by Sussman, Ben
“That would be great,” Ashley answered. Yet, she still found it hard to believe that this opportunity could be a reality. Los Angeles had made her so incredibly jaded that hope was a rare commodity, all of which made her add, “Just out of curiosity, how many other girls have been on this couch and received that line?”
Corbert barked a laugh, waving a finger at her. “That’s exactly why you’re perfect for this part. It’s a smart, tough-as-nails girl who doesn’t believe in love. Until she falls for a killer robot.” He reached into the middle of one of his paper stacks and withdrew a script, tossing it on to the coffee table in front of her. “Read that and let me know what you think.” He stood, indicating the meeting was over.
“Thank you, Mr. Corbert,” Ashley said, picking up the script. “I didn’t mean to imply-”
“I don’t get offended easily, kid. And, by the way, my wife of thirty years bought me that couch. The woman I raised four daughters with, so you don’t need to worry about it being used for any ‘casting sessions’.”
Ashley matched his grin and promised to read the script that night. Two weeks later, the camera trained on her for the first scene of The Exterminator. The dialogue was clunky but Ashley made it work. When the film was completed thirteen days later, she knew that she had delivered a believable performance. Her hunch was confirmed when she received a call from Corbert.
“I saw a rough cut and you’re phenomenal. I’d like to do a one-year contract for seven pictures. Five thousand per film. Should I call your agent?”
“You could if I had one. But I can save you the trouble.” Although she thought she may be able to get someone to half-heartedly negotiate for her, Ashley knew that there would be no better person to represent her best interests than herself. “I want twelve per film.” She was surprised at how easily the negotiating process had come to her, knowing instinctively that Corbert would never agree to her requested figure but that it was high enough to let him know that she deserved more. They settled on nine thousand.
For nearly two years, Ashley became the go-to actress for Corbert Films. None of her work ever unspooled in a real movie theater, instead being released straight to DVD. Yet, Ashley still found it rewarding. Her dream had been to act in front of the camera and, although this was not exactly what she had imagined, it was close enough. Living in Los Angeles had been a tiresome grind when living off of her previous paychecks but with the respectable income she made from her film work, it became a city of ceaseless possibilities and entertainment. Nights were spent on the party circuit, trekking from Moomba to Bar Marmont and a myriad of secret clubs down twisting back alleys.
In retrospect, Ashley chided herself for not knowing that it would all have to come to an end. However, she never suspected it would stop so abruptly.
It was the first Friday of the month, the standard day for her to pick up the script for the next film she would be working on. Upon entering the company offices, though, she knew immediately that something was wrong. The phones that always seemed to be jangling off the hook lay quiet. Messenger envelopes were stacked haphazardly next to the front door. Concerned, Ashley headed towards the back where she found Ronald’s grizzled assistant at her desk, sobbing into a tissue.
“Helen? What is it?” Ashley inquired.
“It’s Mr. Corbert. He passed away this morning. Fell and hit his head when he was walking his dog.”
Ashley was floored. Since the beginning of their working relationship, she had looked to Corbert as a father figure, someone that was always looking out for her best interest. Now, suddenly, he was gone. Tears pricked her eyes as she shook her head, devastated.
The funeral was an elaborate affair that the whole industry turned out for. Notable names that had gotten their start in Corbert films gave impassioned eulogies for a man they considered a pioneer of the low-budget genre and his daughters each said a tearful goodbye to their father. As Ashley walked in a daze towards her car, a hand on her shoulder caused her to turn. She found herself facing a short man with close-cropped hair and blue-tinted sunglasses.
“Ashley, I’m Scott Brown.”
“Juliette’s husband,” Ashley recognized the name. He was one of Corbert’s son-in-laws who had occasionally worked on set.
“I’m going to be taking over the company for now and I’d like to talk to you tomorrow.”
“Sure, that’s fine,” Ashley managed to reply. Strange, she thought. Corbert had never talked about Scott in a business capacity before. Usually, he just referred to him as “that little putz,” hardly a term of endearment.
When Ashley arrived the next day, she found Scott sitting at Ronald’s desk, speaking harshly to someone on the other end of the telephone. She was waved inside and took a seat on the black leather couch. Scott hung up and sat down next to her, a little too closer than Ashley would have preferred.
“Thanks for coming, Ashley,” he said. “You’re an asset to Corbert films, no doubt. And I’d like to continue our working relationship.”
“OK,” she replied warily. Scott reached back to pull a script off his desk and slapped it down in front of her. “Biker Babes,” she said, reading the title.
Scott nodded. “I’ve got a new vision for this company, something more contemporary. I’m tired of doing the same old thing, you know?”
“The same old thing seemed to work for Ronald.”
“Yeah, well. He’s not here anymore, is he?” Scott leaned forward, plastering a smile on his face. His breath reeked of Altoids and nicotine. “There are some other changes in how we’re doing things, too.”
“Such as?”
“People today don’t just want shocks and thrills. They want titillation, and that’s what Corbert Films is going to give them.”
“Where are you going with this, Scott?”
“I’d like to see…more of you in the next film.”
