Into the Dark

by Alison Gaylin

“The only film equipment he needed for his job was bought and paid for. But for some reason, RJ went nuts buying lights, microphones, one of those Steadicams . . . he spent forty thousand dollars on film stuff in just three months.”

  “So by the time he wanted to buy that fancy camera,” Brenna said. “He was so much in debt he had to borrow from Pokrovsky—and risk incurring a crazy amount of interest on a $3,000 camera.” She crossed the street fast.

  “Yep. And before three months ago, he hardly ever touched that credit card.”

  For a moment, she recalled the medicinal smell of Pokrovsky’s apartment, again feeling the cold metal chair through her sweater, the hardness in Pokrovsky’s eyes . . .

  “That money, he wanted for some ridiculous camera. He told me he was working on a project which would change the world—which, believe me, I put as much stock in as that film education.”

  “Must have been some project,” she said into the phone.

  “Huh?”

  “Trent, did you get any closer to finding out what happened to Shane Smith?”

  “No, dude. Smith is a common freakin’ name, so it’s really hard without a social.” Trent sighed. “The so-called filmmaking narrows it down, but there’s no Shane Smith in the Directors Guild.” He snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I’d really like to find him.”

  “Why?”

  She saw a break in traffic, hurried across the street. “Because Pokrovsky told me that RJ was working on a film project when he disappeared,” she said when she got there. “And one guy can’t work all that equipment alone.”

  “Every director needs a crew.”

  “Yes,” Brenna said. But that wasn’t all of it. Brenna recalled the Bible passage RJ had printed out so neatly, so as not to ruin the picture of his favorite director.

  Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them . . .

  “Everyone who’s frightened,” she said, “needs at least one person they can trust.”

  “Tell it, sister.”

  “RJ’s call log.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You sure there were no calls on there that could have been made to Shane?”

  “I thought I sent you the numbers.”

  “Never got the e-mail.”

  Trent sighed. “Do me.”

  “Pardon?”

  “When what’s-her-ass came over, RJ’s phone was cued to send it to you,” he said.

  “Diandra?”

  “Oh man, nausea tsunami . . .”

  “Sorry.”

  He took a few deep breaths. “Anyway, I forgot to tell you, but when she swiped RJ’s computer, the phone was right next to it . . .”

  “Great. She took that, too.”

  “It’s not that big a deal,” Trent said. “The log wasn’t that long. I tried every number, and except for a few work calls, they were all take-out places. Chinese, pizza, Thai . . . Dude clearly didn’t like his mom’s cooking.”

  “Nothing out of state?”

  “Well,” he said. “There were like four calls to the same number in California back in September. Got me all excited because he hadn’t called the number before or since.”

  “And?”

  “Nada. A talent agency. I asked if there was a Shane Smith who worked there and they said they never heard of him. Then I asked what RJ had called about and they hung up on me. I hate L.A.”

  Brenna stood in the middle of the sidewalk, unable to speak.

  “Don’t get me wrong. There’s tons of hot girls out there, and you can get an awesome tan and Disneyland rocks out loud.”

  She still couldn’t say a word.

  “Brenna?” he said.

  And finally she got the sentence out. “RJ called a talent agency.”

  “Yep,” Trent said. “I’m thinking he probably wanted them for this film project of his and they blew him off.”

  “Do you remember the number?”

  “Uh, no. I’m not you.”

  “How about the name?”

  “Wait a sec . . .” Trent paused for a few moments, thinking. “It . . . um . . . It started with an F . . .”

  Brenna closed her eyes. “Freeman Talent International.”

  “Yes,” Trent said. “Hey, what did you ask me for if you already knew the answer?”

  Brenna stared up at the building, a chill spreading up her back. “We’ll talk about it later,” she said. “I gotta think about porn right now.”

