Director's Cut (29 page)

“When did he write the screenplay?”

“At college. He had been drug free for a couple of years so I felt comfortable sending him to New York for film school. That's where he met Catherine, in New York. Anyway, he came home with the script. I should have been more encouraging, but screenwriters are a dime a dozen. Only the best make it to the top and those who do make a great deal of money, but the odds are against anyone who tries. I thought he had a better chance at directing. That's where my real contacts are.”

Over Buchanan's shoulder, I saw Floyd enter. He had the screenplays in hand. I asked Floyd to join us and made introductions. Floyd took the other seat but leaned away from Buchanan as if grief were contagious.

“Did Detective West show you the second script? The one that arrived at the theater last night?”

“No. He mentioned it.”

What Floyd brought was an unbound set of pages, dark but legible. I turned to the inserted pages, pushed them toward him. “I don't know if you can tell me anything about this.”

“I'm sorry about the quality,” Floyd said. “I had to make copies of Detective West's copies which were made from the original that was printed on yellow paper.”

“It's okay, Floyd. We can read the words and that's what matters.”

It took only moments for Buchanan to scan the pages. Clearly he was used to reading screenplays. He handed them back. “I can tell you it's not part of our script. It's a little cheesy but at least the format is right.”

“Cheesy?”

“It's a little over the top and a little sloppy.”

“What do you mean sloppy?”

He leaned over the desk, looked at the pages again, then pointed. “Right here.”

I moved the pages closer and scrutinized them.

LACY

Please, just let him go.

INTRUDER

It's too late and it's your fault. It's all your fault.

LACY

No. Please no. I'm sorry.

INTRUDER

Sorry doesn't cut it. Never has. Never will.

(Laughs)

The Body Count is now two. Ready for three?

“What am I supposed to see?”

“See the last line of the insertion? Just below the direction ‘Laughs'?”

“The one that reads, ‘Ready for three?'”

“Right before that. ‘Body Count' is capitalized and it shouldn't be. Sloppy. There's nothing more distracting than a script filled with typos.” He rose. “Thank you for your time, Mayor, and your commitment. I need to go make arrangements for my son and . . .”

“And?” I prompted.

New sadness shadowed his face. “I'm going to tell Rockwood to get a new director. I don't think I can continue the project. Thank you again.” He started toward the door, then stopped. “You know, that is odd about the typo.”

“Odd? How?”

“I told you that Andy surprised me with a script when he came back from college in New York. That was the working title: Body Count.”

I returned my gaze to the pages. That was odd. Coincidence? When I looked up Buchanan was gone. A commiserating sorrow filled me. I didn't envy what he would have to face in the days ahead.

Body count. Body Count. A title? I studied the two words, then noticed what followed. I had seen them but they had not registered before.

INTRUDER

Sorry doesn't cut it. Never has. Never will.

(Laughs)

The Body Count is now two. Ready for three?

Who was number three supposed to be?

Chapter 28

I
had to make the call. The clock was crawling toward noon and still no word from Catherine. A police officer had been assigned to her property, forbidding access to the curious, protecting unfound evidence, and watching for my missing cousin. There had been no sign of her. West had done what police do. He put out an APB, got the necessary legal permissions to monitor her cell phone usage, and asked Detective Brian Duffy to check the home and office of Franco Zambonelli. So far, nothing.

I had to make the call.

My stomach churned as the phone began to ring. It rang five times, and I was prepared to leave a message on an answering machine when I heard a breathless, “Hello.”

“Jenny? It's Maddy.”

“Oh, hi, Maddy. I almost missed you. I was putting wet laundry in the drier.” She sounded unperturbed. “How's my daughter treating you? Is she okay?”

“She called you about the . . . the tragedy at her home?”

“Horrible. The poor thing was shaken to the core. I tried to get her to come home, but she said she was all right and that she was staying with you.”

I wanted to move forward gently. “Was that the last time you spoke with her?”

“Yes.”

“She didn't call yesterday?” I pushed.

“Maddy, what's wrong? Has something happened to Catherine?”

“There was another murder at her home. Someone she knows from the studio.”

“Oh, no, no, no. How can that be? Two murders?”

“Jenny, is Neil there?” Neil was Jenny's husband, Catherine's father.

“No. He's . . . he's golfing. Tell me what happened.”

I did, being as brief as possible and leaving out some of the more gruesome details. “I was hoping she had called you.”

“I'm coming down there. I'll . . . I'll call Neil on his cell phone and he'll come home. I can throw a few things into a bag and be on an airplane right away—”

“Jenny.”

“If I can't get a plane this afternoon, we can drive. If we drive all night—”

“Jenny. Stop.” She did. “Listen to me. You need to stay right there.”

“I want to be where my baby is!”

“I know. I know. But you need to stay there. Catherine might call. She might even show up on your doorstep before the sun goes down. If she does, the police need to know.”

“Why? Is she in trouble? They can't seriously think she's responsible for those horrible things.”

“Jenny. Take a breath.” I didn't hear anything. “I'm serious. Take a breath.” She did and I heard her exhaling over the phone. “Do it again.” A few seconds later I said, “Okay, here's what we're going to do next. I'm going to talk. You're going to listen. Got it?” My tone was steady and firm.

“Okay. I'm listening.”

“Catherine may be with her publicist. He hasn't shown up at his office or his home, according to the LAPD. She may be trying to distance herself from those she cares about. Two people she knows have been murdered. I think she's trying to protect herself and others. That means she may call you, or she may call some of her old friends. If she calls, I want you to phone Detective Judson West. Can you write down a number?”

“Yes.”

I gave her the number as well as my office and cell phone. “All the police want to know is if she's safe. That's all any of us want.” I paused. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I think so.”

