Reel Stuff (2 page)

I've seen dead bodies, bodies that had been shot, bodies that had been knifed, but I'd never witnessed something as gruesome as this. It appeared the movie star had exploded from the impact. His head was cracked open, and I could see blood and what I could only imagine was gray brain matter. Londell's eyes were open and one orb was dangling out of its socket. Landing on his front, his rib cage seemed to be splayed from the impact and his arms and legs were bent in unnatural positions, white broken bones protruding from gashes in the skin.

Running to the scene with some sort of portable respirator, the two medics bent over the actor, poking and prodding, apparently not convinced that he was deceased. Almost in a trance, I moved into position to do my job. Keep the bystanders at bay.

I'm Skip Moore, and my partner, James Lessor, and I have a private detective firm called
More or Less Investigations
. We were on the set of the television series
Deadline Miami
.

Jason Londell is, or was, an A-list movie actor who had agreed to play a walk-on for one episode, but only one, due to his
commitment to the movie industry. He was currently shooting two feature films in California and, with a very small window of opportunity, he was able to fly to Miami and do a favor for his good friend Clint Anders, the producer of
DM
.

How do I know this? I'm not a celebrity stalker but, as a private investigator who is taking every opportunity to make a buck, James and I are listed in the phone book. When the Anders people found
More or Less Investigations
in the Yellow Pages, they sent us a letter explaining that they would be requiring some private security during two episodes of the show. James immediately jumped at the chance.

So we're part of a security team. Providing some safety for the actors. Our glamorous job is to keep street people on Bay Shore Drive out of the park where these episodes of
Deadline Miami
are being filmed.

We get such comments as, “It's my damned park. I live in this city.” Or, “I'm going in, and I'd like to see you stop me.” And the perennial, “I pay taxes here, asshole.” Actually, a lot of the people to whom we'd denied access probably didn't earn enough money to pay taxes. And several of them were panhandlers and, while they probably made more than James and I combined, they didn't pay taxes either.

Along with five other security people, we try our best to protect the set during filming.

In a matter of minutes from the time of Londell's jump, the cops had shown up, the photographers had been there, we were interviewed, and everyone who'd witnessed the event was still shell-shocked.

“We'd like for all of you to stay around for a couple of hours,” a tall, lanky detective with a Texas drawl held up his hand and addressed the staff that was still mingling in the area. “Please. There will be more questions, and even though you saw what you saw, we need to have a thorough investigation. Cause of death
has yet to be determined. It may take a while to ascertain,” he paused, almost pleased with the word ascertain, “the cause of death.”

Just what I needed. More questions about the terrible scene we'd all been subjected to. Jason Londell's body crashing to the ground. Blood, bones, and brain in a twisted, gruesome tableau.

The medical team had driven off with Londell in a body bag, and I was never going to get that vision out of my head. The screams from those assembled as the actor vaulted into the air, his arms spread wide, and the sickening thud as his body crashed to the ground. I was sure his broken body was going to be a permanent, horrible memory for everyone who saw it.

James had the morning off and wasn't expected to return until later, but the way stories go viral in Miami, I felt certain he'd come back fully briefed.

I smelled her perfume before I saw her, and right away I knew who she was.

“Oh, my God, James—”

“It's Skip.”

“Whatever,” she grabbed my arm and sobbed, “this can't be real. He was about to—oh, my God.”

“What? About to what?” Confess to a crime? Announce that he was retiring from the movie business?

“I think he was about to propose.” The bosomy Ashley Amber was shaking, and even though I thought of her as an opportunist with little talent, the actress's emotions seemed sincere. “Do you believe that? He—” she shut down for a moment, finally raising her head and whispering, “He loved me. He told me last night. We were really connecting, and for him to jump, it just makes no sense.”

So the two of them were dating. That was a good enough reason for him to fly to Miami, especially since
Deadline Miami
was picking up the bill and giving him a paycheck as well.

“I'm really sorry, Ashley.”

“James,” she paused, collecting herself, “do you have any idea what this means? Oh, my God.”

As she hugged me, her ample chest pressed into my arm. I'd actually seen her nude in a Jonah Hill movie and felt like I knew those breasts intimately. It was all I could do to keep my focus on the dead body of Jason Londell.

“The name is Skip, and I do,” I said. It meant that if he really was going to propose, they wouldn't be spending their lives, in this life, together.

“Pard, what the hell?”

A slightly out of breath James Lessor was actually jogging up to us.

“I just heard it from one of the cooks over at the food tent. So where were you when this happened?”

I pointed to the top of the scaffolding. “They were getting ready to film the jump scene. I was standing over there with Randy Roberts. It was surreal, James. I'll play that over in my head for years.”

“What about the inflated bag? I thought this guy knew the ropes. I mean, we were told that—”

“James, he was out of sequence. Roberts called for three takes before Londell jumped. I heard him tell Londell exactly that, ‘three takes before you actually jump.' He jumped on the second take. And he had no intention of hitting that bag. He landed a good twenty yards from his goal.”

“You saw it? God, Skip. I can't imagine.” James nodded to Ashley, acknowledging her for the first time. Her face was wet with her tears, and I hugged her, not wishing this on anyone.

“He called me last night,” she said, her brown eyes looking into mine.

“And?” James, trying for some clarity.

“He was concerned about the scene.”

“Today's scene? The jump?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What was the concern?”

