Authors: Michael Tolkin
Then they were on the plane, and then they were back in Los Angeles.
If Susan Avery or anyone else from the Pasadena Police Department watched their arrival in Los Angeles, they were invisible to Griffin. He missed the Mexican police. He should have said good-bye to them. Would they be told when he was arrested, sent a formal letter thanking them for their cooperation? Griffin idly wondered if the State Department involved itself in every international manhunt. Then he wondered why it mattered to him, and he knew it was because he wanted to feel important.
A limousine driver holding a cardboard sign that read
MILL
took their bags after they left the terminal.
As soon as they were in the car, Griffin called Jan. “I'm back,” he said.
“How was Mexico?” she asked.
“Did Dick Mellen call?”
“Yes, and your old friend Susan Avery. She wants you to call her immediately. I asked if they had a break in the case, and she said she was superstitious and didn't want to jinx anything.”
Griffin didn't want to call Susan Avery with June in the car. “If she calls back, tell her I'll call her when I'm in the office. I should be there in forty-five minutes.”
He called his lawyer. His secretary put him through after it took her just enough time to interrupt another call with Griffin's name.
“Mr. Griffin Mill,” said Dick Mellen, who didn't want to contain his happiness at bearing some kind of good news.
“What's the word?” asked Griffin, playing along with him.
“How'd you like to run a production company?”
“A studio?”
“No. An office, a few assistants, someone to handle business affairs, and sixty million dollars to play with.”
“That's all? How many movies can you make for sixty million dollars?”
“You can make four or five a year.”
“And who's the distributor?”
“Tri-Star or MGM. That hasn't been worked out.”
“I don't think so, I don't know. Let me think about it. How much will they pay me?”
“That's the good news. They want you. And for the next two years they'll pay you eight hundred thousand, plus stock, plus a piece of each picture. They know all about you. They like you. You'll like them.”
“Let me think about it.”
“They want to know by tomorrow. Someone else is interested, but your name came up and they asked me if you were available. I would have said no two weeks ago, but Larry Levy is no one to laugh at. To be honest with you, there's a cloud over you at the studio right now.”
“And your friends still want me?”
“And my friends still want you.”
“You think I should take this job?”
“It's a risk. You can fail. It might be hard to get back to a big job with a major studio if you bomb. But you're not going to bomb, you're going to be a massive success, and you'll make a lot of money and have a lot of fun.”
They said good-bye.
“Good news?” asked June.
“I don't know. I've been on a certain track for a while, and someone is offering me a chance to get off it, but it's not the most prestigious job in town. People will think I've been demoted if I take it. It's a small production company looking for a leader.”
“That's exciting.”
“I once turned down an offer to run Columbia for a million dollars a year.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to run the company I work for.”
“But Levison runs the company you work for.”
“Yeah, well, I thought he was leaving.”
They were driving up Outpost; her house was around the next two curves.
“It was a great weekend,” she said. “It was too short.”
After a subdued last kiss they shook hands. She tapped him on the arm with a fist. “Thank you,” she said. The driver carried her bags to her house, and she waved from the door after she opened it. Maybe she won't be arrested right away, he thought.
He called Susan Avery as the car drove toward Burbank. She answered the phone.
“You called?” he said. Of course, she'd been following the news from the Mexican police; she probably knew about the hug on the balcony and the kiss in the ocean.
“Hello, Griffin, how are you?” She was too friendly, and he knew he was in the snare of technique.
“Wonderful. I just got back from a weekend in Mexico. I should have stayed a month.”
“Why didn't you?”
“I'm always afraid if I'm gone too long, they'll change the lock on my office.”
“Where were you?”
“Puerto Vallarta.”
“Oh, that's nice.”
“Susan, what's up?”
“Well, Griffin, I know we've taken a lot of your time already, and I promise you that after this last request I don't think we'll need to bother you again.”
“Has there been a break in the case?”
“We don't know. Listen, Griffin, this is sort of difficult for me because I like you, but I was wondering if maybe you'd get in touch with a lawyer today and both of you come down to the station. You can come alone, but as a friend, I'm telling you, bring a lawyer.”
“Is somebody accusing me of the murder?” Better to take this head-on, not act as though I don't know what's coming.
“I told the captain that you'd come without a subpoena, but if you want to be served while you're at the studio, be my guest.”
“I'll be there in half an hour.” He hung up. He told the limousine driver to stay on the long boulevard that passed the studio and follow it all the way to Pasadena.
If he didn't call a lawyer, wouldn't he look like the guilty person trying to look innocent? But he was scared of calling a lawyer. To get a criminal lawyer he'd have to go through Mellen, whose motto was: “Trust everybody, trust nobody.” Griffin didn't want Hollywood to know he'd been suspected of a murder if he wasn't arrested. And there was still some hope. But he needed a lawyer; obviously there was a witness, or a fingerprint, something real. He called Mellen. His secretary said he was in a meeting.
“Look, I need some help on something right away, we're stuck on a story problem. Who does he recommend for criminal work?”
“Phil Brophy.”
“Good, what's his number?”
She gave it to him. Griffin called him. He used Mellen's name with the secretary and said it was an emergency. She told him Brophy was in court. Griffin asked to speak to another lawyer, anyone. She put him through to Jeff Beckett. Beckett had a clear, high voice.
“My name is Griffin Mill. I'm a client of Richard Mellen at Mellen, Ottoway and Green.”
“Aha. So you're in show business.”
“Very much so. Mr. Beckett, I'm not quite sure what's going on, but I've been asked to bring a lawyer with me to the Pasadena police station. I'll explain it in person. I need some help immediately, and I can pay any fee.”
“Have you been arrested?”
