music over the funeral logo and, then-boom. In comes ‘To Catch a Killer!’ The funeral logo needs to crumble like a wall of bricks. I want an avalanche!”
“Awesome,” says Layla. “Oh-I’m talking to Elton’s people. They might let us use his song for the open. He’s a huge fan.”
I’m guessing “Elton” is Sir Elton John. I think he wrote a song called “Funeral for a Friend.” I know Springsteen sure didn’t.
“I want Elton to perform it!” says Mandrake. “Live! I see candles everywhere. Blowing in the wind. Buffeted by the sea breeze.…”
“The cast joins him on the chorus!” adds Layla.
“Yes! They hold hands and sing!”
“It’s Must-See TV!”
Once again, Ceepak has heard enough.
“You cannot be serious,” he says.
“About what?” asks Mandrake.
“Putting all this on television.”
“Grow up, Bubeleh. It’s already on television. The newsboys are running with it big-time. And not just our network. Fox, CNN, MSNBC. They’re all over it like mayonnaise on bologna.”
Okay, judging by the jaw pops, my partner is now furious. “You should never have run that footage of Skeletor and the motorcycle gang. You may have provoked this attack on your ‘family.’”
“Whoa. Ease up, cowboy.”
“You gave us your word you would not utilize any of that footage until after the arrest of our suspect.”
“When? I don’t remember making any such promise.”
I nod toward Layla. “Your associate did.”
“You have it in writing?” says Mandrake.
“No.”
“So you learned a valuable lesson. Always make people put their promises on paper. That’s why God invented lawyers.”
“We need the footage,” says Ceepak.
Mandrake and Layla both cock their heads sideways.
“What footage?” she says it first.
“From your cameras inside the house and out on the deck.”
“We need to piece together everything we can about the hours before Mr. Braciole’s death,” I add.
“It is quite possible,” says Ceepak, “that your cameras caught him leaving the house with his killer.”
Mandrake puts his hands together to make a prayerful pup tent under his nose.
“You’re right. That would be amazing.”
Layla’s nodding. “Fucking incredible.”
Mandrake runs his hand across the air imagining a movie marquee. “The last minutes of Paulie Braciole’s life. Dead man walking.…”
“It would be fucking awesome,” says Layla. “Unfortunately.…”
She trails off.
“What?” demands Ceepak.
“Last night,” says Mandrake, somewhat sheepishly, “we encountered technical difficulties.”
“How so?”
“A genny glitch,” says Layla.
“Pardon?”
“Our power generator,” says Mandrake. “It died last night too.”
13
Layla is wearing that tight white gym top with the low-slung shorts again-the ones that show off her flat abs and diving pelvis bone.
But I’m not falling for it.
Well, I might.
So I’m forcing myself to stare at Marty Mandrake. His belly button is completely covered by a trampoline- tight polo shirt. I believe said belly button is currently drooped somewhere over his belt buckle.
“You run all this on generator power?” says Ceepak, gesturing at the glowing TV screens and blinking buttons in the command center.
“Yeah,” says Mandrake with an ironic chuckle. “Supposed to protect us against blackouts. Capturing real time, the last thing we need is to lose power when something amazing happens.”
“But you did?” Ceepak’s brow is knit with confusion.
“Go figure. Murphy’s Law, huh?”
“Surely you have a crew member whose sole responsibility it is to keep the generator fully functional at all times.”
“That we do,” says Layla. “And the last guy who had the job got fired this morning at five A.M. when I rolled in and discovered we were completely dark.”
“What happened?” I ask. “Somebody forget to swing by the gas station and fill ’er up?”
Layla shoots me a dirty look. “Yeah, Danny. That’s exactly what happened.”
“Officer Boyle,” says Ceepak.
“What?”
“While engaged in official police business, kindly address my partner as Officer Boyle.”
“Fine. Whatever. Jesus.” And then she mutters, “Put down the corn cob.”
Yep. She is mocking me. This doesn’t usually happen until sometime around the
“The genny runs on diesel,” says Mandrake. “The guy on the truck, what can I say? He’s an idiot! The union will have to deal with him. I don’t care if he is a fucking Teamster!”
“What about the handheld cameras?” I blurt out.
Layla ignores me; Mandrake grunts a “huh?”
“The cameras you take on location,” I say. “They run on battery packs, right?”
“Yeah. So? They’re not going to help you with when Paul left the house, kid. Those cameras in the bedrooms, they’re all powered by the genny.”
“We’d still like to see the footage from the portable units,” says Ceepak, giving me the slightest head bob to let me know I done good.
“No problem,” says Mandrake. “What’s mine is yours. Last night, we sent the five remaining contestants to a dance club recommended by your mayor, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Big Kahuna’s?” I say, remembering how Sinclair and the owner of that dance barn, Keith Barent Johnson, III, are tight.
“Yeah. That’s the place. We were shooting the opening scenes for our big dance competition, which was going to be the centerpiece of next week’s show.”
“So now it’s
Mandrake shoots me a finger pistol. “You’re good, kid. Of course, we’re scrapping the dance-off. Giving everybody immunity this week. No one will get booted out of the house in Episode Eight.”
“Was Mr. Braciole at the dance club?” asks Ceepak.
Mandrake shrugs. “I assume so.”
“Yes, he was,” says Layla.
Ceepak remains focused on Mandrake. “You weren’t at the shoot last night?”
“No.”
