Video Kill

6


Monday, July 12





Oliver “Sam” Ladera stood on the crest of the east lawn and watched his men scurry back and forth below. A violent murder. A beautiful actress. And Sam was willing to bet a week’s salary that they’d run into the same brick wall again. He didn’t know how it was possible to actually record a murder in progress without leaving some visible clues, but the Video Killer had done it once. And Sam had no doubt that this was a repeat performance.

“Do you want us to dust the switch that controls the boats, Chief?” Zeke Jackson, Sam’s young black assistant, tapped him on the sleeve to get his attention.

“Go ahead, Zeke, but I don’t think you’ll get much. The groundskeeper turned off the boats when he spotted Miss Welles.”

Zeke nodded. “And the Video Killer probably used gloves again, right?”

“Right.”

Sam frowned wearily as Zeke raced off to instruct the fingerprint men. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and he felt ten years older than his actual thirty-six. He’d been up since the call had come in shortly after four this morning, and he’d gotten a grand total of five hours’ sleep in the past two days. His ex-mother-in-law used to tell him that he looked like Sylvester Stallone when he had dark circles under his eyes, and Sam had gone into a rage every time she’d made the comparison. Sure, he had a cleft in his chin like Stallone’s. Lots of people had clefts in their chins. It was also true that he had dark hair and brown eyes, but that’s where the resemblance stopped. Sam was six feet tall.

“Chief?” A young female officer held out a steaming cup of coffee. “It’s fresh. The housekeeper made it when she came in at seven. She asked to make certain we returned the cups. They’re lace porcelain, imported from Europe. That’s twenty-four-karat gold around the rim, and the roses on the cups are all painted by hand. I’m pretty sure they’re close to a hundred dollars apiece.”

“Thanks, Judy. Would I be up for a sexual harassment charge if I asked you to collect them and take them back when the guys are finished? I could always ask Donovan to do it but . . .”

Judy laughed. “I’ll do it, boss. Donovan’s got hands like meat hooks. Besides, I want to take another look inside. I might spot something the guys missed.”

Sam sipped the strong brew, not even minding that it had no cream or sugar. It was delicious. Maybe coffee tasted better when you drank it out of a hundred-dollar cup. As he finished the coffee, he looked down and saw his officers standing in tight little groups, handling their coffee cups with the utmost of care. Judy must have warned them. And Donovan, that big Irish oaf, was actually holding his little pinky out in the air.

Sam couldn’t help it. He started to shake with repressed laughter. This whole situation was incongruous, L.A.’s finest milling around on this lush, green lawn at the crack of dawn, sipping coffee out of porcelain cups just like they were attending a social function.

Damn, but he missed his ex-wife Katy! His description of Donovan putting on social manners would have driven her into absolute hysterics. A glum expression settled over Sam’s face, but it had little to do with the Video Killer. It was missing Katy, not the way she’d been at the end, a desperately unhappy woman who’d wounded him with her sarcasm, but the earlier Katy, the Katy he’d married.

He’d met Katy Brannigan in college. He was there on a scholarship, but he still had to work part-time to earn the money for books and supplies. The student job center had assigned him to the college cafeteria. The day he’d met Katy the menu was a familiar one, rolled turkey roast, mashed potatoes with gravy, grayish-green canned peas, a scoop of stuffing, and ice cream with chocolate sauce and a cherry. Four students helped on the assembly line. Sam had nicknamed them according to function. Knife, Scoop, Ladle, and Plunk. The trays had three compartments, a large one on the bottom for the meat and potatoes and two smaller ones on top for vegetables and dessert.

Sam smiled a little as he relived that day. Everything had gone along like clockwork as the trays were passed from hand to hand. Knife carved the turkey, flopping two slices on each tray. He also added the peas. Scoop put a mound of stuffing on top of the turkey, a ball of mashed potatoes next to it, and a scoop of vanilla ice cream in the dessert compartment. Ladle poured gravy on the potatoes and fudge sauce on the ice cream. Plunk placed a cherry on top of the ice cream, a paper cup of cranberry sauce next to the turkey, and finished off by plunking a roll on the tray.

