Deadlines Page 8

  "I guess I just haven't found the right guy. How come you're dating?" I asked, wondering if I were being too forward with my questions on a first date, but Thom didn't seem to mind.

  "Things didn't work out with my girlfriend and we split a couple of months ago."

  "I'm sorry. It's hard when things don't work out."

  "Don't be. I'm over it. We just weren't right for each other. She got too clingy and I need balance in my life."

  "I get that," I told him, waiting a few minutes for the platter to be served in the middle of our table. The waiter added small plates with a little flourish and asked us again if we wanted wine before topping off our mineral waters. "I think we all struggle with balance as we learn what we want. Whether we're the ones who overstep, or our previous partners do, it just takes time to figure out what we really want."

  "And you've got that all figured out?" he asked as he deposited cucumber rolls onto my plate, wielding the chopsticks like a pro.

  "I think so. I know I need to concentrate on work because I'm at the bottom of the pole here."

  "So you need someone that respects that?" he interrupted.

  "Yes, and also appreciates that I get how important his work is too. However, it would be great to meet up with someone for dates that progress to..."

  "Something more?" He winked.

  "Yes. I'm not looking to move in with someone, and I'm not desperate for kids, or a marriage. I'd just like someone."

  "Me too."

  "I'm glad we're on the same page."

  "Absolutely. My girlfriend wasn't like that at all. She was phenomenal at first, and I really respected her commitment to work and a great social life, but later, she started to get needier. She stopped respecting what I needed, that balance we talked about..."

  "That's hard," I said, reaching for the cucumber roll and taking a bite. It fell apart in my mouth, a delicious mix of rice, tiny slivers of cucumber and delicate wasabi.

  "It was. I was really into her too and thought she was this amazing, self-motivated, cool chick until she just changed. She wanted me to leave my wife. She thought we should spend more time together..."

  "Wait. What?" I paused, my hand halfway to my mouth.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to imply I missed her, just that..."

  "No, I mean... wife?" I barely contained myself from spitting out the word no woman wants to hear on a date. "You're married?"

  Thom lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug before biting a piece of salmon sashimi. "Yes, you knew that."

  "No, I didn't!"

  He glanced up, confusion crossing his face. "Didn’t we meet on Illicit Lovers dot com?"

  I dropped my second cucumber roll after holding it midway from the plate to my mouth. "No, we did not!"

  He frowned. "Then where did we start talking?"

  "On a really nice website for single professionals. Oh, God, I can't believe this! I'm on a date with a married man!"

  "Does that bother you?" he asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

  "Uh... yes!"

  "But we're having such a good time!"

  "Not anymore. Sorry, but I have to go," I told him. I grabbed the napkin from my lap and dropped it onto the table, then reached for my purse as I scraped back the chair.

  "Don't go. Just sit for a while. Obviously..."

  "The only 'obviously' about this is: you're married and I do not date married men. Bye, Thom." I didn't wait for him to reply, but hightailed it out of the restaurant, my cheeks reddening in a mix of fury and embarrassment. I didn't think I could go on a date worse than Allen Hemming, but apparently, my dating life just hit a new low.

  For a few minutes, I sat in my car, thinking how cross I was. Optimistically, I pondered writing a dating blog that described my disasters. Perhaps I could gain a book commission, maybe even a slot on a chat show as a genuine matchmaker. Probably not the latter, I decided. When my phone rang, I jumped, my heart clamoring as I reached for it. At least, Thom didn't have my number. Fortunately, it was Detective Smith.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi. Shayne?"

  "Yes, it's me. How are things going with the case?"

  "That's why I called. I've just spoken to the ME after he re-examined the body and you were right."

  My heart thudded. "Chucky was murdered?"

  "Yes."

  "The drugs didn't kill him?" I asked, my mind whirring.

  "Yes, they did, but from the bruising that appeared post-mortem, the ME ascertained that someone had to have forced Chucky to swallow them. We wouldn't have seen the bruising if we hadn't taken a second look at his body."

