The Midnight Show Murders (2) (10 page)

Dressed as leprechauns, they tossed one another around, staged fake fights, performed surprising gymnastics, and eventually dragged Des into their bang-ups, kicking him in the ankle, tripping him, and then, big finish, pretending to knock him flat, lifting him over their heads, and carrying him offstage to the tune of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.”

Rennie Nolan arrived during the Plimsols’ segment, in leather jacket and jeans instead of formal wear, looking, frankly, stoned. But he’d remembered to bring his guitar, so during the three-minute commercial break, his makeup was blotted, his hair gelled, and his butt placed on a stool in front of the band just in time for Des to welcome him to the show. Our host then disappeared into darkness as Nolan began singing a cut from his new album.

Though the performance went reasonably well, all things considered, the singer’s sit-down with Des was deadly. It began with Nolan dreamily announcing that he had recently become the spokesperson for FEC, the Fight to Eradicate Chlamydia. He then began to expound on “the pain and serious consequences of the disease” to our hypochondriac host, who began sliding back away from him until he was almost out of the frame.

“Ya know, ma fren’, it is th’ mos’ common STD bacteria in the USA today,” Nolan said, leaning forward into Des’s personal space. “It’s so damn destructive. And folks don’ know they got it. Kinda gets up in there and plays hell with all the lady parts. And with men, hell, arthritis and—”

“Sorry to interrupt you, Rennie,” Des said when he could stand no more. “You’re doin’ great work, bud, but we’ve got to sell a few things.” He faced the camera and added, “Stick with us for more fun with the luscious and loquacious star of
Flaunt It!
, Ms. Emmalou Adams.”

During the commercials, it took three ninja minions to “escort” a now rubber-legged Rennie from view, and a fourth to get Des an industrial-size bottle of antibacterial sanitizer.

Emmalou Adams had been watching the segment from the wings. After her introduction, which was delivered by our host with all the lecherous innuendo of a man who’d been playing Vegas for the past seven years, she walked onstage and allowed Des to do a paw-and-pet number a little to the left of even Gerald Butler. Taking her hand, he kissed each of its fingers and then led her by that hand to the couch, all the while seemingly transfixed by the dramatically low neckline of her tight blue silk blouse.

She sat down on the couch and, with no small malevolence, said, “You know, Des, considering your reputation as a player, you really should pay attention to all those scary things Rennie was saying about chlamydia.”

It was the first time that night that I felt like laughing.

Des made quick, nonflirtatious work of the rest of their interview, dismissing her just before the commercial break with an obviously insincere, “Emmalou, I wish we had more time. Promise me you’ll come back …”

As she rushed offstage, she mumbled, “Asshole,” loud enough to be heard not only by me but by Mayor Lucille Marquez, who was standing beside me in the wings. The prim-looking politician’s face broke into a grin. “I’m guessing that word will be getting quite a workout on this show,” she said, watching Des strut around the stage.

After the break, I escorted her out to meet him.

She welcomed Des to Los Angeles and presented him with a key to the city and a scroll indicating that he was now an official Los Angeleno.

There was brief badinage about life in L.A. with, as planned, the mayor getting the last word. Suddenly frowning, she took the scroll back from Des, glanced at it, and relaxed. “Thank goodness,” she said. “I was afraid I’d given you the one we forgot to present to Conan O’Brien.”

Smiling to the audience, she departed to much applause. That left Des and me alone onstage to bring the whole thing to a close.

“I want to thank you, Billy, for makin’ this special night even more so,” he said. Then, following the direction of Lolita’s pointing finger to camera two, he thanked the viewers for tuning in and invited them back to “our little after-hours club of fun and frolic every weeknight, same time, same WBC station.

“What a great and wonderful country America is,” he continued, his pliable face registering humility, “where a hooligan from Dungannon can tell a few jokes and sing a few songs and wind up”—his face underwent the best effects-free transformation into evil lechery since Spencer Tracy segued from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde in a single take—“with as many birds as Mr. George Clooney and almost as much nicker as Mr. Bill Gates.”

