Beating the Babushka (4 page)

Chapter Seven

If you asked Bobby McGhill to tell you the best thing about a trip to the zoo, he’d tell you without hesitation it was the yellow slide. Some kids in his fourth grade class hung out at the snack bar, others loved riding the train, and most liked looking at the animals. But the food was gross, the train went too slow, and the animals always slept during the day. Bobby thought it was dumb to pay five bucks admission to watch a lion snore. For Bobby, the slide was the only reason to come to the zoo.

The yellow slide was awesome because it wasn’t just a slide—it was a giant plastic tube, so once you jumped inside, you disappeared. Hidden from view until you hit the sand below. And today was going to be even better, because Bobby and his mom were first in line at the zoo’s entrance. So before any other kids tracked sand and pebbles down the slide that would slow you down, Bobby would be at the top of the ladder, the first to reach the bottom.

But Bobby never made it to the bottom of the slide, because after he jumped inside he just…disappeared.

His mom waited a full thirty seconds for him to come out, anticipation turning to anxiety until she heard her son’s muffled cries. Without hesitation, Mrs. McGhill scampered up the ladder and dove after her son. Her legs were still sticking out of the top of the tube when their combined screams got the attention of a young couple watching their two-year-old play in the sand.

The couple ran to the nearby concession stand, where the woman behind the counter called the front office. When a security guard finally arrived and looked up the tube to see what was blocking the McGhill family’s descent, he dropped to his knees in the sand and vomited.

Pretty soon after that, the zoo was closed. It wasn’t much longer before the police arrived.

Cape showed up an hour later, ducking carefully under the yellow tape marking the crime scene. Two uniformed officers were carefully removing the top half of the plastic tube from which they’d already extracted a hysterical mother and son. A guy from the medical examiner’s office was yelling at them to not disturb the body. Cape couldn’t see a body from where he was standing, but as the officers shifted position he noticed a dark patch of sand at the base of the slide. Vincent Mango was kneeling and poking tentatively at the sand with a pencil. When he saw Cape, he nodded but stayed where he was.

Beau detached himself from a pack of techs and walked over, smiling.

“Welcome to the San Francisco Zoo.”

“How come you’re always inviting me to these little get-togethers of yours?” asked Cape. “You and Vinnie need a chaperone?”

“You called me, dickhead, or don’t you remember?”

“I forgot—the street is your office.”

“Sorry I don’t have regular office hours, but I’m workin’ for the taxpayers.”

“I’m a taxpayer,” said Cape defensively.

“Not enough so I’d notice.”

“What’s in the slide?”

“Don’t you mean who?”

“I’m not sure from here,” replied Cape. “Are you?”

“Pretty sure,” said Beau, scratching his head. “Not that you should give a shit, but I’m pretty sure it’s Cecil Yun.”

“Yun?” Cape’s brow furrowed. “‘Cecil’ doesn’t strike me as your typical Chinese name.”

“Cecil wasn’t your typical Chinese guy,” said Beau. “He handled the business side of Freddie Wang’s business.”

“You mean the drug business.”

Beau nodded. “Among other things. Freddie has a diversified portfolio of unsavory business.”

“Cecil was a money guy?”

“Uh-huh. Pretty hands-on in the drug trade.”

“So what’s that mean for your other investigation?”

Beau frowned, the lines in his face like cracks in obsidian. “I hate to admit it, but it might mean Frank Alessi didn’t whack Otto the Butcher.”

“Payback?”

Beau shrugged. “Cecil wasn’t treated so well before he got shoved in the tube. There’s a blood trail from the panther’s cage, and the body’s definitely been mauled—you can tell just looking down the tube at his legs, but give the ME ten minutes and he’ll confirm it.”

“If the panther killed him, why drag him over here?”

“He was probably still alive.” Vincent had walked over to join them. He bent over to brush sand from his slacks. “Hell of a view up that slide—half the head is missing. Someone shot Cecil in the face before they stuffed him down there.”

“Somebody was pretty pissed off at Cecil,” said Cape.

Beau shook his head. “Someone wanted to send somebody else a message. I’d bet my left nut that someone is Fat Frank, telling Freddie Wang he’s pissed about Otto.”

“What about your right nut?” asked Cape.

Beau shrugged. “Holding on to it for collateral—might need it for my next case.”

“Can we talk about something other than Beau’s balls?” said Vincent.

“How’d it go with Grace?” asked Cape. “I’m meeting her at my office later and wanted to check your gut.”

Beau raised his eyebrows. “You saying you don’t trust your client?”

“I trust her,” replied Cape evenly. “I just want to know if you trust her.”

“My…my.” Beau smiled. “Has experience made you wiser?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you forgot to mention your new client was so damned attractive.”

