Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script (10 page)

In one corner of the room, Special Agent Larry Bedard sat in his shirt sleeves, facing three computer monitors, each showing an EKG-like graphic display of voices being recorded. Bedard looked like a garden gnome disguised as an FBI agent. He was a squat man with a big round face, big round eyes, and a big round body.

"Agent Bedard?" Steve asked.

Bedard spun around in his seat and smiled cheerfully at Steve.

"Detective Sloan, welcome! Welcome!" Bedard said, jumping out of his chair and waving Steve in. "Call me Larry. Sit down; make yourself comfortable."

Bedard motioned to the seat he'd just vacated. There were no other chairs in the room.

"That's okay," Steve said. "I've been stuck in traffic all morning. It's nice to be standing."

"Very well.." Bedard plopped back down in his seat. "You must have powerful friends."

"Why do you say that?"

"This is a very hush-hush, vacuum-sealed operation," Bedard said. "You're the first visitor I've had down here in two years."

"What exactly are you doing down here, Larry?"

"Me personally?" Bedard asked, "Or are you asking about the investigative mandate of the JOCTF?"

"How about both?"

"We're maintaining standing remote audio and visual surveillance of key organized crime figures in specified locations within the boundaries set by warrants issued pursuant to several ongoing investigations." Bedard took a breath. "In other words, Steve, we've stuck a buttload of voice-activated listening devices and motion-sensitive hidden cameras in every place these goombahs hang out. We digitally record everything they say, transcribe and index the conversation, then stick the printouts in binders until the powers that be are ready to hand down indictments."

"And what do you do?"

"I'm the tech-head traffic cop," Bedard said. "I coordinate the recording operation. I can come and go as I please, dress the way I want, and nobody bugs me. No more sitting in some cramped surveillance van for days on end, eating fast food and pissing into a Porta-Potty. This is my domain."

Bedard held out his hands expansively, as if they were in an opulent penthouse instead of an airless room three floors below the Federal Building.

"You've got it made," Steve said.

"I do indeed, Steve. Though, truth be told, I still use the Porta-Potty on occasion," Bedard said. "The heat in this room makes you drink a lot. It's six flights of stairs to the bathroom and all that stomping up steps on a full bladder really—"

"I get the picture," Steve interrupted. "Almost too well."

"I'm guessing you didn't come all the way down here just to admire what a sweet deal I've got going."

"I came to request the impossible," Steve said. "To be honest, I'm almost embarrassed to ask." Though after the Porta-Potty story Bedard just told, Steve wasn't too concerned about his own embarrassment anymore.

"I'm looking for two names that might have come up in any of the thousands of conversations you've got here," Steve said. "I can't tell you who was involved in the conversations or when or where the conversations—if they even happened—took place."

"No problem," Bedard said.

"No problem?" Steve asked incredulously.

"Just give me the names."

"Lacey McClure and Cleve Kershaw," Steve said.

"Ah yes," Bedard said. "The movie star and the Mob groupie."

"You're familiar with them?"

"I do get out of this basement some times," Bedard said. "I do see her movies. I am a man."

"I never doubted it for a moment," Steve said. "Why did you call Kershaw a Mob groupie?"

"Kershaw grew up in New Jersey; he's really into the whole 'mobster chic' thing," Bedard said. "He loves to hang out anyplace you can find pasta and lots of guys wearing gold jewelry."

Bedard typed
Lacey McClure
and
Cleve Kershaw
into one of his computers. A new window opened in the middle of the digital recording display on one of the screens, and a list of names and dates scrolled by. One of the listings was highlighted.

"Here we go. Recorded, January 12, 11:38 P.M., Salvatore 'Daddy' Crofoot's Lincoln Town Car, cruising east on Sun set Boulevard out of Beverly Hills. Crofoot is present, so is Cleve Kershaw. Anthony 'Little Zam' Zambardi is driving," Bedard said. "Would you like a transcript?"

"If it's no trouble," Steve said, truly impressed. "This is an incredible operation."

"This is nothing. The National Security Agency monitors tens of thousands of telephone conversations and millions of e-mail transmissions," Bedard said. "When you read about the government picking up 'chatter' about possible terrorist attacks, where do you think they're picking it up from?"

"I never thought about that," Steve said.

