by Alan Russell
“Are you sure about the times for that meeting?” asked Drake.
Why was he asking about the time? Blackwell shrugged. “They might have been a few minutes off each way. No more.”
“Wells says he was working that night.”
“He was,” said Blackwell. “Working out a scheme with Monroe and Proferov.”
“He says he was taking pictures of that soccer star and Lady Godiva.”
Blackwell had wondered whether the paparazzo would admit his involvement in the accident. Not that it would help his situation any. By making that claim, he looked like a drowning man grasping at straws.
“He’s being clever,” Blackwell said. “What better way to try and account for his time than by associating himself with a notorious incident? It’s no secret that Europe’s paparazzi flocked to the scene of the accident like flies to shit.”
Fishing expedition, thought Blackwell. The three men might have their suspicions. No doubt Pilgrim was being vehement in his denials. But none of that mattered. He had thought of everything.
“Wells says he was driving the car that was hit by Le Croc’s Peugeot.”
So, when put between a rock and a hard place, the paparazzo had revealed his deep, dark secret. But it was too little, too late. Blackwell laughed. “That’s impossible, of course. But you have to give him points for creativity.”
“He’s very adamant.”
“Of course he is. No one ever found the mystery driver or mystery car. Wells knows that.”
“The accident,” said Drake, “occurred at 1:25 a.m.”
“The same time Wells was sitting down with Ivan the Terrible and Monroe. No one could be in two places at the same time.”
“No,” said Drake. “They couldn’t, could they?”
He dropped the photos on Blackwell’s desk. Blackwell picked them up and started flipping through them. His chest tightened at what he saw. He had planned so carefully, and been so close to what he wanted, so very close. Everything had been thought out. The paparazzo had sworn these photos didn’t exist.
“Any comment?” asked Drake.
The bastard was so smug. He probably thought that Blackwell would start pleading with him. Groveling. Or try bargaining on bent knees.
“They’re obviously phonies,” said Blackwell, “and I can prove it.”
He reached for a desk drawer. Drake’s muscle was on him in a second.
“I’m getting a pencil out to show you that these are phonies,” Blackwell said indignantly. “Or you can get one out for me.”
One of the men opened the drawer, making sure no weapon was inside. The only writing implement was a pencil. He handed it to Blackwell. The muscle stood to either side of him.
“Now you can see in this picture—” said Blackwell, leaning over it with the pencil.
It wasn’t one of the clearer pictures, but it would serve his purpose. The Peugeot was racing by the Citroën, and the lens only caught it in passing. At that point, the tunnel was closing in. In the picture, it looked black and foreboding. Dark. Very dark.
Blackwell bit hard on the eraser, and then swallowed. He never thought poison would be necessary, but being the careful man he was, he prepared for everything. The pill was embedded within the eraser itself. The poison was quite fatal. In a few minutes he would be dead, and there was nothing they could do about it. He would be the master of his own destiny. He would fall on his own sword.
Drake was shouting, asking what he had done, but Blackwell ignored him. All of his attention was directed at the picture, his eyes riveted on the approaching black tunnel.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-SIX
Graham heard the turn of the key and looked at his watch. It was quarter to midnight. Lanie had spent another long day on the set.
So far they had done the impossible, keeping their relationship from the world. Graham knew that couldn’t last. Lanie, ever the romantic, said it didn’t matter if everyone knew. She didn’t want to hear how potentially dangerous it could be if their relationship was exposed. Their secrets, Lanie wanted to believe, were safely buried. The Agency had cleaned up in Ojai, disposing of Hans Jaeger’s body while at the same time managing to pin Jefferson Monroe’s murder on the missing dead man. As for Blackwell’s death, it hadn’t extended much beyond the Agency, where it was referred to as a “regrettable suicide.” To help others suffering from depression, the same depression that supposedly afflicted Blackwell, the Agency started a counseling outreach program.
More than ever, Graham thought the government and the movie industry operated very similarly.
Still, Graham knew that whitewashes didn’t stand up to much rubbing. Neither of them could afford to have their secrets exposed.
