Scavenger hunt

by Robert Ferrigno

  Danziger looked at Jimmy, amused.

  "You can be as off the record as you want. I just want to know what happened."

  "Let's just say that the publicist assigned to the project was paid six thousand dollars a week, and she was worth every penny of it."

  Jimmy picked at his plate, allowing the silence to sit there.

  "The package looked good when we first were negotiating," explained Danziger. "Mick had box office, but no credibility with the critics; Garrett had credibility, but had never worked on a big-budget film before. At first things went well." His laugh was warm and confident. "But by the second day…"

  "Did they have differences about the direction of the film, screen time?"

  "Oh, there was more than enough ego to go around, but that's true of any shoot. You expect the talent to butt heads. In fact, the most maddening aspect of the failure of the film was that Mick had never done better work. I got involved about midway through the shoot, and the dailies were incredible. Who knew Mick could act? Garrett did- the only chemistry between the two of them was bad chemistry, but Garrett got things out of Mick that no director had done before or since." Danziger turned his face into the breeze from the west. He had a great profile. "The problem was tying all the footage together. Garrett kept reshooting scenes that were already perfect. It wasn't that he was displeased with the performances-he just kept changing his mind about the plot. There were so many twists. I don't think even he knew where it was going."

  "Is that why you started showing up on set? A studio chief that makes house calls-that doesn't happen very often."

  "I had no choice. Garrett ignored my memos and barely spoke to me when I got him on the phone. I should have fired him, but we were in too deep by that point. When I showed up, I found all these useless people, Mick's entourage, Garrett's entourage. That software fellow who bankrolled his first feature-he was there, for God's sake, and don't ask me why. Eyeballing the starlets, probably. Garrett had so many of them lined up, he should have assigned them numbers-except that would have taken away the pleasure of playing them off against each other. Garrett and his little intrigues."

  Jimmy hadn't heard about the software entrepreneur being on the set. "The women. Was there anyone in particular?"

  "With Garrett? You must be kidding." Danziger massaged an acupressure point at the base of his skull with a knuckle. "Are you referring to the coke whore?"

  Jimmy had no idea what Danziger was talking about.

  Danziger allowed himself a slight frown. "One of Garrett's dealers had a girlfriend, a spectacular woman from what I heard. Evidently Garrett got a little frisky with the lady in question at a party, and the lady was… receptive. Shortly thereafter Garrett alerted studio security to double-check the passes of anyone wanting access to the set."

  "Are you sure she was the dealer's girlfriend? Could she have been his wife?"

  Danziger chuckled. "I don't know. Do drug dealers have wives?"

  "Did Walsh mention the dealer's name?"

  "Hardly."

  Jimmy didn't like the way Danziger took pleasure in telling him no. He was probably a real thrill in a pitch meeting, getting a pedicure while some screenwriter crawled. "Walsh was pretty up front about his escapades. It sounds like he enjoyed his reputation. But did you ever hear of him having any secret affairs?"

  "I didn't keep track. I only know that he wasn't fucking the blonde playing Mick's sister, because Mick was already fucking her."

  "Is that why Samantha Packard wasn't working on the film?" Jimmy tried to ignore Danziger's amused expression. "I went over the call sheets for Hammerlock and couldn't find any record of her."

  "You went over the call sheets?" Danziger applauded. "I wish my assistant were as thorough as you are. If you ever need a job, give me a call."

  "Did Samantha Packard know that her husband was screwing his costar?"

  Danziger allowed himself a thin smile. "Samantha knows how the game is played."

  "She didn't care?"

  "Wives always care. The smart ones know better than to make too much out of an on-set romance, and Samantha was smart. She was supposed to have a small part in Hammerlock, but shortly after Garrett started filming, she was written out."

  "Whose idea was that?"

