Hot Secret

by Sherryl Woods

  Molly hid a grin. Vince and Jeannette must have really been going at it this morning, if he was ready to loan her out to a production company. Since Molly was anxious to get to GK Productions herself, she didn’t waste time arguing that the county might look askance at paying a clerk’s salary so she could answer someone else’s phones.

  “Come on, Jeannette, let’s get going. I’m sure they’ll be thrilled with the extra help.”

  GK Productions had taken up an entire floor of one of the most recently renovated Ocean Drive deco hotels. Since it was off-season for Miami Beach, Molly had been able to help them get fantastic rates for the offices and for the cast’s housing. They’d even redecorated their best suite for Veronica.

  Laura Crain, Hank Murdock, and production assistant Jerry Shaw were huddled around a table in Crain’s third-floor hotel suite when Molly and Jeannette arrived just after nine thirty. She’d hoped for a few minutes alone with the normally late rising producer, but obviously the current production crisis had changed everyone’s sleep schedule.

  Or possibly, Molly thought, judging from the overall appearance of exhaustion, the trio had been up all night. An ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts and a room service cart was littered with the remains of some unidentifiable meal. Dinner? Midnight snack? Breakfast? It was impossible to tell from the congealed leftovers. Jerry was clutching the receivers of two phones, speaking alternately into each of them. He looked desperate.

  She introduced Jeannette to everyone and explained that Vince had sent her along to help out in any way they needed her to. Laura Crain started to say something, but Hank stopped her with a look.

  “Great,” he said. “These phones have been ringing off the hook. Jerry can’t keep up with the calls. Another hour of this and he’ll be back in his room having a nervous breakdown.”

  “Just tell me what you’d like me to say,” Jeannette said, “and I’ll get to work.”

  While Hank gave her instructions and Jerry gratefully relinquished the phones, Molly asked for a cup of coffee. “Is there any left?” she said, moving automatically toward the room service serving cart.

  “I’ve just ordered up another pot,” Laura said. “Should be here any minute.”

  “It looks as if you all have been at this for a while,” Molly observed.

  “Since last night,” Hank said. “I’m getting too damned old to miss this many hours of sleep.”

  “We had to make some decisions,” Laura retorted sharply. She looked every bit as brittle as she sounded. Her makeup had long since worn off, leaving her pale. Her green eyes glittered too brightly. Her hair was mussed and she twisted one strand around a finger. Molly doubted it would take much for her to snap. Oddly, though, today there was little obvious evidence of grief for a just-murdered lover.

  “Every day we’re shut down costs us thousands,” Laura said. “We were already over budget. I spent all day yesterday on the phone with the head of the studio trying to convince him not to scrap the project and eat the losses. Fortunately, half of his key executives were away from L.A. for the weekend, so they couldn’t get together and compare notes until today. When they call here around noon, we’d better have a plan or we’ll be on the next plane home with an unfinished picture that will never see the light of day.”

  Molly already knew how Vince would take that news. She’d be lucky if he didn’t fire her. Come to think of it, they’d all be lucky if Dade County didn’t simply drop the department from its budget. There were already some who considered a film office frivolous. They seemed to think production companies would swarm to Miami whether anyone smoothed the way for them or not.

  “What do you expect to happen?” she asked Laura.

  “They’ll moan and groan and threaten a little. Then they’ll agree to giving us another two weeks,” she said confidently. “If Hank takes over now and we don’t lose another minute of production time, we have a chance of bringing this in close enough to budget to keep everyone reasonably happy.”

  Molly watched for Hank’s reaction. If he was eager to direct the rest of the picture and hoped to negotiate an on-screen credit with Greg for bailing them out, he hid it well. If anything, he looked resigned rather than elated.

  Even so, Molly had a hard time imagining anyone’s not being thrilled at the amount of attention this picture was likely to generate, no matter how the reviews turned out. The simple fact that it was Greg Kinsey’s last picture would draw curiosity seekers to the theaters in droves.

