Reel Stuff (28 page)

I was still a little groggy, having had about one too many drinks at Kiss the night before, but I had this sixth-sense buzz going on that everything wasn't exactly right, so I started checking the rearview mirror and, sure enough, a black BMW was hanging back, about four car lengths, making every turn with me and changing lanes every time I did.

I had time to kill before my ten o'clock, so I went on an expedition, trying to stay in tight proximity, but seriously having no idea of where I was. Turn left here, right there, drive one point two miles then turn around in a parking lot and head in the opposite direction. It was crazy.

I lost the car. Two minutes later, a black BMW was there. Three minutes later, it had disappeared. A minute later, there was
a black BMW. And never close enough that I could check the license plate. Plus, I had noticed, there were a lot of black BMWs in town. Like Miami, pricey vehicles everywhere. In Carol City, an average car lot had cars starting at twenty-two hundred or less. In Miami, and Los Angeles, a cheap used car lot started pricing at twelve thousand dollars. And some much higher.

I'd lost sight of the BMW again and took a sharp right, almost rear-ending a Porsche. Two doors down was an alley, and I pulled in, parking the Chevy against the stucco wall of a building. I stepped out and walked back to the street. A black BMW had parked illegally just down the way, and it appeared the driver was still inside. Pulling my cap a little lower over my forehead, I slowly walked toward the car.

Just a walk by, turning my head to get a glimpse of who this person was. Guy, girl, someone who had tried to kill me?

Whoever it was may have realized I parked in the alley, but they couldn't have known it was me walking down the sidewalk. Just a local guy walking back to work or heading to the local poker palace or—

The passenger door swung open about two seconds before I approached the car, and I froze, looking to my right, my left, considering every direction except what was in front of me. The man stepped out, spun around, his right arm straight out, and I noticed the thick, black leather bracelet he wore. He kept on spinning, hitting me with a blow to the chest, and I doubled over, unable to breathe for several seconds. This guy must have had some serious training in the martial arts, because with just the arm and spin, he almost crushed my rib cage.

Bent over, temporarily out of breath, I realized I was the main target. Sometimes it takes me a while. Staying low, I sensed rather than saw the man relax as he walked closer and looked down at me. Taking two deep breaths, I thrust back up, jamming
my head under his chin, and he gasped and fell backward onto the sidewalk, his skull making a solid thud on the concrete.

“Hey, man, no hard,” I emphasized the word hard, “feelings.”

I was dizzy for a second, the blow from my skull contacting his making me a little light-headed. Shaking my head, I tried to regain some sensibility.

“Hard feelings, asshole?” The voice was cold and threatening.

Shaking my head again, I turned to my left and there was the driver of the vehicle, a guy straight out of central casting. He wore a gray wifebeater tank top, tight jeans, what looked like Reebok canvas shoes, and he sported a goatee with his shaved black head. I also noticed that he was pointing a pistol at my temple.

The day had started so well, and now? Now I was so screwed.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

I can make a case that my brain was a little fried at the moment. Without being a doctor, I can guess that I had a mild concussion from the impact of my head on my attacker's skull. However, in my meek, mild-mannered lifestyle, I never thought I was capable of physically defending myself against the threat of a gun.

The gunman gestured that I should get into his BMW, and as I looked down and saw the guy with the leather bracelet struggling to get up from the sidewalk, it struck me that I'd just taken out the man who possibly murdered Jason Londell. The killer who assumed the name of cameraman Greg Handler. About thirty-five, short blond hair—

“Get into the car, asshole.”

I'd taken down one man. I recognized the fact that the man I'd disabled was weaponless, but I was now empowered. If Em could be a princess, I could be a secret agent, a superhero, a spy, a killer.

Nodding at the gunman, I bent to get into the backseat. Again, I immediately sensed when he felt himself in control and relaxed. It was at that moment the adrenaline rushed in.

I leaned into the backseat of the plush vehicle and suddenly kicked back hard with my right foot. I landed a solid blow to the gunman's elbow, and the weapon spun out of his hand and landed with a skid ten feet away.

“You mother—”

He leaned in, attempting to drag me from the seat. I lashed out with my left foot this time, catching him on the chin. I heard a crack as he screamed. I couldn't believe it. Me, the guy who couldn't complete the rope climb in high school, the guy who got cut from the football team, here I was busting up bad guys.

Spinning around, I ran at full speed, back toward the alley, to the Chevy rental. Luckily I'd left it unlocked. I jumped in, slammed the door shut, and shot out of the alley back onto the main street. As I raced by the BMW, I saw the guy who played Greg Handler shouting into his cell phone. And his partner sprawled out on the street with the gun still on the ground. If they weren't trying to get me before, I was sure they would have plans to get me now.

And all of a sudden it hit me. Something I'd been trying to recall since the murder. The guy with the leather wrist strap, the guy who impersonated Greg Handler, had been given specific instructions to commit the murder. From Randy Roberts. I'd heard it and taken it as a camera direction. And maybe it was, but the direction from Roberts was about as direct as it could be. “Shoot this one.” The line jumped out at me, and I could hear Roberts and see him mouth the words. He'd said, “Camera one, shoot this one. Okay, action.” And five seconds later, Jason Londell lay dead on the ground, and camera one was nowhere to be found.