  "I don't know, but it was no great loss to cinematic history, I can assure you." Danziger checked his watch. "I have to leave for my office shortly, but if the thrust of your article is sexual tension on the set, you might consider a sidebar on My Girl Trouble." He inclined his head-it was supposed to look conspiratorial, but it came out wolfish. "Just between the two of us, Jimmy, I liked it better in the old days, when people were either hetero or homo and never the twain shall meet. Try getting anything accomplished with a cast of switchhitters. The permutations are dizzying."

  Chapter 26

  Jimmy waited outside the side exit of the Pro Sports Club, bent over, pretending to tie his tennis shoes. About ten minutes later, his back aching, the door swung open, and a florid man walked out, already on his cell phone, his squash racket under one arm. Jimmy caught the door before it closed and slipped inside, his gym bag slung over one shoulder. "Left my keys in my locker," he said to an attendant restocking the juice machine, walking purposely toward the locker room he remembered from his visit two days earlier.

  He walked through the locker room, grabbed a clean towel from the stack, and took the stairs to the second floor. Samantha Packard's thermal yoga class was supposed to start in a few minutes. He checked out the hallway. Sandor, the attendant who had given him the tour, said that Mick Packard was always on hand when the class let out; Jimmy wanted to make certain that he didn't drop her off too. Women in thin, baggy cotton pants and tops were filing into the room, and warm moist air drifted out into the hallway.

  Samantha was in the back corner of the room, just where she had been before. She was standing on a mat doing slow neck rolls, sweat rolling down her face. No Mick.

  Jimmy slipped through the door. The warmth of the room made him gasp, the air so hot and thick that breathing it felt like breathing through a wet towel. Soft music burbled over the sound system. Every pore in his body was wide open, his workout clothes were already soaked, and the back of his hair was dripping.

  A slender middle-aged woman looked at him. "Try breathing through your nose."

  Jimmy edged toward the back of the room, trying to follow her suggestion. It still felt like there wasn't enough oxygen in the place. He could see Samantha standing on one leg, her eyes closed, her other leg tucked behind her. She was a long-limbed brunette with full lips, and her deep tan looked like beaten bronze in the heat.

  Most of the people in the class were fit women in their thirties and forties, barefoot and without makeup, their eyes clear and enthusiastic as they went through their warm-up routines, some of them meditating. The teacher, a tall, skinny man, chatted with two of the students, checking their posture.

  "Nice to see you again," Jimmy said to Samantha.

  Samantha opened her eyes and jerked back, losing her poise. She stood on two legs now, breathing hard. Scared.

  Jimmy spread his towel on the floor, sweat stinging his eyes as he bent down. "I wanted to give the class a try, but I don't know now. Isn't this what it's supposed to be like on the surface of Venus?"

  "Are-are you a member here?"

  "I'm Jimmy Gage. We met at Garrett Walsh's funeral."

  "I know who you are," Samantha said, her voice so soft that it barely disturbed the air molecules in that stifling room. "My husband didn't like the way you were looking at me. I didn't like it either."

  "I need to talk to you."

  Samantha glanced toward the hallway window. "I don't think it's a good idea." She blotted her forehead. Her diamond wedding ring flashed in the dim light.

  "I know about you and Walsh." Jimmy could see a vein at the base of her neck throbbing. She smelled as healthy and steamy as a racehorse, her face glowing, nervous as a racehorse too. "We have to talk. Can
we get out of here for-"

  "There's nothing to talk about." Samantha glanced again at the window.

  "I'm not trying to hurt you."

  "Then don't. Garrett and I… that was a long time ago. I don't want to see my name in print."

  "This isn't about an article. I'm here because I want you to know that it wasn't an accident. No matter what you read, his death-he didn't drown."

  Samantha stared at him.

  There was a clap from the front of the room. Class had started. Everyone was on their feet now, facing the yoga teacher, his voice deep and mellifluous as he ordered them to stretch for the stars in search of their center.

  "Please go," said Samantha. "You're going to get me in trouble."

  "I'm trying to help you." Jimmy moved closer to her, whispering. "I know about the letter you wrote to him. I know about the tapes-"

  "I didn't write Garrett any letter."

  "Listen to me. It was no accident. Walsh was murdered."

