Deadly Production (Mapleton Mystery Book 4) (9 page)

Gordon checked in with Titch, then with Vicky McDermott, who told him she’d released Finnegan’s. “Should I resume my patrol route?” she asked.

He approved, then gave her a quick description of Yolanda and Ian. “If you see either of them, bring them in.”

A pause. “Describe Ian again, please.”

He did.

“I think he’s here.”

Gordon dragged a hand through his hair. “You sure?”

“He’s not a Mapleton regular,” McDermott said. “He’s sitting in a table in the back. On his second beer. I don’t think Mick’s run a card for him, though, so I can’t check. Unless you want me to ask him.”

“Why don’t you do that. And if he is Ian Patrick, ask him to accompany you to the station. Nicely. You can be very convincing. But get him there.”

“If he refuses? I don’t have any grounds to arrest him.”

“Then get Lionel Dawson to convince him. He’s the director, and he’s at Daily Bread.”

Gordon disconnected and headed for the station, joined by a full-blown headache.

Gordon’s first order of business—after popping two ibuprofen—was to get the death notification process started and off his list. Probably the easiest chore he’d have all day. He called the LAPD and with a few bounces through phone trees, gave Avis Fontenot’s name and number to a woman in the appropriate department, who promised to follow through.

“If there’s any way they can ask her about Marianna Spellman’s health, or any problems with people, I’d appreciate it. I know it’s a troubling time, but we’re still coming up empty on how she died,” Gordon said.

The woman said she’d note it, but added, “It might take a second visit, depending on the woman’s state of mind when they give her the news.”

Gordon said he understood and hung up.

Next, he brewed a fresh pot of decaf, and while it hissed and gurgled, he fetched a notepad. He wrote
Death Notification
and drew a line through it. Nothing like crossing something off a to-do list before you wrote the damn list. While he was thinking of it, he added
Marianna’s purse
and
laptop
. Then, he went to find Laurie.

She stopped typing at his approach and rolled her eyes as she reached for a stack of message slips. “I didn’t think you’d want to spend half of forever listening to voicemail messages, so I switched your direct line to my desk. I also called in a couple of the civilian patrol guys to help man the main switchboard.”

“Did I ever tell you—?”

“Not often enough.” She handed him the stack, which was separated into two parts, each clipped together. She tapped the top one. “These are the ones who refused to accept that we can’t tell them anything. The others are people who are sure they know who killed the person at the studio. I’ve starred the ones you might want to call sometime today.”

“
What?
We haven’t told anyone anything yet. We haven’t even confirmed it was a homicide.”

“You’re right, but when the Coroner’s van pulls up, word gets around. And most of these …
helpful
… citizens are offering leads to suspicious people. They don’t know—or care—who the victim is. They just want to tell you who did it.”

If these people managed to get through to his or Laurie’s desk, Gordon could imagine the stack of slips for the main incoming line. And, he’d better check with Connie in Dispatch, because 911—well, it wasn’t solely for emergencies according to far too many citizens.

“And I called in Tessa to help Connie in Dispatch,” Laurie said.

Gordon foresaw large orders of flowers and chocolate in his immediate future.

“You’re terrific, you know that, don’t you.”

She grinned. “Of course. And if you want to say thanks, an introduction to Cassidy Clarke might make up for all the chaos I’ve been dealing with.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Gordon took his message slips to Dispatch where Connie and Tessa were fielding calls calmly and professionally, giving people the polite brush-off. He knew what he’d like to be saying, and imagined it was the same for them. Helping people in emergencies was one thing. Dealing with people who thought 911 was a problem-solving hot line—not so much.

At a short break, Gordon asked Connie, “Any actual police business coming through?”

She snorted. “Civilian patrol didn’t report anything. Nobody has time for emergencies. They’re all too busy thinking they can be movie stars.”

