Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script

by Lee Goldberg

  "Here we go. Recorded, January 12, 11:38 P.M., Salvatore 'Daddy' Crofoot's Lincoln Town Car, cruising east on Sun set Boulevard out of Beverly Hills. Crofoot is present, so is Cleve Kershaw. Anthony 'Little Zam' Zambardi is driving," Bedard said. "Would you like a transcript?"

  "If it's no trouble," Steve said, truly impressed. "This is an incredible operation."

  "This is nothing. The National Security Agency monitors tens of thousands of telephone conversations and millions of e-mail transmissions," Bedard said. "When you read about the government picking up 'chatter' about possible terrorist attacks, where do you think they're picking it up from?"

  "I never thought about that," Steve said.

  "What we're doing here is rudimentary by comparison," Bedard said. "We're just trying to make our case."

  "What is the case?"

  "I can't say, Steve. But it's huge, it's nationwide, and it will eventually involve hundreds of indictments."

  Bedard hit a key on his keyboard and pages began to spit out of the printer. "Anything else I can help you with? We can run the phrase bada bing and see how many times that comes up. Or hooters. That's always fun."

  "What can you tell me about the guys on this recording? Aside from Kershaw, I'm not familiar with any of the players."

  "Tony Zambardi is just a muscle head, a driver, forget about him. Salvatore Crofoot is a real character," Bedard said. "They call him Daddy because he's fathered so many illegitimate children. But he likes the nickname because it makes it seem to people who don't actually know his story that he's some kind of paternal figure in the Mob, a don or something. Fact is, he's got no power of his own, he's just a messenger between Hollywood and the guys back east."

  "Is Hollywood that heavily tied to organized crime?"

  Bedard shook his head. "They just like hanging out with each other. Goes all the way back to the Rat Pack days."

  "So Kershaw and Crofoot weren't doing business together?"

  "I didn't say that." Bedard handed Steve the printout. "Read for yourself while I knock off a copy of the tape for you."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Recorded: January 12, 11:38 P.M.

  Location: Salvatore "Daddy" Crofoot's Lincoln Town Car

  Individuals Present: Salvatore "Daddy" Crofoot (DC), Cleve Kershaw (CK), Anthony "Little Zam" Zambardi (AZ)

  DC: She told you she's not gonna make the picture?

  CK: That's what she said, but she doesn't mean it.

  DC: Is she doing the picture?

  CK: I'm working on it.

  DC: I don't like this, I don't like it at all. You know what I mean?

  CK: I'm not happy about it either, Daddy. But that's the way it is.

  DC: We're talking about a lot of money here, Cleve. I mean, I understand your situation, you know? We're friends. But this is business. And the guys in New Jersey, they might not be so sympathetic.

  CK: Hey. C'mon. Don't get all worked up over this. It's a marriage thing. Haven't you ever had trouble with your wife?

  DC: No.

  CK: You must have had trouble with your wife. Everybody, sometimes, has trouble with their wives.

  DC: There's trouble, and then there's three hundred grand. I've never had three hundred grand of trouble with anyone. Well, anyone who's still alive, that is.

  AZ: Anybody want a Krispy Kreme? There's a Krispy Kreme coming up.

  DC: It's a donut. Why would I stop for a donut?

  AZ: It's a treat.

  DC: It a friggin' donut. Keep driving.

  AZ: They got the hot light on, Daddy. That means they're hot and fresh.

  DC: Forget about the donuts. We aren't stopping for donuts.

  AZ: They got a drive-thru. We can drive through.

  DC: God damn it, Zam. I'm trying to do some business here.

  CK: You didn't have to say that.

  DC: Say what?

  CK: You know what you said, that little throwaway comment you made about dealing with problems. I don't appreciate the implication.

  DC: You'll appreciate the reality even less.

  CK: I thought we were friends; friends don't threaten each other.

  DC: You don't seem to get it, Cleve. This may be a little marriage problem to you, but it's a major cash-flow problem for us. We've come to rely over the years on this arrangement to free up certain funds. Commitments have been made elsewhere based on the assumption that our arrangement was solid. This has an undesirable ripple effect, up and down the line. It strains a friendship, you know?

