Killer Ambition Read online

  “Did you order for me?” I asked. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the large pot on the table.

  “Yeah, your pathetic little egg whites and stewed tomato are over there.” She pointed to a silver dome on the side table.

  I sat down and spread a napkin on my lap. “What do you think of the story Brittany told us about that writer, Tommy Whatsisname?” I uncovered my sad little egg whites, scooped up a forkful, and tried to look ecstatic.

  “Tommy Maher,” she said. “So now we’ve got someone with a possible motive.”

  “If that script really did turn into a mega-blockbuster, I could see how someone would go nuts enough to want to destroy Russell.”

  “But it’s been what? Ten years since that movie came out?”

  “At least. Yeah, that’s an awfully long time to wait for revenge.”

  “Still, we may as well see where it takes us. I looked up the show Brittany starred in at the time: Circle of Friends. They shot it at the Warner Brothers Ranch Studio in Burbank. We can go talk to them and see if anyone remembers the story.”

  “You want to call ahead and make sure they get us a ‘drive-on’?” I said as I slithered my fork toward Bailey’s pancakes. I was getting into position to sneak a bite while she made the call.

  “Look at you, using the lingo,” Bailey said. “Been there, done that. And I see you, Knight, so put down the fork.”

  Seeing my crushed look, Bailey relented and pushed her plate forward. “I’m done anyway. But make it snappy, we’ve got to get moving.”

  Ten minutes later, and a little high on carbs and syrup, I was in the car and we were heading for the freeway.

  The Warner Brothers Ranch Studio is a little gated city. The head of security had arranged a parking space for us and sent out a guard in a golf cart to escort us to his office. Bailey and I had discussed whether we should just ask Russell about what happened with Tommy. But if this argument had some significance to the case, it would be better for us to find out all we could from uninvolved—or less involved—third parties before we heard Russell’s side of things.

  The guard drove us to a building at the far end of the studio lot and stopped in front of a door marked HEAD OF SECURITY. The nameplate under that title said NED JUNGER. We knocked on the door, and a ruddy-faced man as wide as he was tall—and he was at least six feet two—answered.

  “Detectives,” he said.

  We shook hands, and mine disappeared into his gigantic paw as I told him I was a prosecutor. No sense getting off on the wrong foot by pretending to be someone I’m not. This time at least. He gestured for us to take a seat in the wire-framed chairs in front of his desk, and he settled into his own much larger and cushier chair behind it.

  I told him what we’d heard about Tommy Maher and Russell. He nodded.

  “I remember that. I’d just started here. That was, what, ten years ago? But I heard about it. You thinking that has something to do with Hayley being missing?”

  “We don’t know,” Bailey said. “We’re just checking into all possibilities.”

  “Sure. Though it’s hard to see the…well, why don’t I just tell you what I know and leave you two to connect the dots?”

  Ned leaned back and held on to the arms of his chair. “Russell came up with that screenplay, and right away there was talk about it being a blockbuster. Wonderland Warriors. You ever see it?”

  We admitted we hadn’t. I could see Ned was winding up to tell us a story that was probably recycled for every newcomer on the lot.

  “Movie wasn’t half bad. Kind of a kid thing, but adults liked it too. Can’t go wrong when you hit the whole family that way. Action-type film like The Transformers but with a fairy tale attached to it, like The Princess Bride. Anyway, the buzz started right off the bat about this great script and the big deal Russell would be getting. For a young TV writer—hell, for anyone—it was a huge deal. You ask him, he’ll tell you.”

  Bailey nodded encouragingly and Ned continued.

  “So Tommy gets wind of it and goes apeshit. Starts yelling that it was his script, that Russell stole it from him. Now, Tommy always had been a bit of a loose cannon. Wasn’t the first time he’d complained about someone taking credit for something he’d done. Got into a lot of fights in the writers’ room over people stealing his story ideas—”

  “Maybe they did,” I said.