Ashley flipped through the pages. “From what I can see, the lead is in almost every scene.”
“More of you, Ashley. Know what I mean?”
Ashley knew exactly what he meant and any doubts she may have had were dispelled by his cold eyes and predatory grin. “I’m an actress,” she told him.
“Lots of actresses do nude scenes.”
“I’m not one of them. Ronald never would have-”
“Ronald’s dead,” Scott raised his voice. “It’s sad but it’s the truth.”
“You’re all heart, Scott.”
“I’ll spell it out for you, Ashley. If you don’t do this, I’m canceling your contract.”
Ashley nodded, rising from the couch. “You can go to hell, Scott,” she said calmly. Turning on her heels, she walked out the door.
She did not realize it at that moment but it would be the end of her acting career.
Never having the need for an agent previously, she now found herself in a desperate search for one. Few would take her calls. The ones who did said her only value was in the pictures that were no longer being made by Corbert Films. Three months later, she was still unemployed and nearly broke.
Just as it had a few years earlier at Musso & Frank’s, fate stepped into Ashley’s path to rescue her. This time, it came in the form of an acquaintance that Ashley noticed in the line ahead of her at Starbucks.
“Ashley Kane, where have you been hiding?” the young man asked.
“Here and there,” she answered coyly. She took in his crisp suit and pricey Bluetooth. “What are you doing these days?”
“Making a boatload of money,” he replied with a smile. “You looking for a job?”
She was about to say ‘no’ but stopped herself. Instead, she answered, “As a matter of fact, I am.”
Sales were a natural fit for Ashley. Her effortless charm and negotiating tactics lent themselves easily to the job. Within four months, she was the top salesperson at her server space firm. It was not long before she jumped ship and started her own company, planting her offices on bustling Beverly Boulevard. The business was always humm
ing with only one obstacle ever in her way – Matt Weatherly. The man seemed to always be a step ahead of her in sniffing out the next client.
As Ashley swirled the last sip of her espresso, she rose from her outside table and headed back in the direction of her office. She had finally arrived at a conclusion for Weatherly’s mysterious behavior. If he gave up TekStar, she mused, he must have something even bigger on the hook.
And Ashley was going to find out what it was.
Eight
“Look in your glove compartment,” the voice on the phone instructed Matt. Since he had answered a few moments ago, there had been nothing but commands. The first one had been to exit the house.
“I’m not doing one damn thing for you until you tell me what’s going on!” Matt roared.
“Relax,” came the answer.
If his blood was not boiling, Matt would have laughed. “How dare you tell me to relax after what you’ve done. You killed two of my friends – two innocent people! And I want to know why.”
“Let me begin by telling you that Colin Nemec was not so innocent. He has been hiding clients and commissions from you for six months, most likely to fuel his addiction to expensive alcohol and prostitutes.”
“How could you know something like that?” Matt found himself asking.
“As far as you are concerned, Weatherly, I am omnipotent. Now, go outside to your car.”
“I’m done following orders.” Matt hung up the phone. He took Luke by the shoulder, guiding him to the front door.
“Where are we going?” Luke asked.
“The police. We have to-”
The phone rang again. Matt hesitated, then punched the button to answer. “I told you I’m done-”
The smooth male voice on the other end interrupted, “Right now, I am looking through a sighting scope at a little girl riding her bicycle on your street. She is wearing a yellow shirt, orange ribbon in her hair. If I used words such as ‘adorable,’ it would be appropriate in this instance.”
Matt stepped to his front window. Outside, he saw the girl the man was describing. It was the younger daughter of his neighbors, the Rabins, pedaling furiously on a bike with training wheels. She began to tip over but was saved by her father exiting the garage and righting her.
“Oh, here comes Daddy,” the killer continued. “I wonder what he would think if his daughter suddenly did not possess a head.”
Frigid cold shot through Matt’s veins.
“I have the gun trained on her right now. Pretty easy shot, actually. You no doubt remember how accurate a Barrett 50-caliber rifle is, correct, Captain Weatherly?”
Matt remembered. If the man was telling the truth, then it would be as simple as plucking off a tin can from a nearby fence. “What do you want?” he whispered.
“Right now, I want you and Luke to get in the car. We will get to the rest after that.”
“My son stays here,” Matt replied. “He doesn’t need to be involved.”
“Afraid not. He goes, too. Besides, do you really want to leave him all alone with some murderous maniac on the loose?”
Options pulsed through Matt’s head but he arrived at the same conclusion: Luke was safer for the moment at his side. There was no way he could leave him here alone with Ana’s body and the killer so nearby. Whatever this man’s plan was, he would have to follow it for now.
He stepped out the front door with Luke and walked to his car. As they did, the Rabin daughter and her father called out hello and waved. Matt nodded and waved back, silently praying for them to get back in the house. As Luke climbed into his Porsche, Matt was relieved to see his neighbors enter back into the safety of their home.
Swinging his car door shut, Matt’s eyes surreptitiously scanned the surroundings. Although he was nearly positive that whoever was orchestrating this nightmare was a professional who would not allow himself be seen, he also knew that this was his first opportunity to spot him. A quick peripheral raking resulted in nothing. The voice was in his ear again, instructing him to open up the glove compartment.
