by Joanne Fluke
Tony considered the logistics. It was one thing to stage a murder with actors. Then the filmmaker could direct the scene from behind the camera, reshooting as many takes as he needed. But the Video Killer had done everything himself. In only one take. With no editing. On top of all that, he’d taken part in the action. It seemed impossible, but Sam had been certain that the Video Killer had worked alone. Could he be wrong? Tony had to see the DVDs again to make sure.
Tony picked up the phone and dialed the number of Sam’s high-rise condo on Wilshire. Sam picked it up on the first ring.
“Sam? This is Archer. Can I see those DVDs again? As soon as possible?”
“Sure, Tony. You can see them now if you like.” Sam sounded alert. “I’m just sitting around here going crazy, waiting for the telephone to ring.”
“You think he’ll do it again?”
“That’s my guess.” Sam sighed. “We’ve got a full force out there, but we have no idea where. Or who. Or even when.”
The surprise showed in Tony’s voice. “You already know when Sam. Sunday night. He’s established a pattern.”
“That’s the writer in you talking. Twice is not a firm pattern, especially when you’re dealing with a psychotic. For all we know he might hit on a Tuesday, at high noon.”
“But that’s not what you’re betting on, is it, Sam? I’ll wager five bucks that you’ve already called up the reserves for Sunday night.”
Sam hesitated for a moment and then chuckled. “You win, Tony. It’s all I’ve got to go on. Unless you’ve come up with something new?”
“Just one thing. Are you a hundred percent positive the Video Killer worked alone?”
“I’m not a hundred percent positive of my own name. Why?”
“I just went through the logistics. It’s pretty complicated to commit a murder and film it at the same time. That’s why I want another look at those discs. If the camera pans or changes focus when the Video Killer’s on screen, he’s got an accomplice.”
“Okay, let’s check it out now. Your place or mine?”
“Why don’t you come here? Thirteenth floor, Schwartzvold Building. I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee, and there’s nobody here but me.”
“Fine. I’ll transfer my calls to your number and drive right over. What time is it?”
“It’s after ten.”
“Good!” Sam gave a sarcastic laugh. “If I hurry, I’ll be between rush hours. See you in fifteen minutes.”
Tony felt a little pang of conscience as he cleared his desk. He’d promised Erik he would hurry with the outline, but blocking out the first two scenes would be a lot easier after he’d seen the murder discs again. Erik would just have to wait.
As Tony hurried into the tiny kitchenette to put on a fresh pot of coffee, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror over the sink. His eyes were puffy and his skin was sallow. Working nonstop was taking its toll. Since it had been hot in the motel room, his T-shirt was rumpled and sweat stained. The homeless on skid row probably looked better than he did.
Tony finished making the coffee and grabbed a fresh T-shirt from the stash he kept in the cupboard. Then he hurried to the bathroom to wash up. Less than five minutes later he was shaved and dressed in a crisp, new royal blue T-shirt that said I NEVER COULD READ SUDOKU in red glitter letters. At least he looked better. Now it was time to do something to feel better.
Tony ran back to his office and grabbed the bottle of amphetamines he kept for emergencies like these. He gulped down a fifteen-milligram upper and made a mental note to get more on the street tomorrow. Using illegal stimulants was dangerous, but there was no way he could keep up this pace on coffee alone.
Munchies. He ought to put out some kind of food to have with the coffee. Tony raced to his Day-Glo orange file cabinet and pulled open the third drawer. Allison had filed his emergency food supply as a joke. The hanging file under “S” marked SNACKS contained a package of Chips Ahoy and a box of Ritz Crackers. There was also a can of sardines, three chocolate bars, and a jar of Cheez Whiz. He arranged them all on the table in the reception area and set out two coffee mugs, a jar of Cremora, and a container of sugar. The upper was just starting to hit. It made his hands tremble slightly, but he felt much more alert as he rode down in the old Otis and waited in the lobby for Sam to arrive.