  Sweat streamed down her arms as Samantha stretched toward the ceiling. "I haven't cared whether Garrett was alive or dead for a long time."

  "I know better, Samantha."

  "It's Mrs. Packard."

  "The good wife-that's what Garrett Walsh called you. I spoke with him a few days before he was killed. He loved you."

  Samantha Packard shook her head. "No, he didn't. I wish he had, but-"

  "Speech is a distraction," intoned the teacher. "Ego is a distraction. Pay attention only to the emptiness within."

  Jimmy moved closer to Samantha Packard, not caring who saw them, wanting her to admit what he already knew. He felt claustrophobic in the heat, the moist air closing in on him. "He loved you, Samantha. It cost him everything, but it didn't stop him."

  "Love is not a term Garrett ever used in my presence. Not once. Not ever." Samantha Packard managed to speak without moving her facial muscles. In tandem with the rest of the class, she slowly bent forward, back flat, her arms pointed backward. "Now get out of here."

  "I think you're in danger."

  "You're the one who's putting me in danger."

  "I'll leave my card at the front desk."

  "Don't do that."

  "Call me at the magazine then."

  The yoga teacher stalked over to Jimmy. "You're upsetting the harmonics of the class." His hands waved in the air, and Jimmy thought of machetes hacking at jungle undergrowth. "Be silent, or be gone."

  Jimmy reached for his towel. "Call me," he said to Samantha, but she didn't look at him.

  Chapter 27

  The shot was always the same: interior, Walsh's beach cottage, moderate-wide angle. The camera lens was tiny, and you lost a little resolution because of it, but he didn't mind-the images had their own awful clarity. He preferred watching through half-closed eyes, dreamlike, led along by the sound of their voices, imagining them before the camera started, winding their way to the rendezvous. Walsh would have parked in the cottage's single garage, of course, while she parked a few blocks away, off the main streets, window-shopping on her way over perhaps, making sure she hadn't been followed, then a hurried dash across the street and inside, home sweet home away from home.

  He sat back in the chair as the footage ran, eyes closed now, listening. He could hear Walsh blustering about the day's shoot, and she was telling him she didn't care. Walsh liked that-her disinterest excited him almost as much as the fact that she was another man's wife. His wife. She sounded slightly out of breath now, saying something about not having much time, not nearly enough time, but she couldn't stay away, and Walsh groaned, and if the two of them had been closer to the microphone, he might have been able to hear the slide of a zipper. On some of the recordings he heard sounds like that-zippers and shoes dropping, sometimes even the tearing of fabric, along with the grunts and groans, the cries, the desperate urgency, the whole fucking symphony.

  The audio on this particular recording didn't pick up such small details. There was only a single surveillance camera in the one-room cottage, a miniature camera/microphone seamlessly fitted into a wall sconce that faced the bed. It was a remarkable piece of equipment, the high-resolution lens the size of a BB, the lovers' sounds and images digitally captured and transmitted instantly to his recorder across the city. No tapes in the cottage to change, none to retrieve. A sound technician on one of his films had installed the remote camera for him in a single afternoon. The man was a Russian on a temporary visa, a former KGB drone probably, eager to curry favor. He was sent packing when his visa expired just the same.

  His wife's voice was louder now. In a moment he would hear the sound of Walsh opening a bottle of champagne. He didn't need to open his eyes; he knew the recordings by heart. Every sound. Every image. He had had the original tapes transferred onto forty-seven DVDs so the images would never degrade. Not ever. Forty-seven separate incidents of adultery, each one identified by the date. A time capsule of deceit. He had had seven years to memorize the recordings. To savor them. To torture himself with them. He heard a champagne cork pop. Right on schedule. Popping champagne was declasse, a waste of the natural effervescence, but Walsh was a prole with a two-picture deal, a janitor blessed with a vivid imagination. Walsh whooped, pouring, and his wife laughed.

  On some of the DVDs their voices were eager, in some they were playful, and in some, particularly the early ones, they were circumspect, nervous even. Always though, always, on each and every one, there was a tumescent ripple of guilt in their voices, the titillation of betrayal in their whispers. Sometimes he even heard his name mentioned. Yes, even that.

