Jimmy leaned forward over the table. "Walsh wasn't murdered over a dope deal. If you want to find out who killed him, find out who set him up for killing Heather Grimm."
The white-haired waiter appeared at their table, and Jimmy sat back as the man laid another double bourbon and steak in front of Katz. The man moved so precisely that he didn't disturb the air molecules. He set down Jimmy's plate next, shaking out his napkin before handing it to Jimmy.
"Hey, gramps," said Katz. "Where's the Thousand Island dressing?"
The waiter acted like his pacemaker had just started sparking inside his chest. "The Grove asparagus spears are served only with soft-boiled eggs and lemon wedges, madame," he croaked. "It's one of our signature dishes."
"You ever hear the phrase 'The customer is always right'?" People at the surrounding tables glanced over, but Katz was oblivious. "Just bring me the Thousand." She shook her head as the waiter retreated, then sliced into her steak, the knife clicking on the thick china plate. "We dusted the trailer for prints, every inch of it." She brought the forkful of meat to her mouth, blood running down the tines. "Got some hits too."
"Yeah?" Jimmy forced himself to be careful. Something wasn't right.
"Yeah. Yours." Katz chewed with her mouth open. "Good cow," she pronounced, washing it down with a swallow of bourbon. She took the knife to the steak again. "Rollo's too. And Walsh's, of course." The fork was poised in front of her mouth. "Last but not least, Harlen Shafer, until recently a resident at one of our fine penal institutions. Mr. Walsh's alma mater, to be exact. Aren't you proud of me, Jimmy?" Katz was having way too good a time for Jimmy's taste.
"What was Shafer sent up for?"
The waiter returned and set a side dish of Thousand Island dressing in front of her, then sidled away as Katz ladled dressing onto the asparagus.
"Do you have an APB out for him?" Jimmy said.
"An APB?" Katz picked up three of the asparagus spears and waved them coquettishly at him. "I just love it when civilians use police lingo. I bet that gets Jane hot too."
Jimmy didn't answer. Anything he said was going to be used against him.
"Don't get your panties in a bunch. Shafer's just a small-time dope dealer." Katz bit off the heads of her asparagus. "I do have a confession to make, though." She hung her head for an instant, crossed herself, then looked up at him, showing off those big flat horse teeth of hers. "I haven't been completely honest with you, but then, you weren't completely honest with me. What goes around, comes around." She gulped down half her fresh drink and smacked her lips. "Nobody shoved anything in Walsh's ear, you silly bastard. He wasn't murdered. He died from drowning, with alcohol and drug intoxication as contributing factors." She batted her lashes at him, a little bleary now. "I do hope I haven't destroyed your faith in law enforcement."
"Walsh didn't drown."
"I'm afraid he did." Katz beamed.
"Walsh's body was too deteriorated for the ME to be sure of-"
"Deteriorated is too nice a word. Walsh looked like month-old cottage cheese." Katz wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Floating in the hot sun all that time, fish chewing at his fingers and toes, and the ravens-it was like that Hitchcock movie. Good thing we had Walsh's prison dental records, or we couldn't have made a positive ID."
"Walsh might have been strangled, and no one would know. Any ligature marks would have been eaten away."
"Ligature." Katz chuckled, then reached over and rapped Jimmy on the larynx, suddenly solemn as he jerked back, coughing. "That's your hyoid bone. Somebody chokes you to death, you're hyoid bone is going to show it even if the flesh is mushy. Walsh's hyoid-it was just fine."
Jimmy rubbed his throat.
"Then there's the blood chloride levels." Katz started in on the steak again, gleefully masticating her meat. "Blood chloride levels on the left and right chambers of Walsh's heart were equal." She finished off her bourbon and held her glass above her head. "Garcon!" She grinned at Jimmy. "I always wanted to say that."
"What does blood chloride have to do with it?"
Katz let him simmer, watching the waiter hustle toward the bar. "I barely passed chemistry myself, but Doc says that if the chloride levels are equal, it means that Walsh was still breathing when he went into the water." She stopped as the waiter came by with another drink, then sipped this one now, rolling it around in her mouth; Jimmy had watched Jane do the same thing with her first drink of the evening until she noticed him paying attention. She hid her pleasure now.
"So Walsh drowned. Maybe he had help."
