Fixed in Blood Read online

  “I’m glad to meet you,” Lydia said. “Which do you prefer? Detective Schuster? Officer Schuster?”

  “He’s just Schuster,” Jimmy said. “No need for greater intimacy.”

  Lydia looked to Mort. “Are we finished with Charlie Fellow for now? With Schuster here there’s something I’d like to discuss about the films.”

  Mort turned to Schuster. “What brings you by?”

  “Micki told me your idea to expand the focus beyond camera operators. You suggested we talk to equipment managers.”

  “I was scheduled to visit the locations myself,” Micki said to Mort. “But you wanted me in on the Fellow visit. Schuster was heading out, so I passed your thoughts along.”

  Mort didn’t care about ownership of ideas. “What’d you learn?”

  “You’re right about one thing, Mort,” Schuster said.

  “We’re right about most things,” Jimmy interrupted.

  Schuster ignored the jab. “That Hollywood gear is locked up tight. They’ve got staff dedicated to monitoring the comings and goings of all the equipment, everything from microphones to cameras. Stuff’s worth a fortune. A guy showed me one lens worth sixty grand alone.”

  “You get anything?” Micki asked.

  “Both studios use the same monitoring process. Every piece of equipment has a bar code attached. When something’s checked out, the code gets scanned. Same thing when it’s returned. All the data is entered into a program tracking time and user.” Schuster pulled himself away from the door and walked to the whiteboard.

  “Two film crews. One is shooting a romantic comedy. Working title Never Sleepy in Seattle. All about vampires looking for love.”

  “There’s no end to Hollywood’s creative process,” Jimmy said.

  “All equipment present and accounted for. We paid special attention to those hours surrounding Crystal’s TOD. Same with Francie’s. They have a chain-of-possession log tight as our own evidence locker.”

  Micki called Bruiser over to her and stroked his side. Mort recognized the move. It was the nervous habit she displayed whenever a case hit a roadblock. “Tell us you got luckier with the second movie.”

  Schuster grabbed a marker and wrote Nothing but Money on the whiteboard. “It’s a heist film about a team using disguises and ploys to rob a military convoy of trucks filled with cash sent to the base to cover a payday.” He looked over his shoulder. “Somebody forgot to tell the screenwriter about direct deposit. It stars Anthony Feldoni. The one from all those action movies they made about thirty years ago.”

  “The guy with all the wives?” Jimmy asked. “I didn’t know he was still making movies. He’s gotta be, what? Sixty? Sixty-five?”

  “That’s him,” Schuster said. “According to the caterer who brought me coffee, he’s relying a lot on stunt doubles and heavy makeup. The assistant director’s assistant told me Feldoni’s bankrolling half the movie himself. I guess he sees it as a way to revitalize his career. Gimmick is he’s got his son in it, too.”

  “Vincent Feldoni? Micki asked. “Now, there’s a man easy on the eyes. Maybe his dad’s banking on his son bringing in the younger crowd.”

  “From all I hear, his career’s hot,” Schuster said. “My sister tells me he prefers roles in complex dramas. She loves ’em. Can’t say I’ve seen any. I don’t care to pay twenty bucks to watch people ponder life’s mysteries. I need more action. He’s a nice enough guy, though.”

  “You met him?” Micki sounded ten years younger.

  “He came into the inventory shed while I was there. We chatted about restaurants he might try while he was in town. Turns out we’re both food geeks.”

  “Did he know why you were there?” Mort asked.

  Schuster shook his head. “He never asked and I never mentioned. The inventory chief introduced us using first names. California casual, you might say. We spent about ten minutes talking about fusion places he might try. I liked him. And the women love him. I had to wade through twenty minutes of gush from the inventory assistant about what a prince he is. How he’s doing this movie to please his father. Word on the set has it Papa Feldoni pretty much ignored him until Vincent started making it big on his own. She says Vince treats the crew well. I didn’t get the impression anyone felt the same about his father.”

  “I used to love his movies.” Jimmy pointed to Schuster. “You remember the one where his twin brother got killed by the mob? Feldoni comes out of that monastery in Tibet, poses as his dead brother, and takes out half the Chicago syndicate.”

