by Joanne Fluke
“Oh.” Allison nodded, but she still felt she had to explain. “I know it’s not medically important, but my mother has always taken pride in her appearance. I just, well, I thought she’d give up completely if she saw how she looked.”
“That’s a good point, Mrs. Rocca. And it’s one of the reasons that there are no mirrors in our patients’ rooms. If they ask for one, of course we’ll bring it, but we make sure they look their best before we do.”
A great weight of guilt dropped on Allison’s shoulders. She’d suspected the worst, and instead, she’d found that Miss Stanley was merely concerned for her mother’s comfort. Tears came to her eyes and she found she was unable to blink them back.
“That’s all right, Mrs. Rocca.” The nurse’s voice was so very kind that Allison cried harder. “You’re under a great deal of stress, and I really insist that you sit here and have a nice hot cup of coffee. Dr. Naiman doesn’t agree with me, but I find coffee is soothing. Cream or sugar?”
“Both. Thank you, Miss Stanley.”
“It’s Doris. Do you mind if I call you Allison? It’s such a pretty name.”
Allison nodded. Doris Stanley was a lot nicer than Allison had expected her to be. By the time Doris had brought her coffee, she felt so much better that she ventured a slight smile.
“I notice you’re making a new afghan.” The head nurse smiled back. “You must have dozens by now.”
“Eight, but they’re not finished. The squares are all done, but I haven’t learned how to crochet them together.”
“Oh, that’s the easiest part. Why don’t you bring everything with you next week and I’ll teach you. Your mother should be more alert by then and we’ll lay it out on the floor in her room. She might enjoy watching us.”
After Allison had finished her coffee, she took a quick peek at her mother and left for the day. For the first time in months her smile reached her eyes. She felt good as she walked through the lobby and down the steps where she stopped to call Tony. She had punched out the first two digits of his office number before she remembered what Tony had written in the note he’d left for her this morning. He was out doing research on the murders and he wouldn’t be at the office until after five. And he’d be working until midnight again.
Allison’s spirits were somewhat dampened as she got into her car, turned on the radio, and listened to the traffic report. The freeway was a mess due to a twelve-car collision. She’d have to take the Sepulveda Pass to get home and that took twenty minutes longer. She put on her favorite Vivaldi CD to relax her and pulled out of the parking lot. She could tell Tony about the afghan tomorrow, if she saw him. Now that she thought about it, he probably wouldn’t be interested anyway. The fact that she was about to learn a new crochet stitch was pretty insignificant compared to the important movie he was writing.
8
Erik drove home as the sky was beginning to darken. He’d stopped at Tito’s Tacos and eaten one of their special enchiladas verdes, pork with green chili sauce. It was hot and spicy, and it would keep him awake for the work he had to do tonight.
While other people might be experts on the expensive Los Angeles restaurants, Erik considered himself a cheap-food connoisseur. He knew the menu and price list of every cut-rate eatery in Culver City. Since Erik had grown up on his mother’s farm cooking, he insisted that his food be well prepared and plentiful. No nouvelle cuisine for him. A hand-painted china plate containing nothing but paper-thin slices of meat, an asparagus tip, three teaspoons of sauce, and a grape sliced in twelve pieces left him cold. The one time Erik had tried it, he’d stopped for a Big Mac on the way home.
Tito’s, the restaurant Erik had chosen tonight, was right up at the top of his list along with the Roll & Rye Deli for their pastrami burgers. There was also Dinah’s, great for strawberry pancakes, and whenever Erik was in the mood for a platter-sized steak, he went to Petrelli’s on Sepulveda Boulevard.
Erik got into his car and turned left on Overland Boulevard, traveling past Sony Studio’s main gate. Living in a condo within walking distance of a studio practically guaranteed that he’d never work there. Erik would have to spend two hours on the crowded freeways every day, driving to Cinescope, which was on the other side of the pass. Erik knew he could move to the valley for an easier access to Cinescope, but then Rocca and Nielsen would be sure to sell something to Sony. You couldn’t outsmart fate.
