by Lee Goldberg
It was a far different view than he'd had ten short years ago, when his office was in downtown Los Angeles, the epicenter of urban decay, a short walk away from the Criminal Courts Building. His client list then was a who's who of nobodies. He represented rapists, burglars, hookers, drug dealers, car thieves, and gang members. There was always plenty of work, even if it didn't pay all that well.
But then a couple of hookers Tyrell represented got arrested in a Van Nuys motel room, where they happened to be sharing a bed with Nick Drago, one of the teenage stars of the suburban teen angst drama Model Homes.
It was seeing that kid, sitting miserably in a holding cell, that Tyrell had a revelation: Celebrities are afflicted with the same vices, lusts, and stupidity as everybody else. They just have a lot more money to spend on keeping themselves out of jail.
Tyrell offered to represent Drago and, to everybody's shock, convinced the kid to plead guilty. His defense? The kid was researching a role in a movie that would explore the dark, disturbing underbelly of suburbia in America today. All Drago was doing was getting into character. That's how utterly devoted the talented young thespian was to his craft.
There wasn't a movie, of course. There wasn't even a script. But there were two dozen of them waiting for Drago when he walked out of the courtroom, sentenced to probation and a couple hundred hours of community service.
The movie that finally got shot made $70 million at the box office, with critics praising the "startling verisimilitude" that Drago brought to his "searing, unforgettable performance" by virtue of his "daring research" and into the "dark, unplumbed depths of teen despair and sexual depravity."
The arrest, rather than ruining Drago's career, sent it soaring to new heights, and Tyrell's along with it. Within months, Tyrell moved from downtown to Beverly Hills, where he became the lawyer of choice for any celebrity caught with their pants down, a coke spoon up their nose, or a bloody knife in their hand.
Tyrell was doing the same thing he'd always done, only now he was doing it for a higher class of criminal scum. It wasn't just the improved compensation that made his new practice so much better. It was also a simple quality-of-life issue. A junkie actor who dressed in Prada and lived in gated splendor in Bel Air was a lot more pleasant to be around than the average junkie who wore soiled pants and lived under a freeway overpass.
Arthur Tyrell had never met Lacey McClure. But after watching the news, he knew he soon would.
In anticipation of the inevitable, Tyrell summoned one of his assistants to his office and gave the surgically enhanced young woman a list of very important tasks.
He wanted complete personal, professional, and financial histories on Steve Sloan, Cleve Kershaw, Amy Butler, and Lacey McClure.
He wanted detailed background on every homicide case Steve Sloan had investigated during his time with the LAPD and a copy of his confidential personnel file.
And finally, and most importantly, Tyrell wanted the names of the top home-theater designers in the city, reviews of the best projection equipment, and a catalog of leather screening-room furniture. Lacey McClure was going to pay for the private home screening room of Arthur Tyrell's dreams.
She just didn't know it yet.
CHAPTER SIX
When Mark awoke at six, he put on his bathrobe and padded barefoot into the kitchen, where he found Steve dressed and already at the table, the morning paper open in front of him.
"How did you sleep?" Mark asked.
"I didn't," Steve said. "I had this on my mind."
Steve closed the paper and held it up for Mark to see. The front page was dominated by a huge story on the murders, illustrated with file photos of Lacey McClure, Cleve Kershaw, and Amy Butler. There was also a picture, taken from a distance, of the morgue truck parked amidst the police vehicles in front of the beach house where the killing occurred.
"Did they at least get the facts right?" Mark asked.
"Yeah, probably because there aren't that many yet," Steve said. "Mostly the story is full of movie-industry people talking about how shocked they are by the murders, and the impact they might have on Lacey McClure personally and professionally."
"Anything in it we don't already know?"
"Just this." Steve opened the paper and began to read from somewhere toward the end of the article. "McClure hasn't made a statement yet, though a spokesman from Pinnacle Pictures, the studio making her new movie, said that production would continue 'at her request,' and that she would be reporting to the set this evening."
