The Money Shot

by Stuart Woods

  “I’m sorry,” Tessa whispered urgently. “I need your help.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at home.”

  “Then you’re safe. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  “No, wait! Someone delivered a gun to my front door!”

  “When?”

  “Just now. The doorbell rang. I went to the door, and on the porch was a bubble-wrap mailer. I think it’s the murder weapon.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “It’s been fired recently.”

  “What do you know about guns?”

  “Back home I used to target-shoot on a private estate. The gun is a revolver. It’s fully loaded, but there’s an empty shell in one of the chambers.”

  “Shit.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Is Ben up?”

  “He slept right through the doorbell. Nothing wakes him.”

  “Hang on. I’ll be right there.”

  “You can’t come by at two in the morning.”

  “I’m not coming in. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Be watching out the window. When you see the car, leave the mailer with the gun inside on the stoop.”

  Teddy hurriedly pulled on some clothes. He grabbed his keys and wallet, slipped on a pair of sneakers, and hopped in the car. He observed the speed laws on his way. That time of night a lone car speeding would attract attention.

  Ben and Tessa lived in a Hollywood home with an inordinate amount of lawn. Teddy left the car on the street and sprinted up the drive in his unlaced sneakers. He saw the front door open, and a shadowy figure place the mailer on the stoop.

  Teddy picked up the mailer with the gun and slipped off the path into the darkness. He stood stock-still, listening for a sound but heard none. He worked his way quickly around the perimeter of the property to the street.

  No one seemed to be watching his car, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t. There was no help for that now. Teddy got in, started the engine, and pulled away. He drove the speed limit all the way home.

  He parked in his driveway, hurried up the walk, and went inside. It was a relief to get home, but he didn’t relax until he’d locked the gun in his safe.

  30

  A local newscast reported the murder of private detective Ace Vargas. Teddy had planned on ignoring the case altogether, but that was before he was in possession of a recently fired gun that was likely the murder weapon.

  He disguised himself as Jonathan Foster, one of several identities for whom he had CIA credentials. Foster was a little younger than Teddy, but looked like a seasoned pro. Teddy checked his image in the mirror against the ID photo. It was close enough. He got in his car and drove into downtown L.A.

  Teddy went to the police station and hunted up the detective in charge of the Ace Vargas case. He was lucky to find him in his office. Sergeant Marvin O’Reilly was a beefy middle-aged cop with a firm handshake.

  “Oh, thank God,” Teddy said.

  The sergeant frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was afraid I’d get some twenty-year-old kid who doesn’t know the ropes.”

  O’Reilly almost smiled. “What’s this all about?”

  Teddy whipped out his credentials. “Jonathan Foster, CIA. A matter has arisen with regard to the Ace Vargas case.”

  The sergeant scowled.

  Teddy put up his hands. “Don’t worry, we’re not taking over the investigation. I’m not here to step on your toes. We have one small matter, totally incidental to your case, and I’m here to see it stays that way.” He took a breath. “Now then, I can’t tell you much—this is all highly classified—but we have reason to believe that the fatal gun in the Ace Vargas case may have been used in one other unrelated homicide.”

  “We don’t have the fatal gun in the Ace Vargas case.”

  “No, but you’ve got the fatal bullet.”

  O’Reilly frowned. “I can’t give you the fatal bullet.”

  “No, but you can give me a ballistics photo. We can work from that. It’s not as accurate, but good enough for our purposes. We’re not trying to prove something in court.”

  “You want the ballistics photo?”

  “Surely you have copies.”

  O’Reilly frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re in charge of the case, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You haven’t made an arrest yet, have you?”

  “No,” O’Reilly said with an edge in his voice.

  “Good.”

  He frowned again. “Why do you say that?”

  Teddy shrugged. “The minute you make an arrest, the assistant district attorney is in charge of the case. Those guys are assholes.”

  Fifteen minutes later Teddy was out the door with a copy of the ballistics photo.

  * * *

  —

  Teddy went home and logged into the CIA website. It took him fifteen minutes to get into the encrypted and encoded classified section. They kept changing the codes to keep him out. Of course, they had no idea when he got in, they just took the precaution as a matter of course.

  This time Teddy wasn’t looking for any classified information, just the kind of info that wasn’t available to the general public. Like the names and locations of CIA agents around the globe.

  Teddy was particularly concerned with the L.A. area. He had a feeling there might be a local office set up to monitor suspected terrorist activity on college campuses. There was indeed. It covered all of southern California and boasted a director, half a dozen in-house personnel, and seventeen field agents. Files were available on all.

  Teddy chose Jaspar Billingham—young, eager, ambitious, one of two agents currently doubling as armorers and lab technicians. Reading between the lines, Teddy could tell Jaspar was eager to be out in the field.

