Quilt City: Proving a Negative, page 13
“In mine, too, but soliciting random videos will tax you and your staff beyond your capabilities. Police tip lines receive countless calls from every nutjob who doesn’t know up from down but is certain he just saw Bigfoot rob Kroger.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but we won’t know what we’ll find until we watch the footage.”
“That’s where I’m confused: What are you hoping to find?”
“Someone paid our anonymous tipster to incite the riot. Maybe someone captured that conversation or transaction unwittingly.”
“But you don’t know what the tipster looks like.”
“What if he was paid by someone I do know? Then, I’d have a lead, and that could be enough.”
“True, but the odds of capturing that transaction are longer than the two of them being overcome by their guilty consciences and turning themselves in.”
“Maybe, but stranger things have been known to happen.”
The waiter delivered Brandon’s steak and my salmon. We thanked him, and I said to Brandon, “But capturing that transaction is less important than catching the killers entering The Windsor. Because the security cameras were knocked out doesn’t mean they weren’t captured on someone’s phone.”
“Sure, if someone felt the need to film people walking down the street and entering a hotel.”
“Please don’t choke on your steak or your cynicism.”
“I’m only trying to save you hundreds of hours of frustration. You’re booked to the gills as it is.”
“Are you saying you’re unhappy with how often we see each other?”
“Of course, I want to see you more, but that’s not the point I’m making. What I’m saying—poorly, it appears—is that various LEOs have deployed every resource available, and you think your staff of how many—six?—can find something we can’t? Really?”
“It’s happened before, and I don’t recall receiving a PPD press release asking the public for footage. That was my idea.”
“You’re right, and if it pans out, I will officially stand corrected and will be justifiably impressed. How’s your salmon?”
“Delicious. How’s the steak?”
“Perfect. I apologize for upsetting you.”
“You haven’t upset me, but you don’t seem to believe in me.”
“Oh, Baby, that’s not true, not in the slightest. I believe in you absolutely. I’m simply trying again to get you to stay in your lane. You already run in two or three of them, so I’m truly looking out for you, nothing more.”
“Well, you just said it’s more than that. You don’t want me to solve crimes.”
“Of course, I want the crimes solved, and I’d be delighted if you solved them. But another PPD officer has laid hands on you, and Powell looked like he was ready to shoot us both.”
“Okay, I appreciate your concern. Truly. But I have two jobs now: to run the newspaper and to be the mayor of the city, which means that although I don’t really run the city, people think I do. Therefore, I’m not trying to resolve the disasters of the last few days to step on anyone’s toes, to make PPD look bad, or to prove how tough I am. I’m trying to solve these crimes because they need to be solved. Our citizens deserve answers and deserve to feel safe, and I have employees whose livelihoods are based on the success of the paper. If you and your fellow LEOs feel like solving these crimes anytime soon, please do. In the meantime, I’m going to do what I must.”
“Wow, I’ve hit a nerve. I’m very sorry.”
“I accept your apology, and I’m not that upset at your lack of faith in me—”
“Baby—”
“But I haven’t told you what’s bothering me, eating at me, threatening to consume me. One of my reporters, Mickey Lyle, is missing. Short of driving the interstate and every street and road between Louisville and Paducah—and everywhere else within a five-state area, now that I think about it—I’ve done everything I can think to do. Called every police department and hospital, spoke to his roommate. Nothing. All I know is he was drunk when he spoke late last night to Wendell Penn, his roommate. Mickey said he was staying somewhere sketchy and would be doing undercover work, but he didn’t turn up to meet Ashley today at 5.”
“I’m sorry. No wonder you’re out of sorts. But you’re saying he’s only been missing for”—he looked at his watch—“less than four hours?”
“Yes, but he’s never stood up a source before. He runs a little late but always shows up. I have a bad feeling.”
He stood, then walked around the table and put his arms out. I stood and hugged him awkwardly, trying neither to get fish on my pants nor bump into the diner behind me.
