A-List

by D P Lyle

  “But it’s not mine?” Kirk said.

  “No. In fact, it’s from a female.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Yeah. That was more or less my reaction.”

  “At the risk of being redundant, what does that mean?” Nicole asked.

  “It means that some unknown female was scratched by Kristi. Sometime that night.”

  My head was spinning. This was not what I expected. And from Doucet’s expression, he hadn’t either.

  “So I must ask, you guys didn’t have a threesome or anything like that?” Doucet asked.

  “No. It was just the two of us.”

  Doucet nodded. “Apparently not.” He straightened. “But as best as you can remember, no one else came in the room. Before you guys passed out? Room service? Housekeeping? Anything like that?”

  “Like I said, after dinner we walked back to the hotel. Kristi and I, and Tara and Tegan. We had a glass of wine in the room, the twins left.”

  “Did you lock the door?”

  “It does that automatically.”

  “I mean the dead bolt. Or the chain thing.”

  Kirk hesitated. He looked toward the ceiling, as if trying to recall the scene. “I can’t remember.” He shook his head. “I usually do, but I can’t be sure.”

  “And no one else dropped by?” Doucet asked.

  Kirk shook his head. “No one.”

  “Well someone did,” Doucet said.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “What’re you saying?”

  “Someone accessed your room. Right about midnight.”

  “How do you know that?” Kirk asked.

  “I didn’t mention this before, but the computers log every entry into the rooms.”

  “And someone came in? While we were out cold?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Doucet said.

  “Housekeeping or maybe security?” I asked.

  Doucet shook his head. “They also log what key was used. Wasn’t the hotel staff. It was Kirk’s key.”

  Kirk now looked confused. I completely understood that feeling.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Kirk said. “My key was in the drawer. Where you found it. With my wallet.”

  Doucet sighed. “Guess it could’ve been cloned. Something like that.”

  “Not hard to do,” I said. “If someone had the right tools and the know-how.”

  “This is good, right?” Nicole asked. “For Kirk?”

  “Maybe. Juries decide what evidence means.”

  “But if someone else was involved, even possibly involved,” I said, “that injects a certain degree of reasonable doubt. Right?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “What now?” Kirk asked.

  “We’ll have to take DNA from any females with access to you and Kristi and your room. That kind of thing.”

  “That’s why you asked about the women on the set?”

  “And I’ll ask again. Anyone we should look at?”

  Kirk’s gaze again lifted toward the ceiling, wheels turning for sure. He slowly shook his head. “I can’t even imagine who.” He looked at Doucet. “It had to be someone from the hotel.”

  “What’s the next step?” I asked.

  “I have a search warrant request before the judge right now. One that will cover every female on the crew and as yet unknown members of the hotel staff. But it would be much easier if all the cast and crew agreed up front.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Kirk said. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  Doucet offered a grim smile. “Someone might have something to hide.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  I HAD TO admit, Detective Troy Doucet was a pretty bright guy. And efficient. Several things happened that proved exactly that. He sat with Ebersole and generated a list of all the women involved in the production. He excluded the extras, mostly comprised of locals looking for a fleeting chance at stardom, since they had no access to Kirk’s room. At least not any reasonable access. Not that he couldn’t revisit that decision if things pointed that way, but right now he said it was best to narrow the focus. He did get a list of all the hired extras from Ebersole. Just in case.

  That left nine, including the twins and Pancake’s new friend Sophie the makeup artist, that were present the day of the murder. Eight were still on set, the ninth having headed back to LA the morning after the murder. Normally that would be suspicious, but the woman, an associate producer, was seventy-six and had had a hip replacement just six months earlier. Still not overly mobile, according to Ebersole. Not a good candidate for a strangulation murder. Still, Doucet said he’d ask her to submit a sample to the LAPD crime lab. Ebersole assured him she would gladly agree.

  Doucet then arranged for a couple of techs from the crime lab to come to the set and gather the samples. Easier than having the women traipse over to the lab at the end of the shooting day.

  While we waited, I called Ray, brought him up to date.

  His response: “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I heard Pancake mumble something in the background. Ray told him about the DNA. Pancake’s response was loud and clear. “Well fuck me.”

  Seemed to be the consensus.

  “Nicole and I’ll hang around until the lab guys finish and then head your way,” I said.

  “Sounds good. Meanwhile, I’ll call Kornblatt. Bring him up to speed. And maybe I’ll reach out to Tony Guidry.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “The DNA results might change his attitude. Take Kirk off the table. Maybe he’ll be more forthcoming about where the ketamine might’ve come from.”

  “If he knows.”

  “I think what Tony doesn’t know could dance on the head of a pin. And what he couldn’t find out is even less.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Later.” Ray disconnected the call.

  Took another forty-five minutes for the lab crew to arrive, so Ebersole used the time to film a couple of what he called “establishing shots” for the upcoming scenes. Then he shut things down and rounded up the women while the techs set up in one of the mostly empty equipment trailers. They laid out their gadgets and evidence bags on a metal table while one of the crew set up a director’s chair for the women to sit on.

