Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script (23 page)

Steve glanced at his father and seemed to sense what he was thinking. "Living in this house is like dousing yourself with gasoline and then lighting a cigarette."

"I don't know how this place has survived this long," Mark said, judging the house to be at least thirty years old. Nobody who lived in this fire zone dared to have a wood shake roof or allow dry brush so close to their homes.

"Maybe whoever lived here before maintained a firebreak," Steve said approaching the front door. He had Moira Cole's house key in his hand and a search warrant in his pocket. "It doesn't take long for the brush to get overgrown if you don't cut it back."

"Not something we have to worry about," Mark said. "One more benefit to living on the beach."

"Let's see how you feel when the big one hits, and liquefaction turns the sand underneath our house into soup."

"What a cheerful thought," Mark replied.

Steve unlocked the door and stepped inside, his father following behind him. They both stopped a few steps inside the door and stared in shock at the decor. It wasn't that the furnishings were outlandish or bizarre. In fact, the decor was understated and traditional. What was unnerving was where they'd seen it before.

Tile floors. Exposed beams. Vintage, ranch-style furniture made of rough wood and well-worn, cracked leather.

The bungalow was decorated just like Lacey McClure's Mandeville Canyon home, only on a far smaller scale and budget.

"Is this creepy or what?" Steve said, slipping on his rubber gloves.

Mark found it far more disturbing than Titus Carville's home office. Titus was fixated on Lacey McClure, turning a room into a virtual shrine, covered with photos of Lacey and Lacey memorabilia. But Moira had taken the fanaticism way beyond that. Not only did Moira replicate Lacey's home, she replicated Lacey herself, remaking her own body in Lacey's image.

"Now we know why Moira was willing to help Lacey establish an alibi for murder," Mark said. "Both Moira and Titus were obsessed with her."

"So you'd think they'd hate each other, that they'd be competing for her attention. But no, they slept together," Steve opened the refrigerator. It was filled with bottles of Glacier Peaks water. "How were they able to do that?"

"It's not so hard to figure out, psychologically," Mark said. "For Titus, it was like sleeping with Lacey's identical twin—another opportunity to act out his Lacey fantasies. For Moira, having sex with Lacey's lover was just one more way to be Lacey. They both got something out of it that fed their obsessions. And they were both pleasing their idol by doing it."

Mark stepped into Moira's bedroom. There was ChapStick and a bottle of Glacier Peaks water on the nightstand. He didn't have to touch the sheets to know they were 600 threads or more. On top of the dresser, there were several framed pictures of Lacey and Moira together, taken on the sets of their various movies.

"It's still pretty sick," Steve said.

"That's an understatement," Mark replied.

Moira Cole looked like Lacey, lived like Lacey, even performed the same movie roles as Lacey. And now she would spend her life in prison, just like Lacey. It was obsession taken to an astonishing extreme. Mark began to wonder if perhaps it was Moira who killed Titus just so she could have Lacey all to herself.

Steve joined his father in the bedroom. "Yikes. This is one scary lady. The ultimate date from hell."

"Maybe she was," Mark said. "For Titus Carville."

"You think she killed Titus?"

Mark shrugged. "Seeing this, I'm surprised Cleve and Titus survived as long as they did."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Assistant District Attorney Karen Cross returned from Lacey McClure's bail hearing to find Steve Sloan waiting in her office, her tiny TV set on and tuned to one of the local stations for the evening news.

Teetering stacks of bulging files covered every available surface in her office, including the guest chairs. Steve had moved one of the piles off one of the chairs and set it on the floor, braced against her desk, so he'd have a place to sit.

The sight of the stack on the floor unnerved her, and Steve sensed it.

"Did I just screw up some incredibly complex filing sys tem?" he asked.

"It's not complex," she said, "It's
idiosyncratic
."

"What does that mean?"

"It means the files are organized by geography and chronology," she said. "It's a system I could never explain.

It's a combination of sight, memory, and familiarity. Even the height of the pile tells me something. Move a couple of stacks, though, and the whole system crumbles into anarchy."

"All I moved was the stack on this seat," Steve said. "I promise I'll put it back. I'd swear on a stack of Bibles, but I'd be afraid to move them."

