Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script

by Lee Goldberg

  "Mine," Titus said. "I think it's kitschy."

  "That's one word for it," Steve said. "Who picked the time?"

  "The production coordinator of her movie," Titus said. "Lacey's a slave to the production schedule. We get together whenever Lacey can spare the time."

  "Did you know you were being watched by a private eye?" Mark asked.

  Titus turned, a bit startled. Apparently he'd forgotten Mark was even in the house.

  "Of course not," Titus said. "The whole idea was to avoid being seen."

  "I suppose so," Mark nodded. "Did Lacey know her husband was having an affair, too?"

  "I don't know," Titus said. "I doubt she would have cared, anyway."

  Mark stepped beside the treadmill and looked at the console's elaborate graphic display of Titus' recent ascent.

  "Look like you've reached the top of a pretty steep mountain here," Mark observed.

  "It was a hard, fast climb," Titus said.

  "Well, now that you're there, I'd be careful if I were you," Mark said with a friendly smile. "You don't want to fall off a cliff."

  They were leaving Titus Carville's house and walking back to the car when Steve asked Mark if he'd found any thing interesting in his search.

  "It's what I didn't find that was interesting," Mark said. "He had ordinary sheets on the bed, nothing approaching 600 threads. The sheets in his linen closet weren't any fancier."

  "I guess she never slept at his place," Steve said. "Or they never used the bed."

  "Makes me wonder," Mark said. "How many threads do you suppose the sheets at the Slumberland Motel have?"

  "However many they have on a piece of canvas," Steve said, walking around to the driver's side of the car and un locking the door.

  "I'm asking myself why someone so sensitive would let her bare skin touch those sheets."

  "True love conquers all?" Steve said, then saw the skeptical look on his father's face. "Okay, maybe Titus brought some sheets with him."

  "If he did," Mark said, opening his car door. "Where are they now?"

  "He's either got them hermetically sealed and is keeping them as sacred heirlooms," Steve said, getting into the car, "or he's selling them on eBay."

  Steve drove back to BBQ Bob's so Mark could retrieve his Saab convertible and return to work at Community General, where the doctor hoped his afternoon-long lunch had gone unnoticed by Noah Dent, the new hospital administrator.

  This was the first Steve had heard about Dent. From what Mark told him, Steve was pretty sure the administrator knew how long his father was gone to the minute, if not the second. Dent sounded like another adversary Mark would do best not to underestimate.

  Steve went from BBQ Bob's to Nick Stryker's office in West Los Angeles, a second-floor storefront above a corner mini-mall. He arrived just as the private eye—his wig and false teeth in a paper bag—was unlocking the iron security gate over his door.

  "Hope I'm not catching you at a bad time," Steve said. "But you were on my way back to the station."

  "I suppose you've come for stuff you asked for," he replied irritably.

  Stryker unlocked the door and motioned Steve inside. It was a five-hundred-square-foot, one-room office dominated by a woodoleum-veneered office desk covered with papers, two guest chairs, and an overpadded leatherette couch. One wall was lined with file cabinets of different sizes and colors, obviously bought individually as the need for storage space arose. There were thick, metal straps across each row of drawers, the straps locked in place with fat padlocks.

  "Very classy," Steve commented. "So when a client comes in, do you offer them coffee, or do you run downstairs to the 7-Eleven and spring for a Big Gulp?"

  "My clients don't come to the office," Stryker said. "My office is the streets. I go to them. This is a home base for me, that's all, a place to store my files and hang my hat."

  "Don't you mean your wig?" Steve said, motioning to the baggie. "I wouldn't want to meet the poor dog you took that from."

  "Did you come here to ridicule me, Steve, or are we going to do some business?"

  "What happened to all that friendly cooperation you were promising me back at the station?"

  "I don't think you appreciate just how cooperative I'm being." Stryker took a seat behind his desk. "Giving you my files on an investigation I conducted for a client violates the sanctity and privacy of our relationship. My business is built on discretion. If word got out about this, my career as a private investigator would be over."