We sat, and he said, “Probability dictates he’s had car trouble. He could be out of cell range, or his battery’s dead. Maybe he forgot his charger. This isn’t a catastrophe yet. What was he working on?”
“A follow-up story about Jill Rondell, a nineteen-year-old Murray State volleyball player who just died of liver failure.”
“How awful. Any chance it’s genetic? Even if she were a hardcore secret drinker, she couldn’t do that kind of damage that quickly, I wouldn’t think.”
“She was an excellent athlete, according to Ash and Mickey. Good enough to be offered scholarships to the powerhouse volleyball schools. But she wanted to stay near home. I don’t know about the genetic link, but I doubt alcohol abuse was the cause.”
“What was the follow-up story about?”
“You’ve heard of Name, Image, Likeness deals, right?” He nodded. “Jill had a couple of those, and Mickey said another one was in the works. It wasn’t like him to withhold information from me, but he didn’t let me know what he was working on. I think that was because he felt like a real reporter, not just a sportswriter. He lives and breathes sports, and his enthusiasm for his job is admirable, even enviable. But he was breaking story with this one, investigating, rather than simply interviewing coaches and athletes. He told Wendell he’d be doing James Bond stuff. I don’t know if he was seriously drunk because he was enjoying himself or because he was afraid. It doesn’t matter because he’s missing either way.”
The server silently cleared our plates.
“Would you like dessert tonight?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” I said. Brandon shook his head and said, “Just the check, please.”
He said to me, “We’ll find him. He’s probably okay. Maybe he got popped for DWI, had the car impounded, and his phone’s in the car. It happens a lot.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Wouldn’t someone have told me that when I called Louisville PD?”
“Did you identify yourself as a reporter?”
“Yes.”
“There you go.”
“I should’ve thought of that. I figured if I told dispatch he was my employee, I’d get more traction than I would have if I’d been a worried mother or girlfriend.”
“He’ll turn up. Let’s get you home.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Which would you prefer?”
“I want to check on Ash and the dogs. Then, yours.”
“Two nights in a row? Be careful: Your family has addiction issues.”
“Oh, I’m already hooked.”
At Brandon’s, I made the mistake of pulling up Pulse’s emails. Seventy-seven videos had arrived. As I counted them, two more hit the inbox. I congratulated myself for purchasing the maximum number of gigabytes on the company’s computers, then wondered whether Brandon had been correct when he’d suggested that putting out a public call for videos would be a mistake.
I tried to sleep but couldn’t, so I sat in the living room for three hours and watched one video after another. Most of them were accompanied by emails that said something similar to: “Not sure what you’re looking for, but it could be on here. Who knows?”
I watched bundled-up children asking their parents what they were doing today and slow panoramas taken by couples holding selfie-sticks. Their smiling faces concluded their scans of Market House Square, the Carson Center, the Paducah Wall to Wall Floodwall Murals, and the tents, trailers, cranes, cameras, and other assorted equipment sitting idle or being used by the film crew.
I watched seven young men turn a small Hyundai on its side, then one of them fail to set it on fire. People fled, bricks and punches flew, trashcans burned, windows shattered, alarms blared, and sirens wailed in some videos. Others were filled with images of families waiting to experience some Hollywood magic. I found it jarring to keep jumping in time from one video to the next. I saw hundreds of people participating in the riot or trying to escape it, but I didn’t see anything in the videos that made me think, “Yes, that’s something.” The wanton displays of anger upset me, but they were mitigated slightly by the few acts of kindness I saw.
I watched ninety-eight videos, then admitted that Brandon had been correct: I’d wasted my time.
Eventually I fell asleep beside Brandon, after worrying for half an hour about Mickey Lyle. My phone woke me at 8:31.
“Hadley,” Garrett said, “I obviously woke you. Sorry. I know how tough sleep can be for you. I shoulda waited ’cause what I got ain’t urgent.”