Of course, in that context
shoot
could be taken both ways. But Roberts had spoken directly to camera one, the cinematographer on the scaffolding. And he'd told him to shoot. Roberts was the last one to speak to Jason Londell and the last one to talk to camera one.

And Roberts was a former makeup artist, who with a little work, could transfer himself into the pudgy, big-nosed man we saw on the driver's license photo. The one who rented the camera.

It was a long shot, but it made sense to me. As I drove on, keeping my eye on the rearview mirror, I recalled the frantic phone call from Roberts. He wanted me to remember every second of what happened, because he needed a witness to corroborate his story. His story was that he was just directing. Just doing his job. And I assumed that's exactly what he was doing. Until now.

His directions to the camera guy, his background in makeup, and a grip who died of a drug overdose made me think that Randy Roberts was possibly a major player. And I wasn't sure why.

Calling James's cell phone, I got his voice mail.

“James, I just had a run-in with the guy who pretended to be Greg Handler. A gun was pulled, but I'm okay. I'll get back to you on that, but in the meantime check on Randy Roberts.”

My roommate and his date may have been en route to L.A., but I figured he could look Roberts up when he landed.

“We should have done a background check on this guy. An alcoholic film guy who's bounced around doing a number of jobs, and the real Greg Handler says he's a pretty bad director. Greg Handler confronted him, telling him to lay off the booze. Now, why would Clint Anders hire someone like that? There have got to be some directors with real talent. You'd think. Anyway, if you get a chance, run a background search on him. We've known all along the guy was suspect. I'm headed to Betsy Timmermeister's office. Travel safe, dude.”

“Camera one, shoot this one. Okay, action.” I was going to suggest that it be engraved on Jason Londell's tombstone.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Unless they'd attached a GPS to the car, I couldn't believe they would be able to follow me to Betsy Timmermeister's office.

About five blocks later, I slowed down to a reasonable speed. All I needed was to be arrested for speeding. My heart was still racing and I was sure my blood pressure was at the top of the chart. Taking several deep breaths, I tried to think calming thoughts.

McClain, Bryan, and Beldon was on the fifth floor of a modern, stone, twenty-story building, and the lobby of their floor was tastefully done with palm trees, a small waterfall, and a goldfish pond. I suppose with the volatility of the financial markets, this green space acted as a calming influence to frantic investors. As I was about to turn over three million dollars for investment, I drank in the beauty and serenity, took one more deep cleansing breath, and walked to the front desk.

“Betsy Timmermeister, please.”

The receptionist, a leggy blonde with frosted highlights, walked me back through a row of offices. The Timmermeister lady's office was floor to ceiling windows and looked out on the Los Angeles skyline. A very impressive view.

She was standing, looking out those very same windows. She turned when I entered, and I saw she was an attractive brunette with cascading hair and a beautiful face. Not someone I would expect as an accountant or financial advisor. I'd expected the stereotype: glasses, no makeup, hair in a bun—

“Mr. Moore.” She glanced at her cell phone face up on her desk. “Punctual, I see.” There was no smile and no humor in her voice.

She continued standing, so I did too even though there were two comfortable armchairs a few feet away.

“Gaelic name, Moore.”

I nodded, not sure where she was going with this.

“You have a father who left the family when you were young. A mother and sister, am I correct?”

I nodded again. If she knew even that much, she probably knew I didn't have a pot to piss in. No three million bucks. So now what was I going to do?

The lady continued to study me, hands clasped behind her back.

“What you may not know is, it appears there may be a Scottish robber baron in your background, not too many grandfathers ago. Maybe four. John More, spelled with one
o
. And without really doing all my homework, there's a chance that William Moore was also a relative. William being shipmates of the pirate Captain William Kidd. He was Kidd's gunner.”

“You study genealogy.”

“It's a hobby. I get to know a little bit about people this way.”

“About our appointment.”

“I'd like to take it out of the office if that's all right with you.”

Picking up her purse from beside her desk and clutching her cell phone she motioned toward the door. We left by the back door of her office. The elevator let us out at a parking lot, and she motioned for me to follow her. I had no idea where we were
going, and no idea how the conversation was going to end up. How long did I keep up the charade? And how should I respond to my dastardly past?

A robber baron and a pirate ship gunner. Not a savory group of relatives.

The lady pointed to a black Cadillac Escalade and got in on the driver's side. I hopped in and we took off.

“Do most financial interviews start out like this?”

“No. But I'll explain soon. I was impressed with your background and—”

“I didn't give you my background.”

“True, but as you know, Mr. Moore, it's amazing what we can find on the World Wide Web. Am I right?”

She was. And this was not a good sign. James and I were on the web. With a cursory look you could find out we were in the investigation business. Still—

I didn't know enough about the city to know where she had taken me, but the area was definitely working class. Long warehouses dotted the landscape and there were front loaders, back loaders, and power shovels everywhere.

“This is where a lot of the studios store their props, their sets, their equipment, their costumes, this is the home of some of Hollywood's most valuable memorabilia.” She swept her arm out to impress me with the vastness of the property. “These warehouses can be the birthplace for a brand-new movie or a graveyard for items that will never again see the light of day.”