She brushed her face with the back of her hand. Sniffing and choking on her words, she said, “He is always concerned when he's doing a dangerous stunt.”

I felt like telling her what Roberts had said. The company had qualified doubles to do the jump. He didn't need to put himself on the line.

“But the worst thing was—” she paused, looking up at the two men heading toward us.

Bill Purdue, head of our security team, walked up with a tall man in a plain white shirt and loosened blue tie, his sleeves rolled up and aviator sunglasses perched on his nose.

“Detective Hawk, this is Skip Moore. He was on the scene when Londell jumped. Right, Moore?”

I nodded. The hot Miami day was soaring into the nineties, and I could feel heat cooking every inch of my skin.

Hawk flipped on a palm-sized recorder.

“What's your job, Mr. Moore?”

“I sell security systems in Carol City.” I don't make many sales and I don't make much money, but it's supposedly my fulltime job. I was taking time off for this gig, but in three or four days I'd be back knocking on people's doors, suggesting they may want to buy a system that would secure their meager possessions.

He glanced at Purdue, seemingly puzzled.

“He's temporary.” Purdue pointed to James. “He and his friend Lessor keep gawkers away from the set. They do some driving for the actors and act as sort of a buffer between the crew and people on the street. When we're shooting outside, like in this park, we need extra security because we're basically wide open to anyone who wants to approach us.”

Hawk nodded. He glanced at Ashley. “And you are Ashley
Amber.” There was a glimmer in his eye, as if he was secretly, or not so secretly, pleased that he was interviewing a starlet.

She nodded, brushing at her hair with her fingers.

“Londell called this young lady last night,” James said.

Ashley finally let go of my arm, wiping at her damp face.

“You talked to him?”

“I did. He was worried about the jump today.”

“And that was the discussion you had with the deceased?”

Life is obviously fleeting. Two hours had passed and someone who was a living, breathing human soul was now referred to as “the deceased.”

“So you were close to the actor?”

She took a shaky breath.

“We were dating.”

“I will need to talk to you in private, Miss Amber. Questions that may be of a—” he glanced at James and me through the dark lenses, “—of a personal nature. I assume you have some time.”

Turning off the recorder, he turned to Purdue.

“You can contact these people if I need to talk to them again?” he asked.

“I can.”

“Thank you for your cooperation.” Hawk and Purdue walked away with Ashley Amber. The same Ashley Amber who had said, not two minutes ago, “and the worst thing is—”

“Suicide?” James said the word and it almost made me sick. I'd been nauseous several times that day.

“I don't see how it was anything else,” I said. Two grips and a camera guy on the scaffolding, a camera down below. Both of the cameras filming the rehearsal, even though it wasn't supposed to be a final take. They would show exactly what I saw. Londell was out of control, failing to follow the director's dictate. And the leap seemed to me to be totally deliberate.

“Damn, amigo, this guy must have had some serious issues.
But what a colorful way to exit. This will be page one on every news outlet in the country. Maybe the world.
Academy Award Winner Leaps To Death
. Too bad he's not going to be around to read his own reviews.”

“But we don't have an answer as to why. Why he jumped, took the plunge.”

“You know, Skip, I'd love to have an answer. But we weren't hired to solve the crime; just provide security.”

CHAPTER THREE

Three in the morning I heard the tapping at our on-location Airstream trailer door. James grunted, rolled over, and resumed snoring. In my boxer shorts, I swung out of my bed, walked the five steps to the entrance, flipped on the light outside, and opened the door. I was staring into the pale face of Ashley Amber, wrapped in a striped blanket, or maybe a serape, her tired eyes staring into mine, hands clutching a designer purse in front of her.

“James.”

“I'm Skip.”

“Whatever. I need help.”

“Okay.” I was groggy, not sure where this was going. It appeared she'd been crying, but I didn't feel comfortable prying for information.

“The police, they had a lot of questions. They wanted to know how close we were, what I knew about his life away from the movie business. They wanted to know—”

“Ashley, when they took you in for questioning, you were in
the middle of a sentence. You were talking about your possible engagement and you said—”

“I know what I said. I said, ‘the worst thing was.'”

“Yeah. That.”

“And you want to know what the worst thing was?”

“I'm a private investigator. It's part of what I do. I ask questions.”

“The worst thing was—and I haven't told the police this—when he told me he was concerned about the jump, he said he'd been receiving threatening e-mails.”

“He was a Hollywood legend. I would guess that he got thousands of threatening letters, e-mails, texts, postings on Facebook—”

“James,” I didn't correct her, “Jason was the most gentle man. He was like a river of peace.”

“A river of—”

“Soothing, calm, focused. Someone who took other people's problems as his own. He was getting these messages from Juliana, and she had no reason to—”

“Do you want to come in?” Suddenly, I realized I had this beautiful actress on my doorstep, and I was standing there in boxer shorts.

“Yes.”

She stepped into the tiny trailer and immediately removed the wrap. She wore a summer dress that was high above her knees and low on her chest. I tried not to notice as she sat in one of the ratty, green, cloth-covered chairs in what passed as our living room. Actually, our apartment was possibly in worse shape than the Airstream, so for the past three nights, this was a step up.

“Let me get dressed,” I said and walked five feet to our small bedroom where James was lightly snoring. I pulled on a pair of
jeans and a Green Day
American Idiot
T-shirt, decorated with someone's fist squeezing a hand grenade. Walking back into the living room, I sat across from Ashley, trying not to look up her short dress.