While he’d been delivering this insincere au revoir, the half-moon had descended behind him. He stepped back and stared at it for a beat. He was supposed to say, “Looks like my ride is here,” and hop aboard the crescent, floating upward, reprising “Paper Moon.”

Instead, he turned to me. “Billy, why don’t you take the trip, mate, while I head out to the nearest pub?”

This bit of improv caught me off guard. Was I supposed to get on the damn thing? Or insist he do it? Or what the hell? All I got from Des was a demonic leer. I looked to Lolita, but the floor manager shrugged, obviously as puzzled as I was.

Des’s next move clarified the situation. He faced the studio audience and asked, “You folks want to see me ould flower Billy takin’ a moon dance, right?”

There was the expected outpouring of encouragement. Lolita gave me a big thumbs-up.

Having no other choice, I approached the wooden moon warily. I saw that some kind soul had fitted it with a narrow padded bicycle seat. Somehow that didn’t ease my apprehension. As I straddled the damn device and lowered my butt to the seat, I couldn’t help but wonder if Des didn’t have another surprising bit planned. Like maybe a “company spy” taking a bone-breaking fall that would guarantee a fair degree of publicity for the show.

With a jarring jerk, the moon started its rise. I got a firm grip on the front of it and looked over at the stagehands working the winch. Make that
stagehand
. Only one of them. Des had had two, I was certain. What was the deal? The hoist seemed to be working smoothly, but it was a little disconcerting to realize I was being short-staffed.

Backed by Fitz and the band, Des was singing his own lyrics to Harold Arlen’s melody: “It’s Billy Blessing’s moon, hangin’ out in a cardboard sky …”

The higher up we went, the less I cared for the situation, especially when my right shoulder brushed against one of the hanging stars. I wouldn’t be lowered to the stage until the credit crawl ended. How long did that take? Sixty seconds? Ninety?

My flight stopped with the top of the moon inches away from the catwalk. I looked down. I knew I was just a shade more than twenty feet from the stage, but it seemed twice that far.

There was an odd whirring sound coming from somewhere below, and I thought for a second it had been the winch. But that had been silent during my rise, and it was not in use now. I looked at Lolita, who was giving Des a speed-up arm swing. She didn’t seem to have noticed anything off. At that moment I could no longer hear the sound. I wondered if it could have been an anxiety-induced form of tinnitus.

Des was finishing his serenade. I told myself that had to mean the show would end any second.

“…  but it wouldn’t be make-believe, if you believe in me,” the comedian sang. He bowed, basked in the applause, waved both hands in a farewell gesture, and said, over the noise, “G’night, mates. Believe!”

Okay, it’s a wrap
, I thought.
Back to earth for Billy, safe and sound
.

That’s pretty much when the bomb went off.

I’m guessing, because I was momentarily transported to a much less troubled dimension. A second before that happened, I witnessed a bright light, and I think I heard the explosion. When I returned to reality, people were screaming and the moon and I were in a wild spin, banging against the hanging stars.

But we stayed aloft, thanks to what I later discovered had been an automatic locking device on the winch controlling the cable. I grabbed a star and used it to slow the moon’s spin. Through the smoke and the floating debris, I saw that my solo ninja had been knocked flat on his or her back. Others were down. A camera operator. Lolita.

There was no immediate sign of Des. The stage where he’d been standing was ruptured and charred, a large section of concrete foundation showing through the damaged tile.

The audience members had rushed away from the stage area and were climbing over one another to get through the exit doors. I leaned forward, put my head against the plywood moon, and closed my eyes. All I had to do was stay calm and wait for the shouting and the panic to subside. Some thoughtful soul would see me and lower me to the ground. As best I could tell, my damage was slight.

I opened my eyes again to make sure about that. Only then did I realize that the moon and I were covered with bits and pieces of Des O’Day.

Chapter
NINETEEN

“What the heck is he doing back there?” I asked.