Katz stuck the end of her napkin in her water glass and rubbed at the gob of Thousand Island dressing that had fallen on her necktie. "You hold somebody down, he's going to put up a fight, even somebody as drunk as Walsh was," she lectured. "Those rocks in the koi pond are rough, but Walsh's hands and knees-what was left of them anyway-there were no lacerations on them. His fingertips were gone, but the fish didn't touch his fingernails-none of them were broken off. Sorry to spoil your fantasy, but Walsh just fell down drunk and drowned. The ME's issuing the report tomorrow afternoon, so consider this your heads-up-I always keep my word."
"Somebody took the screenplay. It just didn't disappear."
"The screenplay may be missing, but that doesn't mean somebody took it." Katz inspected her tie, smoothed it flat. "I did my job. I even had the crime scene unit take tire impressions from the ground around the trailer; we haven't had rain in what-three months? CSI got a match on standard-issue tires from Walsh's Honda, your Saab, the Ford Escort driven by Mr. Ponytail, Rollo's VW van, and one more, origin unknown. I admit I got a little interested at that point, but then we determined that Goodyear 275 R15 radials were basic equipment on 1996 Camaros, like the one currently registered to the aforementioned Harlen Shafer, the dealer who makes house calls. That's it, Jimmy-those were the only tire treads up there. Give it a rest."
"Have you talked to Shafer?"
"About what? The case is closed. If you don't know what that means, ask Holt."
The waiter reappeared, nodded at Jimmy's untouched plate. "Is everything all right, sir?"
"Yes, fine." Jimmy looked at Katz. "You're wrong."
"Put my date's tuna into a doggie bag, gramps," Katz told the waiter. "And drop in a few of those dinner rolls." She pushed her plate away and leaned close to Jimmy. "Thanks for the chow and the laughs. I'll keep your number in my wallet. If I ever need somebody to track down the Easter Bunny, I just know you're the guy who can do it for me."
Chapter 9
"Just a minute," the man with the high cheekbones said to Jimmy, barely acknowledging him, too busy with the girl in the chair, a blond teenager clad in a pale blue shorty nightgown, the gauzy fabric spattered with fake blood. The man hovering over her was small and slight, wearing a black, full-cut shirt and matching jodhpurs, his dark hair sculpted high, his sideburns tapered to perfect points.
"Are you Martin?" Jimmy moved closer.
"I told you, just a minute," hissed the man, delicately applying a thin gel pack to the side of the blond girl's neck with gum adhesive. At a remote signal the pack would explode, sending fake blood spurting at the camera, one of the many money shots in Slumber Party Maniacs II. His black cowboy boots clicked as he walked around the makeup chair, checking his work. The boot heels must have been five inches high at least, but he moved smoothly, pivoting like a ballerina. "Yes… I think that will do."
The shooting location today was a large house in Santa Monica. A temporary makeup room had been set up in the servant's quarters off the squash court, a small room stacked with canned goods, the few items of furniture pushed into a corner.
"It's not going to hurt, right?" said the girl, reaching up to touch her neck. She looked like she belonged in a shampoo commercial, brushing out her long blond hair while she talked to the captain of the football team on the phone-one hundred strokes a night, and none for him. "When it goes off, I mean. It won't hurt, will it?"
The man smacked her hand awa
y. "Do I look like a fellow who would hurt anyone as gorgeous as you?"
"Is that a trick question?" The girl turned to Jimmy. Her eyes were blue as an overchlorinated swimming pool. "Is he making fun of me?"
Jimmy wasn't really paying attention. He kept replaying his lunch with Detective Katz yesterday, annoyed at himself for letting her get to him. The ME's autopsy report on Walsh had been thorough and conclusive and documented, but there was no way that Jimmy believed it. Jane said it was hard to argue with science, but Jimmy knew that anyone who could set Walsh up for murder, set him up so sweetly that Walsh himself bought it-science was no match for someone like that.
The man with the high cheekbones brushed on makeup over the edges of the gel pack that matched the blond girl's skin tone, made it almost invisible. He had a pencil mustache that matched the scimitar sideburns, and thin, arched eyebrows-a silent-screen heartthrob striding about with a makeup palette.
"Can I practice my scream on you?" the girl asked the man in black.