  Behind Charlie Frankel’s desk hung a series of framed promotional posters for Happy Endings videos. Ushered into his empty office and told, “He’ll be right with you” by the receptionist—a heavy, middle-aged woman who looked as though she’d be more at home leading a Jane Austen book club—Brenna couldn’t stop staring at them. Buttman Returns, The Bangover, 28 Inches Later . . . all accompanied by movie stills that sold the product in ways artistic renderings couldn’t approach. She loved them all, mainly because you couldn’t look at them and think of anything else: RJ’s calls to Gary Freeman in September, for instance. Or the fact that three years ago, RJ had broken into Gary’s house. Or the memory of Gary’s curt voice over the phone two days ago, telling Brenna that he’d never heard of anyone named RJ Tannenbaum . . . She glanced down at her phone. The voice mail was empty. Gary still hadn’t called Brenna back.

  Back to the posters. Brenna’s favorite was from the gay collection—The Wizard of Ahhhs, featuring Ray Bulger. The artwork brought new meaning to packaging, and she was compelled to get up for a closer look. “Whoa,” Brenna whispered.

  “That’s one of our biggest sellers,” said a voice behind her. “No pun intended.”

  Brenna spun around to see an older man in shirtsleeves and a plain blue tie, with horn-rimmed glasses, benign-looking features, and a neatly trimmed, mostly bald pate. Company Head, huh? He also looked as though he’d be happier in the Jane Austen club. “Mr. Frankel?”

  “That’s me,” he said, shaking her hand. “You already met Gloria.”

  “The receptionist?”

  “My wife,” he said. “Can’t fire her.”

  “A very interesting family business.” Brenna smiled.

  He didn’t. If Charlie Frankel was capable of changing his facial expression, he’d yet to show it. “Have a seat.”

  She took a spartan, hard-backed chair across from his small desk. Save for the framed stills, everything in both Charlie Frankel’s office and in the reception area defined bare bones, the whole place clearly designed with the idea of as little overhead as possible. Brenna imagined that Charlie and Gloria were very, very rich people who owned about three outfits apiece, had a drawer full of coupons, and wouldn’t pay full price for anything if world peace depended on it. Of course, she did hope that the Frankels didn’t skimp on Ray Bulger’s salary—he deserved a massive paycheck, pardon the pun.

  “So you’re looking for RJ, huh?” he said.

  Brenna tore her gaze away from the poster. “Yes, I am.”

  “Have you checked with Lula Belle?”

  Her knees went weak. “What?”

  “That was a joke.”

  “Can you explain the basis of the humor?”

  He sighed. “Do you know who Lula Belle is?”

  “Uh . . . yes.”

  “I ask because a lot of regular people don’t. But she’s pretty legendary in our little community. I introduced RJ to her work about a year ago and he became quite a fan.”

  Brenna looked at him. “Why is she legendary?”

  He pointed at the wall behind him. “See those?” he said. “Our biggest sellers, and she’s probably made more money off that Web site of hers than all of ’em combined.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “Plus, she does it at no cost at all. No costars, no locations, no production values at all, really. No sex—hence no money shot. Which significantly cuts your need for an editor . . . No offense to RJ but we could’ve done a lot with the money we paid him.”

  “
Sure.”

  “Plus she’s not even technically porn. She calls herself performance art so there’s a lot less guilt attached to watching her, even though probably 99.9 percent of her fans wouldn’t know performance art if it slapped ’em on the ass and called ’em sweetie.”

  Brenna looked at him. “Sounds like you’re a fan, too.”

  “Only of her business model,” he said. “Call me old-fashioned, but I like sex in my porn.”

  “RJ didn’t?”

  Charlie exhaled heavily. “RJ,” he said, “was one of the .01 percent.”

  “He saw her as an artist.”

  “Best actress he’d ever seen on screen.” He snorted. “Yeah, she’s a regular Meryl Streep up there, deep-throating a Coke bottle.”

  Brenna smiled. “Art is subjective.”

  “You can say that again. You know what Gloria loves? Avant-garde jazz. I swear to God if I have to listen to Ornette Coleman when I’m balling her one more time . . .”

  “Charlie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Was RJ in touch with Lula Belle?”

  He sighed. “I know you talked to Yuri Pokrovsky.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know he doesn’t think too much of RJ’s work ethic.”

  Brenna squinted at him. Where are you going with this?

