She glanced over the messages again and noted the times they were taken. The last call from Francesca had come barely an hour before she and Jerry had found Greg’s body. The calls from the studio came in right after that.
“I think maybe we need to have a talk with Laura,” Molly said.
“About?”
“What exactly went on the last time she saw Greg. Judging from these messages, it had to have been in that time span between the time Veronica left Greg in her trailer and the time he was killed.”
Michael took the messages back and studied them. “The time’s on here, but not the date. He could have been carrying these around for days.”
Molly shook her head. “Greg was methodical about messages, in part because of the time difference between here and L.A. He made it a point to go back to pick up his messages about eight every night. That meant it was only five on the Coast and he could return any calls before people left for the day.”
“This was Saturday. Would he have worried about business calls on the weekend?”
“Look at the messages. He was getting calls at all hours, every day. Every one of these messages came in between six o’clock and ten P.M.”
“But what day?”
“It had to have been Saturday. Otherwise, he would have returned the calls and tossed the messages.”
Michael nodded. “If you’re sure of that, then let’s go have a talk with Laura. If we can place her in that trailer at the critical time, we definitely have a liar.”
“More important, we may have a killer.” Considering the way she felt about Laura Crain, nothing would have pleased Molly more.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
They were in the creaking hotel elevator on their way to the production office when Michael’s beeper went off. When he saw the calling number, he promptly punched the button to take them straight back down to the first floor.
“Who is it?” Molly wanted to know. It had to be important to keep him from going after the probable killer.
“Jenkins. He could have found something. We ought to know that before we go in to see Laura.”
“I could go ahead,” Molly suggested, counting on the statistics that indicated a single crime of passion was not indicative of a penchant for shooting down everyone in sight. Maybe she could wrench an admission from Laura by giving her a shoulder to cry on.
“I don’t think so,” Michael said.
“But I could tell her I needed to check the production schedule. She’d never know what I was really there for. Maybe she’d open up, if I sounded sympathetic. She doesn’t really have a woman around to talk to.”
“I thought your impression was that she didn’t much like women. Besides, exactly how much snooping around do you figure you could accomplish before she caught on?”
“I’m counting on you to arrive before we get to that point.”
“And if I’m delayed?”
“I’ll beat a hasty retreat. I promise.”
“I need only ask your son about tonight to have a pretty good idea what your promises are worth.”
Because the barb struck home, Molly glared at him. “Was that reminder entirely necessary?”
He nodded, his expression grim. “I thought so.”
Since his impression of her was so low anyway, Molly didn’t feel the least bit guilty for the last-second dash she made back into the elevator as the doors slid closed. She felt an instant’s satisfaction as she caught Michael’s stunned expression. Or maybe that had been fury.
Okay, so what she was doing was rash and impulsive and foolhardy. She wasn’t actually going to accuse Laura of anything, though. She’d just snoop around a little, sound her out. Maybe she’d even stumble across a gun. Laura might not know Miami well enough to have taken the murder weapon and pitched it into some nearby body of water. There were plenty to choose from, of course, but maybe the producer hadn’t been thinking clearly enough to dispose of the gun right away. Hell, it could have been in the bottom of that voluminous purse she carried with her everywhere.
To her surprise, the door to the production office was closed and locked. She knocked, but no one answered. All the better, she thought, as she used the key she’d been issued on the first day of production.
Inside, one lamp burned dimly, casting eerie shadows around the room. The heavy drapes had been drawn, blocking out the silvery moonlight that shimmered on the ocean and at least some of the noise from the street. Suddenly the room seemed spookier than she remembered, perhaps because she’d never been in it alone and at night before. Perhaps because its usual occupant might very well be a murderer.
She wondered if Michael would take the next elevator up after her or if she had time to do some genuine sleuthing. As much as she wanted to poke freely around in drawers, she was forced to admit that she wished he’d hurry up. The closed, dreary atmosphere was giving her the creeps.
So get busy, she told herself. She moved deliberately to the desk and began opening drawers. They were every bit as organized as Laura herself. Files were neatly labeled and in alphabetical order. Bills had been sorted and stamped according to date received. Payment check numbers had been noted. Payroll records were in their own orderly drawer. It all seemed a little compulsive, even to someone used to keeping her own files relatively organized.
Still, so far it was pretty boring stuff, Molly noted as she came upon a file of contracts. Most were standard, according to what she knew of the industry. Duke got a hefty bonus at various stages of the film’s success. Veronica’s deal guaranteed her specific perks suitable to a legendary glamour queen. The cost was insignificant for most, but they underlined her status as being one step above everyone in the cast except Duke.
A quick scan of the remaining contracts revealed deals with everyone in the cast and crew with the exception of Hank, Daniel, and Laura herself. Molly guessed that was because all of them owned a piece of GK Productions and had their own separate salary arrangements because of it.
