Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script (29 page)

Noah Dent came from this street, where black squirrels roamed under the shadow of perilously perched barbecues.

Jesse was convinced that the answer to Dent's hatred of Mark Sloan was here somewhere. He wasn't going back to Los Angeles without it.

Jesse found the house he was looking for, dashed under the barbeque, and rang the front doorbell. It was answered almost immediately by a jovial, potbellied man in a checked flannel shirt and corduroy pants.

"May I help you?" the man asked.

"Yes, I'm looking for Grayson Dent," Jesse said.

"That's me!" Grayson replied energetically. "Are you with the Prize Patrol?"

"The Prize Patrol?"

"From Publishers Clearing House," Grayson said, his eyes sparkling with good-natured mischief. "Have I won a million dollars?"

"No, I'm Dr. Jesse Travis and I work with your son Noah at Community General Hospital in Los Angeles," he said. "And I'm the chairperson of his tribute."

"His tribute ?"

"And the gala ball," Jesse added. "It's a surprise. I'm here to get background for my speech and the video we're going to show."

"Come in, come in, I want to hear all about it." Grayson stepped aside and ushered Jesse into the house.

The home was, unlike Noah, very warm and inviting. All the couches and chairs were overstuffed, upholstered in dark fabrics, and adorned with hand-knitted afghans and fluffy pillows. Every inch of available wall space was covered with framed photographs of the Dents with their family and friends.

How could someone as heartless as Noah Dent come from a home like this?

"You didn't come all the way here from Los Angeles just to talk to me, did you?" Grayson said. "You could have called me on the phone."

"It's not the same as meeting the people who shaped his character," Jesse replied. "Noah has only been at Community General a short time, but already he's made a huge impression on all of us. We want this event to show him how we truly feel."

Grayson whistled, impressed. "Like father, like son. Noah's always been a people-person."

"He certainly is," Jesse said. "I can honestly say he's touched a lot of lives. We want to salute him and all his achievements. But we also want to get to know him, to reveal the man behind the consummate administrator."

"I'm so happy to hear that he's established himself in his field. I tried to steer him into being my successor in the family business—to carry on the proud Dent tradition," Grayson said. "I won't lie to you, it was a big disappointment to me when his life took a different path."

"What's the family business?" Jesse asked.

"If you lived in Canada, you wouldn't have to ask that question. You can't take a whiz without doing it on a Dent," Grayson said with a laugh, more at Jesse's bewilderment than at his joke. "Dent Fixtures and Flushometers. We make urinals, toilets, and flushers."

Grayson picked up a thick catalog from the coffee table, and handed it to Jesse, who flipped through it. The catalog was filled with glossy pictures of urinals and toilets with names like the Continental, the Fifth Avenue, the Renaissance and the Evergreen—as well as a variety of stainless steel piston flushometers.

"We patented our first Dent Piston Flushometer in 1928," Grayson said, "and we've been innovators in the field ever since, eventually expanding into restroom fixtures in 1957. Virtually every public and commercial toilet in Canada is a Dent."

"Why didn't Noah go into the family business?" Jesse asked, straying over to the nearest wall and letting his eyes wander over the countless pictures.

Grayson shrugged. "I wish I knew. He seemed destined for it until college, when suddenly he just changed his mind. All he was interested in was hospital administration."

In the pictures, Noah looked like any other kid. Exuberant, happy, friendly, with the same jovial air as his father. Jesse had a hard time reconciling the pictures with the Noah Dent he knew.

"Did he ever say why?"

"Not in so many words," Grayson said. "But he obviously had a passion for it that he didn't have for the toilet trade. And if you're going to succeed in this business and deliver a superior product, you need to be passionate about it."

"Did he ever mention Community General Hospital?" Jesse asked.

"Nope," Grayson said, then pointed to a picture of Noah and an attractive older woman. "That's Noah when he was a teenager, and that's his mother, Beatrice. She left me when Noah was in college for one of those artsy-fartsy urinal designers. You know the type."

"Oh yeah," Jesse said. "They're irresistible to women."

"Twenty-five years of marriage flushed down the drain," Grayson said with a chuckle. "Pun intended."