Vincent nodded. “A looker.”

“Maybe I didn’t notice,” replied Cape. “I am a professional.”

Beau snorted. “A professional investigator’s supposed to notice things.”

“I guess I’ll have to investigate further.”

Beau laughed. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

Cape held up a hand in warning. “Don’t you start. I already got an earful from Linda.”

“I’m starting nothing—and make sure you don’t, either. Just because the lady needs your help doesn’t mean you get your white horse out of the stable.”

“Was that a metaphor?” asked Cape. “Or an analogy?”

“You’re a lost cause,” replied Beau. “You know that, don’t you?”

Cape ignored the bait. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Beau spread his arms and stretched, blotting out the sun. “Grace was cool when we questioned her, but the story didn’t track. Just a list of reasons why her partner wouldn’t want to go swimming in the bay. But we’ll toss the guy’s hotel room, maybe ask around the movie set.”

“Standard follow-up,” said Vincent.

Cape nodded. “Not surprised. She’s more hunch than fact right now.”

“Well, it’s on you,” said Beau, putting his hand on Cape’s shoulder. It felt like a titanium catcher’s mitt. He raised the arm and waved it in an arc around the playground. “As you can see, the police got real murders to investigate. No way we’ll give your client’s hunch more than a day’s worth of looking.”

Cape held out his hand. “More than I deserve—I owe you one.”

“You definitely owe me,” agreed Beau. “But I’m pretty sure it’s more than one.”

“Put it on my tab. And good luck hunting Fat Frank.”

“I ain’t interested in hunting anymore,” said Beau, his cop eyes hard and flat again. “I plan on catching next time.”

Being hunted by Beau was not something most people survived. As Cape crossed the police tape and headed for the exit, he almost felt sorry for Frank Alessi. The feeling was gone by the time he reached his car.

The fog had crept over the hills to wrap the zoo in a wet blanket. Cape turned up his collar and wondered whom he was hunting and whether they even existed outside his client’s imagination.

Chapter Eight

“How does it feel to be famous?”

“Don’t you mean infamous?”

Cape didn’t answer, gesturing at the newspaper on his desk. Long shadows swam across the walls of his office as the sun sank into the bay outside. Grace was almost in silhouette, the circle of light from the small desk lamp not quite reaching her face.

Cape made no move to turn on the lights. Even in the dark he was reminded of Beau’s astute observation—she was attractive. Better to keep the lights low. The last thing Cape needed right now was another distraction.

“This is embarrassing,” said Grace. Her right index finger came down hard on the paper, her polished nail glowing in the small pool of light. The headline said it all:

“Movie Mogul Murder Mystery!”

Four M’s in a row had to be a tabloid record for alliteration. When Cape called Linda to congratulate her, she told him she wanted to add Mayhem at the end, but her editor said four was the limit—stringing five words together in a single headline might call into question the paper’s journalistic integrity. Cape admired their restraint. It was important to have standards.

Despite the bombastic opening, the article hit all the right notes. Grace was described as having been brought in for questioning, but the article gave the impression she was the first of many interviews—neither the instigator of the inquiry nor a suspect. Cape was mentioned as an independent investigator hired by the studio. Linda had agreed that any heat should be directed toward him and not his client. They even spelled his name correctly, something his own bank couldn’t seem to manage.

“It’s not so bad,” said Cape, absently turning the front page. “You came across exactly as you should—a colleague of the victim who wants to help the police in their investigation.”

“Will there be an investigation?”

“They said they’d look into it.”

“That’s it?” asked Grace. “There’s nothing else you can do?”

“There’s plenty I could do,” said Cape calmly. “But it would be a waste of time.”

“Why?”

“The police are better at this than I am,” he said simply. “They have more resources and more legal means of finding out what your friend Tom was up to—warrants, badges, that sort of thing.”

“Then why am I still paying you?”

“I bet you’re a good producer.”

“Nothing personal—just curious.”

“The studio should have put you in charge of the budget instead of Tom.”

“Well, now they don’t have any choice,” said Grace. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“Fair enough,” replied Cape. “The cops in question are doing this as a favor, but they’ll give it maybe twenty-four to forty-eight hours, tops. If it still looks like a suicide, they’ll close the file.”

“And then?”

“I’ll be there to open it up again.”

“Okay,” said Grace cautiously.

“Besides, I don’t think we’ll have to wait forty-eight hours.”

“Why not?”

“Because the police will either find something right away, or nothing at all. Either way we’ll learn something.”

“What do we do in the meantime?”

“You should go back to work,” replied Cape. “When do you start shooting again?”

“The end of the week, but there’s a lot to do before then. Not the least of which is to reassure the neurotic director that his movie is still on track.”

“What’s the director like?”