Sam was serving as Scoop, and he was preoccupied, thinking about an upcoming test. As a result he inadvertently mixed up the routine. He got the dressing on top of the turkey and the ball of potatoes beside it, but instead of reaching for the vanilla ice cream, he dipped the scoop into the potatoes again and put a big mound in the dessert compartment.

Ladle, who stood next to him, noticed the mix-up and laughed. For the first time Sam looked, really looked, at Ladle. Short. Red hair. Freckles. Cute! She gave him a devilish grin, and as he watched with horrified fascination, she deliberately ladled chocolate sauce on the potatoes in the dessert compartment.

Visions of losing his job and not being able to buy his books for next semester flashed through Sam’s head. But, just as he was about to open his mouth to call back the tray, Ladle leaned close to whisper, “Don’t say anything. I’ll bet you a beer that no one’ll notice.”

Sam’s mind worked double time. They probably wouldn’t fire him over one little mistake. He’d never made one before, and the risk was definitely worth it because suddenly the thing he wanted most in the world was to sit in a booth at the campus pub with the incredibly blue-eyed Ladle. So he nodded. And Ladle grinned as she passed the tray to Plunk, who topped the mashed potato sundae with a bright red maraschino cherry and a sprinkle of nuts and sent it down the conveyor belt to the cashier.

A lush California blonde, the sorority type, who was wearing a swirling skirt topped off by a skintight pink sweater, showed her student I.D. and took possession of the tray. Then she tottered off in incredibly high heels to join her boyfriend, a handsome, clean-cut fraternity type.

“I’ve seen her before,” Ladle whispered, “and she’s always wearing a brand-new sweater. He’s just her type except, with him, it’s a cashmere sweater. I figure there’s an entire flock of goats running around naked because of them.”

“Not flock . . . herd.”

Sam corrected her without thinking, and then he wished he could take back the words. But she didn’t seem upset as she stared up at him.

“Herd? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Sam nodded. “I’m taking zoology this semester.”

“Okay, I believe you. What’s quail?”

She was looking up at him with those twinkling eyes, and Sam’s mind went blank for a second.

“Uh . . . covey. A covey of quail.”

“How about fish?”

“School. A school of fish.”

“Lions?”

“Pride.”

“And what’s a draft?”

“A draft?”

“Yes, a draft.”

Sam was completely stumped. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of a draft.”

“It’s the kind of beer you’re going to buy me tonight. Watch!”

Sam tore himself away from Ladle’s blue eyes to find that the sorority girl was just starting her dessert. Couldn’t she see that the “ice cream” wasn’t melting? Sam held his breath as the spoon she held dipped down and then raised slowly to her bright pink lips. Her mouth opened. The spoon went inside and came out again, clean. Sam was positive that she’d jump up from her chair any second, but she merely batted her eyelashes once at her boyfriend and then swallowed.

“And now . . . for the second taste.”

Ladle’s breath puffed out against his ear and Sam shuddered slightly. Ladle seemed very sure of herself, but Sam still couldn’t believe his eyes. Surely on the second spoonful the sorority girl would realize that her sundae tasted like potatoes.

The girl laughed at something her boyfriend said, a little tinkle of a laugh, and then her pink lips opened again. No reaction. And again. Still no reaction. After a few minutes of spooning and laughter and chattering, the dessert compartment was empty and the girl and her boyfriend went out through the swinging glass doors.

“Well?”

Ladle looked over at him triumphantly and Sam shrugged.

“You win, but I never thought we’d get away with it.”

“I knew we would,” Ladle said smugly. “My mother makes something she calls Mock Apple Pie. The filling is nothing but soda crackers and spices. Not an apple in it. But if you’re expecting apple pie, you taste apple pie.”

That night at the pub Sam had found out that Ladle’s name was Katy Brannigan, the oldest of five children in a noisy, good-natured Irish family. He’d also discovered that he liked Katy Brannigan a lot. By the time they entered their senior year, they were inseparable. It all seemed part of a natural progression when they’d married right after graduation and moved into a small apartment. Sam had landed a good job with the L.A. police force, and Katy had gone to work as a stringer for the Times, occasionally getting an actual byline. Their troubles hadn’t started until Sam had clawed his way up in the ranks to become chief of detectives.

