The Bequest (23 page)

The sun was rising, but was still low on the horizon, at eye level. Teri
squinted and pulled down the sunshade. She rubbed her face, then grabbed
her coffee from the cup holder and downed the last few drops. She looked
at the clock on the dash. Accounting for the two-hour time change, that
made it still 5:30 a.m. back in Los Angeles. Mike was probably asleep. She
wanted to talk to him, to work through some of the crazy thoughts that
had engulfed her on her night-time run. He had his problems, but one of
his strengths was his ability to think logically, to reason through her
craziness, and to keep her grounded. But there would be time for that
later. For now, she would let him sleep.

The green and white sign on the side of the road announced that she
was 46 miles from El Paso. Forty-six miles from Texas. Forty-six miles
from home.

But would Texas still be home when she got there? She didn’t know
the answer to that question.
She grabbed her cell phone and hit Mike’s speed dial number.

Mike’s phone sounded on his nightstand, playing
The Rockford Files
theme
music, the ringtone he had selected for Teri’s calls. Mike lay on his back in
the bed, still dressed as he had been the night before, too exhausted to
undress. He ignored the phone as it continued to play. Dead to the world.

Stillman and Nichols
arrived at TAA’s offices with little
fanfare, surprised to find a
business-as-usual attitude
among the
employees, as if the death of Bob Keene hadn’t even registered on the
radar. Men in full suits and women in dressed-to-kill outfits bustled about,
crossing the detectives’ path like stunt car drivers as they stepped off the
elevator and sought the reception desk. The red-haired woman behind the
transaction counter wore a headset while she worked her computer
keyboard. She stopped and eyed the detectives warily.

Stillman said. “We need to talk to whoever’s in charge.”
She smiled ever so briefly then almost perceptibly wiped the smile
from her face.
“Is that funny?” Nichols asked.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It sounds so—so—television.”
“I’ve got a bad scriptwriter,” Nichols said.
“Screenwriter,” she said.
“I stand corrected. But we still need to see whoever’s in charge.”
“Do you have badges?”
Stillman and Nichols exchanged looks. “Are you always this
skeptical?” Stillman asked. “Not that it’s a bad thing.”
He pulled his badge from his coat pocket and showed it to her. She
leaned forward and squinted as she read it. Then she pulled away and
looked at him, still smiling.
“It looks real,” she said.
“It is real.”
“Look,” she said. “Do you think you two are the first actors to come
in here
and try to
pull something like
this? If you don’t have an
appointment and if you don’t have a demo reel, acting like cops won’t get
you in to see an agent. And here’s another little hint for you: Pretend to
be Beverly Hills or Los Angeles cops, not Highway Patrol, unless you’re
actually on a highway.”
“First of all,” Stillman said, “we’ve got jurisdiction statewide,
something which I’m getting pretty damn tired of having to explain. And
secondly, we need to talk to someone about Bob Keene’s death.”
She leaned back again, as if making a decision. Maybe it was the set of
his jaw or the look in his eye, but her smile slowly disappeared. “You’re
serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hold on.” She dialed an extension then turned her head as she spoke
into the headset microphone. “I have two officers here who need to talk to
someone about Mr. Keene.” She paused, then nodded and turned back to
them. “Mr. Hotchkiss will be right here. He’s one of our managing
shareholders.”
The detectives backed away from the counter and stood silently,
amused at the pretense of the office. Their amusement was quickly ended
