Video Kill

Long before Hannah Swensen baked her way into my life, I found myself in the throes of a love affair with Stephen King, John Saul, and Dean Koontz. I didn't know any of them personally, but I was head over heels in love with their novels. Whenever I opened one of their books I escaped from mounds of dirty clothes, grocery lists, and den mother duties. I was transported to a life of excitement and jeopardy where anything could and did happen. Not content to simply gobble up other people's stories, I decided to try my hand at writing suspense.

I wrote
Video Kill
for two compelling reasons. The first was that my local museum was showing Alfred Hitchcock films on Saturday afternoons and members had to do was show their card to attend the screening. Free movies would have been enough to lure me, but there was also a free children's activities class at the same time! Free movies and free babysitting? How could I resist. The second reason was also compelling. When I went to see
Psycho
, I happened to be seated right next to the woman who'd acted as Janet Leigh's eye double. My newfound friend told me all about the long minutes she'd spent on the shower floor, trying not to blink while “Hitch” got just the right shot of her eye.

After watching some of my favorite films again, I started to ask myself “what ifs.” What if someone out there liked Hitchcock films even more than I did? What if that person was so obsessed with Hitchcock films that he or she decided to reenact the murder scenes with real people, really and truly for real?!

It was the germ of a novel and right after the museum's Hitchcock festival closed with
Strangers on a Train
, I went home and started to write. This book is fun, and it's scary. I love this book. I hope you'll love it, too.

Books by Joanne Fluke

CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE MURDER
STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE MURDER
BLUEBERRY MUFFIN MURDER
LEMON MERINGUE PIE MURDER
FUDGE CUPCAKE MURDER
SUGAR COOKIE MURDER
PEACH COBBLER MURDER
CHERRY CHEESECAKE MURDER
KEY LIME PIE MURDER
CANDY CANE MURDER
CARROT CAKE MURDER
CREAM PUFF MURDER
PLUM PUDDING MURDER
APPLE TURNOVER MURDER
DEVIL'S FOOD CAKE MURDER
GINGERBREAD COOKIE MURDER
CINNAMON ROLL MURDER
RED VELVET CUPCAKE MURDER
JOANNE FLUKE'S LAKE EDEN COOKBOOK
VIDEO KILL

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

 

She was perfect. Her gleaming black hair ran in a rippling cascade down her back, passing the curve of her tiny waist, just brushing the swell of her hips. Her dress was made of a soft rose-colored material, designed to caress her perfect figure. With dazzling white teeth, generous lips, a dainty nose with a hint of a tilt at the tip, and violet eyes fringed by dark sweeping lashes, she could have been Hollywood's most beautiful movie star. Instead, she had opted for a position with more power. She was a studio secretary.

The vision of loveliness turned at the end of the corridor to usher them into a small waiting room in the penthouse suite on the top floor of the Cinescope Towers. The lower floors were for producers and minor executives, but the twenty-second floor was reserved for the power that ran Cinescope Studios. Alan Goldberg.

When they were seated, she buzzed the inner office to announce their arrival and then turned to them with a smile. It would be just a few moments. Mr. Goldberg was taking a call. Would they care for coffee? Or perhaps something stronger?

Both Erik Nielsen and Tony Rocca opted for coffee, even though they'd gone through gallons the night before. They'd been up all night, revising their movie concept for today's meeting. They'd already been turned down by every other major studio in town, and both men knew that this interview was their last chance.

 

 

As Tony and Erik waited in the reception area, sipping freshly ground coffee from expensive china cups, Alan Goldberg sat at his desk, talking to his uncle in Hawaii. Despite the fact that Alan physically resembled Wally Cox, the actor who had played mild-mannered Mr. Peepers, it was a mistake to underestimate him. As acting head of Cinescope Studios, Alan wielded plenty of power. Employees at Cinescope quipped that Alan Goldberg was one floor below God and twenty-two stories above the unemployment office, which was where you headed after an unsuccessful interview with him. But there was one person who was even more important than Alan in the Cinescope hierarchy. His uncle, Meyer Goldberg.

“But, Uncle Meyer, Rocca and Nielsen are seasoned writers. It's not right to dismiss them without even hearing their concept.”

The voice on the other end of the line went off into another tirade, and Alan reached for his bottle of aspirin. He chugged three down with the last of his coffee and glanced around his office idly, trying to remember when his Uncle Meyer had last been sane and competent.

Alan's private office was a haven of masculinity, an expert blending of gleaming wood, leather, and muted tweeds. Two walls were entirely covered with built-in mahogany bookshelves that were served by a sliding library ladder. They contained the original leather-bound shooting script of every movie that Cinescope had ever made.