Even though she knew it was unfair, Katy had resented Sam’s meteoric rise. After over ten years of slaving away at the Times, Katy was still writing obits and recipes. Looking back on it all, Sam guessed he should have seen the warning signs, but he’d been too busy to notice. It had come as a total shock when Katy had asked him for a divorce.

Katy had told him that their marriage was stagnating. She’d talked it over with a couple of women in her awareness group and they’d helped her to understand. She’d moved directly out of her parents’ arms to those of her husband’s. She’d never had the opportunity to test her own strengths as a single woman. What about college? Sam had asked. That didn’t count, Katy’d insisted. College was an artificial environment and she’d lived at home the whole time. And yes, she still loved him, but it was criminal to deny herself the freedom to grow and mature as a person, to be recognized as a respected woman in her own right. As Mrs. Ladera, the wife of the popular Los Angeles chief of detectives, she was a total extension of him.

Sam had argued and pleaded in vain, but nothing he’d said could sway her. Their divorce had gone through last month, and the luxury apartment that had been so warm and cheerful had taken on the feeling of a tomb without her. Sam had tried to cover up his despair by throwing himself into his work, but it felt as if all the joy in his life had been packed up with Katy’s clothes. Now, eight months after she’d walked out the door for the last time, he still found himself reaching out in the middle of the long, lonely night to touch her.

His eyes hurt, and Sam reached up to rub them. Perhaps he’d feel better if he could get a good night’s sleep, but that prospect was pretty dim right now. And it would be nonexistent when he called in the press for this second murder. He’d just have to learn to function on quick catnaps until the Video Killer was caught. And he’d have to put Katy completely out of his mind.





It was two minutes past seven in the morning when Alan’s assistant had answered the phone in his bedroom. To Alan’s relief, she’d sounded brisk and businesslike even though she’d been wearing nothing but a pair of high-heeled satin bedroom slippers. Now it was eight-fifteen, and Alan was still sitting on the edge of the bed, talking to Uncle Meyer from Hawaii. By switching the phone from ear to ear, he’d managed to pull on a pair of pajama bottoms.

“Look, Uncle Meyer, I think we ought to go ahead and exercise our option. After all, lightning did strike twice. Video Kill is turning out to be one hell of a hot property. Rocca and Nielsen have agreed to write the screenplay to parallel the actual murders, and that makes it more historical than sensational. I just can’t see any advantage to waiting any longer.”

Alan lit another cigarette, not noticing the one that was smoldering in the ashtray. He couldn’t understand why the old man was dragging his feet. Maybe looking at all those grass skirts had addled his brain.

“No, Uncle Meyer, I can promise you that this won’t be a cheap exploitation film. I already told you that Lon Michaels is consulting with us, and you know his reputation for quality.”

His uncle’s next question made Alan wince. “No, Uncle Meyer. Lon hasn’t actually agreed to sign on, but he’s interested. If you give me the go-ahead now, I’m sure I can get him for you.”

“What was that?” Alan held the receiver close to his ear. The connection with Hawaii was worse than usual. “Did you say sample scenes?”

There was a pause while his uncle repeated his statement. Alan groaned.

“But we can’t do that, Uncle Meyer! It’s against the Writers’ Guild rules. The only way to get scenes from the actual script is to put Rocca and Nielsen under contract.”

There was another long burst of words from the receiver. Alan groaned again.

“I know. I know. That’s not the way it used to be, but that’s the way it is now. I’m in violation if I even ask for a sample scene, and Rocca and Nielsen face a possible expulsion from the guild if they agree. If anyone finds out, Cinescope could be in big trouble. That’s not chutzpah, Uncle Meyer, it’s insanity!”

There was another rapid burst of conversation from the receiver, and Alan motioned for his assistant. In the past fifteen minutes she’d dressed in one of her tailored suits and she looked strangely incongruous in his bedroom.

