R.J. smirked. If Davis had been on the phone to Kates, R.J. understood where the staring business came from. “Kates has never been right about anything. But if you think he is, that explains a lot.”
“He said you’re the biggest pain in the ass in Manhattan.”
R.J. grinned. “Well, that’s a compliment coming from him. What else did he say?”
Now Davis grinned. It wasn’t pretty. “He said he’s been talking to the Connecticut State Troopers. And Connecticut has a body on their hands that might interest you.”
R.J. could feel the skin rise up on the back of his neck. The only people he knew of who had gone to Connecticut were Mary Kelley and Hookshot. If either one had gone over to Torrington and something had happened—“Who is it?”
Davis leaned back, stretching his power play as long as he could. “Guy named William Kelley.”
R.J. could hear Portillo hissing explosively. But R.J. didn’t have enough breath to do it himself. His head was swimming. “Excuse me?” he finally managed to say.
Davis’s grin got bigger and nastier. “Yeah, that’s right. William Kelley. Died in a car crash. Your big alibi ran into a tree, hotshot.” He leaned back and for the first time looked almost happy. “They’ve had him in the morgue for three days. Looking for next of kin. Then they got the wire from us asking about him. Small world, huh, Brooks?” He leaned forward and slammed his hand on the table again. “Now, goddammit, let’s talk about a couple of murders, punk.”
R.J. got over the shock of Kelley’s death in a couple of minutes. But it was two and a half hours of sweat before he got away from Davis and his staring act. At least an hour and a half of it was pure meanness by Davis, hitting up against pure stubbornness by R.J. Toward the end, R.J. knew that Davis didn’t think he had killed anybody or even written the damn letters, but he also knew that if Davis had a chance to stick him with it, he would.
In a way, R.J. sympathized with that. Davis was under a lot of pressure to stick somebody, anybody, and if he could make R.J. fit, well, that would take the pressure off. And because of who R.J. was it would mean a lot of media attention, which never hurt a cop’s career.
But it also meant that Davis was more interested in covering his ass than finding the killer, and that wasn’t good news. Casey’s life was in danger here and R.J. didn’t feel like taking the chance. There was too much at stake to depend on a clown like Davis. He would never find this guy, unless he saw him in the commissioner’s back pocket while he was kissing it.
And that meant R.J. would have to do it.
With Kelley out of the picture as a suspect, R.J. would be starting all over again, back at square one. And the killer, whomever it was, was out here now, off R.J.’s home turf. That made it tougher. But there wasn’t anybody else, and the stakes were too high—Casey’s life was on the line.
First, though, he had to go back to New York. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He hated funerals, but Mary Kelley was going to hate this one even more, and she would be there alone. She was his client, and he owed it to her to be there. An obligation like that came first, no matter how much every cell in his body was screaming at him to stay close to Casey and keep her safe.
But before any of that he still had to sit through Captain Davis’s torture session. And it was a nasty shock when he realized that he was now the leading suspect for Jason Levy’s murder, too.
He found out the hard way.
After some routine opening questions Davis leaned back and went into the staring routine again. A little smile flicked across his skinny lips and R.J. thought, Uh-oh, here it comes. He looked at Portillo, who shrugged.
“Coroner says Jason Levy was killed early yesterday afternoon,” Davis said.
“All right,” R.J. said.
“Where were you, Brooks?”
R.J. almost choked. “What? Where was I? For Christ’s sake, Davis, you think I killed Levy?”
Davis just smiled. “We know from the notes what the motive was—stop this movie they’re making over there at Andromeda. That sound like something you want to do? Yeah, I thought so. And we know that lawyer, Belcher, was killed for that same reason, at a time when you had motive, means, and opportunity. Just like you had for Jason Levy. So of course, we’d like to know where you were when Levy was killed, since the two deaths appear to be linked.” His sick little smile got a lot bigger. The son-of-a-bitch was really getting off on this. “Where were you, Brooks?”
