Fixed in Blood (19 page)

“What’s Eddie Yaz got to do with this?”

Mort watched that soft spot at the base of Verte’s neck. He nodded toward the director’s gloved hands. “California that much balmier than here, Mr. Verte?”

Verte smiled. “If I’m going to get grilled, I’d prefer to be called Ben.” He held up his hands. “And yes, California’s balmier than here…and far less damp. I use a scope when I block a shot. I don’t want to drop anything.” He turned to Lydia. “And what’s your role in this visit?”

“I consult,” Lydia answered. “I’m a clinical psychologist working with Detective Grant’s team on these cases.”

Verte’s eyes lingered on her. “A psychologist. Interesting. Are you analyzing me now?”

“I analyze people when I’m paid to do that.” Lydia matched Verte’s attitude of nonchalance.

“Do psychologists know when someone is lying?” Verte’s question struck Mort as odd. “Are you especially trained to ferret out those telltale signs we’re all supposed to have?”

“I operate on the assumption people tell me the truth, Ben.” Lydia’s smile gave away nothing. “Would that be an appropriate assumption with you?”

Verte’s eyes lit with excitement. “I must speak with you at length. You could be of tremendous help with another project I’m working on. By the way, what should I call you?”

“What would you like to call me?”

“Ah!” Verte clapped his hands together. “It’s true. Psychologists answer questions with questions. I’ll call you Lydia. It’s lovely with a hint of mystery. Like you.” He paused and kept his eyes on her. “Tell me, Lydia. When you’re done consulting with Detective Grant, will you spend a week with me in Bel Air?”

Mort didn’t need Lydia’s powers of observation and analysis to know Verte was avoiding his questions.

“Cameras, Ben.” Mort pulled out a notebook and pen. “When were you informed they were missing?”

Verte turned from Lydia. He took a seat on a sofa built into the side wall of this trailer and asked them both to sit. Lydia took the bench opposite Verte. Mort sat at the small dining table next to the kitchen.

“Sonya Wernikoff oversees our equipment inventory. She runs a tight ship, but even the strictest policies can be broken if one is determined. I’ve been using large dolly cameras and other handhelds in scenes I’ve been shooting. The few times I needed the cameras, they were there. I didn’t know those particular ones had disappeared until she came to me. She discovered the misappropriation when your colleague from Vice came to see her. When he left, she came straight to me. Sonya was, as you can imagine, terribly upset.”

“What did you make of it?” Mort asked.

Verte shrugged. “I surround myself with highly talented technicians. Artists, really. I’m not surprised when one of them gets the itch to use a piece of equipment they could never afford for a personal project.”

“Do you have any idea what type of project Yavornitzky was working on?”

“When Sonya told me it was Vice who’d asked the questions, I was a bit unnerved. I spoke to the detective myself; his name was Schuster if I’m not mistaken. He was rather nonspecific. I assumed my cameras had been used to make a contribution to the porn industry. Now you’re here telling me murders were filmed.”

Mort watched the pulse quicken at the base of Verte’s throat. He didn’t wait for an answer. “What do know about Eddie Yavornitzky?”

“Are you saying Eddie’s involved?” Verte seemed more curious than alarmed.

“When did you see him last?” Mort asked.

“I’d have to check the assignment logs. Yaz is not our lead cameraman. He’s talented, but lacks the maturity necessary for true responsibility. He’s more of a dilettante. I suppose not having the need to earn a living contributes to that somehow.”

“What do you mean?” Mort asked.

Verte sighed. “Eddie Yavornitzky is a trust-fund baby. His father was a fraternity brother of mine. Eddie’s grandfather is the guy who invented the process for molding plastic. There’s enough money for countless generations to do nothing but indulge their whims. Eddie’s current fancy is cinematography. His father called and asked if I’d give his kid an experience on a working set. What could I say? Sigma Chis are brothers for life.”

“Do you have a personal relationship with Eddie?”

“Meaning?” Verte’s soft spot was visibly pulsing now.

“Did you see him outside of work? Did you share dinners? Hobbies?”

Verte looked down at his folded hands resting in his lap. “I try to build a friendly environment on my sets. Call people by their first name. It fosters creativity. But as with all social organizations, there’s a hierarchy. I’m sure there’s one within your own department. I’m the director. To the powers that be in the studio, I’m an interchangeable cog in their moneymaking wheel. But on the set…”

“You’re God,” Lydia offered. “Eddie was part of the camera crew, regardless of his money or connections.”