"What we're doing here is rudimentary by comparison," Bedard said. "We're just trying to make our case."

"What is the case?"

"I can't say, Steve. But it's huge, it's nationwide, and it will eventually involve hundreds of indictments."

Bedard hit a key on his keyboard and pages began to spit out of the printer. "Anything else I can help you with? We can run the phrase
bada bing
and see how many times that comes up. Or
hooters
. That's always fun."

"What can you tell me about the guys on this recording? Aside from Kershaw, I'm not familiar with any of the players."

"Tony Zambardi is just a muscle head, a driver, forget about him. Salvatore Crofoot is a real character," Bedard said. "They call him Daddy because he's fathered so many illegitimate children. But he likes the nickname because it makes it seem to people who don't actually know his story that he's some kind of paternal figure in the Mob, a don or something. Fact is, he's got no power of his own, he's just a messenger between Hollywood and the guys back east."

"Is Hollywood that heavily tied to organized crime?"

Bedard shook his head. "They just like hanging out with each other. Goes all the way back to the Rat Pack days."

"So Kershaw and Crofoot weren't doing business together?"

"I didn't say that." Bedard handed Steve the printout. "Read for yourself while I knock off a copy of the tape for you."

CHAPTER NINE

Recorded: January 12, 11:38 P.M.

Location: Salvatore "Daddy" Crofoot's Lincoln Town Car

Individuals Present: Salvatore "Daddy" Crofoot (DC), Cleve Kershaw (CK), Anthony "Little Zam" Zambardi (AZ)

DC: She told you she's not gonna make the picture?

CK: That's what she said, but she doesn't mean it.

DC: Is she doing the picture?

CK: I'm working on it.

DC: I don't like this, I don't like it at all. You know what I mean?

CK: I'm not happy about it either, Daddy. But that's the way it is.

DC: We're talking about a lot of money here, Cleve. I mean, I understand your situation, you know? We're friends. But this is business. And the guys in New Jersey, they might not be so sympathetic.

CK: Hey. C'mon. Don't get all worked up over this. It's a marriage thing. Haven't you ever had trouble with your wife?

DC: No.

CK: You must have had trouble with your wife. Everybody, sometimes, has trouble with their wives.

DC: There's trouble, and then there's three hundred grand. I've never had three hundred grand of trouble with anyone. Well, anyone who's still alive, that is.

AZ: Anybody want a Krispy Kreme? There's a Krispy Kreme coming up.

DC: It's a donut. Why would I stop for a donut?

AZ: It's a treat.

DC: It a friggin' donut. Keep driving.

AZ: They got the hot light on, Daddy. That means they're hot and fresh.

DC: Forget about the donuts. We aren't stopping for donuts.

AZ: They got a drive-thru. We can drive through.

DC: God damn it, Zam. I'm trying to do some business here.

CK: You didn't have to say that.

DC: Say what?

CK: You know what you said, that little throwaway comment you made about dealing with problems. I don't appreciate the implication.

DC: You'll appreciate the reality even less.

CK: I thought we were friends; friends don't threaten each other.

DC: You don't seem to get it, Cleve. This may be a little marriage problem to you, but it's a major cash-flow problem for us. We've come to rely over the years on this arrangement to free up certain funds. Commitments have been made elsewhere based on the assumption that our arrangement was solid. This has an undesirable ripple effect, up and down the line. It strains a friendship, you know?

CK: Look, Daddy, I think everybody needs to take a deep breath here. Everybody. Lacey is having a tantrum, that's all. She doesn't understand how the business works. She'll come around.

DC: You got to get stars insured, right? Before they do a picture? What kind of insurance payoff you get if she, you know, has an accident that lays her up for a while?

CK: There. That's exactly what I mean. That's not helpful, Daddy.

DC:: It might help her come around.

CK: It's counterproductive. She can't work on crutches, can she? I've got leverage against her she doesn't know I have. I can bring her into line without putting her in a hospital bed.

DC: Then why the hell haven't you done it?

CK: She's my wife, first and foremost. I'm trying to save my marriage, Daddy. I was hoping to resolve this business misunderstanding without going nuclear.

DC: Yeah? My friendly advice to you is nuke the bitch before New Jersey decides to nuke you.