  While he was there, Teddy uploaded Jonathan Foster’s CIA file onto the website. An L.A. cop wouldn’t have been able to check Foster’s credentials on the CIA website, but a CIA agent would.

  When he was done, Teddy took the gun from his safe and sealed it in a plastic evidence envelope. He took the ballistics photo of the bullet from the Ace Vargas murder and cut off anything that indicated what it was or where it came from. He put the gun and the photo in a briefcase and drove back downtown to the CIA headquarters.

  Teddy was lucky in that the main office and the lab were in two separate buildings. He went up to the lab and rang the bell. The door was opened by the young agent he’d seen on the website. Jaspar Billingham was casually dressed and gave the impression of a backroom employee working hard.

  “I think you have the wrong address,” he said.

  “I think not,” Teddy said, and flipped open his CIA credentials.

  Jaspar let him in and locked the door.

  “Would you mind if I took another look at your credentials?” he said.

  “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. Check me out thoroughly so we don’t have to talk at arm’s length.”

  Jaspar went to the computer and scanned Jonathan Foster’s credentials into the machine. Moments later his CIA file popped up. Everything checked out.

  Jaspar handed the credentials back. “You’re from D.C.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you out here?”

  “We have a delicate situation and need your assistance with some local information. We don’t want it to appear that Washington is interested.”

  “Really?” Jaspar said.

  Teddy could tell it was killing him not to ask why. “I need you to run some tests without informing your superiors. For the basis of this assignment, I am your superior. I don’t want you to speculate on what you are being asked to do, I just want you to do it. If you do, it will be noted and remembered by the higher-ups. How equipped is your lab?”
<
br />   “I would say adequately.”

  “Do you have a comparison microscope?”

  “We do.”

  “Do you know how to use it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” Teddy snapped open his briefcase. He took out the evidence bag with the gun and handed it to Jaspar. “Take this gun. I want you to fire a test bullet from it, and compare it to another bullet. I can’t get you that bullet, but I have an evidence photo of it.” Teddy handed the photo over. “Can you compare it to the bullet in this photo and tell me if it was fired from the same gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. How fast can you do it?”

  Jaspar considered. “I’m not set up to fire the bullet here. By tonight?”

  Teddy nodded. “Just so no one knows you’re doing it.”

  “I understand,” Jaspar said.

  “Good man,” Teddy said.

  Jonathan Foster had done a full morning’s work. Teddy went home and changed back into Mark Weldon.

  31

  Teddy had a two-o’clock set call. He arrived at a quarter till, and went straight to wardrobe and makeup.

  Tessa was already there. She was having her eye makeup checked, which was something she usually did herself. Teddy figured she was waiting for him.

  She was. She managed some stilted small talk in front of the makeup artist, and whisked him out of the room as soon as he was done.

  The soundstage was abuzz with grips and electricians and cameramen setting up.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Teddy said. He walked her out onto the back lot.

  The moment they were alone Tessa said, “So, what about the gun?”

  “I’m working on the gun.”

  “Why did he send it to me?”

  “Just to frighten you, I think.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because nothing happened. The other obvious reason to send you the gun is to frame you for the Ace Vargas murder.”

  “You do think that’s the gun that killed Ace Vargas?”

  “I think there’s a pretty good chance. But I don’t think our blackmailer is actually trying to frame you with it. If he was, he could have hidden it somewhere in your home or trailer, tipped off the authorities, and policemen would have shown up at your house with a warrant. Instead he gave it right to you, and gave you time to get rid of it. He doesn’t want you in the hands of the police. He wants you free to do what he wants.”

  “I just wish I knew what that was,” Tessa fretted. “He’s toying with me.”

  “All of this is just setting the stage, softening you up for what comes next.”

  “So what can it be?”

  “We’ll have to wait to find out.”

  * * *

  —

  When he got off from filming, Teddy went home and changed back into Agent Jonathan Foster. He strapped a gun to his ankle and put on a shoulder holster. He drove downtown and spent a good half hour checking out the streets around the CIA lab, just to be sure “Jonathan Foster” hadn’t been found out and he wasn’t walking into a trap.

  When he was relatively certain the building wasn’t being watched, he crossed the street and went in.

  He knocked on the door to the lab with his left hand. His right hand was under his jacket on his gun.

  The look on Jaspar Billingham’s face told him all was well. The young man was pleased as punch. He’d found a match.

  Teddy took the gun and the photo, collected the test bullets Jaspar had fired, swore him to secrecy one more time, and got the hell out of there. He felt bad for the young man, who was probably already celebrating his promotion in his head.

  Teddy went home and changed out of his Jonathan Foster guise. Then he hacked into the CIA and carefully deleted any trace of Jonathan Foster from their website. He’d have to trash the identity now. It was too bad. He was kind of fond of Agent Jonathan Foster.

