So I’ll go home and search for a cell phone. But first, there’s something I feel I should do. Since the “policeman” showed up in Karen’s trunk, I should check mine for Mary’s body. If it’s not there, I have another idea where it might be.
I leave Karen’s condo and walk slowly to my car. I press the keyless entry for the trunk. It rises to full extension.
It’s as empty as Karen’s.
So it’s on to Plan B: Seneca Park. Since Mary’s car wasn’t at her house, I figure it must be somewhere around the park. And it’s not much of a stretch to assume her body might be in the trunk.
As I open my car door, I get a sudden thought. I retrace my steps to Karen’s kitchen and check the digital display on her house phone to see the time of the call I just made to the hotel.
It’s accurate.
I stand there, biting my lip, trying to figure out what it means. I retrieve Karen’s wallet from her purse, flip it open, and remove her driver’s license. I pocket it while walking back to my car, thinking it might come in handy if I decide to involve the cops later on.
In ten minutes, I’m back on Reece Street, two blocks east of the park. I have to be careful since Mary’s car won’t be the only thing near the scene. Some cops will be there too. They’ll have the area cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape, and I can only hope they’ll be too busy collecting evidence to notice me. If someone does recognize me, fine, let them take me. It’s only a matter of time before they arrest me anyway, so it’s a question of now or later. Normally, I’d say later, but Mary’s always been decent to me, so here I am. I happen to know she keeps a key in a small, black magnetic box under her front wheel well. If I can find her car, I should be able to get her trunk open.
I decide to park here, two blocks away, because my car definitely stands out. I find a small opening between two cars and work my way in. I cut the engine, climb out, and within seconds, two young men in their early twenties recognize me. One holds up his hand, gesturing for me to stop. The other is speaking enthusiastically into a walkie-talkie. Both start moving toward me. I race back to my car and jump in. They’re coming from the front, so I have to execute an almost impossible maneuver to get my car out of the space and back out of there before they can stop me. But somehow, I make it, and that lucky feeling sweeps over me. I know it’s not much, but at least I’m safe for the moment.
In front of me, the young men are on the street, hands up. No problem, I’ll just back up fifty yards and turn down Clifton. I check the rearview mirror and see a black sedan has blocked my escape. The two men I’d seen on my front porch climb out of the car and approach. I look around frantically. The two young men are practically on top of me in the front, the two detectives within ten feet in the back, each coming from opposite ends of the car, tightening the distance like a noose around my neck. There’s no way out. It’s over. I’m caught.
Chapter 12
“Mr. Case?” says one of the detectives. “My name is Aiden Fry. I’m with VH Productions.” I say nothing, so he adds, “VH Productions, the movie company?” “I’m sorry—what?” “We need you to sign a release for the film we shot at the park.” “Film?” “We just came from your house. I left a business card in your front doorjamb.” “I … I haven’t been home yet,” I stutter.
Aiden Fry nods. “We can’t guarantee we’ll use your reel, but far as I’m concerned, yours was the best performance. By the way,” he says, “love your car! Thanks for letting us fi lm it.”
I stare at him blankly and then shift my gaze to his partner, then to the walkie-talkie guys, and back to Aiden Fry. “The shooting at the park was part of a movie,” I say evenly, trying to see if pronouncing the words makes the idea more plausible.
“A damn good scene,” says Aiden Fry’s partner.
I think about the people at the park. There must have been eighty of them. Could they have been movie extras? There had been babies— some in strollers, some in blankets—but now that I think about it, something had been missing, something you’d expect to see in this or
any other park, even if there had only been a half-dozen people there.
“No dogs at the park this morning,” I say.
“Right,” the partner says. “Don’t like ’em. Too unpredictable. People start chasing you across a field, a dog could spoil the whole shoot.”
I nod at him absently, trying to remember the picture I have in my head of Mary being shot. Is it possible the woman I thought was Mary had been an actress who just appeared to be similar? I can’t swear I was drugged this morning, but at the time, I had the distinct feeling something had been injected into my neck. The gangster had mentioned Mary just before I exited the limo. Could the drug, in combination with the power of suggestion, cause me to “project” Mary’s face onto the actress who had been “shot” during the filming? It seemed so real at the time, but sure, Mary’s “wound” could have been faked. She doubled over and fell. Thinking about it now, I don’t remember seeing any blood on her. The two joggers shot by Mr. Clean had blood on the backs of their heads, but that could have been placed there before the filming.
That leaves the policeman. His “killing” seems impossible to fake—especially since Karen Vogel saw him in her trunk a few minutes ago, dead. “The policeman this morning,” I say. “What about him?” “His head exploded.” Aiden’s partner is animated. “Fantastic effect! Incredibly realistic! Wait till you see it on the big screen.” “Uh-huh,” I say, watching his face carefully. “How’d you do it?” “Paintball.” “Someone actually shot him in the head with a paintball?”
“It’s a low-velocity gun, and the paintball is twice the normal size, but yeah, it’s basically a paintball. With a bunch of plastic goop mixed in.”
I think about it that way, but there’s something wrong with the explanation.
“I was there. I would have seen a guy shooting a paintball gun.”
Aiden Fry says, “The shooter’s in the storm drain, ten feet from the cop. He’s an expert, but it’s still a dicey shot. The guy playing the cop gets fifteen hundred just to take the hit.” “Storm drain’s not visible from your angle,” Fry’s partner adds. Aiden Fry says, “You want to stay and see the next one?” “Next one?” “We shot several today; we’ve got one more. You can watch if you like. Heck, you can be an extra if you want.” “Extra?” It occurs to me I might be under the influence of some type of psychotropic drug. “We’re shooting the scene one more time. If you want, you can be one of the guys chasing the Schlub back to the limo.” “Schlub?” He laughs. “Oh, sorry. That’s the name of the character in the script, ‘Limo Schlub.’ Nothing personal.”
Chapter 13
I’m not buying the whole notion that I’d been kidnapped and forced into a movie scene, but I do accept Aiden Fry’s offer to be an
