Inherit the Shoes

by E. J. Copperman

  Bach sniffed again, this time in contempt. ‘I’m doing no such thing, Ms Moss, and there is no way you could possibly make such an accusation stand up in court, before a legal grievance review board, or anywhere else. I’m merely complying with the letter of the law, and responding to requests from the district attorney that I cooperate with a case. To do anything less would be criminal.’

  I wanted to stand there and look shocked, but I decided it would be much more effective to drop my eyebrows into a deep ‘V,’ curl my lip into a sneer, and head for the door as if I knew exactly what I was doing. I stopped there, mustering as much Barbara Stanwyck as I could, and said, ‘Thank you for making it clear that I can’t trust you in the least. I’m now completely justified in not reporting to you on this case.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Bach responded in a voice that could freeze molten lava. ‘You will report absolutely every development in this case, every piece of strategy, every scrap of information you get and intend to use, to me immediately. Or else …’

  ‘What? You’ll fire me?’ I was defiant. ‘If you could do that, you’d have done it already. No, Mr Bach, you’ll get no information at all from me. Why don’t you ask your pal, the district attorney, and then report back to me on what he says?’ This time, I didn’t give him a chance to respond, but flung open the door to his office, and left with a great Joan Crawford swoosh, picturing Bach weeping quietly into his hands. All right, so he probably didn’t react at all, but a girl can dream, can’t she?

  Back in my own office, I ignored the ringing phone and buzzing intercom and gathered my file on Patrick McNabb. From now on, I’d have to keep it all on the cart I’d use for court, and work out of my apartment, to be sure Bach couldn’t send in any of his emissaries to confiscate it. This was war.

  It wasn’t until I piled it all into the taxi that I had a chance to stop my shaking hands and think. If Bach was indeed helping the district attorney, in any way, it meant the prosecution had some concerns about the case. And that presented a possibility I hadn’t considered that was so startling, and so revolutionary, that it stopped me dead in my tracks – as stopped dead as I could be in a moving cab – for a solid minute.

  It was possible – not definite, not even probable, but possible – that Patrick McNabb actually hadn’t killed his wife.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  If you’re not a veteran of the film industry, the first thing you notice about soundstages is how large they are. The ceilings are so high it’s like being outdoors, but for the lack of natural light. The soundstages have no windows, because the lighting must be tightly controlled, and if no sets are built, there’s a staggering amount of space sitting there doing nothing.

  I thought the sight of a soundstage perfectly encompassed the Hollywood experience – it was tremendous, and totally empty.

  For a cinema aficionado like me, the illusion was more important, indeed, more desirable, than the reality of the process. I didn’t want to know how things were done – that would ruin the experience of watching the serious films I favored. If something looked on the screen like a park at sunset, I wanted to believe it was a park at sunset. Seeing the colored cellophane ‘gels’ over the lights that hung so high overhead, and the fake grass underfoot, was hardly awe-inspiring to me.

  Here, on the set of Legality, only one scene was left to shoot – naturally, because it was out of continuity or context, it made no sense to me. But Angie not only hung on every word as if it held her own fate, but somehow managed to overlook all the artifice of craft and work, and see only the illusion. Angie was magically transported to the Portland, Oregon that existed only in the minds of the show’s creators, who had once spent a weekend there doing ‘research’ during ski season. To her, this was Arthur Kirkland’s world, and the extra equipment needed to make it come to life might as well have been invisible.

  The scene being filmed involved Patrick, as Arthur, being visited in his jail cell by his attorney, Amanda Shaw. But on the set immediately to the right of the tiny jail mock-up was what clearly passed for Arthur’s office, and it was that area that Angie’s eyes never wavered from – at least until the assistant director began to yell for quiet and a loud bell rang over our heads. This was the signal that the scene was about to begin, and for Angie, that was when reality would once again reign.

  ‘Action,’ the director, a slightly portly but sharply dressed (business casual) man in his fifties, said in a conversational tone. A moment went by.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Patrick/Arthur said to his former associate. ‘I thought surely the link to Haddonberg would have cemented the motive.’