"Did Noah ever mention Dr. Mark Sloan to you?" Jesse asked, glancing at a photo of Noah Dent in a rowboat, catching a gigantic trout.

"Not that I can recall," Grayson asked. "Why do you ask?"

"They've just come to mean a lot to one another," Jesse said. "Frankly, I'm just trying to figure out why Community General is so special to him."

"It's all about passion," Grayson said. "I have it for toilets and, lucky for you, Noah has it for hospitals."

Noah certainly treated the hospital like his toilet, Jesse thought. His gaze fell on a photo of a teenage Noah and his date that had apparently been taken in the living room before his high school prom. Noah wore an ill-fitting tuxedo and a proud smile on his face, his arm around his girlfriend, an unbearably cute teenager with radiant eyes.

"They look great together," Jesse said, understanding now why Noah wasn't the jovial, happy man his father was, and why he never would be. The hatred Jesse felt for Noah Dent abruptly evaporated, replaced by a profound sadness.

"They were high school sweethearts, madly in love. They went off to separate colleges and I suppose they drifted apart," Grayson said. "She was a cute girl. I wonder what ever happened to her."

Jesse could have told him.

Her radiant smile was gone. Her life was destroyed. And Dr. Mark Sloan was to blame.

The night after the preliminary hearing, Mark was unable to sleep. After leaving BBQ Bob's and braving his way through the throng of reporters outside his house, he planted himself in his recliner in front of the TV, where he remained all night, unable to tear himself away from the continuous coverage of his downfall.

There was some other news related to the case that Mark learned watching TV. Elsie Feikema had accepted an invitation to be one of the housemates in the next edition of Big Brother. The box-office take on Lacey's movie
Thrill Kill
had already reached $50 million and was projected to crack the $100 million mark domestically, fueled by the intense media coverage of her arrest and release. There were rumors that a bootleg copy of Nick Stryker's surveillance tape would be hitting the Internet as a "pay-per-stream" event that industry observers speculated could generate more revenue than Lacey's illicit sex tape did a few years earlier. And the WB was actively developing both a sitcom and a reality show centered on the Slumberland Motel.

Mark nodded off shortly before dawn, when Steve came up from downstairs, switched off the TV, and draped a blanket over his father before going out for a run.

The media vultures weren't dedicated enough to be up at that hour, so Steve had the beach to himself as he jogged through the morning fog. Steve wasn't quite sure what to do to occupy himself in the days ahead. His life was in limbo until he either quit the force or the LAPD decided to fire him.

But he wasn't ready to think about that now. He wasn't ready to think about anything.

When Mark awoke at around noon, Steve was long gone, hiding out from the world, and from his own thoughts, in the kitchen at BBQ Bob's. There was plenty Steve could do to busy himself there, especially with Jesse away.

Mark didn't have such a convenient distraction from his troubles. He was a virtual prisoner in his own home. If he left the house, he would be dogged by the press, eager for fresh footage to chronicle the destruction of his reputation.

So what was there to do? He couldn't engage in his two favorite pursuits—the practice of medicine and the investigation of homicides—and might never be allowed to again.

Perhaps it was time, he thought, to bring out the easel and try his hand at painting once more. The notion brought his thoughts back to the murders of Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler—not that his mind had drifted far from the subject for more than a few seconds anyway.

The fact was, Mark Sloan was happiest when his mind was occupied with a challenging problem to solve. And there was no problem greater than the one at the source of all his troubles: proving Lacey McClure guilty of murder.

For the rest of the day, Mark reviewed the case and the material he had at hand. He looked over the crime scene photos, read the FBI transcript of their wiretap of Cleve's meeting with Daddy Crofoot, scanned Lacey's magazine interviews, fast-forwarded through her movies, rewatched Lacey and Cleve's infamous sex tape and scrutinized Nick Stryker's Slumberland Motel surveillance film.

Then Mark sat in his recliner and thought about the facts of the case, rejecting all the evidence they'd presented in court to see if there was anything left to work with as starting point for a new investigation.

There was only one thing.

It wasn't evidence, really, but a question raised and never answered.