9
Lon smiled as he posed the fully articulated mannequin in the shower stall he’d ordered from the prop department. He was working late at the studio, shooting the test footage he’d promised for Erik and Tony. Lon enjoyed test shots. He often ran experiments with the new equipment that appeared on the market. He’d developed numerous techniques that would bring out the best of its qualities. Often the results were amazingly good, but most producers preferred to stick with standard equipment and conventional techniques. They simply had no imagination. Anything out of the ordinary, no matter how impressive, was suspect. At least Tony and Erik seemed eager to try something new and different. And they’d promised him he’d be in sole charge of the photography. It was a golden opportunity to do something different, something artistic, and perhaps even radical. Lon found himself wishing he could be a part of their Video Kill project, but something held him back. It wasn’t just the subject matter; he knew he could deal with that if he had to. It was a deep-down reluctance, some sort of psychological block that he couldn’t seem to overcome.
He had just finished setting up his shot when there was a knock at the door. Before he had time to call out, Diana Ellington opened it and stuck her head inside.
“Lon, darling! You’re working late.”
“So are you, Diana. Night shooting?”
Diana sighed and shook her head. “Dubbing. Will you invite me in? Or am I interrupting the genius at work?”
Diana smiled and swept her long eyelashes up to reveal her best asset, what people in the trade called her “bedroom” eyes. They were dark and widely spaced, creating a startling contrast with her delicate English peaches-and-cream coloring. One film reviewer had coined the phrase “bedroom eyes in a schoolmarm’s face.” And she was certainly using them on him tonight.
Lon laughed and motioned her in. “I’m just running some tests, Diana. Nothing critical. Coffee?”
“God forbid! I’ve been swilling the horrid stuff all day. I’d much rather have a nice, tall gin and tonic with a squeeze of lime. I’m into preventive medicine these days.”
“Preventive medicine?”
“Lon, darling . . .” Diana gave him a smoldering look. “Tonic is quinine water. For malaria, you know? I can be almost certain I’ll never come down with it.”
Lon laughed. “Very cute, Diana. Unfortunately, Cinescope didn’t see fit to equip me with a bar.”
“Oh well.” Diana sat down on a stool near Lon’s test set. “We’ll just have to pop out to the Polo Lounge when you’re through for the night. Go ahead, darling, finish up your work. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Lon shrugged. “Well, you could stand in for my mannequin if you don’t mind being stabbed in the back with a rubber knife.”
“I don’t mind.” Diana slid off the stool, giving Lon a flash of lovely tanned thigh. “It’s certainly not the first time I’ve been stabbed in the back in this business.”
Lon shot several takes, but it was difficult to keep his mind on his work. Diana had said she’d been dubbing, but she was dressed to kill in a baby blue silk dress that came barely to midthigh. And she was wearing full makeup. Most actresses who were scheduled for dubbing wore old comfortable clothes and no makeup. Diana looked smashing and extremely provocative. Although they’d worked together on a project in the past, she’d never dropped in on him at work before. It was clear she wanted something from him. There was only one way to find out. Lon cut the lights and picked up his jacket.
“Let’s go, Diana. My hands are beginning to shake. It might be the first symptom of malaria.”
Diana slid off the stool and moved so close that Lon could feel the heat from
her body. “Perhaps, darling. But then, it may only be me.”
Tony and Sam sat on the couch watching the television screen. They were on their third or fourth pot of coffee—Tony’d lost count. They’d finished all the food except for one sardine that was staring at them, glassy-eyed, from the open tin. It was midnight and they’d watched the Sharee Lyons murder scene twice.
“You were right, Sam.” Tony clicked off the television. “I couldn’t find anything to point to an accomplice. When the killer’s on screen, the camera’s stationary.”
“And you still think he’s doing Hitchcock?”
Tony nodded emphatically. “There’s no question in my mind. The footage we just saw was pure Hitchcock, I’ll swear to it. I’m just amazed that the killer pulled it off with his self-imposed limitations.”
“You mean the fact that he’s working alone?”