  CK: Look, Daddy, I think everybody needs to take a deep breath here. Everybody. Lacey is having a tantrum, that's all. She doesn't understand how the business works. She'll come around.

  DC: You got to get stars insured, right? Before they do a picture? What kind of insurance payoff you get if she, you know, has an accident that lays her up for a while?

  CK: There. That's exactly what I mean. That's not helpful, Daddy.

  DC:: It might help her come around.

  CK: It's counterproductive. She can't work on crutches, can she? I've got leverage against her she doesn't know I have. I can bring her into line without putting her in a hospital bed.

  DC: Then why the hell haven't you done it?

  CK: She's my wife, first and foremost. I'm trying to save my marriage, Daddy. I was hoping to resolve this business misunderstanding without going nuclear.

  DC: Yeah? My friendly advice to you is nuke the bitch before New Jersey decides to nuke you.

  Mark set the transcript aside and glanced across the table at Steve, who wore a bib to protect his shirt as he finished up a plate of BBQ Bob's famous spareribs at their favorite corner booth. The lunch crowd was fairly light, giving the small restaurant's two young waitresses plenty of time to gossip behind the counter.

  "Lacey was telling the truth about Cleve using her films to launder Mob money," Mark said. "This wiretap and the financial irregularities her forensic accountant discovered proves it."

  "All it proves is that she had a strong motive to kill her husband," Steve said. "Besides the fact that he was sleeping with an aspiring actress in their bed."

  "But this bolsters her claim that the Mob had reason to kill Cleve Kershaw," Mark said.

  Steve licked the tangy sauce off his fingers and wiped his face with a moist towelette.

  Mark didn't have to order the ribs to taste them. The restaurant had the permanent, woodsy smell of hickory smoke. The walls had absorbed the thirty years of barbeque that had come out of Bob's kitchen before he retired and sold out to Steve and Jesse.

  "You don't believe her now, do you?" Steve asked.

  "No, I don't. But whether she's guilty of murder or not, this recording is evidence of an ongoing conspiracy to commit extortion," Mark said. "If the FBI knew what was going on with Lacey's movies, why didn't they do something about it?"

  "I asked the same question," Steve said, pushing his plate aside and yanking off his bib. "They are after bigger fish. They don't want to jeopardize their case, and expose the wiretaps, on a such a small-time operation."

  "But the Mob could have been laundering millions of dollars through each movie," Mark said. "That's not counting the $300,000 'convenience fee' they were strong-arming out of Cleve. That's small-time?"

  "The Feds have their priorities," Steve said. "I guess this money-laundering scam will come out with everything else when the rest of the indictments are handed down."

  "But in the meantime, the extortion continued," Mark said. "And two people got killed. It might not have happened if the FBI had acted on what they knew."

  "I can't argue with you on that," Steve said. "But I do know those are the kinds of trade-offs you have to make when mounting a major undercover or surveillance operation. Do you act immediately on every crime you see, or wait until you have the evidence to make a more substantial arrest? It's a tough call."

  "Did you get this transcript officially?" Mark asked.

  "The DA called in a favor, and got me the transcript and a ta
pe," Steve said. "If you're asking me whether we can use it in court, I'm guessing no, not unless the FBI is ready to reveal the existence of their massive covert wiretapping operation."

  "So you can't use the wiretap as leverage against Daddy Crofoot to get him to talk."

  "I'll just have to ask him nicely," Steve said.

  Mark picked up the transcript again and flipped through it. "Cleve mentioned he had leverage against Lacey that she didn't know about. I'd sure like to find out what it was. That leverage may be what got him killed."

  "Then she'd have three motives for murder. That might be a record." Steve's cell phone trilled. He unclipped the phone from his belt and flipped it open. "Sloan."

  He listened for a moment, then met his father's eye. Mark could see from the expression on his son's face that it was important news.

  "I'll be there in half an hour," Steve said, then listened to the response. "Okay. I'm at BBQ Bob's restaurant on the Westside. I'll stick around for dessert." Steve snapped the phone shut and looked at his Dad. "That was Lacey McClure. She wants to talk."