  “But the thing was, he was wrong. He didn’t know him. If RJ loved something, he was devoted to it. And there was nothing he loved more than film. I was the only one he talked to about it. I guess he saw me as a fellow cineaste.”

  “Okay, that’s interesting, but—”

  “He wanted to be a filmmaker. An auteur. He had a project he was working on, and I guess he thought Lula Belle was the only actress who could do it, and so he joined Lula Belle’s fan site and he wrote her a letter where it says ‘contact me.’ Like hundreds of other guys have done, probably.” He took a breath and leaned in, his face as still and deadpan as ever, but with a slight intensity to the voice. “He told me she wrote back. From her personal e-mail. They were corresponding. About what, I don’t know.”

  “Who sent Robin that picture, Trent?”

  “A Hotmail address.”

  “Sweetpea81?”

  Brenna said, “Did he ever meet with her . . . in person?”

  “Not while he worked here,” he said. “But.”

  “But?”

  Charlie opened his desk drawer, removed something, and placed it on the table between them. A manila folder. “His letter of resignation,” he said. “I printed it out for you.”

  Brenna read:

  October 8, 2009

  Dear Charlie:

  It has been a real learning experience working for you these past three years, and I consider you to be the best film teacher I’ve ever had. I’m sure you’ll understand, though, when I tell you that the Dream—The Big One—is about to come true.

  She’s agreed, Charlie.

  It is with much gratitude and hope for the future that I tender my resignation from HAPPY ENDINGS VIDEO. No need to forward me my last check, as I’m unable to give you two weeks’ notice: My new job begins immediately.

  See you in the moving pictures.

  All best,

  RJT

  Brenna looked up at him. “ ‘She’ is Lula Belle.”

  “She has to be,” he said. “Right?”

  “And his project—this film he was making . . .”

  “I don’t know anything about it, other than he needed Lula Belle to complete it. I told him, why not use one of our actresses? Or if he needs someone legit, put an ad in Casting Call. He wasn’t having any of it. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I can’t do this without her.’ And apparently, he didn’t need to.”

  “She agreed to the project.”

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s been two and a half months, and you’ve heard nothing from him.”

  “No.”

  “And no one in your . . . your little community has heard a thing about Lula Belle.”

  “MIA. Both of them,” he said.

  “Maybe they hit a roadblock,” Brenna said. “And so he’s hiding from his investor.”

  “Pokrovsky? Maybe,” he said. “Or,” he said, very slowly, “maybe he never had the chance to get that lens cap off.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  Charlie shrugged at her, a sad look in his eyes. “Pokrovsky’s sweet on RJ’s mom. And RJ knows it. He’s never been afraid of Yuri Pokrovsky.”

  He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to. “You think he had to run from someone other than Pokrovsky.”

  “I can’t figure out any other explaination.”

  “Charlie,” Brenna said. “Did RJ ever mention the name Gary Freeman?”

  “He’s not in pornos, is he?”

  “Hardly,” Brenna said “He’s a kids’ talent agent from L.A.”

  Charlie shook his head. “Never heard him mention anybody by that name. Actually I can only remember him only talking about one guy from L.A.”

  Brenna looked at him. “Who?”

  “Some character by the name of Shane Smith.”

  Brenna swallowed hard. “He talked to you about Shane.”

  “Yeah, but none of it made much sense,” Charlie said. “RJ hated that guy so much, I think he got a little delusional.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Charlie sighed. “Shane Smith, despite having the very marketable name of Shane Smith, is not in the porn business.”

  “And . . . RJ thought he was?

  “Well, yes and no. You have to keep in mind, RJ always maintained that Lula Belle isn’t in the porn business. But I consider her a card-carrying member. No pun intended, but you understand—”

  “Wait,” Brenna said. “You’re saying that RJ thought Shane was in business with . . .”

  “Lula Belle. Yes.”

  Brenna stared at him, the color draining out of her face.

