Fixed in Blood Page 20

  The road veered to the right and ended. Various pods of people stood in an open field large enough to land a couple of planes. Miles of cable and wires snaked through moss, ferns, and open patches of dirt. The field was bordered by cedar and pine trees. Douglas firs scraped against a low gray sky. Mort looked to the southeast, where Mount Rainier should have been floating above it all. Today there was nothing but dense clouds. Edie had a special remark for days like this. Somebody forgot to make the view payment.

  “Pretty easy to tell who’s who.” Lydia was back in observation mode. The cast members dressed as Army personnel stood together, laughing and relaxed. A few of them smoked. “Those are the extras, background fillers.” She pointed to two smaller groups: one dressed in military uniforms, the other in the latest New York fashions. They studied scripts they were holding, then looked away and whispered to no one. “Minor characters.” She pointed to an area to her right, where four large campers stood. “Major actors are in there. Their agents negotiated trailers.”

  “And these people running around in nylon jackets and baseball caps with Nothing but Money embroidered on ’em?” Mort asked. “They’re the production crew?”

  Her smile was genuine. He hoped she’d left her theories of being for another day. “That must be why you’re chief of detectives.”

  “Let’s go see who wants to take us to their leader.” They left the car and walked toward what was obviously an active set. Cameras, overhead microphones, lights, and the people who operated them bustled around a short run of track, like an abbreviated railroad to nowhere. Mort and Lydia had taken no more than seven steps when a tiny woman with blond hair cropped short and spiky ran toward them, waving her clipboard.

  “Yoo-hoo.” She sounded like a chipmunk who’d gotten into the helium tank. “You in the Michael Kors jacket and you in the…in the…” Pixie Cut stopped a few feet beside them and eyed Mort up and down. “Let’s just say ‘you in the coat.’ ” She turned back toward Lydia. “Aren’t you fearless to wear suede in this climate?” She looked up to the roiling gray canopy. “Argh! I keep a live feed of Malibu on my cell just to remind me of civilization. It’s yummy and seventy-six today, in case you’re wondering. You should go.”

  “To California?” Mort asked.

  “Oh, I should go to California.” Pixie Cut adjusted her headset. “That’s for damned sure. I don’t know how people live up here. I haven’t seen the sun in nine days. Nine entire days! And I’ve been looking. But no, I meant you should go…anywhere. It’s not necessary for me to know the details. You just need to scoot. You’re not allowed to be here.”

  Mort pulled out his shield and identified himself.

  Pixie Cut ran her finger over Mort’s badge. “I like it! I’d probably wipe it with a bit of stain to soften the brassy Walmart thing it’s got working. But that would kick ass pinned to the knot on a woven scarf.” She looked to Lydia. “Don’t you think? Oh! On a belt! With some skinny jeans and a chambray shirt.” Pixie turned back to Mort. “Where can I get one?”

  “I can’t help you there,” Mort said. “But I might have a set of bracelets for you.”

  Pixie looked bewildered the moment before she got the joke. She smiled and showed off what had to be fifty thousand dollars of dental work. “You’re funny. You still need to go.”

  “This gives me permission to be here.” Mort tapped his badge before tucking it back in his pocket. “Who’s in charge?”

  Pixie shook her perky little head. “You’ll have to be more specific, copper. This is a total union set. There’s someone in charge of everything. Catering, sound, lights, wardrobe, animals…you name it.”

  “Who is in charge of the people in charge?” Mort asked. “The big cheese. The head honcho. The person you least want to piss off. Who’s that?”

  “The director,” Lydia said. “Who’s the director and is he or she here?”

  Pixie leaned back. “He or she?” Her short laugh lacked any mirth. “Honey, you may dress like you know the score, but this is Hollywood! The last remaining outpost of the all-boys club. Even the military has women admirals and generals. But unless you got Sherry Lansing hiding in that scrumptious Birkin bag, there’s no women in charge here.”

  Mort didn’t have time for the political diatribes of this miniature she-wolf, as insightful as they might be. “Who is the director?”

  “That would be Ben Verte. I worked with him four years ago when he did Born to Fly. It bombed at the box office, but a couple of critics said there were parts they didn’t hate. Good guy. Doesn’t say much, but he always treats me nice. You here to arrest him?”

