“Other than the murderer,” McGuire said. “Who wasn’t necessarily here.”
Liam nodded his totally deniable agreement. You never got the best out of a witness by antagonizing them right out of the chute. “Did everyone you invited come?”
“Yes.” McGuire handed over the sheet of paper. Erik Berglund’s name was at the top of the list. Next were Allan and Cynthia Reese and Grace and Greg Kinnison. “Kyle and Logan’s parents?”
McGuire nodded.
Aiden and Shirley Donohoe. Domenica Garland. Hilary Houten. Blue Jay Jefferson. Jeff and Marcy Ninkasi. Allison Levy. Jake and Lily Hansen. Paula Pederson. Alexei and Kimberley Petroff.
“Do Alexei and Kimberley Petroff have a daughter named Sally?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was your friend Len present?”
McGuire nodded.
“What’s his full name?”
“Leonard Needham.”
Liam counted the names. “And you makes twenty. Just a holiday get-together? Any excuse to barbecue?”
McGuire looked uncomfortable, but Liam couldn’t tell if he actually felt that way or just wanted Liam to think he felt that way. “Some of them are neighbors. Jeff and Erik are friends. The rest are local people. I invited them over for a kind of home premiere of Last Flight Out.” If Liam couldn’t read his expression he could read Liam’s, and he added, “The producer sent me an answer print.”
He might as well have been speaking in tongues but Liam did manage to gather that McGuire had invited everyone over to watch his next film.
A reluctant smile spread across McGuire’s face. “Not a fan?”
“More of a reader.”
A rough laugh made both of them look at the kitchen where a man was filling a mug with coffee. He brought it to the living room and sat down next to McGuire. “Leonard Needham. You’d be the trooper.” Liam nodded, and the man jerked his head at McGuire. “Kid told me you’d be coming. Thought I should come on over to make sure you don’t get out the rubber hose.” He waggled his considerable eyebrows and his cheeks creased in a close-mouthed smile. White, five seven-eight with a kind of muscular thinness that defied an estimate of weight. His eyes were brown with startlingly long lashes and his hair was a wiry gray cut to a drill instructor’s specifications. His hands were enormous and large-knuckled, dwarfing the mug he held. He was dressed like McGuire, in a worn white T-shirt advertising nothing and jeans faded at the knees and seams. He was also twice McGuire’s age, and although the two men looked nothing alike there was a certain similarity in the way they held themselves, a quality of awareness, Liam thought. Perhaps the consciousness that there was always someone watching, which would be endemic in people employed in the on-camera end of filmmaking. He recognized it because nowadays if you were in law enforcement you were always aware that someone was watching, usually with their camera phone up and running.
“Generally speaking, we don’t break out the rubber hose until the second interview,” he said. Needham bent his head, acknowledging the unspoken reproof. Both men wore almost identically bland expressions and Liam said, “Are you an actor like Mr. McGuire, Mr. Needham?”
“It’s Len, and call him Gabe,” Needham said. “And no, I’m not an actor, I work for a living.”
McGuire might have rolled his eyes a little.
Liam reminded himself that this was an official interview regarding a murder committed very likely not a thousand feet from where he sat and managed not to smile. “What do you do, Len?”
“I’m a stunt man. Or I was.”
“Nowadays he’s my pilot,” McGuire said.
“And this punk’s uncle, for my sins.”
Liam gave up and let himself be distracted. “How did you get into that?”
Len correctly identified which part of his life Liam was asking about and said, “I’m a pilot. I was two tours in the Air Force, did time in the Sandbox, got out when the hypocrisy got to be a little too much. A friend already in the business was working on a film that needed a stunt pilot right now and the money was good.” He shrugged.
“Ten years later he owned his own company, and then he recruited me out of high school.”
“Kid played every sport. Coulda gone pro.”
“Boring,” McGuire said.
“And then…”
McGuire gave a shrug identical to the one Needham had just given and the similarity between the two shifted into a sudden focus that was so startling that Liam was amazed he hadn’t seen it before. “A director gave me a line, and in his next film a couple more, and then a supporting role in a film that got some traction at Sundance, and then, and then.” He drank coffee. “It’s all luck, really. Plenty of actors better than me didn’t get the breaks.” He looked at his uncle. “Didn’t have Len.”
“Stop it, kid, you’re making me blush.” He pointed at Liam with his mug. “And it’s not what you came here to talk to us about.”
“Erik.” Gabe sat back with a sigh. “Damn it.”
“Why damn it?” Liam said.
Gabe met Liam’s eyes squarely. “He was a friend.”
Len snorted again. “He wasn’t always.” When Gabe glared at him Len glared right back. “Tell him. Tell him right now, tell him all of it. Otherwise he’ll find out from someone else and he’ll be back here all pissed off and suspicious because you didn’t. It’s not like you haven’t made that picture, kid.”
Gabe dropped his head. “Fuck.” He looked up at Liam. “Fine. This house is in a subdivision called Bay View. Yeah, I know, original as hell. The trail to Erik’s dig has been public for a long time, people driving down to park at the roundabout and rappel down to walk on the beach. It isn’t officially a public right of way but it’s been used as one. The neighbors tell me it’s an historic make-out spot for the local teens and lately it’s been a problem area for raves.”
“Define ‘problem.’”
“Drug deals. Underage drinking. Accidents originating