I was sitting on a stool in the wings, not far from my least favorite prop. A white-gloved coroner’s technician was using king-size tweezers to pick things from the wooden moon’s surface. Another tech was standing behind me, using the same instruments on my head and neck.

Hence my question.

“He’s gathering body particles,” the homicide detective said. “They’ll take all those little bits back to the lab and try to put Humpty Dumpty together again.” He was leaning against a wall across from me. He was older, grayer, and had put a few pounds on his wiry frame, but I’d recognized him the moment he entered the studio. Detective Pete Brueghel. One of the cops who’d investigated Tiffany Arden’s murder twenty-three years ago.

The recognition had been mutual. I could see it in Brueghel’s ever-alert brown eyes. “How’re you feeling, Mr. Blessing?”

“Not exactly my best.” The tech’s tweezers were like a hungry bird, pecking at my scalp. I turned to him. “Long as you’re drilling holes, could you fill ’em with hair follicles?”

“You’re lucky the explosion wasn’t more powerful,” the detective said. “The real damage was limited to a small area of the stage. Mr. O’Day seems to be the only fatality. Ms. Snapps and a cameraman named Assunto got shaken up pretty bad, along with five other members of the crew. The paramedics are checking them now, along with half a dozen audience members who got trampled trying to get out of the building.”

“What happened, exactly?” I asked.

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

I gave him all I had: riding the moon up, relaxing when the show seemed to be over, then seeing a bright light like a camera flash going off in my eyes, followed by a roar and a brief fade-out. Then waking up to smoke and bad odor and screams coming from people rushing out of the building.

“Tell me about the bad odor,” he said, getting out a small notepad and a pen.

“I don’t know. Smoke. And something even more unpleasant.”

“Burning flesh?”

“Jesus. Maybe. And … a metallic odor, too. Like when a laptop overheats.”

He nodded, scribbling on the pad. Then those intense eyes were back on me. “How’d you get down?”

“One of the nin—The stagehands saw me up there, got the winch working, and lowered the moon to the floor.”

“What was it you started to say and then changed your mind? Nin?”

“The stagehands were dressed in these black outfits. In my mind, they’re ninjas.”

“I saw the outfits,” the detective said. “They wear something similar in those Cirque du Soleil shows in Vegas, so you can’t see them picking up after the performers.”

I wondered if that’s where Pfrank got the idea. “You spend much time in Las Vegas, detective?”

“Not so much anymore,” he said. “I had family …”

The technician stopped pecking at me. “All finished,” he said. He promised to send a medic over to dress my cuts, which were not serious but numerous and had to be cleaned and treated.

Brueghel waited for him to leave, then asked, “Any idea why someone would want to demolish Mr. O’Day?”

“I’m sure Conan O’Brien would have a few thoughts on that if we were talking about Jay Leno.”

“Do you know of anybody who felt O’Day had screwed him over?”

“If that was the case, I imagine we both would have heard about it by now.”

A tall black woman wearing a fitted dark blue suit and a badge entered the stage area, looked around, spied us, and headed our way. Brueghel introduced her as his partner, Mizzy Campbell.

“A few words, Pete?” she said.

“Sure.”

They moved beyond earshot, huddled for a minute or two, then returned.

“Mr. Blessing,” Detective Campbell said, “I understand from the show’s director that Mr. O’Day did a little improv shortly before the explosion. Is that correct?”

“Yeah. He went off script. He was supposed to get on the moon and sing his farewell as he was floating away. Instead, he got me to do it. Shamed me into it, actually. We were on a live telecast, and I couldn’t very well refuse.”

“Any idea why he changed things?” Detective Brueghel asked.

“No.” Then I remembered something. “The device nearly bucked him off at the start of the show. That could have spooked him.”

“But the switch was a last-minute decision, right?” Detective Campbell asked.

“It was a surprise to me.”

“Then if things had gone as planned and O’Day had taken the moon ride, where would that have left you?” Detective Brueghel asked.