  More proof of Doucet’s smarts. The techs had arrived in an unmarked sedan, no crime scene truck, and they wore jeans and tee shirts, no lab coats or marked windbreakers or anything like that. They each carried black tackle boxes and looked like a pair of normal citizens, maybe repairmen. With the media and the gawkers gathered beyond the fence, the appearance of anything official would have headlined the evening news and erupted in the social media world. A headache Doucet didn’t need.

  Setting up in the trailer accomplished the same thing. Everything out of sight. Even from those huge lenses the media photographers lugged around.

  The plan was to take photos, electronic fingerprints, and cheek swabs for DNA from each of the women. Nicole offered to go first, but Doucet pointed out she wasn’t a suspect since she was in Alabama when the murder took place. She countered that she could send the sample to one of those ancestry outfits and check out her roots. He smiled, but declined, saying this was official business and if she wanted to shake her family tree she’d have to use one of the online services.

  I didn’t need DNA to know Nicole’s family tree. I mean, just look at her. Her planet of origin was Venus. The goddess of love and beauty. Aphrodite to the Greeks. See, my education wasn’t a total waste.

  Tara went first. I knew it was her because she had changed into jeans and a green tee shirt that sported “Tara” in white script across the front. I loved it when they wore name tags. Kept the playing field level. Nicole still wouldn’t tell me how she could tell one from the other. When I mentioned that she wasn’t playing fair, she mussed my hair and said, “It’s what we girls do.”

  Tara sat in the director’s
chair, smiled for the camera, pressed her finger pads to the electronic recorder, and opened her mouth for the gloved tech to gather the DNA swab. When she finished, Sophie took her place.

  “Where’s Tegan?” I asked.

  “In our trailer. Changing. Probably redoing her makeup. I swear, she can primp more than anyone I know.” A shake of her head. “I’ll go get her.”

  Nicole checked her watch, said she needed to call her uncle, let him know the news on the DNA.

  “That’ll make his day.”

  “Sure will.” She stepped down from the trailer and looked back up at me. “Want me to grab some coffee after I finish?”

  “That would be great,” I said.

  “Mind getting some for me?” Doucet said.

  “Will do.”

  I watched as she walked toward the catering area, punching numbers into her cell phone.

  Venus. Definitely Venus.

  By the time the other women had been photographed and sampled, the twins returned. Tegan jumped in the chair. She wore a blue tee shirt with her name in identical white script as her sister on the front. Her photo was snapped, DNA taken, and then the tech pulled out the handheld fingerprint device.

  “Let’s get this and we’re done,” the tech said.

  Tegan looked at her hands. “I’m so stupid. I put on some moisturizer and my hands are all greasy. I don’t want to gunk up your gadget. Let me go wash them.” She started to get up.

  The tech smiled. “No problem. I have some wipes that’ll clean off anything.”

  “It’s no problem,” Tegan said.

  “Here you go.” He produced a flat white pack from his tackle box and tore it open. “This’ll do it.”

  He wiped off each of her fingers and took the prints. “See? Easy.”

  While the lab techs packed up the samples and their equipment, Ebersole and the twins left, heading toward the canopy where Kirk sat looking over script pages.

  Nicole returned with the coffees.

  “How did Uncle Charles take the news?” I asked.

  “How do you think? I thought he might cry.” She smiled. “Well, maybe not cry. But thrilled didn’t exactly cover it.”

  We, and Doucet, walked the techs to their car, Doucet thanking them, and we watched as they drove through the guard gate.

  “Now we wait,” Doucet said.

  “How long?” I asked.

  “The lab’s going to rush it. We should have preliminary reports sometime tomorrow.”

  “And then?” Nicole asked.

  “Depends on what’s found, of course.” He glanced back toward the set where things were returning to normal and Ebersole was busy setting up the afternoon’s takes. “But I’m not optimistic.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I watched each of the women carefully. While they were tested. I didn’t see a guilty face in the bunch.” He shrugged. “Of course, they’re all in the movie business. Probably good at acting. So who knows? Maybe, we’ll get lucky.”

  Kirk Ford could use some luck.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  TONY GUIDRY SAT on the edge of the bed in his room at Maison Maralee. Mostly, anyway. He couldn’t stay still, repeatedly jumping up, pacing, only to sit again, one foot tapping the carpet in time with his elevated heart rate. He couldn’t get his head around what his guy at the ME’s office had said. An hour ago. Called him on his cell. Spoke quietly, quickly, his voice muffled as if he had one hand shielding his words from any eavesdroppers.

  What he had said made no sense. DNA from some chick? Who? And why not Kirk Ford? What did it really mean?

  Tony had immediately texted Melissa Mooring. On the iPhone he had given her. His private line to her. The way they kept everything between them off the radar. Told her to meet him here. She had texted back she’d break free in a half hour.

  So he waited.

  He walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and gazed at the pond and the flowers—and nothing. He couldn’t focus on anything. Except the fact that the crime lab hadn’t found Kirk Ford’s DNA beneath Kristi’s nails. He was sure they would. Sure that would be the evidence that sealed Ford’s fate once and for all. Hard to discount DNA in the little bits of tissue Kristi had managed to rip from her attacker as she died. Her last chance to point her finger, so to speak, at the animal who strangled her life away. At least he knew that’s how Melissa would spin it.

