Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script (6 page)

One of his TVs was connected to a TiVo, a digital video recorder which allowed him to freeze live footage as if it was already on tape. He aimed his TiVo remote at one of the screens and froze the broadcast, backed up a few frames, and found what he was looking for.

While the cameras were focused on Steve, nobody paid any attention to the man with the grocery bag walking down the sidewalk and around the corner behind him. But Masters recognized the flash of white hair and the merry stride that belonged to only one man.

And now, in the frozen image, he could see the man glancing over his shoulder, a mischievous smile under his white mustache.

Dr. Mark Sloan.

It was obvious to Masters that Steve had timed his dive into the pack of reporters to coincide with Mark discreetly slipping out the back door of the building. Masters assumed Mark waited around the corner, out of sight of the reporters, for Steve to pick him up.

As much as the chief disliked the idea of Mark being involved in the case, he was thankful that Steve was smart enough to keep his father away from the media. If Mark Sloan had been on camera, it would have made it look like the LAPD was incapable of handling a high-profile murder case without the help of a civilian.

It was only a brief reprieve. Masters knew it was inevitable that the press would find out that Mark Sloan discovered the murders and that he was up to his neatly trimmed mustache in the investigation.

Ever since Masters had become chief of police, he'd tried to sever the department's ties to the meddling doctor. It didn't matter to Masters that Mark had an impressive record when it came to solving difficult cases. In the chief's opinion, the more successful the doctor was, the more incompetent it made the LAPD appear.

That opinion didn't change even after Mark Sloan foiled a plot by a corrupt city councilman to implicate the chief in the murder of a police officer, if anything, the experience only strengthened the chief's belief that Mark Sloan undermined public confidence in the LAPD.

His one attempt to co-opt Mark Sloan, by appointing him as a member of a special civilian task force examining cold cases long abandoned by the LAPD, had backfired badly. Mark Sloan discovered there was a killer who'd masked his murders by making them appear to be the work of other serial killers. As a result, scores of convicted serial killers were appealing their convictions, forcing dozens of complex cases to be retried, taxing the already overburdened resources of the LAPD and the district attorney's office.

And now Mark Sloan was inextricably involved in a high-profile celebrity murder case. Even without his involvement, the case was a ticking bomb for the LAPD. There was no question the bomb would explode; the question was how to contain the damage to the department when it did.

He muted the sound on the TVs and turned to look at the city from his window. It's what he always did in times of crisis. It centered him, like a needle in a compass pointing true north.

The ex-football player and former Marine reminded himself he was the chief of police of the city of Los Angeles. This was the city he was sworn to protect. To do that, the people had to respect him and his officers. So it was essential to maintain the authority and prestige of the LAPD.

The last major celebrity case, involving statutory-rape charges against actor Abel Marsh, who played the lovable and wise inner-city priest on the hit TV series
Heaven Sent
, put the LAPD on trial, too. The department was accused of entrapment, sloppy evidence-handling and coercing false statements from witnesses. There was just enough truth to the accusations to topple the previous LAPD regime and bring Masters to power. He didn't relish the idea of history repeating itself, but he knew that to some degree it was unavoidable.

Celebrity murder cases always became scandals.

And, more often than not, he knew that the detectives who got stuck with the case were probably working the last investigation of their careers. The white-hot intensity of the media was too much. Every blemish on their records would be exposed, every personal failing revealed, every weakness exploited. Most cops in that situation retired immediately after the trial, leaving humiliated, disgraced, and disgusted. A few lucky ones got book deals, or ended up being portrayed by Greg Harrison, Greg Evigan, or some other has-been Greg in a low-budget TV movie.

All of a sudden, Mark Sloan's involvement in the Lacey McClure case didn't seem bad at all.

It was fortuitous, in fact.

Masters allowed himself a smile. If he played things right, when all of this was over, it wasn't the department that would face the scrutiny of the press and the wrath of the public.

It would be Dr. Mark Sloan.

Chief Masters wasn't the only man at that moment who, after watching the local evening news, stood at his office window, contemplating the inevitable ramifications of what was already becoming known as "The Lacey McClure Case."