She smiled at seeing him standing there waiting for her. Lanie had been on the set for sixteen hours, but still looked beautiful. She tried to hide her tiredness from him, just as he was hiding his stiffness from her. Both had their roles.
“I brought you chicken soup,” she said.
In Graham’s months of convalescing, Lanie had played nurse. She rarely came empty-handed, bringing liniment, Epsom salts, ice cream, and what she called “Jewish penicillin”—chicken soup. Graham wasn’t visited by Lanie Byrne, but by Elaine Bernsdorf, which was even better. It had been a wonderful time, a blissful fantasy of snatched moments.
Lanie set the soup on the table. She liked to watch him eat. Graham had no appetite, but he feigned enthusiasm. He was halfway through the bowl when Lanie noticed the packed bags.
“What are those?” she asked.
“I’ve taken an assignment.”
“You’re not well enough,” she said, then asked, “Where? For how long?”
He tried to be nonchalant. “It’s actually a series of assignments. My passport’s going to get a workout. I’ll be covering the Stones tour through Asia. They’re calling it Rolling Again, but editorial is calling it Geriatric Sex. Then I’ll be nosing around Australia on the set where Johnny Depp and Emma Stone are supposed to be trying to outdo each other’s temper tantrums.”
Condemning silence followed his announcement.
“You know I have to work,” Graham finally said.
“Not out of the country.”
“We’ve gone over this before,” Graham said. “We travel in different worlds. We’re kidding ourselves to think otherwise.”
Harrison Ford had offered the same rationale to Kelly McGillis in Witness. It was how his character had walked away from love. Graham thought of Bogie in Casablanca. Sometimes for the greater good you had to sacrifice love. It was easier for him to think of the movies than his own life.
Lanie still wasn’t saying anything. Graham decided to go one step further. He would play Gable’s Rhett Butler. Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
“We had our on-set romance,” Graham said. “We were caught up in something bigger than both of us. But the production has shut down now. There are no more lights, camera, action. The fireworks, the passion are gone. You know what happens to those kinds of romances after the final wrap.”
In a small voice she said, “It doesn’t have to be that way.”
He didn’t argue, but neither did he make any move to unpack.
She stayed the night. Both kept to their side of the bed as if a divider had been put up, like in It Happened One Night. Neither of them slept. Lanie had an early call in the morning, and so did he.
Their good-bye was awkward. “You’ll call?” she said.
Graham lied: “I’ll call.”
Like all stars, Lanie had at least four different telephone numbers to her house. The most private of those lines rang only in her bedroom. That phone’s rings were reserved for her family and closest friends.
It was still dark outside. Graham walked Lanie to her Tesla. As she settled into the driver’s seat, he handed her a pa
cket.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Some pictures of you.”
They couldn’t be in a picture together, so this was as close as they could ever be. His hand, by extension, on hers. Graham had snapped the photos during her many visits. One showed her with a hot chocolate mustache. There was another where she was blowing bubbles. Graham’s favorite was her nestled in his bed with a hundred stuffed animals he had bought just for her.
Lanie didn’t open the oversized envelope, didn’t pause to look at the pictures.
“Commemorative photos of my time in Rome, Irving?” she asked.
Graham accepted her Roman Holiday reference. In Audrey Hepburn’s imperious voice, but tinged with sarcasm, she said, “Thank you so very much.”
He watched her disappear from his sight.
Graham stayed away from LA for six months. Eventually he returned, as he always did. Work kept him busy, and he was glad of that.
The invitation came unbidden in the mail. There was no note with it, no elaboration, and no return address.
It was the hottest ticket in town, but until almost the last minute, Graham wasn’t sure he was even going to use it. Finally, he brushed the lint off his tuxedo, ran an iron over it, and headed for the Academy Awards.
His outward wounds were long healed. You had to look closely to even see the scars.
Graham was in the middle of the auditorium. The seats up front were taken by those nominated for major awards, and those stars with very recognizable faces.
Director Sean Durkin was presenting along with Amy Adams, the Oscar winner in the category from the year before. Lanie was one of the five women nominated. Seated next to her was Derek Palmer, Hollywood’s latest wunderkind director. What had started as a professional relationship was now a personal one. On the monitor, Graham could see the two of them holding hands.