  “Sure, maybe they did. Problem was, he cried wolf one too many times in the past. So when he got all nuts about this script, no one really paid attention.” Ned sighed and sat forward. “But that film script was the end of him. Tommy started coming to work drunk, sometimes even got drunk while he was at work—and he wasn’t a nice drunk. Got more and more belligerent. Then, one day, he got into it with Russell over some network notes and decked him. Just ‘boom’! Coldcocked ’im, knocked Russell on his ass.” Ned shook his head. “After that, they moved Tommy out to the edge of the lot—”

  “Why didn’t they just fire him?” Bailey asked.

  “He was under contract. Easier to put him in Siberia and let his contract run out at the end of the season. ’Course Tommy had to know that was coming.”

  “So did he ever sue Russell over the theft of the screenplay?” I asked.

  “No.” A look of sadness crossed his face. “Day after the holiday party for the cast and crew, he went home and blew his own brains out.”

  “Damn,” Bailey said.

  “Did not see that coming,” I said. I guessed we could probably scratch Tommy Maher off our suspect list.

  Ned leaned forward and poked the keyboard of his computer with his thick finger. As it whirred to life, he said, “There was a blurb about it in the papers. See if I can pull it up for you.” He scrolled for a few minutes, then turned the monitor so we could see it. “Article doesn’t tell you much, but that’s the holiday picture of the cast and crew on the set.” Ned pointed to the right side of the screen. “Tommy’s the guy on the end.”

  Bailey and I leaned in to get a better look. There was something about him that I couldn’t put my finger on. I tried to analyze what it was. He was of average height and size, not the look of a big bruiser who’d have the guts to knock someone down. But everything else about him fit that bill: the sour expression, hunched posture with hands shoved into his pockets; every bit of him telegraphed misery and barely restrained anger. I could see that guy getting wound up enough to coldcock someone. Or even commit suicide. I remembered one of the forensic shrinks saying that it takes a violent person to commit suicide.

  I’d been staring at the photo as these thoughts circled, but then the something I couldn’t put my finger on suddenly became clear. “He looks like Brian.”

  13

  We read the obit. Sure enough, it said that Tommy Maher was survived by his wife, Estelle—and his son, Brian. Brian Shandling was Brian Maher. Had to be. It all fit. Brian taking jobs around Russell’s studio, using a fake name, getting next to Hayley. The article also mentioned that Tommy had a sister, Janice, who was an author and lived in upstate New York.

  “Mind sending me this article?” Bailey asked.

  “Sure.” He carefully punched a few more keys. I tried to imagine what it was like to type with fingers that big. “Done. I’m going to take a wild guess that this business with Tommy Maher’s important?”

  “Might be,” Bailey replied.

  He nodded. “Okay. I’ll ask around, see if there’s anyone who knew him.”

  We thanked him and, to my annoyance, Bailey declined the offer of a ride back to the car.

  “What’s up with nixing the ride?” I groused, once we were outside. “I dug that little golf cart. Reminded me of Autopia.”

  “I hated that ride. Those cars were too slow.”

  “But the golf carts are faster,” I said as we got to our car. “So we’re not passing up the ride next time. Got it?”

  Bailey rolled her eyes. “When was the last time you hit the gym?” I folded my arms and refused to answer. Bailey nodded. “
Exactly.”

  But all joking aside—or more accurately all joking now possible—we were fired up. Finally we had what felt like a real lead.

  Bailey and I got into the car and she pulled out her cell. “I’m forwarding the article to you. I’ll put out the alert with Brian’s true name, you call in and get the info on the wife and sister.”

  We made our respective calls. “I’ve got a suggestion,” I said when we’d both finished.

  “Space Mountain?”

  I gave her my steely-eyed look. She yawned in terror. “Since we’re on the Valley side of the world, why don’t we hit the jewelry store where Brian was last employed?” I said.

  Bailey started the car. “A surprisingly good idea.”

  “You can’t teach it. It’s a gift.”