"Not a chance, darling," said the man, hands on his hips as he examined her makeup, deftly arranging her silky hair so that it fell naturally over the gel pack.
"What about you, mister?" the girl asked Jimmy. "Can I try out my scream on you?"
"I vote with Valentino there," said Jimmy.
"Who?" said the girl.
"You're done, darling," said the man. "Go forth and be butchered. Now shoo!" He turned to Jimmy as the girl scooted out the door of the makeup room. "I liked the Valentino line, by the way. Sometimes I get called Zorro, and I really don't appreciate that." He indicated the chair for Jimmy to sit. "I'm Martin. What am I supposed to do with you? Are you one of the maniacs?" He tapped his teeth with a forefinger. "You're a little small-most of the maniacs are total gym rats, just huge. The room positively reeks of testosterone when they walk in."
"I'm not in the movie. I'm Jimmy Gage." They shook hands-Martin had a firm, dry handshake. "I'm a reporter with SLAP magazine."
"Oh, I love SLAP. The producer just hired a couple of girls from the current issue. Maybe you-"
"I wanted to ask you some questions about Garrett Walsh. I know you crewed on his second film."
"If you're looking for someone to dump on Walsh, you've come to the wrong boy," sniffed Martin. "He was a monster and a prick, but Hammerlock was my big break, and it was Walsh who insisted on giving me the job." He smoothed his sideburns with a forefinger. "I was ever so young and had barely enough hours to qualify for my union card, but he had seen my work. He told me I did the best bruises in town."
"I believe it. The job you just did on the blonde-amazing."
"Thank you, kind sir, but bruises are much more of a challenge- more subtle." Martin tapped the side of his nose. "Here's a clue: Estee Lauder Potpourri, Blush All Day, and red dye number nine. That's just the basics of a good bruise. There are other ingredients, which shall remain nameless." He pursed his lips. "Can't expect me to share all my secrets, can you? Not even for SLAP."
"You said Hammerlock was your big break. Too bad it never got finished."
"Yes, too bad." Martin glared at Jimmy. "If it had-well, let's just say I wouldn't be working for scale on a slasher movie, and a sequel to boot. There was plenty of bad luck to go around on the shoot, but if you want someone to piss on Walsh's grave, hit the road, Jack."
"I just wanted to ask you some questions about Hammerlock. Makeup artists always have the best dish. You spend more time with the talent than the director, and people loosen up in the chair, they talk, and even when they don't-"
"Hammerlock is ancient history. Why talk about it now?"
The door to the makeup room opened, and Tamra Monelli stuck her head in. "It is him!" she cried, then she and Tonya rushed into the room, the twins squealing as they hugged Jimmy. They wore matching white nightgowns, the fabric so sheer you could read the tax code through it.
"Is this great or what?" Tonya said, one side of her face cut to the bone, the makeup job so realistic Jimmy could barely look at her. "The same day SLAP came out, we got a callback from the director. The very same day."
"So much for blondes-only," laughed Tamra, her shoulders dappled with puncture wounds.
"Was that you in the photo?" Martin squinted at Jimmy. "I didn't recognize you with your clothes on."
"Did you come here to do a story on us, Jimmy?" Tonya asked.
"Of course he did," said Tamra. "Why else-"
"I came to talk with Martin. I didn't even know you were working on the film."
"What's so important about him?" pouted Tonya. "No offense… Milton."
"It's Morris," Tamra corrected her, "like the cat."
"It's Martin," snapped the makeup artist, taking each of them by the hand and dragging them toward the door, his boot heels going clickety-clack. He was stronger than he looked. "Go away and adjust your implants or something. Out."
"Just a second." Jimmy walked over to the twins. "That night at Napitano's party. Did you tell anyone the truth about where you got the Oscar?"
"Yeah, right," sneered Tonya. "We're really going to brag about how we're hooked up with some has-been perv who, like, lives in a trailer."
"For a smart guy, you really don't understand how to play the game," clucked Tamra. "No wonder Rollo is always having to bail you out of trouble."
"If you want to interview us later, you can get our private phone number from the casting director," said Tonya. "Ciao!"
"That was pleasant," said Martin, as the door closed. "Sometimes I bet you feel embarrassed being heterosexual."
"Don't get your hopes up."
Martin smiled back at him. "Don't flatter yourself."
