Dead Last (2 page)

Sawyer Moss rose from the canvas chair where he’d watched the scene play out. To his left their visitor stayed put.

Everybody else on the set, men and women, were dressed in cargo shorts or ratty jeans, T-shirts, running shoes, lots of baseball hats, as scruffy as a bunch of carneys at the county fair.

But not their visitor, who was decked out in beige slacks, shiny loafers, a teal guayabera embroidered with palm trees, and Louis Vuitton shades cocked up into his curly black hair. A California dork’s notion of Miami chic.

Murray Danson had flown in last night from L.A. to watch them shoot the tenth episode. The studio’s rep, Danson was there to go over the books, but mainly to deliver a face-to-face update. Where the ratings stood, what the sponsors were saying, how much longer Gus Dollimore and his merry band had left before cancellation.

Not long, is what Sawyer Moss guessed, seeing Danson’s grim look.

Sawyer was head writer for
Miami Ops
. His break into the film biz was less than a year old and already it was in serious danger. A nasty black mark about to be entered on his permanent record. The writer of a flop.

The season’s main storyline was Sawyer’s invention: A killer has a fanatical obsession with
The Miami Herald
’s female obituary writer, whom he considers his personal oracle. Apparently he’s found secret codes hidden in her obits, codes he uses as blueprints for his killings.

The Miami homicide detectives investigating the killings are stumped, and the geniuses at the FBI put only one guy on the obit case, some old schlub who’s counting the days till retirement.

Meanwhile, the killer is wicked smart, leaving behind at each scene the very obit that guided him to this particular victim. No one’s managed to find the link between the obits and the victims. Even the two crack Miami Ops agents can’t figure out what’s steering the killer. Every trap they set has failed, every lead dead-ended. In the four episodes aired so far, the Ops team has wrapped up a dozen flamboyant criminal enterprises, the usual whacked-out Miami bullshit, but their ongoing investigation of the obit killer has them stymied.

They always seem to be two steps behind. The guy’s onto their every move. Naturally they suspect a leak. But where?

This week’s big reveal was that hood coming off. The killer’s identity exposed. Badda-bing. First of all it’s a she. And second, this particular she is Valerie, the blond twin of Madeline Braun, one of the two Ops agents. Identical twin. Two gorgeous Brauns, one dark haired, one blond, one good, one evil. There’s your leak. And a juicy twist.

A year ago when Sawyer pitched the obit plot, the studio bright boys were unmoved, and Gus was only lukewarm, saying, “Serial killers are boring, an exhausted vein, clichéd, done to death.” But pigheaded Sawyer believed he’d found a new angle and fought for the concept and kept tweaking, adding the bodysuit and some kinky sex, until finally Gus came around and convinced the faint-hearts at the Expo Channel.

To pinch pennies, they made Gus show runner, executive producer, and full-time director. Gus Dollimore, man for all seasons. If the show’s a hit, Gus is superman. If it fails, good luck finding work in the TV biz anytime soon.

Season starts, they’re cruising. Gus is all in, the actors are digging their parts, crew’s onboard, then pow! Day after the premiere, the critics let loose. Reviews ranged from brutal to bloodthirsty, and the ratings flatlined. Last week in its Thursday time slot the show was running dead last. And against the other three TV series shot in Miami, same thing. Dead last.

Today, July 1, with the fifth episode airing tonight and four more already shot, edited, and in the can, there was no turning back on the storyline. Episode ten, the one they were shooting this week, would air in five weeks. If it sucked, it sucked. But they were locked in to the obit plot.

Oh, sure, Sawyer could fine-tune the four season-ending scripts, amp up the sex, flash some bare ass, blow some shit up, but with the breakneck pace of production, shooting an episode a week while prepping for the coming week’s shoot, there wasn’t time for major course corrections.

And now, after having a long look at Murray Danson, the guy’s humorless L.A. face, Sawyer thought, Shit, this was what doom looked like. Sawyer’s film career was about to crash and burn.

Danson stood up, yawned like he was bored silly, then flicked his hand at Dollimore. Outside. They needed to talk.

The big moment coming.

Sawyer waited for Gus to wave him over to join in, but he didn’t. The two left the room, disappeared down the hallway.