I stared at him, suddenly realizing where they were headed. I guess I’d subconsciously been blocking it.

“You would have been standing precisely where Mr. O’Day was, right?” Detective Campbell asked.

I nodded.

Detective Brueghel applied the icing on the cake. “Then, Mr. Blessing, I suppose we can assume you were the intended victim.”

Chapter
TWENTY

Detective Brueghel accompanied me to my dressing room at the rear of the building, where he waited for me to shower away the remaining bits of Des’s flesh and blood. The hot water offered some comfort, but it was temporary. And it called attention to my own cuts and scratches, leaving them stinging and bleeding.

When I was dressed, a paramedic arrived and took care of my wounds. He didn’t think any of the cuts needed stitches. He taped one on my neck and two on my left hand. The ones on my forehead, cheek, and the back of my head were scratches, better left to “breathe.” He doubted any of the cuts would result in permanent scarring. “But you might want to get the opinion of a specialist,” he said.

At my request, he also took a look at my sprained ankle and taped it professionally.

When he’d finished and moved on, the detective said to me, “You know, I meant to look you up last week, when I heard about you and Charbonnet having that tussle. I don’t suppose it had anything to do with the Arden case?”

“That was a long time ago,” I said, sniffing. There was an unpleasant odor in the room.

“But not forgotten. And not solved.” He stared at me, as if that was my fault. “What was the fight about?”

“Roger was drunk.” I spotted the source of the malodor, got up from the chair, and limped to the table containing stale champagne, wilted carrots, and ripening feta cheese.

Brueghel watched me dump the offending items, then said, “There were a lot of people at the party. Why’d he go after you?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” I said, limping back to the chair.

“I don’t get you, Blessing,” the detective said heatedly. “Somebody tried to kill you tonight. According to all accounts, Roger Charbonnet took a swing at you last week. That makes him a standout suspect. But instead of helping me get the son of a bitch, you make little jokes. What’s going on?”

The honest truth was that I had no idea what was causing my reluctance to put Roger on the spot.

“You have any reason to think Charbonnet
wasn’t
responsible for the bombing?”

“No,” I said.

“Then work with me, for Christ’s sake.”

I nodded. “Roger went a little postal at the party because he thought I was talking about him.”

“Were you?”

“No.”

He smiled. “You’re a professional interviewer, right?” he asked.

“That’s part of what I do.”

“Then you know how hard you have to work when people answer with just ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ ”

“Another thing my profession has taught me: Be careful when you’re accusing somebody of criminal behavior. Too many lawyers in the world.”

“There’s nobody here but you and me. Just tell me what you think. Did Charbonnet murder Tiffany Arden?”

“I believe he’s capable of it. I’ve seen his anger.”

“At the party, you mean?”

“And back in the day.” As soon as that popped out of my mouth, I realized I was going to tell him about Roger confronting me with his gun and threatening to kill me if I didn’t leave Los Angeles.

The detective’s reaction was as expected. “Goddamn it, Blessing. What the hell were you thinking? You should have come directly to us.”

“I went directly to you about Roger’s broken alibi,” I said. “We all know how well that worked out for me.”

Detective Brueghel was silent for about a second. “Okay. I’ll give you that one. But you come out here last week. You find out this … sociopath has been harboring a twenty-two-three-old grudge against you, and
still
you do nothing about it?”

“Like what? He took a drunken swing at me, and he wound up in the pool. What exactly do you expect me to do with that, even if I could link it to a murder that’s over twenty years old?”

“I’m going to link it to a murder that happened two hours ago,” he said. “But two hours or twenty-three years, the dead … they’re depending on
me
to find justice for them. And I’ll do it, no matter how long it takes.” His eyes were moist. He blinked, and a tear worked its way down his face. “It’s my calling. The blue religion.”

Whoa
. This guy was either a true believer or a megalomaniac. And I didn’t know of too many true believers in his profession. Good cops, sure. But homicide dicks who cried for the dead? Not too many of those. At least not in my hometown. In L.A.…?