  But now the tissue, the DNA, didn’t come from Kirk Ford. How was that even possible? He glanced at his watch. Where was Melissa? She understood all this DNA stuff.

  He began to pace back and forth between the window and the entry door. Was he overreacting? Making too much of this unexpected news? Maybe the case against Ford was still solid. Could this be explained away? Perhaps excluded from the trial? Melissa Mooring was tough and smart. She knew the rhythm of the court. It wasn’t like she hadn’t suppressed damaging evidence before. He could think of several offhand. Just last year she had gotten one of Ju Ju’s guys off by showing that the cops had seized two kilos of coke from his car trunk illegally. That wasn’t actually true, but she managed to contort the facts in such a way that the judge finally agreed with her and disallowed the evidence. The case evaporated.

  Could she do that here?

  And if she did, what would that mean? Kirk would take the fall for something he just might not have done. Was that what he really wanted? The case closed? No, that would mean Kristi’s killer was out there, something he simply couldn’t abide.

  More to the point, if Ford hadn’t killed Kristi, that would mean he’d been looking in the wrong direction. That he had been duped. Made the fool. Damn it, he hated this shit. To read things the wrong way, be so sure, and then have things spin off in some new direction. Didn’t happen often. He prided himself on being the guy who knew all, who had the inside track. He’d built his entire empire on exactly that. Knowledge. Facts that others didn’t have.

  Things like that a certain area was being examined for development, so he could quietly buy parcels through one of his shell companies. That the city nabobs were planning some new laws, or rules and regs, so he could alter his businesses before anyone else. Take advantage. That the cops were focusing on a certain street or corner, so he could have Ju Ju move his dealers to new locations. Temporarily, of course. Such focus never lasted more than a few days, a week tops. Then all could return to normal.

  But this? Shit.

  And worse, hadn’t he already put the machine in motion? The one that would take Ford off the board if the courts didn’t? And now, if Ford came out of this innocent, truly innocent, where would he be? What would it look like? He knew the answer. Tony Guidry wasn’t infallible, no longer on top of his game. Old Tony’s reach into the cops and courts was defective. He would be seen as vulnerable.

  Vulnerable.

  Such a dirty and dangerous word. Not a good position in his world. It made people ambitious. Made people talk, and plan, and scheme.

  He dropped back down on the bed, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fingers trying to massage away the throbbing headache that rose in his temples. The door swung open. He looked up.

  “I got here as fast as I could,” Melissa said.

  “Is this as bad as it seems?”

  She dropped her purse in the chair and then sat next to him on the bed. “Maybe.”

  Maybe was better than yes. Maybe meant she might have a trick or two in mind.

  “Maybe? Doesn’t this blow the entire case?”

  “I admit it complicates things. Definitely introduces reasonable doubt. But Ford was in the room. As far as we know, it was only he and Kristi in that room.”

  “Except someone opened the door around midnight.”

  “True. My plan was to write that off as one of them going to get ice.”

  “Did they?”

  “No way to prove if they did or didn’t. Kirk remembers nothing and Kristi—”

  “Kristi’s dead.”

  She sighed. “But there wa
s water in the ice bucket. Like it had had ice in it that had melted. And it’s reasonable to assume that if Kirk had gone down the hall to the ice machine, he would have taken his room key with him.”

  “Or someone else had a key.”

  “Only one was issued.”

  “The staff would have access,” Tony said.

  “Yes, but those are different keys. Different codes.”

  “The hotel tracks all that?”

  “Sure do. The computers log every entry and register what key was used. The midnight entry was with Ford’s key. And his key was found by the cops in his room, exactly where he said it would be.”

  “So no one stole it?”

  “Possible. But that would require getting into the room without a key card in the first place. If that was doable, why would the killer need Kirk Ford’s card?”

  Tony nodded slowly. “My problem is that I think this takes a lot of the spotlight off Ford and casts it somewhere else.” She started to speak but he stopped her with a wave of his hand. “I was so sure the killer was Ford. I wanted him up the river for life. But what if he didn’t do it? What if you convict him, but he’s not the right person?”

  “We prosecutors don’t think that way. Our job is to present the evidence for the state and attempt to get a conviction.”

  “I know how the game works. But for me, if you nail the wrong person, Kristi’s killer is still out there. Breathing the same air I breathe.” He took her hand. “That simply cannot happen.”

  “So, what? You want me to drop the charges?”

  “No. That’s not what I’m saying. In fact, it’s best if everything stays as is. The focus on him.” He looked at her. “I assume this new evidence won’t be made public?”

  “Not officially. But things like this do leak.”

  “Hopefully not for a few days. Not until I get my people sniffing around and uncover who really did this.”

  “Tony, don’t you think you should lay low on this? Let Detective Doucet do the sniffing?”

  “Probably.” He offered a weak smile. “But I can’t.”

  “I know. And I understand.” She rubbed his thigh with one hand. “But as long as we’re here, I imagine you could use a little stress release.” She smiled.