  Schuster snapped his fingers. “Zen Master Ghost Killer! God, I watched that like twenty times. I musta been around ten. Drove my mother crazy.”

  Mort appreciated Jimmy offering his first civil words to Schuster, but he had two murders crowding his plate. “Did you get anything that might help us here?”

  Schuster pulled himself back into the moment. “The woman in charge of inventory assured me their system was foolproof. She wasn’t as friendly as her assistants, but she did show me how it worked. She screened up the times I asked for, all the time lecturing how secure their procedures were. She’s clicking through screens, complaining about how I’m wasting time and how tight their schedule is, when a look of concern comes over her face.”

  “Was it accompanied by an ‘Uh-oh’ or a ‘That’s odd’?” Jimmy asked his new cinema buddy.

  “It was a ‘This isn’t right,’ ” Schuster continued. “She called her assistant over, demanding an explanation. Poor kid just about fainted as she reamed her out without once raising her voice. She was pretty scary. She then tells me two handheld cameras were logged out and assigned to an operator to shoot Scene 14. They weren’t scanned back in until thirty-one hours later. Ms. Equipment Czar tells me there’s a strict policy. All gear stays on set…and according to her there’s no shooting past six o’clock. Ever. Apparently Feldoni likes to be back in his hotel suite every night for bath time with his six-month-old baby girl.”

  “That must sit rough with Vincent,” Jimmy said. “Making time for the new kid he never had for him.”

  “Let me guess.” Micki wasn’t petting Bruiser anymore. “It was the night of Crystal’s murder.”

  “It was.” Schuster underlined the movie title on the whiteboard. “Scary Equipment Lady got all nicey nice and didn’t mind at all searching the night Francie died.”

  “Same thing?” Jimmy asked. “Another thirty-one hours? Dare I dream the same cameraman?”

  “You’re half right. Same cameraman. But this time the equipment wasn’t checked back in at all.”

  “We have a name?” Mort asked. “Or better yet, do we have the cameraman in an interview room?”

  Schuster wrote a name on the whiteboard. “Eddie Yavornitzky. Goes sometimes by Eddie Yaz. Nobody’s seen him since the day Francie died.”

  Mort heard the hum of an investigative engine rolling down a hot track. “Great work, Schuster.”

  “There’s more.” Lydia stood and crossed to Mort’s computer. She tapped commands into the keyboard. “I spent last night reviewing Francie’s film frame by frame.” She spun his monitor around for everyone to see. “These are digitized close-ups of the murderer’s hands.”

  Mort peered at the screen. An extreme close-up showed white flesh marked with erratic ridges. “What is that? Some sort of flaking?”

  “More like caking,” Lydia said. “This next slide shows what happens when I zoomed in even closer.” She tapped the Enter button. The erratic ridges were now clearly delineated, their color slightly changed.

  “They look rosier,” Mort said.

  Lydia hit Enter again. “This is what they look like when I take away the makeup covering them.” The ridges were the same shape and size as before, but this time they were various shades of red and purple.

  “What is that?” Micki asked. “It’s not acne. Is it poison ivy? Maybe a burn?”

  “It looks like psoriasis,” Mort said. “Had an uncle with it. He didn’t have it this bad, but
I recognize it.”

  “Could be. Maybe it’s some kind of scar tissue. Whatever it is, it’s distinguishable.” Lydia turned to Schuster. “You said Feldoni’s crew told you they relied on lots of heavy makeup.”

  “Vince Feldoni is playing the role of kid brother to Anthony’s character,” Schuster said. “I figure the makeup’s to make his dad look younger.”

  “Maybe.” Lydia clicked to a split screen. This one showed the same shot of the killer’s hand, one with makeup and the other without. “Or maybe it’s to cover up this.”

  Mort liked what he heard. “Micki, you’re on Eddie Yaz. Find him. Find those cameras. Take whoever you need. Jimmy, you’re with Schuster. Find out who’s downloading this filth and where the money is going. We’ll meet back here tomorrow morning, but if anyone grabs anything before then, call me. Everybody stay by your phones. I’ll call if we need to meet before seven A.M.”