Durkin said, “And the Oscar goes to—”
“Lanie Byrne,” said Adams.
Kissing. Music. Applause. Hugging and congratulations all around. And then there was Lanie, ordained queen of the year. With the eyes of the world on her, she looked remarkably composed. Lanie smiled at Oscar, then turned to the audience and said, “In the words of Tiny Tim, ‘God bless us everyone!’ ”
It had a Sally Fields “you really like me” kind of innocence and went over well. After the applause, Lanie thanked all the other nominees, and then remembered a laundry list of names attached to her film and work.
The obligatory spots done, Lanie raised her eyes, looking past the cameras and lights and stars, seeking out one particular face and then finding it. Graham tensed. She must have known where he would be sitting. Her eyes were on him.
“This role will always be special to me,” she said. “I was attracted to the character because despite all the obstacles in her life, despite the darkness, with some help she was able to find a light at the end of her tunnel.”
Lanie shifted her eyes from Graham to take in the audience, and then returned to Graham alone. There were tears in her eyes now.
“I hope, in some small way, that I have helped others to find that light.”
She wiped away her tears, then offered a smile to the world. “Thank you,” Lanie said. “I shall cherish this night in my memory as long as I live.”
Graham knew she was cribbing from Roman Holiday, and that her code was meant only for him.
Like Gregory Peck’s Joe Bradley character, he watched the woman he adored disappear with the fanfare that was her lot. This was how it had to be, even if neither one of them liked it.
And like Peck, it was time to make his own sad retreat. Graham rose from his seat and started walking toward the exit. It was time for him to lose the tux.
Once outside the auditorium, he took a deep breath. Graham had arrived by cab, one of the few people not driven by limo. A long walk would do him good.
He was a few blocks away from all the activity when he raised his head to take in the night sky. A streak of light caught his eye, the celestial fireworks of a shooting star. Graham had always been drawn to shooting stars.
Warmed by the night’s flare, Graham kept walking.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Any novel is an education in itself. In writing this book, I had to call upon the expertise of a number of individuals, most of whom I did not know.
J. Christoph Amberger, author of The Secret History of the Sword, was incredibly patient about answering all my pestering questions that stretched over the course of two years. Chris has the scars to show his years in a dueling fraternity, and was an invaluable resource about the ways of the Mensur. I was lucky to have his assistance, and found his insight and wit every bit as cutting as the swords he knows so well.
Sylvain Margaine was my tour guide of Paris and its catacombs. He was very generous in giving his time, and shedding light on the darkness. I hope the gendarmes never catch you in the underground, Sylvain! If they do, perhaps you can tell them you are helping me with more research.
Scott McKiernan is used to looking through a lens, but consented to me turning the camera and lighting back on him. Scott knows all about the world of celebrity photographers, being a veteran of its ranks for many years. I never imagined I would write about a paparazzo, and Scott helped me flesh out my protagonist and his vocation.
Whenever I need to know about drugs, I always turn to friend and legal drug dispenser (pharmacist) Dr. Craig Steinberg. Alice (of Wonderland fame) should have consulted with Craig before taking her pills.
Whatever I might have gotten wrong in the writing of this book shouldn’t reflect on the above-named individuals, but what I got right should. Sometimes explanations get lost in the translation.
Innumerable others helped with this novel, including family and friends. Kelley Ragland was very helpful in honing the final product, and Cynthia Manson deserves massive kudos for her involvement from start to finish. All my friends at Thomas & Mercer were great in helping me update the book and make many changes. I appreciate it that Alison Dasho allowed me to make those changes, and that Jon Ford worked so hard to keep everything straight.
My heartfelt thanks to all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2012 Stathis Orphanos
Alan Russell is the bestselling author of ten novels, including Burning Man, Shame, Multiple Wounds, The Hotel Detective, and Political Suicide. His books have been nominated for most of the major awards in crime fiction, and he has won a Lefty award for best comedic mystery, a USA Today Critics’ Choice Award, two San Diego Book Awards for best mystery novel, and the Odin Award for Lifetime Achievement from the San Diego Writers/Editor Guild. The native Californian lives with his wife and children in Encinitas, California.