Tessa chimed in. “I took one almost legitimate call. Mr. Johnson said there was a prowler in the alley behind his house. Turned out to be a raccoon trying to get at his garbage can. Animal control relocated it.”

“And the citizens of Mapleton are safe once again,” Gordon said. “If the calls level off—”

“Which they should,” Connie interrupted. “I think every person in Mapleton has already bugged us.”

“Make sure everyone who was working interviews has their paperwork turned in. Anyone who thinks they’ve found a lead, or has something viable to add to the investigation, have them report to the briefing room. But—in a nice way—let them know I’ll be paying close attention to what’s actually information, and what’s merely an excuse to ditch their assignments for something they think is more interesting.”

Behind a hand, Tessa snorted back a laugh.

Gordon pretended he hadn’t noticed. “Connie, I’ll leave it to you to use your judgment as to how long Tessa is needed. And thanks, Tessa, for pitching in.”

“Heck, no problem, Chief,” Tessa said. “It was kind of fun—aside from the
someone’s dead
aspect.”

“And I’m off to see what I can do about that.”

Gordon leafed through the message slips as he walked, seeking the ones with stars. None seemed urgent enough to require his immediate attention, so he went into the war room where Gaubatz was rearranging the furniture, dragging chairs out of the way to make room for tables.

“I thought we’d put a couple of tables across here—” Gaubatz pointed to the center of the room— “and more along the walls for all the paperwork.”

“That’ll work.”

“Where should we put the laptops?” Gaubatz asked. He gestured toward two sitting on a front table.

“On the center tables.” Gordon spared a fleeting moment of regret that their in-vehicle computer system hadn’t come through, when they’d have enough laptops for everyone, but they’d manage with the few they had.

Solomon arrived and pulled Gordon aside. “McDermott’s got Ian Patrick in Interrogation. Do you want me to question him or let him cool his heels until we finish? Or do you want to do the honors?”

“He give her any trouble?”

“None I’m aware of.”

So, the man had cooperated. He wasn’t a suspect—yet—and in the spirit of rewarding Patrick for coming in, rather than make him wait, Gordon sent Solomon. “I’d rather do it myself, but you know the job. Do I need to remind you he’s an actor, and his answers might seem truthful but—”

Solomon raised both palms. “Got it. My BS meter is tuned to the highest level of sensitivity. If you want, I bet I could snag a cameraman from the production company and record the interview.”

“Let’s not go that far, Ed. Besides, if there’s a camera, it might trigger the
I’m an actor
response in Patrick. Voice will be enough.”

“On it. I left all the interview papers on the front table. They’re sorted by which officer conducted the interview.” Solomon strode to the door.

Gordon returned to the front of the room and walked around the whiteboard. Solomon had written the name of everyone on the production schedule, plus the locals who had been hanging around the set. He’d crossed out some, and others had question marks.

Compared to the back, the front of the board was absolutely barren. His officers assembled, a hush replacing the quiet conversations as Gordon stepped to the podium.

“Thanks for your hard work, everyone. We need to construct a timeline. With so many people to account for, it would probably take three of these boards. Since we have only the one, let’s start by deciding who we can dismiss.” Gordon spun the board around. “We’ll go down the list. If you interviewed that person, give us your impressions.” He pointed to Gaubatz, who was sitting in the front row. “To help everyone remember, Gaubatz will give everyone their interview sheets for reference.”

Once that was done, Gordon tapped the board, and said, “Let’s start with the extras,” and called out the first name.

When they’d gotten through the list, Gordon had drawn lines through most of the extras’ names. They’d been sent to Marianna’s RV as soon as they arrived to deal with paperwork. She’d seemed fine, and nobody reported having any problems with her. Next, they’d made brief stops at wardrobe to make sure the clothes they wore were acceptable—t-shirts with logos being the main offenders. A couple had been dressed in clothes inappropriate for the weather in the script, wearing tank tops that revealed more cleavage than the director wanted. They’d been given replacements. They’d dealt with Yolanda, but all were out of wardrobe by six-fifteen. All the extras were in and out of makeup by six-thirty, since they weren’t going to be in any close-ups. After that, they were sent to the lounge.

