“Yeah; that would be the girl in the office, Carol Toomey.”

  “Is that it?” Wally asked, bored.

  Martina leaned against the wall, swirling the coffee in his mug. It looked like he was trying to decide if he should risk drinking it. “Masters also charged a lunch, dinner, and breakfast in that order on the company tab. Talk about mixing business with pleasure.” He gulped down the rest of his coffee and shuddered. “We ought to market this stuff as rat poison,” he said, and set the mug down.

  Wally busied himself with tidying his desk, ignoring the comment.

  Martina pulled some scribbled pages from his notebook and dropped them on Howard’s desk. “It’s my kid’s fifth birthday today; I’m heading home,” he said, moving for the door. “Have a good one.”

  “Yeah, right.” Howard settled back in his chair, turning his gaze to his partner. “Okay. Masters is out of the picture, then. Same goes for the floaters that Garrett interviewed. Damn, how come no one thought to have a lab team come in on that break-in to dust for prints? Didn’t they know we were conducting a murder investigation?”

  Wally shrugged. “I guess the security guards didn’t think a break-in could be tied in. Technically, neither do we at this point.”

  “Well, I think it’s damned incompetence! And what about our people? Doesn’t anyone give a shit except the two of us?”

  Wally rolled his eyes.

  “You know,” Howard continued, “it still bugs me that, with all the people that work in the vicinity of the Script Department, nobody heard a shot. Nobody saw anybody leaving. Where was everyone?”

  “Does it matter?” Wally asked. “The killer was probably a familiar face and if anyone saw him or her—they probably wouldn’t think twice.”

  “But where’s the motive?” Howard demanded.

  Wally shook his head, tiredly. “What about the missing script angle? Did you ever get hold of Dietrich?”

  “Yeah, and I also got some got some very interesting information from Erica in the Script Department. She’s making every effort to do her new job well, that’s for sure. She called a little while ago to give me some more details on what was missing from the break-in. She said that the multilith sheets were missing from Dagger’s Heart.”

  “And what, pray tell, are multilith sheets and what in God’s name is Dagger’s Heart?” Wally asked, his stomach growling impatiently.

  “The typists type on these kind of cardboardy sheets and they go on a printing press. Dagger’s Heart is Dietrich’s script for an as yet unproduced sci-fi flick. Erica figured they could Xerox off some copies of the script for their files until the next time the revisions came in.”

  Wally glanced at the door where several other detectives from the day watch were already leaving to go home. “So what?” he said.

  “The so what is that she called every office the script had been distributed to and no one had a copy. They’re all missing.”

  “All of them?”

  “There might be a few hanging around at peoples’ homes, but she didn’t see how they could track them down, although she said she’d try.”

  “That is strange.”

  “Not half as strange as the guy that wrote the script. It seems he hasn’t sold a movie project in over ten years,” Howard said. “He’s earned his living being a film instructor at either UCLA or USC for the past few years. And this season he was a story consultant to one of Monarch’s sit-coms—before he got shit-canned.”

  “So what’s the point?”

  “How come all of a sudden Dietrich’s got a hot number with Dagger’s Heart?”

  “Maybe he had a long bout with writer’s block. It happens,” Wally countered, and started straightening his desk, getting ready to leave for the day.

  “Oh, by the way, I hope you didn’t have any plans for tonight, because we’re working late,” Howard said.

  “We are?” Wally said, glancing at the clock on the wall which already read six-fifteen. “Why?”

  “Because, Dietrich is going out of town in the morning and we’re going to pay him a visit tonight. He’s expecting us in forty-five minutes, which means we’d better get going. The freeway traffic is going to be murder.”

  “What about my dinner? And isn’t it your feeding time yet?”

  Howard was already on his feet, struggling into his leather jacket. “I grabbed a sandwich a while ago while you were on the phone. Are you coming?” he asked impatiently.

  Looking grim, Wally grabbed his jacket. “All right, but we’d better stop off for something to eat on the way or I may be wanted for murder—yours!”