With a sick lurch to the stomach, R.J. knew they had him in a bad place. “I was at Lieutenant Portillo’s house,” he said, with no hope at all.
Davis played it out, the sadistic bastard. “Oh. Okay. I see. So naturally Lieutenant Portillo can vouch for you, then. Very good. Is that right, Lieutenant? The two of you were together, at your house?”
Portillo looked pale, whether from anger or something else, and R.J. could see his jaw muscles standing out. “I was down here,” he said. “In my office.”
Davis pretended to look surprised. “Down here—then you mean Brooks was at your house alone?”
“That’s right.”
Davis stared at R.J. again, raising his eyebrows, pretending he’d just discovered something. Just like a real investigator. “Well, Brooks,” he said. “I’m sure somebody else can provide some corboration.”
“It’s cor-rob-boration, Captain.”
The smile stayed, but there was a mean glitter in Davis’s eyes now. “I don’t give a flying fart how you say it, Brooks. Do you have any?”
R.J. sighed. “No.”
“Nothing at all? No UPS deliveries, no passing fire trucks, no telephone calls from U.S. senators? Nothing?”
“Nothing,” R.J. said. “I fell asleep.”
Davis shook his head. “Asleep. Well, well. You must be a sound sleeper then. Are you a sound sleeper, Brooks?” R.J. didn’t answer. Why give the bastard the satisfaction. “Because according to our records here, Lieutenant Portillo attempted to reach you by telephone two times at the approximate time of Jason Levy’s murder and there was no answer.” The smile dropped away and it was all triumphant snarl now. “How do you explain that, Mister Movie Star Fucking Brooks?”
R.J. couldn’t explain it, of course. It sounded pretty feeble, even to him, and he knew it was true.
And for the next hour and a half Davis pounded away at it. The same questions over and over. The same veiled threats and cheap scare tactics. It didn’t work on R.J.—he had nothing to say that he hadn’t said already and the Gestapo-style bullying just didn’t work on a guy who’d had it from experts.
It wasn’t getting them anywhere, and it sure wasn’t closing in on the killer. It was pure ticket-punching. Davis was making sure he could show that he had personally spent a good long time grilling the leading suspect.
Finally R.J. had enough.
Davis had asked him the same stupid question for the twelfth time and R J. felt something pop inside. He’d felt it before. It meant he was in a kind of danger zone where he was going to do whatever he had to do and the hell with the consequences. It meant if he had to punch out a police captain to get some fresh air, that’s what he would do.
R.J. stood up.
“Sit down, Brooks,” Davis said. “I’m not done with you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I said sit down!”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
R.J. took a step closer to Davis. “Are you going to charge me with anything?”
Davis licked his lips. “Not at present.”
R.J. took another step, and another. He felt Portillo’s hand on his arm, trying to hold him back, but he didn’t care. “Am I a suspect in a capital case? Should I get a lawyer?”
“That won’t be necessary at this time.”
R.J. pulled away from Portillo’s restraining hand and leaned right in over the desk. Davis tried to tough it out, but he was looking worried. “Then how would you describe my legal position at this moment, Captain?”
Davis twitched. He shot his eyes to Portillo, maybe looking for help, but he didn’t find any there.
“You are voluntarily assisting the police in their investigation.”
R.J. held the stare for a second. Let the bloated desk jockey squirm. There was nothing he could do. “Voluntarily,” R.J. finally said.
“That’s right.”
R.J. stood up. “I just un-volunteered,” he said. “If you’re in charge of this investigation, I’m no longer assisting. You couldn’t catch a cold in the flu ward.”
“Damn it, Brooks—”
R.J. turned his back on Davis. “Uncle Hank, I’m out of here.”
“All right, R.J.”
“Portillo,” Davis spluttered. “You’d damn well better make him stay—!”
Davis found himself looking into four ice cold eyes. “Captain,” Portillo said gently. “If you are suggesting that I, as a sworn officer, unlawfully detain a citizen who has gone to great personal expense and inconvenience to assist us—”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting, goddammit!”