“Was anyone watching to make sure they stayed where they were supposed to be?” Gordon asked.

“I talked to the security guards,” Titch said. “They said nobody was wandering about, and one of the production wranglers brought everyone from the Village to the holding area to wait for rehearsals.”

Gordon couldn’t help but wonder if the security guards would have noticed, but he had no reason to suspect any of these extras had anything to do with Marianna’s death or the break-in. But he was still damn sure going to have a nice, long chat with them.

Gordon brought up the names of the three hopefuls who’d come in with the extras. “This is out there, but we have to consider it. Any reason to think they’d be mad enough they couldn’t be in the shoot to do away with the woman they perceived as their obstacle?”

“No,” Vicky said. “But if you want, I can run them through the database to see if they have records, any violent tendencies.”

“Let Gaubatz do it,” Gordon said, not that he expected any hits.

Gaubatz shifted to a seat in front of one of the laptops and tapped the keyboard. Vicky moved to the other computer, waiting for direction.

“Moving on,” Gordon said. “What about the production company people? Crew and actors. There were four cast members scheduled. Mai Phan, who found the body, and Ian Patrick, who is here now. There were also two stand-ins, reported to have been in wardrobe, Bart Bergsstrom and Kathy Newberg. Who interviewed these two?”

Papers rustled. Heads turned, shoulders shrugged, glances were exchanged. An uncomfortable silence pervaded the room.

“Nobody?” Gordon said. “Titch, call Lionel Dawson, find out if he saw these two.”

“On it.” Titch pulled his cell phone from his belt and stepped outside the room.

Again, they went through the names. Most had been setting up for the shoot and were on the set, not in the Village. A few had used the lounge, but nobody remembered seeing Marianna.

Trying not to let his frustration show, Gordon turned the whiteboard around and picked up the marker. At the top right, he printed the names Bart Bergsstrom, Kathy Newberg, and Yolanda Orozco. Gaubatz was still working at his laptop, so Gordon pointed at Vicky McDermott. “Google those names. Get me pictures. If you can’t find Yolanda, I have a verbal description from Dawson. I want lookout orders on all of them, and then I want all of you on the streets, finding them. At best, we’ve got people playing hooky from work. Worse, we have more suspects. Worst, we’ve got victims.”

“On it.” Vicky chewed her lower lip as she worked. A few moments later she raised her head in triumph. “Got ’em. Even Yolanda.”

“Forward them to Laurie. Get prints made and distributed.” He let his gaze roam the room. “All right, everyone. Take five, then grab those pictures and hit the streets.”

Chairs scraped and the room emptied, except for Gaubatz.

“You finding anything on our extra wannabes?” Gordon asked him.

“One name left in one more database, but no, nothing on the women. One DUI eight years ago on the man, and I’m running him now.”

“Finish up, then return to your duties,” Gordon said.

A few seconds later, Gaubatz said, “Done. Soon as this shuts down, I’m out of here.”

“Thanks for your work.”

Gaubatz bobbed his head and closed the laptop.

Gordon took a deep breath. Maybe Asel would call and say Marianna Spellman died of natural causes. They’d still have the vandalism to deal with, but unless Dawson or someone else asked for police help in locating their missing people, or Marianna’s laptop or purse, it wasn’t a Mapleton PD problem. Let the studio put their Keystone Cops on it. That would keep the mayor happy. And add a checkmark in the plus column for Gordon’s next performance review.

Maybe Solomon had more from his interview with Ian Patrick. He headed for the room the department used for questioning suspects. Four bile yellow-green walls, no windows. No one-way mirror, no hidden camera. Small square table, two straight-back wooden chairs. A wastebasket with a plastic liner in case a suspect puked. Or threw away a water bottle, which was a great way to collect prints and DNA. Not that a single Mapleton case had ever required DNA to catch the bad guys. All in all, an unpleasant place to spend a few hours, which was what it was designed for.

