“Madison Meyer,” Laurie reminded him. “People forget that in addition to getting the role Susan was auditioning for, she was also one of Susan’s roommates.”
According to Frank Parker, when Susan failed to appear for the audition, he called Madison Meyer, another student from the UCLA theater department, and invited her to audition at the last minute. When questioned by police, Madison vouched for Parker’s timeline, saying she was with him in his living room at the time of Susan’s death.
“Pretty strange he just happened to give the role to a novice actress who provided him a convenient alibi,” Brett said, rubbing his chin, a sure sign that he was on board.
“This is a good case for the show, Brett. I feel it. I know it.”
“You know I love you, Laurie, but your gut’s not enough. Not with this kind of money at stake. Your show ain’t cheap. The Cinderella Murder is just another cold case without Frank Parker. You lock him down for the show, and I’ll give you the all-clear. Without him, I have a surefire backup.”
“Don’t tell me: the child pageant queen?”
“You said it. Not me.”
No pressure, Laurie thought.
9
Frank Parker looked down at Madison Square Park from fifty-nine stories above. He loved New York City. Here, looking north out of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse apartment, he could see all the way to the top of Central Park. He felt like Batman watching over Gotham.
“I’m sorry, Frank, but you made me promise to nudge you about some of those to-do items before the day ended.”
He turned to find his assistant, Clarence, standing in the entryway of the den. Clarence was well into his thirties but still had the body of a twenty-year-old gym rat. His clothing selections-today a fitted black sweater and impossibly slim slacks-were obviously intended to highlight the muscles he was so proud of. When Parker hired him, Clarence had volunteered that he hated his name, but everyone who heard it remembered him because of his god-awful moniker. So it worked for him.
The entire flight from Berlin, Clarence had been trying to get Frank’s attention about interview requests, phone messages, even wine selections for an upcoming premiere party. On the one hand, these were the kind of nitty-gritty details for which Frank had no patience. On the other hand, the people who worked for him had learned by now the types of decisions that could send him over the edge if someone made the wrong call. He had a reputation as a micromanager. He assumed it was what made him good at his job.
But as poor Clarence had begged for Frank’s attention on the plane, all Frank could do was continue reading scripts. The chance to read in peace on the private jet had been the only part of the trip he enjoyed. Though it made him sound provincial, he hated leaving the United States. For the time being, however, foreign film festivals were all the rage. You never knew what tiny gem you might find to remake into an American blockbuster.
“Don’t you know by now, Clarence, that when I make you promise to interrupt me about something in the future, it’s simply my way of delaying a conversation?”
“Of course I know that. Feel free to send me on my way again. Just don’t snap at me tomorrow if the sky falls because you wouldn’t let me relay these messages.”
Frank’s wife, Talia, paused in the hallway outside the den. “For Pete’s sake, stop picking on poor Clarence. We’d probably have the lights cut off if he didn’t keep life running for us. If you wait until we’re back in Los Angeles, you’ll end up getting too busy once again. Look out your pretty window and let him do his job.”
Frank poured an inch and a half of scotch into a crystal highball glass and took a spot on the sofa. Clarence got settled into a wing chair across from him.
First up on Clarence’s list was the studio’s insistence that he sit down for a lengthy interview for a feature magazine article to promote his summer film release, called The Dangerous Ones. “Tell them I’ll do it, but not with that wretched Theresa person.” One of the magazine’s writers was known for presenting her subjects in the worst possible light.
Next was a reminder that an option he had on last year’s hottest novel was about to expire. “How much are we paying?”
“Another quarter of a million to extend the additional year.”
He nodded and waved a hand. It had to be done.
None of this seemed urgent enough for Clarence to have been bothering him all day.
Clarence was looking down at his notes, but when he opened his mouth to speak, no words came out. He let out a long breath, smiled, and then tried again. Still nothing.
“What’s gotten into you?” Frank asked.
“I’m not sure how to raise this.”
“If I could read minds, I wouldn’t need you, would I?”
“Fine. You got a letter from the producers of a television program. They’d like to meet with you.”
“No. We’ll do publicity closer to release. It’s too early now.”
“It’s not about The Dangerous Ones. It’s about you. The past.”
“Isn’t that what I just agreed to on the magazine article?”
“No, Frank, I mean the past. The show is Under Suspicion.”
“What’s that?”
“I keep forgetting that you’re a genius about film but refuse to learn anything about television. It’s a crime show. A news special, really. The concept is to reconstruct cold cases with the help of the people who were affected by them. You were involved in the Susan Dempsey case, and they want you to be part of their next special.”
Startled, Frank turned his head and looked again out the window. When would people stop associating him with that awful event?
“So they want to talk to me about Susan Dempsey?” Clarence nodded. “As if I didn’t talk enough back then to police, lawyers, studio executives-who, incidentally, were on the verge of dropping me… all I did was talk about that damn case. And yet here we are again.”
“Frank, I had been waiting for a good time to speak to you about the letter. Now the producer-her name is Laurie Moran-has somehow gotten my number. She has called twice today already. If you want, we can say you’re too busy doing edits on The Dangerous Ones. We can even redo a couple of aerial shots in Paris if we have to make you unavailable.”
The tinny sound of a pop song played from Clarence’s front pants pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and examined the screen. “It’s her again. The producer.”
“Answer it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Did I sound unsure?”
“This is Clarence,” he said into the phone.
Frank had gotten where he was by trusting his instincts. Always. As he heard his assistant recite the familiar “I’ll give Mr. Parker the message,” he held out his palm. Clarence shook his head, but Frank leaned forward, more insistent.
Clarence did as instructed, voicing his displeasure with a loud sigh as he handed him the phone.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Moran?”
“First of all, thank you for taking my call. I know you’re a busy man.” The woman’s voice was friendly but professional. She went on to explain the nature of her television show. Having just heard a similar description from Clarence, Frank was beginning to understand the reenactment concept. “I wanted to make sure you got my letter inviting you to tell your side of the story. We can work around your schedule. We’ll come to Los Angeles or whatever other location is most convenient. Or if for some reason you’re uncomfortable discussing your contact with Susan, we’ll of course make a statement during the show informing viewers you declined to be interviewed.”
Clarence had accused Frank of knowing nothing about television, but he was expert enough about entertainment generally to realize this woman could be bluffing. Would anyone really want to watch a show about the Cinderella Murder if he wasn’t part of it? If he hung up now, could that stop the production in its tracks? Perhaps. But if they went forward without him, he’d have no control over their portrayal of him. They could place him at the top of their list of people who remained “under suspicion,” as the show was called. All he needed was for ticket buyers to boycott his movies.