White Lies Page 11

  He took a sip of coffee as he followed her prompt. "Who got a huge settlement?"

  "And Sharon was what? An assistant?"

  "She called herself a manager." Asher stared at his swollen fingers. "Oh God, she was stealing, too."

  "Really?"

  "I don't think it was a lot. She set up a website and was selling autographs and t-shirts." He shook his head. "Who would care? Who would kill people over my money?"

  Ellie gave him a sharp look. "Who's in your will, Ash?"

  "What?"

  "Who benefits if you die?"

  "No one. I mean, I'm not worth that much."

  "When is the last time you updated your will?"

  "Not long ago." He shifted uneasily. "Fred helped me set it up. It all goes to a couple of charities." He avoided her eyes. "Is that wrong?"

  "Of course not, sweetie. Why do you look so guilty?"

  "I want the money to go to, y'know, rehab."

  Ellie gave him a warm smile. "That's very good of you."

  The food arrived and gave him a moment to regroup. "I don't have any family, so it isn't like I'm slighting anybody. But Fred didn't seem to like my choices."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, he went on about foundations and endowments, I don't know. I was too soon sober to make much sense of it."

  Ellie nodded. "Well, that's something you can sort out later. Who was in your will before you changed it?"

  Asher sucked in a breath of surprise. "Alanna. I hadn't changed it since the divorce."

  Ellie put down her fork and stared at him. "Oh my God, it really is about your money."

  Chapter 27

  After breakfast, Ellie dropped Asher at George's house. She filled George in on their latest theory and left for a business meeting. It had been decided, without consulting Asher, that he shouldn't be alone. Asher appreciated the concern. He dreaded the thought of an afternoon on his own.

  They sat by the pool drinking smoothies made by another kitchen appliance George had just acquired. A canopy dimmed the midday sun to tolerable. Brushed steel and glass tables were scattered among lounge chairs and thick-cushioned couches.

  "You think this is about money?" George asked.

  "I don't know what to think." Asher stared at the water. Flickers of glare stabbed at him making his eyes tear. At least he could pretend the harsh light was responsible.

  "Are you OK?"

  He lurched forward, straddling the chaise lounge. "How am I supposed to be OK? People are dying, and it's my fault."

  "It's not your fault, Ash."

  "It is." He stood up to pace. Despite lack of sleep, he was too distraught to sit still. "I don't know how, but it is. George, I have to figure this out."

  George gave him a long, steady look. "Kiddo, you'll never be able to think like a killer."

  "That's my job!" He reached up to tug at his hair and smacked himself with the cast. "That's what I do. I'm an actor. I work in make-believe."

  "OK." George sat forward, pulling his legs up. "All right, let's break this out like a script. We got a killer, we got bodies, you say the motive is money, how does that work?"

  Asher stopped pacing. "I must know the killer."

  "No. First of all, let's not use you. We'll call you 'Nexus'. And it doesn't mean that Nexus knows the killer, only that the killer knows Nexus."

  "Right." Asher settled back down on the end of the lounge chair. "But Nexus isn't worth that much."

  "It doesn't matter what is true," George said. "It matters what the killer thinks is true."

  "How can I know what a crazy person thinks is true?"

  George shook his head. "Actions. Follow the actions, and that will tell us what he thinks. So—Pam is the first death."

  "And Nexus is an ex-client..."

  "Potential client?"

  Asher snorted. "Not in the real world."

  "We're not in the real world here, Ash. So, if Nexus signed on with Pam..."

  "Wait, remember Pam knows the killer."

  George gave him a slow nod. "OK, what does that tell us?"

  Asher traced the nobby weave on the cushion with his finger as he thought it through. "Pam knew something."

  "Like what?"

  "She knows who he is, but not what he's doing, or she'd have told somebody, right?"

  "But he thinks that she does know something, or why else would he kill her?"

  "I don't think Pam would care if somebody stole from me. And the killer could probably buy her off if it came to that. So it's got to be more than just theft."

  "OK, good. That makes sense. What about Alanna."