  ‘The judge didn’t see it that way,’ the actress playing Amanda answered, letting just a hint of wistful desire flash across her eyes before regaining her professional demeanor. ‘He said you were convicted, and there was no reason to reopen the case based on innuendo.’

  ‘Innuendo?!’ Patrick/Arthur did his best to appear distraught and outraged at the same time, but to me it came across as petulant. ‘It’s clear that Haddonberg wanted revenge, and he saw a way to get it. How could—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Amanda said. ‘We’re not getting a new trial this way.’

  The camera, on a device that looked a lot like railroad tracks, pulled in for a tight close-up of Patrick looking determined/frustrated (which registered again as petulant), while Amanda stepped out of the shot and rolled her neck a bit.

  ‘OK,’ the director said in a tone that implied a slightly agitated lunch order at the deli. ‘Let’s print that one and set up for coverage.’

  The bell rang again, and suddenly everyone visibly relaxed. The technicians began scurrying around like cockroaches, and the lights over the jail cell scene went off. Angie, clearly awestruck, still had her mouth open wide.

  ‘Well, well, two such lovely ladies visiting on the last day of shooting!’ It always amazed me how quickly Patrick could change his voice from Arthur Kirkland’s decidedly American accent to his own cultivated British one. What did his voice sound like under real duress? When he’d been shot, he barely mumbled before realizing it wasn’t a serious wound.

  ‘You’re a lousy flatterer, Patrick,’ I told him. ‘I’d think you could come up with something more original.’

  ‘That’s why they hire writers for me, love,’ he said with that eye crinkle. I hadn’t learned to avert my eyes from that one yet.

  Angie stumbled toward Patrick, who was standing near the ‘office’ set, and her outfit – a neckline so plunging it was practically a waistline, and a skirt short enough to reduce the entire ensemble to the visual equivalent of a wide sash across her waist – drew stares from some of the crew members. Angie has an impressive body, so the stares were mostly from the male crew members, but not exclusively. ‘Mr Mc … Patrick,’ she said, catching his warning look, ‘I was wondering if I might just steal …’ She glanced toward the set, dark but accessible behind him.

  ‘A souvenir?’ Patrick nodded toward the office set. ‘So long as you don’t take the furniture, it should be all right. Check with me first, before you take anything.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ Angie gushed, and I marveled anew at the change in my closest friend’s attitude every time the TV actor was nearby. ‘I’ll be sure to clear it with you. Maybe the “Mason, Kirkland and Petrocelli” stationery on the desk?’ She’d obviously been scoping it out while the crew had been setting-up the prison set scene.

  ‘Perfect,’ Patrick replied. ‘I’ll autograph it for you, and get some of the others to sign it, so you can sell it on eBay when you get home.’

  Angie’s face turned more serious than when her twenty-two-year-old cat had died. ‘Never, Patrick,’ she said. ‘Never gonna happen.’

  She scurried toward the office set as Rex the bodyguard lumbered toward Patrick. ‘Don’t forget the shopping bag,’ Rex said quietly, but not so quietly I couldn’t hear him. ‘The party will start right after you finish the coverage on this scene.’

  ‘
Oh, excellent point, Rex!’ Patrick said. ‘It has the gifts for the crew. I’ll need that. Please. Would you …’

  Angie, stationery in hand (they actually made it up with a real letterhead, as if the camera would notice), broke in on them. ‘Here you go, Patrick,’ she said, noticing Rex – as if it would be possible to miss him, his shaved head and his six-foot-seven bodyguard’s frame – but intent on her task. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Patrick, who could probably sign an autograph in his sleep. But he made it look like he was paying special attention to this one, even if he wasn’t. He did not scribble. Angie was thrilled. ‘Now, you leave it with me, and I’ll get a few of the others to add their signatures.’

  ‘Mr McNabb? The shopping bag?’ Rex would not be deterred.

  ‘Ah, yes. I believe it’s in my trailer. Do you mind, Rex?’ He held out a key. ‘It’s in a locked cabinet under the iPod dock.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Rex nodded and turned. But Patrick, a touch of mischief in his eye, broke in.

