Murder by Numbers (8 page)

“It wasn't really too much of a problem for you, was it?” Michelle concluded.

For an instant, Liza thought the lawyer might actually give an honest answer. Michelle was a petite, pixie type, and there wasn't much difference in their heights. On the other hand, Michelle was also the warrior queen of Hollywood publicity, the woman who knew where too many bodies were buried.

Alvin reverted to Elmer Fudd at his most craven. “Of—of course not,” he said faintly.

Just an hour or two on his firm's jet—and a lost tee time. No problem at all. Liza tactfully kept her mouth shut.

But Michelle wasn't finished with the lumpy lawyer. “There is one more thing you can do for us.” She glanced at Liza. “I expect you found a less public way in—and out—of here?”

Liza nodded. “I'm parked at the back of the building, an easy run from a less-used side entrance.”

“Good.” Michelle began giving her people orders the way a general might deploy troops for the big attack. The hapless Alvin got the job of being a diversion. Michelle sent him out the front door in his golfing clown suit. Even through the walls of the building, they could hear the roar of aroused media. It sounded something like a block-long, mile-wide, hungry beast.

While they were busily feasting on the little lawyer, Liza led the others across the building, out the side door, and into her car.

Michelle, of course, took the front seat. “Not bad,” she said, “except
I
had to call you. Really, Liza, you should have been more proactive. We were pretty well trapped there, without transportation, and with that wolf pack outside.”

“Guess I've been more reactive today,” Liza replied. “I'm a little scattered. Funny how that happens after I start the day by nearly tripping over a dead man's head.”

She heard a gulping noise come from Jenny in the backseat, and fixed her partner with a warning look. If they needed to argue, they could do so later, without their young client around. Apparently, Michelle agreed, because she subsided.

“So, where to?” Liza asked aloud. “Back to Killamook?”

Michelle shook her head. “The place will be crawling with reporters by now, and we still have some things to discuss”—here she glanced at Jenny—“before we talk to the media.”

Liza thought of her place. It would do for a meeting, she decided, then she thought of the cramped living room, the sagging couch—the empty refrigerator. “I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving,” she said. “Suppose we go someplace to eat and talk?”

“I hope you're not thinking of that café up the street,” Michelle replied. “I've been there, regrettably. So has the news media.”

“Nah, this place is out of town.” Liza swung round to avoid the massed media around the City Hall and got onto the coastal highway. The harbor area flew by, and then they were paralleling the coast of the bay.

Jenny stared out the window at the beach, her face a little green. “Is this where you found him?”

“Ahh, why do you ask?” Liza hadn't thought of that when she'd chosen her route. But apparently, Sheriff Clements had been busy. The crime scene wasn't just marked off with tape; it was covered by a large tent. With the crowd of people working the scene, it looked like the circus had come to town.

“Nothing to see,” Liza murmured as they continued past. Would they have dug Chissel out of the packed sand by now? Or would the crime scene people still be picking around the area, looking for clues?

Michael seemed to read her mind—perhaps the prerogative of an almost ex-husband. “They won't have all that long to work. The tide has to be coming back sooner or later.” His writer's imagination seemed to kick in. “In fact, it may have wiped away any evidence when it came in the first time.”

“Interesting,” Michelle rapped out, “but not germane to our situation.” She then proceeded to drill Jenny in the techniques of being as charming as possible while saying absolutely nothing.

“If you need to, don't hesitate to blame the police.” She finished. “Tell them the sheriff told you not to say anything.”

“But he did,” Jenny said.

“So you'll be telling them the absolute truth. I like that in the right circumstances.” Michelle's stomach made a low, growling noise.

She directed a look at it that would—and had—turned Hollywood veterans to jelly.

Her stomach unconcernedly rumbled again.

“Would this restaurant happen to be in Vancouver?” Michelle asked.

“The proper question is, ‘Are we there yet?'” Liza told her. “And the answer would be, ‘It's the next exit.'”

Michelle cast a dubious look at the weather-beaten building not too far from the beach. “It's a—”

“Divey-looking place,” Liza finished for her. “Appearances are deceiving. They make great clams, which, oddly enough, you don't find along this stretch of the coast. And don't worry, Michelle. The plates probably won't match, but they'll be clean.”

Liza led the way into the restaurant. Delicious smells greeted them as they came through the doors. Michelle sniffed appreciatively. “Maybe I was too quick to criticize,” she said.

“Boy, she
must
be hungry,” Jenny muttered.

They sat down at a linoleum-topped table. “How are the clams?” Liza called over to the waitress.

“Good as ever,” the woman replied.

“That's good enough for me,” Liza said.

“Me, too,” Michael added. Jenny and Michelle decided on the same, too—along with beers.

When the waitress returned with their orders, Michael laughed. “You called it, Liza.”

“About the food or the plates?” she kidded back. None of the tableware on the tray matched. But what arrived on them only added to the delicious smells in the place.

Silence fell over the table as everyone attacked the food. At last, Michelle sat back with a sigh, taking another sip of beer. “So, do you intend to get to the bottom of this whole situation with Chissel?” she asked.