Mark went to the coffee maker while he listened, poured himself a cup of coffee, and carried his steaming mug back to the table, glancing out at the beach on his way. What he saw made him stop.
There was an armada of boats just beyond the shore, all filled with photographers, aiming their long lenses at Lacey McClure and Cleve Kershaw's beach house, the sand around it cordoned off with yellow police tape.
"'It was also reported,'" Steve continued to read, "'that her most recent film, Thrill Kill, will be released this weekend as previously scheduled, again at the actress' request. Her representatives quoted her as saying, 'Cleve would have wanted it that way.' Yeah right, I'm sure his last thoughts were, 'Damn, I hope this doesn't delay the release of my movie.'"
"This being Hollywood," Mark said, "you never know."
When Mark looked back out at the water again, he saw that several of the cameras were now aimed at him. He abruptly stepped back and closed the drapes.
"There's a nice picture of Elsie Feikema here, and an entire sidebar on Amy Butler's short life," Steve said. "They don't mention anything about how lucky she was."
"Do they happen to mention my name anywhere?" Mark asked.
Steve cocked an eyebrow, surprised. "Since when are you interested in attention from the press?"
"I'm not," Mark said, motioning to the closed drapes. "They seem interested in me."
"All it says here is that the bodies were discovered by a neighbor," Steve said, "but I imagine by now they've pulled the property records to find out who lives in each of the houses on this stretch of sand. I'm sure that as soon as your name came up they assumed you were probably involved, especially since your son is the lead detective on the case."
Mark sat down across from his son. "Have you heard anything from the department brass yet?"
"I talked briefly to the captain," Steve said. "He offered me all the resources I needed, ordered me to keep him informed of any developments, and instructed me not to make any statements to the press."
"There are two ways of looking at this," Mark said. "Either they have enormous confidence in your investigative skills or—"
"Or they're saving themselves," Steve interrupted, finishing the thought, "and sacrificing me to the wolves."
"I'm afraid I don't know the first thing about department politics," Mark said. "What can you do to fight back?"
"I can solve the murder," Steve said, rising from his seat. "I don't blame the captain or anybody else for the situation I'm in. There were no political machinations involved, except on my part. I took this case from the detective on duty as soon as I heard it was you who called in the shooting."
Mark grimaced. "I'm sorry, Steve."
"It's not your fault," Steve said. "I blame whoever did the killing."
Unless there was a rush-hour car accident, or some other unforeseen disaster, mornings in the Community General emergency room were generally slow—time the medical and nursing staff used to catch up on paperwork, order supplies, and read the latest medical journals. But for Dr. Jesse Travis and his girlfriend, nurse Susan Hilliard, it was a chance to learn the details of whatever homicide Mark Sloan was currently investigating.
Jesse was always eager to get involved in any of Mark's cases, to learn whatever he could from a man he considered not only a great doctor, but an amazing detective. He didn't aspire to become a detective himself, but he enjoyed the search for clues, the thrill of the hunt, and the excitement of discovery. But most
of all, Jesse liked how close it drew him to Steve, Amanda, and especially Mark, who he openly and unabashedly considered a father figure. Remaining close to them was a big reason why he'd partnered with Steve to buy BBQ Bob's restaurant a few years ago. BBQ Bob's had become his second home. Between the hospital and the restaurant, Jesse was rarely at home or at Susan's place.
Susan shared Jesse's respect for Mark, but didn't really have an interest in homicide investigation. Her interest was in Jesse and making sure he didn't risk too much personally or professionally in his desire to be a member of the team and to please Mark Sloan. She didn't need a father figure, nor was she desperate to be a part of the crime-solving group. She knew that because of this, no matter how close she and Jesse remained, she would always be an outsider, and she was fine with that. Although she rarely helped Mark with his homicide inquiries—and even then only when he specifically asked—she gladly helped out at BBQ Bob's because it guaranteed she got to spend time with Jesse.