“Exactly.” Verte smiled. “You’re very good at what you do, aren’t you?”

“You’re aware that both the equipment
and
Eddie are miss—”

Mort’s question was interrupted when the trailer door flew open. Mort recognized the intruder in an instant. When Robbie was a teenager, he and Mort had a standing date for every Anthony Feldoni opening night.

“What the fuck is going on?” Feldoni was smaller than he appeared on-screen. Maybe five foot seven if he had the right boots. The chiseled body Feldoni had paraded in at least a dozen action films decades earlier had softened, but Mort thought he’d still be able to hold his own in any roadhouse dustup. Feldoni pointed a finger at Mort. “You the homicide dick the whole set’s talking about?” He shifted to Verte. “You kill somebody, Ben? So help me God, you screw up this shoot you won’t have to worry about any judge or jury.” Feldoni turned to Lydia. “And what are you supposed to be? The brainy sidekick he ends up screwing?” He squared his shoulders and put his hands on his hips. “Somebody better start talking and they better start talking now.”

Feldoni wore gray sweatpants with electric-blue boxing trunks over them. The years had done little to tarnish his rugged good looks. His white sleeveless T-shirt revealed still-impressive shoulders and chest. His hands were taped, as though he was ready to slip them inside a pair of padded leather gloves and step into the ring for a sparring match. Incongruous to his straight-from-the-gym attire, Mort could see he wore more makeup than any dockside hooker he ever encountered back in his days pounding the beat. And whatever was on his jet-black hair to make it look sweaty was starting to crust over. He waved a dismissive hand when Mort started to introduce himself.

“I don’t need to know your name. I just need to know what the fuck you’re doing on my set and when the fuck you plan on leaving.” Feldoni turned his angry brown eyes toward Ben Verte. “I’ve poured my passion into this project. My kid and I are sitting out there, ready to shoot. Good to go. All we need is some fucker with a bullhorn to yell ‘Action.’ ” He took a half step toward Verte and leaned forward. “Is that gonna be you? Or do I make a call and get some other dipshit artiste up here?”

“Mr. Feldoni,” Mort began. “Calm down. I appreciate the disruption our presence causes—”

“You have no fucking idea,” Feldoni interrupted. “Every dickwad with a cell has video of you walking Ben into his trailer. Now they got me joining the party.” He jabbed a finger at his director. “And who’s supposed to be in charge of security around here? I thought I made it clear no cellphones on the set. The whole world’s itching for a scrap of information about my latest film. I don’t need some grip thinking he can pay his rent this month by snapping a few shots of me mixing it up between scenes.”

It had been a decade since Feldoni’s last movie. Schuster said Feldoni had to put up his own money to get this movie made. Mort doubted the tabloids would be clamoring for any inside scoop.

They might, however, be interested in what a homicide detective was doing on set.

“Let’s go downtown, Mr. Feldoni. You and Ben can ride with us or we can call a squad car. We can be off the set in less than three minutes. No more worries about unauthorized photos.”

Feldoni used what little space the trailer offered to pace. “Downtown? I’m being arrested?”

“No.” Mort hoped Robbie would never learn what an egotistical jerk his boyhood action hero was. “I have questions to ask. If our presence is the disruption you claim, we can continue this down at the station.”

For a moment Feldoni stood stunned into silence. He turned to Verte. “You listening to this shit? Get the suits on the line. Tell ’em to get these two off my set.”

Ben lifted his hands in supplication. “There’s nothing to be done, Tony. We have to answer their questions.”

“What happened to my right to remain silent?” The onetime box office hero sounded confused.

Ben shot a “Don’t read anything into that” look to Mort and Lydia.

“You can remain silent, Tony.” Ben spoke like he was talking to a spoiled four-year-old who didn’t want to share his Oreos. “If you do that, they’ll take you downtown. And they’d be right because it makes it look like you have something to hide. Which you don’t. Wouldn’t it be better to just see what questions they have?”

Feldoni slammed his right fist into his left palm. “I hate this shit. I need this movie, Ben.”

“I know you do. And it’s going to be a smash.”

“It’s gonna put me right back on top.” Feldoni seemed to be calming a bit.

“Right where you belong. You and Vincent will be on the cover of every magazine in the country. You’ll need an entire staff to take the offers pouring in.” Verte paused to let the actor savor the image. “Now let’s answer these questions and get back to work. What do you say?”