  "Look on the bright side: without a license your career as a private eye will be over anyway," Steve said. "It's your choice, Zanley."

  "It's Stryker Nick Stryker," he said, glaring at Steve as he unlocked his desk and pulled out a huge key ring. "You don't need to be demeaning. We're both professionals here, doing our jobs. It doesn't have to be personal."

  Steve didn't see how Stryker's attempted shakedown of Lacey McClure qualified as professional conduct, and doubted the licensing board would see it that way, either, but he decided not to provoke the guy any more than he already had.

  "You're awfully touchy for a hard-boiled detective," Steve said.

  Stryker found the key he was looking for and unlocked one of the file cabinets. He slid open a drawer, pulled out a stack of files, and passed the pile to Steve. "That's every thing."

  "You want a receipt?" Steve asked.

  "I'll settle for my license," Stryker replied.

  "I'll get back to you about that," Steve said. "You going to be around if I have any questions?"

  "Just look over your shoulder," Stryker said. "That's where I'll be. That's my motto."

  "Catchy," Steve said, and walked out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The press conference outside the gates of Lacey McClure's Mandeville Canyon compound was timed to coincide with the evening news so it would be carried live on all the local stations, turning it into an event rather than a mere sound bite.

  The movie star stood in front of the cameras, her publicist, Randi Lofficier, at her side, to make a major announcement involving the murder of her estranged husband and his lover. Lacey began by saying that she and Cleve were separated, and that the public deserved to know the reasons why.

  Her jaw trembling with emotion, Lacey revealed that Cleve secretly used her films to launder Mob money and that once she found out about it, she threw him out of her house and her life.

  Lacey's revelations sparked a flood of questions, prompting her publicist to step forward like a grade-school teacher about to admonish her unruly class.

  "As you can see, this is a harrowing ordeal for Lacey," Randi said, the flashbulbs and camera lights glinting off her heavy charm bracelets. "It's hard enough for her to stand here, facing the entire world, and talk about painfully intimate details of her marriage, if you'd like her to continue, you'll have to show some basic human decency by not pestering her with questions."

  Randi gave them one more chastising look, wagged a heavily ringed finger at them as a warning, then stepped back so Lacey could resume her remarks.

  Lacey cleared her throat and continued, expressing the shame and the horror she felt when she discovered that her movies had been used to enrich the bank accounts of the same "criminal scum" she fought on-screen.

  She extended her heartfelt sympathies to the family of poor Amy Butler, an innocent victim caught up in this "senseless act of Mob violence," and promised to work closely with authorities to bring the killers to justice.

  Lacey put special emphasis on the word justice—the same emphasis she'd used to such dramatic effect in the thirty-two different takes of the action scene she filmed the previous night.

  And then Lacey looked into the camera, her eyes ablaze with righteous fury, and made a vow. She would find the cowardly bastards who killed Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler. There was no where on earth the killers could hide. And if the Mob didn't like it, she dared them to come after her this time.

  After the press conference, nearly all of t
he stations took a commercial break. And in most cases, the first commercial up just happened to be for Thrill Kill, the soon-to-be- released movie starring Lacey McClure as a woman who singled-handedly takes on organized crime in a city gripped by terror.

  "What an amazing coincidence," Jesse noted, watching the broadcast in the Community General doctors' lounge, where he sat at a table with Susan. "It's disgusting how she's turned her husband's murder into the promotional campaign for her movie."

  "I thought she was the woman of your dreams," Susan said.

  "But you're my dream come true," Jesse said, switching off the TV with the remote.

  Susan gave him a smile. "Nice save."

  "I thought so," Jesse said and gave her a kiss. Over her shoulder, he could see Noah Dent just outside the door, about to come in. "Uh-oh."

  Jesse straighten up in his seat. Susan turned to see what he was looking at just as Dent opened the door.