Alan raised his arm in a drinking gesture and his secretary hurried to the liquor cabinet. She mixed a Bloody Mary and handed it to him. Alan drank it down at a gulp and motioned for another.

“Yes, Uncle Meyer, I realize I’m only the acting head of Cinescope. Now, let me see if I’ve got this straight. You want to see the first three scenes from Rocca and Nielsen on spec. No money. No signed contract. And the hell with guild rules. If you like their work, you want Lon Michaels to call you personally and commit to the project. Then, and only then, will you authorize the contracts. Is that right?”

As his uncle confirmed, Alan took a long swallow of his second drink. Then he made an obscene gesture with the phone that made his assistant collapse on the bed in silent laughter.

“Thank you, Uncle Meyer. You have a nice day, too.”





Tony parked in the lot and raced into the back door of the Schwartzvold building. He didn’t have time for the “Walk of the Stars” this morning. The Video Killer had struck again. That meant that Alan would be sure to call and he was running late.

“George! Hold the elevator!”

Tony ran across the lobby and got in next to George Sturges, the young attorney who had an office on the fifth floor. As the elevator groaned its way upward, Tony noticed that George was looking at his shirt. He was wearing his new, long-sleeved purple one that said THE PARANOIDS ARE AFTER ME in huge red letters.

“Nice shirt, Tony.” George nodded as he got off on the fifth floor. “I’ve got a couple of clients that could use one of those.”

The elevator seemed to take forever to get up to the tower. Tony breezed into the office at eight forty-five to find Erik staring morosely at a paper plate containing two maple bars and two cinnamon twists. An unopened container of Winchell’s coffee was leaking merrily away on the desk, but Erik didn’t seem to notice.

“Who died? Besides Sharee Lyons and Tammara Welles, I mean.” Tony grabbed one of the maple bars and bit off the end.

“I think we did.”

Tony stopped chewing and swallowed the piece whole. It stuck a little, but he got it down without choking.

“Alan called at eight-thirty.” Erik’s voice was funereal.

“He didn’t exercise his option?” Tony was flabbergasted. “I just don’t believe it! Does he know about the new murder last night? Video Kill’s even hotter than it was last week. Alan’s crazy if he—”

“Calm down, Tony,” Erik interrupted. “He says it’s still pending. He just called to lay down some conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“The first one is that our screenplay follow the actual murders.”

“Yeah. I’m working on that. I’ve got an appointment with the chief of detectives.”

“You actually got an appointment with Sam Ladera?” Erik raised his eyebrows. “That’s amazing, Tony. The newspapers say he’s not talking to anyone.”

“It was easy. Sam and I went to school together. I figure I can get him to tell me the inside story.”

“That’s one down.” Erik still looked glum. “The second condition’s not so easy. Alan wants to use Lon Michaels for director of photography.”

“What’s wrong with that? Lon Michaels does great work! I can’t believe Alan actually signed him.”

“He didn’t. That’s the second condition. Alan’s uncle won’t go with anybody except Michaels, and Michaels isn’t sure he wants to do it. He claims he’s not familiar enough with the genre. Alan wants us to talk him around.”

“Okay,” Tony agreed. “That shouldn’t be hard. Lon and I went to school together.”

“Is there anybody you didn’t go to school with?”

“Nobody important.” Tony grinned. “You know what they say about birds of a feather. Now, what’s the third condition? I know you always save the worst for last.”

“Alan talked to his uncle in Hawaii this morning. The old man insists that we turn in three sample scenes of the screenplay before he’ll commit to the movie.”

“He can’t do that! It’s against guild rules.”

“I know that. So does Alan. He said he explained all that, but the old man’s stubborn. He’s gung ho on the concept, but he won’t buy unless he can read the first three scenes. No sample, no sale.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.” Erik sighed deeply. “I told Alan I’d talk it over with you and call him back. I need this sale, Tony . . . for personal reasons. But breaking guild rules could get us in a lot of trouble.”

“Yeah. If they catch us.”

