Killer Ambition

31

“I’ll get hold of my contact and find out what cell sites got pinged.” Bailey put the phone back into the bag. “Thank you, Dorian.”

“It is my job, you know. And now I’ve got a shocker for you: yours isn’t my only case.” She waved her hand toward the door. Bailey and I picked up on the subtle cue and left.

The sun beat down from a cloudless sky and I could feel the heat of the asphalt through my sandals as we crossed the parking lot. I told her about Toni’s reaction.

“I agree,” Bailey said. “There is something off about all this.”

“I’m sure the kidnapping was initially just Brian and Hayley-”

“That part feels right.”

“And that means we have to be right about someone else jumping into the mix after the first note was sent,” I said.

We got into the car and Bailey cranked up the AC.

“All we can do is keep working the Stuart Connor angle. He’s the only hot lead we’ve got right now,” Bailey said. “I’ve got everyone trying to run him down from our end while NYPD works theirs.”

“Problem is, I don’t remember seeing the name Stuart Connor anywhere around Russell’s entourage so far-”

“It wasn’t. Which means we hit the next group just outside Russell’s inner circle and keep moving out from there.”

Bailey pulled out of the lot. “I suggest we hit the studio first.”

“That’ll probably give us the most bang for our buck. But we’re going to have to move fast-”

Bailey nodded, her expression grim. “Yeah, it’s over three days since Rostoni found him. Brian’s death won’t keep for much longer. And once it gets out, Stuart Connor’s going to know his cover’s blown and take a powder.”

“If he hasn’t already.”

“Right.”

Bailey floored it and neither of us said another word until she pulled up to the security guard shack at Russell’s studio. The guard, whose nametag told us he was Franklin Yarberger, was a shrunken, hawk-nosed man with weathered-looking skin who studied our badges, photos, and faces as though he were playing a game of Count the Differences. Finally he nodded. “I’ll call Russell’s office, let ’em know you’re here.”

But Bailey held up a hand and signaled for him to get closer. He leaned down and squinted at her. Bailey kept her tone low and confidential. “You know we’re the ones working Hayley’s murder, don’t you?”

“Yeah. You seem to match up.”

“Well, we need to keep this low-key. Don’t want to alarm or…tip anybody. Know what I mean?”

No one, I repeat, no one, plays the “just between us cops” card better than Bailey. It worked best with the wannabe’s, but I’d seen it work with retired officers too. I made Franklin as the latter. It’s the suspicious eyes. Always a dead giveaway.

As Franklin looked at Bailey I could see his wheels turning, considering whether to go along with it. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Used to be on the force myself.”

Like I said, the eyes give them away every time. That and the framed eight-by-ten photograph on Franklin’s desk showing him in full LAPD uniform. He told Bailey how to get to the security office and pushed the button that lifted the security bar. “Park in any spot marked ‘visitor.’”

We had to drive a while before we found one that wasn’t occupied, and the lot was teeming with activity-people running, riding bicycles, driving golf carts. I really love those little carts. Bailey saw me look longingly as one passed us by and shook her head.

The security office was at the farthest edge of the lot. I made the mistake of yawning as I got out of the car, and hot air burned through my mouth and down my throat. Thankfully, the security office was cool. A secretary’s desk faced the door, but it was vacant. Bailey called down the hall to the left of the desk and identified herself. A hefty man in baggy shorts and a grungy Raiders tank appeared at the door, his outsized belly leading the way. He was dripping with sweat; even his neat little mustache looked soaked. He wiped his face and neck with a hand towel that had been draped over his shoulder as he said, “Sorry, I was just working out. Promised the wife and doctor I’d drop fifty pounds before the holidays.”

Bailey introduced us, and we showed him our badges.

“Pete Toker,” he said, extending a still sweaty hand. I let Bailey shake it first, then took my turn. “What can I do for you?”

“We’d like to see your personnel records if we could,” Bailey said. “You keep employee photos?”

“Sure. Everyone has to wear security badges with photos. We keep copies in their files.”

“We’re looking for people with criminal records. No offense, I know you wouldn’t hire them knowingly-” she said.

“None taken. You never can tell what might slip through the cracks. ’Sides, if we have someone on the lot with a rap sheet, I’d like to know about it. Follow me.”

The truth was, it was photos we were after. Abe Furtoni, our contact in the NYPD, had been able to isolate the video footage of our man Stuart Connor at the check-in counter of the hotel, and per our request, he’d pulled off a still shot and scanned it to us. We weren’t looking for a rap sheet per se. All we really wanted to do was see if we had a match to our surveillance photo. We just didn’t want Pete to start wondering who we had in our sights until we absolutely had to. By saying we were looking for criminal types, it’d look like a general, wide-angle search.

Pete led us down the hall to a room that had a small table and chair in the far-right corner, shelves that covered one wall, and filing cabinets that filled the other two walls. “We were supposed to go digital with everything a while ago, but you know, on a studio lot we’re the poor stepchildren. You’ll find all the current employees on the shelves and all the ex-employees in those two cabinets on the right.”

“And the rest of the cabinets?” I asked.

“Just scripts and stuff from what I’ve seen. They were here when I got hired and I never had cause to get into ’em. You can if you want.” Pete turned to go, then stopped. “By the way, thanks for not making the obvious joke about my name.”

I didn’t tell him it was too easy, though it was. Pete left us to our own devices and we got down to business.