The Midnight Show Murders (2) (12 page)

Chapter
TWENTY-THREE

We closed the place down.

Sitting beside Vida in her Mercedes, parked behind the building, I realized I was more than slightly wine woozy. I suggested to her that since things seemed to be going so well, perhaps we should leave the car and call a cab to make sure the evening stayed in the positive column.

Her reply was to lean in to me for a surprising passionate kiss.

“Positive enough?” she asked when we finally came up for air.

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant, Billy. So I ask you: Was that the kiss of someone who was too fried to drive?”

“I’m not the best judge of that,” I said. “Maybe one more test?”

Her reply was to start the car. She did it efficiently and without a moment’s falter, a further demonstration of her sobriety. “I had a total of two glasses of wine tonight,” she said, steering us onto Fairfax. “I keep track of these things. For example, I clocked you at a bottle and a half.”

“Point taken.” Forcing myself to stop staring at her lovely profile, I saw that we were driving north toward Sunset Boulevard.
Heading where?
I wondered. Definitely away from where she knew my car was parked.

Crossing Wilshire Boulevard, we passed the classic building that was once the city’s most famous May Company location. It appeared to have been taken over by the County Museum. From the corner of my eye, I saw Vida glance at the digital time readout on the dash.

She increased our speed.

“In a hurry?” I asked.

She smiled. “Why waste the night on the road,” she said, “when we could be sitting on my deck in the hills, having a cup of coffee and enjoying the city lights below?”

I didn’t think I’d ever been asked a more rhetorical question.

Her home was a Spanish bi-level with a red tile roof on one of those bewilderingly meandering little streets high above Sunset. Vida gave me a mini-tour through a smartly appointed living room, small enough to be considered cozy, a tiny formal dining room, and a modern kitchen, where she got the coffee started.

The deck she’d mentioned was off the living room, a solid redwood structure with a gas barbecue and redwood chaises that offered a breathtaking view of the city lights below. So she lost a point for going gas rather than charcoal but scored highly in all other categories.

The night was chilly, however, and it took only a few minutes for comfort to trump aesthetics. Back inside the house, she led me up a short flight of stairs to a visually oriented den/office that I guessed was where she spent most of her home time.

She parked me on a soft, white U-shaped sofa that faced a humongous television screen and, promising a swift return, wandered off to what I guessed was the bedroom area. With coffee mug in hand and visions of Vida slipping into something comfortable in mind, I took a walk about the room, noting several awards—a news Emmy among them—resting on a stone mantel above a wood-burning fireplace that looked like it had never been used. Two bookshelves, recessed into a wall, held back issues of
Time, Newsweek, Entertainment Weekly, Variety, The Hollywood Reporter
, and
Emmy
, neatly stacked.

There was a desk, actually a slab of soft yellow Formica anchored atop a pale wood filing cabinet on each end. On the desk were a closed MacBook, a cordless phone, an iPad, several large mugs filled with pens and pencils, clippings from the
L.A. Times
—one about a child mauled by a formerly harmless border collie, the other listing the names of reporters fired from a local television station—and a plastic jewel box containing an audiobook version of one of Eric Jerome Dickey’s sexy thrillers.

“Let me see,” Vida said, walking into the room.

She was not talking to me. She had a cellphone pressed to her ear. She had not slipped into anything more comfortable than her little Versace.

“Okay, I’m trying it.”

She picked up the TV remote and brought up a silent HD picture of a guy in a newsroom, wearing a starched shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Just a sec,” Vida said.

She did a little surfing before settling on a clear but not HD image of a woman sitting at a desk with a phone to her ear. I knew her. I had, in fact, been in love with her once. Gretchen Di Voss.

“Good,” Vida said. “Let me turn up the sound.”

On the giant TV Gretchen cradled her phone and said, “I see you, Billy, but you’re almost offscreen. Would you mind sitting on the sofa?”

I gave Vida a woeful look and mumbled, “Traitor.” Then I sat on the sofa.

“Am I coming through clear, Billy?”

“Loud and clear.” I looked for and found the small camera eye perched on top of the giant screen. “What’s the deal on this two-way TV, Gretch? Is there a Di Voss interoffice channel no one told me about?”