  Mort grabbed his car keys. “Lydia, you’re with me. We’ll swing by Jennifer’s. Then we’re going Hollywood.”

  Chapter 30

  She was angrier than was good for her. She wouldn’t be able to accomplish any forward momentum in this state. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the silk sofa. A long, deep intake of breath brought the soothing scent of lilacs to her. She imagined them behind the darkness of her eyelids. She’d asked the valet to place the vase of flowers on the glass sideboard flanking the fireplace in the suite’s main salon. Lilacs had been a springtime favorite of her mother’s. She’d cut them from the bush out front and arrange the fragrant branches in whatever container she could find. The aroma had filled the entire house. As much as she missed that sweet-smelling perfume from her childhood, nothing compared with the magic bouquet of these English lilacs.

  She opened her eyes surveyed the room. Double walnut doors on the northern wall of the suite closed off the main salon from the dining room. An identical set on the south wall separated the salon from two enormous sleeping quarters. The west wall was covered in raw silk and served as backdrop to an enormous canvas of abstract shapes designed to mirror the ancient city outside. Her gaze lingered on the painting. The bold brushstrokes, which on another day might have fascinated her in their majesty, only served to fuel her anger. She pulled her gaze away.

  She needed calm, not fire.

  The hearth was warm with the glow of freshly lit logs. The days were still cool here, despite the flowering promise of spring. She focused her attention on one log, hoping to quiet her mind as she watched the wood sputter and char in the flame.

  It soothed her, but insufficiently. She’d need total control of her emotions to be effective when he came into the room.

  She turned her attention to the east wall. Six ornate windows, framed in hand-carved walnut, gave her all of London. Majestic buildings with crowns of chimney pots. Low clouds reflecting the lights of city traffic and oversized taxis. The soft rain of a June afternoon.

  A cup of tea would be perfect. She rose and walked across an oriental carpet, gently threadbare in that oh-so-chic manner, and pressed a discrete call button mounted next to a gilt-framed Chagall. A moment later the valet appeared.

  “Yes, madam?” He kept his eyes averted. No one looked at her anymore. She knew it was considered a sign of respect, but she sometimes ached to be seen.

  By anyone but him.

  “I’d like some tea, Simon. Chamomile if we have it.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  He turned on whispering soles and left her alone.

  This was mine. My project. My design. My intent. He promised me.

  She pushed the thoughts away. They’d serve her no benefit. She must remain steady. She walked to the windows and looked down from her seventh-floor suite to the bustling city street. A clock chimed three times. People scurried along the sidewalks, some protected by black umbrellas, most covering their heads with briefcases, shopping bags, or newspapers. As though rain on a London day in June was the last thing they’d expected. People seldom thought to prepare. And it always cost them.

  I prepared. I planned my work and I worked my plan. Just like my father taught me. She felt a weary smile. But my mother used to tease him that the best way to make God laugh was to tell Him of our plans.

  But he hadn’t laughed when she told him of her plans. No. He had promised. Why was she so upset to learn his promises meant nothing? He was, at heart, a criminal. The worst in the world.

  She heard the door open. “Leave the tray by the sofa, Simon.” She watched a mother hunch over the pram she was pushing, shielding the child inside against the rain. “I’ll pour my own cup.”

  “I can pour tea.” His voice, always much louder than necessary, pulled her around. He waved Simon off with one dismissive hand and stepped behind the tea cart. “Trained monkey can pour. Even fancy cups of the English.”

  She thought of Patrick. She missed his wit and grace. She missed his handsome face, tall frame, and broad shoulders. But Patrick was gone. This was her life now. She forced a smile at the stocky man in the black suit.

  “Vadim.” She walked over to him. “Let me take that, darling.”

  He shook his head. “You. Sit. I like to…what is word?” He spoke the word in Russian. She imagined she should be flattered he was making the effort to speak English. He wasn’t learning as rapidly as she was picking up his own native tongue. But then, she had more time to focus on lessons than he did. Vadim Tokarev had his international syndicate to tend, after all.

  “ ‘Indulge,’ ” she answered. “Or, you could say ‘spoil.’ ”

  “Like the milk?” His brow wrinkled. “Like milk go bad and smell?”

