She had an indoor pallor. Skin so pale it had a mother-of-pearl sheen, long fingers, delicate hands. Not the hearty, sun-weathered kind Thorn favored. But there was something about her thin lips and her half smile, and a genuine flicker in her eyes that was intriguing. And that mother of hers, signaling the way April would be some day—that brassy attitude, he liked that.
Two red plastic baskets of food arrived. Thorn offered it around. No takers. He arranged the baskets in front of him and tried not to wolf it. The two Red Stripes on an empty stomach and zero sleep had made him loopy.
“You ever get fan mail?” Buddha asked her. “For what you write.”
“Occasionally.”
“Anything weird?”
“You’d have to tell me, Sheriff, what exactly you mean by weird.”
“Well, give us some examples of your strange fan mail.”
“What’s this about? What area of law enforcement are you in?”
“I’m a sheriff from Oklahoma. I’m looking into the murder of one of the citizens of my town.”
Buddha drew out her wallet and showed April the badge and ID card.
“And that brings you to Miami?”
“You’re a professional journalist,” Buddha said. “You’re in the habit of asking questions, I understand. But Ms. Moss, right now I’d appreciate it if you answered a few.”
April looked at Thorn.
“What’re you doing here, Thorn? How are you involved in a murder investigation from Oklahoma?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
Thorn finished the chicken nuggets and moved on to the fried cheese.
“We were talking about any fan mail you’ve gotten recently, any red flags. The person tried to get too personal, invasive, that kind of thing.”
“My mail is usually about factual errors I’ve made in someone’s obituary, or they demand to know why I wrote about one person instead of another.”
“And the weird ones?”
“Just weepy, written when they were drunk or depressed. Incoherent.”
Buddha nodded.
“You watch Miami Ops?”
April said of course she did. Both her boys worked on the show.
“It must be strange to have your work life portrayed on TV. The obituary lady with an obsessed fan.”
“I’m pleased Sawyer found my profession worthy of writing about.”
“Your character is in the story, but we never actually see you.”
“That’s as it should be.”
“And they don’t show much of the obits beyond the headlines.”
“No way to do it,” April said. “TV is visual. People don’t enjoy reading a lot of words on the screen.”
April was pulling back, her face taut, her answers turning formal. As if she’d gotten a whiff of where this was headed and didn’t like it.
“Does he consult with you? Pick your brain about your job?”
“I don’t see the point of these questions.”
“Does Sawyer involve you in his writing process?”
“He asks me a question now and then. Just technical things. How I do my research, how I choose my subjects, things of that sort.”
“How do you choose your subjects?”
April sighed. Resigning herself to this imposition.
“Mostly there’s not much latitude who I write about. A prominent politician, a famous opera singer, a Hollywood big shot—I do those automatically. But for the local people, South Florida residents, something has to catch my eye, some detail in the person’s life that sets them apart. That makes them noteworthy.”
“And your research, how does that work?”
“Phone, Internet. Usually that’s sufficient.”
“You don’t go out and interview people, the relatives face-to-face?”
“I’ve done it a few times, but it’s rare. Most of what I need I can get sitting at my desk. I always talk to family members, and look through back files of the paper to see if anything’s been written on the person. I talk to four or five people who knew the subject. After four or five, the information almost always gets redundant. Most people aren’t that complicated.”
“Easy to sum up.”
“I don’t mean to be flip. That’s just how it is. One day to write an obit is normal, two days is a rare exception. Start at ten, get it done by six o’clock.”
“Does Sawyer share his process with you? Discuss his scripts? How he writes them, what’s going on in his mind?”
“Rarely.”
“Do the TV people work weekends?”
“You mean do they shoot on Saturday and Sunday?”
“Do they?”
“No, not usually. Union rules.”
Buddha glanced at Thorn. See, I told you.
“Do you know what motivates the killer Sawyer is writing about? Why he’s murdering these people? What’s driving him?”
April measured a breath and considered the question. She smoothed her palm across her forehead as if calming a headache.
“I’ve wondered that,” she said. “But I don’t know.”
“You think the killer’s just flat-out crazy?”
“I hope not.”
“Why?”
“Psychopaths in stories, it’s lazy writing. A wacko can do anything, it doesn’t have to make sense. Sawyer hasn’t told me what the killer’s trying to accomplish. But I’m hoping it’s not a crazy person. If the bad guy has no purpose, the story’s meaningless. I believe Sawyer’s a better writer than that.”
“We were having the same conversation a while ago,” Thorn said.
Buddha said, “If the killer’s not a psycho, what could his motive be?”
“What possible use are these questions to a homicide investigation?”
“To be honest, Ms. Moss, I’m not sure. I thought maybe I was missing something in the show. Some clue about the killer’s motivation that could shed light on our case.”
“This homicide you’re investigating from Oklahoma, you’re saying it bears some similarity to Miami Ops?”