  “Should he?” Lydia asked.

  Pixie’s laugh was genuine this time. “Hell if I know. You think the director sits around telling the scheduler’s second assistant stories about his darkest deeds?” She laid a hand on Mort’s arm. “Baby, I just thought that’s what you do. Cops, I mean. Oh, please don’t tell me someone your age is up here looking for autographs. You gotta be, what? Like, middle-age or something?”

  “Where can we find Ben Verte?” Lydia asked. Mort was glad she did. His patience was waning with this bouncy slice of SoCal.

  Pixie made a face while she pondered her next move. “Oh, what the hell. If he bites my head off, I’ll tell him I was afraid you were gonna go all Ferguson on my ass. Follow me.”

  Mort and Lydia walked behind her. Their presence went unnoticed by the scores of well-tanned actors, makeup artists, and crew they passed. Mort wondered if self-absorption was a latitudinal attitude. He watched Lydia’s eyes scan the entire tableau. She’d see everything, forget nothing, and analyze its significance back in the car.

  They approached a group of six or seven men huddled together. Mort detected frustration and defensiveness in their voices. They all snapped into immediate silence when Pixie Cut turned the volume up on her Mickey Mouse voice.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger and all that, Ben. But this tall drink of water behind me is a cop. Says he needs to talk to you or he’s gonna slap the cuffs on me.”

  The first man to move was about an inch shy of six feet. Mort pegged him around his own age, north of fifty but not yet to the next big birthday. He wore his dark hair close, just longer than a buzz cut. His well-trimmed beard was frosted with gray. His windbreaker bore the name of the film across the back.

  “It’s okay, River Leaf.” He extended a gloved hand in greeting. “I’m Ben Verte.” His grip and voice were strong. He smiled at the small woman with the short hair. “I don’t want to keep you from your work. Again, you did the right thing. Thanks.”

  River Leaf hesitated a moment, then left them with a jaunty wave. Mort pulled out his shield and introduced himself and Lydia.

  “What’s your area, Detective Grant?” Verte seemed to be sizing them up. Mort got the impression he might be mentally running through his staff list, choosing which assistant to hand them off to. He knew his next word would end any of that.

  “Homicide.”

  The small group of men Ben Verte had been engaged with exchanged startled looks. The tightness of their band eased as several took a step or two back. A few rubbed the backs of their necks. All pulled out cellphones and focused on the screens. Lydia watched them while Mort kept his eyes on Verte.

  “Let’s continue this discussion in my trailer.” Verte dismissed the group behind him. No one objected. Each called out various urgings to the director to call if they were needed as they struggled not to break into a full run to escape the moment. The entire set would know Ben Verte was being questioned by a homicide cop in less than five minutes.

  They followed him. This time everyone looked up from whatever they were doing and followed their progress toward the cluster of mobile homes on the edge of the clearing. Ben opened the door to the largest and stepped aside to let Lydia and Mort enter first.

  Two men in sweatshirts and backward-turned ball caps were inside, engrossed with videos on wall-mounted monitors and commenting on what they saw. Most o
f it sounded like insider jargon, but Mort caught a few phrases he recognized from a photography class he and Edie took years ago when she decided they needed a hobby they could share. Neither man looked up until Ben Verte spoke.

  “Andy? Cliff?”

  The men looked up. Confusion crossed their faces when they recognized Ben was standing with people they’d not seen before.

  “I need the room.” Neither man asked for explanation as they gathered their electronics. “Check in with wardrobe,” Verte suggested. “Make sure they’re ready for Scene 28. We’ll shoot that next. Then grab something to eat. I’ll meet you at the catering truck when I’m finished here.”

  Andy and Cliff left and Ben Verte continued down the hall toward a closed door at the rear of the trailer. He knocked once, went inside, and closed the door behind him.

  “I’ll go outside. Make sure there’s no back door,” Lydia said.

  Mort had a clear view of the set through the living room window. “I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

  Lydia stepped behind him to gain clear sight of the small patch of green behind the trailer. “The forest is pretty dense back there. He wouldn’t get far.”