  He chuckled a little. “Lula Belle and his buddy Shane,” he said. “RJ was convinced they were business partners and lovers. ‘I’m breaking them up,’ he told me. ‘She’s gonna leave Shane to help me.’ ”

  That cliché about great sex making you look different? Morasco had never believed it before today. After all, he’d had some pretty damn good sex in his life, and no one had ever remarked on his appearance afterward. But when he showed up at the Tarry Ridge station and asked Sally for his messages, she’d glanced up at him, then looked again in such a way, he half expected a spit-take. “You look different, Detective.” She hadn’t said anything more than that, of course, but the smile had spoken volumes.

  “I shaved,” he had offered. But that just made the smile widen, as if “shaved” was some kind of euphemism. Morasco had headed for his desk, fast, only to have Baus—who sat next to him and in truth was not the most perceptive of his fellow detectives—grin at him in the exact same way Sally had. “Brenna finally paid out, huh?”

  “Hey, there’s this new trend I just read about. It’s called getting a life,” Morasco said. “You should try it sometime.”

  “Knew I was right.”

  “Minding your own business? That’s a fun one, too.”

  “Morasco finally got some!” Baus shouted, drawing applause from neighboring desks.

  “Your mom was worth the wait,” Morasco said.

  Baus hooted. “So I’ve been told.”

  Morasco sighed. Mother jokes were no fun if the other person didn’t get offended. He turned away from Baus, booted up his computer. As he did, though, he glanced down at the lower drawer in his desk. He knew what was in there—the papers Detective Grady Carlson had given him. Yep, that did the trick. Idiot grin officially gone, along with the good mood . . . Not talking is great, Brenna. But we can’t do that forever, can we? I have papers that were given to me by the lead investigator on your sister’s disappearance. Am I never supposed to tell you that?

  He put the thought out of his head. Checked his e-mail for today’s
itinerary from the chief. It was a light one, as usual. Biggest crime: a break-in at Wax Attax. A bunch of candles stolen. Tarry Ridge was back to its affluent calm following the Neff case fallout, and since Chief Driscol wasn’t a gale-force windbag like his predecessor Hutchins, there was no need to provide him with bogus material for his daily press conference.

  Morasco much preferred it this way, of course. But he’d have been lying if he said he didn’t miss the excitement of working in the city. For a few seconds, he allowed himself the fantasy of selling the house he’d lived in for the past fifteen years—the little cottage on Chestnut that he’d shared with Holly, and then Matthew and Holly, and then just Holly, and then Matthew’s ghost.

  In his fantasy he was the type of person who could let go of things easily, who could leave this job and Tarry Ridge and move into the city again to work homicide, who could live in a ghost-free place and sleep with Brenna every night without ever mentioning—or even thinking about—the papers in his desk.

  Why can’t I be like that? Morasco thought about things too much. That was his problem.

  Behind him, someone cleared his throat in an overly dramatic way. Morasco exhaled. Come on, dude. Just say, “Excuse me.”

  But when he turned around and saw him, of course it made more sense. Carrot-Top. The one person in this station who found him genuinely intimidating. It took Morasco several agonizing seconds to come up with the kid’s real name. “Hey . . . Danny Cavanaugh! How’s it going?”

  Again with the salute.

  Morasco sighed. “You really don’t have to . . . never mind. What’s up?”

  “Well, sir, I’ve been looking into this missing filmmaker . . .”

  “Missing wannabe filmmaker,” Morasco corrected. “He’s never made an actual film.”

  “Right . . . Well . . . this is kinda weird. But I’ve been running into brick walls with everything else, so . . . uh . . .”

  “Spit it out, big guy.”

  He cleared his throat again. “Okay, so last night I was talking to my grandpa . . . um . . . Detective Cavanaugh from Mount Temple.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was telling him about this guy, and he said . . . Oh boy, now I think this is probably going to sound stupid.”

  “Some of the best leads would get buried if we edited out all the stupid,” said Morasco, who had once heard Brenna say something very similar. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure he believed that. Most of the time, stupid was just, well, stupid. But why say that to this nervous kid, who also happened to be a sweaty one? Already, the beads were forming over his eyebrows. “Go on, Danny,” he said. “I want to hear.”