  “This could be quite a break for you, couldn’t it?” she said to Hank.

  Rather than reacting with outrage or deliberate innocence, Hank regarded her with amusement. “Playing detective, Molly?”

  She felt heat steal into her cheeks. “You have to admit that taking over as director on a Greg Kinsey film could be construed as a motive for murder.”

  “It could,” he said agreeably. “But I was in the production trailer with half a dozen other people at the time Greg was murdered. You found me there yourself.”

  Molly tried to recall the scene in that trailer when she’d gone in search of Greg. Hank had been seated at the table, a cup of coffee in hand. Jerry and several others had been playing poker at that same table, but there had been no cards in front of Hank. Because he’d just returned from murdering Greg?

  “Why weren’t you in on the poker game?” she asked.

  “I don’t gamble. Haven’t in years. Lost too much of my pay at the tables in Vegas.”

  “Why are we wasting time discussing this?” Laura demanded. “The cops have questioned all of us. We don’t need to be answering her questions as well.”

  “I’m just trying to help,” Molly countered.

  “How? By pointing a finger at one of us to get some local psycho off the hook?”

  “Where were you?” Molly retorted before she could stop herself. “You weren’t in the production trailer.”

  Molly wouldn’t have been surprised if Laura ignored the blunt question, but the producer actually seemed anxious to share her alibi.

  “No, I wasn’t in the trailer,” she said. “I was back here taking care of business. That’s what Greg hired me to do. He hated the paperwork, hated dealing with all the numbers guys at the studio.”

  Molly knew that was true enough. Laura did have the organizational and logistical skills of an army general. She’d moved the cast and crew around town with a minimum of fuss. She could identify every one of the locals hired, practically right down to their Social Security numbers. Unfortunately, she didn’t waste a lot of time on charm. Other than Greg, and possibly Hank, Molly wasn’t sure anyone got along with her.

  Before she could ask Laura if anyone had actually seen her at the hotel at the time of the murder, an argument broke out in the adjoining room. The connecting door burst open and Daniel Ortiz stormed in.

  A Dodgers baseball cap covered his prematurely graying dark hair. A religious medallion dangled from a chain around his neck, providing an interesting contrast to the bloodred logo of some heavy metal rock group that adorned his black T-shirt. He was trailed by two men Molly recognized as key technical experts on Endless Tomorrows. As she recalled, one had something to do with sound, the other with lighting.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Ortiz told Laura, dropping a handful of pages on the table in front of her. “There’s no way to do all these scenes in the same day. No way. What the hell were you thinking of?”

  “I was thinking of trying to make up some of the time we lost. Hank said we could do it.”

  Ortiz did not spare the new director a glance. He kept his attention on Laura. “I do not do schlock. If we push like this, there will be mistakes. Paul and Ken agree.”

  “Do Paul and Ken also agree they’d rather shut down production now?” Laura inquired.

  The director of photography finally looked at Hank. “Is that the choice?”

  Hank nodded, looking fairly miserable. “I hate it, too, but Laura’s right. We’re going to have to make so
me compromises. Work with me on this and maybe we can pull it off.”

  The director of photography took off his cap and shoved his hand through his thick hair. He stared out the window for several minutes, then nodded abruptly. “If this is what we have to do, then it’s what we’ll do. Come on, Hank. Let’s see what we can figure out.”

  When Hank had left the room with the others, Molly sat down next to Laura. “Daniel owns part of GK Productions, doesn’t he?”

  Laura regarded her warily. “Still playing amateur sleuth, Molly? It’s a dangerous game,” she warned.

  “Come on,” Molly pleaded. “Help me out here. You must want to see Greg’s killer caught as much as anyone.”

  After a momentary hesitation, her gaze challenging, Laura finally rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and sighed.

  “Okay, yes,” she said. “Of course, I want to see Greg’s killer caught, but I can’t start thinking about all that now. If I do, I’ll come unglued. Greg placed a lot of faith in me when he gave me this job. I can’t let him down.”

