The Player (17 page)

“Griffin, please, contrary to popular opinion, I am not a criminal lawyer.”

“And the script may go into turnaround. I'm just trying to figure out if the scene is believable. I don't know whether the audience would buy it.”

“I think that the police would have to let him bring a lawyer. But maybe not. They don't want him to know he's a suspect?”

“Right.”

“You know, the Supreme Court has changed things so much in
the last few years. Look, if the scene would be better without the lawyer present, keep it that way.
I
won't complain.”

“Thanks.” So they probably did have to let him have a lawyer there, which meant they didn't suspect him.

He drove through Glendale to Pasadena, up the hill that led to the San Gabriel Mountains. The air was ugly, and the sunlight was fluorescent, and it made him wonder why anyone would live in this part of the world if they didn't work in the movies. If he didn't work in the movies, he would live in Seattle or San Francisco, or even northern San Diego County, where the ocean was clean and there didn't seem to be a lot of pressure to be famous. There was a town, Leucadia, with a nice beach and a café where folksingers played on the weekends. He'd been there once when a film was shooting at Camp Pendleton, not far away. If he had to live in L.A. and he wasn't in the movies, he would live near the beach. He had lived in Malibu for two years but moved back into Beverly Glen because he hated the long drive. There was no human reason to live in Glendale or Pasadena.

He was fifteen minutes late to the police station. The policeman at the front desk took his name and told him to wait. Perhaps this would be the limit of his punishment for murder, pulled from his desk for a few hours, forced to answer a few questions, sent back to the studio in heavy traffic. And if Susan Avery had lulled him into coming to the station without a lawyer because she wanted to humiliate him with a public arrest? Griffin decided that he had to enjoy himself now; he was alive and he was free. In minutes his freedom might be over. What kind of bail would they set for him? Fifty thousand dollars? A hundred thousand dollars? A million? There would be headlines, it would be front-page news. Bonnie Sherow would support him. He would tell her he was innocent and she would believe him. June Mercator would be horribly confused. Would she
believe in his innocence? He hoped so, but she had no reason to support him. Walter Stuckel would know he was guilty, but would he keep that to himself? He would talk about it with his friends, in a wood-paneled den somewhere in Northridge or Thousand Oaks, in an old house he couldn't afford now if he tried to buy it at market price. And Levison? Levison would offer any help. The studio couldn't pay for his lawyer, of course, but he would be offered private support. Larry Levy would be happy. Levy would say he was guilty. If Griffin were in Levy's shoes and saw his rival arrested for murder on what appeared to be thin evidence, and he wanted to insure that this hurt him at work, he would convince Levison that in the studio's best interests as a publicly held company, an officer of that company, accused of murder, should withdraw from active duty until the resolution of the case. Salary wouldn't stop, but responsibilities would. Levison would resist, for a day or so, but by that time someone on the board of directors would call him, and ask about the case, and say what Levy had said. Levison would see that prudence was wisdom. Levison would doubt Griffin's innocence the moment he had to ask him to leave, when his shame, for caving in to expedience, turned to anger at his own weakness. Levison did not like to think of himself as weak. He wasn't weak. Griffin knew Levison had no trouble firing people, and that his reflex emotion after a large studio layoff was disdain for the fired workers. After asking Griffin to leave the studio, he would never respect him or fear him in quite the same way. Did he fear him? Probably. Otherwise, he would have fired him before bringing Levy aboard.