So now Susan was in the pathology lab with Jesse, standing across from Mark Sloan over the cold, pale, bullet- riddled bodies of Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler, who were laid out side by side on adjoining autopsy tables.
Susan was very uncomfortable, but not because she was around death. She was used to that. It was because she and Jesse were together, looking down at the naked corpses of two lovers. She couldn't help but feel a connection and it unnerved her.
While Amanda remained at her desk, working on the last details of her autopsy reports, Mark briefed Jesse and Susan on everything that had happened since he heard the gun shots the previous afternoon.
Jesse had worked with Mark long enough to know this briefing wasn't just for their benefit. Repeating the facts gave Mark another chance to sort out all the information, visualize the crime scene, and reconsider everything he'd been told by suspects and witnesses. When Mark finished his account, Susan was, uncharacteristically, the first to speak up, much to everyone's surprise.
"Lacey McClure did it," she declared emphatically.
"You're just saying that because she's hot," Jesse said. "You treat me like I'm cheating on you every time I go to one of her movies, even if you go with me."
"Because you sit there with this dopey look on your face, panting at the screen," Susan said with a grin. "But that's not why I think she's the killer. It just seems so obvious."
"And that's exactly what bugs Mark," Jesse said, turning to Mark for agreement. "Right?"
"No, I think Lacey McClure did it," Mark said.
"You do?" Jesse said. He wasn't used to Mark accepting the simple explanation for anything, especially when it came o murder.
"The evidence against Lacey McClure is solid and quite convincing," Mark said. "She had motive, opportunity, and gunshot residue on her hands. And she'd have a key, which explains why there were no signs of a break-in at the beach house."
"Then what is bothering you?" Jesse asked.
"A few little things," Mark said, "I can't figure out why Cleve and Amy didn't hear her come in, or why they didn't even get out of bed when she walked into the room."
"Yeah," Jesse said, "It's almost a reflex to jump out of bed when you're caught doing the nasty."
"How would you know?" Susan asked teasingly. "Personal experience?"
"Of course not," Jesse offered quickly, "I've seen it a lot on TV."
"There's something else I don't get," Mark said. "Amy Butler studied Tae Kwon Do for years. So why didn't she attempt to defend herself? There were no signs of a struggle."
"I can answer that," Amanda said, rising from her desk to join them, the autopsy reports in her hand. "Amy was drugged. I found rohypnol in her system. I doubt she was even conscious when the killer came in."
"You mean this movie producer guy slipped her a date-rape drug?" Susan asked. "What a sleazebag."
"Actually, I found rohypnol in his system, too," Amanda said, handing Mark the autopsy reports. "I doubt they took it knowingly. It's hardly considered a recreational drug, unless your idea of a good time is a deep nap."
"At my age," Mark said, "it can be."
"I called the crime lab and asked them to test the champagne bottle I saw in Kershaw's living room," Amanda said. "I haven't seen the official report yet, but a buddy of mine in the lab gave me a preview. It appears that someone injected the drug through the cork into the champagne bottle."
"Whoever killed them wanted to be sure there wouldn't be any kind of struggle," Mark said, skimming through the autopsy reports.
"If the killer had the opportunity to spike the champagne, why not inject it with a lethal dose and be done with it?" Jesse asked. "Why come back and shoot them? The killer took a huge, unnecessary risk. She was lucky she wasn't caught in the act."
"She should have been," Mark said. "That's the biggest puzzler of all."
"Based on the body temperature readings you took at the scene, I'm estimating the time of death at between three thirty and four p.m.," she said. "Otherwise, based on what I know and what I saw, I'd have pegged it at four thirty, the time you heard the gunshots."
"Which brings up another big question," Mark said. "Who was Lacey's accomplice?"
"Accomplice?" Jesse asked. "What makes you think any one but Lacey McClure was involved?"