  "She doesn't know the killer. She couldn't identify him. And he didn't know her very well, or he wouldn't have tried to kill her with his bare hands. She's got self defense stuff in all her books."

  "Bare hands says it's real personal."

  "Well, if we're going for money as a motive, she did get a huge settlement."

  "You should have made her sign a pre-nup."

  Asher waved a hand in disagreement. "Nah, I don't care. I would have just blown it on something stupid."

  "Huh. You're all good with that?"

  Asher closed his eyes and sighed. "No, it's just real low on the fears and phobias list."

  George gave him a smile. "OK. What's next? The house?"

  "He knows where I live."

  They exchanged a look. "You have a good security system?" George asked.

  Asher shook his head. "Didn't before, and now the fire's punched a bunch of holes into the house."

  "You should stay here till this is sorted out."

  "Can't." Asher rubbed his face one-handed, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep. "I don't think he wants to kill me. He knows where I live. He could have come into the house through the garage and killed me in my bed. He didn't."

  "Huh." George stood up and beckoned. "Come on, I need to write some of this down."

  Asher followed him up to his workroom. It was a small room on the second floor with long narrow windows overlooking the pool. A whiteboard covered most of one wall, flanked by corkboard; every other space was filled with overflowing bookcases. George had just started on a new project. A few sketches and scribbled notes were tacked up on the corkboard. George pulled everything off and stacked it on a drawing board next to a rubber zombie mask. He grabbed some markers and started graphing out the story so far. Asher sunk into the ancient comfy couch that faced the whiteboard.

  "So if he didn't want to kill you, what was the point? Scare you? What result do we get from that?"

  "I start using again?"

  "Meh. Doesn't track. Let's put the fire aside for now." George wrote "Death of assistant" on the board. "How does this affect Nexus?"

  Asher looked away as tears burned his eyes. He took a couple shaky breaths. "She would talk to a brick wall, so there's no way of telling if she knew him." He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. "She was stealing from me."

  "Shit!"

  "No, it was just some little thing she had going on the side."

  "How would the killer know?"

  "It was on the website."

  "Right. This generation likes to put it all out there, don't they?" George dug a box of tissues out of a cluttered bookcase and tossed it to Asher. He stared at the board while Asher blew his nose.

  "Wait, she got you that commercial, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "So if the killer took out Pam because she might sign you, did he take out Sharon because she got you work?"

  "He doesn't want me to work?" Asher shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. If I work, I'll have more money."

  George tapped the end of the marker against the wall. "If you work you get agents and managers all poking around in your business. What doesn't he want to come to light?"

  Asher frowned. "Fred takes care of all my business. You know he'd yell at me for anything that even looked shady."

  Changing colors, George drew lines between the names. "So Pam knows him, Alanna doesn
't and Sharon might?"

  "OK." Asher stared at the board, willing an answer to appear.

  "So who does Pam know that Alanna doesn't?"

  Something was bothering him. "Wait. Go back to the crime itself. I was arrested for her murder. If I didn't have this scar, I wouldn't have been released. Where does that lead?"

  "You would have been arraigned and maybe let out on bail?"

  "I keep circling this, and I can't break through." Asher groaned as he lurched to his feet, then wandered over to a row of set sketches from George's movies. "The fire could have killed me. I've been arrested for two murders and a mugging. If I was in jail, I'd probably overdose. It's a weird way to plan a murder, but what if it is all about getting me killed? Who would think they would inherit my money?"

  "Well, when you boil it down to that, I guess we do need to bring Scott up again."

  "Why would he think he's in my will? And why now? Val's been dead for years. She was our only connection."

  "Maybe. You make any new connections?"

  Asher wandered over to a shelf of dusty props. Gauntlets, a set of pewter mugs and a tarnished tiara were set to one side. "Huh." He picked up one of the mugs, vague memories coalescing in his thoughts. "Right. This kid, Rex, at the hospital knew Val."

  "No way. He probably read about her somewhere."

  "No, he did. Told me he used to buy drugs off Paul."

  "You think he's involved somehow?"

  "I can't imagine how. Rex is very sick. They're never going to let him back on the street.