  “He was your mentor?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does Daniel Ortiz fit in?”

  “He and Greg went to film school together. They did their student project together. It was a natural fit. He may not have liked it, but Greg knew how to talk with the money guys, how to get the most out of an actor. Daniel knows how to capture it on film.”

  “What happens to GK Productions with Greg dead?”

  Laura shook her head. “I don’t know. The company’s not worth much with Greg gone, unless Hank can prove himself on this picture. Frankly, he’s a decent director, maybe even better than Greg, but he’s too low-key, too content to be second-in-command. It takes ambition to make it in this business, and Hank’s not driven enough to really scramble for the top spot. It was a good match. He bailed Greg out whenever Greg started drinking or womanizing. He did it too damned much. Greg never had to grow up.”

  The last was said with an edge of bitterness. Molly recognized that it was as close as Laura was likely to come to an admission that she recognized Greg’s flaws and hated him for them.

  “Are you so sure Hank wasn’t tired of bailing Greg out? Maybe he’d had to do it one time too many,” Molly suggested.

  Laura’s eyes glinted angrily. “No, dammit. Hank did not kill Greg. For all I know you did it yourself. You had the hots for him. I saw that the first day you showed up on the set. You were hanging around all the time, ready to do any little thing he asked of you.”

  “Usurping your role,” Molly shot back. “Were you jealous, Laura? Maybe not of me, but how about the model Greg discovered a few days ago? Did his affair with her make you furious enough to kill him?”

  Laura looked as if Molly had pierced her heart with a knife. “What Greg and I had was special, damn you. Don’t try to take that away from me. Don’t,” she said softly, brushing fiercely at the tears that ran down her cheeks.

  Before Molly could apologize, Laura jumped up and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Molly heard the water start to run and looked helplessly at Jeannette, who shook her head as she listened to someone at the other end of the phone line. She held the phone out. “It’s for you.”

  Molly was still trying to figure out if Laura’s outburst stemmed from despair or guilt. She reluctantly walked over to take the phone. “Who is it?” she asked Jeannette.

  “He didn’t give his name. His tone didn’t encourage questions.”

  “Molly DeWitt.”

  “Mrs. DeWitt, this is Sergeant Jenkins. I want you at the Miami Beach Police Station.”

  “When?”

  “Now,” he said tersely and slammed the phone down.

  Molly didn’t have any trouble guessing what the detective wanted. No doubt he had a few questions about her presence at the motel the previous afternoon.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  The area around the Miami Beach Police Department on Washington Avenue was in a state of evolution. Two blocks west of Ocean Drive, Washington was a hybrid of old-style open-air fruit markets, trendy restaurants, discount pharmacies, and souvenir shops. Nightclubs appealing to the young bumped right into shops supplying wheelchairs and canes for the elderly. Garish china flamingos and gaudy T-shirts were sold next to yuppie fashions. The old Fifth Street Gym, where top boxers had trained for decades, was only a few blocks away. Parking was at a premium.

  Molly found a metered spot two blocks over and made her way to the fancy new police headquarters. The made-over building was at least three or four times the size of the cramped old structure that had been an easy stroll from the famed Joe’s, where chilled stone crabs had become a world-class delicacy.

  Molly walked into the brightly lit police station lobby and immediately felt like a criminal. No doubt, after the meddling she’d done the previous day, she deserved to.

  Reporter Ted Ryan, his shirttail pulled loose, his tie askew, came rushing down the hall after her. “Molly, wait. I really need to talk to you.”

  “Not now.” She wanted to get her meeting with Jenkins and its likely lecture over with. With production scheduled to begin again in the morning, she had plenty to do to help smooth the way.

  “At least tell me what you’re doing here,” Ted pleaded. “Has there been a break in the case?”

  Molly stopped reluctantly and shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Then what? You didn’t come all the way over here just to chat.”

