Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4)

by Terry Odell

  “Nice as in flowers? Chocolate? Daily Bread’s cinnamon rolls?” Gordon said.

  “All three would probably be a smart move.”

  The second tech appeared from behind the closet door, white teeth gleaming in a smile. He held up a cell phone. “In her coat pocket. An inside coat pocket, so easy to see how our burglar missed it.”

  At last. Something they could work with.

  “That’s hers,” Gordon said. “There can’t be two people around here with monogrammed red cell phone cases.”

  “Let me print it before we poke around.”

  Gordon tried not to fidget as the tech completed his task.

  “No usable prints.” The tech extended the phone to Gordon. “Given you’re looking for emergency contact information, and it belongs to the victim, there’s no expectation of privacy. You should be good to go. If you need more than what you see, our computer forensics team can dig it out.”

  “Does it have an in case of emergency contact number?” Solomon asked. “A lot of people use ICE as the name. And if they’re smart, they add a period in front so it’s at the top of the list.”

  “Let’s find out if it’s password protected first,” Gordon said. He pressed the start button and was relieved to find that, for whatever reason, the anal Marianna Spellman hadn’t locked her phone. Probably assumed she’d never leave it lying around. Or she got tired of entering her code all the time. Didn’t matter. Bottom line—they were in.

  He scrolled through her contacts, but there was nothing as obvious as “Mom” or “Dad” or another Spellman. The mayor had introduced her as “Miss” so Gordon assumed she was single. They could cross reference the numbers on her list via the phone company, though, and see who she’d been calling. According to her call log, she’d had seventeen exchanges with the same three people over the last two days. Gordon wrote those numbers in his notepad.

  “Paper shredder is empty,” Solomon said.

  “Check with whoever’s in charge of cleaning these trailers. Find out when they clean. Could be she hadn’t used it.”

  Solomon wrote in his notepad. “Got it.”

  “Have you found the papers with everyone’s information yet?” Gordon asked. “Dawson said everyone had to sign releases, so they’d be hard copies, not electronic files.”

  Solomon stared at the piles of paper on the floor. With gloved hands, he started going through them. “Mind if I take pictures?”

  “Be my guest,” the tech said. “If all you need is what’s written on them, taking pictures is fine, and it will help cut down on us having to print all of them.”

  After a few minutes, Solomon shouted, “Eureka.” He held up a sheet of paper. “Marianna Spellman’s emergency contact information lists an Avis Fontenot as the person to notify.”

  “Thank goodness for that. Any address?”

  “Nope. Just a phone number. Area code is in Los Angeles.”

  Gordon checked Marianna's phone, hoping for more detailed contact information, but the phone number was the only information listed.

  “I’ll get with the officials there.” Gordon's spirits lifted as he now had something to follow up on. They dropped just as quickly as he stared at the scattered papers.

  Solomon seemed to be on the same wavelength.”We have no way of knowing if anything’s missing, or if this was malicious mischief. I vote we start sorting through all this.”

  “I’ll second that,” Gordon said. “Meet you at the station. I need to check with Dawson first. And make sure you get this RV taped.”

  “Roger, Chief.” Solomon gave him a grin and a quick salute.

  Leaving the techs and Solomon to finish processing the scene, Gordon headed for Daily Bread. Dawson and a man dressed all in black were conferring, heads together, at a table by the window. Dawson lifted his gaze as Gordon approached.

  “You find what you were looking for?”

  Gordon snorted. “And more.” He gave a rundown of what they’d found. “Any ideas who might do that? And why your security people didn’t notice?”

  Dawson called the men over. “We had a break-in at Marianna Spellman’s RV this morning. You’re paid to prevent things like that, or at least notice. What the hell happened?”

  The controlled anger in Dawson’s tone had Gordon on the defensive, and he wasn’t even the offender.

  “I was assigned to the set,” one guard said. “I wasn’t in the Village once they started prep for shooting.”

  The other two exchanged uneasy glances. “Nobody was on the lot who didn’t have a reason to be there,” another guard said. About five-ten, balding, thick glasses, and carrying enough weight for half another person, Gordon wondered if he could have caught a vandal even if he’d noticed. Absolutely not, if it involved running.