“That's good. Call Neil. He needs to know and you shouldn't be alone. Will you do that?”

“Yes. You'll call the instant you learn something, won't you?”

I promised I would and hung up. It was my turn to take a few deep breaths. I felt like I was on the eleventh mile of a ten-mile race.

I instructed Floyd to hold my calls except for Catherine or West. I closed my door, turned to my computer, and dropped the director's cut DVD in. For the next two hours I watched a movie I should have seen last year. West had described it as a woman-in-peril suspense story. He was right about that.
Night After Night
was dark and moody but well done. The story flowed and the characters were believable. Catherine's acting anchored the whole production. In several scenes it looked as if she might lose her life. Had I been watching in a theater, I would have been less moved, but with two murders and Catherine now missing, the story seemed too real.

I did my best to not lose myself in the movie. I was looking for clues but found none. West had mentioned a scene in which the killer loads a .38 with Glaser blue-tips, just like the one that killed Ed Lowe and presumably the kind that killed Andy Buchanan. That had yet to be demonstrated, but it was a reasonable assumption.

Frustration filled my mind. I had hoped some crime-ending clue would pop off the screen in an
“Aha!”
moment. It didn't happen. The only connections I could make were Catherine was the star, a .38 revolver with Glaser bullets was used, and people died.

I thought about the screenplay being used for the next movie. West was right when he noticed that the story revolved around a model being stalked by a killer who murders to get her attention. Was that what was happening here? Was some soulless, love-crazed killer showing off to get Catherine's attention?

The thought made the strength flow from my body. I had been telling myself that Catherine was safe, hiding of her own accord, but I could be wrong. I could be very wrong.

I paged Floyd. He was in my office five seconds later.

“Did you find anything on the Internet?”

“I did a search for A LONG WAY FROM NOWHERE but came up empty. The only thing I found was a database of movies in production. It's mentioned there, but that's all. Sorry.”

“Do another search. This time look for a script called BODY COUNT.”

“Okay. How did you like the movie?”

“I don't know. I was looking for something, but I don't know what. Every time Catherine appeared, I felt frightened for her.”

“I'm worried,” he said.

“Me too.”

He started to leave, then he stopped. “Remember, you have that press conference in twenty minutes.”

“I remember.” I rose and stretched my back. “I'm going over to see Tess now. Give her a call and let her know I'll be there soon.”

Leaving the office behind, I stepped into the ladies' room. I stood before the mirror and began to touch up my makeup. I moved slowly, waiting for the surge of excitement and nerves that course through me before every speech. It wasn't there. My emotions were shutting down, having been overworked the last few days.

Where was Catherine? All of my consoling words to her mother were not working on me. I assumed she left to hide, but I was losing confidence in that position. Maybe I was lying to myself.

I finished the touch-up and exchanged the restroom for the office area, moving through the cubicle forest to Tess's office on the other end of the building.

Tess and I walked down the hall to the council chambers exchanging last-minute details which were few. In large cities, a press conference could bring twenty or thirty media representatives. An afternoon conference not laced with scandal in a city the size of Santa Rita would be a small affair.

As we walked into the chamber I saw a small but active crowd. There were two camera crews, Vincent Branch of the
Register
, two from local radio stations, and a stringer from the
Times
. I recognized a reporter from a Ventura newspaper and one from his counterpart in Santa Barbara. All in all, as good a group as I could expect.

As we walked in, Tess and I avoided the large, wide, curving council bench. It had room for each council member and a smaller extension had seats for the city attorney, city manager, and the city clerk. It was familiar territory. Council met in this room most Tuesdays. We avoided the council bench because two women standing behind the elevated bench would have been showy. Instead, Tess had requested maintenance to turn the public lectern, normally used by citizens to address the council during meetings, to face the chamber seats. The dark wood of the room gave the place a somber feel.

I stepped to the podium. “Good afternoon,” I began and gave a practiced smile. “Thank you for coming. As some of you may know our city has been experiencing an elevated period of vandalism. Unlike most vandalism, like spray painting buildings or breaking school windows, these crimes have taken a dangerous turn. In the last few days, two individuals—one a child—have been injured and hospitalized. Both are in grave condition. We at the city take public safety seriously and have been actively seeking to end these offenses and bring the perpetrators to justice.”

The room was silent. The two cameras were rolling, the radio reporters held out tape recorders, and others took notes.

I continued. “Deputy Mayor Tess Lawrence has taken the lead in the matter and will now brief you about the nature and extent of the problem and what is being done.” I stepped to the side and Tess took my place.

She was smooth. From the moment she stepped behind the podium she was in charge. Her tone was pleasant but seasoned with just the right amount of indignation at what was happening. Over the next five minutes she gave a detailed account of the missing signs, the police investigation, and the promise that she and the city would not quit until those responsible were arrested. My admiration for her grew. I regretted the years of animosity between us. That being acknowledged, I knew her feelings about me had not changed. We had reached a workable relationship but little more.

“We are asking for the help of the citizens of Santa Rita. First, we ask that you be aware of the problem. If a sign that was there earlier is now missing, please report it as soon as possible. Also, please be alert to the activities in your own neighborhood. If you see any suspicious person or group, call the police immediately. By working together, we can solve this problem in short order.” She looked over the crowd, then said, “The mayor and I will take a few questions.”

“What are the police doing about the matter?” one of the radio reporters asked.

Tess fielded the question. “A detective has been assigned and is hard at work on the matter, patrols have been increased, on-duty and off-duty officers have been instructed to look for and report any missing signs, guardrails, or anything else that has gone missing.”

“Any ideas who is doing this?” the Ventura reporter asked.