  32

  Gerard Cardigan was listening on the phone. Every now and then he would lift the receiver from his ear and mime, “Blah, blah, blah,” with his other hand. He covered the mouthpiece and shook his head. “You ask a simple question and you get someone’s life story.” He put the phone back to his ear. “Yes, yes, that’s very interesting. What I want to know is has the transfer of stocks gone through?” That question triggered another deluge of unwanted information.

  Mason Kimble extended his hand and waggled his fingers. Gerard handed him the phone. Mason took it and said, “Put Cy on.” A moment later he said, “Cy, Mason Kimble. I’m trying to do the math here. I need a simple number, not an explanation. How many shares of Vanessa Morgan’s holdings have been transferred to my account?” Mason grabbed a pencil, turned a piece of paper around. “Uh-huh.” He scribbled on the paper. “Thank you,” he said, and hung up.

  Mason swiveled the paper around for Gerard.

  Gerard smiled. “In some ways you’re scarier than I am.”

  “In some ways. And the winner is . . . ?”

  “Forty-two point seven percent.”

  “Perfect,” Mason said, beaming. “And Tessa Bacchetti’s seven point five makes fifty point two. That calls for champagne.”

  Gerard looked up. “We have champagne?”

  “I had a feeling about the numbers. I picked it up this morning.”

  Mason opened the storage cabinet behind the desk and removed an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne cooling. He popped the cork and filled a pair of flutes. He handed one to Gerard. “To Star Pictures!”

  “I told you we’d make it,” Gerard said.

  “We cut it close. The stockholders’ meeting is next week.”

  “It was never in doubt.”

  “I’d forgotten how effective your methods of persuasion are.”

  Gerard took a sip. “Shall we send our date an invitation?”

  “Absolutely. We want to give her time to pick out a dress.”

  Mason went to the storage cabinet, took out a brand-new cell phone, and wiped it clean. “Hand me a mailer, will you?”

  * * *

  —

  The mailer was on the stoop when Tessa stumbled out of her front door for her six-thirty call. She opened it in the limo on her way to the set. There was no note, no DVD, just the phone. She half expected it to ring, but prayed it wouldn’t. What would the driver think? He’d only hear her end of the conversation, but even so.

  The phone didn’t ring on her way to the set. It rang in the middle of her scene with Brad. For once it was going well. Tessa was distracted and exhausted, which pulled her performance down, and Brad stepped his up. The result was the two of them blended perfectly and the scene flowed.

  Then the phone rang.

  Peter was incredulous. “Who has a cell phone on set?”

  He felt bad when he realized the phone was Tessa’s, but he was still annoyed, particularly when she didn’t just turn it off.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to take this.” She ran off the set, away from the cast and crew. “Yes,” she said quietly, when she was out of earshot.

  “You kept me waiting. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “Why did you send me a gun?”

  “No, no, no. You don’t get to ask questions. You only answer them. Are you going to do what I say?”

  Tessa said nothing.

  “I have my finger on the Upload to YouTube button.”

  “Yes, I’m going to do what you say.”

  “Good.”

  “I want that foul thing destroyed.”

  “That can happen. Or it can trend number one in Google searches. It’s entirely up to you. I want you to do something for me. Are you ready to do it?”

  “That depends on what it is.”

  “Does it really? I mean, do you really think I’d make you do somet
hing you’d like less than that video?”

  Tessa waited in silence.

  “Here’s the deal. There’s a board of directors meeting coming up for Centurion Studios. You will attend, and you will vote your stock.”

  “I don’t attend meetings. My husband has my proxy. He votes my stock.”

  “A proxy is voided when the stockholder appears in person, as you will do. A man representing a corporate holding company will make a motion. You will vote your shares with him.”

  “I won’t be at the meeting.”

  “If you’re not at the meeting, your video will go viral.”

  The phone clicked dead.

  * * *

  —

  Tessa slapped as big a smile as she could muster on her face and hurried back to the set. “I’m sorry,” she said to Peter. “My mother was seeing a doctor, but everything’s all right. I’ve turned my phone off.”

  Peter knew Tessa’s mother. His father, Stone Barrington, had been dating her when Tessa first came over from England to visit.

  “Is it serious?”

  “It could have been, but it’s fine. I know she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I thought Tessa was doing remarkable work under the circumstances,” Brad said.

  Tessa forced a smile. Having to endure condescending faint praise from a no-talent star was almost more than she could bear. She took a breath and went back to work.

  33

  Teddy showed up during the next camera move. Tessa had time to drag him into her trailer and bring him up to date.

  “So that’s what they want,” Teddy said.

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I’m not. It had to be something of this nature. A few days ago I learned that Centurion stock was being bought up by several holding companies—I can’t prove it, but I suspect they represent one investor interested in a hostile takeover. They can’t buy your stock, but they want to force you to vote it with them.”

  “So what do I do? I can’t attend the meeting and vote against Ben and Peter. It would be obvious something’s wrong.”