“You make it sound like a new service from Markson Associates,” Liza complained, “like that crisis management group you brought in for clients in serious trouble.”

“You didn't call them in for me,” Jenny said. “Does that mean I'm not in trouble?”

“Not yet,” Michelle replied. “The crisis management people are supposed to spin things when you're arraigned—or convicted.”

That shut Jenny up.

Michelle turned back to Liza. “Well, are you going to look into this or not?” she reiterated.

“Like you have to ask.” Michael shook his head, further tousling his too long, curly hair. He tended to forget about getting it cut unless he was nagged. Since he and Liza had split up, apparently no one was around to nag him.

“I think people might talk to me differently than they'd talk to the police,” Liza said.

“They'll tell you to buzz off a hell of a lot quicker,” Michael pointed out.

“Since your last case, I've been talking with Buck about your investigating things.”

“My last case?” Liza said. “You make me sound like Nancy Drew.”

“And as a professional PI, not to mention a former cop, I bet Buck Foreman was delighted at the idea of an amateur sleuth,” Michael put in.

“But Liza did find out who killed Uncle D., not to mention stopping that crazy plot—and saving me,” Jenny said.

“Well, I'm not thinking of turning into Nancy Drew.” Liza smiled.

“But it wouldn't hurt to think about how investigations are done,” Michelle insisted. “I read a lot of mysteries. The key to solving a case is MOM.”

“It's an acronym,” Micelle continued. “It stands for—”

“Motive, opportunity, and means,” Liza finished for her. She nodded at Michael. “I spent several years of my life with a writer who, among other things, did mysteries. Hopefully, I learned something.”

Michelle waved that away. “Fine. Going on that formula, I think we can throw motive out the window. Chissel had at least two communities where most of the people hated him—here in Maiden's Bay, and in The Business.”

“Not to mention all the businesspeople—with a small B—that he screwed over with his financial dealings,” Michael pointed out.

Michelle plowed on. “As for means, well, that looks like something out of a bad pirate movie.”

“Or an old TV show.”

“Interesting, but irrelevant.” Michelle rode over Liza's voice. “What I'm trying to say—in spite of the interruptions—is that opportunity is the way to go. Why did Chissel get killed in this small town?”

“Because he came here?” Michael deadpanned.

“That's not as funny as you imagine,” Michelle said. “Coming here, Chissel stepped out from behind his usual defenses. Think about it. If you wanted to come after him in L.A., you'd have to get past his house staff or a million and three assistants at his office.”

“Out here, he only had Hake,” Liza said slowly. She turned to Michelle. “You said Hake was a pretty bad guy. How bad?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, you also said that Chissel's finances were pretty dodgy. Suppose Hake decided that the golden goose wasn't going to be coughing up any more eggs—and wanted to get what he could in an early retirement?”

Michelle's face closed down for a moment as she pondered Liza's words. Then she was back, as vivid as ever. “Nice idea. I've already got Buck looking into Chissel's dealings. He can also get background on Hake—and check to see if anyone interesting flew up to these parts in the last few days.”

Silence fell over the table for a moment. Then Michael asked, “When Michelle talked about means of death, you mentioned an old TV show. Why?”

Reluctantly, Liza explained about the interrogation scene from the episode of
Masked Justice
.

“I loved that show.” Michael deepened his voice, reciting the voice-over from the show's intro. “Justice may be blind—but I wear a mask.”

Jenny, though, jumped right to the heart of the matter. “You can't think that Guy Morton killed Chissel.” She almost rose from her chair, her face coloring. “That's ridiculous!”

“Speak of the devil,” Michael murmured as the restaurant door swung open and in walked Guy Morton himself.

He halted for a second, taking in the group, then gave them a genial grin. “And here I thought I had this discovery to myself.”

“We had a native guide,” Jenny said, smiling up at him. “You met Liza yesterday.”

“Certainly,” Morton said with a nod. “Liza Kelly. And everyone in The Business knows Michelle Markson.” He grinned over at Michael. “How you doin', Mike?”

“Guy and I worked together on some epic that went direct to DVD,” Michael said. “I can't even remember the name of it.”

The older man laughed. “Come to think of it, neither can I.”

“Why don't you join us?” Liza invited.

That got her a challenging look from Jenny. “Yeah, we were just discussing whether you killed Oliver Chissel.”

“Were you deciding whether to give me a medal?” Morton asked.

“If you'd done it, I guess it slipped your mind when you were talking to the cops,” Michael said.

Morton shrugged. “Well, you know, the years add up, you start to forget things…”

“This isn't something to joke about!” Jenny's voice took on a shrill note.

“It's not something to get all upset about, either.” Guy Morton took Jenny's hand, and his authoritative manner of a second before softened. “It distracts you from your work—and it gives that skinny turd Olbrich a lever to use against you.”

This guy is a professional to his fingertips
, Liza thought.
Working one film with him will teach Jenny things that years of classes couldn't. And he seems genuinely fond of her.

