“Shoot him!” said the old man, somewhere behind me.
“Honestly,” his exasperated wife replied.
The police arrived twenty minutes later and grilled everybody, taking enough notes to fill a whole file drawer. They hauled Caulder away in cuffs.
Me they kept the longest, firing questions until long after the sun went down. They didn’t take too kindly to a private citizen playing Dirty Harriet, discharging a firearm within city limits with intent to do bodily harm.
One thing convinced them to lean in my favor.
Across the room, under the painting of waves lapping at Haystack Rock, on the blade of Caulder’s pocketknife, flies gathered in a dark cloud.
Hell. It actually worked.
It surprised even me.
© 2007 by Brian Muir
Serious Money
by John Morgan Wilson
John Morgan Wilson won the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best First Novel in 1997 for the debut of his Benjamin Justice series. His seventh and latest Justice mystery, Rhapsody in Blood, was published by St. Martin’s Minotaur in March, 2006. Like Rhapsody in Blood, the following story revolves around the world of Hollywood filmmakers. Mr. Wilson is also a veteran journalist and writer of fact-based TV programming.
Moments after he discovered the girl unconscious, Ryan Stark heard knuckles rap on his motel room door. He patted her pretty face, trying to rouse her. The knocking on the door grew louder.
He slapped the girl several times and shook her by the shoulders. She didn’t move. A meaty fist pounded outside, followed by a deep male voice.
“Police! Open up!”
“Dear God,” Ryan muttered, and felt panic engulf him.
It was a cheap motel along a two-lane highway in North Carolina, the only rental rooms for a hundred miles in this godforsaken place, except for a few ramshackle cabins up the road. The Pine Haven Motel, with a sputtering neon sign out front, an all-night coffee shop next to the office, and a swimming pool with pine needles and oak leaves at the bottom in a puddle of dirty water from the last rain.
The only reason Ryan was staying here was the setting. Pine Haven was a small town—no more than a gas stop, really—with a Blue Ridge Mountains backdrop that was ideal for some crucial scenes in the movie he was shooting. Passing Through — possibly the most important film of his career. He wasn’t just the star this time but also the executive producer. He’d put up half the money himself, the script was that good. It offered him an incredible leading role, the kind that might catapult him from the ranks of pretty-boy star to serious actor. The kind that could generate Oscar buzz, maybe even a nomination. The kind that could seriously elevate an actor’s career and keep him out of the dustbin of has-beens or the wasteland of the daytime soaps, where the has-beens went to die. The soaps—he shuddered just thinking about that possibility.
“Police! Open up, or we’ll kick in the door!”
The girl was in her panties and bra, a pale blonde, slim but nubile. A few of the pills he’d given her were strewn about the bed. Not all of them, though—and the vial was empty. He figured she must have taken the rest. He’d only intended her to take one or two, enough to help her loosen up, get in the mood. That had been around midnight, when he’d left her alone to take a shower and get himself ready for a brief romantic interlude that would help him relax and sleep better, so he’d look and feel his best for the next day’s shooting. He’d brought her back to his room after she’d made eyes at him in the motel coffee shop, fully intending to have his fun and send her on her way within the hour. But after his shower he’d lost track of the time in front of the mirror getting his face and hair right. He always made himself presentable for the ladies, even if they’d never see him again. He was Ryan Stark, after all. People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, not once but twice. He had an image to uphold, a reputation. Applying his skin toner evenly took several minutes all by itself.
But all that was a mere afterthought at the moment. Nothing mattered now except this unconscious girl and the impatient cop at the door.
“I’m coming,” Ryan shouted, hearing the tremor in his voice. “Just a moment!”
His stricken eyes darted about the room, looking for a place to hide her. It was a single room, with a bathroom and a closet. All the rooms were like this, housing the cast and crew for three nights until they had the footage they needed and could move on to the next location and more luxurious quarters. He swept the pills off the bed with his hand and deposited them into a pocket of his robe. Then he rolled the girl to the edge of the bed and hoisted her over his shoulder. Moments later, he had her propped up in the shower stall, her long blond hair draped over her narrow shoulders. That’s when he noticed that her blue eyes were open wide in a dull, blank stare. His panic soared to a new level. He wanted to check for a pulse but there wasn’t time. He could hear the heavy fist again, pounding on the door outside. Then that threatening male voice.
“Last warning! Open this door now!”
Ryan jerked the shower curtain closed and dashed back into the room, his eyes searching wildly for incriminating evidence. For a moment, he caught sight of himself in the cheap glass of a full-length mirror: Ryan Stark, lean, muscular, darkly handsome, flawless face sculpted by the best cosmetic surgeon in Beverly Hills, and looking a lot younger than his forty-two years. A look worth twenty-five million a picture, plus more at the back end, when the profits were divvied up and the writers were screwed out of their share. He briefly wondered how much of that Hollywood bounty he’d give up to have just one respected critic pronounce him one of the finest actors of his generation. He’d have to give that more thought—the possibility of buying off a big-name critic—when he got himself out of this mess and back to L.A. If he’d learned one thing during his fifteen years in Hollywood, it was that just about anyone could be bought if the money was right.
Quickly, he straightened the bed and tossed the girl’s outer garments underneath, kicking her shoes after them. He faced the door and pulled his plush white robe together, letting just enough chest hair show to accentuate his masculinity. Just before undoing the security lock, he drew himself up erect and got into character, exuding nonchalance but also confidence. When he opened the door, he found himself facing a cop in a uniform bearing the insignia of the Pine Haven Police Department.
“I’m afraid you caught me napping.” Ryan offered his famous smile. Not the killer smile he used in sexy romantic roles on the big screen but the winning smile he favored on TV talk shows for broader appeal, when promoting his pictures. He glanced at his watch and yawned. “My, look at the time. What can I do for you, Officer?”
“We had a report of a young lady coming up to this room.”
“A young lady?”
The cop cupped a hand to one ear. “Do I hear an echo?”
A smart-ass, small-town cop, Ryan thought. He looked the guy over, sized him up: on the short side, pushing fifty, balding, paunchy, shoes that needed polishing. Even the badge was tarnished. Hick town, hick cop. Ryan took a moment to steal a glance down the second-floor landing in each direction. He saw no one out and about. There was an early cast and crew call at dawn. The others were apparently all getting some shuteye, like he’d be doing if he didn’t have to deal with the stupid girl in his bathroom and the annoying situation she’d caused. His eyes came back to the cop, who'd folded his arms belligerently across his chest. Trying to look bigger, Ryan thought, fighting the urge to laugh out loud. Trying to feel important behind his small-town badge.