Griffin looked at the people around him. What if he assembled a panel from them to discuss his current problems. They could never understand. They would say, “If you're innocent, then you have nothing to worry about.” These were not the people you see in the movies, no one looked beautiful or even normal, they were either too
skinny or too fat, they had acne, they had creepy haircuts, their lives were one long series of excuses, they were poor, even the ones who thought they had money didn't have any. How could anyone live on twenty thousand dollars a year? He guessed that he was looking at people who kept families on ten thousand. How could anyone support a family on less than fifty thousand? Who among these Americans, dressed in clothes they bought off the racks in discount drug stores and large supermarkets, could imagine a salary of five hundred or seven hundred thousand dollars a year? With free credit cards. And I know millionaires, he thought. I have talked to men worth two hundred million dollars. I've talked to men worth a billion dollars! Could any of these miserable people sitting on badly molded fiberglass chairs and staring at this linoleum floor imagine that kind of money? Did these people go to the movies? he wondered. Did they have the time or money? Or were they beyond the popular culture? Black men, Mexican women, children. Old people. What were they doing at the police station? How many of them were murderers? And of those who were, was that the only bond between them and Griffin? Yes, he thought. He would hate his cell mates.

Susan Avery came out to meet him. Was it standard for her to leave her office and greet each visitor, instead of having them sent back to her, or was she treating him well because he was important? Or was she going to walk behind him in case he smelled a trap and tried to run?

“I'm sorry I'm late,” he said. “I had a few calls that had to be returned.”

“Your work must be very exciting.”

“It's not all movie stars and caviar, but it changes all the time. I imagine you don't have much routine.”

“Paperwork,” she said, holding up a finger as a gesture of exclamation, as a reminder that he should know it wasn't easy being
a cop, or that without the paperwork it would be fun, would be easy.

She had an office with a window overlooking the parking lot. She closed the door. There was a poster on it of a kitten dangling from a chin-up bar, with the inscription,
HANG IN THERE
.

She offered him coffee. He refused. They settled down.

“So, you must have a break in the case,” he said.

“What makes you say that?”

“Why else would you bring me here?”

“Did you follow David Kahane to his car?”

“No.”

“Where did you park your car?”

“A block away, on the street.”

“Why didn't you use the parking lot?” She really wanted to know. He had to repeat to himself, while he was thinking of the answer, that she was just curious, that he wasn't a suspect.

Hadn't they been over this already? He couldn't remember. “There was a space on the street. I don't even think I knew about the parking lot.”

“There's a sign over the theater marquee that says
FREE PARKING IN THE REAR
.”

“I didn't park in the lot.”

“What were you wearing that night?”

“I went straight from work, so, I don't know … what I'm wearing now, I guess. A dress shirt, slacks, leather shoes.”

“Jacket and tie?”

“If I wear one, I always take off my tie at the end of the day.”

“And the jacket?”

“I don't remember.”

“What color jacket do you think you might have been wearing? How many jackets do you have?”

“I have about thirty jackets.”

She raised an eyebrow. He lifted his hands and held them apart, to tell her, “What can I say, I have my vanities.” Then he said, “I can't throw anything out.” He tried to sound like he was making fun of his own sissiness.

“Which one were you wearing that night?”

“I usually wear a dark jacket to work. I have a couple of plaids and a few sort of khaki-colored jackets, and a Harris Tweed and a corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches, but I usually wear black or blue.” He wondered if he should say something like, Why are you asking me these questions, or whether he should say that if she asked him any more of these kinds of questions, he would demand to have a lawyer present. What kinds of questions? she would respond. Questions that you'd ask of a suspect, not a witness. But you're not a witness. That's right, I'm just someone who saw David Kahane a little while before he died.

“We wanted you to look at some pictures. You might recognize someone.” She pulled a folder from a file and passed him a few mug shots. A thin man with sparse blond hair and a fixed nose, wearing a gold chain. A depressed black man. A dark-haired man with a mustache—an Iranian, probably—his hair was shiny and thick and he had a narrow face with a serious nose. He hoped he might recognize one, but he didn't. He nodded at the man with the blond hair.

“I don't know, there's something familiar about him.”

“You think you saw him that night?”