  “Maybe I did,” she replied. “Some of my best friends are policemen.”

  Ted looked desperate. “Come on, Molly. How about we trade information?”

  Molly studied him thoughtfully. It wouldn’t hurt to know what the word on the street was about the murder. Ted would have heard all the latest rumors by now. “What information do you have?”

  He shook his head. “You first.”

  “Oh, no. You want anything out of me, you cough up what you have first. I can always wait to read it in the morning paper.”

  Reluctantly, Ted opened his notebook and flipped through a few pages. “Okay, here it is. According to my sources, they’ve assigned someone new to take over the case. My guess is it’s that hotshot friend of yours, Michael O’Hara.”

  “Oh, my God,” Molly murmured under her breath. She saw a bench up ahead and sank onto it. Ted sat beside her. She looked him straight in the eye. “Are you sure?”

  Ted nodded. “The guy who told me is pretty reliable. O’Hara was on the scene the other night. It all hangs together.”

  “But he’s Metro. And he just happened to drop by Saturday night. He wasn’t working. I can swear to that.” As she caught Ted scribbing, she added, “Off the record, of course.”

  “Molly!”

  “You want to cost me my job? All I can say on the record is that the Metro/Dade film office deeply regrets the death of Gregory Kinsey, while on location here. Period. End of statement.”

  Ted rolled his eyes in disgust.

  “I know, but that’s all I’m allowed to say for attribution,” she said. “Anything else I say is just background. You’ll have to get it officially from someone else. Now why do you think a Metro cop has been assigned to take over the case?”

  “The way I hear it someone demanded he be brought in to try and solve this thing before the publicity gets out of hand.” He regarded her slyly. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “No,” Molly said weakly. She tried to inject a note of conviction into her voice. “No. Absolutely not.”

  Ted grinned. “Methinks …”

  “Don’t think, Ted. Isn’t that one of the first tenets of sound journalism? Stick strictly to the facts. No suppositions. No guesswork. No thinking.”

  “Then it’s true,” he gloated. “I knew it.”

  Before he could take any more wild leaps of logic and wind up with confirmation of some other theory he’d developed over the past forty-eight hours, Molly raced down the ha
ll. She had no idea exactly where Sergeant Jenkins’s office was, but from the argument that was echoing off the walls she had a pretty good idea. At least one of the voices sounded all too familiar. So did the tone.

  Molly skidded to a halt and looked through a window into a cramped office that looked as if a hurricane had recently passed through. She stopped just in time to see the Miami Beach detective slam his phone back into the cradle. He glowered at Michael, who was fiddling with a pair of sunglasses. Michael jammed the glasses back on his face and scowled, then took them off again.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Dammit, you know what the chief said,” Jenkins retorted. “He confirmed it. You’re on the Kinsey case. Of all the jackass moves, you son of a bitch. Don’t you have enough to worry about on your own turf?”

  “Dammit, Jenkins, I don’t like this any better than you do, but we’re stuck with it. Let’s try to make it work.”

  “Hell, no,” Jenkins said with exaggerated generosity. “You want the case this bad, it’s yours.”

  “I do not want the case,” Michael retorted, biting off each word.

  “Yeah, sure. I’m supposed to believe that.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  Molly felt as if she were trying to watch a tennis match from the vantage point of the net. Sergeant Jenkins served up another sly dig about Michael walking off in the middle of his own investigation.

  “Couldn’t break that case, so now you’re over here messing in mine.”

  “I’m here because somebody in the county wants it that way. I’m beginning to see why,” Michael shot back, jamming his sunglasses into place.

  That was a sure sign that he was losing his temper. Molly had observed that he used those sunglasses to shut out the world when he’d lost patience with it nearly as often as he did to shade his eyes.

  Sergeant Jenkins still wasn’t content to let it rest. “I can see the press hasn’t labeled you an ambitious hotshot for nothing. With an ego that size, I’m surprised you bother with us lowly mortals at all,” he said, and stalked from the office.