"Are you going to help me?" asked Jimmy. "Walsh is dead. I just want to know about Hammerlock. That was the point in his life when he had it all-the point when he lost it all too. That's the story I want to write."
Martin scrunched his face, his cheekbones sailing. He checked his watch. "Sit down. I'm now officially on lunch break." He pulled a blender out of a bag, plugged it in, then opened up a small cooler on the floor and took out a half gallon of soy milk. "Vanilla protein smoothie?"
"Ah-sure."
Martin added protein powder and soy milk into the blender, mixed in a few spoonfuls of something green, then something blue, then tossed in a handful of frozen strawberries. The small room was filled with grinding sounds as Martin cranked the blender to liquefy, and the strawberries and the green and blue powder blended with the soy milk to form a sludgy gray concoction. Martin poured half into a tall glass and handed it to Jimmy, then toasted him with the rest in the blender.
Jimmy took a tentative taste. It was delicious.
Martin must have read his expression. "Life is short. If it doesn't taste good, why bother?"
They sat beside each other on the floor, their backs against the wall. Jimmy allowed himself another long swallow before asking, "You said the Hammerlock shoot was jinxed. What exactly did you mean?"
Martin ran the tip of his pinkie across his pencil mustache, wiped off foam, and licked his finger clean. "It was rushed from the start. Walsh didn't even have a complete script that first day. Or that first month. I guess after he grabbed the two Oscars, the studio didn't think he needed one, but it made things difficult for everyone. The actors were frustrated, they never knew from one day to the next what scenes they were in or what their lines were going to be, and Walsh kept changing his mind, rewriting and reshooting. We went through two line producers in the first two months, and the original cinematographer walked after waiting three days for his setups to be delivered."
"I'm surprised the studio didn't step in."
"They tried, but Walsh just ran the suits off the set, told them to go crunch somebody else's numbers. It took Danziger, the big cheese himself, to get Walsh's attention, but by then…" Martin shrugged. "When was the last time you heard of a studio chief visiting a shoot? Danziger hardly said a word, but you could feel the chill. Even the crew made themselves look busy, union guys
with twenty years seniority."
"Danziger had been Walsh's biggest supporter. He was the one who okayed the project and gave Walsh carte blanche. No wonder he was pissed."
"He should have gotten involved sooner. Walsh was a genius, but he was in way over his head."
"A sloppy set and too much time on your hands-there must have been plenty of gossip. What were you hearing about Walsh?"
"Sex or drugs?"
"Sex."
Martin rolled his eyes. "The man was a machine, a piston-driven fuck machine. I don't know how he got anything done. Actresses, secretaries, models-there was even a girl on the lighting unit who would pop into his trailer after a call."
"Was there anyone special?"
Martin buffed one of his black cowboy boots with the palm of his hand. "There were a few regulars, but Walsh was a free-range hump-monkey. For a while, anyway." He shrugged. "If you're writing a general feature about sex on the set, I can give you a few names. One sitcom actress in particular makes Walsh seem like a celibate-" There was a knock on the door. "Go away!" He looked at Jimmy. "I'm not going to out anyone, if that's-"
"What did you mean, 'for a while'?"
Martin turned his boot in the overhead light, checking his reflection.
"You said Walsh was free-ranging it for a while. When did he stop?"
"I don't know-three or four months into the shoot. Suddenly the talent was turned away, and the great man's trailer declared off-limits." Martin smiled. "The crew-certain members of them, anyway-were quite happy to comfort the rejects."
"Was there one woman who still had access to the trailer? Someone who seemed to have an ongoing relationship with him?"
"You're asking if Walsh found Ms. Right?" Martin chuckled, then shook his head. "I just assumed he decided to focus on the film. Still, I was quite busy with my job. I might have missed something."
"Did Walsh have any enemies on the set?"
"Just everyone."
"I mean did he exchange words with anyone? Threats or-"
"Everyone. I saw one of the caterers wave a knife at Walsh once, threaten to cut his balls off if he talked to her like that again, and who could blame her? The producers-you don't even want to get into that. He drove them absolutely mad. Mick Packard kicked in the door to Walsh's trailer one afternoon, one of his signature roundhouse kicks, but it was no act. The PA closed the set and told us to go to lunch, but we could hear them shouting from fifty feet away."
Scavenger hunt Page 7