He tapped on the door but didn’t wait for an answer before opening it and stepping inside. The smell of disinfectant threatened to overwhelm him, but he blinked and closed the door behind him. Solomon rose to attention. Saluted. “Chief.”

So, he was playing it in full-blown, by-the-book, cop mode. “As you were, Officer.”

“Mr. Patrick, this is Police Chief Hepler.”

Patrick’s eyebrows rose a fraction before his face resumed a neutral expression. “So, I warrant a call from the chief, do I?”

“Making sure you’re comfortable and have been treated fairly,” Gordon said, noticing the water bottle in front of Patrick. Half-empty.

“No complaints. I was telling Officer Solomon I’m guilty of ditching some of the sit-around-and-wait time this business is known for. A seven o’clock call rarely means you’ll come anywhere near shooting before nine even when they say eight, and I thought I’d explore your little town while I waited. And I’m guilty of doing it wearing studio property. However, as I told this good officer, I saw Yolanda when I got my duds.” He waved his hands in front of his red turtleneck like a fashion model. A lightweight navy-blue windbreaker hung over the back of the chair.

“I don’t know what it is about the studio. The clothes I was wearing this morning weren’t that much different from what I have on now. I think it’s a liability thing for the talent.”

The way he said
talent
set Gordon’s teeth on edge. The station could use a second interrogation room just for the man’s ego. “And Marianna Spellman wasn’t in the RV when you were there?”

“Nope. Again, we’re covering previously charted territory. Or is this like the movies where they want at least five takes before they decide the first one was all right to begin with?” He pointed to the recorder in the middle of the table. “You can hear it all for yourself.”

“I prefer the live version, if you don’t mind,” Gordon said.

Patrick shrugged. “I saw Yolanda in wardrobe. Went to makeup for my face gunk. Moseyed on out front to see what was going on with the setup. I could tell it would be hours, so I went for a walk. When I came back, there was all sorts of whoop-de-do going on, so I decided to kill time at that bar—Flannagans?”

“Finnegan’s,” Solomon said. “You reported you didn’t see Marianna Spellman this morning.”

“Yes, yes, yes, and yes. I think that’s how many times you asked me.” Patrick took a pull from his water bottle.

“Tell me this,” Gordon said. “Do you know anyone who would like her dead?”

Patrick shook his head. “I think I answered that one at least twice, too.”

“If she was dead, who might benefit?” Solomon asked.

“You mean like who was in her will? How would I know that?”

“No, not in her will. The movie, or the business in general. Who would move up the ladder?” Gordon said.

“Damned if I know,” Patrick said. “I mean, I can’t imagine anyone
wanting
her job. Details. That’s what she was all about. Details. Sign this piece of paper, be here at this time for that, don’t go there—that’s all she did.” He gazed at the ceiling. “Although, I suppose, if she was making decisions that weren’t in someone’s favor, they might think they could do better if she was out of the way. But everything’s locked in for this picture, so that doesn’t make sense, unless she’s working on another deal.”

He huffed. Rolled his eyes. “You know, this is crazy. I haven’t done much work for Vista. They’re small potatoes, and I only took this gig because I had time before my next job.”

Which meant, Gordon assumed, he was between
gigs
and would have taken a job playing a talking cabbage if one came up.

“You see Bart Bergsstrom or Kathy Newberg this morning?” Solomon asked. “They were staying at the hotel. Should have been on the bus.”

The puzzled expression on Patrick’s face had Gordon believing the man was being honest when he said no. “That bus left before five a.m. I took advantage of the ride to catch some shut-eye, so because I didn’t see them doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”

So far, other than deciding Ian Patrick was too full of himself for his own good, Gordon couldn’t see what the man had to offer. He glanced at Solomon, who scratched his ear. Which meant he agreed there was no point in keeping this guy.

