by Brad Smith
“These people,” Joe had said, approaching her.
“What people?” Claire had asked.
“Film people.”
Claire wasn’t inclined to listen to Joe’s take on the apparent subspecies known as film people, so she’d kept walking. She got a list of everyone working for the production company from someone named Levi Brown—a thick-chested man with a mane of fashionably dirty-blond hair that looked as if it cost a lot of money in upkeep. Brown said he was one of the producers on the movie, he and a woman named Sam Sawchuk.
The personnel list consisted of two pages, so Claire simply gave one to Joe Brady and kept the other for herself. Joe set up in Finnegan’s Bar and Grill, which would not open until later in the afternoon. It was as good a place as any for Joe to deal with “these people.”
Claire spent the next three hours basically learning nothing.
The last person to be seen with Olivia Burns was a guy named Ronnie Red Hawk, who looked like an out-of-shape Viking but claimed to be Native American. Claire decided she would talk to him before tackling the crew list.
“She was an incredible talent,” Ronnie Red Hawk told her as they sat opposite each other in the boardroom. “We will miss her.”
The man had an earnest, somewhat formal way of speaking, as if he were giving a eulogy, or providing sound bites for the evening news.
“Did you know her long?” Claire asked.
“Not really. No.”
“How long?”
Ronnie Red Hawk took a few seconds to consider the question, as if determined to provide a thoroughly accurate reply. “About . . . seven hours.”
“Seven hours?” Claire repeated. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” Ronnie said. “But I feel as though I’ve known her much longer. Much. I have a way of connecting with people. It’s almost . . . paranormal.”
“Paranormal,” Claire said. She wrote the word down on her notepad, then wondered at once why the hell she did.
Ronnie Red Hawk said that he’d had dinner with the actress the previous night there in the hotel restaurant, and that afterward he’d walked her to the door of her room on the fifth floor before continuing on to his suite. He’d last seen her at around ten thirty.
“How did she seem over dinner?” Claire asked.
“Incredible.”
Claire sighed. “I mean—did she seem out of sorts, frightened, depressed? Anything like that?”
“No,” Ronnie said matter-of-factly, as if incredulous that anyone could be out of sorts when basking in his presence. “She was wonderful. We talked of many things. Future projects.”
“Future projects?” Claire asked. “What do you do?”
“Why, I’m a movie producer,” Ronnie said. He gave Claire a puzzled look, as if she’d just announced that she’d never heard of pizza, or the NFL. “I’m the president of Red Hawk Films,” he added.
“I’m not familiar with the various production companies,” Claire said. “I’m sure there are lots of them. Red Hawk Films—have they been around long?”
“Not long. No.”
Claire started to ask if the company had been around for more than seven hours but she let it go. “I assume your company is involved with Frontier Woman.”
“Yes,” Ronnie said. “I’m one of the main producers. For instance, if we win an Oscar I’ll be one of the people onstage. Accepting, that is. And, of course, I’ll be making a speech.”
“I think we’re about done here,” Claire said.
“Good,” Ronnie said. “I have to head down to JFK. I have someone very special flying in.”
Claire sensed that he was dying for her to ask the identity of the special person en route to JFK, so she didn’t. She had a list of people to talk to and she had to keep moving. In truth, she didn’t know what to think of Ronnie Red Hawk.
All she had learned in the past ten minutes was what he thought of himself.
• • •
Sam stood looking out the window to the parking lot below, where Ronnie Red Hawk’s limo was parked at a forty-five-degree angle, the exhaust belching fumes out the back. Behind her, Robb was lying on the bed, holding a pillow over his face as if in the act of suffocating himself. Levi was pacing the room; she could hear his shoes on the carpet.
“If we shut it down, we’re out a shitload of money,” Sam said. “The insurance doesn’t cover everything. Keep in mind we had to pay Furlong the first day of shooting.”
“Who?” Robb asked, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“The woman who wrote the book,” Sam said, turning to look at him. “Remember her?”
“Oh yeah.”
“The question is—who are we going to lose investor-wise if we keep going?” Levi said. “We can recast the lead but who do we lose if we don’t have Olivia Burns?”
“If we don’t have her?” Sam asked.
“You know what I mean. Who do we lose?”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Sam said. “This story is all over the news. We’re going to have to prepare a statement for the press.” She thought about it, how she would word such a thing. “Christ, do you think she killed herself? You think she pulled a Virginia Woolf?”
“Very possible,” Levi said.
Sam suspected Levi wanted to ask who Woolf was, but he didn’t. “She seemed happy, though,” Sam said. “She was excited about the part.”
“Was it because of me?” Robb asked. He took the pillow from his face.
“No, it wasn’t because of you, baby,” Sam said. “Why would you even say a thing like that?”
“Because she wanted to work with Peter Dunmore,” he replied.
“Stop that,” Sam said. “We don’t even know that she killed herself.”
“Looks like a suicide to me,” Levi said.
“And as far as we’re concerned, it doesn’t fucking matter,” Sam said sharply. “What matters is how we’re going to move forward.”
Sam looked out the window again, in time to see Ronnie Red Hawk lumbering across the parking lot, heading for the limo. He got in and the big Cadillac drove off in the direction of the thruway.