  "She's coming here?"

  "She's afraid if I show up at her place, the reporters camped outside will get the wrong idea," Steve said. "So I guess she isn't coming to confess."

  "Isn't she afraid they'll follow her here?"

  "She's got three cars," Steve said. "She and her staff are gonna drive all three out of her compound at once and go in three different directions. When the press goes off to follow them, she'll slip out the back on foot and borrow her neighbor's car."

  "Very resourceful," Mark said. "She's given this some thought."

  "She watches her own movies," Steve said. "Her security-consultant character ran the same scam in Body Armor."

  A half-hour later, a dark-haired woman wearing impenetrable sunglasses, an oversized, well-worn UCLA sweatshirt and faded blue jeans walked into BBQ Bob's carrying a heavy gym bag.

  Mark was surprised just how effective a simple wig, a pair of sunglasses, and unremarkable clothes could be as a disguise. Anyone expecting to see Lacey McClure would have recognized her, but with the exception of Mark and Steve, no one eating in BBQ Bob's had that expectation. She came in unrecognized and strode directly to the booth in the back, where Mark and Steve were eating thick slices of pecan pie.

  Mark slipped the wiretap transcript into his jacket pocket as she approached. Lacey dropped the gym bag on the floor at the edge of the table and slid into the booth beside him so she could face Steve.

  "Care for a piece of pecan pie?" Mark asked. "It's quite good here."

  "No thank you," Lacey McClure said.

  "You'll regret it," Steve said. "This is the best grub in LA."

  Lacey gave the restaurant a quick, appraising glance, taking in its scraped linoleum floor, cracked red-vinyl booths, red-and-white checked tablecloths, and vintage, rusted-tin soft drink placards nailed to the faded, paneled walls.

  "You eat in this dump a lot?" she asked.

  "I own this dump," Steve said. "Want to autograph an 8x 10 for the wall? If you don't have one on you, maybe you can sign your mug shot for me later."

  Lacey slid the gym bag over to Steve with her foot. "There's $300,000 in cash in that bag."

  "Is that a bribe?" Steve asked.

  "It's not for you," Lacey said. "Unless you were the man who called me an hour ago on my private line, offering to sell me evidence that would keep me out of jail."

  "It wasn't me," Steve said. "What kind of evidence did he say he had?"

  "He didn't. All he told me was that it would cost $300,000," Lacey said. "That seems to be the going rate for a shakedown these days."

  "So why not just pay him? Why come to me?"

  "Because I don't pay extortion. That's why I left Cleve. This money is bait; I want it back," she said. "And if this guy really has evidence that clears me, I want it to go directly to the police so there's no question about where it came from."

  "You had $300,000 in cash just lying around your house?" Mark asked.

  "I toss my spare change in a jar every night," she said. "Don't you?"

  "How many people have your private number?" Steve asked.

  "Just my agent, my manager, and Cleve," she said. "Until today, nobody else ever called me on it."

  Steve lifted up the bag and unzipped it just enough to peek inside. It was filled with neatly wrapped bundles of hundred-dollar bills. "Where and when is the meet?"

  "The Santa Monica Pier." She glanced at her watch. "In forty minutes."

  "That barely gives us time to get there," Steve said, "and no time to put a wire on you or mount a proper surveillance."

  "He knew what he was doing," Mark said, then glanced at Lacey. "Is he expecting you to deliver the money yourself?"

  She nodded. "He told me to wear this sweatshirt."

  Mark frowned. "He knows your private number and that you own a UCLA sweatshirt? He's either someone close to you or he's been watching you for some time."

  "I know," she said. "And it creeps me out."

  "Let's move." Steve slid out of the booth and picked up the gym bag. "We'll figure out a plan on the way."

  * * *

  Compared to the elaborate attractions at any of the half-dozen amusement parks in Southern California, the carnival rides at the Santa Monica Pier were about as exciting as the quarter-a-ride kiddie cars found outside of grocery stores, only twenty times more expensive.