Dee Dee walked up, still in the blue Lycra, hood off, blond wig gone, finger-combing her short black hair. Scrubbed of makeup and without the lighting effects, Dee Dee was no longer a brutally gorgeous goddess. She was back to being simply a svelte hottie with an edgy vibe.

“That was cute,” she said. “Slattery’s line about the killer not getting the audience he deserved. A nod to our shitty ratings.”

“Glad somebody noticed. Gus didn’t say a word.”

“Gus has more on his mind than navel gazing.”

Smiling at him while she gave him shit. She could get away with it, being one of the show’s stars and because, okay, Dee Dee was also Sawyer’s erotically gifted girl. Not to mention Gus Dollimore’s precious daughter. Yeah, yeah, Sawyer knew that all added up to a risky incestuous stew. But hell, in the last few years complicated relationships had become his specialty.

“Slattery’s speech,” Dee Dee said, “it runs long. Felt padded.”

“I thought it had a nice rhythm. Guy’s trying to talk his way out of getting iced, using the only skill he has. But the huckster’s lost his magic.”

“I was tapping my foot. It took forever.”

“You could’ve said something on one of the early takes.”

“In front of Danson? Come on.”

“Well, we can’t reshoot.” Sawyer glanced at the empty door. “We’re two thousand over budget for the week, with all that overtime last night.”

“Who’s the star of this show, sweetie? Me or Slattery?”

“You got major minutes, Dee Dee. Your face was the payoff.”

“But he got the kickass speech. That scene was about him.”

“All right. I’ll bring it up with Gus.”

“All those horny males in our demographic, who do they want to see? Me in a catsuit with my perky tits, or a sad old guy in a hospital bed?”

“You’re right, Dee Dee.”

She leaned close.

“What’s your gut saying?”

She nodded toward the hallway where Danson and Gus were talking.

“Danson is not a happy cowboy.”

She smoothed a blue hand over her ripped abs. Dee, the fitness freak.

“Maybe his chaps are chafing.”

“Yeah, maybe they are.”

“I could take him back to his hotel, loosen them a notch.”

“The hell you will.”

She gave him her don’t-get-possessive glare. Half serious, half not.

Flynn Moss drifted over, still in his street clothes, no scenes for him till the afternoon shoot. Khaki shorts, white T-shirt, flip-flops. Dee Dee’s costar, Flynn played Janus, the ruthless rogue cop, master of disguise.

Flynn was Sawyer’s twin. Maybe a smidge shorter but otherwise they were duplicates. In every nonphysical way, however, they were galaxies apart. Sawyer, the brainy one, calm and measured, a loner by instinct. Flynn, the action figure, ballsy, down and dirty, the last one to leave the party. The guy with a hundred hangover remedies.

And Flynn Moss was most definitely not a fan of Dee Dee Dollimore’s. Zero respect for her acting skills, and totally unmoved by her sexual allure. Feelings that were bitterly mutual.

Dee Dee gave Flynn a mock smile, then turned and flounced away.

“Nice creep factor, Sawyer.” Then he slipped into a perfect impression of Dee Dee’s voice. “‘It’s all right, I’ll be gentle.’”

“Glad you liked it.”

“Then boom, she strangles the geezer. Good work, bro. Finally embracing your dark side.”

“Dee Dee thought Slattery’s part was padded. She wanted more lines.”

“Fuck her, she always wants more lines. If she had her way the show would be one long soliloquy by Princess Dee Dee. The rest of us standing around worshiping her twitchy butt.”

“You’re too hard on her, man. She wants what’s good for the show. Like the rest of us.”

“And you’re majorly pussy whipped. Sure, she’s yummy and all that, but the girl is killing our box office all by her lonesome. Less she talks, the better. Keep her in that suit, hood on, flaunt that bod, give her six words per episode max—or better yet, gag her with a jockstrap—and watch our ratings climb.”

“Cool it, Flynn.”

“Kidding, man. Just kidding.”

“Sure you are.”

Gus walked back into the room alone and everyone lowered the volume. The verdict was in. The crew sneaking looks to get a clue.

He stood there a minute, organizing his thoughts.

Gus Dollimore had the emaciated hardness of a man grimly determined to purge every ounce of flab. Around his eyes the skin was pinched, and his cheeks were as taut as boiled meat. He wore his jet black hair in a military crew cut. In a forgiving light, Gus might be mistaken for a hard-living forty-five instead of a man at war with sixty. He wore a black jersey and white silky trousers that swished around his long legs like luminous smoke as he walked over to Sawyer.

