Authors: Don Bruns
Reel Stuff (7 page)
“The day you two get along, I'm going to be very worried.”
“I'm right, aren't I? We've got to cover all bases.”
“You're right.”
“Then let's find this Scott Howell. He placed the temp cameraman and that could be the key to this whole thing.”
Ashley Amber said yes so fast, I wish we'd asked for more money. She asked when James and I could start, and I told her we were already on the clock. Another thousand down and everything was good to go.
She asked for periodic updates and wanted to know if we were including a trip to California. I told her we were just formulating our plan, and she thanked me for everything. I made no promises, but told her we had a couple of leads already.
Howell Video and Sound was open when I called. “Till eight,” the clerk announced. The building was on Northeast 4th Court, a couple blocks off Biscayne Boulevard. The area was industrial, with railroad tracks running behind the studio/equipment rental building. Scraggly live oaks and scrub brush grew on the sides of the road and pushed themselves onto a cracked, concrete sidewalk running along the far side of the street. We drove by long, low warehouses with front loaders and cargo haulers in neat rows out front. Miller's Commercial Dry Cleaning, Eagle Logistics, and Marve's Auto Body Repair Shop rounded out the block.
Em drove her new Mercedes SL500 with retractable hardtop. Probably not the car to navigate this neighborhood, but Em had no fear. She never has had. As long as I've known her.
We pulled into the parking lot next to a Chevy pickup towing an enclosed trailer.
Howell Video and Sound
Grip Trailer
was stenciled on the side.
Pushing open the glass door, I was immediately surrounded by small cranes, dollies, dedolights, hanging klieg lights, follow spots, and more. Two weeks ago I would have had no idea what they were. Less than a week on the set, I had a passing knowledge.
Standing behind a counter on the far side of the spacious room was a young man on his cell phone. As we approached, he hung up and smiled at us.
“If you don't see it here,” he waved his hand at the inventory, “we've got a pretty big warehouse out back. What can I do for you?”
“We're looking for Scott Howell.”
“You guys in the business?”
Actually, I was. In the movie business. Just as I was in the security business when Clint Anders asked me what I was doing on his scaffolding. A chameleon. Blending in wherever I could.
“That's us.”
“I'll see if Scott is free. You're lucky he's in. Guy is always flying somewhere. Japan, Austria, London, New York.” He picked up a landline and dialed an extension. Speaking softly into the receiver, he listened to the answer. Turning to us, he said, “He'll be right out.”
The Howell guy was around forty-five, dressed in jeans and a collared shirt, a three-day growth of sandy-brown stubble on his face, and a pair of Oakley sunglasses pushed up on his head.
“Let me guess. You two are getting ready to film the surprise hit of next summer and you need not only some top-notch equipment, but expert advice. Am I close?”
Em smiled, her eyes meeting his. “The advice maybe.”
“So I'm not making any money on this transaction? Well, at least I've gotten to meet you.”
I bristled. He was flirting with my girlfriend like I wasn't in the room. I got that a lot. I hadn't gotten used to it, but I got it a lot.
“Mr. Howell, I'm certain the police have already come to you,” I said, “but we're here to find out who the cameraman was on the
Deadline Miami
shoot when Jason Londell fell from the scaffolding.”
“Ah, jeez, I couldn't believe that. What a tragedy. So, you guys aren't with the cops?”
“No,” Em shook her head. “We're with a private investigation firm, and we've been hired to investigate the fall.”
Investigation firm. All of a sudden I felt kind of grown-up. We weren't just two P.I.s who stumbled through some cases, we were now an investigation firm. Leave it Em to bring a degree of professionalism to the job.
“Cops haven't been here. Why would they?”
“The production company hired a camera operator who came from Howell Video and Sound along with a camera, am I right?”
“The company rented a camera. What are you asking about the operator? I don't think we had anything to do with the operator.”
I seriously believed the guy had no clue.
“Scott,” Em was getting a little more personal, “does this cameraman, does he do a lot of work for you?”
“Like I said, I don't think we had anything to do with the guy. But I didn't make the deal. Hold on a minute, let me see what I can find.”
Walking over to the counter, Howell started working a laptop computer, keying in code words, and bringing information up on the screen.
“Greg Handler was the operator. Man didn't work for us. In fact, I have no idea who this guy is.”
“Oh. One of our operators, Jerry Clemens, said the production hired him through your company.”
“No. Somebody got the wrong information. Greg Handler came in here and rented a camera. There was a letter of authorization from somebody associated with the show. He said he was on temporary assignment and he'd need it for a week. I'd never seen the guy before.”
“You checked with the production company?”
“I'm sure we did. Guy paid rental in advance plus insurance. Let's see,” he scanned the screen. “Company credit card. CA Productions.”
Clint Anders.
“How much is rental?”
“This cam? Fifteen hundred.”
“For five days,” Em asked. “Wow.”
“Per day. Fifteen hundred per day. Plus, fifteen hundred insurance.”
“Nine thousand, up front?” She seemed surprised. I knew I was.