He stared at the floor for a few seconds, then blinked and rolled his head in a circular motion, prompting little popping sounds from his neck. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I can get a little carried away.”

I nodded, as if I understood.

“It’s not just the dead I serve,” he said. “Whoever rigged that explosion is going to come at you again. I wish I could offer you some kind of police protection, but those days were over even before the latest budget cut. Does Charbonnet know where you’re staying?”

I told him about the break-in at the villa and the dead rat left in the oven.

He shook his head. “There must be a reason you were holding back that little event. Maybe you have a death wish? Or maybe you just don’t trust me, or cops in general?”

“It’s nothing like that,” I said, though he’d been close to the truth with the question about my trust issues. For much of my earlier life, I’d considered police the enemy. I no longer believed that, but old habits die hard.

“Well, the guy hates you. He’s a chef. Somebody breaks into the place where you’re staying and cooks a rat for you. More than a coincidence, right?”

“Right.”

He asked for the address. When I told him, he said, “Isn’t that near where you and Charbonnet had your party fight?”

“A few houses down.”

“A gated community?”

I nodded.

He got out his cellular phone and called Detective Campbell. He instructed her to send a forensics team out to the villa. Checking his watch, he said, “Tell them to wait for us at the gate. No, cancel that. They should follow us out. I want to make sure the gatekeepers don’t interfere.”

Detective Campbell evidently said something that reignited his anger. “Goddamn it. What next? Homeland Frigging Security?”

He snapped the phone shut and put it away. “The FBI has arrived, arrogant and an hour late. As soon as they force my guys to stop working long enough to fill them in on everything, they may want to talk with you.”

“Should I stay here and wait?”

“Your choice. As far as I’m concerned, you can forget I mentioned it.”

So I wasn’t the only one guilty of being uncooperative.

“About the villa in Malibu,” I said. “A real estate agent has been showing the place to prospective buyers.”

“Great,” he said, meaning just the opposite. “Wouldn’t want to make it too easy. Well, I know the fingerprint I’m looking for. It’ll match one we’ve had on file for twenty-three years.”

“If you and Detective Campbell are driving out to the villa, I’d like to come along and get my stuff out of there.”

“Not a good idea. Charbonnet knows the property. He’s had access. And he knows you’re still alive. The villa is the last place I want you tonight, even with Detective Campbell and myself on the scene. We’ve got work to do, and worrying about your safety would only slow us down. Find yourself a hotel room and try to get some rest.”

“Okay,” I said. “But I’ll have to go out there and pack up tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I guess you’ll be needing your razor, fresh clothes, and the rest. If you want, I could throw your stuff into a bag and have it when we meet.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather do my own packing,” I said.

He withdrew a small white card from his shirt pocket, scribbled something on it, and handed it to me. On its front was an embossed detective shield and his name, office and email addresses, and office phone number. “That’s my cell number on the back. Call me when you want to get your gear, and I’ll drive out with you.”

“It might be early,” I said. “I’m going to try and catch a flight back to New York tomorrow.”

“No flight,” he said, getting that dedicated look again. “I want you out here. I can make it official, put you in custody as a material witness. That might not be a bad idea, with our deadly friend on the prowl.”

“No. Don’t do that,” I said. “How long are we talking about?”

“I can give you a better idea tomorrow, after I see what we have on Mr. Roger Charbonnet. You using a limo?”

“A gray Lexus convertible. In the lot next door.”

“Leave it until I get one of the bomb squad guys to check it out. It’s probably blocked in, anyway. It’s a mess out front. Fire trucks. Police cars. Media. Show that card to a patrol cop and tell him I said he should find you a ride.”

He took a few steps toward the door and stopped. “I almost forgot, there are some women from the network in that booth the director uses. They’ve been waiting to talk to you. Maybe one of them can give you a lift to a hotel? Be careful, Blessing. Start acting smart.”

As far as I was concerned, smart was taking the next flight out to New York City.