  The last guard, about as lean as the other was porky, simply shrugged. “I was on the far perimeter, not close to where her trailer was. After all the extras did their paperwork, there was no reason to be there.”

  “And none of you saw Marianna Spellman go to the wardrobe RV?” Gordon asked.

  All three shook their heads. “Nope,” the porky guard said. “We already told the cop. We saw her arrive, go to her office, and that was it.”

  “You’re dismissed. Probably permanently,” Dawson said. They shuffled away, heads hanging. Dawson turned his attention to Gordon. “Was anything taken? Wouldn’t that give you a clue?”

  “We have no way of knowing. The Crime Scene Response techs are processing the scene. Have you ever heard Marianna speak of an Avis Fontenot? All we have is a number.”

  “No, I told you we weren’t close.”

  “Did either Yolanda or Ian show up?”

  Dawson exchanged a quick, questioning glance with his tablemate, who shook his head. “No. If it was only Ian, I’d say he was out killing time until he was needed on the set, but that would have been an hour ago. However, he’s the sort who might take it upon himself to decide there’s no need to hang around, since shooting has been postponed. Yolanda, on the other hand—she’s always where she belongs. Once she had everyone dressed, she’d have come to the set to handle any adjustments, repairs, and the like.”

  “I’ll put out a BOLO,” Gordon said. “Can you describe them, or better yet, do you have pictures?”

  “Ian is in his late-twenties, black hair, blue eyes, six-one, about one-eighty. Google him and you’ll have plenty of pictures. Yolanda’s mid-fifties, maybe five-three, about a hundred and forty pounds. Latina, wears her hair in a braid most of the time. Oh, and she has a mole on her right cheek, near her ear.”

  “Thanks.” Gordon was surprised at the detail, but then, the man was in a visual industry and would notice stuff like that.

  Gordon checked in with Titch, then with Vicky McDermott, who told him she’d released Finnegan’s. “Should I resume my patrol route?” she asked.

  He approved, then gave her a quick description of Yolanda and Ian. “If you see either of them, bring them in.”

  A pause. “Describe Ian again, please.”

  He did.

  “I think he’s here.”

  Gordon dragged a hand through his hair. “You sure?”

  “He’s not a Mapleton regular,” McDermott said. “He’s sitting in a table in the back. On his second beer. I don’t think Mick’s run a card for him, though, so I can’t check. Unless you want me to ask him.”

  “Why don’t you do that. And if he is Ian Patrick, ask him to accompany you to the station. Nicely. You can be very convincing. But get him there.”

  “If he refuses? I don’t have any grounds to arrest him.”

  “Then get Lionel Dawson to convince him. He’s the director, and he’s at Daily Bread.”

  Gordon disconnected and headed for the station, joined by a full-blown headache.

  Chapter 9

  Gordon’s first order of business—after popping two ibuprofen—was to get the death notification process started and off his list. Probably the easiest chore he’d have
all day. He called the LAPD and with a few bounces through phone trees, gave Avis Fontenot’s name and number to a woman in the appropriate department, who promised to follow through.

  “If there’s any way they can ask her about Marianna Spellman’s health, or any problems with people, I’d appreciate it. I know it’s a troubling time, but we’re still coming up empty on how she died,” Gordon said.

  The woman said she’d note it, but added, “It might take a second visit, depending on the woman’s state of mind when they give her the news.”

  Gordon said he understood and hung up.

  Next, he brewed a fresh pot of decaf, and while it hissed and gurgled, he fetched a notepad. He wrote Death Notification and drew a line through it. Nothing like crossing something off a to-do list before you wrote the damn list. While he was thinking of it, he added Marianna’s purse and laptop. Then, he went to find Laurie.

  She stopped typing at his approach and rolled her eyes as she reached for a stack of message slips. “I didn’t think you’d want to spend half of forever listening to voicemail messages, so I switched your direct line to my desk. I also called in a couple of the civilian patrol guys to help man the main switchboard.”

  “Did I ever tell you—?”