Buddha frowned and looked at Thorn.
“That’s it, isn’t it? Some idiot is copying the show.”
Buddha looked off at a far wall with a frustrated grimace. Then she brought her gaze back to April and leaned forward, bearing in.
“I’m cautioning you, Ms. Moss, you can’t speak to anyone about this conversation. But I’m not going to lie to you. Yes, the homicide I’m looking into resembles the show your son writes, resembles it in some very specific ways.”
“But you’re interviewing me, not Sawyer. Why is that?”
“I really can’t discuss that with you.”
“What are you suggesting?” April stared into Buddha’s eyes.
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking questions, that’s all.”
“Something I wrote in one of my obituaries caused an actual murder? Is that why we’re having this chat?”
Buddha sighed.
“That’s one of several possibilities we’re considering. But at this point we don’t know anything for sure, Ms. Moss.”
Thorn bit a cheese stick in half and chewed it attentively. How good could fried cheese be? But in the range of fried cheese he’d had, this was definitely on the lower end. Dry, hard, low goo factor.
Buddha had done her best to keep April in the dark. But it hadn’t worked. Or maybe she had her own reasons for tipping April to the real situation. He’d have to ask her later.
More likely it was because she was new to the interrogation business and this was a slipup. She was revealing as much information as she was taking in. Cautioning April Moss not to discuss these matters was silly. Something April had written, and something her son had written and her other son had participated in, had possibly resulted in a murder. Not likely Buddha could convince her to keep quiet about something that serious.
“We were talking about the killer’s possible motivation. Has your son mentioned anything abo
ut that?”
April stared at her wineglass. She touched a fingertip to the rim.
“Okay,” she said. “I don’t know if this is relevant.”
“Try it.”
“Yesterday Sawyer was describing the episode that airs next week. The killer’s identity is exposed. It’s Madeline’s twin sister, Valerie.”
“Her identical twin?” Buddha said.
April nodded yes.
“Like Sawyer and Flynn.”
“You write about what you know, that’s the adage, I believe.”
“This twin just showed up? I don’t remember seeing a twin in the shows I watched.”
“She had a couple of quick walk-ons in some early episodes.”
“So Dee Dee is playing two parts. The killer and the cop chasing her.”
“Which should certainly challenge her skills.”
April took a quick taste of her wine.
“You don’t think much of her as an actress?”
“I’m no drama critic.” April’s tone softened, backing away from it.
“But you’re suggesting something about Ms. Dollimore’s ability.”
“Let’s just say, Dee Dee seems to have a limited range.”
“And is that how she comes across in real life? Superficial?”
April hesitated, looking toward the bar. Not one to badmouth another woman, but after a moment she shook her head. Too tempting to resist.
“I don’t think anyone would ever mistake Dee Dee for a deep thinker.”
“How’d she get the part if she’s so untalented?”
“Her father, Gus, might’ve had a say in the matter,” April said.
Before Thorn could respond, Buddha cut in.
“Do you know why the killer on the show cuts the edges of the obituaries like that? That saw blade look?”
“To make them stand out, I suppose. But you’d have to ask Sawyer.”
“Oh, I plan to.” Buddha picked up one of the fried cheese sticks, gave it a sniff, and dropped it back in the basket. It made a pleasant thump.
“On another issue,” Thorn said. “There used to be a bed and breakfast on the Miami River around here. It still in business? The Waterway Lodge.”
“It’s still operating, yes.”
“Thought we’d crash there tonight, get back to work tomorrow interviewing subjects. Give us time to dust off our thumbscrews and waterboards.”
April looked at Buddha, then Thorn. Strange cop, loony cop.
“Ms. Moss,” Buddha said. “Where can we find your son tomorrow? Sawyer, I mean. Do you know where they’re shooting?”
“They won’t be shooting anymore.”
Buddha asked why.
“They’ve been shut down.”
“The show is cancelled?”
“‘Temporary hiatus’ is the terminology. Studio doesn’t want to sink any more money until they see a ratings improvement.”
“So what we saw today, what was that?”
“Some cut-ins, a few seconds of film here and there, just to finish off an episode they already made.”
“If we wanted to speak with Sawyer?” Buddha said.
April considered it, then sighed and reached into a side pocket in her purse, took out a business card and a pen, and scribbled an address on the back of it. She pushed it across the table to Buddha.
“They’ll probably be on the soundstage. They’re leasing a vacant Winn-Dixie grocery store, north of downtown. The production offices are there. Sets, props, costumes. As of now no one’s getting paid, but I know Sawyer and some of the others still have things to finish up.”
“I don’t get it,” Thorn said.
“It’s the way television works. They’re always five shows ahead, five already shot and edited. At this point they could get to the end of the season with what they’ve completed. But the network is holding back those shows. If the ratings were to bump up, they’ll go ahead, put those last five episodes on.”