The bottom drawer in the desk was locked. Molly found a paper clip, bent it until it was nearly straight, then tried to jimmy the lock. As she was working at it, she noticed scratches in the surrounding wood. They had been there before she’d started her amateur attempt at lock picking. Someone else had wanted access to this very same drawer. Since the desk had been brought in especially for the production office, she knew with absolute certainty that those marks were recent. Presumably, though, Laura would have had a key. Who else would be interested in whatever was locked away?
To know that, she had to get inside. She knelt down to get a better view of the lock. She was still in that incriminating position when the connecting door to Laura’s room swung open, filling the office with a bright stream of light.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Laura demanded, closing the door carefully behind her before crossing the room.
Molly was reasonably good at thinking on her feet. Unfortunately she wasn’t on her feet. She was on her knees with a paper clip stuck in a locked drawer. She considered lying through her teeth and saying she needed the production schedule, but she knew only too well it was posted quite visibly on the bulletin board beside the door.
Recalling that there had been no file marked PERMITS, she said, “I was hunting for the permits you’ll need for tomorrow’s shooting schedule. I wanted to be sure you had them all and that they were up-to-date, now that we’re running behind by a couple of days.”
Laura continued to look skeptical, but she came over, nudged Molly aside and retrieved a file from the top of the desk, the one place Molly hadn’t searched. She’d saved the obvious for last, figuring nothing incriminating would be in plain sight.
She stood up and took the file. “Thanks.”
“It’s awfully late,” Laura noted, with a deliberate glance at her watch.
“I know, but I just thought of this and I wanted to be sure it was taken care of.”
“You came all the way back from Key Biscayne? Why didn’t yo
u just call?”
“Actually, I was still in the neighborhood. I had a meeting with Veronica and it ran late. I stopped for a glass of wine after that.”
“With that cop friend of yours?”
Molly nodded.
“Where is he, then?”
“He was beeped. He needed to make a call.”
“He could have made it from up here.”
“True. I guess he just wanted to be sure it was billed properly since it was long distance.”
“Police business, then?”
Molly shrugged. “I assume so.” She studied Laura. “I’m surprised you weren’t in here working. You usually burn the midnight oil.”
“Actually I was exhausted. I thought I’d get a decent night’s sleep for a change. I haven’t slept well at all since Greg was killed.”
“I can imagine,” Molly said, wondering why the producer would say she’d gone to bed early, when she was obviously still dressed in her street clothes. Of course, they were slightly disheveled. Maybe she’d fallen asleep with them on.
Laura had carefully put herself between Molly and the desk. Her expression perfectly bland, she said, “If there’s nothing else, I think I’ll lock up as soon as you’ve gone. I want to get back to bed.”
Just then the phone rang, startling them both. Laura made no move to pick it up.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?”
“No, it’s late. The desk will take a message.”
“Right,” Molly said and started for the door. She stopped and turned back. “One last thing,” she said, careful to keep her voice casual. “On the night Greg died he had a message from a reporter that seemed to upset him. Any idea what that was all about?”
Laura shot her an uneasy look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But you did take the message, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I didn’t cross-examine the man. Now if that’s all,” she said pointedly.
Defeated, Molly backed toward the door. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said as she carefully shut the office door behind her.
In the corridor she lingered outside Laura’s door, not the least bit certain why she was doing it. She heard the faint click of the connecting door shutting, then the muffled squeak of mattress springs. Nothing suspicious in that. Laura was doing exactly what she’d said she was going to do. She was going back to bed.
And then Molly heard, plain as day, Hank Murdock saying, “What took you so long? Who was in there?”
Molly couldn’t hear Laura’s reply, which didn’t much matter since she knew the answer.
“What the devil did she want?” Hank said.
Laura’s voice rose slightly. “She said she was looking for the permits for tomorrow’s shoot,” she said defensively.
Silence followed, then Hank’s voice. There was a new, unfamiliar tension to it. “Did you believe her?”
“No, but there’s nothing in there that would be worth anything to her. Let her play amateur sleuth if she wants to. For God’s sakes, Hank, the sooner they arrest someone for Greg’s murder, the better off we’ll all be.”
Hank muttered a curse, but then the bedsprings squeaked again. Molly got the distinct impression from the subsequent silence that Laura had found a way to ease his mind. She had also given her a whole new angle to consider. She could hardly wait to get downstairs and tell Michael that Hank Murdock had apparently taken up where Greg Kinsey had left off with Laura Crain.
Molly waited nearly ten anxious minutes for the elevator to come before finally deciding it was stuck on another floor. She headed for the stairwell, recalling that Francesca had taken these same steps down on the night of Greg’s murder to avoid bumping into Molly or the police.
Molly was halfway down to the street level when she heard running footsteps on the stairs. This wasn’t someone who was stealthily sneaking up on her. It was someone in a hurry. Of course, with the elevator not functioning, it could be anyone. She reassured herself that there was no reason for the cold chill that swept over her or the suddenly quickened pumping of her heart.