  ‘Perhaps Angela would like to go with you to see what the trailer looks like. After all, Rex, you might need a bodyguard of your own, bringing back that bag.’ Angie’s eyes lit up as she hooked herself to Rex’s arm and led him out of the soundstage before the poor man knew what hit him. Rex stole a couple of glances back toward Patrick and me, but his fate was obviously sealed, and he knew it.

  ‘So, what is this urgent business of yours, Sandy? Not that I mind a visit, and I hope you’ll stay for the wrap party.’

  ‘It’s important, Patrick, and confidential. Is there a place we can talk privately?’

  He looked impressed. ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘There’s a wardrobe room just over there.’ Patrick pointed across the floor to a door and led me toward it.

  We walked inside, and he closed the door behind us. The walls were covered all the way up to the fifty-foot ceiling with racks of clothing, some contemporary, some period: women’s, men’s, formal, and casual. I swear I recognized a dress from an Ingrid Bergman film of 1956.

  ‘Angie would have a stroke in here,’ I said. Patrick chuckled.

  ‘You see? I’m not the only one who likes to collect things from old movies,’ he said. ‘Now, what’s the trouble?’

  ‘You can’t trust Junius Bach,’ I said, cutting right to the chase. ‘He’s working against us on this case, and might even be giving information to the district attorney. Don’t tell him anything, and don’t look for me in the firm’s offices any more. I’ll be working from home for the duration.’

  Patrick looked like he was doing a very bad impression of a very drunk man. His eyebrows shot up and his eyes lost their focus. He shook his head.

  ‘Junius? I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Believe it. He did everything but admit it to me less than two hours ago.’ I wanted to impress Patrick with my dedication to his case. It suddenly meant a great deal to me that he remain loyal to me, and not to Junius Bach. Besides, I had just as wide a vindictive streak as the next girl, assuming the next girl was Lucretia Borgia.

  ‘But, why? It doesn’t make sense. Junius doesn’t gain anything by sabotaging my case.’ Patrick began to idly fondle the fringes of a 1920s flapper dress (red, of course) hanging just at his head.

  ‘He wants me to fail, and he wants to fire me,’ I said. ‘This is personal, and it has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘You’re sounding just a bit paranoid, Sandy,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’re misinterpreting …’

  The door opened, and two men I hadn’t seen before, dressed like the technicians outside, walked in. They wore baseball caps pressed low on their heads, and were looking down just slightly, so it was hard to see their faces in this light. Atlanta Braves baseball hats, I noticed.

  ‘Do you mind?’ Patrick said. ‘We’re having a private conversation here.’

  ‘I’ll bet it’s real private,’ said the taller man, and if there is such a thing as a vocal leer, he provided it. ‘But we’re forced to interrupt this private conversation.’

  My back immediately tensed. The tension increased when I noticed the shorter man locking the wardrobe room door from the inside.

  Patrick’s eyes narrowed in genuine confusion. ‘Is there a problem, gentlemen?’ he asked.

  The shorter man tapped the larger one on the biceps and chortled. ‘You hear that? He thinks we’re gentlemen.’

  The taller one ignored him. ‘We’re here because you didn’t take the hint in the car, or at UCLA,’ he said to Patrick, his voice hoarse but even. ‘You didn’t die when you were supposed to.’

  Shit, I thought, inhaling sharply. ‘Get behind me, Patrick,’ I said, and tried to step in front of him.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Sandy.’ Patrick pushed me away with his left arm. ‘This is just a misunderstanding. Isn’t it, gentlemen?’

  ‘No,’ the taller one said. ‘I think she understands perfectly.’ Each of the intruders reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a box cutter.

  ‘OK, I get it,’ Patrick said, ‘that jokester, Jude Law, has gone too far this time. Tell him we were really scared, OK? But that’s enough.’

  ‘Jude Law,’ the shorter one said, snickering again. ‘He thinks we know Jude Law.’

  Keep them talking, I thought. Talking is better than slashing. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Why do you want to kill us? What have we done to you?’

  ‘You haven’t done nothing,’ the shorter one said. ‘You’re an innocent bystander. It’s him that’s offended people.’ The two men began advancing on Patrick, who tried again, unsuccessfully, to push me aside.

  ‘What people?’ I pressed. If I was going to get whacked, I at least wanted to know on whose orders.