  The brightly painted midway with its arcade games and cotton candy and loud music tried to capture the energy of a county fair, but it was like trying to energize a decomposing corpse by slathering it with make-up and sticking a Game-boy in its mouth.

  Instead of lovingly evoking a bygone era, the pier exuded desperation and decay, which was also an apt description of the thin, wiry man who approached Lacey McClure as she sat at a table in the food court, $300,000 in cash in the gym bag under her chair.

  The man was unshaven, with long, greasy hair tied into a ponytail. It looked like a squirrel had crawled onto his head and died. He wore an untucked flannel shirt over baggy cargo pants and a crusty pair of Timberlands.

  "You're Lacey McClure, aren't you?" the man said, his thin smile showing only a hint of his nicotine-stained teeth.

  "Yes, I am," Lacey said.

  "I love your movies," he said.

  "How nice," she said. "Which one is your favorite?"

  He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a Hi8 camcorder cassette, and tossed it on the table in front of her. "This one."

  She stared at the tape as if it were a dead rat. "I can buy that for $29.95 on the Internet. What makes you think I'd pay you $300,000 for it?"

  "It isn't that one," he said. "Think of this as an unauthorized sequel."

  "How do I know I'm not buying a blank tape?"

  He took a camcorder the size of a box of cigarettes out of his pocket, slipped the cassette into it, then placed it on the : the tiny screen facing Lacey. What she saw made the color drain from her cheeks.

  "You bastard," she hissed.

  He grabbed the camcorder, ejected the tape, and handed the cassette to her. "You got a funny way of saying thank you.,,

  The man pocketed the camcorder, reached under Lacey's chair, and dragged out the gym bag. "But this will make up for it."

  He unzipped the bag, glanced at the cash, then closed it again.

  "Did you make any copies of that ugly little tape?" she asked.

  The man only grinned, giving her a good look at his teeth this time, before turning his back on her and walking away.

  That's when he saw Steve Sloan standing at the mouth of the food court, arms held loosely at his sides, staring at him with the flinty determination of a frontier marshal waiting to draw on a gunfighter.

  The man turned around the way he came, realizing only then why Lacey McClure, who now had a smug smile on her face, had chosen that table. He was being herded into a bottleneck. The only other way out was a crowded, narrow pathway between the arcade gam
es and the bumper cars.

  But he had no choice. He weaved quickly among the tables toward the pathway, his eyes scanning the crowd ahead of him for adversaries.

  He should have been looking at his feet.

  Mark Sloan stuck out his leg as the man passed, sending the blackmailer tumbling to the ground. A ponytailed wig flew off the man's head into the bumper car arena, where it became roadkill.

  Steve was on the man an instant later, yanking the blackmailer's arms behind his back and slapping on handcuffs be fore pulling him to his feet. The man's fake yellowed teeth were knocked loose, revealing the pearly whites hidden underneath.

  "Nice move, Dad," Steve said to his father, who sat at one of the tables, casually enjoying a bag of popcorn.

  "Sometimes the simplest methods are the best," Mark said with a smile, drawing his leg back under the table.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mark and Steve watched the video on a television set they wheeled into the captain's office. The man Steve apprehended at the pier sat in an adjoining interrogation room while Lacey McClure sat out in the squad room, giving her statement to a detective.

  The video was taken outside the Slumberland Motel, a purple-painted cinderblock eyesore near the intersection of the Pacific Coast Highway and Kanan Dune Road. Mark and Steve had driven past it a thousand times and wondered how it had survived on such a valuable piece of "Malibu-adjacent" property. The Slumberland had always looked like the kind of place that had condom vending machines in the front office and vibrating beds in each room.

  The date and time the video was shot was stamped in the corner of the screen. It was the day of the double murders. The time was 3:13 P.M.

  Lacey McClure drove up in her vintage Mustang and parked beside a huge Cadillac Escalade in front of the last room at the far end of the low-lying, one-story building. The number on the room door was 16. She got out wearing the same tight black tank top and gray shorts she'd been wearing when Mark and Steve first met her. The only slight attempt she made to obscure her identity was a pair of dark sunglasses and a baseball cap.