly the photographer is on the floor dead. Horrified, who does Robbins know who could and would come out to Fuller’s trailer and make it look like a murder? Suddenly, I think I know—and how Robbins knew about the camera strap as well.

  I go back in the room and dial Coop’s number. “All right, I’ll do it.”

  “As long as you’re sure,” Coop says.

  “I am. I just figured out something else, too.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you after I talk to Robbins.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I wake up early, no less sure of my decision. I get things underway by calling Skip Porter. “Hey, Skip, it’s Evan. I’m not going to be able to make it today. Something has come up.”

  “Whoa, man, we still have a lot to do. I have to edit the last bit of music and Simmons called. He’s going to wrap this week. He wants to see everything you’ve done.”

  “I know, but this can’t wait. Put it all on me, Skip, especially if Robbins calls. I’ll be in touch.” I hang up before he can argue about it anymore.

  I drop one of the coffee pouches into the room machine and check my watch. Robbins calls before I can pour the first cup. “Evan? It’s Grant. Skip Porter just called and said you weren’t working today. What’s wrong?”

  I take a deep breath. “It’s just getting too much, Grant. There are too many distractions.”

  “What are you talking about? What distractions?”

  “Ryan, Darryl McElroy, and Jerry Fuller to start with.”

  There’s a long pause before Robbins continues. “I think we need to get together and talk, Evan.”

  “Yes, I think so, too. Let’s meet somewhere this morning.”

  “I can do that. Where?”

  “Venice Beach. There’s a café along the boardwalk. Cleo’s.”

  “I’ll find it. When?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  Before I leave, I call Coop and tell him where I’m meeting Robbins.

  “I’ll be nearby. And remember, you’re not a cop. You don’t have to read him his rights. Just get him talking. Watch yourself.”

  I get to Cleo’s a half hour early, take one of the outside tables, and order some breakfast. It’s a bit cool this morning, but hazy sunshine is starting to break through the clouds, and the smell of the ocean is very strong.

  A minute after ten, I spot Robbins coming up the boardwalk, dodging tourists and locals already out in droves. It’s only the second time I’ve seen Robbins not in a suit and tie. He’s wearing gray slacks and a dark sweater, looking annoyed at being bumped by people in all manner of dress. When he sees me, he looks around and takes a seat opposite me.

  “Some breakfast? The food is good here. I used to live nearby.”

  Robbins shakes his head and signals the waiter for coffee. He waits for it to arrive then looks at me. “All right, what’s this all about, Evan?”

  I’d rehearsed what I was going to say. Once I get started it comes easily. “I’m dropping out, Grant. I’m not going to finish the music.”

  Robbins, about to take his first taste of coffee, stops the cup in midair. “You’re what?” He sits the cup down hard in the saucer and some coffee splashes out. “Do I have to remind you you’re under contract? You’ve been paid, and very well, I might add, for someone who has never scored a movie. You can’t just walk away.”

  “Not enough to cover babysitting a spoiled brat movie star and being questioned by the police on two different occasions concerning two deaths.”

  “Is that what this is about? You want more money?” Robbins shakes his head and smiles, thinking he’s on safe ground. For Robbins, money can solve anything. “I know it hasn’t been easy. Nobody could have anticipated what happened with Ryan and the McElroy thing, but that’s all in the past. It was all cleared up.”

  I look right at Robbins. “The McElroy thing, as you put it, was an accident. Jerry Fuller’s death has not been cleared up, and that wasn’t an accident. That was a homicide, and I decided I don’t like working for somebody who may be the prime suspect.”

  “What are you talking about?” Robbins shifts in his chair and colors slightly. I see the first crack in his armor. “I’ve already been questioned by the police, and I have a solid alibi for the night of Fuller’s death.”

  “Yes, I know. Dinner with Ryan and Melanie at Mario’s, but I know some other things, too. I know you had a little car trouble when you left Mario’s after that phone call, and I know it’s only seventeen minutes’ drive to Fuller’s trailer.”

  Robbins face goes white. “Car trouble, phone call? How did you—”

  “The police know all about it. Anyway, that’s your business, not mine. I don’t want to be involved in a homicide investigation. I’ve been there, done that. Get somebody else to finish the music. As of right now, I’m out.” I light a cigarette and watch Robbins squirm.

  Robbins stares at me for a moment, then slams his fist down on the table. “You can’t do that. There’s no time to get somebody else. The movie is almost done. Simmons is ready to do a f
inal cut. He loves the music you’ve done. If you go, he might bail out, too. That would mean bringing in another director and…”

  “Is this where you tell me I’ll never work in this town again? I don’t care about the contract or the money. Sue me, I don’t need a contract to play piano.” I watch him suddenly contemplating the numerous problems my quitting would bring. He changes tactics and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. “Evan, there’s a lot of money tied up in this project, a lot of money. Some of it my own. I could be ruined if this picture isn’t finished on schedule.”

  I gaze across the beach toward the ocean. I can hear the light sound of the surf even from here. “I know that, Grant, but I’m tired of being lied to.”

  He doesn’t look at me for a couple of minutes. Then, as if deciding something, he leans forward and meets my eyes. “How much do you know?”

  “More than enough to make me want to quit and go home.”

  “It wasn’t a homicide.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He looks around and lowers his voice. “I was there.” He shrugs. “I thought, well, I don’t know what I thought. Fuller’s e-mails and phone calls were getting to Ryan, starting to affect his performance. I thought I could fix things. Please try to understand the pressure I was under.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “No, I don’t think you can.” He looks around. Tables are filling up around us. “Can we get out of here?”

  “Sure. Let’s take a walk.” I signal the waiter for the check, and leave money on the table. We get up and start to walk along the asphalt path that cuts through the sand and runs all the way to Santa Monica Pier. There are more people now, some walking, some on roller skates, bicycles, even a skateboard or two.

  “I knew Fuller had tried to get more money out of Ryan. Ryan just told me to fix it. That’s what he always says. ‘Fix it, Grant,’ like I’m some kind lackey. He finally told me about the night on Malibu Canyon and getting Fuller to cover for him. That was the first I’d heard of it, believe me. He told you too, didn’t he?”

  “I’m sure you were astonished as I was.” As I listen and walk, I glance around behind me a couple of times to see if Coop is nearby. If he is, I don’t see him. Robbins stops, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. He turns to face me.