“Give us a minute,” he told Flynn as he took Sawyer’s arm and steered him to the far corner of the room.

Flynn made a sloppy salute, did an about-face, and marched off. A little pissed, though Flynn damn well knew the chain of command. Until he was a bigger star, he was below the line, down with the rest of the hired help.

Gus’s grip on Sawyer’s biceps was rigid.

Not good, Sawyer was thinking. Definitely not good.

“So here’s the deal.” Gus shot a look at a set dresser talking on her cell nearby. He jerked his chin at her and she backed away out of earshot. Gus released Sawyer’s arm just as his hand was going numb.

“We’re cancelled,” Sawyer said.

“No,” Gus said. “Danson gave me a number. A target.”

“Viewers?”

“A million more.”

“No way.”

“A million new customers,” Gus said, “or we’re on the street.”

“By when?”

“Episode ten, five weeks from today.”

“Bastards want that many eyeballs, they need to run some freaking ads.”

“We know that isn’t going to happen,” Gus said. “This economy.”

“So we’re dead.”

Gus looked at the bed where Dee Dee had strangled Slattery. Eyes taking on a hard glitter. Sawyer could feel the radiation coming off the guy.

“You got an idea?”

“Fuckers want a million,” Gus said. “We give ’em a million.”

“Like it’s that simple.”

“Everything good is simple.”

“So talk to me.”

“Look, kid, I been kissing ass so long, I put myself to sleep every night counting butt cracks. This show tanks, no way I’ll claw my way back.”

“What’s on your mind?”

Dollimore watched two prop guys roll the deathbed from the room. The nursing home where they were shooting would have it back in service in time for afternoon naps.

When Gus spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.

“Question is, what’re you willing to do to survive?”

“I’ll write my ass off.”

“Cut the Boy Scout shit.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I’m not talking about scribbling, hotshot. I’m asking, are you willing to get your hands dirty to keep us working? Me, your brother, this crew. That shit you had Slattery say, is that just garbage, or do you believe it?”

“Huh?”

“Making a splash, all that.”

“I’m not following you.”

Gus grimaced and waved a dismissive hand.

“Tell me what you want, Gus, I’m there.”

Dollimore leaned close, breath to breath, appraising him, Gus’s harsh brown eyes roaming Sawyer’s face. Whatever he saw made him grit his jaw and huff out a disgusted breath. Without a backward glance, Gus stalked offstage.

ACT ONE

SLIPPING INTO SECOND PERSON

ONE

IT WAS SATURDAY, MID-JULY, AND
Thorn and Rusty Stabler were drifting through Trout Creek, a half hour west of Key Largo by boat. On the fringes of the Everglades, this northern corner of the Florida Bay was dotted with tiny islands and flats that rose into view at low tide to become vast sandbars where egrets and herons feasted on mollusks and stranded pinfish and shrimp.

Narrow unmarked channels snaked across the grassy bottom and cut close to the mangrove islands, making it a tricky place to navigate even in a shallow draft skiff like theirs. All across this region the turtle grass was scarred with prop trails from novice boaters who’d strayed into the shallows and plowed deep grooves at high speed, leaving their idiotic signatures in the sea floor for decades to come.

The Bogies, Stump Pass, Nest Key, Alligator Bay, Trout Cove, Little Madeira, Long Sound, Joe Bay, Tern, and Eagle keys. The islands and sandbars, bays and coves of this remote area were as familiar to the two of them as the slopes, curves, and soft undulations of a lover’s body.

Unanchored, they rode the tide, their live shrimp jigging past the mangrove roots where the groupers and big snappers lurked. For this mindless sport, none of Rusty’s casting skills or dexterity was required. It was the kind of half-assed fishing that day-tripping tourists indulged in.

Though it was beneath her abilities, Rusty was beyond caring about such things. Today it was the air they were after, the pure, hard summer light, the wayward scent of wilderness. One by one, they were going to hit all her favorite fishing holes, a stations-of-the-cross pilgrimage around the bays and flats and creeks of the upper Keys. Spots both of them had fished since they were kids.

Rusty Stabler, his lover for the last two years. The longest connection Thorn had ever managed with a woman. Longest and most solid, and now it had become by far the most painful.