“Don’t worry. You’re fine. What is it?”
“Rocco Niles’s alibi holds up. I wanted to discredit his three buddies who vouched for him, but I tracked down security footage from a Memphis motel that confirmed he was out of town for a week. He was doing a welding job down there on a high rise going up.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the legwork. But either I’m sleep deprived and still groggy, or you’re slipping. Just because he was out of town when Frank was killed doesn’t mean he couldn’t have tampered with the tank.”
“You’re right—it don’t. But I didn’t tell the story right. In your business, you have a phrase for it.”
“Burying the lede?”
“Yeah, that’s it. I shoulda led with the fact his foreman in Memphis and two former bosses confirm that Rocco never uses nitrogen. He exclusively does what’s called MIG and TIG welding, and those use argon and helium. You probably guessed chemistry ain’t my strong suit, but I know enough to know that if a guy’s got no experience doing something, he ain’t gonna choose that something as a way to kill someone. No way. He’s good with a gun, he’ll use that. If it’s a crime of passion, impulsive, he’s gonna grab what’s available, but he ain’t gonna use a technique he’s not comfortable with and hope his method works. A hot-head like him would grab a pipe and finish the job.”
“As usual, your reasoning is sound. I apologize for thinking you may have slipped. But you may have slipped.”
“So, this is you before coffee, huh?”
“This version of me doesn’t even have the right to vote. Here’s the thing: While becoming a welder, Rocco would’ve heard of using nitrogen instead of argon and helium, and he could’ve hired someone to kill the guy sleeping with his wife.”
“Good point, but I poked around in their finances. Let me rephrase that for legal purposes: If someone looked into the finances of the Niles family, they would find they ain’t got what I’d call ‘hit-man money.’ They couldn’t buy a used spittoon at a yard sale. The guy makes decent money welding, better than decent, but their house must be filled with Sam’s Club junk, and their cars are money pits, and a slick salesman talked them into a timeshare in Gulf Shores, and Dawn makes almost nothing at Dollar General. Did they come into some money from a relative or a lottery win, then he decided to spend it on a hitman? Sure, that could happen, just like I could win a modeling contest next week.”
“Okay, you’ve made your point. I apologize again. You’re not slipping.”
“But my numbers are. Down another pound. Soon I’ll be in danger of being svelte.” He laughed.
“I’m very happy for you, Garrett. Really. Seeing you in love should give hope to everyone without any.”
“That’s why I’m here. My headstone will read: Garrett Hunt—source of inspiration.”
“Let’s hope that’s not necessary anytime soon. Although ruling out Rocco isn’t the same as finding the killer, I have another pressing need that could use your expertise.”
“You got it.”
“Our sports reporter, Mickey Lyle, is missing. He was supposed to return to Paducah from Louisville by 5 p.m. Monday. It’s now almost 9 on Tuesday, but nobody’s heard from him, including his roommate, Wendell Penn. I checked the hospitals and spoke to police forces.”
“That’s not a long time to be missing. Guy coulda met someone. Let’s hope he did. Nothing better than being swept away.”
“I agree, and I hope that’s the case. But if I don’t hear from him fairly soon, I’ll have to take a different approach.”
“You can’t go looking. It’s two-hundred-plus miles along the Parkway. For all you know, he could be in Lexington—or Philadelphia. Coulda lost his phone. Do you know anyone’s numbers the way we used to? I don’t. Used to could rattle off a dozen, no problem. Not with cell phones.”
“True, but I can think of three ways he could’ve reached out.”
“That assumes he wants to. A guy could intentionally lose himself in many things. Does he drink, do drugs, gamble, or have a weakness for women?”
“He drinks, and he was drunk during the last conversation he had with Wendell. He said he had some James Bond stuff to do.”
“Look, Hadley, I know you’re upset, and I appreciate your concern, but here’s what I think you should do: Give it ’til noon. If he doesn’t show up or make contact, I’ll start to look. My bet is he met a woman, and more power to him.”