"Someone shot Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler between three thirty and four o'clock, presumably using a silencer, because no one heard the shots," Mark said. "Then I'm assuming someone else came at four thirty and fired the shots that I heard, strictly for show, to establish the time of death."
"But why?" Jesse asked, genuinely confused.
"To establish an alibi," Mark replied. "To make us all think the murder happened a half-hour to an hour later than it did."
"If Mark hadn't shown up immediately after the gun shots," Amanda said, "we never would have known there was a discrepancy. It was a great plan."
"It could have been Lacey both times," Jesse said.
"That's true," Mark said.
Susan frowned with confusion. "So if it's Lacey McClure and she, alone or with an accomplice, went to the trouble of establishing the time of death at four thirty, wouldn't she have come up with a better alibi than taking a nap?"
"You're right, Susan," Mark said. "And that's the one reservation I have about her guilt, despite the evidence and my gut instinct that she did it."
"Let me see if I've got this straight," Jesse said. "You have every reason to believe that Lacey McClure is the killer, except for one thing. The murder was done in such a way as to give her a perfect alibi and she doesn't have one."
"Exactly," Mark said.
"Maybe that's her cunning plan," Jesse said.
"It seems pretty stupid to me," Amanda said.
"That's what makes it so cunning," Jesse said. "The stupidity is actually genius."
Jesse smiled, quite pleased with himself, oblivious to the withering look Amanda gave him. She didn't bother to comment on Jesse's theory; instead she turned her attention to Mark.
"Maybe it was a Mob hit," Amanda said. "It would explain the execution-style murder."
"But not the drugging," Mark said.
"Maybe what's hanging us up is that we're looking at this all wrong," Jesse said. "What if the drugging and the shooting were totally unrelated?"
"What do you mean?" Mark asked, genuinely curious.
"Maybe whoever spiked the champagne meant to kill them and screwed up," Jesse said. "And whoever it was had no idea some shooter was going to come along in the after noon and cap them."
"Cap them?" Amanda said, giving Jesse a look.
"That's what they call it," Jesse said. "You've got to get out of this lab more often."
"I've got to watch The Sopranos," Amanda said.
"If I'm right, the shooter probably didn't know what to think when he found his targets out cold," Jesse said. "But he still had a job to do, so he did it: bang, bang."
"It's a good theory," Mark said. "But it doesn't explain the inconsistency between the actual
time of death and when I heard the gunshots."
"Oh," Jesse said, realizing Mark was right. "My theory might need a little work."
"Don't take it too hard, Jesse. All of our theories do," Mark said. "There's a vital piece of the puzzle we're still missing and I'm determined to find it."
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Jesse asked.
"I'd like to know more about Lacey McClure," Mark said. "I borrowed some magazines Amy Butler collected with stories about her, but I haven't seen any of her movies. Can you put together a little Lacey McClure film festival for me?"
"My pleasure," Jesse said with a grin.
"Oh God," Susan said. "You're already getting that dopey look on your face."
"This is my usual, ruggedly handsome look," Jesse said. "There's nothing dopey about this."
Mark met Jesse's eyes. "I'd like you to get me all her movies."
"All?" Jesse said, dragging the word out and letting the implication hang.
Susan swatted Jesse's shoulder, startling him.
"What?" he exclaimed.
"Don't even think about it," she said playfully.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Jesse replied.
"Especially that one," Mark said.
Susan and Amanda looked at Mark in surprise. But he didn't show the slightest trace of embarrassment.
"Why aren't you hitting him?" Jesse asked, massaging his shoulder.
"I don't look forward to watching that particular tape," Mark said. "But one of the murder victims and his possible killer are in it. I should see it."
"You got it," Jesse said quickly, earning him another swat from Susan. "Hey, I'm just agreeing to his request."
"A little too enthusiastically, if you ask me," Susan said. "Besides, I thought you didn't know what I was talking about."
"You weren't very clear," Jesse said, scrambling for the door before Susan, grinning, could swat him again.