  Twenty minutes later, we were riding the escalator up to the shops at the Galleria. From the moment we stepped off, we were surrounded by clusters of teenagers—boys on one side, girls on the other, with occasional meetings between the two that generated squeals and hugs all around.

  “You remember hugging that much when you were a kid?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s me. I’m a hugger,” Bailey deadpanned. “Ask me, it’s just the guys looking for a way to cop a feel.”

  “Perhaps today’s youth are simply more effusive in their displays of affection.”

  “Or perhaps boys are always looking for ways to cop a feel.”

  “Or that.”

  But seeing the kids, their clothing, and maybe just the way they walked reminded me of an earlier hunch. I approached a cluster of girls. “Any of you go to Clarington?”

  A girl with pink fringe for bangs looked me up and down before answering. “We all do.” The other girls nodded.

  “What about those guys?” I asked, nodding toward a group of boys ten feet away.

  “Yeah, them too. Why?”

  “Just taking a survey.”

  “What do I get?”

  I looked at her quizzically.

  “For answering your questions,” she added impatiently.

  “My undying gratitude.” I walked back to Bailey, who was waiting in front of the jewelry store, and tried not to grumble about “kids today.”

  “What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Bailey asked.

  “Misspent youth. Theirs. And like we thought, the Clarington kids hang here.”

  Bailey opened the door and we walked in.

  “So maybe Brian took the job to get next to Hayley,” I said.

  “Or he found a better job as a manager here and just got lucky when she floated by.” Bailey looked at me, her expression amused. “Sometimes a cigar really is just a—”

  “Whatever.”

  The security guard was chatting with the salesgirl, who was wiping down the glass counter.

  “Is your manager here?” Bailey pulled out her badge.

  The girl’s eyes widened momentarily. “Yeah, he’s in the back.”

  She excused herself and went to the back room. The security guard held out his hand to Bailey. “Stephen Wareby.”

  “Nice to meet you, Stephen.” They shook. “And this is Deputy District Attorney Rachel Knight.”

  Stephen looked less impressed to meet me, but he reluctantly shook my hand as well. I decided it’d be smarter to sit this one out and let Bailey take the lead.

  “Do you know Brian Shandling?” she asked.

  “Yeah. He’s the manager who’s usually here.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  Steve shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess. He—”

  At that moment, the stand-in manager came out, his hand extended. “Adam Meisner. What can I do for you officers?”

  “We’re looking into a matter involving Brian Shandling. Do you know him?” Bailey asked.

  “No. I usually work in our store at the Beverly Center. I’m subbing for him.”

  “He took some time off?”

  “Yeah. Said he was going to visit an aunt in New York, I think.”

  “Did he mention her name? Or say when he’d be back?”

  “He didn’t mention her name, but he said he’d be back next week.”

  Bailey’s phone began to ring. She looked at the number. “I’ve got to take this. Sorry.” She stepped away and I asked Adam if Brian had a good reputation with the company.

  “I guess so. I mean, he didn’t get fired or anything, but you’d have to ask Human Resources. I’m just a manager, like him, so…”

  Bailey came back, looking like she was in a hurry. “Adam, thank you for your help. We’ll be in touch if we have any other questions.” She shook his hand and pushed me toward the door.

  Bailey led the way through the mall and I trotted to keep up. She’s got a good three inches on me and a really long stride, so that wasn’t easy. Plus, I wasn’t all that anxious to leave the mall’s air-conditioned clime.

  “What’d you get?” I asked.

  “Turns out our boy Brian had credit cards in his real name. He bought two plane tickets to New York. I’m going to make some calls and get our airport division to check and see whether those tickets were used, and if they were, if the passengers fit the description of Hayley and Brian. And I’m going to have all the lots checked for Brian’s car.”

  “Two tickets. So maybe—”

  “Hayley’s alive. Exactly.”

  “Okay, while you work the airport angle, I’ll see if we’ve got a line on the aunt or the mother.”