“There goes our man from Red Hawk Films,” she said. “Heading back to the rez, I hope. I was afraid he was going to call a press conference.”
“I’m surprised the cops let him leave,” Levi said.
“Why?” Sam turned away from the window.
“Why?” he repeated. “He was the last one with her. Wouldn’t he be the prime suspect?”
“Two minutes ago you thought it was suicide,” Sam reminded him. “Besides, why would Ronnie want to harm Olivia? She’s the star of the movie. His movie, or so he thinks.”
“That’s my point,” Levi said. “There’s something not right about that guy. He doesn’t look right, he doesn’t sound right. He’s not right.”
“He’s got casino money coming out of his ears,” Sam said. “So I’m willing to cut him all kinds of slack. He can call himself Ronnie B. DeMille and walk around the set with a megaphone in his hand if he wants to.”
“Forget about him,” Robb said. “When do we begin shooting again?”
Levi and Sam both looked at him. The question was uncharacteristically direct, coming from Robb. It was also, Sam knew, exactly what they should be asking themselves.
“As soon as we find a replacement,” she began, then stopped. “No, all we need to do is announce that we’re looking for somebody. You know, we could actually get some good PR out of this. And then we go ahead and shoot around the character of Martha while we decide. A lot of actresses wanted this part, and you know fucking well every one of them still does. So this is what we do—we don’t even contact any of the money people. Our stance is nothing has changed. While we regret this great tragedy, we keep right on shooting, which means back at it tomorrow. Let’s keep in mind that we’re paying a fucking crew.”
“Yeah,” Robb said.
“We need to get Tommy up here and set up a new shooting schedule,” Sam s
aid. The hotel phone rang then and she walked over to it. “We can shoot the schoolhouse stuff tomorrow.” She picked up the receiver, said hello, and listened for a moment. “All right,” she said before hanging up. “They want us downstairs to talk to the cops,” she said. “It’s our turn in the barrel. I’ll call Tommy’s cell and we’ll meet back here in an hour.”
“All right,” Levi said. “I need to go work out anyway. I gotta work off this stress.”
“You already talk to the cops?” Sam asked.
“I’ll talk to them on my schedule, not theirs.”
• • •
The Hampton Inn featured a good gym, better than most Levi had experienced in a chain hotel, especially a chain hotel out in the hinterland. In general he was of the opinion that everything to be found in the rural environs of the nation was of an inferior nature. This included the food and the drinks and the general intelligence of the people themselves. Not to mention whatever passed for culture. Levi had become convinced in recent years that he lived in a country of imbeciles, with limited and select pockets of intellect based, for the most part, in New York or Chicago or possibly LA.
The gym was empty when he got there and he started at once on the Nautilus, working his legs and glutes first. He was obviously the first to use the facilities that day and the equipment was very clean and spotless. That didn’t stop Levi, who detested finding tiny rivulets of sweat or, even worse, the odd pubic hair on a machine, from wiping the equipment down anyway.
After he’d been on the Nautilus maybe five minutes a woman entered, tall and blonde, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a black leotard and running shoes and carried with her a white towel and an e-reader. She gave Levi a quick nod and went directly to one of the treadmills, where she set up the reader, pulled glasses from somewhere inside the towel, and began a slow jog.
She was a good-looking woman, maybe thirty-five, and very serious in her demeanor, focused on both her reading and her workout. By her appearance she was urban and hip and Levi doubted she was from around there. Of course she wasn’t from around there, if she was staying at the hotel. After a while he left the machine and approached a lifting bench not fifteen feet from the woman. He made a show of adding weight and then lay down and did a couple dozen presses. The room had mirrors all along one wall and he could watch himself there while he worked, occasionally sneaking glances over at the blonde. His arms looked good, the triceps rolling with each lift.
Not that the woman was noticing. She was intent on her jogging and on whatever she was reading. Levi added more weight and did a few more presses, then he got up and wiped his face with a towel. Turning, he reacted as if he’d forgotten she was there.
“Not a bad facility for Hooterville,” he said.
She glanced over and nodded somewhat absently, then went back to her reading.
“I work locations a lot,” he said. “Most of the time you can’t find decent equipment. My local gym in Tribeca is state-of-the-art, so I’m spoiled. But I can live with this. If I don’t work out every day, I get antsy as hell. It’s like my body rebels. You?”
“Oh, I can miss a day and survive,” she said, her eyes remaining on the reader.
She wasn’t overly friendly but at least she’d responded and that was enough for Levi to pursue the conversation. He saw now that she really was a babe; she had a great ass and small, firm tits. Her nose was a little perky for Levi’s taste but her mouth was very nice, her lips full. One of those ice-cool blondes, probably in fashion or television even. Hard to crack but definitely worth the effort in the end.
“I’m shooting a feature film in the area,” he said. “So I’m here for a couple months. Always a bit of a culture shock, coming from the city. You think you’re ready for everything you have to do without, but you never are.” He paused. “Where you from?”
“California.”