Gordon handed Patrick one of his cards. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Patrick. If you think of anything else, please let us know. An officer will give you a lift to the production area.”

“What? You’re not going to tell me I can’t leave town?”

Solomon broke his stern cop persona and laughed. “We know where to find you if we need you. And, if you want to know the truth, that line is for the movies. We don’t have the right to keep you here.”

“I wouldn’t mind. Nice place. Quiet. More … honest … if you know what I mean.” Patrick picked up his windbreaker and Solomon held the door for him.

Once Patrick had been sent off with Jost, Gordon and Solomon went to the war room where interview sheets and BOLO printouts were spread along the perimeter tables. The whiteboard stood at the far end of the room, as if daring him to fill it with answers to their questions.

“This might be more exciting if the real stars were here,” Solomon said.

Gordon hoped Solomon wasn't becoming star-struck. “They’re shooting—I mean, they were
supposed
to start shooting their scenes this afternoon.”

Solomon picked up one of the sheets of paper. “This guy—Bergsstrom—is Cassidy Clarke’s stand-in, right?”

“Yep.”

“There’s a resemblance, but I don’t think anyone seeing this guy would mix him up with Clarke. Not anyone who’s seen the real deal, anyway.”

Gordon leaned over Solomon’s shoulder. “I think it’s about height, build, and coloring. Mainly for setting up lighting and camera angles. He’s not a double.”

“So unlikely someone snatched him thinking they had Cassidy Clarke.”

“Doubtful.”

Solomon set the paper aside. “I’ll call the Richardsons’ place. Make sure our stars are there. Or that someone knows where they are.”

“Couldn’t hurt. While you’re at it, there are the two co-stars, Damien Rivers and Julie Ames. See if you can track them down as well.”

“Are they at the Richardsons', too?” Without waiting for an answer, he leafed through the papers on the table, snagged one and headed for the door. “Yes, they are. On it.”

Gordon stared at the names on the whiteboard. Yolanda, Bart, Kathy.

Where the hell are you?

Because even if technically they weren’t his to worry about, because they were in Mapleton, they were. Right about now, he’d rather be listening to more of Solomon’s off-the-wall speculations about the Deadbeat Dad Killer.

When his phone rang and it was the mayor calling, Gordon
definitely
wanted to work on Solomon’s puzzle.

He kept his tone civil. “What can I do for you, Mayor? Things are kind of busy here.”

“The press conference will go on as scheduled. I expect you to give a report on the progress of this debacle.”

Assuming there’s any progress by then
.

“Yes, sir.” Gordon disconnected the call before the mayor could start telling him what to say. This was not a good time to get into any kind of discussion with the mayor, and hanging up, even if it pissed the mayor off, was a safer alternative than trying to deal with all the hoops the mayor would want him to jump through.

He ambled to the war room, added
Laptop
and
Purse
to the whiteboard, then went to Laurie’s desk.

“The mayor wants me to give an update at this evening’s press conference,” Gordon said. “Can you draft something that sounds important and official without saying anything? If we
do
have something we can release, I’ll update you.”

“No problem, Chief. I can tap-dance with the best of them.” Laurie grinned. “You going to feel like you owe me enough to get me that face-to-face with Cassidy Clarke?”

“I already do. But first, we have to find him.”

Her eyes popped wide. “He’s not missing, too, is he?”

Gordon shook his head. “No, he isn’t due on the set until this afternoon, so he’s been off our radar.”

He’d better not be missing, or I’m going to be in some deep droppings
.

“I’ll get your statement started.” Laurie addressed her keyboard, and clicked away. “I’ll have it on your desk within the hour.”

He most certainly was going to have to get Laurie an audience with Cassidy Clarke.

In the war room, Gordon studied the timeline. A narrow window for Marianna’s death, and a slightly wider one for the break-in. He strode to the board and wrote the times in.