The law firm of Tyrell, Dinino & Barer occupied three floors of a building at the corner of Beverly Drive and Wilshire Boulevard, at the geographical epicenter of wealth and power of Hollywood.

Arthur Tyrell was a large man, affectionately described as "big-boned" by his mother and "double-wide" by his father. He wasn't fat, but he was large, and he liked to live large, too.

When Tyrell looked out the window of his mahogany- paneled corner office, he saw the exclusive stores and restaurants of Rodeo Drive, a street devoted to thriving on the outrageous excesses of the rich and self-absorbed. And he saw the buildings that housed the major talent and management agencies, which swarmed like blood-thirsty mosquitoes over the biggest stars, feeding on their obnoxiously bloated salaries ten percentage points at a time.

It was a far different view than he'd had ten short years ago, when his office was in downtown Los Angeles, the epicenter of urban decay, a short walk away from the Criminal Courts Building. His client list then was a who's who of nobodies. He represented rapists, burglars, hookers, drug dealers, car thieves, and gang members. There was always plenty of work, even if it didn't pay all that well.

But then a couple of hookers Tyrell represented got arrested in a Van Nuys motel room, where they happened to be sharing a bed with Nick Drago, one of the teenage stars of the suburban teen angst drama
Model Homes
.

It was seeing that kid, sitting miserably in a holding cell, that Tyrell had a revelation: Celebrities are afflicted with the same vices, lusts, and stupidity as everybody else. They just have a lot more money to spend on keeping themselves out of jail.

Tyrell offered to represent Drago and, to everybody's shock, convinced the kid to plead guilty. His defense? The kid was researching a role in a movie that would explore the dark, disturbing underbelly of suburbia in America today. All Drago was doing was getting into character. That's how utterly devoted the talented young thespian was to his craft.

There wasn't a movie, of course. There wasn't even a script. But there were two dozen of them waiting for Drago when he walked out of the courtroom, sentenced to probation and a couple hundred hours of community service.

The movie that finally got shot made $70 million at the box office, with critics praising the "startling verisimilitude" that Drago brought to his "searing, unforgettable performance" by virtue of his "daring research" and into the "dark, unplumbed depths of teen despair and sexual depravity."

The arrest, rather than ruining Drago's career, sent it soaring to new heights, and Tyrell's along with it. Within months, Tyrell moved from downtown to Beverly Hills, where he became the lawyer of choice for any celebrity caught with their pants down, a coke spoon up their nose, or a bloody knife in their hand.

Tyrell was doing the same thing he'd always done, only now he was doing it for a higher class of criminal scum. It wasn't just the improved compensation that made his new practice so much better. It was also a simple quality-of-life issue. A junkie actor who dressed in Prada and lived in gated splendor in Bel Air was a lot more pleasant to be around than the average junkie who wore soiled pants and lived under a freeway overpass.

Arthur Tyrell had never met Lacey McClure. But after watching the news, he knew he soon would.

In anticipation of the inevitable, Tyrell summoned one of his assistants to his office and gave the surgically enhanced young woman a list of very important tasks.

He wanted complete personal, professional, and financial histories on Steve Sloan, Cleve Kershaw, Amy Butler, and Lacey McClure.

He wanted detailed background on every homicide case Steve Sloan had investigated during his time with the LAPD and a copy of his confidential personnel file.

And finally, and most importantly, Tyrell wanted the names of the top home-theater designers in the city, reviews of the best projection equipment, and a catalog of leather screening-room furniture. Lacey McClure was going to pay for the private home screening room of Arthur Tyrell's dreams.

She just didn't know it yet.

CHAPTER SIX

When Mark awoke at six, he put on his bathrobe and padded barefoot into the kitchen, where he found Steve dressed and already at the table, the morning paper open in front of him.

"How did you sleep?" Mark asked.

"I didn't," Steve said. "I had this on my mind."