  "Good evening, Doctor," Dent said. "Nurse Hilliard. Enjoying a little break?"

  "We were," Jesse said pointedly.

  Dent went to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. "It's fortunate that you've both found some time to relax. Funny, I don't see any other doctors in here. They must be busy."

  "They must be," Jesse said.

  "It's odd how there's enough work to keep them busy, and not quite enough for you two," Dent said. "Maybe it means we're overstaffed."

  "Or it means that after eight solid hours of trauma cases in the ER, things have finally slowed down for a minute so we can catch our breath," Jesse said. "You ought to get out of your office once in a while, and see how hard the doctors and nurses are working around here."

  "The strange thing is, whenever I do get out of my office, I see the two of you in the pathology lab or in the doctors' lounge. I guess it's just a coincidence," Dent said. "Speaking of my office, I have to get back. I'm wrestling the budget into line. I'm afraid it looks like there may have to be some layoffs. But don't spread that around. I wouldn't want people to start getting nervous."

  Dent smiled and walked out, Jesse and Susan staring after him.

  "If he had a mustache, he would have been twirling it," Susan said. "Why does he hate us so much?"

  "It's not us he hates," Jesse said. "It's Mark. It's been like this with every new administrator."

  "Not like this," Susan said. "No one ever came after us before."

  The more Jesse thought about it, the more he realized Susan was right. Why did Dent hate Mark so much?

  Steve was at his desk at the police station, sorting through Stryker's files, when the press conference aired. The only time he'd Seen so many officers and detectives gathered around the TV was to hear the O. J. verdict come down.

  But he was only half-listening to the TV; most of his attention was on the files in front of him. Stryker was a sleazebag but he kept surprisingly detailed records. Among the papers was an investigative contract, signed by Cleve Kershaw, and a photocopy of a $5,000 retainer check, apparently drawn from Kershaw's private account.

  When the press conference was over, Steve called Special Agent Bedard and asked him if he could monitor the "Mob chatter" for mentions of Lacey McClure. He also asked if Bedard knew where Steve could find Daddy Crofoot.

  Bedard said Crofoot liked to eat at Filippo's Restaurant in Westlake, but that the wiretaps hadn't picked him up in a few weeks. Perhaps he was back east, Bedard suggested, meeting with his masters. Steve asked if Bedard could check into it for him.

  "I don't work for you," Bedard said. "You do realize that, don't you?"

  "Maybe I can do a favor for you someday," Steve said.

  "How about getting me Lacey McClure's autograph?" said Bedard, laughing as he hung up.

  Steve set the telephone receiver back in its cradle just as a woman marched up to his desk. She was an exceedingly thin mix of Asian and Caucasian background wearing a sheer blouse that only underscored her frailty. But there was a hardness to her expression that conveyed a toughness and strength in sharp contrast to her physical appearance.

  "Have you proved Lacey McClure innocent yet?" she asked, her lips barely edging into a smile.

  "You must be Karen Cross," Steve said, rising from his desk and offering his hand.

  "What gave me away?"

  "I figured Burnside must have asked you to go looking for potholes on the road to justice, too," Steve said, careful not to squeeze her hand too hard as he shook it, which made him all the more surprised by how firm her grip was.

  "He used the same metaphor on me," she said, "but I don't think the road led anywhere when I heard it."

  "I'm embellishing," Steve said, sitting back down and offering her the guest chair usually occupied by suspects—the only guests he ever had. "You're not what I was expecting."

  "With a name like Cross, you were expecting to see an all-American girl," she said, taking a seat. "Not a white woman with an Asian face and delicate features."

  "I was expecting a hard-charging, ambitious, politically ruthless prosecutor with a take-no-prisoners attitude."

  "What makes you think I'm not?" Karen asked.

  "I'm a crack detective, for one thing. For another, the woman I imagined wouldn't refer to her features as delicate."

  "I wouldn't have referred to my features at all if you hadn't jumped to conclusions about my character."