Mark set the transcript aside and glanced across the table at Steve, who wore a bib to protect his shirt as he finished up a plate of BBQ Bob's famous spareribs at their favorite corner booth. The lunch crowd was fairly light, giving the small restaurant's two young waitresses plenty of time to gossip behind the counter.

"Lacey was telling the truth about Cleve using her films to launder Mob money," Mark said. "This wiretap and the financial irregularities her forensic accountant discovered proves it."

"All it proves is that she had a strong motive to kill her husband," Steve said. "Besides the fact that he was sleeping with an aspiring actress in their bed."

"But this bolsters her claim that the Mob had reason to kill Cleve Kershaw," Mark said.

Steve licked the tangy sauce off his fingers and wiped his face with a moist towelette.

Mark didn't have to order the ribs to taste them. The restaurant had the permanent, woodsy smell of hickory smoke. The walls had absorbed the thirty years of barbeque that had come out of Bob's kitchen before he retired and sold out to Steve and Jesse.

"You don't believe her now, do you?" Steve asked.

"No, I don't. But whether she's guilty of murder or not, this recording is evidence of an ongoing conspiracy to commit extortion," Mark said. "If the FBI knew what was going on with Lacey's movies, why didn't they do something about it?"

"I asked the same question," Steve said, pushing his plate aside and yanking off his bib. "They are after bigger fish. They don't want to jeopardize their case, and expose the wiretaps, on a such a small-time operation."

"But the Mob could have been laundering millions of dollars through each movie," Mark said. "That's not counting the $300,000 'convenience fee' they were strong-arming out of Cleve. That's small-time?"

"The Feds have their priorities," Steve said. "I guess this money-laundering scam will come out with everything else when the rest of the indictments are handed down."

"But in the meantime, the extortion continued," Mark said. "And two people got killed. It might not have happened if the FBI had acted on what they knew."

"I can't argue with you on that," Steve said. "But I do know those are the kinds of trade-offs you have to make when mounting a major undercover or surveillance operation. Do you act immediately on every crime you see, or wait until you have the evidence to make a more substantial arrest? It's a tough call."

"Did you get this transcript officially?" Mark asked.

"The DA called in a favor, and got me the transcript and a tape," Steve said. "If you're asking me whether we can use it in court, I'm guessing no, not unless the FBI is ready to reveal the existence of their massive covert wiretapping operation."

"So you can't use the wiretap as leverage against Daddy Crofoot to get him to talk."

"I'll just have to ask him nicely," Steve said.

Mark picked up the transcript again and flipped through it. "Cleve mentioned he had leverage against Lacey that she didn't know about. I'd sure like to find out what it was. That leverage may be what got him killed."

"Then she'd have three motives for murder. That might be a record." Steve's cell phone trilled. He unclipped the phone from his belt and flipped it open. "Sloan."

He listened for a moment, then met his father's eye. Mark could see from the expression on his son's face that it was important news.

"I'll be there in half an hour," Steve said, then listened to the response. "Okay. I'm at BBQ Bob's restaurant on the Westside. I'll stick around for dessert." Steve snapped the phone shut and looked at his Dad. "That was Lacey McClure. She wants to talk."

"She's coming here?"

"She's afraid if I show up at her place, the reporters camped outside will get the wrong idea," Steve said. "So I guess she isn't coming to confess."

"Isn't she afraid they'll follow her here?"

"She's got three cars," Steve said. "She and her staff are gonna drive all three out of her compound at once and go in three different directions. When the press goes off to follow them, she'll slip out the back on foot and borrow her neighbor's car."

"Very resourceful," Mark said. "She's given this some thought."

"She watches her own movies," Steve said. "Her security-consultant character ran the same scam in
Body Armor
."

A half-hour later, a dark-haired woman wearing impenetrable sunglasses, an oversized, well-worn UCLA sweatshirt and faded blue jeans walked into BBQ Bob's carrying a heavy gym bag.

Mark was surprised just how effective a simple wig, a pair of sunglasses, and unremarkable clothes could be as a disguise. Anyone expecting to see Lacey McClure would have recognized her, but with the exception of Mark and Steve, no one eating in BBQ Bob's had that expectation. She came in unrecognized and strode directly to the booth in the back, where Mark and Steve were eating thick slices of pecan pie.