  The door at the end of the hall opened and a tall, thin man in sweatpants stumbled out. The tousled chaos of several cowlicks in his thick brown hair, combined with bare feet and a look of spaced-out disconnection, suggested he’d been awakened long before he was ready. As he neared, Mort pegged him to be in his late twenties. He nodded a silent greeting to Mort and Lydia as he entered the living room.

  “Here.” Ben Verte grabbed a flannel shirt off the back of a chair and tossed it to him. “Put this on. Your sandals are by the door. Go get something to eat.” Verte’s voice of authority was laced with tenderness. “If you get bored, go hang with the extras. I’ll find you when I’m done.” Verte walked to the door and ran his hand over the man’s hair, trying to tame the sleep out of it. As the man reached for the door handle, Verte pulled him back, kissed him on the cheek, and apologized for waking him. “I’ll see you soon.” He closed the door, went to the window, and watched the man walk away before returning his attention to Mort and Lydia.

  “My husband,” Verte said. “Hudson. We were supposed to be honeymooning in Venice. But three weeks ago the director originally scheduled for this production had the audacity to drop dead while brushing his teeth. The studio was in a jam and called me. I had to convince Hud of the number of favors I’d gather if I stepped in at the last minute. He insisted on coming along. He just finished med school. Six weeks is all he’s got before he starts his residency.” Verte sighed. “What can I say? At least we’re together. Can I get you something? Iced tea? Coffee? I’m not much of a drinker, but I’m sure I could scare up a beer if you’d like.”

  Mort thought he seemed too calm for a fellow standing next to a homicide detective. “Mr. Verte, we have reason to believe the two cameras missing from your inventory were used to film two murders in Seattle. Tell me what you know about the missing equipment. And tell me everything you know about Eddie Yavornitzky.”

  “What’s Eddie Yaz got to do with this?”

  Mort watched that soft spot at the base of Verte’s neck. He nodded toward the director’s gloved hands. “California that much balmier than here, Mr. Verte?”

  Verte smiled. “If I’m going to get grilled, I’d prefer to be called Ben.” He held up his hands. “And yes, California’s balmier than here…and far less damp. I use a scope when I block a shot. I don’t want to drop anything.” He turned to Lydia. “And what’s your role in this visit?”

  “I consult,” Lydia answered. “I’m a clinical psychologist working with Detective Grant’s team on these cases.”

  Verte’s eyes lingered on her. “A psychologist. Interesting. Are you analyzing me now?”

  “I analyze people when I’m paid to do that.” Lydia matched Verte’s attitude of nonchalance.

  “Do psychologists know when someone is lying?” Verte’s question struck Mort as odd. “Are you especially trained to ferret out those telltale signs we’re all supposed to have?”

  “I operate on the assumption people tell me the truth, Ben.” Lydia’s smile gave away nothing. “Would that be an appropriate assumption with you?”

  Verte’s eyes lit with excitement. “I must speak with you at length. You could be of tremendous help with another project I’m working on. By the way, what should I call you?”

  “What would you like to call me?”

  “Ah!” Verte clapped his hands together. “It’s true. Psychologists answer questions with questions. I’ll call you Lydia. It’s lovely with a hint of mystery. Like you.” He paused and kept his eyes on her. “Tell me, Lydia. When you’re done consulting with Detective Grant, will you spend a week with me in Bel Air?”

  Mort didn’t need Lydia’s powers of observation and analysis to know Verte was avoiding his questions.

  “Cameras, Ben.” Mort pulled out a notebook and pen. “When were you informed they were missing?”

  Verte turned from Lydia. He took a seat on a sofa built into the side wall of this trailer and asked them both to sit. Lydia took the bench opposite Verte. Mort sat at the small dining table next to the kitchen.

  “Sonya Wernikoff oversees our equipment inventory. She runs a tight ship, but even the strictest policies can be broken if one is determined. I’ve been using large dolly cameras and other handhelds in scenes I’ve been shooting. The few times I needed the cameras, they were there. I didn’t know those particular ones had disappeared until she came to me. She discovered the misappropriation when your colleague from Vice came to see her. When he left, she came straight to me. Sonya was, as you can imagine, terribly upset.”