  "There's no doubt about that? It couldn't have been an accident?"

  "No way. Also, I don't know how it was missed first time around, but the coroner also found fibers in his mouth, indicating someone gagged him so he couldn't bring the pills back up. As far as I can see from the responding officers' report, nothing more was noted at the scene, so either they didn't see a gag, didn't realize what it was, or..."

  "The murderer waited until Chucky was dead and took the gag with him," I finished.

  "Yes, that's what I thought."

  "That sounds pre-meditated." I didn't need to spell it out to Smith. That changed everything. Suicide or accidental death were off the cards. Most likely, manslaughter was too. Someone deliberately planned Chucky's death; and that someone currently thought they had gotten away with it.

  "To me too. Listen, I just called to say thanks for bringing this to my attention. I guess you're going to run this as a story, and that's reasonable, since you found the case, so if you're going to quote me, please do so anonymously, and otherwise, thanks for making the inquiry. You might have stopped a murderer from getting away with it. I'll take it from here."

  "Wait! I'm still investigating."

  "Why?" asked Smith. "You have your story. Chucky's death was no accident and definitely wasn't a suicide."

  "But I don't know why he was killed, or who did it! Do you?"

  "Not yet, but I'll find out."

  "Whom are you interviewing?"

  "I'm not at liberty to say."

  "Why? C'mon, Smith, I brought you the case! I don't have a story without the wheres and whos and whys!"

  "You stick to your job; I'll stick to mine," she said, and hung up.

  "Just great," I said to the silent phone screen. Tossing it into my purse, I pulled out my notepad and made a few, quick notes of what Detective Smith told me. I would definitely use her quotes, probably anonymously as I'd rather cultivate her as a source than piss her off at this early stage. But would I withdraw my own investigation? Definitely not! It was just starting to get really interesting.

  After the tragedy of my lunch date, I lost my mojo for heading into work. Instead, I called Martha and told her I was scouting stories for my entertainment column. After she made some joyful noises about my “settling in so well” and “how great that I was finding my feet in the city,” I hung up and took off for home.

  Instead of going straight to my apartment, I parked outside and walked several blocks to the beach. It was too depressing to just sit inside the apartment with its unpainted walls and half-unpacked boxes, and a wall that wasn't filling up with clues fast enough. So I decided a walk under the sunny, blue sky to help me clear my head and lift my spirits.

  Stopping for a milkshake at a small shack cut out of a wall with a celebrity magazine to browse, I took both over to a bench and sat and watched the world pass by. For the early afternoon, it was busy enough with couples, moms with strollers, and people in business attire. All were walking around and talking on phones.

  I snapped a cell phone picture of a young singer I recognized as she shoved a slice of pizza into her face, and spotted a teen model I recognized from an E! show. She was kissing a guy who wasn't her boyfriend. I snapped a photo of the pair holding hands and looked down as they passed, oblivious to me, the reporter in the pretty dress.

  With my research improving, I turned my attention to my phone.
My emails were pitifully few, but I answered a couple from friends back home, browsed my online dating app and looked at the messages and "winks" I received. I checked my sparse calendar for meetings I knew I didn't have and read the whole magazine from front to back.

  When I finally finished procrastinating, I shoved the magazine into my purse, threw the rest of the milkshake in the trash and walked home, my head feeling a lot clearer.

  The apartment block was quiet, all the doors and windows closed. Someone must’ve started cleaning out the pool, I noticed. All the scum was gone from the surface and most of the debris had been fished out, including the family of plastic ducks. Coincidentally, I found the duck family right outside my door, sitting in the palm's plant pot and looking for all the world like they waddled up there and made themselves at home.

  "Thanks, Mike," I said, picking up the smiling mama duck and glancing toward the empty apartment he was currently using. The drapes were shut and there was no sign of life inside. I shook my head at the duck and stuck it back in the plant pot.