  We ran down the escalator and all the way to the car. Bailey pulled out of the underground parking lot to a spot on the street where we could get a signal and work the phones.

  I got a number for the aunt, Janice Maher—which meant she was either unmarried or not willing to change her name—but got no answer, so I left a message. A records check by one of our DA investigators revealed that Brian’s mother, Estelle, had died of a heart attack three years ago.

  When Bailey ended her call, I told her what I’d learned.

  “But if the aunt’s in pocket, we’ll catch up with her soon enough.”

  It felt like we’d been running for the past two days straight, and I was a little high on adrenaline. I wanted to do something.

  Bailey saw my agitation and gave me a firm look. “Now we wait, Knight. Not your strong suit. But we need some answers first and that may take a day or so.”

  I nodded and sat back, letting my jets cool. “May as well make the best of it—”

  “Yeah. Call Toni.”

  I pulled out my phone, but the battery was almost gone, so I borrowed Bailey’s cell.

  Perch was a bar and restaurant that occupied the top two floors of a building that overlooked Pershing Square, which was across the street from the Biltmore. Both floors had rooftop bars, and especially in the summer, it was heaven to have drinks up there at night. A summer day in L.A. can be hot as blazes, but it’s a semi-desert, so at night the temperature can drop as much as thirty degrees. That can make outdoor dining a chilly affair. Not tonight. Tonight the air was so soft and balmy, it almost felt tropical. A perfect night for martinis on an open rooftop, where we could watch stars twinkle above and the city lights sparkle below, all around us. As we sipped our drinks, Bailey and I brought Toni up to speed on the case.

  “So, girl hates dad and wants to pay him back for dumping mom and going for a younger version,” Toni said. “Girl meets boy who also hates her dad and wants to pay him back for stealing a script from his father. It’s a match made in heaven.”

  “Young love is a beautiful thing,” I said.

  “Think they’re having a blast in the Big Apple on daddy’s ransom money even as we speak?” Toni said.

  “We don’t have confirmation that they actually boarded a flight yet. But I’m hoping—”

  “It’d be the best thing if that’s how it works out,” Toni finished.

  I nodded and lifted my martini glass. “To rebellious teens, who are alive and well—”

  “—and playing on daddy’s mo
ney,” Toni added.

  Bailey grimaced, but we all clinked and sipped.

  It was good to finally exhale. In fact, we exhaled so much, we lost interest in going to a restaurant and wound up back at my place with room service.

  We talked and laughed until it was too late for Toni to go home, so she crashed on the pullout bed in the living room. I fell into my bed, tired but relaxed, and set my alarm for the civilized hour of eight o’clock.

  14

  I must have been dreaming about flying, because when I woke to the ringing of a bell, I felt as though I’d come crashing out of the sky.

  I opened my eyes and reached out to hit the “snooze” button. But the clock said it was only four a.m. Then it hit me that the sound I’d heard wasn’t my alarm, it was Bailey’s phone. I’d forgotten to give it back to her last night. I forced my eyes to focus—not easy when you’ve been flying in your sleep—and answered. “’Lo?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Detective Keller. This is Officer Bander, Airport Division. We’ve located that car—”

  Car? Which…? Then my brain kicked into gear. Brian’s car. I probably should’ve told Officer Bander that I wasn’t Bailey, but I wanted to hear the news.

  “Where?”

  “In Parking Lot C, a remote lot. What do you want me to do?”

  I couldn’t give orders…well, I could, but I shouldn’t.

  “Secure the lot and tape off the area around the car. Don’t let anyone near it until I get there. I’m on my way.”

  As I ended the call, I thought I’d done a pretty good job impersonating Bailey. Then I ran to wake up the real article. We dressed quickly in jeans and sweatshirts—it’d be cold out there now—and I left a note for Toni, who was still fast asleep.

  When we got into the car, Bailey threw me her phone. “You’re so good at being me, put in the call to SID and get a criminalist to meet us there. Try for Dorian.”