“I'd never say that in court. I mean, I don't know. I don't like being put in this position where just because someone looks like maybe I've seen him before, he could get arrested or something.” He hoped he was doubtful enough, that he sounded like a regular guy. He had chosen the blond man because he looked weak. Or had he picked the blond man because he had the same round face as Griffin? If there was
ever a lineup, Griffin would choose the one who looked most like him. If there had been a witness, then Griffin would have to corroborate his description. He knew that the police usually threw in ringers among these pictures, or at least they did in lineups, using innocent men, other cops, to make sure that the sample was mixed. Obviously someone who had seen the murder from a distance had come forward, but this witness's description was tentative. Not tentative, no, the description sounded like Griffin. And now Susan Avery was trying to understand why or how Griffin might have killed David Kahane. How could they prove me guilty of a senseless murder? he wondered. Could they?

She took the photographs back. He thought about asking her out for a date. “Are these real suspects?”

“What do you mean by real?”

“Motive and opportunity.”

“A lot of killers have strange motives.”

“This was a robbery, right?”

“If that was the motive, then all we need is to show opportunity. Even you had opportunity.”

What would the innocent person say? “Please,” he said, “that's a very unpleasant thought. I'd hate to think that all that separates anyone from murder is lack of opportunity. I guess you see the dark side a lot more than I do, but I try to believe that people are basically good.” He had tried to make her believe that when she had pointed the finger at him, she meant it to be an absurd notion, an example of her worldview, not a real accusation.

“I thought Hollywood was a sea of sharks.”

“First of all, sharks live by instinct, and I don't think it's fair to say that because of that they're basically evil. Second of all, yes, there are some really awful people in the business, and you don't always know who you can trust. But you don't have to be a bad guy. There are also a lot of people in the business who are decent, who are honest,
who you can trust. Me, I'm in the middle.” He smiled. Susan Avery looked confused.

“You mean it.”

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely. I'm not completely trustworthy. I'd be lying if I said I was. Well, personally, with friends, I guess I'm okay, but the office, the job, demands a certain amount of game playing. Only it's real life, so the game can hurt.” He stopped. How good a cop is she? he thought. She was fascinated. He could tell her that if honesty is a weapon, then it's not honesty, not if you use it as a tool. He could, but he wouldn't. “How did we get on to this, Doctor? And should I start telling you about my childhood?”

“Go ahead.” She was flirting with him.

He wagged a finger. “Uh-uh. That would have to be after hours.”

“I don't think my boyfriend would go for that.” Why was he down here? he wanted to ask. Was it really only about the mug shots? Was she coming on to him?

“Is he also a cop?”

“He's a contractor.”

“Been together long?”

“A year. Do you have anyone?”

“A few.” He didn't want to continue this conversation. He was disappointed with her, she hadn't seen through him, he wasn't a suspect, he wasn't under arrest. Maybe there really was a witness, but Avery had looked forward to seeing him, Griffin thought, and she had wasted his time.

“Do you go out with actresses?” What kind of question was that?

“Lieutenant, Detective, Miss Avery … Susan …” It was time for him to assert all of his rank. “I'd love to help you find the person who killed David Kahane. I'm sorry he died, but I barely knew him, so I can afford the luxury of being fascinated by the whole process
of how you go about your work. Who knows what I'll learn from this, what I might be able to add to a movie from all of this, you know, I mean, I don't think I've ever been this deep into a police station, it's nice to have an authentic experience. But I don't have time, this afternoon, to talk about …”—he had to lighten up—“… my very sad love life.”

“When would you have time?”

“I'll call you.”

They shook hands. She offered to show him to the front, and he refused. He wouldn't call her. On the chance that she did, after all, think he had killed David Kahane, he didn't want to let her try to trip him up. And he was worried that he might give himself away. What if they went to bed together and he talked in his sleep? Bed? Would she sleep with him to get a conviction?

Oakley and Civella were waiting in his office when he came back from the police station. He was fifteen minutes late. Civella was on the phone, yelling at one of his clients, a singer. Civella didn't like a song he wanted to put on his next album.