Inside, Matt found a small black leather box. He flipped it open to see what looked like a plastic shirt button and a white earbud.
“Hang up the phone and put the earpiece in.” Another click and dead air filled his ear. Matt cut his eyes to Luke who was shivering slightly. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder to steady him.
“Hey, we’re going to be okay. You hear me?”
Luke met his father’s gaze and nodded. Matt squeezed his shoulder and popped the earpiece in. Instantly, the killer’s voice was there again.
“Clip the button to the top of your collar.” Matt did, noting in the mirror how the button looked like it was a part of his dress shirt. Unless someone became fixated on why his collar had an extra button beneath it, the addition was barely noticeable. “You are wearing a pinhole camera. I can see everything you see. I can also hear everything you say. Just so we understand one another.”
“What do you want?” Matt demanded again.
“We will get to that. Turn the car on and go back down to Sunset Boulevard. When you reach it, make a left. I will guide you from there.”
Matt put the Porsche into gear and slowly pulled into the street. As he drove, his mind worked feverishly. Survival skills revved up on instinct. Emotions bubbling up from the events threatened to tip him into irrational, desperate behavior. That was exactly what this person would want and Matt refused to give him that power. Often on the battlefield, chaos and confusion were the enemy’s best weapon. When a soldier felt he could not trust his instincts or, even worse, those of his superiors, he became a pawn to be used at will.
The intersection for Sunset came into view, Matt making the turn and pulling onto the heavily trafficked thoroughfare. He was familiar with the entire street from his many years traversing it to appointments. The fabled boulevard lay in a serpentine ribbon across the heart of Los Angeles. Beginning at the Pacific Ocean, it wended through the lush green hills of Beverly Hills and Bel Air before becoming a straight strip for cruising through the legendary nightclub and bar scene. Miles more of its asphalt stretched into the bohemian hotbed of Silverlake and the cluster of soaring high-rises that marked downtown Los Angeles’s business center.
Matt now found himself navigating the street for the longest five minutes of his existence. A traffic light flipped to red at the La Brea intersection, placing him squarely next to a police car. The patrolman glanced in Matt’s direction, catching his eyes.
Signal him somehow, Matt told himself. The voice reappeared in his ear, jolting him.
“Smile and look away,” came the order.
Damn. Matt cursed himself for facing the policeman, forgetting that the killer could see in conjunction with him. He flashed a tight grin which was met with indifference, then turned his eyes back to the road. The light turned green and the police car pulled away.
“Drive behind him, not too fast,” the killer said. When the black and white trunk rounded a corner ahead, Matt felt his heart sink. “In a few minutes, you will be approaching the Hobson Building,” the voice in his ear continued.
Matt knew it well since it housed several of his clients and their servers. “And what am I going to do there?” he asked.
“Pull into the driveway before you miss it,” was the reply, ignoring Matt’s question. “Find a space against the wall and park.”
Matt turned into the parking lot, shooting a quick look at Luke who was slumped in his seat. He noticed how the boy was shivering slightly and a small dot of sweat trickling down his temple. Matt wiped it away for him, earning a wan smile from his son.
Turning his attention back to the parking garage, Matt rolled the Porsche to a stop in front of the small security guard booth. It was empty since the time was approaching five o’clock, the building’s typical closing time. The opposite guardrail was lifted for the flood of office workers currently leaving the building. Matt withdrew a key card from his wallet and pressed it against a
smooth plastic pad with a glowing red light. There was a low thunk as the light turned to green, simultaneously causing the rail in front of him to lift.
Matt drove forward and found a parking spot against the far wall, as instructed. Except for a few sedans scattered about, his was now the only car in the garage.
“Okay, now what?” he asked aloud.
“You are going to assist me, Weatherly.”
“With what?”
“A job I need done.”
“And why do you need me?”
“Access.”
“To?”
There was a slightly annoyed expulsion of breath from the killer which Matt felt grate against his eardrums.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Part of my training,” responded Matt.
“From where? Your first real estate job at Mirza Investments? Or maybe from that eight year stint you did in the Army. Perhaps when you went to officer school in West Point.”
Matt’s chest tightened. He knows everything about me.
“In any case, this is more of a business proposal,” the man continued. “You are going to enter into that building and gain entry to the server space you own. When you do, you will disable space 634, the one you leased to Phoenix Trust Services one year ago.”
“And what do I get out of the deal?”
“Simple. You and your son get to live. Along with everybody else in Los Angeles.”
Matt processed the last sentence. “What do you mean ‘everybody in Los Angeles’?”
“Somewhere with you is a rather powerful bomb, enough to evaporate everything from where you’re standing all the way to the Pacific Ocean. Roughly a few million people, depending on when it detonates.”
Matt’s eyes frantically scanned the interior of the car. A hundred objects leaped out at him as possible hiding places – underneath the car, in its trunk, the cell phone itself that the killer had given him. Too many to ever give Matt a chance to find it at the moment.