On the FBI wiretap of Daddy Crofoot's limo, Cleve Kershaw claimed he had some leverage against his wife he'd use to force her to continue laundering Mob money through her movies.

The question it begged was simple, and now in light of everything else, tantalizingly compelling:
What did Cleve Kershaw have on his wife?

Once he asked himself that, Mark reconsidered every thing he'd seen and heard since those four gunshots dragged him into the case. And in doing so, he realized to his dismay that he'd seen the key piece of evidence the moment he discovered the bodies, but it was so glaringly obvious that it was rendered invisible.

To pursue the lead he'd have to leave the house, but he didn't think he'd be able to elude the reporters outside, who were sure to follow him.

Then again, he thought with a smile, that might not be such a bad thing after all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

After the preliminary hearing, Lacey McClure spent her night at home in much the same way as Mark Sloan did, glued to the television.

Lacey was delighted to find herself on every channel she switched to. It was like watching a marathon of her movies, only this time it was all new to her and much more exciting. She was once again cast as a woman wronged who, through sheer courage and extraordinary physical prowess, conquered her evil adversaries. There were surprising plot twists, some steamy sex scenes, even some action. And when it was all over, she emerged as the undisputed heroine.

Her beauty, her innocence, and her inner strength came through in every scene. Best of all, she didn't have to learn any lines, listen to any directors, or deliver a single spinning kick.

Her enjoyment of the coverage was interrupted many times by congratulatory phone calls from agents, managers, studio execs, directors, actors, and publishers, all eager to profit in some way from her staggeringly positive worldwide publicity. So far, the only offer she'd agreed to was a three-hour CBS "docu-drama" based on her ordeal, which she'd star in and executive produce as soon as she finished making her current movie.

Filming on her movie, which had been shut down after her arrest, would resume in a few days, but with a new, A-list director and an infusion of money from the studio to amp up the action and accelerate the postproduction. Both she and the studio were anxious to finish the movie and get it into theaters as soon as possible, to capitalize on her newfound global popularity before it waned.

Not that she'd let the attention dim without a fight. The instant Lacey sensed that interest in her was flagging, she'd invite Barbara Walters over for a televised chat, and start sobbing over the tragedy. After all, her marriage had fallen apart, then her husband got killed, and then she was arrested for a crime she didn't commit. It was powerful stuff, sure to rocket Barbara to the top of the ratings, and spark countless follow-up articles, commentaries, and more TV interviews.

When those started to dry up, she'd sneak out very publicly to visit her husband's grave and tearfully place flowers on his tombstone, making sure plenty of paparazzi saw her do it. And just when people finished dabbing the tears from their eyes over those heart-wrenching photos, she'd selflessly establish an acting scholarship in poor, young Amy Butler's memory.

By then, her new movie would be in theaters, the "docu-drama" would be airing, and the second wave of Lacey McClure publicity would sweep the world. She'd be commanding $20 million a movie in no time. Maybe she'd even start directing.

Everything had worked out far better than Lacey ever dreamed it could, despite encountering the worst luck imaginable right at the get-go.

She'd planned every detail of the murders, considered a hundred different ways it could go wrong, but never once thought to check out who her Malibu neighbors were. It never occurred to her that one of them might be a homicide detective and his father, a deductive genius who loved to solve murders.

It was a cruel joke of epic proportions at her expense.

It was Lady Luck giving her the finger and running over her dog.

And yet, Lacey didn't panic. She swallowed her fear, took a deep breath, and rose to the occasion, confronting her adversaries head-on. She engaged in a dangerous game of cat- and-mouse with Mark Sloan as if she was merely improvising a scene at an audition.

And she rocked.

She never wanted the fight, but now that it was over, her victory over Dr. Sloan, and his complete ruination, was the sweetest part of all. It was funny how life worked—how something that at first seemed so horrible could turn out to be something so good. She discovered through adversity that she possessed skills she never knew she had.

Lacey spent the day after the hearing working out in her home gym with Moira, sweating the jailhouse stiffness from her limbs, loosening up for the strenuous week ahead of filming, press conferences, and high-level deal-making.