Buddha said, “The show never grabbed me. Didn’t really care for the characters. Madeline’s too spacey, Janus is so twisted he’s a turnoff. And come on, nobody could disguise themselves as well as he does.”
“At the nursing home, he fooled me,” Thorn said. “I was talking to him, and he seemed like just another old guy in a wheelchair. How’s he do that?”
April sighed, summoning patience.
“It’s called prosthetic makeup,” she said. “He’s been practicing it since he was young, like a magic act. He makes a mold of his face, uses latex or gelatin to make the bottom layer mask, then sculpts clay to form the face he wants, makes a second mask from the clay, then overlays that on the first mask. It’s very delicate work, but he’s better at it than most trained makeup artists.”
“Could we get back to the show?” Buddha shot Thorn an enough-already look. “What’s the deal? Are they working or not working?”
“It’s not that simple,” April said. “If Gus or the others want to do any more polishing, or inserts, or anything additional, they work for free. The union people won’t do that, but apparently a skeleton crew has volunteered to hang around and try to finish up. Nobody knows if the network will put the show on the air again, or if it’s over right now. I guess we’ll see next Thursday night.”
“Crazy business,” Thorn said.
“Brutal business,” said April.
She shifted in her seat, eyeing the door and her path of escape.
But Buddha wasn’t finished.
“Do you know if the killer gets caught this season?”
“I have no idea. Why would that matter?”
“It might be helpful to know.”
“I don’t see how.”
“My point, Ms. Moss. If I knew how these TV cops caught the killer, it might give me something to work with.”
“It’s TV. It’s fake. It’s all made up. You’re not going to learn anything about good police work from watching that show.”
“I know it’s fake,” she said. “But the killer doesn’t seem to.”
April touched a fingertip to the base of her wineglass and gave Buddha a searching look. Eyes wandering over the sheriff’s face as if noticing for the first time the strange markings.
“Tattoos,” Buddha said. “My father put them on when I was a toddler.”
“My god.”
“In case you were thinking that since I had all these tats on my face, I wasn’t a professional. Someone who couldn’t tell fake from real.”
Thorn watched April register that. Two tough women sorting it out.
April studied Buddha for several seconds, and said, “Do you have anything else I can help you with?”
No longer patronizing this young woman from Oklahoma with the ridiculous haircut and the damaged face.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve got a few more questions. Can I get you another glass of wine?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Well, okay, we’re interested in any obituaries that might have appeared under your byline this past Monday. Were there any?”
“Why?”
“Just a long shot. Maybe our subject is on a schedule. Reads an obituary on Monday, acts on it a few days later.”
April took a long breath.
“So did you have one Monday?”
April nodded.
“Who died?”
“Major league baseball player. Joe Camarillo. He played for the Boston Red Sox, hit the winning home run in the last game of the World Series a few years ago. He went to Gables High, so there’s a local connection.”
“Died young?”
“Heart attack. He was forty-seven.”
“I don’t suppose you have a copy of the obit.”
“I don’t carry them around with me, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But you keep files at work, right? Everything you’ve written.”
“At home I have a complete file. I work from there most of the time.”
Buddha leaned down and drew
the electronic tablet from her purse, and went through the glass-tapping exercise.
“Now what?” April said.
“I think she’s going online, looking up the obit of the baseball player. She’s very computer savvy.”
Thorn watched Buddha move through different screens, until she arrived at her destination and began to read.
April finished the last sip of her wine and waved at her waitress friend, and drew a squiggle in the air.
Buddha looked up from her electronic gizmo and took a breath.
“What is it?” Thorn said.
Buddha shook her head. Couldn’t bring herself to say it.
“What?”
“A bat.”
“With wings and sharp teeth?”
“A baseball bat,” Buddha said.
“Jesus.”
“But the paragraphs three and six, that’s just articles and conjunctions. I don’t know what we do with that.”
“A goddamn baseball bat.”
“Thorn,” April said. “What are you all talking about?”
Before he could respond, April’s phone rang. She dug it out of her purse, checked the caller ID.
“I have to take this. It’s work.”
Thorn pushed the red baskets back to the center of the table. He’d finished every scrap and there was a five-pound lump in his gut. His lips were sticky and were beginning to pucker from all the sodium. But he wasn’t hungry anymore. He might never be hungry again.
April said hello, listened for a few seconds, then turned her eyes to the table. After a moment more, she scooted her chair back a half foot and turned her back on them.
“So we’re staying in Miami tonight?”
“This time of day it’s two hours of hell getting back to Key Largo.”
“You need to use my phone?” Buddha asked Thorn.
“Why would I?”
“Call someone, tell them you’re not coming home tonight.”
“Nobody to call.”
Buddha nodded.
“Me either.”
April came to her feet, standing stiff, the phone pressed to her ear.
“I’ll be right there,” she said. “Ten minutes.”
She snapped the phone shut, and Buddha stood up.
“What happened?” Buddha stepped closer.
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