  “Sure thing,” Howard said, giving him a pat on the back. “Any place but Madame Lu’s!”

  8

  With Wally momentarily satisfied by a quick stop at a Jack in the Box, they headed for Dietrich’s house in Topanga Canyon. The driveway was new concrete, not more than a few months old, but already it was cracked in several places as it wound around the writer’s house. The house was an A-frame, reminiscent of a Swiss chalet, precariously perched on the side of the canyon wall, well hidden by tinder-dry trees and brush.

  Howard stopped the car alongside a blue Pinto which was parked next to a freshly waxed BMW in the driveway. He looked around, surveying the area. The grass was overgrown and a brushfire hazard. “Do you think we ought to cite this guy for not clearing the place up?”

  “Why bother? It’s probably a rental. But we should probably ask the fire department to come and take a look so they can issue a citation,” Wally said, and opened his door. “How are we going to play this?”

  “You can be charming and handsome, and I’ll play the heavy.”

  “Perfect casting,” Wally agreed.

  They headed up the driveway to the heavy front door and knocked. A few moments later, it was thrown open by a pretty young blonde woman dressed in a pink halter top and jeans.

  “Hi. You must be the cops, right? I’m Lucy Pearson, Steve Dietrich’s secretary. Come on in,” she said before Howard could even get his identification out of his pocket. Shrugging, the detectives followed her through the tastefully decorated house to the veranda overlooking the canyon.

  Dietrich stood against the railing with a drink in one hand, looking every inch the stereotyped Hollywood writer from the movies, and very comfortable in the role. “Gentlemen,” he said, and exchanged pleasantries before settling down to the business at hand. “What can I do for you?” he offered.

  “As you know,” Wally started, “we’re investigating the murders that happened at Monarch Studios last week.”

  “So Sergeant Howard explained on the phone, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with me. Surely I’m not a suspect. I’ve got an iron-clad alibi. At the time of the murders, I was in San Francisco trying to drum up backing for my next project. In fact, I didn’t get back until late last night.”

  “That’s not why we’re here. We’re not sure how this ties in, but we were wondering what you knew about the missing scripts taken from the Script Department at Monarch Studios.”

  “Yes, Irene mentioned that to me several days before this tragedy.” He shook his head. “Poor Irene. She always made sure my revisions were done in a timely manner. It’s a loss to all the production teams; she’ll certainly be missed.”

  “We can appreciate that,” Wally continued, “but we were wondering why your script, Dagger’s Heart, is so important—why would anyone want to break into the Script Department to steal copies of it?”

  “Who knows why anyone does anything these days?” he said, a bit too glibly for Howard’s liking.

  “It’s occurred to us, Mr. Dietrich,” Howard started, his words slow and deliberate, “that those murders may have been a smoke-screen to cover up something else. Or, maybe to keep someone from talking about something.”

  Dietrich’s attention was suddenly piqued. “What makes you say that?”

  “There was another break-in later the night of the murders. This time the thief stole the Dagger’s Heart multilith sheets, and every remaining copy of your script. It seems that other copies of the script have disappeared as well. We were hoping you might be able to offer an explanation,” Wally piped in.

  “I assure you, gentlemen, I had no idea this had happened. And if someone’s out to stop production of my work, I believe I should have been informed before this,” he said angrily.

  “I don’t think anyone realized what was happening until we started checking around. Just what is the script about, anyway?” Wally asked.

  “It’s a fantasy. It’s like nothing that’s been done before, and it’ll be the biggest box office take Monarch has ever produced. It’ll make a lot of people a lot of money. That’s why I can’t believe anyone would go to such lengths to stop production. Especially when the script is nowhere near ready. No one’s been signed to direct. There’s no cast yet, or—”

  “Mr. Dietrich, do you happen to have a copy of the script here in the house?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. I’m in the process of revising it.”

  “Then it’s likely that whoever stole it knows this. It might not be a bad idea for you to check into a hotel for a few days.” Dietrich looked uneasy, and Howard continued, his voice deadly calm. “Mr. Dietrich, we have reason to suspect that you may be the next victim.”