by the sounds of leather-soled shoes on marble floors, the staccato beat
indicating the walker was a person approaching with a purpose coupled
with an air of self-importance.
Marcus Hotchkiss’s appearance matched his stride. Barely five feet
six inches tall, his hair heavily sprayed into place, graying at the temples,
and wearing a silk suit and tie, with European tasseled loafers that made
even his small feet look arrogant.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked. There was a hint of the South
in his tone, but just a hint, as if he was making a conscious effort to
suppress it.
Both detectives showed their
badges. “Stillman and Nichols,
California Highway Patrol,” Nichols said. “And before you say anything,
we have jurisdiction both on the highways and off.”
“I’m aware of that,” Hotchkiss said. “How can I help you?”
“We’ve got some questions about Bob Keene,” Stillman said.
“Why? I thought that was an accident, or at worst a suicide. Hardly
something for CHP to get involved with.”
“We’re not saying it wasn’t. We just have some questions.”
Hotchkiss glanced at an empty conference room, located through
glass walls behind the reception desk. “Let’s talk in here,” he said, leading
the way.
Once inside, he closed the door and sat at the head of the table.
“What kinds of questions? And what can any of this have to do with CHP?
Jurisdiction or not, I don’t understand how a truck running down a
pedestrian in Century City would bring Highway Patrol into my offices.”
“There’s a possibility it may be related to a death on the Coast
Highway,” Nichols said.
“Is this the one Teri Squire’s involved with?” Hotchkiss asked.
“No one said she’s involved with it, but yeah, that’s the one.”
“The person you really need to talk to is Mike Capalletti. That’s
Teri’s agent. And he worked the closest with Bob.”
“Is he here?”
Hotchkiss picked up
the phone on a
credenza
behind
him and
punched an extension. “Get Capalletti down to the conference room at
reception.”
He hung up and turned back around. “He’ll be here in a minute.”
“Did Mr. Keene have any visitors yesterday?” Nichols asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“How about phone calls?”
“Again, not that I know of. I can check and see if anything came in
through the front desk, but if it was on his direct dial or his cell phone, we
wouldn’t have any way to know.”
“Do you know if he ever met with an Annemarie Crowell?” Stillman
asked.
“The mother of the dead screenwriter? I don’t know.”
“Mr. Hotchkiss, do you have security cameras in the office?” Nichols
asked.
“We’ve got them in the reception area and in the halls, and security
has them in front of the building. None in the offices or conference rooms.
They’re digital. Why?”
“We’d like to see whatever you’ve got from when Bob Keene left the
office yesterday.”
Hotchkiss leaned back in his chair, his brow wrinkled, as if trying to
process what seemed to be an odd request.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked. “Do you have
some reason to believe Bob’s death wasn’t just an accident? Or a suicide?”
“Mr. Hotchkiss,” Stillman said, “we—”
The phone rang. Hotchkiss lifted a finger in a “hold that thought”
gesture as he answered. “Yeah.” He paused, listening, then, “Did he have
an appointment?” Listening again, then he hung up and turned back
around. All color had drained from his face.
“Mike Capalletti is not here, and no one has heard from him. He’s
not answering at home, and he’s not picking up on his cell. He always
answers his cell.”
“We’ll need his address,” Nichols said.
“Gentlemen, just what in the hell is going on here?”
“Mr. Hotchkiss, I wish I knew,” Nichols said, as his partner put his
cell phone to his ear.
“Swafford? Stillman here. I think you need to get over to Mike
Capalletti’s address. Sooner rather than later.”