Jenny smiled. “And don't go pulling that old crock act. Guy is pretty damn sharp. When we run lines together from the script, he's usually the one who's prompting me. I just wish you'd been around last night to go over the new scenes—”

She faltered.

Morton shrugged. “Right now, I wish I had. It would have made my conversation with the cops a little easier.”

“We saw you on
Evening Celebrity News
,” Michelle said.

“Yeah, I enjoyed taking a little jab at his high and mightiness.” Morton's order arrived, and he took a long pull at his beer. “In fact, I enjoyed it too much. Went out to celebrate with a few drinks too many—not the best idea when you have to take pills to ward off the aches and pains from a misspent youth. Things got kind of blurry. I woke up in yesterday's clothes and had to move right quick to get on the set by call time.”

His habitual grin broadened as he took in the expressions around him. “Not the best alibi you've ever heard, is it?”

“You don't remember?” Jenny said in a little voice.

“I expect that if I killed Chissel, it would have concentrated my memory some,” Guy replied. “And I expect I'd be hurting a lot worse, even with my pills. Chissel was a big, fat windbag, and there was as much fat as wind to him. It would have been quite a bit of exercise, taking his carcass down to the beach and burying him.”

He smiled at Jenny. “Don't get all upset, kid. If the cops had any real reason to suspect me, I wouldn't have gotten out of that little interrogation room.”

The girl subsided, and Guy Morton tucked into his clams. “Now this is good eating,” he said. “Even when I was riding high, I wasn't much into that whole ‘elegant dining' thing. I'd rather have a decent steak—or a mess of clams—than anything by Wolfgang Puck.”

His evident gusto brought a smile to Liza's face. “I can see why Derrick wanted you on this project,” she told Guy.

The older man shot a smile at Jenny. “Derrick was a good guy. He got me that job on
Spycraft
, you know. It was a case of stunt casting. They were looking for someone from one of the old-line action shows to play the spy sent back into the cold. Derrick had watched my show when he was a kid and was a fan, so he suggested me. And when we actually worked together, we clicked.”

“You wound up doing an entire story arc,” Michael said. “That must have paid off nicely.”

“More than just the money, although the paychecks were pretty good,” Guy responded. “I'd had a long dry spell. It was good to be working again, not to mention having the chance to sorta reinvent myself. You probably wouldn't remember it, but Fred Astaire wound up on a sixties spy show, playing the hero's father. After that he got all sorts of work playing larcenous grandpas.”

Guy shrugged. “It's not the sort of stuff that wins awards, but it's work. Kind of a niche career. When Derrick was trying to set up the
Counterfeit
project and asked me to come aboard, I didn't even look at the script. But it's a good part for me.”

He nodded toward Jenny. “And working with this one, it's like going back to the sixties when I was starting out. God, I'd do anything to get on a movie set—unload trucks, tote equipment, work tech. I did a lot of stunt work—those were the days when a stunt guy who could also act a bit had a shot. I usually played the hero's tough friend who gets killed in the second reel. Even had one producer looking at me for some Tarzan movies—I looked pretty good with my shirt off in those days.”

“What happened?” Jenny asked.

“The project never went through. Then
Masked Justice
came along.”

“And the rest was history,” Michelle said with an ironic smile.

“Except that after five seasons, I was history, too.” Guy gave them a rueful grin. “Guess I got typecast, and there aren't all that many roles that call for the hero to be wearing a mask.”

“And later on, the studio didn't even want you wearing the mask,” Michael said.

“Oh, you remember that whole ruckus?” Guy laughed out loud. “When I appeared in
People
magazine wearing the mask-shaped shades…you wouldn't believe the amount of mail I got. People who remembered the show, telling me how special it was to them, how they were behind me a hundred and ten percent.”

His reminiscent smile grew more malicious. “And then there was the chorus of corporate dipwads at the studio, soiling their imported Armani shorts.”

That expression turned to a troubled frown as he glanced over at Jenny. “It's like I keep telling you, never trust any of those studio clowns with your back.”

“Would ‘studio clowns' include directors?” Michelle wanted to know.

“Terry Hamblyn did a great job on the film, especially with Jenny,” Guy Morton said. “As for that slimy bastard Olbrich…”

“Enough said.” Michelle laughed.

Morton didn't join in. “Hardly,” he said, his voice harsh. “Did you ever hear of someone named Jonathan Sanders?”

The people round the table shook their heads.

“He was just a kid.
Masked Justice
was his first job. He played a wisecracking street hustler—the exact opposite of what he was in real life.” Morton looked around. “You come across people like that in The Business. They're quiet—shy, even—until you put a script in their hands. Then they literally become another person. That's what Jonny was like. When
Masked Justice
wrapped, he had a shot at the big time, an artsy little film directed by an up-and-coming director—Lloyd Olbrich.”

Why do I think this won't have a happy ending?
Liza asked herself.

“The film was a critical success, although not much of a moneymaker,” Guy went on. “Olbrich made his bones—the reviewers all raved about Jonny's performance. But the mind games Olbrich played on him to get that performance put the kid in the booby hatch—”