  Lucy edged onto the balcony, a disturbed look of fear covering her face.

  The writer broke the silence with a forced laugh. “Me? You must be joking.”

  “There are three bodies down at the morgue that say I’m not,” Howard said flatly, and Wally gave him a sideways glance, wondering what the hell he was talking about.

  “Steve,” Lucy interrupted, and moved to stand beside him, taking his hand. “Please. If some nut’s out there, it’s not worth it to—”

  “Lucy,” Dietrich said harshly, effectively cutting off anything else the young woman might have said.

  Lucy lowered her head, and Howard noticed her knuckles had turned white as she squeezed the writer’s hand.

  “I’m sure you’re overreacting,” Dietrich managed, his voice barely under control. “If all that were true, wouldn’t it be more logical for the killer to have come after me first?”

  “It’s hard to say. You can never predict a criminal’s next move with any certainty,” Howard said, his voice level, his eyes boring through the writer.

  The implied accusation seemed to anger Dietrich, who disentangled his hand from Lucy’s. He stood and moved into the living room, stopping before the bar. The others followed and watched as Dietrich fumbled with the ice in a bucket, then poured himself another drink. He took a long swallow. Seemingly under control, he faced the two detectives. “I appreciate your candor, gentlemen; however, all you’ve done is present innuendo with no supporting facts, upsetting me and my secretary. I’m sure I’m in no danger—and if anything suspicious should occur, I can assure you I’d be the first to call the police. I’m no hero, but I really don’t believe the situation is as melodramatic as you paint it.”

  A dour Lucy seated herself on one of the barstools, her attention focused on the rug. She looked close to tears.

  “What I think my partner is trying to say,” Wally started, attempting to restore some semblance of diplomacy after Howard’s blunt statement, “is that it’s our job to protect the public. We thought you should know the situation in case the theft of the script is behind all this. We can order a twenty four-hour watch on you to make sure—”

  “Certainly not,” Dietrich interrupted. “I refuse to disrupt my life on the basis of foolish supposition on your part. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a dinner appointment.”

  Wally gave the writer a terse nod, but removed a card from his wallet. “If you need us, just give us a call at this number.” He placed the card on the bar in front of Lucy and turned for the door. “Coming, partner?”

  Howard nodded and followed him out.

  Wally waited until they were well out of ear-shot of the house before speaking. “What was that all about?”

  “In the car?” Howard replied. They got in the Cougar and Howard started it.

  “Where did you come up with that fairy tale?” Wally asked, glancing over the seat to take a last look at the house.

  “Actually, I thought it was pretty effective,” Howard said, and pulled out of the driveway onto the private road. He shrugged. “It sure got a rise out of Dietrich though, didn’t it?”

  “Why didn’t you let me in on all this before we went in there?”

  “I wasn’t sure I was even going to bring it up,” Howard said as he made a left onto Benedict Canyon Road. Sensing Wally’s puzzlement, Howard explained, “For years you’ve been telling me I watch too much TV, that I see too many movies, and faulting me for going back to see them over and over again. But I figure in this case it gives me an edge.”

  “How? It lets you think like a criminal?”

  Howard smiled. “No, it lets me think like a writer.” He brightened. “Hey, maybe I could be the next Joseph Wambaugh! Don’t you see?” he continued, “This case reads just like an old movie.”

  “How?” Wally demanded.

  “Hell, put the facts together. We’ve got three victims. One of them was interested in filmmaking as a hobby and also happens to be broke. It’s the classic set-up for blackmail. And then there’s someone who obviously doesn’t want that movie made and goes to an awful lot of trouble to make sure it isn’t. I mean, three counts of homicide ain’t chicken feed. Dietrich knows more than he’s saying and even tells his lady to shut up just before she can spill the beans. Why?”

  “Because he stole the idea?” Wally guessed.