“Michael?” Grace grimaced. “I worked with him on his first film, when he was an up-and-coming talent.”

“And?”

“He was great, but the last movie made a ton of money, so now he’s an auteur, which translates from Hollywood-ese to royal pain in the ass.”

“Sounds as charming as your head of operations—Angelo?”

“Asshole.”

“How’d he like the article?”

Grace laughed, a sound like wind chimes laced with nicotine. “He threatened to fire me.”

“Can he do that?”

“Not a chance. Only Harry and Adam Berman can do that. Angelo’s just their resident bully. Besides, if they fire me in the middle of this picture, they are fucked beyond recognition.”

Cape raised his eyebrows. “Nice turn of phrase.”

Grace laughed again.

“It’s a tough business, especially if you’re a woman.”

“You’ve been doing this a long time.”

“Was that a statement or a question?”

“A statement, unless you tell me otherwise.”

“You must be a detective,” said Grace. “I started as a PA right out of college.”

“PA?”

“Acronym foul,” said Grace, holding up her hands. “I should have said ‘production assistant.’”

“Tell me about the movie you’re producing. I’d like to understand what you and Tom were doing before he—” Cape stopped himself just before saying “jumped,” adding, “died” halfheartedly before Grace noticed the slip.

She leaned back and looked at the ceiling while she talked.

“It’s a forty-five day shoot, three locations, lots of green screen, thousands of extras.” She moved her hands as if counting them off on her fingers. “From a production standpoint, it’s a big film.”

“Should I have said “film” instead of “movie”?” asked Cape. “Or don’t distinctions like that matter?”

Grace laughed again. Cape had to admit he liked the sound.

“Actually they matter quite a bit. Most producers would claim that film is the celluloid equivalent of literature. It makes you think differently about the world, maybe changes some preconceived notion you had. A film stays with you long after you’ve watched it.”

Cape’s right eyebrow arched skeptically. “And a movie?”

“Two hours of entertainment,” said Grace. “Fun but disposable. Pop culture at its most overt.”

Cape feigned comprehension by keeping his mouth shut.

“Let’s put it this way,” said Grace. “Critics love films but hate movies. The Oscars love films—audiences love movies. Producers want to be known as film producers, but they want to be financially linked to a blockbuster movie.”

“So what are you working on—a film or a movie?”

“Depends on who asks. The studio tells the press that it’s financing a film but tells the producers to make sure it’s a blockbuster movie.”

“So what does that make you?”

“A film producer working on a movie.”

“I have a headache,” said Cape.

“Hollywood can give you one.”

“But you’re from New York.”

“When you’re in this business, everyone’s from Hollywood,” said Grace. “Even me.”

“So what exactly are you working on?”

“The movie’s called
The Revenge of Icarus
,” said Grace. “Remember that big asteroid movie that broke all the box office records?”

“Which one?”

“The good one.”

“Not the one with the kid on the bicycle at the end, trying to outrun the cataclysmic tidal wave?”

“God, no—that was ridiculous. Our studio made the one where the team of construction workers fly into space, land on the asteroid, and set off a nuclear bomb to save the Earth.”

“Much more believable.”

“We did over $300 million at the box office,” replied Grace. “Do you believe that?”

“No, but what do I know? My idea of a movie is
The Maltese Falcon
.”

Grace lowered her voice and slouched in her chair. “I like talking to a man who likes to talk.”

“Sydney Greenstreet.” Cape smiled. “Great movie.”

“Great film.”

“So what’s
The Revenge of Icarus
?”

“The second big blockbuster from Empire Films.”

“That sounds like the press release. What’s the plot?”

“In the last movie, the hero died when he detonated the nuclear bomb on the asteroid to save humanity.”

Cape nodded. “I wept.”

Grace ignored him. “In this movie, the daughter he saved gets called by NASA to save the planet from—”

Cape cut her off. “Another asteroid?”

“Good guess.”

“I am a detective.”

“Only this asteroid is bigger than the last one—a lot bigger—and it’s headed straight for the sun. An impact will trigger a supernova that will destroy the sun.”

“Hence the title.”

“Exactly. And of course, if the sun is destroyed, it will mean the end of all life on Earth.”

“So it’s a family picture.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass—it’s a summer movie.”

“It’s not a movie,” said Cape. “It’s a sequel.”

“You sound like a critic.”

“I’m a guy who likes movies. But I’m tired of all the sequels, prequels, and movies based on old TV shows.”

“Actually it’s more than that. I’m producing the next installment in the Asteroid Franchise from Empire Films.”

“You’re kidding.”

“That’s what Hollywood is all about these days—everyone wants a franchise.”

“So tell the studio to go buy a McDonald’s.”