“It’s simple, everyday Skype,” Vida said, “transferred to the big screen.”

“It’s late, Billy,” Gretchen said, “and—”

“Wow, you’re right. It must be after four in Manhattan.”

“What it is is crunch time. So let’s not screw around. What happened is a tragedy. Our star was murdered. Other employees were injured. As far as I can tell, the investigation into the bomber’s motives is at a standstill. There’s a rumor, true or false, that the mayor may have been the real target.”

I wondered where that came from. Was Brueghel trying to make Roger think he was safe? Safe enough for him to screw up when he came for me again? That led to another question: Was Brueghel keeping me in L.A. to lure Roger into making that second try?

I was distracted from that disquieting thought by Gretchen asking Vida if there had been any more news from the LAPD.

“I … I haven’t had a chance to—” Vida started to reply.

“Billy, are those cuts on your face?” Gretch asked.

“Scratches. I’m all right.”

“No trauma? The company will provide you with whatever care is necessary.”

“I think I’m okay on the trauma score, too.”

“The effects don’t always show up right away. But you’ll have to be the judge of that. The reason for this call is that I need you to stay with the show. Not forever. Probably not longer than a few weeks.”

“Gretch, this is—”

“Let me finish, Billy. Then you can have your say. WBC is committed, contractually, to our affiliates and to our participating advertisers, to provide a show in that time slot. That advertiser commitment includes a specific number of viewers. If we were to discontinue the show, or if we fail to attract that minimum viewership, we will forfeit a great deal of money. That could have a devastating effect on our whole operation.”

“So put on your show,” I said. “Why do I have to be a part of it?”

“Because right now you and Fitzpatrick form the still-beating heart of
O’Day at Night
. I … 
we
are convinced that you both will put eyeballs on the show.”

“Great. We can wear ‘I Survived the
O’Day at Night
Bombing’ T-shirts,” I said.

“If you want to, I’ll have some printed up,” she said. “I reached Fitzpatrick, and he has agreed to remain. With most of his band.”

“Won’t that be enough of a beating heart?”

“The thing is, viewers like you, Billy. They find you friendly and sympathetic. They’ll be tuning in to see you. Which means they’ll also be sampling the guest hosts. We’ll get a much better idea of who to anoint. I don’t understand your reticence.”

“Hello? I’ve got a restaurant to run. Not to mention
Wake Up
. And the cable show.”

“The morning show can wait. We can do repeats of the cooking show. And as far as the Bistro goes, I was there last night, and Cassandra had the place spinning like a top.”

Having run out of all the other reasons for me not to do the show, I decided to tell her the truth, sort of. “Gretch, I don’t want to do the show because I’m afraid.”

“Please, Billy, stage fright?”

“Hell, yes. Frightened that the stage could blow up again! Suppose that was only the first bomb?”

Gretchen and Vida, at opposite ends of the country, stared at me with identical expressions of surprise.

Gretchen was the first to speak. “Why would you think such a thing?” she asked.

“Listen to our newscasts,” I said. “Hate’s very big right now. Suppose some crazy has a hate on for WBC.”

“The police must be looking into that possibility,” Vida said. “Did they mention it to you?”

“No. But it’s not like they go jabbering about their plans to every handsome chef they meet.” I couldn’t tell them what Brueghel had been jabbering about. They were, after all, in the news business. If word of my involvement—or worse, Roger being a suspect—broke before Brueghel gave the go-ahead, there’d be two people wanting to kill me in L.A.

“That reminds me,” Vida said. “There’s that bunch of freaks who did everything they could to stop the renovation. The Save the Margo Channing Theater Society. They protested, picketed, even tried to get the building declared a historic monument. They went totally aggro when Carmen sicced the cops on them. Came back that night and spray-painted graffiti all over the front of the theater. I could see them thinking they could stop the show with a little boom, then overdoing.”

“There are so many disturbed people today,” Gretchen said. “Especially out there. Maybe we should hire that fellow who took care of Tonette when her fiancé was giving her all that grief. You remember, Vida, the pretty-boy investigator who wore those ridiculous, loud Hawaiian shirts and had an office full of Disneyland junk.”