  Steve smiled. "Now you sound like a lawyer. We've only been talking two minutes and you've tripped up my testimony."

  "I wouldn't criticize lawyers if I were you," Karen said. "You studied law for a while."

  "Half-heartedly. I went to night school, but I gave it up after a few months," Steve said. "As you know."

  "Why?"

  "Because you insist on knowing everything about the cops who gather the evidence that your prosecutions depend on," Steve said. "You wouldn't want another Mark Fuhrman on your hands."

  "I meant why did you quit studying law?" she said, knowing full well that he knew what she meant the first time.

  "That wasn't in whatever file Burnside put together on me?"

  "Nope."

  "Then I think I'll keep it to myself," Steve said.

  "Why?"

  "I'd like to maintain a little mystery to my character. It makes me harder to resist," he said. "You sure like to ask 'why' a lot."

  "It's how I got into this profession," Karen said. "And it's the reason I'm stuck with this case. I ask Burnside 'why' too often for his comfort, and if he doesn't give me the answers, I go out and find them. I prosecute cases for justice, not politics. He's not quite as discerning."

  "How do you feel about this case?"

  "I feel two people were murdered and whoever did it has to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law," she said. "I don't particularly care about the politics."

  "Even if trying the case means you might lose your job?"

  "Cases like this are my job," she said. "I don't think about anything beyond the verdict."

  Steve grinned. "I can see why he assigned you to this. If you stay on his staff, he may never get elected or appointed to whatever the hell it is he wants to get elected or appointed to."

  "So back to my original question, Detective," Karen said. "Have you proved Lacey McClure innocent yet?"

  "I don't have to—she's doing a pretty good job of that herself," Steve said, then filled Karen Cross in on his version of everything that had happened since the bodies were found, putting special emphasis on the discrepancy between the time of death and when the gunshots were reported.

  He detailed Lacey's three viable motives for murder: her husband's affair, her husband's money laundering, and whatever leverage her husband had to force her to cooperate with his financial schemes.

  It was that final motive that led Steve to bring up the wiretapped conversation, where the leverage was first mentioned, and the forensic accountant's report, all of which supported Lacey's charge that the Mob was responsible for the murders.

  "You have any working theories
about what really happened?"

  "It's elaborate, and a little difficult to follow," Steve said.

  "Try me."

  "She did it," Steve said.

  "That's your theory?"

  "Uh-huh," he replied.

  "What about her airtight alibi?" Karen said.

  "That's the part that makes my theory elaborate and difficult to follow."

  "I see," she said. "Has it occurred to you that the Mob might actually be responsible?"

  "Nope."

  "Even though all the evidence points that way."

  Steve nodded. Karen took a deep breath and let it out slowly before she spoke again.

  "You think Lacey is guilty because she has a perfect alibi and you think the Mob isn't involved because there's so much evidence of their involvement."

  "That pretty much sums up my investigative approach," Steve said. "Can I arrest her now?"

  "Oh boy," Karen said, rising from her seat. "This is going to be quite a ride."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Steve came home at midnight to find his father sitting in front of the TV, watching Stryker's video for what was probably the fiftieth time. Steve would have been shocked if Mark had been doing anything else. The video was not only the strongest piece of evidence of Lacey's innocence, it was, at least in his father's mind, absolute proof that she was guilty. And Steve knew his father would keep watching the video until he could find the fault in it.

  Unfortunately, there wasn't one.

  "There's something wrong with this tape," Mark said, as if reading his son's mind. "I just can't see it."

  "If it's any consolation to you, neither could the experts in the crime lab," Steve said. "I was convinced the video had to have been digitally altered in some way. But it checks out. What you see is real."

  "Were you able to confirm when it was shot?"

  "You were right. The police car in the background was responding to your 911 call," Steve said. "I had some experts check out the weather, the position of the sun, and the angle of the light in the earlier scenes. It's all consistent with the day and hour the film was shot. The time and date stamps are accurate."