  “What did you make of it?” Mort asked.

  Verte shrugged. “I surround myself with highly talented technicians. Artists, really. I’m not surprised when one of them gets the itch to use a piece of equipment they could never afford for a personal project.”

  “Do you have any idea what type of project Yavornitzky was working on?”

  “When Sonya told me it was Vice who’d asked the questions, I was a bit unnerved. I spoke to the detective myself; his name was Schuster if I’m not mistaken. He was rather nonspecific. I assumed my cameras had been used to make a contribution to the porn industry. Now you’re here telling me murders were filmed.”

  Mort watched the pulse quicken at the base of Verte’s throat. He didn’t wait for an answer. “What do know about Eddie Yavornitzky?”

  “Are you saying Eddie’s involved?” Verte seemed more curious than alarmed.

  “When did you see him last?” Mort asked.

  “I’d have to check the assignment logs. Yaz is not our lead cameraman. He’s talented, but lacks the maturity necessary for true responsibility. He’s more of a dilettante. I suppose not having the need to earn a living contributes to that somehow.”

  “What do you mean?” Mort asked.

  Verte sighed. “Eddie Yavornitzky is a trust-fund baby. His father was a fraternity brother of mine. Eddie’s grandfather is the guy who invented the process for molding plastic. There’s enough money for countless generations to do nothing but indulge their whims. Eddie’s current fancy is cinematography. His father called and asked if I’d give his kid an experience on a working set. What could I say? Sigma Chis are brothers for life.”

  “Do you have a personal relationship with Eddie?”

  “Meaning?” Verte’s soft spot was visibly pulsing now.

  “Did you see him outside of work? Did you share dinners? Hobbies?”

  Verte looked down at his folded hands resting in his lap. “I try to build a friendly environment on my sets. Call people by their first name. It fosters creativity. But as with all social organizations, there’s a hierarchy. I’m sure there’s one within your own department. I’m the director. To the powers that be in the studio, I’m an interchangeable cog in their moneymaking wheel. But on the set…”

  “You’re God
,” Lydia offered. “Eddie was part of the camera crew, regardless of his money or connections.”

  “Exactly.” Verte smiled. “You’re very good at what you do, aren’t you?”

  “You’re aware that both the equipment and Eddie are miss—”

  Mort’s question was interrupted when the trailer door flew open. Mort recognized the intruder in an instant. When Robbie was a teenager, he and Mort had a standing date for every Anthony Feldoni opening night.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Feldoni was smaller than he appeared on-screen. Maybe five foot seven if he had the right boots. The chiseled body Feldoni had paraded in at least a dozen action films decades earlier had softened, but Mort thought he’d still be able to hold his own in any roadhouse dustup. Feldoni pointed a finger at Mort. “You the homicide dick the whole set’s talking about?” He shifted to Verte. “You kill somebody, Ben? So help me God, you screw up this shoot you won’t have to worry about any judge or jury.” Feldoni turned to Lydia. “And what are you supposed to be? The brainy sidekick he ends up screwing?” He squared his shoulders and put his hands on his hips. “Somebody better start talking and they better start talking now.”

  Feldoni wore gray sweatpants with electric-blue boxing trunks over them. The years had done little to tarnish his rugged good looks. His white sleeveless T-shirt revealed still-impressive shoulders and chest. His hands were taped, as though he was ready to slip them inside a pair of padded leather gloves and step into the ring for a sparring match. Incongruous to his straight-from-the-gym attire, Mort could see he wore more makeup than any dockside hooker he ever encountered back in his days pounding the beat. And whatever was on his jet-black hair to make it look sweaty was starting to crust over. He waved a dismissive hand when Mort started to introduce himself.

  “I don’t need to know your name. I just need to know what the fuck you’re doing on my set and when the fuck you plan on leaving.” Feldoni turned his angry brown eyes toward Ben Verte. “I’ve poured my passion into this project. My kid and I are sitting out there, ready to shoot. Good to go. All we need is some fucker with a bullhorn to yell ‘Action.’ ” He took a half step toward Verte and leaned forward. “Is that gonna be you? Or do I make a call and get some other dipshit artiste up here?”