  He opened his eyes. His timing was perfect. Onscreen his wife was splayed nude on the leather sofa, her back arched, her legs wide as Walsh grazed at her vagina. One of her legs was thrown over his shoulder, her foot against the back of his neck, driving his face deeper into her.

  Chapter 28

  "Say star." Chase Gooding cocked her head against Jimmy, impaling him with her smile. "Staaaaar."

  "Star." Jimmy blinked as the Polaroid flashed and spit out a photo.

  "Thank you," said Chase Gooding, taking the photo and the camera from the boy. "Back on stage now." She clapped her hands. "Wings on your feet, fly, fly!" She watched him scamper down the aisle of the tiny theater, one eye on the developing photo. "Vegetables, from the top! Broccoli, with feeling this time!"

  Rows of children dressed as broccoli, carrots, and asparagus marched raggedly across the stage, singing about vitamins and beta-carotene, and all Jimmy could think of was that he hadn't dropped acid in years, but his daily life had become increasingly psychedelic. "Your mother sounded strange when I asked if Chastity was there," he said.

  "That's the name she and my father came with up. Chastity. Yuck. I changed it to Chase when I went into show business."

  "Like the bank?"

  Chase beamed. "Most people don't pick up on that. Not consciously anyway, but my name works on their subconscious. They associate me with money and power."

  "It worked on me. I saw you, and I wanted to take out a loan."

  "Is that a joke?"

  "I guess not."

  The two of them sat in the back row of the Little Stars of Tomorrow theater, a 120-seat auditorium in a strip mall just off the freeway in Whittier, the lobby dotted with photographs of kids dressed as pirates, flowers, and elves. Chase was currently directing a play for the local elementary school on healthy eating and nutrition, which meant that all eight food groups were wearing Velcro sneakers and braces.

  It had been a couple days since he had confronted Samantha Packard, and she still hadn't contacted him. He didn't blame her. There was no way to prove she was the good wife, not yet, but that didn't mean he couldn't start looking into Heather Grimm, find out how she had ended up on Walsh's beach that day.

  Jimmy had had gone through an old Whittier High School yearbook at the library and found a photo of the Thespians Club at the time of her murder. There were twelve girls in the club. "Such a waste," Mrs. Gifford, the Whittier dra
ma teacher, had said when he asked her about Heather. According to the teacher, Heather and Chastity had been best friends, smart and pretty and always in contention for the lead in the school play. She said the last she had heard, Chastity was still living at home with her parents. Jimmy had checked; her parents' number appeared on Walsh's phone records. Jimmy had called immediately; he had introduced himself and said he was working on an article about Heather. He offered to meet with her after work, but she had insisted he attend today's rehearsal.

  Chase was twenty-four now, but she hadn't changed much from her yearbook photo, the classic California girl: long-legged and tan, a slim, fresh-faced blonde. She wore white shorts and a man's white dress shirt, with the tails loosely knotted around her midriff. It had probably taken her a half-hour to get the knot to lie so perfectly above her belly button. The Monelli twins would have hated her.

  Chase reached under her seat, pulled out a thick scrapbook, and put it on her lap. An Entertainment Weekly cover had been pasted on the front of the notebook, with Chase's face superimposed on Julia Roberts's as she accepted the Academy Award. She tapped her photo with a fingernail. "See it, dream it, be it-that's my motto."

  "You got my vote." Jimmy wasn't humoring her-you had to bet on long shots to have any hope at all. If you ever considered the odds against you, no one would get out of bed in the morning-the whole world would be hiding under the covers.

  Chase checked the Polaroid of her and Jimmy as she flipped through the scrapbook, stopping at a section titled "Chase and VIPs." She swiped the back of the photo with a glue stick and carefully affixed it next to a Polaroid of herself standing beside Hugh Hefner in a nightclub, the bunny king waxy and cadaverous, his fake teeth blinding.