  “Not often enough.” She handed him the stack, which was separated into two parts, each clipped together. She tapped the top one. “These are the ones who refused to accept that we can’t tell them anything. The others are people who are sure they know who killed the person at the studio. I’ve starred the ones you might want to call sometime today.”

  “What? We haven’t told anyone anything yet. We haven’t even confirmed it was a homicide.”

  “You’re right, but when the Coroner’s van pulls up, word gets around. And most of these … helpful … citizens are offering leads to suspicious people. They don’t know—or care—who the victim is. They just want to tell you who did it.”

  If these people managed to get through to his or Laurie’s desk, Gordon could imagine the stack of slips for the main incoming line. And, he’d better check with Connie in Dispatch, because 911—well, it wasn’t solely for emergencies according to far too many citizens.

  “And I called in Tessa to help Connie in Dispatch,” Laurie said.

  Gordon foresaw large orders of flowers and chocolate in his immediate future.

  “You’re terrific, you know that, don’t you.”

  She grinned. “Of course. And if you want to say thanks, an introduction to Cassidy Clarke might make up for all the chaos I’ve been dealing with.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Gordon took his message slips to Dispatch where Connie and Tessa were fielding calls calmly and professionally, giving people the polite brush-off. He knew what he’d like to be saying, and imagined it was the same for them. Helping people in emergencies was one thing. Dealing with people who thought 911 was a problem-solving hot line—not so much.

  At a short break, Gordon asked Connie, “Any actual police business coming through?”

  She snorted. “Civilian patrol didn’t report anything. Nobody has time for emergencies. They’re all too busy thinking they can be movie stars.”

  Tessa chimed in. “I took one almost legitimate call. Mr. Johnson said there was a prowler in the alley behind his house. Turned out to be a raccoon trying to get at his garbage can. Animal control relocated it.”

  “And the citizens of Mapleton are safe once again,” Gordon said. “If the calls level off—”

  “Which they should,” Connie interrupted. “I think every person in Mapleton has already bugged us.”

  “Make sure everyone who was working interviews has their paperwork turned in. Anyone who thinks they’ve found a lead, or has something viable to add to the investigation, have them report to the briefing room. But—in a nice way—let them know I’ll be paying close attention to what’s actually information, and what’s merely an excuse to ditch their assignments for something they think is more interesting.”

  Behind a hand, Tessa snorted back a laugh.

  Gordon pretended he hadn’t noticed. “Connie, I’ll leave it to you to use your judgment as to how long Tessa is needed. And thanks, Tessa, for pitching in.”

  “Heck, no problem, Chief,” Tessa said. “It was kind of fun—aside from the someone’s dead aspect.”

  “And I’m off to see what I can do about that.”

  Gordon leafed through the message slips as he walked, seeking the ones with stars. None seemed urgent enough to require his immediate attention, so he went into the war room where Gaubatz was rearranging the furniture, dragging chairs out of the way to make room for tables.

  “I thought we’d put a couple of tables across here—” Gaubatz pointed to the center of the room— “and more along the walls for all the paperwork.”

  “That’ll work.”

  “Where should we put the laptops?” Gaubatz asked. He gestured toward two sitting on a front table.

  “On the center tables.” Gordon spared a fleeting moment of regret that their in-vehicle computer system hadn’t come through, when they’d have enough laptops for everyone, but they’d manage with the few they had.

  Solomon arrived and pulled Gordon aside. “McDermott’s got Ian Patrick in Interrogation. Do you want me to question him or let him cool his heels until we finish? Or do you want to do the honors?”

  “He give her any trouble?”

  “None I’m aware of.”

  So, the man had cooperated. He wasn’t a suspect—yet—and in the spirit of rewarding Patrick for coming in, rather than make him wait, Gordon sent Solomon. “I’d rather do it myself, but you know the job. Do I need to remind you he’s an actor, and his answers might seem truthful but—”

  Solomon raised both palms. “Got it. My BS meter is tuned to the highest level of sensitivity. If you want, I bet I could snag a cameraman from the production company and record the interview.”