  "You seen him lately?"

  Asher shook his head.

  "OK." George leaned back against the whiteboard, staring at the floor. "So, maybe the question we should ask isn't why, but why now?"

  Asher returned to the couch, collapsing on it with a grunt. "Now that I'm sober?"

  "Now that you're back in town?"

  "Now that I'm trying to get work?" Asher added, his words distorted in a huge yawn.

  "Now that you're so tired, you can't keep your eyes open?" George said, joining him on the couch. "Do I need to send you off to bed?"

  "Not yet." Asher stared at the whiteboard. There was something he didn't want to talk about, and yet couldn't stop thinking of it. "They showed me the photo, George. Her dress was all bloody. It had sequins. They were all red."

  George put his hand on Asher's shoulder. "Bastards. They shouldn't have shown that to you."

  "I can't get it out of my head."

  "I know." George gave his shoulder a squeeze. "The day Laurie died is still clear as a bell. And it still hurts." He sat forward and patted Asher's knee. "Come on. You're not sharp enough to think this through right now. Let's go hit the game room, and you can blow up a few trolls."

  Asher climbed to his feet feeling achy in every joint. "Trolls I can handle."

  Chapter 28

  The accountant's office was nicely appointed and very well air conditioned. Bledsoe breathed a sigh of relief when he and Smythe stepped off the elevator and into the frigid air. A professionally pleasant receptionist escorted them to a small conference room. As she was leaving, a thin man in a rumpled, brown suit entered carrying a laptop. He was balding with just a fringe of limp, grey hair. His wiry eyebrows, which sprouted out over his glasses seemed to be trying to make up for the lack.

  "I'm Lawrence Sykes. You are Detective Bledsoe?" He placed the laptop on the table.

  "Yes, and this is my partner, Detective Smythe."

  "May I see the warrant, please?"

  Bledsoe glanced at Smythe to take the lead.

  "The information we are requesting isn't confidential," she said.

  Sykes tsked in dismay. "Oh, my, but payroll records most certainly are."

  "Ah, I think we've had a bit of a misunderstanding," she said in her most soothing voice. "Let me explain what we need, and perhaps you can advise us on the right way to approach it."

  Bledsoe smiled. She was good.

  The accountant sat down. "By all means."

  Smythe showed him the photo of the bloody dagger. "This weapon was used in a homicide. In addition to the blood of the victim, we found Asher Blaine's blood on it. When we spoke to Mr. Blaine, he explained that the dagger was a prop from a pirate movie."

  Sykes flipped open the laptop and began searching files. "Yes. I remember that one: Fighting in Shadows. The filming ran exceptionally late. Hmm." The room was quiet but for the sound of his busy fingers on the keyboard. "Our client purchased six daggers from Silverlight Swordsmithing: two blunt, two retractable and two with blood reservoir..."

  Bledsoe leaned forward. "What we need to know—"

  Sykes held up one finger, stopping him. "I have one blunt dagger listed as missing at the hospital...oh."

  "Hospital?"

  "Oh, dear, yes, I remember this. There was an accident on the set." He spoke slowly as he scanned through the file. "One of many actually, but this was rather serious. A light fell and knocked Mr. Blaine down a flight of steps." He paused as he clicked through a few screens.

  "Yes, here we are. I have a full report in the insurance file. They only shut down for that day. They were able to reschedule and shoot around him...but you don't need that."

  Bledsoe took out his notebook.

  "Hmmm, hmmm. Here. Taken to Cedar Sinai, concussion, broken ribs and the dagger was removed from his left leg, twelve stitches." He looked over his laptop. "I think that might be the dagger you're looking for."

  "So it went missing after it was removed from his leg," Bledsoe surmised.

  "So it appears." Sykes snapped the laptop shut.

  "Could you tell us if any of the crew went to the hospital with Blaine?" Smythe asked.

  "Since production was shut down, we would have no way to track the absence of any crew. However, it is possible his own people were there with him."

  "His own people?" Bledsoe asked.