A gorgeous blonde raced across Overland, from the fitness center to the singles apartments on the other side of the street. She was wearing a pink leotard that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Erik frowned as he hit the brakes and waved her on. Tony might accuse him of being a prude, but Erik still felt that there was a place for an outfit like that and it certainly wasn’t in the middle of a busy street.
As he waited for the light to change at Overland and Jefferson, Erik snapped open his briefcase to make sure he had the notes he’d done for the first scene of Video Kill. Tony had called in at noon, after his interview with Sam Ladera, and reported a total failure. He hadn’t been able to get any facts that weren’t already in the papers. Naturally, Erik had been disappointed, but he’d urged Tony to hurry back so they could block out the scene. Tony had hemmed and hawed on the phone and finally admitted that he was tied up for a couple days. Personal business. Erik should take the time off and enjoy himself for a change.
There had been no way Erik could go home in the middle of the day, so he’d stayed at the office and compiled all the information they’d been able to get. The work he’d completed was on a flash drive in his briefcase, and he intended to start blocking the first scene tonight, on his personal computer.
Erik turned left and pulled up to the guard’s kiosk on Sunshine Lane. The condo complex had an automatic gate-opener and every homeowner was given a magnetically coded card. The system was great when it worked, but the arm on the gate was broken again.
“Erik Nielsen. Apartment seven fourteen.”
The words were out of Erik’s mouth before he realized that the woman in the kiosk was Norma, his favorite security guard. She’d been really helpful when he’d moved in, giving him the name of a plumber when his sink needed fixing and answering all his questions about the complex. Norma was just about his only friend among the four-hundred-odd residents of Sunshine Lane.
“What are you doing here, Norma? I thought you didn’t work weekends.”
“I’m not supposed to.” Norma smiled and pressed the button to open the gate. “The night man called in sick, so they called me to come in at the last minute. Oh, Erik? There was a special delivery letter for you. I knew you weren’t home, so I told the postman to leave it in your box.”
Erik thanked her and drove down the tree-lined street to his garage. He parked in his numbered space and stopped at the mailbox on his way upstairs. His heart thudded hard in his chest as he read the return address on the special delivery letter. It was from Dr. Sanders at Pine Ridge.
The moment he’d unlocked the door and switched on the lights, Erik ripped open the envelope. A relieved smile spread across his face as he read the first few sentences. Jamie was definitely making progress. He had actually tried to talk when he saw Erik’s video of the L.A. Zoo.
Al was rubbing up against his legs, meowing pitifully, and Erik scooped him up on his way to the kitchen. He opened a can of cat food and shoveled half out on a paper plate. Then he poured himself a beer. He was about to go back to the living room when he noticed that Al was eyeing his food with distaste.
“Oh, boy, have I got you spoiled!” Erik was sure that Al smiled as he bent down to pick up the plate and warm it for a few seconds in the microwave. “Is this better?”
Al licked his hand as he set the plate on the floor, and Erik grinned. His mother used to say that it was impossible to own a cat. The cat consented to live with you, but only if you went out of your way to please it. Now, as Erik watched Al eat, he had an idea. He hurried to get the video camera he’d purchased last month and shot a full min
ute of Al, digging into his food. He’d already told Jamie that they had a cat and this would give him the opportunity to see Al.
Erik had spent the past three weekends shooting videos to send to Jamie. The first one had been of the planes at L.A. International Airport. The second had shown the neighborhood kids swimming in the condo pool. Last Sunday he had recorded the animals at the zoo. Erik carried his beer to the living room and sat down in his recliner to finish the letter.
Dr. Sanders had a suggestion. Erik should appear at least once in each video. It would give Jamie the opportunity to see his dad any time he wished, simply by watching the videos. It might also lead to greater recognition on Erik’s monthly visits. If these weekly videos worked for Jamie, Dr. Sanders would incorporate them in the school’s general therapy program. Other parents would be encouraged to make videos to keep in visual touch with their children.