Alan had inherited the library, the office, and his position three years ago. By that time Cinescope Studios was an established institution. Meyer Goldberg had founded his empire in the forties, an era when careful Jews were changing their names. The actor Leo Jacoby was billed as Lee J. Cobb, and Sam Spiegel took his screen credits as S. P. Eagle. It might have been easier to operate under a gentile pseudonym, but Uncle Meyer had never taken the easy way out. The ornate wrought-iron gate in front of his studio still read
MEYER GOLDBERG'S CINESCOPE.
Because Alan's uncle had possessed the knack for producing the movies America wanted to see, Cinescope had thrived from day one.

There was a pause in the conversation, and Alan chimed in with his usual “Yes, Uncle Meyer.” He wasn't listening, but that didn't matter. Uncle Meyer never paid attention to what he said, anyway. The monologue from Hawaii resumed again, and Alan reached out to pour himself another cup of coffee. As he drank it, he held the receiver loosely to his ear and thought about the history of Cinescope Studios.

Madcap comedies had been the rage in the forties, and Meyer Goldberg had produced the right number of reels to keep America laughing right into the next decade. Then he had abruptly switched to another genre, inexpensive “B” movies for the drive-in market. Cinescope had churned out hundreds of teenage beach-blanket movies and horror thrillers with monsters that were just real enough to convince a high school girl to cuddle up next to her boyfriend in the safe island of his souped-up car. When the television market had blossomed in the midsixties, Cinescope was ready. The “tube” had eaten up Cinescope productions even more voraciously than Meyer's badly acted monsters had gobbled up their pretty victims. By the end of the seventies it was one of the major studios producing at least four hit series a season and a larger proportion of network Movies of the Week than any other studio in town. Meyer Goldberg had been riding on the crest of a greenbacked wave when Alan had left for Harvard Business School.

Alan's friends had kept him abreast of the progress at Cinescope. The studio was expanding, and construction was almost complete on a mammoth twenty-two-story, glass-walled tower. That was good. Other news was not so good. Meyer Goldberg had made some big changes in studio policy. Smoking was now forbidden within the studio gates, meat was no longer served in the commissary, and sparkling grape juice had taken the place of champagne at studio premieres. Even coffee had been banned. It seemed Alan's cigar-smoking, poker-playing uncle had been reborn as a Southern California fitness nut.

At the end of his junior year Alan had received a frantic phone call from his uncle. He had to return immediately. It had been a sweltering summer day, three years ago, when Alan had jumped the first plane to Los Angeles and rushed to his uncle's side.

Alan had found his uncle pacing the floor of his brand-new office. The outside walls were huge panes of tinted glass, affording a view of the entire Los Angeles basin on a clear day. This particular day had been far from clear. Meyer had explained that Alan would have to take over, his health was of paramount importance, and he simply had to leave Los Angeles. The sight of the smoggy air lurking outside had been too much. He'd installed Alan in the penthouse domain, signed the legal papers that were necessary, and promptly defected to the cleaner air of Hawaii.

The day after his uncle had left, Alan had celebrated his independence by removing every
NO SMOKING
sign in the studio. His second act had been to order a coffee machine for every office. After a tasteless vegetarian lunch at the studio commissary, Alan had written a memo restoring meat to the menu. Then he'd hired the most beautiful girl in the secretarial pool as his personal assistant and spent the remainder of the day behind closed doors with her.

There was a moment of silence on the line and then a sharp question. Alan roused himself to give the appropriate response. “Yes, Uncle Meyer. I went over the figures on Rocca and Nielsen's last film. But the fact that
Free Fire
didn't show a profit has nothing to do with their work. Our accountants played games with the numbers. You authorized those transactions yourself.”

There was another sharp comment, and Alan had all he could do not to groan. His uncle was being unfair, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

“Yes, Uncle Meyer. I'll follow your orders and tell Rocca and Nielsen that we're not interested. Just for the record, I think you're making a mistake.”

Alan hung up the phone quickly, before his uncle could think of a reply. Then he buzzed his assistant and told her to give him five minutes before she brought in Tony and Erik. He needed time to compose himself. His uncle's call had been disturbing. It had been the first time in three years that Uncle Meyer had shown an interest in the studio. Was he thinking of returning?

To take his mind off that dire possibility, Alan swiveled his desk chair and looked out at the view. Since this was August, a month with frequent smog alerts, a dirty brown cloud was slowly spreading across the Los Angeles Basin. Alan began to smile as he watched it roll in. Uncle Meyer would never come back if he knew the smog was this bad. Alan would be sure to tell him. From now on, as far as Meyer Goldberg was concerned, the area directly surrounding Cinescope Studios would be in a perpetual three-stage smog alert.