  “Why not? And whoever Dietrich stole it from must work on the lot—someone who worked for or with Dietrich. And since Dietrich never worked out of the Script Department, I’ve got a hunch it might be one of the floaters.”

  “That’s a pretty big bluff, Howie. I mean, people come and go off that lot like they’re moving through a revolving door. Especially on a weekly show like Dietrich’s. Actors, directors, writers—and we don’t even know for sure that the Dagger’s Heart script ties in with the murders.”

  “A mere technicality at this point. We’ve got to do a detailed check on who was working with Dietrich for the past few months. If we can tie that in to when the script was copyrighted or at least first typed, I’ll lay odds it’ll be about the same time as the first break-in at the studio.” He glanced at the dashboard clock. “It’s too late to call the Screenwriter’s Guild. We can get on that first thing in the morning, though.”

  Wally shook his head. “Howard, who would be stupid enough to kill three people in the middle of the day, at a crowded movie studio?”

  “Someone who knows the system intimately—”

  “And works out of that office,” Wally finished, unnecessarily. “I see what you’re getting at. But if it’s one of the floaters you’re thinking about, Garrett cleared them all.”

  “I wouldn’t call a day of checking on thirty people something to gamble my life on. You know, it might just be a good idea to check out the employees’ educational backgrounds, too.”

  “I don’t follow you there.”

  “Well, it’s hard to get into the movies, but if you really wanted to, you’d take any job just to be in the business, right? Ten to one at least a few of these floaters have degrees or have taken film study courses at either USC or UCLA. Narrow that down to anyone majoring in writing or directing courses, and maybe even happened to have been a student of Dietrich’s, and—”

  “You’ve found the killer.”

  “You got it,” Howard said, obviously proud of his logic.

  “It’s too easy,” Wally admonished.

  “When you get right down to it, it always is.”

  * * *

  Dietrich looked on as Lucy nervously watched from the kitchen window as the detectives backed down the driveway and drove off. “They know, Steve, they know!” she cried.

  “Shut up,” Dietrich told her.

  “But we could go to jail!”

  “No way. Lucy, I’ve taken care of everything. It’s all legal and binding,” he explained, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and leading her back to the living room. “That shithead signed a contract. He cashed the check. There’s no way anyone could prove I’ve done anything wrong. Or you, for that matter.”

  “But he blames us! Don’t you see that? And now he’s going to—”

  “Honey, we’re not responsible for what other people do. But just in case that kid has any ideas, we’ll take that trip to Hawaii a little earlier than we’d planned. We can leave tonight.”

  “But the police, you told them—”

  “They know I was leaving town anyway. We’ll leave them a message telling them where we can be reached. After all, we want to cooperate any way we can.” Dietrich gathered up her purse and coat and ushered her toward the door. “Now you go home, pack a bag, and reserve us a couple of seats on a late flight to Honolulu. Call me when you have the reservations and I’ll drive over and pick you up.” He paused at the door, giving her a light kiss on the tip of her nose.

  She looked up at him. “Steve, I’m scared. What if the police are right? What if—?”

  Dietrich gathered her in his arms. “Nothing will happen, kiddo, I’ll make sure of that.”

  “But he’s crazy! He already killed Lizzie and the others. Lizzie knew about the script. She could have proved it was his.”

  “If that little Chicana-brat hadn’t tried to blackmail the jerk, she’d still be alive today. Honey, trust me; it’s going to be all right,” he said, holding her tightly and pressed a kiss on the top of her head. “I promise.”

  Lucy clung to him for a long moment, reluctant to let go. “Okay,” she said finally, pulling herself together. “I’ll call you in an hour,” she said, kissed him briefly and wiped a tear from her eye.

  “I love you, girl,” Dietrich said, walking her to the door. They kissed yet again before she turned and he closed the door behind her. He crossed to the kitchen window and watched as she slowly walked toward her car and got in. She waved as the Pinto pulled out onto the road. Then Dietrich headed for the bedroom, stopping long enough at the bar to pour himself another double Scotch.

 

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