Erik was smiling as he carried his briefcase into the office and turned on his computer. He was doing the best that he could for the son that only he had wanted. Daniele had been nearly hysterical when she’d found out that she was pregnant. Thank God she’d told him instead of going straight in for the abortion she’d arranged. It had taken a large sum of money to buy Daniele’s promise to have Jamie and then give him to Erik at the time of the divorce. He’d borrowed the money from the teachers’ credit union, and it had taken him ten years to pay it off, ten years of scrimping and saving every penny of his miserable salary as a high school English teacher. He’d been at the end of his rope when Tony had located him and suggested they write a screenplay about their experiences in combat.
The computer beeped, and Erik put in the flash drive he’d brought from the office. He owed Tony a lot, and it was unfair to be mad at him just because he’d needed to take a few days off. Tony’d had a rough time lately with his money problems and Allison’s depression over her mother’s illness. Erik was well acquainted with Tony’s work habits. Tony put off the actual writing for as long as possible, letting everything mull over in his mind. Then, when a deadline was staring him in the face, he worked like a demon for twenty-four-hour stretches and turned out brilliant work. In their three years together Erik had learned to accept his partner’s writing habits and adjust to his crazy time schedule.
The screen on his computer glowed brightly, and Erik adjusted the contrast. Then he opened the file and started to work. It might take him a week, but he’d block out the first scene himself, without Tony’s help. They could always revise it later. He wouldn’t put any more pressure on Tony to keep regular office hours. The first three scenes would be done in time. Rocca and Nielsen had never failed to meet a deadline yet.
Tony stood at the foot of the bed, squinting through the viewfinder on his video camera. It was a few minutes past nine at night, and Tony could tell that everyone was tired. He’d shot seventeen takes on the last scene and it still wasn’t up to par. They’d catch it tomorrow, when everyone was fresh.
“Okay, kids. That’s a wrap for tonight.”
Tony watched as Tina, the blonde, and Ginger, the redhead, untangled themselves on the bed and stood up. Tina reached for her robe and slipped it on, not bothering to tie the belt. They’d already seen everything that she had to offer.
“Thank God that’s over!” Tina massaged the left side of her tush and groaned. “I’m getting a cramp.”
“A cramp’s nothing compared to how you’ll feel tomorrow night.” Bobby, the male lead, leered at her. “Have you read the next scene?”
It took a minute for Bobby’s innuendo to sink in. When it did, Tina turned to Tony with alarm. “He’s kidding, isn’t he, Tony? When I signed on for this thing, they told me I wouldn’t have to . . . you know.”
Tony laughed. Tina looked truly indignant.
“Bobby’s putting you on, Tina. You don’t have to ‘you know.’ The next thing we shoot is the bathtub scene.”
“You creep!” Tina glowered at Bobby. “It’s a good thing this is only soft porn!”
“All right, children. Stop squabbling.” Tony opened his gym bag and started to pack up his equipment. “Tomorrow, same time, same place. I’m going to step up our schedule until we get this thing wrapped up. Oh, yeah, do you two girls have a ride home?”
“You mean because of the Video Killer?” Tina looked a little nervous.
“That’s right. It’s not exactly safe out there on the street.”
“Bobby’s giving us a ride until my car’s fixed,” Ginger said. “You don’t have to worry about losing your cast, Tony.”
“I really wasn’t worried,” Tony quipped. “So far he’s murdered only actresses, and the way things went tonight, you two girls aren’t in any danger at all.”
Ginger picked up a rubber duck from the bed and bounced it off Tony’s head, but all three of them were laughing as they went out the door.
After they had left, Tony quickly checked the bedroom and bathroom for forgotten items. The maid came in every morning, and he didn’t want to leave any incriminating evidence. The Traveler Motel might not be the top of the line in the world of accommodations, but the management would still object if they knew he was shooting a porn flick in one of their rooms.