“I hope you’re right.”
But he wasn’t right.
SEVENTEEN
REPLAY
“I’d like to speak with you again,” I said on the phone to director Angus MacPherson.
“Aren’t we doing that?”
“I meant in person.”
“I’m in L.A. Unless you need a vacation—and if you don’t mind me saying, I think you do—this is the best you’ll get. But you only have a few minutes. My masseuse will be here in fifteen. I start every morning with a massage.”
“Okay, but I’m surprised you’re in L.A. because law enforcement’s still investigating.”
“They cleared me, all of them—the cops, FBI, and Secret Service. Made no sense for the Secret Service to be there because if the money’d been counterfeit, which falls into their jurisdiction, then it wouldn’t have been stolen. But bureaucracies aren’t just on movie sets, and I’m not the one who’s going to rid the world of them.”
“I’m glad you brought up the money. I didn’t get a clear answer to why you needed to use so much real money for the scene. Why couldn’t a few thousand dollars—the money they flash and the money you shoot closeups of—have been real, and the rest fake?”
“Sweetheart, I looked you up, and you’re good at what you do, but your C.V. says nothing about filmmaking. You want an answer, though, so here goes: The actors would know it’s fake, and I would know it’s fake. Real money has a smell, a heft, a gravitas that Monopoly money doesn’t. For me to get the best performances from my actors, they had to believe they’d just pulled off a two-million-dollar score.”
I almost said, “You’re making a silly heist film targeting fourteen-year-old boys, and I’m certain the actors never confused themselves with their characters,” but I stopped myself because the interview would have been over, and I hadn’t addressed the reason I’d called.
Instead, I said, “I noticed that two of the three rescue divers barely got wet. They stood at the edge of the river, looking the part, with their tanks and wetsuits, but when Frank needed help, they shuffled, like men going to the gallows, not like professionals trained to perform rescues in emergencies.”
“What’s your question?”
“How do you explain their behavior?”
“We off the record?”
“No. I’m trying to solve murders.”
“Then we’re done.”
“Okay, fine. We’re off the record.”
“I told you I checked you out. You’re for real, so I take it ‘off the record’ means what it’s supposed to mean to you?”
“Yes. I give you my word.”
“They weren’t real divers. Two craft-services guys I persuaded to stand there and look convincing.”
“They didn’t manage that. I knew something was wrong with them right away. Bobby Kimble looked like a pro, but they looked like young brothers wearing their father’s clothes.”
“You’re good. They are brothers, but they didn’t do anything wrong here. Just did what their superiors told them to do. The real guys got sick. Food poisoning like you’ve never heard of. Lost so much fluid they had to get IVs in the ER. They’re pretty much okay now, but Emo Facetimed me yesterday, and he looked like a Halloween skeleton version of himself.”
“So, instead of postponing the shoot, you enlisted unqualified divers to assist in case of an emergency, and when an emergency occurred, they froze, contributing to Frank’s death. Are you aware how vulnerable you are legally?”
“Darling, I’m not vulnerable at all. The producers hired me and everyone else, and the producers took out I-don’t-know-how-much insurance to cover all eventualities. Deaths on set, unfortunately, are one such eventuality. Every set I’ve been on has taken precautions, some of them to absurd lengths. If I’d told Tammy and Stephen the divers were sick, at least two unions would’ve gotten involved, and the shoot would’ve been postponed, costing them a lot of money. The odds of something significant going wrong were astronomical … Gotta go, that’s the door. Remember, darling, off the record.”
“My name’s Hadley, and yours should be Mudd.” He hung up, and I was certain he didn’t get my reference to the doctor who’d tended to John Wilkes Booth after he’d assassinated President Lincoln. Samuel Mudd was found guilty of conspiring with Booth and was sentenced to life in prison, nearly being put to death. President Andrew Johnson later commuted Mudd’s sentence. My fear was that Angus MacPherson would also evade true consequences.