  Inside, I opened all the windows and unpacked a couple more boxes, adding my trinkets, few as they were, around the room. For a while, I reminisced over my photo frames as I assembled them on one of the side tables. There was my parents’ wedding photo, both looking young and happy, and another one with them and me as a newborn. There was one of Gran and me at my graduation from high school, and another from college. There were also a couple of group photos that I treasured of friends, reminders of great nights out. As a cool breeze drifted through the open window of the living room, I reached up to close it, glancing towards Mike's place again. The doors and windows were still shut and the drapes drawn. Clearly, he wasn't home yet, or still asleep.

  Finally, I turned to look at my murder board. Within minutes, thanks to Detective Smith, I added a few new notes and some colored string to connect the dots. I still didn't have the crucial details, but a lot of new thoughts crossed my mind. I needed to know a lot more. Whom did Chucky trust enough to allow into his home? Who was strong enough to overpower him and force him to swallow all those pills? Whom would he trust to come into his bedroom? Or carry him in there and place him in his bed? I thought about the people I had already met. Lack of physical strength ruled out Jenna, but it didn't rule out Will. Richard was of a similar size to Will and could have held Chucky down, but Richard didn't appear to have anything to gain from his friend's death. Jenna might, depending on the stipulations of Chucky’s will, but she drew attention to the murder in the first place. If she were involved, or suspected Will was, wouldn't she have wanted Chucky's death swept away as quickly and quietly as possible?

  I hoped tomorrow on set with Richard would help me understand Chucky's life a little better if only by speaking to a few more people close to him. The longer I thought about the circumstances of his death, the more convinced I was that I would probably have to revisit his home. Detective Smith might have been very protective of the case, but I was sure I could enlist Jenna's help to revisit the crime scene.

  Crossing into the kitchen, I glanced at the clock. Six PM. Reaching for a glass, I poured some juice, still glancing out the window. My view included the end of the walkway-slash-balcony and further down onto the pool. I hadn't noticed before, but someone removed the broken sun lounges and the area was recently swept. I checked Mike's apartment once more, wondering if I should say hello and thank him for the ducks, but the lights were still off. So when a knock sounded at my door, I jumped, almost dropping my glass before I set it down and went to answer it.

  At the door stood Mike, a six-pack of beer in one hand.

  "Good date?" he asked, grinning as if he knew the trauma I'd endured just a few hours before. I pulled a face. "Want to drink the horrors away?" he asked.

  I couldn't help it, so I smiled. I wanted a friend. "Sure," I said opening the door wider. "Come in."

  Mike stepped through before I remembered what was plastered across the wall. "I like what you've done to the place. My feet don't stick to the floors anymore," he said, his eyes sweeping across the room before settling on an eight-by-ten photo of Chucky in the center of my murder board. "And this wall art looks really fun!"

  Chapter Ten

  As promised, Richard left my name at the gate to the studios, and the guard waved me through after giving me directions to the parking lot. I had never been to a studio before. My palms were moist, my heart beat a little faster than normal, and my mouth was dry. If I hadn't been there to investigate a suspicious death, I might have been a little more excited at all the promise the day potentially held. Also, my entertainment column would surely benefit if I could see a genuine star doing something even vaguely interesting, like eating a cheeseburger, or making out with their co-star. Just so long as they weren't married, I decided as an appalled shiver ricocheted through my body.

  Richard was waiting for me when I exited my car. He waved and walked over, looking every bit the advertisement for healthy living: tanned skin, Polo shirt and blue jeans. "Isn't this a beautiful day?" he said, holding up a set of keys. "Are you ready to go for a ride?"

  "I thought we couldn't drive on the lot?"

  "We can't; unless you happen to have a set of keys to a golf cart. Ready?"

  My excitement ratcheted up a notch. "You bet!"

  "We're heading to the set where the all the studio segments for the show are being filmed," Richard explained as we shot out of the golf cart lot and steered toward a series of buildings.

  "What does that mean?"