“Yeah. It would take a hell of a lot of planning, Sam. He has to know Hitchcock, inside and out. And he’s got to be damn good with that camera.”
Sam poured himself a little more coffee and dumped in plenty of Cremora and sugar. “Do you think the Video Killer could be someone who actually worked for Hitchcock?”
“He’d be too old. Hitchcock died thirty years ago and this guy’s strong and athletic.” Tony clasped his hands together. They weren’t shaking as much now, but the upper he’d taken an hour ago had almost worn off. “I just don’t know, Sam. It’s like I said before, he could be a professional or he could be a very talented amateur. That’s not much to go on.”
Sam nodded ruefully. “If this were Fargo, North Dakota, it would be a lot easier. You can’t even walk down the street in L.A. without bumping into a director or a producer or a cameraman. And as far as videos go, forget it. They’ve taken the place of snapshots. Half the guys on the force have videos of their kids on their cell phones. ”
“Forget the video aspect.” Tony tried to put some energy in his voice. “Let’s concentrate on the victims. Female. Both of them. And did you notice how much Sharee Lyons looked like Janet Leigh in Psycho?”
“Sure.” Sam nodded. “And Tammara Welles was a ringer for Laura Elliott in Strangers on a Train. I already thought of that, Tony. I’m planning to go through all Hitchcock’s films to identify the female victims, and then I’ll try to contact any actresses who resemble them. It’s a big job, especially since Hitchcock made twenty-five feature films.”
“You’re only counting the American ones, Sam. He also made twenty-eight British films for a total of fifty-three. And that doesn’t count the special sequences he did for other directors.”
Sam sighed. “I can’t do it alone, Tony. That’s over a hundred hours of watching films, not to mention the time it’ll take to identify the look-alikes. And I don’t dare bring anyone in to help me while this whole thing is still under wraps.”
“Why all the secrecy, Sam? There must be a couple of guys in the department you can trust to help you.”
“Not really.” Sam sighed. “That’s how leaks happen, Tony. The only way to keep a secret in the detective business is to keep your mouth shut. I’ve already broken that rule by bringing you in.”
Sam looked so depressed, Tony couldn’t stand it. The least he could do was offer to help. Sam had done him a big favor by showing him the murder scenes and giving him permission to use what he’d seen in his script.
“Since I’m already on the inside, maybe I can do something. I know a guy who has a complete collection of Hitchcock films, including the ones that were never released in America. I’ll have him dupe them and then I’ll write out a plot synopsis and a list of the female victims. I still remember a lot from class, Sam, and I might even be able to dig up my notes. Once you have my list of movie victims, you can figure out some way to warn the actresses without giving too much away to the media.”
“Spoken like a true friend.” Sam smiled for the first time that night. “Archer does the legwork and Sam Spade gets the credit. How soon do you think you can get that list for me?”
“A week or two, maybe less.”
“Thanks, Tony, I’d really appreciate that.” Sam looked a little more cheerful as he stood up and yawned. “You didn’t spot anything new on the DVDs tonight, did you?”
“Not really.” Tony frowned. “All we know is that he’s great with a camera, and he’s got a style that’s almost the same as Hitchcock’s except, well . . .”
“Except what? Spit it out.”
“Except I gotta admit it’s great footage, Sam. Head and shoulders above Hitchcock’s. I know the Video Killer’s a real sicko, but he’s the best filmmaker I’ve ever seen!”
Lon opened his eyes as Diana got out of bed and slipped on a robe. “Where are you going?”
“You’ll see, darling. I’ll be back before you can miss me.”
Lon sat up and arranged the pillow behind his head. He was smiling. Diana still hadn’t told him why she’d taken him to her place and practically raped him, but he wasn’t complaining. This sort of thing hadn’t happened to him very often and it sure as hell beat working.
