“Oh, man, that is so true,” Security Boy says. Judging from the distant, dreamy-eyed look he now has, I’m guessing I just steered him toward a new career path.
“Anyway,” I say, hoping to get things back on track, “I was hired by someone to look into Callie’s murder but I’m just starting my investigation. I’m afraid my new employer neglected to tell me that Callie had a child.”
Though it is within the purview of the ME’s office to notify the next of kin of someone’s death, it’s often doctors or the police who do it. In Callie’s case, it was Bob Richmond who did the deed. It’s easy enough to understand why Richmond wouldn’t have mentioned that the woman had a kid, but I can’t help but wonder why Hurley failed to share this bit of info. An ugly, dark suspicion starts to rise in my mind and apparently it’s affecting my expression because both Security Boy and Misty back up a step or two.
“Who hired you?” Security Boy asks.
This is a question I anticipated. I give him a tolerant smile and using my most officious voice say, “I’m sorry, I can’t reveal that. The PI Code of Ethics and all . . . you know.” I wink at Security Boy hoping he’ll see it as my acknowledgment of his inclusion in some mysterious inner circle.
Apparently it works because he says, “Oh, yeah, of course.”
“Suffice to say, it’s someone with a vested interest in the case.”
“I’ll bet it’s Mike Ackerman,” Misty says to Security Boy, her eyes growing big again.
“Who’s Mike Ackerman?” I ask, digging out the notebook and pen from my purse. As I scribble down the name, Misty fills in the blanks for me.
“He’s a big shot with the network, and everyone says he has a great eye for talent. He did discover both Carmen Soledad and Dayton Wynn,” she says pointedly, naming two young TV actresses whose recent surge in popularity has made them frequent fodder for the tabloids. “He’s the executive producer for Behind the Scenes and the person responsible for bringing Callie on board. Everyone thought she was destined to be his next big find.”
“Is this Mr. Ackerman here today?” I ask.
“Sure is,” Misty says. She picks up the phone but I stop her.
“Actually, I’d like to talk to some of the other people here first, if that’s okay. Anyone Callie worked with. Are her other coworkers here?”
“Sure are,” Misty says, all helpful again. “In fact, I’d say most of them are here today. Sundays are always busy because it’s the day our show airs.” She turns and looks at Security Boy. “Gary, why don’t you take Ms. Taylor back into the studio with you and see who might be free to talk with her.”
Gary frowns and looks doubtful. “I don’t know,” he says. “Shouldn’t we run it by Sheila first?”
“Who’s Sheila?” I ask.
“Sheila Rabinsky. She’s our station and production manager,” Misty explains.
“And she doesn’t care to have a lot of extra people hanging around,” Gary adds.
I’m beginning to think Sheila has the potential to become a huge wrench in my planned works so I think fast and come up with an idea. “Tell you what,” I say. “I don’t want to risk you guys getting into trouble or losing your jobs. So why don’t you let me talk to Sheila myself?”
The two of them look at one another, give simultaneous shrugs, and then Misty again picks up the phone. Many long minutes later, after I have paced the width of the lobby at least a dozen times pretending not to notice when Misty and Gary make surreptitious grabs and gropes at one another, Sheila appears. She is tall, tanned, and anorexically thin, with huge brown eyes, pinched lips, and a cute, chin-length bob in anthracite black. Her makeup is applied with exquisite precision and while her pantsuit and shoes are stylish, the height on her heels and the material in her clothing are both workaday practical. I can tell from the skepticism in her expression and the wary way she is eyeing me that it won’t be easy to pull a fast one on her.
“Hi,” she says, extending a well-manicured hand. “I’m Sheila Rabinsky, the station manager. I understand you’re here about Callie Dunkirk?”
I shake her hand, which is cold, dry, and surprisingly lifeless. “Yes, I am,” I say, releasing my grip and handing her a business card. “I’ve been hired by a private party to investigate her death and was hoping I could talk with some of the people she worked with.”
Sheila’s eyes narrow as she scans the card. “You are a private investigator?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you have some other ID?”
“Sure.” I take out the billfold Hurley gave me and hand it to her. She studies it closer than I like before handing it back to me.
“This may not be the best time,” she says with a dismissive smile. “Sundays are very busy days for us.”
“I realize that,” I say, looking impatiently at my watch. “But it’s rather important that I do it today since I have to catch a flight to Washington, D.C. this afternoon to investigate the connections Callie had there.”
An expression of surprise flits across Sheila’s face, but then disappears so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. “You think Callie’s death is tied to someone in Washington?” she asks, feigning indifference.
I give her the same dismissive smile she gave me a moment ago and a mental kudos for cleverness since she asked about someone in Washington rather than something.
“I’m not at liberty to reveal that,” I tell her, and watch as her eyes take on the look of a hungry predator. “It’s a rather . . . delicate and potentially explosive situation. However, in exchange for your cooperation today I would be willing to promise you a preemptive exclusive on the story once we are ready to go public. Given the . . . um . . . stature of the people involved, I’m sure you can understand why things need to be kept very hush-hush for now, but I am certain my client won’t mind having the truth come out once we can turn over enough evidence to ensure a conviction.”
The corners of Sheila’s mouth twitch as she anticipates the coup I’m offering her. “An exclusive that lets us break the story?” she asks.
“Absolutely. From what I understand of Callie, I’m sure she would have wanted it that way.”
“Yes,” Sheila says, nodding. “Yes, she would have.” She proffers that dry, dead hand again and we shake on it, making me feel like I’ve just made a deal with the devil.
Chapter 17
I hate cameras and not just because of the extra poundage they add, though that’s reason enough. I hate cameras because they hate me. Some people are very photogenic and even when they are caught with some goofy-assed expression on their face, or in some spastic pose, their pictures still manage to be captivating. My pictures are often captivating, too, but it’s usually because I look like the accompaniment to a Weekly World News headline, or lately, because I’m half naked.
So when Sheila escorts me into what used to be the school gymnasium but is now the studio for Behind the Scenes, I’m instantly on edge. It’s basically a large open room filled with cameras. I start to sweat, which makes the little stickies Hurley used for the wire itch like mad.
On the far side of the room, beyond the cameras and against the back wall, are the two sets used for the show. The one on the left is a basic conversation arrangement with three uncomfortable-looking, modern-design, molded plastic chairs in shades of plum and turquoise. Fronting them is a coffee table with slanting legs and a trapezoid shaped top, constructed with what appears to be the same plastic turquoise material. The wall behind all this is a geometric sculpture comprised of two gigantic triangular-shaped pieces of who-knows-what hanging at right angles to one another. One has been painted the same color as the coffee table; the other has been done in the plum.