Alan was still watching the progress of the smog with great pleasure when his secretary tapped on the door to usher in Tony and Erik. He smiled and rose to greet them. Uncle Meyer's instructions had been clear. He had to turn them down, but he'd listen to their presentation first. If their concept was good, he might be able to put in a good word for them somewhere else.

Tony Rocca crossed the room in rapid strides and stopped in front of Alan's desk. Tony's quick, decisive movements always left Alan feeling old and tired even though he was ten years younger than Tony's thirty-five. Tony was a ball of pure energy, and he was never at a loss for words. He'd told Alan that he'd inherited his gift of blarney from his Irish mother but his Italian father was responsible for his physical appearance.

Today Tony was wearing a satin camouflage jacket with the
Free Fire
logo on the back, calculated to remind Alan of the last movie they'd written. His brown hair remained unruly despite the expensive hairstylist he visited regularly, and he reminded Alan of a member of a street gang. Perhaps it was the perpetual dark circles under Tony's dark brown eyes or the fact that his wiry, compact body seemed constantly ready to spring into action. But there was an element of the tough streetwise punk in Tony Rocca that no amount of money seemed able to erase.

As Tony reached out to shake hands, his jacket parted slightly and Alan caught a glimpse of the Rocca trademark, a brightly colored billboard T-shirt. Tony had a different T-shirt for every occasion, and Alan's curiosity got the best of him.

“Take off the jacket, Tony. I want to read your shirt.”

Tony grinned and shrugged out of his jacket. Today his shirt was fire-engine red with large orange letters that proclaimed
POLISH ASTRONAUT.
Tony snapped a smart salute and clicked his heels together.

“I have good news from the old country, Mr. Gold-bergski. You will be pleased to know that Poland is launching a manned space flight to the sun.”

Alan knew Tony wanted him to play straight man, and he couldn't resist. “That's ridiculous, Tony. The spacecraft would burn up long before it got there.”

“Our country's finest scientists have solved that problem. We will go at night.”

Alan groaned and waved Tony to the side. “Thank God you don't write comedy.” Then he turned to Tony's partner. “Greetings, Erik.”

“Alan, good to see you again.”

Erik gripped Alan's hand firmly and smiled. He had Viking blond hair, eyes that were the color of a calm lake on a sunny summer day, and the kind of honest, guileless face that used car salesmen envied. Not much rattled Erik, outwardly at least. Alan knew he came from a long line of poker-faced Minnesota farmers who were masters at hiding their emotions. He was wearing what he called his “banker's clothes,” a three-piece suit, long-sleeved white shirt, and conservative tie.

Alan gestured toward the two wing chairs in front of his desk.

“Sit down, guys. I'm afraid we'll have to get right to it. Forty-five minutes and I'm due in a board meeting.”

Five minutes passed and Tony realized that he was still sitting on the edge of his chair. He forced himself to sit back and look relaxed. The signs weren't good. Oh, Alan had laughed at his joke about the Polish astronaut, but when Erik had handed him a bound copy of their treatment, he'd barely glanced at it. Tony suspected that Alan had already decided to turn them down.

Erik was describing the second murder, and Tony tried to concentrate on the story. They'd gone over it so many times last night that Tony knew Erik's exact words before he spoke them. They'd really worked on this one, and Tony knew they made a good team. Erik made the verbal pitches and wrote the dialogue. Tony came up with the initial concept and blocked out the scenes. Of course they overlapped some, but generally the work was well divided.

Erik was well into the setup when Alan yawned. Another bad sign. All traces of the enthusiasm he'd shown when they'd pitched
Free Fire
were gone.

Tony could feel the sweat start to gather under his armpits as Erik outlined their idea with no wasted words.
Video Kill
was the story of a psychopath who recorded his victims as he murdered them. Naturally the police triumphed in the end, but not before the populace panicked and the audience was treated to six grisly killings. Tony held his breath as Erik finished. They really needed this sale.

Alan sat perfectly still, making a little steeple with his fingers. It was so quiet and tense, even Erik's poker-face began to show signs of strain. Finally Alan looked up and frowned.

“Cinescope's never been big on blood porn.”

Tony jumped in with both feet. Erik pitched, and he handled the hard sell.

“That may be a mistake, Alan. Look at what
Friday the 13th
did for Paramount.”

Alan nodded. “True. But don't you think the killings are a little too bizarre?”

“Bizarre is the new normal, Alan.”

“Good point, Tony.” Alan smiled slightly. “The real problem here, as I see it, is with logistics. The worst police department in the country would spot a killer who lugged around all that bulky video equipment.”

“Your studio security guard didn't spot me.” Tony reached under his chair and brought out the slim briefcase he'd carried past the main desk. “Take a look, Alan. Every thing's digital now and I've got a full video rig inside. And by the time this movie is ready for release, they'll be manufacturing something that's even smaller.”