Steve closed the paper and held it up for Mark to see. The front page was dominated by a huge story on the murders, illustrated with file photos of Lacey McClure, Cleve Kershaw, and Amy Butler. There was also a picture, taken from a distance, of the morgue truck parked amidst the police vehicles in front of the beach house where the killing occurred.

"Did they at least get the facts right?" Mark asked.

"Yeah, probably because there aren't that many yet," Steve said. "Mostly the story is full of movie-industry people talking about how shocked they are by the murders, and the impact they might have on Lacey McClure personally and professionally."

"Anything in it we don't already know?"

"Just this." Steve opened the paper and began to read from somewhere toward the end of the article. "McClure hasn't made a statement yet, though a spokesman from Pinnacle Pictures, the studio making her new movie, said that production would continue 'at her request,' and that she would be reporting to the set this evening."

Mark went to the coffee maker while he listened, poured himself a cup of coffee, and carried his steaming mug back to the table, glancing out at the beach on his way. What he saw made him stop.

There was an armada of boats just beyond the shore, all filled with photographers, aiming their long lenses at Lacey McClure and Cleve Kershaw's beach house, the sand around it cordoned off with yellow police tape.

"'It was also reported,'" Steve continued to read, "'that her most recent film,
Thrill Kill
, will be released this weekend as previously scheduled, again at the actress' request. Her representatives quoted her as saying, 'Cleve would have wanted it that way.' Yeah right, I'm sure his last thoughts were, 'Damn, I hope this doesn't delay the release of my movie.'"

"This being Hollywood," Mark said, "you never know."

When Mark looked back out at the water again, he saw that several of the cameras were now aimed at him. He abruptly stepped back and closed the drapes.

"There's a nice picture of Elsie Feikema here, and an entire sidebar on Amy Butler's short life," Steve said. "They don't mention anything about how lucky she was."

"Do they happen to mention my name anywhere?" Mark asked.

Steve cocked an eyebrow, surprised. "Since when are you interested in attention from the press?"

"I'm not," Mark said, motioning to the closed drapes. "They seem interested in me."

"All it says here is that the bodies were discovered by a neighbor," Steve said, "but I imagine by now they've pulled the property records to find out who lives in each of the houses on this stretch of sand. I'm sure that as soon as your name came up they assumed you were probably involved, especially since your son is the lead detective on the case."

Mark sat down across from his son. "Have you heard anything from the department brass yet?"

"I talked briefly to the captain," Steve said. "He offered me all the resources I needed, ordered me to keep him informed of any developments, and instructed me not to make any statements to the press."

"There are two ways of looking at this," Mark said. "Either they have enormous confidence in your investigative skills or—"

"Or they're saving themselves," Steve interrupted, finishing the thought, "and sacrificing me to the wolves."

"I'm afraid I don't know the first thing about department politics," Mark said. "What can you do to fight back?"

"I can solve the murder," Steve said, rising from his seat. "I don't blame the captain or anybody else for the situation I'm in. There were no political machinations involved, except on my part. I took this case from the detective on duty as soon as I heard it was you who called in the shooting."

Mark grimaced. "I'm sorry, Steve."

"It's not your fault," Steve said. "I blame whoever did the killing."

Unless there was a rush-hour car accident, or some other unforeseen disaster, mornings in the Community General emergency room were generally slow—time the medical and nursing staff used to catch up on paperwork, order supplies, and read the latest medical journals. But for Dr. Jesse Travis and his girlfriend, nurse Susan Hilliard, it was a chance to learn the details of whatever homicide Mark Sloan was currently investigating.

Jesse was always eager to get involved in any of Mark's cases, to learn whatever he could from a man he considered not only a great doctor, but an amazing detective. He didn't aspire to become a detective himself, but he enjoyed the search for clues, the thrill of the hunt, and the excitement of discovery. But most of all, Jesse liked how close it drew him to Steve, Amanda, and especially Mark, who he openly and unabashedly considered a father figure. Remaining close to them was a big reason why he'd partnered with Steve to buy BBQ Bob's restaurant a few years ago. BBQ Bob's had become his second home. Between the hospital and the restaurant, Jesse was rarely at home or at Susan's place.