Portillo nodded. “Then I’d like that in writing, please, Captain.” And he looked mildly at Davis, who made noises for a few seconds and finally gave up.
Davis hit his desk again. It didn’t sound so loud this time. “You’ll die a lieutenant, Portillo,” he finally said.
Portillo stepped up and looked down at Davis. The captain probably outweighed Portillo by a hundred pounds and stood six inches taller, but Portillo filled the room and Davis looked small and insignificant. “Under the circumstances,” Portillo said softly, “that will be a great satisfaction. Sir.” And he looked down at Davis for a good long time to be sure he got the message.
Davis got it all right. He turned bright red. R.J. had to grin as he watched the captain squirm for control. He didn’t find any.
“Will that be all, Captain?” Portillo asked him. And before he could answer, Portillo turned away. “Let’s go, R.J.”
They headed out of the building and into the parking garage without saying a word. But by the time they got to Portillo’s car, R.J. was fighting back an attack of the giggles. As he climbed into the car, he lost the fight and started to laugh.
“Jesus Christ, Uncle Hank,” he gasped.
Portillo stared at him with the same mild control he had used on the captain. R.J. lost it again. Portillo watched him laugh for a minute, shaking his head.
“R.J.,” Portillo finally said. “This is not a laughing matter.”
“I know it, Uncle Hank,” R.J. said, still laughing, “but my God, you were great in there.” R.J. pulled himself together. “I feel like a kid coming from the principal’s office.”
Portillo snorted and started the car. “Davis is not going to suspend you,” he said. “He wants to put you in jail, and he no longer cares how. You have made a bad enemy, R.J.”
“He’ll have to take a number, Uncle Hank. Besides, he wasn’t any friend of mine when I walked in. He’s getting chummy with Kates by long distance.”
But Portillo just shook his head. “We blew it, hijo.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes, until the car nosed up the on-ramp onto the freeway. R.J.’s laughter left him quickly. Uncle Hank was right. There really wasn’t anything funny about this. They had blown it. Given half a chance he could have gotten off the hook with the law. But he’d gotten no chance and had twisted himself more firmly on the hook than ever before.
He was just a step or two away from a jail cell, at a time when Casey’s life might depend on him being free and finding a killer. Now he had to move that much faster—catch the killer before Davis or Kates nailed him for jaywalking—and he couldn’t see any way to do it that didn’t leave Casey exposed. He hated it like hell but there was no way around it. But first—
“I have to go back to New York,” he finally said.
Portillo looked at him without expression. “I know that, R.J.”
“Just for a couple of days. Then I’ll be back. But—” He found it hard to say. Putting it in words made the danger more real somehow.
But Portillo understood. “I’ll keep an eye on Casey. Have somebody watch her house, keep an officer on the set, and another in the offices. That’s about all I can do.”
R.J. nodded. It was probably more than he could have done himself, but it was not the kind of thing a guy should delegate. But he had to be there for Mary Kelley. She was a client, and that still meant something.
“Thanks, Uncle Hank,” he said. He looked out the window of the car. The dry hills were almost visible through the smog. The traffic was moving bumper to bumper at sixty-five miles per hour. “I’d like to see Casey before I leave.”
Portillo looked at R.J. again. “I know that, hijo. That’s where we’re headed.”
CHAPTER 19
They got to the studio about twenty minutes later. The same young actor was working the gate and he let them in again with no problem.
It must have been union coffee-break time. The whole lot was swarming with people in jeans. They were lounging all over the place, leaning against cars, sitting on the pavement.
At the door to the soundstage a pair of Nazi storm troopers were yakking with a bearded Basque shepherd and a long-legged woman in a flamenco outfit. A guy in baggy pantaloons and a fez wandered by singing a Guns N’ Roses tune.
R.J. and Portillo pushed through and into the hangar. The set this time was a basement room, steam pipes dripping onto ratty-looking crates. A dingy bed stood under a high window.