"What are you doing here, Detective?"

"I came to tell you that Moira Cole is a nutcase who'd slit her own throat for Lacey McClure, but other than that, I didn't find out anything at her house," Steve said, jacking up the volume on the TV just as Karen Cross herself appeared on camera, outside the courthouse.

Karen stood behind Steve's chair, watching herself being surrounded by reporters thrusting microphones in her face.

"We have charged Lacey McClure with two counts each of murder and conspiracy in the shooting deaths of her husband Cleve Kershaw and his lover, Amy Butler," Karen Cross told the reporters. "Additionally, we have charged Moira Cole with conspiracy to commit murder. Due to the heinous nature of these crimes, bail was denied and the defendants will remain in custody pending the outcome of a preliminary hearing. Thank you."

And with that, Karen walked away from the reporters, refusing to answer any of the dozens of questions they shouted in her wake.

Steve looked over his shoulder at her. "Don't like talking to reporters much, do you?"

"I don't try my cases in the media," she said.

"He does." Steve motioned to the television, where the reporters could be seen surrounding Arthur Tyrell as he appeared on the steps.

There was no swagger in Tyrell's step, no smile on his face. His expression was one of barely controlled outrage, his cheeks red, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set tight, as he made his statement to the reporters.

"What has happened to Lacey McClure is reprehensible and unconscionable. She was brutalized by organized-crime figures who murdered her husband because she wouldn't let them use her movies to launder their blood money. And she was brutalized again by the LAPD homicide detective as signed to the case, who betrayed her and the public trust for personal and professional gain," Tyrell said. "Lacey McClure isn't a murderer. She's the victim of a blatant and inept police conspiracy. The fact that she is sitting in jail today is a travesty of justice that makes me physically ill."

"You aren't the only one feeling sick, buddy." Steve said to the TV.

A reporter shouted out a question to Tyrell. "What about the stuntwoman?"

Tyrell grimaced, as if he'd just tasted something sour.

"Moira Cole is an innocent victim of this far-reaching conspiracy, who is resisting relentless attempts by the police to coerce her into making false statements against Lacey McClure. What this poor young woman has endured at the hands of one corrupt detective is utterly despicable."

"He can't be serious," Steve said.

Karen picked up the remote and turned off the TV. "He's demanding a preliminary hearing as soon as possible."

"The evidence against her is overwhelming," Steve said. "You'd think he'd take all the time he could get to prepare a defense."

"You just heard his defense," Karen said, taking a seat behind her desk.

"He's going to attack me instead of the evidence."

"It's not that simple. He's trying to frame the parameters of public debate. Now every discussion about the case will start first with the notion of police corruption rather than with the evidence," Karen said. "Pretty soon that's how everybody will think of the case. Tyrell hopes by the time we get into the courtroom, we will be forced to concentrate our efforts on defending your integrity instead of the integrity of the evidence."

"Aren't they inextricably linked?" Steve asked.

"If the evidence is strong, it doesn't matter whether you're a lying, inept, corrupt scumbag," she said. "The evidence will speak for itself."

"If it's not drowned out by all the noise he's going to be making about me and the department," Steve said.

"I'm not going to give him the chance," she said. "If it's an immediate hearing he wants, that's what he's going to get. I won't take the full ten days allowed by law. I'll get him in the courtroom tomorrow if I can and kill the negative debate before it starts."

Steve tried to imagine the courtroom matchup between the frail looking half-Asian-half Caucasian woman and the stocky, aggressive lawyer. Would Tyrell steamroll right over her? Or was her frailty an asset that would lead Tyrell to underestimate her tenacity and strength?

"You must be feeling pretty confident about the evidence if you're willing to give up your prep time, too." Steve said.

"I'm calling his bluff," she said. "Once the judge rules that there's sufficient evidence to support our charges, Tyrell will have to scramble for a new defense in time for the trial."

"Tyrell is taking a big risk," he said.

"Not really."

"How do you figure that?"

"Simple," she said. "His clients can't be any worse off than they already are."

