Death in Daytime (3 page)

One of our security guards was an ex-cop, so he knew what to do. He put the entire building into immediate lockdown, with particular attention to our floor. He summoned all the other guards and drafted some of the crew into service, as well. The rest of us he gathered on the set to wait for the police to arrive. While we were waiting we broke up into groups--

except for me. I somehow ended up standing alone, with the other groups looking at me and talking among themselves. Finally, Cindy broke away from her group--which did not include Thomas, her ex--

and hesitantly came over to me.

"You okay?" she breathily asked.

I was hugging myself. I'd had two scares that day, which were two more than I was used to. Feeling a chill, I wondered if I was in shock.

"I'm okay."

She came closer, lowered her voice and asked, "You didn't do it, did you, Alex?" Something about her demeanor was weird. As if she were almost afraid to ask. Even though I was basically being accused of murder, I still couldn't take my eyes off Cindy's prominent cleavage. Cindy and her fashion sense. (I use the term loosely.) It upstaged even an important moment like this. I forced myself to look at her two
eyes
and asked,

"Do what?" and then got it a second later. "Jesus, is that what you think, Cindy?" I looked over at the other groups. "Is that what they think?"

"Well, you did have a pretty big fight with her a few days ago, and you were looking for her this morning . . . ," she said, avoiding eye contact.

"I was looking for her just to--to talk to her about not getting my scenes," I said. "I wasn't looking for her to--to kill her. God, Cindy. What do you take me for?"

She just shrugged and said, "Sorry, Alexis, I mean after your divorce, all the financial stuff, and those horrible tabloids, you've been under a lot of pressure. I just thought maybe . . ." She smiled weakly and went back to her group. They quickly put their heads together and started to talk. My chill increased. What
did
she take me for?

Probably a somewhat aging soap actress worried about her job because she had a daughter to take care of and an ex-husband who had sucked her dry financially. Was that what the police would see, too? But didn't I have an alibi? The same alibi everyone else had? We were all standing on the set looking at the same fallen light.

But
when
was she killed? We'd have to wait for the police to arrive and question us. After all, everyone in the building was a suspect.

Jesus Christ, I was a murder suspect! I walked off, found myself a corner, got out my cell phone and called Paul.

Paul Silas and I met when I had a guest role on a TV series where he works as a forensic consultant. We clicked immediately and had been seeing each other for a few months. Paul has a PhD in behavioral science and was in private practice as a forensic specialist. His work on the show--a
CSI
rip-off that was moderately successful--took up only part of his time. I hoped he wasn't busy on the set and would pick up. My heart was racing and it leaped when Paul answered.

"Paul. Ohmigod, you're not going to believe what's happened--"

"Alexis? Slow down, will ya?" he said in his slight Texas drawl. He had been out of Austin for a long time, but the accent wasn't quite out of him. I took a deep breath and then told him that Marcy had been murdered, and I had found the body.

"Jesus," he said, "are you all right?"

"I'm a little shook up, but--"

"Were you alone when you found her?"

"Yes."

"That's not good," he said.

"Paul?"

"Alexis, get yourself a lawyer."

"What? Now? The police haven't even arrived. Paul, do you think they'll think that I--"

"You had that big fight with her," he said. "You told me that everyone up there heard it. She hated you, was trying to write you out of the show. Think about it, Alex. You're sure to be suspect number one."

Paul was supposed to allay my fears, but I guess that little plan had backfired. Crap. I was going to have to comfort myself, as usual.

"Paul, I can't call a lawyer now. That would really look bad."

There was a pause, and then he said, "Okay, you're right, you're right." He hesitated, then added, "Look, I'll come over--"

"No," I said, "that'll look just as bad, my bringing in a forensic expert at this stage. Never mind, I'll be fine. They're keeping us here until the police arrive; then we'll probably all be questioned."

"Where were you when it happened?"

"We don't know when it happened, but just before I found her we were all on the set." I told him about the light falling and how it had stunned all of us, then had to assure him again that I was all right. "I wasn't anywhere near it."