Ben was part babysitter, part lion tamer, but his strategy for handling Feldoni was working. The movie star shrugged, leaned against the kitchen counter, and turned to face Mort.

“What d’ya want to know?”

“What is your knowledge of how equipment on set is monitored, Mr. Feldoni?” Mort flipped to a fresh page in his notebook.

Feldoni’s eyes narrowed. “Equipment? You mean like wardrobe? Makeup?”

Of course this egomaniac would jump to the inventory most pertinent to him,
Mort thought.

“He means cameras, Tony,” Ben Verte clarified. “Some cameras are missing. Expensive ones.”

Feldoni continued his bewilderment. “What the fuck do I care about that? We got plenty of cameras. Am I right?”

“These were expensive, Tony.” Mort was content to stand back and let Verte and Feldoni talk. He might learn more if the two of them spoke without the defensiveness that came with talking to the police. “A couple of lenses are missing, too.”

“So what?” Feldoni said. “Let the bean counters worry. That’s why God invented insurance, am I right? As long as we finish primary shots on time, I’m fine. Let the cops track whoever stole the shit. What do we care?”

“The cameras were used to film two murders.” Mort needed to amp up the tension. “Two young women.”

Feldoni snapped his neck back. “You talkin’ snuffs? No shit? Honest-to-God snuff films?”

“You’re aware of them?” Mort asked. Lydia sat with her hands in her lap. Her look of boredom may have appeared nonthreatening, but Mort could see Feldoni held her interest.

“I’m a man, right?” Feldoni nodded his head more than necessary, his eyes now focused on the floor. “Of course I heard of ’em. I always thought they were, what d’ya call it, city fairy stories.”

“Urban myths,” Verte corrected. “Sadly, they do exist.”

“Tell me about Eddie Yavornitzky, Mr. Feldoni,” Mort said.

“Eddie who now?” Feldoni looked back to his director.

“You may know him as Yaz,” Mort said. “Maybe Eddie Yaz.”

Feldoni’s thick makeup couldn’t mask the color draining out of the actor’s face.

“He’s a cameraman,” Mort continued. “Here on this set. You know him?”

Feldoni’s hands dropped to his side. His fists flexed opened and closed again and again.

“Never heard of the guy.” Feldoni’s voice held no bravado. He turned to Ben. “He the guy who stole the cameras?”

“Are you playing a boxer in this film, Mr. Feldoni?” Lydia’s voice was soft curiosity.

Feldoni blinked in confusion. He reminded Mort of a car stuck in idle with the engine running, waiting for someone to throw it into gear.

“I’m wondering about your outfit.” Lydia rose and took a gentle step in his direction. “Maybe you just came from the gym, I don’t know. But you look like a prizefighter.”

Feldoni nodded. “I’m glad you think so. Wardrobe can only do so much. Man’s gotta look the part.”

“Well, you certainly do,” Lydia continued. “Is it for the movie?”

“I play a guy runs a gym. Retired heavyweight champ. A buddy of his gets screwed over by this colonel in the Army. My character takes it personal. I guess you could say it’s all about getting even.” Feldoni’s eyes traced Lydia from her face to her legs and back up again. Mort pushed himself farther against his chair to keep from knocking the leer off the has-been’s face. Lydia knew what she was doing.

“You like revenge, sexy lady?” Feldoni asked.

Lydia held his gaze. “Can’t say I’m a fan.” She paused and lowered her voice into a suggestive register that made Mort uncomfortable. “Now,
justice
…justice I can get behind. Do you see the difference?”

Feldoni’s smile said he liked the game they were playing. “Maybe we can have coffee sometime. You could school me on the topic.”

Lydia lifted her right hand toward the actor’s shoulder. “May I?”

Feldoni flexed and tilted closer to her hand. “You ask nice like that, you can touch anything you like.”

Lydia trailed her index finger from Feldoni’s shoulder, down his arm, to his wrist. Mort fought the temptation to look away.

She tapped the wrap encasing the actor’s hands. “You can tell a lot about a man by his hands. Did you know that?”

Feldoni seemed oblivious to the fact there were two other people in the trailer. “This about the length of my fingers, you got nothing to worry about.” His voice was a low rumble of feral sexuality.

“Let me see.” Lydia’s whisper matched his level of heat.

Feldoni held her gaze. “What do you say we take this conversation to my place?”