  What a Neanderthal. She assumed the lovingly supportive guise she’d used so often to great success. “It’s just a silly phrase, darling. We say we spoil someone when we overindulge them.”

  He shook his finger in mock chastisement. The giant diamond in his pinkie ring flashed across the room. “ ‘Spoil’ mean ruin. I never wish ruin you. I wish indulge you. You sit and I pour tea.”

  She settled on the sofa like the obedient subservient she knew he wanted and watched him fumble with the delicate settings. She hoped that awful ring didn’t scratch any of the Royal Doulton. Vadim loved his diamonds. Her travel case was filled with rings, necklaces, bracelets, and broaches he’d given her. Each more garish than the last. She’d tried to steer him toward more elegant jewelry, but that wasn’t his style. The five-carat gumball on his little finger was his trademark. Patrick had made such fun of the swarthy Russian. “There’s not enough soap in the world to scrub him sufficiently clean for pleasant company,” she remembered him saying. He’d been so confident his business acumen and sense of refinement would lead him to victory against the brutish Vadim Tokarev. She and Patrick would retain sole control over the distribution of drugs in the western hemisphere.

  But Patrick was dead. She belonged to Tokarev now. She batted her eyes in the shy way he liked and thanked him for the cup he offered her. He clicked his heels and bowed before going to the bar and pouring himself three fingers of Russo-Baltique vodka. He’s been watching old movies again, she thought.

  “I meet Parkarin and Voilovick for dinner, Allichka.” He plopped down on the opposite end of the sofa. She bobbled to keep the tea he’d spilled into her saucer from dripping onto the silk.

  “I wish you’d call me Allie, darling.” She hated hearing her name coarsened. Patrick had his own name for her, too. Olwen. The Welsh word for “beautiful.” She hadn’t liked that, either. She was Allison Edith Grant. She wanted to be known for who she was. Who am I kidding? I become whatever they want. Whatever they need. They could call me Mother Goose for all the stories I tell to keep them entertained. That’s why this project is so important. It’s something all my own. A piece of enterprise where I can be respected.

  “They bring their women. I bring you. You…what you say before? It make me laugh so hard? When you take me shopping?”

  She knew exactly the phrase he was
trying to recall. It was their first trip to Paris. Less than a month after he’d come for her in that noisy black helicopter. He’d intended to kill her, revenge for Patrick’s butchery against his favorite whore. She knew he’d rape her first, and that gave her a window of opportunity to convince him she could be of significant value to him and his enterprise. Men are so easy. Within weeks I was strolling out of the Hotel George V on your arm, introducing you at the finest ateliers in Paris. That creature you once ordered to drag me out of Lydia’s home by the hair bowed as he opened the Mercedes door for me.

  “Dress to impress, darling.” She sipped her tea. “You want me to dress to impress.”

  “Da!” Tokarev slapped his knee. “You dress that way. Show women what can happen if their men work hard. Wear head diamonds, too.”

  She cringed at the tasteless display of brashness he was suggesting. A tiara? He dare propose she wear a crown in a city of royals?

  “Of course, darling. Let me plan a feast to be served here in the suite.” Away from judging British eyes. “We will show them how they could live if they obey your rules.”

  He was quiet for a moment before bestowing her with an appreciative gaze. “You have good idea. Take women away after eating. Men stay.”

  “Of course, darling.” She glanced at the clock. It was nearly three thirty. “I’ll arrange a private tour of the Tate. Shall we say seven o’clock for dinner? The ladies and I can leave you at eight thirty and I’ll have them back here by eleven. Does that allow you enough time?” Arranging a catered dinner for six followed by a personal tour of one of the world’s most elite museums might demand weeks or months of planning by most people. But Allie had the limitless wealth and undisputed power of Vadim Tokarev behind her. She’d make no more than four phone calls and it would be done, with ample time for a massage and bubble bath before she needed to start dressing.

  Tokarev tilted his head back to finish his drink. He slammed the crystal tumbler on the coffee table and smacked his lips loud enough for any Moscow back hall. “I will tell them. Seven o’clock.” He stood and turned toward the door. “You pick suit for me. Lay on bed.”