After the impromptu press conference, Arthur Tyrell stopped by Ruth's Chris Steak House in Beverly Hills for the biggest rib eye on the menu and two side orders of mashed potatoes swimming in butter.

From his seat in a dark booth in the corner, he could see the TV set in the bar, which was tuned to the news. He could see himself onscreen, and although he couldn't hear what was being said, he could see how his attack against Steve Sloan was playing with the crowd of businessmen. They were watching the TV in rapt attention, unconsciously nodding in agreement with Tyrell's words.

Lacey McClure wasn't some crack whore or sociopathic gang member. She was a beautiful movie star. A heroine who battled crime in black leather. Nobody wanted her to be guilty. Whether they knew it or not, they desperately wanted her life to play out like one of her movies. So the Mob had to be the killers and the police had to be wrong.

They wanted a happy ending.

So did Tyrell. He ordered a slice of carmelized banana cream pie and imagined what the beleaguered ADA's reaction was going to be to his comments on TV She'd want to call his bluff, to go immediately to the preliminary hearing to keep him from dragging Steve Sloan and the LAPD through the mud for days.

He smiled to himself. She'd be so busy preparing for his assault on Steve Sloan that she wouldn't be thinking about his real target, about the biggest weakness in her case.

Tyrell finished up his dinner, left a generous tip, and walked back to his office. When he stepped out of the elevator, he saw two people in the wood-paneled lobby—the receptionist and a young man with a large briefcase on his lap.

The receptionist smiled at Tyrell and motioned him over with a nod of her head. "Good evening, Mr. Tyrell."

"Marcia," he said.

"That gentleman has been waiting for you for the last two hours," she said.

"What does he want?"

"He said he'd like to talk to you about some doctor named Sloan," she replied.

Intrigued, Tyrell glanced over at the man, who was obviously aware that he was being discussed. Even so, the man remained in his seat, showing neither eagerness or anxiety. He seemed completely relaxed.

"Thank you, Marcia," Tyrell said, then strode over to the man with the briefcase and offered his hand. "I'm Arthur Tyrell. What can I do for you?"

The man rose and shook the lawyer's hand. "It's what we can do for each other, Mr. Tyrell."

The man opened his briefcase and handed Tyrell a thick file, bound with rubber bands to hold all the papers in place. "There are a few facts I've compiled on Dr. Mark Sloan and his activities at Community General Hospital over the years. I thought you might find it interesting—particularly his relationship to the adjunct county medical examiner and his free access to her lab, her files, and the corpses she examines."

Tyrell took a seat beside the man, pulled off the rubber bands, and opened the file on the glass-topped coffee table. He browsed through it quickly. It was apparent to Tyrell after only seeing a few documents that he'd just been handed a treasure chest. There had to be a catch, which he imagined was in the high five figures, minimum.

"I take it you're expecting some kind of financial consideration in return for this information."

"Not at all, Mr. Tyrell," the man said. "Consider it a gift. No strings attached. Just don't ever say where you got it."

Arthur Tyrell stood and gave the man his biggest, warmest smile. "Please, call me Arthur. I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I didn't get your name."

"Noah Dent, chief administrator of Community General. Hospital. But you may call me Noah."

Tyrell studied his gift horse for a moment, wondering what his true motives were. "Do you like brandy, Noah?"

"I do, Arthur."

"Excellent." Tyrell picked up the large file and led Dent towards his office. "Then let's open a bottle and talk some more about Dr. Sloan, shall we?"

On his way back home, Steve stopped at BBQ Bob's to catch up on business and walked into a mini-crisis. One of the cooks had called in sick and they were short a waitress, who'd abruptly quit without any notice.

Steve was immediately pressed into service as a waiter. He tied on an apron and began taking orders and serving meals. There was a big crowd, all of them hungry and impatient. They kept him on his feet, running back and forth between the kitchen and the tables. As exhausting as it was, it was a welcome diversion. He didn't think about the case, or Lacey McClure, even once.

But the respite was broken as soon as the dinner crowd waned, and Steve took a moment behind the counter to get himself a Coke. There was a man in a suit, tie loosened at the collar, sitting on a bar stool with a ready smile.