Grace shrugged apologetically. “‘Franchise’ is the movie industry’s euphemism for revenue stream. Batman, Star Wars, Bond, Spider-Man—those are franchises. The studio gets a built-in audience who will see the movie no matter what.”

“No matter what?”

“It’s basic marketing—familiarity leads to loyalty.”

“I thought familiarity breeds contempt.”

“Only with critics, and they don’t buy enough tickets to matter anymore. And don’t forget merchandising, video games, DVD sales…You can get five or more movies out of a single franchise if you know how to work it.”

Cape shook his head. “So you’re not making movies, you’re manufacturing them.”

“Welcome to Hollywood.”

“Seems a shame,” said Cape. “I go to the movies to see something I haven’t seen before.”

“But you’re not the seventeen-year-old male the studio is targeting.”

“Don’t remind me,” said Cape, looking up at the ceiling and briefly trying to remember what it was like to be seventeen. He remembered being stupid and horny, but not much else, and not necessarily in that order. He turned back to Grace.

“So doesn’t anyone make original pictures these days?” he asked. “What about that gay astronaut movie your studio made?”

“That was all Harry’s doing.”

“Harry Berman, the guy who runs Empire Studios.”

“Yeah, Harry and his brother, Adam, though it’s hard to believe they’re related.”

“Why?”

“Harry loves movies,” explained Grace. “I mean films—the more artsy the better. He’s the one who put the studio on the map by courting stars, convincing big names to act in small films.”

“How?”

“He’s a visionary,” said Grace. “He wanted to prove a studio could make it outside of Hollywood, so he based Empire in New York. Then he ignored all the scripts that were piling into the big studios and instead bought the rights to award-winning foreign novels, which he turned into contemporary screenplays. Then he’d tell the actors they’d get an Academy Award if they starred in one of his films.”

“Pretty big promise.”

“Which he’s delivered on every year,” said Grace. “Harry figured out the awards circuit. He was the first to run ads in
Variety
promoting his films around the time the judges voted. He’d re-release the films into local art theaters in the neighborhoods where the judges lived. He’d invite critics to his yacht for a movie opening and cruise around New York Harbor, plying them with drinks. He had them eating out of his hand.”

“So how did they go from being the darling of the critics’ circle to the giant killer asteroid?”

Grace hesitated as if trying to find a simple explanation. She bit her lower lip, working it thoughtfully between her teeth.

“Adam happened,” she said finally.

“The brother.”

“Yeah,” said Grace. “But like I said, you’d never believe they came from the same womb. While Harry loves movies, Adam loves the movie business. He doesn’t give a damn about awards—he just wants the biggest opening weekend in July.”

“That must create a certain amount of tension around the office,” said Cape.

“It used to,” replied Grace. “It kept things interesting, that’s for sure. And it gave people like me a chance to work on a serious film every once in a while, then go back to paying the bills with an action film. That was the financial strategy behind the studio.”

“A balanced portfolio?”

“Same idea, yeah,” nodded Grace. “Adam would make action flicks to get the box office and generate enough cash for Harry to make his art films with big stars.”

“You keep using the past tense,” observed Cape.

Grace smiled. Cape thought she looked sad but couldn’t be sure in the half-light.

“Harry has become—,” she hesitated for an instant, then plunged ahead. “Harry’s become strange.”

“Define strange.”

“I mean strange, even by Hollywood standards,” replied Grace. “He makes odd requests, then changes his mind, then calls to demand why you haven’t answered his original question.”

“Sounds like my ex-girlfriend.”

Grace forged ahead. “Harry’s alienated a lot of the celebrities he courted in the early years. And when you go to talk with him in his office, he’s not even there.”

“You mean he’s not working?”

“I mean he’s not physically there,” said Grace.

Cape peered through the growing dark. “Now you’re sounding strange.”

Grace shook her head, annoyed. “The only thing in his office is a giant TV monitor perched on top of his desk with a remote-controlled camera on top. And on the screen is Harry—looking at you, talking to you, all via satellite.”

“From where?”

“Nobody knows,” replied Grace. “Harry’s not telling, and neither is Adam. Sometimes the background looks like a beach house and Harry looks tan and relaxed, other times he could be in a hotel room in Berlin, for all I know. He’s always looking off-camera, as if he expects someone to interrupt him at any minute. Like he’s paranoid.”

“That’s kind of strange.”

“What did I tell you?” said Grace. “They say it’s sociophobia—fear of people and normal social interaction. Greta Garbo had it. So did Howard Hughes. They say a lot of powerful people get it. But I think it’s just fucking strange.”

“So Adam’s in charge,” said Cape. “Because he’s there, and his brother’s nuts.”

Grace nodded. “So it would seem.”

“Any chance either of them had anything to do with your colleague Tom’s murder?”