“I can see that, you look like a California girl,” Levi said. “I get out there a lot. Meetings with studio honchos, you know? Pain in the ass, but part of the gig. I’d complain but who would listen?” He paused. “What are you reading? And don’t tell me it’s Frontier Woman.”
“No.”
Levi laughed. “That would be too ironic. The movie I’m making is an adaptation of the book. Have you read it?”
“Frontier Woman? Yeah, I have.”
“Did you like it?”
“I liked a lot of it,” the woman said. She reached forward to increase the speed on the treadmill.
“I’m Levi Brown, by the way.”
“Sandra.”
No last name, Levi thought. That was fine. He could do anonymous. “So what are you reading?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s a biography.”
“Not the new one on Matt Damon, is it?” Levi asked. “I was at the Garden with Matt a couple weeks ago and he is pissed about that book. Pissed.”
“It’s not Matt Damon,” the woman said. “It’s Wendell Berry.”
“Oh yeah,” Levi said, wondering who in the fuck Wendell Berry was. “I haven’t read it yet. Good?”
“It is.”
Levi used the towel to wipe down his arms and shoulders. The woman hadn’t really even taken a good look at him yet, he noticed. In fact, she hadn’t glanced over at all. “So what are you doing here, Sandra? Way out in the boonies.”
“Research.”
“Really? What are you researching—hillbilly culture in upstate New York?” Levi laughed at his own joke. “You should come out on location. I could introduce you to some rural types that would blow your mind. Right out of The Grapes of Wrath. There are people who actually wear straw hats to restaurants. It’s insane.”
The woman shut the machine down and stepped off. She removed the reading glasses and folded them with the e-reader into her towel. She really hadn’t spent a lot of time on the treadmill. Levi noted that she wasn’t even perspiring.
“So are you interested in coming on set?” Levi asked. “I could introduce you to the cast and you could watch them shoot a few scenes. Might be interesting for you. I mean, since you’ve read the book.”
“No thanks.”
“Right. I suppose that’s old hat for you, being from LA.” Levi wiped his face. “But you might like to hang out anyway.” He knew he was scuffling, so he went to his standard line. “I’m a bit of a maverick in this business. I grew up in Detroit, the inner city. Ninety percent of the people I went to high school with are dead or in jail. But I made it out.”
“I’m not from LA,” the woman said, ignoring his mini-autobiography.
“Oh. I assumed—”
“I’m from Capay Valley,” she said. “I have an organic farm there. I’m here researching some of the local vineyards.”
“Oh,” Levi said. “So you’re a winemaker?”
“No.” The woman finally smiled. “I’m a farmer. As a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure I’m one of those hillbillies you mentioned.”
“I wasn’t talking about you.”
“Actually, you were,” she said. “But I’m okay with it. Now I have to grab my straw hat and get to work.”
• • •
Claire ran into Sal Delano as she was walking to the coffee shop off the hotel lobby. She was almost done there, although in terms of gathering pertinent information she’d been pretty much done before she’d started. She had worked with Sal on a couple cases of late, so she’d gotten in touch with him through dispatch and asked that he come to the hotel. He had just made investigator a couple years earlier but he was smart and had the ability to think outside the box, a term that Claire would never actually use out loud.
She bought him a coffee and they sat down in the little shop.
“You finished?” he asked.
“One to go,” Claire said. “One of the producers.”
Sal pulled his notebook from his pocket. “I did a little digging on the web, like you asked. Most of the stuff you probably already know. The film is Frontier Woman, based on a book by A
nn Furlong. Budget around thirty million. I got the names of the producers, cast, all that.” He looked at his notes for a moment. “Nothing racy in Olivia Burns’s background. She’s pretty low-key for a big-name actress. She was married once when she was just a kid, but divorced ten years ago. Seems unlikely the ex-husband would be a suspect after all that time.”
“It does.”
Sal had a drink of coffee. “I found one thing that might interest you. The guy who was supposed to direct this thing left the project a few days ago.”
“Name?”
“Peter Dunmore.”
“What happened?” Claire asked.
“According to the Internet,” Sal said, “he either quit or was fired or he joined a cult.”
“Good old Internet.”
“Yeah,” Sal said.
Claire glanced out into the lobby and saw the producer Levi Brown heading for the boardroom. He was to be her last interview. She’d wanted to talk to him earlier when he’d provided her with the crew list, but he’d declined, saying he had a meeting with another producer and the director to discuss the status of the film. He’d been somewhat dismissive of Claire at the time, but she’d let it go. Presumably he’d had a rough morning.
“Check it out,” Claire said, turning back to Sal. “See if the guy has an ax to grind. And while you’re at it, follow the money. How the hell does anybody get their hands on thirty million dollars? I couldn’t raise thirty cents.”
“I can pay you for the coffee, Claire.”
She stood up. “Smart-ass. Get to work.”
When she walked into the boardroom, Levi Brown was there waiting for her. He’d obviously just come from working out, presumably in the hotel gym. He was wearing track pants and a tank top and had a thick yellow towel draped around his neck. He stood looking at his cell phone, reading a text, or so it appeared. When Claire entered, he glanced at her irritably, then moved away a few steps, as if she was intruding. She heard the beeps as he replied to the message before closing the phone and turning to her.