Maggie DeSoto was sitting on the bed under the lights, this time completely topless. Her breasts stood out unnaturally, an obvious silicone job. She had her legs crossed and was kicking the upper foot and smoking a cigarette. She looked bored, as if she was waiting for a bus to take her to the library. Except there were damned few people in the library dressed like that. Even in Los Angeles.
Once again there was a tense knot of people beside the camera. As R.J. approached them he could hear Trevor, the elfin director, speaking.
“—don’t care if she pulls his balls off and dusts the room with them, I’ll have him out of that great bloody Winnebago in five minutes or I’ll bloody well sue his fucking agent!”
Casey was standing beside the elf, trying to calm him down. It wasn’t working. He pushed her away and R.J. felt his blood coming to a boil, but Casey turned and saw him.
“R.J.!” she said with an actual smile. It was quick and strained, but it was a smile.
“Hi, Casey,” he said. “Would you like this guy in six pieces or a full dozen?” The elf looked alarmed and quickly backed away.
Casey put a hand on R.J.’s arm. It felt good. “He’s not the problem,” she said, nodding at the rapidly retreating elf. “It’s Alec.”
“The no-shirt guy? What’s his problem?”
Casey giggled. It was a sound so completely unlike her that R.J. just stared. “Apparently,” she said, the giggle still just a half breath away, “Maggie DeSoto put her hand inside his pants during the love scene.”
R.J. shook his head. “And?”
“And then she laughed and said something nobody else heard, and Alec stormed off the set and locked himself into his trailer. He says he won’t come out again until Maggie is fired and replaced with somebody decent.”
“Well then, great,” R.J. said. “Let’s take advantage and have some lunch. I need to talk to you.”
Casey frowned and shook her head. “Do you know how much it’s costing us for every hour this crew stands around doing nothing?”
“Well, hell, why throw good money after bad? Cancel the picture and let’s get something to eat.”
She ignored him, her eyes already roaming around the room, looking for something. “I can’t leave the set until this is cleared up, R.J.” Her eyes darted over to a bearded guy with a clipboard. “In fact, until Alec comes out of his trailer I’m going to be too busy to—Just a second, Bill,” she said as the bearded guy walked past. She
fell in step with him and they walked off, already deep in conversation.
R.J. fumed. So the guy got his crotch grabbed, and because of that, now Casey was too busy to talk. And because this was Hollywood, they would solve it by telephone, if at all, and it would take three days. Time he didn’t have. He had a plane to catch.
It made him furious. He had to talk to Casey, let her know what was going on. Persuade her to keep a low profile and cooperate with the guys Henry Portillo would assign to her. And nobody was doing anything beyond high-powered fretting. Well, hell, there must be something he could do. He was from this town, from this life. He should be able to think of something.
But what? They sure as hell hadn’t had this kind of problem when he was a kid. If anything like this had ever happened on the set of one of his father’s pictures—not that it ever could have—his father probably would have—
It came to him just like that. He looked around the room. Casey was already on the cellular telephone, talking away a mile a minute. Portillo was talking to a cop over beside the food tables. The cop was practically at attention.
And on a chair beside Portillo, R.J. saw it.
Somebody had dumped a battered raincoat and a fedora on the chair. Wardrobe. Probably Alec Harris’s costume. Based on the one R.J.’s dad had made famous.
R.J. stepped casually over and picked up the hat and coat. Portillo glanced at him. “R.J.,” he said. It was part warning and part question.
R.J. ducked it with a reassuring smile. “I’ll be right back, Uncle Hank,” he said, and headed for the door.
Outside he shrugged into the coat as he walked toward the two big trailers. They had signs on the door. The one on the left said “ALEC HARRIS” and had a couple of gold stars around it. Just in case the poor slob forgot what he was supposed to be.
R.J. put on the fedora. It was a little tight but he jammed it down onto his head anyway. Let the pinhead son-of-a-bitch get it tightened again later.
The door was locked, so R.J. wrapped his fist in the hem of the raincoat and punched through the window set in the trailer’s small door. He reached through, unlocked the door, and stepped up into the trailer, snapping up the collar of the raincoat.
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