“That's one reason productions are so expensive these days. But,” he added, “he didn't have to buy it or maintain it. That's where it gets really expensive.”
“You never heard of this guy before?”
“We know most of the locals. Jerry Clemens has worked out of here before, but this guy apparently came in from L.A.”
Em looked at me. “Company credit card.”
We'd have to track that down.
“Hey, why all the questions? And you mentioned cops.”
“Scott, Mr. Howell, this Greg Handler, did he give you any I.D.?”
“Driver's license. Why the questions?”
“Do you have a copy?”
Keying in a few more letters, he turned the screen toward us, and there was Greg Handler's California license photo, with dark hair over his ears, a Tom Selleck bushy mustache, and a rather large nose. Not just long, but bulbous. He looked like someone right out of central casting. To top it all off, he had on a pair of tinted glasses. Not sunglasses, but tinted like they were custom made. But they hid his eyes very well. Prescription probably.
“One more time, kids, what's with all the questions?” Scott Howell sounded somewhat irritated.
“He's got what? Two more days on the rental?”
“Two.”
“Maybe there's nothing to worry about.”
“And why should I consider worrying?”
“Because he disappeared after Londell died.” Em broke the bad news.
“Disappeared.” He said it as a statement, not a question.
“Disappeared.” I echoed his word.
“Hasn't been heard from since,” Em said.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
“My camera?”
“Maybe it will turn up at the end of the rental period,” Em said.
“Maybe it won't,” I countered. “The camera and a film of that final leap are missing along with Mr. Handler.”
“When I first saw you,” he nodded to Emily, “I thought this was going to be a good day. A very good-looking lady walks into my business, things brighten up. And now you bring me this.”
“I learned something a long time ago, Scott.” Emily had a
cynical smile on her face. “And you being in the film business, you should have learned it too.”
“What's that?”
I waited for the drumroll.
“Looks can be deceiving.”
Bada boom.
“There's got to be a reason the cops haven't called on this Howell guy. Jerry Clemens turned his shoot over to the cops. They know there'd been another shoot. They've got to be looking for the other camera.”
Em nodded as she drove. “I'm sure they are. And assuming Howell is telling us the truth, they'll have the same obstacle that we have.”
Maybe, just maybe, we were thinking faster than the cops. Howell had to be on their radar.
“The guy looked weird.”
“Scott Howell? I thought he was very attractive. I could go for a guy like that. Very Hollywood.”
“No,” I snapped. “Not Howell. Greg Handler. Weird.”
“Well, he's a different Hollywood.”
“There's that.”
Without warning, Em wheeled into a 7-Eleven, pulled between the parking lines, and stopped the car. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her iPhone.
“Greg Handler,” she said. “I'm going to Google him. What do I put in? Camera guy? Cinematographer?”
“Both.”
She keyed in something and stared at the tiny screen.
“Nothing. Doesn't recognize the name.”
“I would guess that
Deadline Miami
is a union production. I'm certain that CA Productions is union. I don't see how you could work in Hollywood if you weren't. See what organization he and Jerry would belong to.”
In seconds she had it. “American Cinematographers Association. ACA.”
“So Google search ACA with Handler's name.”
She did.
“Here he is. Name: Greg Handler. Cinematographer. Location: Los Angeles, California. Member since 1999.”
“Any other background?”
“Wow,” she said. “Loads of movies.
Casino Royale
,
Borat
.”
“His picture looked like Borat with that bushy mustache.”
“
Hope Springs
,
The Devil Wears Prada
, and what does DP mean?”
“Director of Photography. He supervises the other camera guys.”
“Or camera girls.”
“Yeah. And every hot girl who can aim a camera thinks she's a photographer. Ooh, look at me, I took a picture of a lawn chair and it's all shadowy.”
“What is that all about?” she asked.
“Never mind, it's just a quote from that cartoon character, Stewie, on
Family Guy
.”
“Are you ever going to grow up?”
“What were you watching a couple of weeks ago when I visited you?
Jersey Shore
?”
Em pouted. “Okay, point taken.”
“Why the question about DP?”
“Well, Handler was DP on a couple of TV series.
Scrubs
,
How I Met Your Mother
, so I guess his qualifications are pretty good.”
“So why did he split?” I asked. “He shoots the jump, then disappears. It doesn't make any sense. Especially since he's got a really stellar track record.”
We sat in the car, both of us wondering where Greg Handler had disappeared to. Wondering what had happened on that catwalk.
“I'll do some looking when we get back,” Em said, still staring out the windshield. “If he's listed on the union page, I should be able to contact him through there.”
“Good idea.” And then I remembered. “Randy told me his agent got him this gig. So maybe you have to go through an agent. That's great if the agent knows where Handler is, but if he got him this gig and then loses touch for a while it may be difficult to run him down.”
“We'll see when I get back.”
She started the car and the quiet purr of the engine reminded me this wasn't my in-the-shop 2003 Chevy. This was a refined machine, and driving it was a, for the most part, refined woman. Except when she wasn't.