  “Let’s not go that far, Ed. Besides, if there’s a camera, it might trigger the I’m an actor response in Patrick. Voice will be enough.”

  “On it. I left all the interview papers on the front table. They’re sorted by which officer conducted the interview.” Solomon strode to the door.

  Gordon returned to the front of the room and walked around the whiteboard. Solomon had written the name of everyone on the production schedule, plus the locals who had been hanging around the set. He’d crossed out some, and others had question marks.

  Compared to the back, the front of the board was absolutely barren. His officers assembled, a hush replacing the quiet conversations as Gordon stepped to the podium.

  “Thanks for your hard work, everyone. We need to construct a timeline. With so many people to account for, it would probably take three of these boards. Since we have only the one, let’s start by deciding who we can dismiss.” Gordon spun the board around. “We’ll go down the list. If you interviewed that person, give us your impressions.” He pointed to Gaubatz, who was sitting in the front row. “To help everyone remember, Gaubatz will give everyone their interview sheets for reference.”

  Once that was done, Gordon tapped the board, and said, “Let’s start with the extras,” and called out the first name.

  When they’d gotten through the list, Gordon had drawn lines through most of the extras’ names. They’d been sent to Marianna’s RV as soon as they arrived to deal with paperwork. She’d seemed fine, and nobody reported having any problems with her. Next, they’d made brief stops at wardrobe to make sure the clothes they wore were acceptable—t-shirts with logos being the main offenders. A couple had been dressed in clothes inappropriate for the weather in the script, wearing tank tops that revealed more cleavage than the director wanted. They’d been given replacements. They’d dealt with Yolanda, but all were out of wardrobe by six-fifteen. All the extras were in and out of makeup by six-thirty, since they weren’t going to be in any close-ups. After that, they were sent to the lounge.

  “Was anyone watching to
make sure they stayed where they were supposed to be?” Gordon asked.

  “I talked to the security guards,” Titch said. “They said nobody was wandering about, and one of the production wranglers brought everyone from the Village to the holding area to wait for rehearsals.”

  Gordon couldn’t help but wonder if the security guards would have noticed, but he had no reason to suspect any of these extras had anything to do with Marianna’s death or the break-in. But he was still damn sure going to have a nice, long chat with them.

  Gordon brought up the names of the three hopefuls who’d come in with the extras. “This is out there, but we have to consider it. Any reason to think they’d be mad enough they couldn’t be in the shoot to do away with the woman they perceived as their obstacle?”

  “No,” Vicky said. “But if you want, I can run them through the database to see if they have records, any violent tendencies.”

  “Let Gaubatz do it,” Gordon said, not that he expected any hits.

  Gaubatz shifted to a seat in front of one of the laptops and tapped the keyboard. Vicky moved to the other computer, waiting for direction.

  “Moving on,” Gordon said. “What about the production company people? Crew and actors. There were four cast members scheduled. Mai Phan, who found the body, and Ian Patrick, who is here now. There were also two stand-ins, reported to have been in wardrobe, Bart Bergsstrom and Kathy Newberg. Who interviewed these two?”

  Papers rustled. Heads turned, shoulders shrugged, glances were exchanged. An uncomfortable silence pervaded the room.

  “Nobody?” Gordon said. “Titch, call Lionel Dawson, find out if he saw these two.”

  “On it.” Titch pulled his cell phone from his belt and stepped outside the room.

  Chapter 10

  Again, they went through the names. Most had been setting up for the shoot and were on the set, not in the Village. A few had used the lounge, but nobody remembered seeing Marianna.

  Trying not to let his frustration show, Gordon turned the whiteboard around and picked up the marker. At the top right, he printed the names Bart Bergsstrom, Kathy Newberg, and Yolanda Orozco. Gaubatz was still working at his laptop, so Gordon pointed at Vicky McDermott. “Google those names. Get me pictures. If you can’t find Yolanda, I have a verbal description from Dawson. I want lookout orders on all of them, and then I want all of you on the streets, finding them. At best, we’ve got people playing hooky from work. Worse, we have more suspects. Worst, we’ve got victims.”