  Sykes tapped the laptop in thought. "If I remember correctly, Mr. Blaine always had a few of his own employees, a bodyguard, assistant, occasionally a voice coach, that sort of thing. At the very least, I'm sure his bodyguard would have been with him."

  "Do you know who that was?" Bledsoe asked.

  "Oh, no." Sykes shook his head repeatedly. "Mr. Blaine is not one of our clients."

  Bledsoe made a note in his notebook.

  Smythe stood and offered her hand. "Thank you, Mr. Sykes, you've been very helpful."

  He shook Smythe's hand, holding it a moment too long. "May I ask if there is any possibility of the dagger being returned to its rightful owner?"

  "Oh." Smythe blinked at him. "At the moment it's evidence in an ongoing investigation. Once that is completed, the owner can submit paperwork to reclaim it."

  Bledsoe cleared his throat and nudged her.

  "But I'm sure we can get a start on that paperwork." Smythe grabbed the notebook and pen as Bledsoe pushed them into her hands. "Who is the rightful owner?"

  Sykes paused, looked at her, then Bledsoe and back to the pad. "One of the larger studios," he said in a stage whisper. "I'd rather not say without informing them first."

  "Is there anyone in particular that we could contact?"

  The accountant frowned, shook his head and pursed his lips. "If you're thinking that someone from the studio might be involved with this...this..." he flapped his hand at the folder Smythe held.

  "Is it possible?" she asked.

  "I sincerely doubt it. There's been quite a bit of turnover there in the past few years. I doubt that anyone who worked on the film is still there."

  Smythe offered him her card. "Well, if you can think of anything else."

  He took the card and pocketed it. "Certainly. Now if we are done?" He gestured them out of the conference room and escorted them to the reception area.

  When they were back in the elevator, Bledsoe nudged Smythe. "I think he liked you."

  "Yeah, great." She sighed. "Another dead end."

  Bledsoe gave her a sly wink. "I have a contact at Cedar
Sinai."

  * * *

  Amelia was a large woman, but in a stately fashion, more like an industrious tugboat than an over-laden barge. She had weathered the battering storms of the ER at Cedar Sinai for over a decade. Solid and calm, she handled every crisis with a firm, reliable hand. The staff depended on her to take charge went things went haywire. That meant she saw more than her share of oddness.

  Bledsoe bought her a frozen yogurt and a diet soda at the hospital's cafeteria. He introduced Smythe as they sat down. The two women sized each other up, recognized a fellow professional and exchanged approving nods.

  "Eight years ago?" Amelia asked with an exaggerated sigh.

  "This should stick out—Asher Blaine with a jeweled dagger in his leg?"

  "Ha! Blaine dressed as a pirate!" She laughed heartily. "That was a busy day. I think half the crew came with him. They were more upset than he was."

  "Because he was high," Smythe said.

  Amelia sipped her drink. "Mmm. But still, he was a gentleman. Please and thank you all the way. He gave us a good history, knew the names of all the drugs he'd taken. And he got upset when we cut off his pirate pants. Said the costume people would be furious." She chuckled again. "People worry about the strangest things when they're hurt like that. I had a woman, her dog nearly killed her, bites on both arms and legs, and all she could say was that her groceries were in the car and the frozen food would melt!"

  Bledsoe chuckled. "I've seen it myself."

  Amelia nodded. "Now, what can I tell you that you don't already know?"

  "We're looking for that dagger."

  Amelia ate a few spoonfuls of yogurt as she thought. "Let's see. The wound itself wasn't that serious. Just scary looking, I guess, with that knife sticking out of his leg. There was a bunch of people wandering around, very upset that he was hurt. I think it was Dr. Johnson who took the knife out. Hmmm." She closed her eyes to concentrate.

  Smythe finished her coffee and put the cup to one side. She and Bledsoe exchanged an impatient glance.

  "The gofer," Amelia announced. "I remember now. Scruffy guy. Said he was a runner for the production company. He took the knife and some jewelry Blaine was wearing. Didn't want the costume. Said someone else would come for it."

  "Do you remember a name?" Bledsoe asked.