“Hard to forget a hottie like that,” Vida said. “Man talked a good game, but it was his buddy with the funny tattoos who got the job done.”

“What’s the situation with the FBI?” Gretchen asked.

“They were there,” Vida said. “I got the feeling they were willing to take a step back and let the LAPD run with the investigation.”

“I suppose we should do the same,” Gretchen said. “Regarding your fears, Billy, beginning tomorrow afternoon—I guess it’s actually
this
afternoon—you’ll be doing the show from a studio on the WBC lot. So right away, the security will be tighter. We can even add an extra guard or two on site. It won’t be a big deal getting audience members to pass through a metal detector. It’s not like they’re paying customers. And our insurers will be telling us that’s something we should have had in place at the theater.”

“Okay, Gretchen,” I said. “But I beg you: Don’t keep me out here longer than a couple of weeks.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Billy. The contracts will be on Wally Wing’s desk by noon. I’ll be talking to Carmen about beefing up the security. Is there anything else?”

“Who’s going to be hosting the show?”

“The comedy writer. What’s his name? Gibby Lewis.”

Interesting. Des’s demise couldn’t have worked out better for the writer than if he’d planned it.

“Gibby, huh?”

“You say that like it’s a mistake.”

“No. I was just … no.” There was no reason for me to rain on Gibby’s parade.

“Max seems to think he can do it. And if he doesn’t work out, we’ll just replace him.”

“It’s your sandbox.”

“I didn’t mean to sound harsh. The late hour. The lack of sleep. Take care of yourself, Billy.”

The image of Gretchen faded and the screen went to black. Vida clicked off the TV and said, “Well, Billy, shall I drive you to your car? It’s probably freed up by now.”

“It’s … not working.”

“What do you mean? We can call Triple A.”

“It’s … well, the detective in charge of the investigation wants to make sure it’s safe to drive.”

She frowned. “He thinks what, that it could blow up?”

“Maybe, but he’s just being cautious. It was parked near the theater.”

“A bodyguard might be a good idea.”

“No. Really. No bodyguard. I may change my mind if they do find … anything in the car.”

“Then I should drive you home.”

“Actually, there could be a bomb out there.”

She stared at me. “Lame, Billy. Almost high-school lame.”

“It’s not a line. I can stay at a hotel, I guess.”

“At this hour? I wouldn’t put a dog in a hotel at this hour. Get your little bag and come on.”

I picked up my overnight bag and followed her down a hall to a nice peach-colored room with windows that looked out on the city, a dresser, a chest of drawers, and a king-size bed.

“You wouldn’t have pajamas in that bag?” she asked.

“No. Just a razor and a toothbrush and a tuxedo that I’ll never wear again.”

She opened a drawer near the bottom of the chest and withdrew a dark green box with a Polo horsey logo. She opened it and removed a pair of black silk pajamas that she tossed on the bed. “They may be a little large,” she said.

They still had tiny white tags attached. “These are new,” I said. “And they look expensive.”

“I’m glad they’ll be getting some use. They’ve been in that drawer awhile.”

“It’s a shame to wear something this nice and just go to sleep.”

“Give it a rest, Billy,” she said. “Literally.”

She opened a door that led to a black-and-white tile bathroom. “All the comforts of home,” she said, and left me to my room with a bath.

I splashed some water on my face, brushed my teeth, and put on the silk pajamas, which were only one size too big. Not the worst thing for pajamas. I turned out the light in the bathroom but left the bedroom table lamp on. Then I pulled down the oatmeal-colored covers and slid into the bed.

It was one of those Posturepedic numbers, slightly hard but with a pliable top layer that conformed to your body, a bruised and bomb-weary body. I lay there, wondering if the night was over or if there might be more to come.

Just as I was drifting away into sleep, I felt the bed move slightly, then realized Vida was lying beside me. She was wearing a very thin, see-through gown, and there was a lot to see through it. She rolled toward me and, holding my face in both hands, kissed me hard. I put my arms around her and pulled her on top of me.

There was one little problem. She was also on top of the covers. We stayed like that for a minute. Then I said, “It’s nice and warm under here.”