“No, but I'm being subpoenaed.”
“What's the charge?”
“Can you come?”
“I'll be there in an hour.”
Yes, at this point even an innocent man would bring an expensive lawyer to the station to intimidate the police.
When the limousine pulled into the station parking lot, Griffin told the driver that he wanted to wait a while. The car phone rang. It was Levison.
“Where are you?”
“I'm stuck in traffic.”
“You're missing a staff meeting.”
“Just a second. You gave me permission to take a vacation.”
“Yes, but you were supposed to be back this morning.”
“I'll be back this afternoon.”
“This is quite annoying.”
Griffin hung up. The driver knocked on the glass partition. Griffin lowered it.
“Do you know how long we're going to be here? I have to call the office. I'm supposed to make a pickup in Beverly Hills in twenty-five minutes. I'm going to be late.”
“I'm sorry. I'll be here for a while. This is a really stupid thing, but the company I lease my car from is charging me with theft.”
“Why?”
“Because they're assholes, that's why. Because they wouldn't give me a new car when mine kept breaking down, and they wouldn't do repairs, and I finally stopped sending them money.”
“What kind of car?”
“Guess.”
“Porsche.”
“You got it.”
“Why don't you pay?”
“That's what I'll probably do right now. I'll fight for my principles, but hey, I don't want to get booked and fingerprinted over this, you know what I mean? It's not the battle of my life.”
“I hear you,” said the driver.
“Time to go in,” said Griffin.
“Let me just call the office,” said the driver. The office told him to stay with Griffin.
As Griffin opened the door, the driver rushed to open it for him. Griffin told him not to, and the driver understood that Griffin didn't want to make a display of himself in a police-station parking lot, or any more of a display than the limousine presented.
Susan Avery met him in the lobby. “I appreciate this,” she said. What if she knew everything? he wondered. What if she knew about
the postcards and why I really killed Kahane? Would she treat me with caution, knowing that I'd probably get off on a defense of insanity? Should I start acting insane?
“My lawyer is on his way. I thought it would be best to have one here. I don't know what you're cooking up, but this is a hell of a way to do business.”
“Business?”
“Everything is business.”
“We want you to take part in a lineup.”
“I told you, I didn't see anyone.” This was a mistake, he shouldn't have been flip.
“Griffin, we want you to be
in
the lineup.”
“Not until my lawyer arrives.” This was not time to say something easy, like, “Give me a break.”
She brought Griffin to a waiting room. Jeff Beckett came in half an hour later. He was in his forties, with curly dark hair. He leaned forward as he walked, and he had a strong handshake. Griffin supposed he played squash. You could see the eager high-school boy, the debate-team champ, the mother's hero. Griffin liked him.
“So, what do they want you for?” he asked.
“I think they want me for murder.”
“How come they haven't arrested you yet?”
“Don't you want to know if I'm guilty?”
“That's up to a jury, and I wouldn't ask you in here, anyway.” He indicated the room with his hand.
“They want me to be in a lineup. I was one of the last people to see someone before he was murdered. About a month ago. It was in Pasadena. I barely knew the guy.”
“I can't really keep you out of a lineup without making a big stink, and that never looks good.”
“But what if the witness thinks I'm the one? What if I'm picked?”
“Then I guess you get arrested. We'll bail you out and fight like hell.”
Griffin was silent.
“Look,” said Beckett, “this is serious stuff, and it has to follow a certain procedure. I'll be with you all the way.”
They left the room. Susan Avery met them in the hall. She took Griffin up a flight of stairs, around a few corners, and down another staircase. She opened a door and let him into a small room with five men. Griffin recognized one as a policeman he'd seen at the station when he first visited. He didn't know the others. Three were Griffin's general size and color, a little overweight, light brown hair. Of the others, one was taller, two were shorter, one of them was fat.
A policeman assigned them numbers and stood them in a line. Then he opened a door, and they were led into a small space with a floor-to-ceiling mirror on one side, and a wall with horizontal stripes to measure their height. They were told to face forward. Beyond the mirror, someone studied them. Susan Avery was there. The room was soundproof; if the witness was talking, he couldn't hear her. He didn't know why, but he assumed the witness was a woman.
Each of the men was told to step forward and then to turn from side to side. Griffin was number two. He took a step forward as he imagined a cop would who was doing a job, with a sure motion, hinting of the military. The real cop was next to him and stepped forward slowly. Was he pretending to be guilty?
Griffin was singled out again. So was number one, who was taller than him.
After ten minutes they were brought back to the holding room. They waited there for twenty minutes. Griffin wanted to get a message to the limousine driver, to open the suitcase in the trunk and bring him his toothbrush and razor, but of course they wouldn't let
him keep the razor. He could ask for some clean underwear from the suitcase.
Susan Avery came into the room and thanked everyone. Jeff Beckett was behind her.
“That's it?” asked Griffin.
“That's all she wrote,” she said.
“Did they pick anyone?”
“They didn't pick you.”
“I was thinking, you know, I was on the street when he was killed. And a witness to the murder might have seen me there and, in the lineup, would have remembered my face.”
“There you go with my defense,” said Beckett.
Griffin couldn't believe that it was over. They were joking now, but it seemed that Avery had only followed a lead, because yes, someone had seen the murder, but it was dark, and Griffin had been impossible to identify. Avery never seriously believed that Griffin killed Kahane, she was only doing her job.
“What do you do now?” asked Griffin.
“I just have to ask you a few more questions,” she said.
“With my lawyer in the room.”
“With your lawyer in the room.”
“Go ahead.”
“How long have you known June Mercator?”
“Since Kahane's funeral.”
“You'd never met her before that.”