There was a wet towel on the bathroom floor. Tony tossed it over the rack and straightened the bed just a bit. He wanted to give the impression that this room had been used in a perfectly normal manner. Then he put his miniature video camera in his gym bag and opened the door, hanging out the sign for the maid to come in the next morning. This was Tony’s fourth film, and he’d used a different motel each time. The first three were already being distributed, and Tony hoped no one would ever find out that he’d produced, written, directed, and filmed them. He’d had little choice in the matter. It was a way to repay his loan, and he still had to finish this one before his debt was paid off.
Tony walked down the block and around the corner. His car was parked on a side street, three blocks away. He got in and drove toward Hollywood, stopping on the way to pick up a Whopper and fries from the first Burger King he passed. By the time he got to his office, he’d already eaten the French fries, and he finished the Whopper in the parking lot. Then he tossed the trash in the Dumpster and went in the back door of the Schwartzvold Building to ride the creaky elevator up to the thirteenth floor.
The office was deserted and the coffee was stone-cold. Tony made a fresh pot and sat down at his desk. He was tired, but there was work to do, and he couldn’t expect Erik to do it all. Erik probably assumed he’d been spending his day away from the office goofing off. He had no idea that Tony was working a double shift on the porn so he could finish it fast and devote all his time to Video Kill.
Tony took a legal-sized pad from his center desk drawer and picked up his pen. He stared at the blank yellow page while he sipped coffee and geared himself up. It was time to think about the murder scenes Sam had shown him. When he’d leveled with Sam and told him about the movie they were writing, Sam had laid down some ground rules. Tony wasn’t to tell anyone he’d seen the murder videos, not even Erik. He was to maintain that their script was a fictionalized account until after the killer was caught. He had to keep several specific facts secret. Sam needed them to eliminate the sickos who would turn themselves in, claiming to be the Video Killer.
Tony had been flabbergasted. People turned themselves in for murders they didn’t commit? Sure, Sam had told him. It happened frequently. When he’d worked on the L.A. Strangler case, over thirty people had claimed they were guilty. That was why the police held back some critical information to use as a test to weed out false confessions. If it wasn’t reported in the media, only the real killer would know that he’d held the knife in both hands to stab his victim or, in the case of the Video Killer, that he’d worn black gloves and an executioner’s hood.
Naturally, Tony had agreed to Sam’s conditions. He’d called Erik right there from Sam’s office and told him that Sam had been no help at all, that they’d have to wing it on the script. He still
felt like a rat for lying to Erik, but it couldn’t be helped. Erik would understand when the killer was caught and the whole thing came out.
Tony sighed as he blocked out the opening. The video had begun with a forward tracking as the killer had climbed the stairs to Sharee Lyons’s apartment and gone inside in the darkness to wait for his victim. It was suspenseful and very creepy. Then there had been another forward tracking shot down the hall to the bathroom. Now that he recalled the details of the first murder, Tony shuddered. He thought he’d seen every conceivable act of violence in combat, but this had been different. Sharee Lyons hadn’t been killed in a passionate frenzy. It was quite the opposite, and that had made it even more horrifying. The Video Killer had carefully calculated his every movement to present the best shot for the camera. He’d directed the whole thing, and the fact that he’d actually murdered a woman to get the scene he wanted had been totally irrelevant to him. It was monstrous.
Sam had been right on the money to compare the first disc to Psycho. Hitchcock had shot the shower scene in much the same way. Sharee Lyons had even resembled Hitchcock’s actress, Janet Leigh. There was only one critical difference. Miss Leigh had walked off the set after the scene was finished.
The second murder disc was also patterned after Hitchcock. It was the Tunnel of Love scene from Strangers on a Train. Tammara Welles had been a ringer for Laura Elliott, Hitchcock’s star.
Was the Video Killer a professional filmmaker? Tony wasn’t sure. Handling a video camera was something almost anyone could do adequately. The newer, expensive models were so fully automatic that all you had to do was aim and the camera did the rest. There were hundreds of classes offered at high schools and colleges to teach film technique. The videos looked professional, but they could be the work of a talented and well-trained amateur. But was it possible for one man to record a gruesome murder as he, himself, committed it?