"That's good," he said. "Okay, I'm at work, but call me as soon as they let you go. We'll go get a drink and talk."

"Okay."

"Do you need me to pick up Sarah?"

"Oh God." Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with missing my daughter. We were all we had. When her father left us, he really left us, and was nowhere to be found. Sarah and Alex against the world. I hated it when I couldn't pick her up from school myself. I thought a second. "No, I'll call my mom. She'll pick her up if I can't do it."

"Okay, but call if you need anything, or as soon as they let you go." "I will, I promise."

"I love you, Alex."

I hesitated, just a hair too long.

"Thank you," I said, and broke the connection. It was what I always said when he told me that. Lame, lame, lame, I know. Even though we were sleeping together I still had a few trust issues. That's what comes from having an ex-husband who screwed you in all the wrong ways. I usually analyzed Paul's "I love yous" each time, but I didn't really have the luxury of doing that just now.

"Alex?"

I turned and saw Thomas hovering near me, his movements kind of herky-jerky. He seemed somehow . . . excited, as if Marcy's murder had filled him with extra energy.

"Yes?"

"The police are here," he said. "I mean, the homi cide detectives. They want to talk to you first."

Of course they do, I thought.

"After all," he said, as if I'd asked him why, "you
are
the one who found her."

"Oh," I said. "That's right. Okay."

As I went to talk to the police, the Emmy-throwing part of our fight came to me, and I shuddered. Number One Suspect. That was one part I sure as hell did not want to play.

The detectives had set themselves up in Thomas Williams's office, just down the corridor from Marcy's--the murder scene. I hesitated when it came time to pass that room, but the nice young uniformed policeman took my arm and said, "It's okay."

"Is she . . . still in there?" I asked. There was no yellow police tape across the doorway or anything. The door was just closed.

"Yes," he said. "We can't move her until the medical examiner says so. Come this way, please, Ms. Peterson."

He kept his hold on my arm while we walked past the door, and I had the feeling it was more like he was holding my hand than hurrying me along or keeping me from running. By the time we reached Thomas's office, he'd released me.

"Ms. Peterson?"

There were two men in the room. The older, larger one who said my name came toward me while the other man stayed back, his hip against one of the two desks in the room.

"Yes?" The older man smiled and extended his hand.

"I'm Detective Jakes," he said. "This is my partner, Detective Davis."

Davis, who looked thirty, nodded. The fact that he didn't have even a hint of facial hair might have made him appear younger. He was one of those men whose cheeks are perpetually rosy, as if they'd just been slapped. I always felt sorry for men like that. It seemed to me they'd never really look like grown-ups until it was too late.

"We're on the LA Homicide Desk."

"Yes," I said, because I didn't know what else to say.

"Ma'am, we need to talk to you about finding the deceased," he said. "Would you like to sit down?"

"Yes, please."

Davis got off Thomas's desk, went around it and turned Thomas's chair, waiting for me to sit. He even held the back so it wouldn't roll.

"Thank you."

He smiled and I couldn't help noticing his very white teeth. It looked like he had forgotten to shave that morning, too. He released the back of the chair and went over and perched his hip on the other desk.

"Can we get you anything?" Jakes asked. "Some water? Would you like an EMT to check you out?"

"No, no," I said, "I'm all right. I know what you're doing, though. You're the good cop, right?"

They were being very kind, very solicitous. Were they playing good cop/good cop? I wondered when that would change. Why did I say that? I shouldn't have been trying to antagonize them. I guess I just didn't want to play the victim.

"No, ma'am," Jakes said, with a smile that didn't even seem forced. "I think we're both the good cops, huh, Len?"

Detective Davis just nodded. He was staring at me, not saying a word. Was that a technique of his? He almost looked like he was . . . mooning over me.

"You have to excuse my partner," Jakes said. "He usually talks more, but he's a big fan of your show, and of you. He was really excited to be coming here."

"Jakes," Davis said, embarrassed.