Tony looked at his maple bar and put it back on the plate. He wasn’t hungry anymore. Erik might need this sale but not half as much as he did. Six months ago he’d been forced to borrow to pay the bills, and he was in hock up to his eyeballs. The banks wouldn’t touch him, and he was already into the Guild Credit Union for the maximum. The only loan he’d been able to get was off the street, and they’d offered him a way to make the payments if he didn’t mind doing work that was borderline legal. The “little job” he’d been holding down wasn’t something Tony wanted to talk about in polite company, but his back was to the wall. Guild rules? They seemed insignificant compared to what could happen to him if he didn’t make his loan payments on time.

“Look at it like this.” Tony stood up and paced in front of Erik’s desk. “Who’d know about it if we dashed off the first three scenes and delivered them to Alan?”

“We’d know.”

“True. And while our consciences might twinge all the way to the bank, we’re not about to turn ourselves in to the guild.”

“That’s true.” Erik nodded. “But Alan would know.”

“Alan?” Tony shrugged. “Alan’s not going to say anything to risk Cinescope’s signatory status. He’s got more to lose than we do.”

“So you think we should do it?”

Erik was clearly wavering. Tony took time to light a cigarette. Then he nodded.

“I vote yes. The risks outweigh the benefits. Even if the guild does find out about it, we’ll probably get away with a slap on the wrist and a stiff fine.”

Erik sighed deeply and Tony could tell he was still disturbed. Lutheran guilt again. Finally he nodded.

“All right. I’m with you. I just hope this whole thing doesn’t blow up in our faces.”

“Blow up? Blow Up? What a terrific title for a movie! Now, clean up that disgusting brown puddle on your desk and I’ll go put on a good pot of coffee.”





Erik and Tony waited until the red light stopped blinking over the door of sound stage twenty-six before they pushed it open and went inside. Tony nudged Erik and gestured toward a man dressed in chinos and a designer polo shirt who was sitting in a leather director’s chair on the edge of the set.

“That’s him, Erik. Lon Michaels in the flesh.”

“Really? I never would have guessed it.” Erik grinned as he noticed the back of the cinematographer’s chair. It said LON in large gold letters.

Tony nudged Erik as they walked toward the set. “Let me start things off, Erik. You jump in to support whatever I say, even if it’s complete bullshit.”

“That seems to be my role in life.” Erik grinned. “Okay, Tony, you’re up first.”

Erik stayed a step behind as Tony tapped Lon on the shoulder. He’d wanted to call Lon for an appointment, but Tony had been insistent that they barge right in. It was supposed to give them a psychological advantage. Lon wouldn’t have time to marshal his arguments against Video Kill if they took him by surprise.

“Lon! Good to see you again.” Tony was all smiles. “I’m Tony Rocca, and this is my partner, Erik Nielsen. You may not remember me, but we did a graduate project together at UCLA.”

“We did?”

“Professor Truitt, Film Production five-oh-three. It was a short subject about a magic Hula-Hoop.”

Lon began to smile. “Of course. You wrote the script!”

“Careful, Lon. The walls have ears. That script was a real turkey, and I would have flunked without your tricky camera work.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” Lon laughed. “You know, I just never made the connection with your name before. I saw Free Fire and I thought the script was excellent.”

“Thank you, Lon. Erik and I really worked hard on it. Now tell me, honestly, what did you think of the camera work?”

“Andy Coyne’s a very competent man.”

“Same old Lon.” Tony shook his head. “I should’ve known you’d never knock a colleague. Don’t you ever get bored, being such a nice guy all the time?”

Lon laughed. “Sometimes. Now, cough up, Tony. You didn’t come here just to renew an old acquaintance, did you?”

“Nope. We came here to talk you into doing Video Kill.”

That’s what I was afraid of.” Lon sighed. “Look, Tony, I’ve already told Alan that it’s not my type of film. I‘ve never done murder-suspense. And now there’s another reason. I knew Tammara Welles, and her murder has me rattled. I wouldn’t want to be a party to sensationalizing her death.”