She hurried her own steps, but the person was clearly gaining on her. She could practically hear whoever it was hitting three steps to every one of her own. The sound reverberated off the walls. She had only one more floor to go when a hand closed over her shoulder, scant inches from her neck where her pulse skittered wildly. A scream began deep inside but choked in her throat.
“Just listen to me, Molly,” Laura said in a low voice. “If you do exactly as I say, you’ll be just fine. My car is half a block down, right at the end of the alley. We’re going to get in it. Understand?”
Since Molly figured Laura’s gun was probably aimed about level with her heart, she had no delusions about disagreeing with the producer’s plan. The only thing she could do was stall for time, then pray that the side street was still so crowded with passersby that Laura would be able to do nothing if she made a break for it.
“Why, Laura? Why did you kill Greg?”
“I didn’t,” she said so convincingly that Molly stopped in her tracks.
She whirled around to stare at the producer. “You didn’t?” she repeated, unable to keep the astonishment and disbelief out of her voice.
“No, you little fool. But I know who did. I’m trying to save your neck. Now will you hurry up and move before we both get our heads blown off.”
This was probably no time for indulging in idle curiosity, but Molly couldn’t help herself. “If you didn’t do it, who did?”
“Three guesses and the first two don’t count.”
Suddenly Molly realized that only one person could have sent Laura plunging down this staircase after her. “Hank?” she breathed softly. “When did you know?”
Just then a door somewhere above them opened. “Laura?” Hank called. The plaintive tone of his voice sent a chill down Molly’s spine.
Laura motioned toward the door and this time Molly didn’t hesitate before racing down the remaining steps. She hit the bar across the door at full force, but it didn’t budge.
“What’s wrong?” Laura demanded, her gaze directed up the stairwell.
“It’s jammed or locked.”
“It can’t be locked. It’s a fire exit. Hit it harder.”
Molly threw her full weight against the door just as Hank rounded the final turn in the stairwell. The door burst open just as he aimed his gun at the pair of them.
“I think we’ll all leave together,” he said softly, gesturing for them to precede him.
Molly was certain her legs would never move again. She froze where she was at the sight of the gun aimed directly at her.
“Move it,” Hank said, nudging her with the gun. The cold press of metal sent acid pitching in her stomach.
“Why, Hank?” she said quietly. “Why did you kill him?”
He didn’t answer. The only indication she had that he’d even heard her was the increased pressure of that gun against her ribs. He urged them relentlessly down that dark alley. There were no windows looking out on the alley at ground level, so it was unlikely anyone would see them from inside the hotel. Nor were there any cans or bottles she or Laura could kick, creating enough noise to draw attention. Their only chance would come when they reached the street. She tried to concentrate all of her attention on planning for that.
Perspiration beaded on her forehead and the nape of her neck. It ran in icy rivulets down her spine. Hank’s silence was the worst of it, worse even than the terrifying press of the gun. If he would just talk to her, she could better sense his mood, better guess the exact moment she ought to run for it. She glanced at Laura and saw that she looked more resigned and weary than terrified.
When had her instincts deserted her? Until tonight she would have bet her life that Hank Murdock was incapable of murder. Now there was every indication that he had killed not only once, but intended to again. What could have driven this quiet, dedicated man to murder?
If he
was involved with ‘Laura, would he have been so incensed by Greg’s moves on her that he finally shot him in a jealous rage? But why wait until almost the end of the picture? Could the timing have been a last desperate attempt to gain recognition as a director by completing the film in Greg’s stead? The motives raced through her mind like film on fast forward, leaving impressions but no conclusions. Obviously Laura possessed some incriminating piece of information that she hadn’t shared with anyone else. Did it have to do with those messages?
“Did you hate Greg?” she asked. “I thought the two of you were best of friends.”
“We were,” he said softly, an unexpected catch in his voice.
Molly seized on that faint hint of emotion. “Then he must have done something to make you very angry that night. What did he do?”
They were almost to the street. She could hear the laughter of a passing couple, the grinding start of a motorcycle. But there was still no response from Hank. The barrel of the gun seemed to tremble against her back. Because he was losing his nerve? Because something she’d said had reminded him that the man who’d died was, in fact, his best friend?
“Did I ever tell you how often Greg spoke of you when we were making plans for this production?” she said. “He respected your work. Maybe even more than you did, he said. He was anxious to see that you got the break you deserved.”
“Bullshit,” he said succinctly. “He was going to force me out.”
“Force you out,” Molly repeated slowly. “Could he do that?”
“Yes,” Laura said with a sigh. “He had the power to do it. You might as well tell her everything, Hank.”
“A few years ago I had some heavy gambling debts,” he said, reminding Molly of his claim that he hadn’t been in the poker game that night because he no longer gambled.
“Greg loaned me the money to pay them off with my share of the company as collateral.”
“But why would he force you out now?”
It was Laura who answered. “The studio had been on him for weeks about cutting overhead. With the picture close to done, they wanted Hank off the payroll. They waved a deal for additional films under his nose if he could streamline the company. That reporter had gotten wind of the studio’s offer. He called Greg.”
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