"Okay, then," Jakes continued. He remained standing, which made him tower over me. I wondered if it was deliberate. Then I decided to stop analyzing their every word and move.

"You seem nervous," Jakes said.

"Well, we had an accident on set just before I found the--uh, found Marcy. And then I found a dead body. I think I'm entitled to be a little on edge."

"I can understand that," Jakes said. "Could you tell us, please, what brought you to Ms. . . ." He paused to consult his notebook, but before he could his partner said, "Blanchard."

"Ms. Blanchard's office? Why were you looking for her?"

"We needed to talk."

"About what?"

"Today's script."

He stared at me, then raised his eyebrows as if to say, "Go on."

"I didn't have a complete one," I said.

"Was that odd?"

I paused, afraid they might find my hesitation suspicious. I didn't know what they already knew. Was I the first person they'd talked to? I didn't know for sure. I decided I just had to be truthful . . . but not so forthcoming. Not at this stage.

"It was, yes," I said. "Sometimes it happens, but not a lot."

"Tell us what happened when you came to her office?" Jakes asked. I explained how I had knocked several times, called her name and then gone in. Told them how I saw the blood on the floor as I was about to leave.

"Do you always enter people's offices that way, uninvited?" Detective Jakes asked. "When someone doesn't answer a knock on the door it usually means they're not there."

"I needed to talk to her."

"Couldn't you have simply borrowed someone else's script?"

"Yes," I said, "but I wanted to talk to Marcy about why my scenes were missing."

"I see," he said. Then he contrived to look sheepish and said, "I don't know much about your world, Ms. Peterson, so forgive me if I ask what sound like stupid questions."

"Not at all. Actually, I do know a little about your world, Detective," I told him. "I'm very interested in police work, and my--my boyfriend is a forensic specialist."

"Is he, now?"

"He's in private practice, and also a consultant on a TV show."

"
CSI
?" Jakes asked.

"No, the other one."

"Well," he said, smiling warmly, "I guess that makes you a buff."

I knew what a "buff" was. It was usually someone who was so in love with cops and police work that they made a nuisance of themselves--and, in the case of some women, slept with them. "Buff" was usually synonymous with "geek." It was not something I appreciated being called.

"Not quite, Detective," I said defensively. "I've just always had an interest in true crime books and television shows."

"Take it easy, Frank," Detective Davis said. "Give her a break."

Well, I wondered when the good cop was going to show, only this seemed like they were playing good cop/even better cop now that Davis had spoken up.

They questioned me for another ten minutes, making me repeat things I'd already said. I was sure they were waiting for me to trip myself up. Liars must do that all the time, forgetting what lies they told. Ah, but I'm a good liar. A good actress has to be. And I hadn't told them any lies, so far. At least not any bald-faced ones. More like lies of omission. I hadn't told them about my fight with Marcy, or that we didn't like each other. I decided to let others tell them that. Maybe by the time they came to me with it I would have had time to think and decide the best way to handle those questions. Finally, they said they were finished. I stood up.

"Can I leave?" I asked. "Or will I need to get someone to pick up my daughter at preschool?"

"You have a preschooler?" Jakes asked.

"Yes."

"Yeah, my partner's got one, too. His is a boy."

"Mine's a girl."

"What's her name?"

"Sarah."

"My partner's son's name is Danny."

"Davey," his partner corrected, as if he had to do it all the time. They didn't sound like longtime partners if he didn't know his partner's kid's name--unless it was an act to throw me off?

"Right," Jakes said, "Davey."

"May I leave the building?" I asked.

"I wish I could say yes, Ms. Peterson," Jakes said,

"but I can't. You'll have to hang around while we question the others."

Damn! I wanted to talk to Paul again before they found out on their own that Marcy and I hated each other. I needed to find another dark corner where I could--

"Do you have a cell phone?" Jakes asked, as if he could read my mind.

"I--yes, I do."

"Leave it with me, please."

"Why?"

He smiled, minus the warmth, this time.

"Because I asked you to."

"I might get a call about my daughter--"