There was a satisfied grin on Lon’s face as he reviewed the evening. They hadn’t bothered to go to the Polo Lounge. Diana had decided it would be too crowded. She’d suggested her place instead. And then, the moment she’d unlocked the door, she’d wiggled out of her dress, kissed him passionately, and led him to the bedroom. Why? Lon knew Diana wasn’t the type to sleep around with just anyone. Rumor had it she favored only those few select men who could make a real difference in her career. But why him? And why now?
“Here, darling.” Diana appeared in the doorway with two tall, frosted glasses. “I’ve brought you the cure. Unless you don’t have those symptoms anymore.”
Lon took the glass, set it down on the table next to the bed, and reached out to part her robe. “I’ve still got them, but I don’t think the cure is in this glass.”
“Insatiable!” Diana laughed and got into bed, snuggling up close to him. She ran her hands down his body and moved in a way that made him gasp. Then they began again, slowly this time, touching and rubbing and tonguing the places that caused the most exquisite pleasure. Many minutes passed before Lon sat up again and took the first sip of his drink.
“Okay, Diana, let’s talk. I don’t want to give the impression I’m ungrateful, but I’m sure you didn’t invite me here because you were crazed with passion at my good looks or my charm.”
Diana put on such a look of grievous injury that Lon almost laughed out loud.
“Lon, darling! How can you be so unfeeling? Do you really believe that I had an ulterior motive for this interlude of passion we shared?”
“Cut! Print it! You’re a wonderful actress, Diana, but the cameras just stopped rolling. The sex was great. I loved every minute of it, and I’d like to do it again, anytime. But what do you want?”
Diana sighed. “Either you’re a hard case, or I’m losing my touch. Truth?”
Lon nodded. “Truth, Diana.”
“I want one of the leads in Video Kill. I’m getting typecast, playing nothing but diplomats’ wives and uptight society ladies. I’d die for the chance to do something different. How about it, darling? I know you’re on the project.”
“Then you know more than I do.” Lon shook his head. “I haven’t made any commitments, Diana. It’s a real pity, but I’m afraid you expended all your energy tonight for nothing.”
“But you will sign on eventually, won’t you, Lon?” Diana looked worried. “It could be so perfect for both of us. I’d love to work with you. And we’d have so many opportunities for more nights like tonight. You did enjoy it, didn’t you?”
Lon grinned. “You know I did. Are you giving me an incentive, Diana?”
“Perhaps.” Diana flashed her famous smile as Lon got out of bed and began to dress. “Will you promise me you’ll at least think about it?”
“I promise.” Lon finished dressing and turned to look at her. “By the way, Diana, do you know Rocca and Nielsen
?”
“The team that’s writing Video Kill? No, I don’t think I’ve ever met them.”
Lon leaned down to kiss her lightly on the forehead. “Don’t bother to show me out, Diana. I know the way. And if you ever have the chance to meet Rocca and Nielsen, jump at it. You three have a lot in common.”
10
Sunday, July 18
Twilight had deepened into the lengthening shadows of night. Brother’s desk lamp cast a bright circle of light in the darkness of his workroom. He was in the process of casting just the right actress for the segment he was taping tonight, and he’d narrowed his choices down to two, both listed in the Academy Players Directory. The first actress was best known for her part as a tycoon’s mistress on a popular prime-time drama. The desk lamp threw a circle of warm yellow light on her face as Brother studied her publicity photo. She was the right age for the part, and she fit the physical description of the character. But there was something inherently wrong with casting her. She was too blatantly sexual. He needed someone who was sensual and yet refined.
With a sigh, Brother flipped to the second candidate’s picture. This actress was in her early twenties with a smooth, unlined face. She was definitely an ingénue, and it would create all sorts of problems to cast her as an older woman. Neither of the two candidates would do.
As he had done so often in the past, Brother asked himself how an expert would handle the problem. Which actress would Lon Michaels choose for tonight’s critical role?
The familiar technique worked, and Brother smiled as he flipped through the directory and found the perfect woman for the role. The face that stared back at him from the printed page had the right natural coloring and bone structure. She was perfect for the part. This veteran actress would give her finest performance tonight, under his expert tutelage, one that people would remember for years to come.
