Jesse sighed.
“Now, if you’ll please step away from my car,” she said.
Jesse did.
She got into it. She lowered her window.
“Thanks for your time,” she said. “I know how valuable it is.”
She gunned the engine, pulled out, and sped away.
34
Crow noticed the man the moment he and Marisol stepped outside of Daisy’s, where they had gone for a quick supper.
It was just after nine o’clock on a chilly weeknight, and the restaurant crowd had thinned considerably. Marisol’s driver was parked in front, waiting for them.
The man was standing across the street, along with four others, all of them in their thirties, all drinking beer from cans. The man was wearing a porkpie hat, loose jeans, and a wiseguy expression on his pockmarked face. When he spotted Marisol, he grinned broadly and headed in her direction.
“Hey, look,” he said to his friends. “It’s a real live movie star.”
Crow motioned for Marisol to stand behind him.
The man approached them, followed closely by his four companions. He stopped just shy of where Crow was standing.
“Move over, old man,” he said. “I wanna get me a good look at this here movie star.”
Crow didn’t say anything.
He was totally calm.
The man moved a couple of steps closer.
“What are you, hard of hearing,” he said. “Get the fuck out of my way.”
With barely a glance at him, Crow hit the man with the edge of his right hand, above the upper lip and just below his nose.
The man screamed.
He went down, doubled up on the ground, his face buried in his hands.
Crow’s move was so explosive that before the others could even react, he had a gun in his hand, pointed at them.
“Please don’t tempt me,” Crow said.
The man in the porkpie hat lay on the ground, moaning. The others stopped dead in their tracks.
Crow took Marisol’s hand and guided her to the waiting vehicle. He helped her inside.
He took one last look at the five men and then got in the car.
The driver pulled into traffic and sped away.
Marisol sat in the corner of the backseat, staring at Crow.
“My God,” she said.
Crow returned the gun to his shoulder holster.
He didn’t say anything.
35
Ryan pored over the production schedule. It was day seven that caught his eye, the first day of the second week of the shoot.
Weather permitting, the unit was scheduled to set up shop along the west coast of Paradise Inlet.
A number of small cottages dotted the coastline. Most were rudimentary, built years ago as summer places for vacationers. Many of them were without heat or insulation.
When the long summer days shortened into early fall, many of the occupants closed up their cottages for the season. A Taste of Arsenic was scheduled to shoot in one of them for two successive nights.
—
Ryan drove slowly, checking out the landscape. He spotted the movie people almost immediately.
A handful of cars and a couple of oversized trucks were parked in front of a two-story cottage. A paint crew was sprucing it up while the art department staff was off-loading furniture. Landscapers were installing squares of new grass on the front lawn.
Scaffolding was being constructed in front of the cottage to hold the large lighting units that would illuminate the night, as well as the generators required to power them.
Ryan continued his drive along the inlet. He could see that many of the cottages had been closed down. There was very little activity in most of them. Few if any cars were parked in the driveways.
He doubled back and spotted an empty cottage two doors away from the shooting location.
“That’s the one,” he said to himself.
—
Later that night, Ryan returned to Fisherman’s Road. The crew had all left.
Driving with his lights off, Ryan pulled his Prius into the driveway of the cottage he had spotted earlier. He parked in back.
The night sky was cloudless, and the sliver of moon provided just enough light.
He paced the exterior of the house, looking for a way in. He saw no security system. He stepped onto the back porch and tried to open the kitchen window. It was locked.
He picked up a rock and smashed one of the window’s six glass panes. He lifted out the jagged ends, reached inside, and unlocked the window. Then he raised it and climbed through to the kitchen.
The adjacent dining room was furnished with an old wooden table and four chairs, as well as a serving hutch and a crockery-filled cabinet.
The living room was larger. A worn sofa and love seat were its main furnishings, along with a pair of wicker chairs and a couple of mismatched side tables.
Ryan wandered down the hall to the bedrooms. The larger of the two had a queen-size bed with a night table on each side. The smaller had a pair of single beds separated by a dresser. There was one bathroom with a sink and a combination bathtub/shower.
For Ryan’s purposes, it was perfect.
36
Jesse arrived early for the hearing. He was sitting in Judge Emanuel Weissberg’s outer office, chatting with Marty Reagan, when the Cassidy family stormed in.
Upon seeing Reagan, Richard Cassidy approached him.
“Where’s Aaron,” he said.
“Not here.”
“Why not?”
“He recused himself.”
Cassidy gazed at his wife, Portia, who stared daggers at him.
Courtney stood between them.
“He can’t do that,” Portia said.
Reagan shrugged.
“Why aren’t we in Judge Green’s chambers,” Richard said.
“She recused herself as well.”
“What in the hell’s going on here,” Portia said.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Reagan said. “I’ll be representing the DA’s office.”
Portia stepped over to her husband and spoke just loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“We’re being fucked,” she said.
“No, we’re not. Something probably came up.”
“You’re such a fool, Richard. Nothing came up. He bailed on us is what happened. And after all we’ve done for him. It makes me sick.”
Richard shook his head. She glared at him. The room became icily silent.
Portia sat down, picked up a magazine, and thumbed sightlessly through it. Courtney opened her bag, removed her cell phone, and started texting. Richard paced.
The door opened, and Judge Weissberg appeared. He was thin and scholarly-looking, wearing black-framed eyeglasses and bearing a ramrod-straight posture. With a wave, he led them into his chambers, where they all found seats. The room was small and cramped with so many bodies crowded in.
“I am Emanuel Weissberg,” he said. “I’ll be conducting this hearing. That is, unless there are any objections.”
“It was my impression that Judge Green would be conducting the hearing,” Portia said.
“You were mistaken,” Judge Weissberg said.
She shifted uneasily under his steely gaze. She was suddenly alert to the possibility that she might have offended him. She looked away.
“If there’s nothing else,” Weissberg said, “let’s begin. Mr. Reagan?”
“Good morning, Your Honor,” Marty Reagan said.
He introduced the participants and reviewed the charges against Courtney. He informed the judge that the Commonwealth would be seeking a one-year suspension of her driving privileges, as per the law. He proposed that she be placed under probation for a similar period of time. He also asked that she be given an equal period of community service.