  "A lot of the show was due to be shot on location. You know, visiting the former child stars’ homes, seeing where they work now, that sort of thing. But when Chucky introduced that episode's star, he'd be filming all of it on the set they built here. Plus, this was the place for his formal interviews with the stars, their family and friends. It's not a big studio because it's a new show and there isn't a huge budget."

  "You seem to know a lot about this stuff?" I glanced around, gleefully taking in the other golf buggies trundling past, while a crew hurried around moving racks of clothes and props.

  "I spent some time on the other side of the camera, and I came over here when Chucky was filming, so I've seen the set a few times."

  "Was that in pre-production?" I asked, scrambling for the right lexicon. The film world was a whole new thing to me, and I simply wasn't prepared for the scale of the lot, much less, the enormous amount of effort it took to air a TV show. My experience of TV was sitting at home on my couch, watching the end result of television shows that appeared seamless and effortless. The studio lot was a whole different thing: lots of people walking around, trucks that were always being unloaded, and ballcapped interns ferrying stacks of paper all around.

  "Yeah. Chucky called me the day they asked him to do a screen test. You should have heard how excited he was!"

  "He wasn't offered the role right out?"

  "No, the competition was between him and some girl who made a teen sitcom. I don't remember the name of it, but she wore weird clothes and danced a lot with her best friend. It could have gone either way at that point."

  "What happened to her when she lost the role?"

  "She didn't lose, exactly. I think she got offered another part on a sitcom about some clueless brainiacs."

  "So Chucky wasn't their number one choice?"

  Richard glanced across at me and shrugged. "You know, I don't actually know. But they were thrilled to cast him and he was happy to get the role. You'll hear it a lot around here. Some guys beat people in auditions for the roles, while others have the best roles fall into their laps, and for the rest of us—" another shrug, "—we fight for them."

  "Did they tell you what's happening with his role now?"

  "I don't want to sound glib, but I'm screen-testing in an hour. That's how I managed to get you on set today."

  "Really? Richard, that's amazing!"

  "I thought about what you said and how Chucky would feel, and I just couldn't let him down.
I hope I don't sound like I'm capitalizing on the tragedy, but the idea of someone else filling Chucky's shoes? I couldn't have that! Whatever happened to him, whether it was by accident or not, this is my way of honoring him. I can't believe he's gone." Richard parked the cart between two others, and switched off the engine.

  I made a snap decision to tell Richard what I discovered, while hoping it didn't put him off his screen test. He was Chucky's best friend, I reasoned, so he deserved to find out in a better way than reading it in my column. "I spoke to the detective in charge yesterday who said Chucky's death wasn't any accident."

  Richard frowned. "It wasn't? I knew that was a possibility, but... I just can't imagine Chucky taking his own life. That’s awful. Why didn't I notice something was wrong?" He turned to me, his eyes filling with pain. I placed what I hoped was a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  "He didn't. The ME ruled his death as murder."

  "Oh, my... oh, wow." Richard's shoulders slumped and he bowed his head. "I don't know if I can process that. Murder? Chucky was murdered?"

  "It looks that way. I'm really sorry."

  "Maybe I shouldn't do that screen test. This is too awful."

  "No, you should do it. You should for all the reasons you just said. Plus, wouldn't Chucky prefer that his best friend since he was a kid got the job, and not some other person who just gets it because he's there?" I asked. Ben's face flashed into my mind. Now there was a guy who had no problem taking something that wasn't rightfully his. Except, he didn't exactly do that, a new little voice inside me said. He simply returned to his job. I ignored the voice. That job was mine and he thoughtlessly snatched it back. I was sure about one thing. Richard could do the right thing for Chucky, and it would just be too bad for Ben when I landed the hottest story of the year.

  Richard looked up, a smile on his face that couldn't quite compete with the sadness in his eyes. "How do you know all the right things to say?"

  "I'm a journalist. Appropriate words are what I provide," I told him, which wasn't always strictly true, since that really depended on which side of the headline one was on.