“Mr. Hotchkiss?” the receptionist said as she stuck her head into the
conference room. “I have building security on the line. They’re sending up
a disk with coverage from the front of the building.”

Hotchkiss grunted then went to a console in the corner. He punched
a button and a large, whiteboard screen at the head of the conference table
slowly rose into the ceiling, revealing a massive flat screen television
behind it.

“We’re in the movie business,” Hotchkiss said. “All our conference
rooms are equipped with them. And we have a screening room upstairs.”
“Nice.”
Another button or two pushed and the blinds lowered over the
outside windows, darkening the room. A few minutes later a bluejacketed security guard appeared in the lobby with a small envelope.
Stillman and Nichols watched as the receptionist took the envelope,
removed a disk, and held it up for Hotchkiss to see. He nodded, then she
walked away from them toward the hallway.
“Where’s she going?” Nichols asked.
“The media room is next door. She’ll—”
Before he could finish his sentence, the screen flickered to life. A
black and white image of the front sidewalk outside the building filled the
screen. Nothing unusual, just the comings and goings of office workers to
and from the front door, with pedestrians passing by on the sidewalk. The
time was stamped in the lower right hand of the screen.
Hotchkiss picked up a remote control. “Want me to fast forward?”
“Let’s see the impact for starters. After that, we can go back and
study the earlier footage.” Nichols looked at his notepad. “Start about four
p.m.”
Hotchkiss sped up the scene then suddenly hit the pause button.
“There’s Bob. Grey hair, dark suit.”
Sure enough, Bob Keene was just exiting the building.
“That’s the wrong time,” Stillman said. “It’s more than twenty
minutes too early.”
“Let it run,” Nichols said.
Hotchkiss hit play; Bob turned and walked away from the building.
“Now fast forward,” Nichols said.
Hotchkiss complied. Less than fifteen elapsed minutes later, Bob
returned to the building, cell phone held to his ear.
“Any idea where he might have gone?” Stillman asked.
“Not a clue.”
They watched for a while longer then Hotchkiss hit the pause button
again. “There’s Bob coming out again.”
“Okay, timing’s right this time,” Nichols said. “Run it forward in real
time and then we’ll go back and look at it in slow motion.”
Hotchkiss nodded then hit “play.”
Keene
moved
forward
mechanically a few steps, then stopped and turned his head to the right.
Slowly, again mechanically, almost robotically. Then eyes front again.
“He doesn’t look right,” Hotchkiss said. “I thought so before, when
he came back to the building, but since he was on the phone, probably
preoccupied, I thought that explained it.”
“What do you mean?” Nichols asked.
“Bob played a lot of tennis. I know he walked a little funny, with his
bowed legs and all, but he still moved like an athlete. Smooth, you know?”
But that didn’t match the description of the man they were watching
on the screen.
“Run it back to what we saw while ago,” Stillman said. Hotchkiss
complied, and they saw what he was talking about. Keene did, in fact,
move smoothly when he left the building the first time, but walked much
more stiffly upon his return, almost as if his legs had straightened. Talking
on the phone probably didn’t explain it. The two detectives exchanged a
glance, the same unspoken question on both their lips: Had Bob Keene just
met with his hypnotist?
Bob continued to the curb, where he stopped. Rigid, as if standing at
attention on a military parade ground. He was barely in the video picture,
which was designed to take in the front of the building and its immediate
environs, but not the street. Mercifully, when Bob stepped off the curb,
he disappeared from the screen before being slammed into by the delivery
truck. A pedestrian opened her mouth, as if to scream, then others rushed
over. The image soon filled with bystanders.
“Okay,” Stillman said, “run it back and then go forward real slow.”
Hotchkiss again complied and the men watched the final minutes of
Bob Keene’s life in slow motion. As Bob swiveled his head to the right,
Stillman said, “Freeze it there.”
The images stopped moving, Bob’s head turned.
“What’s he looking at?” Stillman asked.
Nobody answered.
“Any way to widen the image?”
Hotchkiss pressed a button on the remote, and the area on the screen
broadened, but revealed nothing new, other than to take in a bit more of
the front of the building, away from the entrance. At the far edge of the
screen, a portion of a column was visible, but nothing more.
“Okay, go forward.”
The images jumped into motion again. The men watched closely
until Bob Keene stepped off the curb and disappeared from sight.
“There!” Stillman said. “Back it up again. Slow.”
Hotchkiss
reran the
footage
until Stillman
stopped
him. “Now
forward, slower.”
Another button push and the images moved forward at a glacier’s
pace.
“What are you looking for?” Hotchkiss asked.
“Watch that column,” Stillman said. “Where Keene was looking
when he turned his head.”
Seconds seemed like minutes as Bob Keene mechanically swung his
head around, eyes front, and moved forward. The men kept their eyes
glued to the column as Bob walked toward the curb. Hotchkiss saw it first.
“There’s a shadow.”
Sure enough, darkness fell on the sidewalk, as if someone standing
behind or beside the column had stepped out, allowing the sun to hit his or
her frame and create a silhouette.
“Good eye,” Stillman said. “Keep watching.”
Bob kept moving toward the curb, but now no one was watching
him. All eyes were on the shadow by the column. As Bob drew nearer to
the curb, it wavered, almost a wiggle. Just as Bob stepped off the curb, a
figure came into view, briefly silhouetted, then turned abruptly and
disappeared from the frame.
“Who is that?” Hotchkiss asked.
“Can you zoom in?” Stillman asked.
“Sure.” Hotchkiss backed the image up then moved it forward again.
He zoomed, which cut out the column.
“No, no, no,” Stillman said. “Any way to zoom on that column?”
“Not on this,” Hotchkiss said. He stopped the picture just as Bob
turned his head. “You’ll probably need some kind of software program to
do that. All this can do is zoom in on the main picture.”
“Can you widen the picture?” Nichols asked.
“A little bit.” Hotchkiss pushed a button, and the scope of the
picture’s image opened up, taking in more of the column. The outline of a
person’s body at the column’s edge was vaguely visible.
“Can’t see the face,” Hotchkiss said.
“Okay, forward,” Stillman said.
Hotchkiss advanced the picture, but Bob Keene was again just a
footnote. All attention was riveted to the column. The shadow appeared
again, but this time the outline of the person’s body was more distinct,
although the face was still hidden in shadow. Then the person spun and
walked away as Bob stepped off the curb.
Hotchkiss froze the picture then looked at the detectives.
“Who the hell is she?”