  Patrick moved his right arm this time, pushing me away while his left arm came up behind us and pulled down a free-standing clothing rack. He managed to step through it as he pulled, dropping the rack and the clothing in the intruders’ direction.

  He pulled me with him as he retreated into the room, but it wasn’t large, and the entrance through which the intruders had come was blocked by, well, them. The two men jumped back to avoid the falling rack, lost a moment, then advanced more quickly, brandishing the box cutters.

  Backed into a corner, with Patrick at my left side, I couldn’t think straight. Words were coming out of my mouth faster than I could think them.

  ‘Patrick, tell me now – did you kill Patsy?’

  He stared at me with a where-did-that-come-from expression, and said, ‘Maybe this isn’t the time.’

  ‘This is exactly the time. I need to know.’

  His gaze softened, and he said quietly, ‘Of course not.’

  Patrick stepped in front of me as the intruders reached us. The taller man raised his box cutter into the air and, reflexively, I gasped, trying desperately to think of something to say or do, but I couldn’t focus over the voice in my head screaming PANIC! PANIC! PANIC! PANIC! Even screaming out loud seemed impossible. It was like a dream where you know that if you scream, you can wake up, but you can’t summon even the slightest sound from your throat.

  Luckily, the situation did not depend on my quick thinking. The door to the room burst open, the lock disintegrating and wood from the frame flying, and Rex’s huge foot entered. The rest of Rex wasn’t far behind, and all of Angie was behind him.

  ‘Mr McNabb?’ said Rex, as he and Angie ran into the room.

  ‘Here, Rex!’ Patrick yelled, and we instinctively melted to the floor. The look exchanged between the two intruders meant only one thing: ‘Uh-oh.’

  I wrapped my arms over my head and tucked my face to the floor in some sort of helpless, defensive position. I heard loud footsteps, then Angie yelling, ‘Sand? Where are you?’ And then, nothing.

  When I finally came to and looked up, Rex and Angie were standing over me, Rex looking about fifteen feet tall. Patrick was dusting himself off and standing up, and the two intruders were nowhere in sight.

  It took me a moment, but I eventua
lly managed to croak out, ‘What happened?’

  Angie held her hand out and helped me, on shaking legs, to stand. ‘I was going to ask you that exact same question,’ she said. ‘What were you two’ – and she got a glint in her eye – ‘doing in here?’

  I looked around the room where, aside from the fallen clothing, there was no sign of a struggle. ‘What do you mean, what were we doing?’ I asked. ‘What happened to those two men?’

  Rex looked at Angie. Angie looked at Rex. Rex turned to me.

  ‘What two men?’ he said.

  I looked at Patrick. Patrick looked at me. Then he took a long, careful look around the wardrobe room. ‘There must be a back door,’ I said, turning to Patrick. ‘Why didn’t you know that?

  ‘I think somebody had better call the police,’ Patrick said.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Lieutenant K.C. Trench was, after all, a twenty-five-year veteran of the Los Angeles Police Department, so this was not his first film set, and even if it were, he would not have been in awe. Actually, I didn’t think Trench would be in awe if whatever deity he worshipped descended from the heavens and called him by name.

  ‘So two men in Atlanta Braves baseball caps threatened you with box cutters, and never mentioned why they might be doing so? Is that right?’ Trench asked us. He was looking up into the catwalks and lights above our heads. Still, I knew he was watching for facial expressions, in case either of us betrayed anything. The man’s peripheral vision was amazing.

  ‘That’s about right, Lieutenant,’ I answered, with an effort to sound as natural as possible. Sure. Two men with razor blades wanted to slit our throats. Yup. Happens every day. Why do you ask?

  ‘Mr McNabb, do you have any idea why someone might want to have you killed? If I’m counting correctly, this is now the fourth attempt – the drive-by shooting, the sniper attack, the exploding Ferrari, and this. That makes four, doesn’t it?’

  Patrick, obviously intrigued by the presence of a real policeman (another possible research subject), widened his eyes and nodded. ‘Yes, Lieutenant. I’m starting to feel just a little picked on.’ There was a chuckle, but Trench didn’t participate in it.