“Of course not.” Erik took up the argument. “Neither would we. We want to concentrate on the personality of the killer and downplay the rest. We want to do Video Kill with taste and class.”

Lon raised his eyebrows. “A serial murder story with taste?”

“That’s right.” Tony stepped in. “We’re trying for less of a murder story and more of a psychological profile. Do you think it can be done?”

“I don’t know.” Lon frowned slightly. “It’s certainly a challenge. Look, guys, I wish you all the luck in the world but—”

“I suppose I shouldn’t mention this,” Erik interrupted before Lon would turn them down, “but Alan’s signed Tom Steiner to direct. You’re familiar with his work?”

“Uh, yes.”

Lon’s slight hesitation told Erik that he was right on target.

“Tony and I are afraid that he’s going to turn Video Kill into another Murder On Call. The original script was quality work until Steiner got his hands on it.”

Lon nodded. “I’ve seen the film. Steiner did the rewrite, didn’t he?”

“You bet he did.” Erik gave a rueful laugh. “He ditched the original concept and came up with pure blood porn.”

“And you’re afraid he’ll do the same thing with Video Kill?”

“You got it. Tony and I just don’t carry enough weight to make sure that the film’s done the right way. That’s why we need you, Lon. If you demand final cut approval, you’ll get it. Steiner’d go on record as director, but you’d actually be running the show.”

“I see.” Lon smiled slightly. “You not only need my talent, you also need my clout. Steiner, huh?”

“Steiner.” Erik and Tony spoke in unison.

“It’s tempting to think that I could actually force Steiner into doing quality work.”

There was a long pause, and Tony motioned for Erik to remain silent. He’d sold life insurance for a while when he was in college and he knew that the first person who spoke would be the loser. Finally Lon cleared his throat.

“Look, guys, I don’t want to make any commitments at this point. I’ll be wrapping on this Jubee thing in a week or two, and I promise to think seriously about it then.”

“That’s all we ask, Lon.” Tony reached out to shake his hand. “How about lunch sometime soon? We’re starting on the script and we’d really appreciate your input.”

“You want my suggestions for the script? I’ve been in this business for years and no one’s ever asked me to consult on a script.”

Tony nodded. “I know it’s unusual, but you’d be doing us a real favor. We trust your priorities when it comes to aesthetics. Take the first murder, for example. The stabbing in the shower? We think it would be much more effective to imply the violence, rather than let it all hang out up there on the screen. Is there any way to shoot that scene through the shower curtain? Or maybe with backlighting? Or shadows?”

Lon nodded. “That’s easy, Tony. You have several options, but I think your best bet might be to use the technique I did in the lake scene in Carole’s Dream.”

Just then a bell rang on the set, and Lon stood up. “Sorry, guys, I have to run. Nice meeting you, Erik. And Tony, it’s good to see you again. Why don’t you check with Susan on your way out and set up lunch for next week? Have her pick a day when we’re starting late so we’ll have plenty of time to talk. In the meantime, I’ll run a few tests with low-level color and see what I can come up with.”

Tony waited until they were out the door and then he slapped Erik on the back. “He’s hooked! You were inspired in there, partner. I never would have thought to ask him to save us from Steiner. Where the hell did you hear that story about Murder On Call?”

“From the busboy at Rosie’s Bar. It’s a big-time studio hangout. The busboy’s been there for years and he knows where all the bodies are buried.”

“How did you get him to tell you?”

“Purely by accident, Tony. We started talking and I mentioned I was a writer. So he warned me to stay away from Steiner.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad you brought it up. I think that’s what tipped the scales with Lon.”

“It helped. But I think your bit about getting Lon to call the shower shot is what really put us over the top. What do you say we reward ourselves with some lunch?”

“Sounds good.”

“The studio commissary?”

Tony groaned. “You said reward, Erik, not punish. Let’s go to Rosie’s Bar. I want to slip your busboy a twenty.”

“That’s fine with me, but you can keep your twenty. I already tipped the busboy for the Steiner story.”

“I figured you did.” Tony grinned. “This money’s going for new information. I’m going to ask him how to get a better deal out of Alan Goldberg.”