Fool Me Twice Read online

  Jesse turned to LaBrea, whose pistol was still trained on him.

  “I’m going to shoot you, you bastard,” LaBrea said.

  42

  The second week of filming was devoted entirely to night work.

  The crew had been called for the late afternoon and had completed their prep by sunset. Now they waited for darkness to fall.

  At magic hour, those final moments of the good natural light of day, the cast and crew were on set, blocking the scene they were about to shoot. The scene took place on the back porch of the cottage.

  As night began its slow descent, bringing with it wisps of cloud and a hint of fog, the director rehearsed the actors, placing them in the various positions that the scene required.

  The cinematographer stood alongside the director, noting the actors’ movements during the rehearsal.

  A camera assistant placed different-colored strips of masking tape on the floor, to indicate the marks the individual actors would need to hit during the scene.

  Other crew members delivered props to the set, hung and focused lights, and laid dolly track for the smooth movement of the camera mount. Wardrobe personnel carried costumes and accessories.

  Craft service employees brought trays of sandwiches and beverages to a specially laid table located within easy access of the set. Bowls filled with fruit and plates full of cakes and cookies were already on the table. As were jars filled with candy. This allowed members of the cast and crew to grab a snack or a drink without having to venture far from the action.

  A group of extras stood at the ready, waiting to be selected by one of the assistant directors for inclusion in the background activity of the scene. Extras were hired by the day, depending on the dictates of the screenplay.

  As this was a night shoot, the number of extras was held to a minimum. On this night, only eight of them were in attendance. Later in the evening, when the action moved to the front of the house, they would be called on to appear either on the street or in passing vehicles. As of now, they were gathered near the set, watching the proceedings.

  Unnoticed by cast and crew in his beard and wig was Ryan Rooney. He had left the commandeered cottage at nightfall, emboldened by the pipeful of Shabu he had smoked.

  He felt great. He felt strong. He was ready.

  He walked with purpose to the set. In the organized chaos of working in partial darkness, nobody paid him any mind.

  He stood within sight of Marisol, but for all intents and purposes, he was invisible.

  —

  Ryan watched as the director finished blocking the scene.

  He saw Marisol being accompanied to the makeup trailer by a large man who appeared to be Native American. The man seemed fit, and his movements were lithe and economical. Ryan presumed he was either her assistant or her bodyguard. Or both.

  He waited.

  She emerged from the makeup truck in the company of the Indian and went to her personal trailer, which was parked a few feet from the set.

  He waited.

  She soon emerged, in costume and full makeup, ready for work. The Indian led her to the set and the nearby row of canvas-backed director’s chairs. One of them had her name embroidered on it.

  Marisol sat in her chair and was soon joined by another woman, who Ryan recognized as Frankie Greenberg, whom he remembered from Tomorrow We Love.

  She sat down next to Marisol, a leather-bound script in her hand.

  It was dark, and when Frankie opened her script and turned to a specific page, she held a flashlight over it. Marisol studied the page, the two women chatting quietly.

  Ryan noticed Marisol signaling to the Indian, pointing to Frankie’s script and shrugging her shoulders as if to suggest that she wanted her own copy.

  The Indian nodded his understanding and stepped over to Marisol’s nearby trailer.

  He stopped for a moment before going inside. He looked around. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he opened the door to the trailer and went inside.

  Ryan pulled the .38 from his pocket and quickly moved to where the two women were sitting.

  Marisol looked up as he approached, no recognition in her eyes. Then she knew.

  “Oh my God,” she said.

  That was when Ryan shot her.

  Frankie stood and started toward him.

  That was when he shot her.

  Ryan immediately put the gun in his pocket and walked into the darkness.

  Unnoticed amid the chaos that followed, he headed for his Prius.

  He opened the garage door and got into the car. He removed his wig and placed it under the seat. He engaged the hybrid’s silent battery and drove slowly down the driveway.

  He turned onto Lakeside Drive, then onto Fisherman’s Road.

  Then he vanished into the night.

  43

  The sound of Jesse’s cell phone broke the tension in Goodwin’s office. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone.

  “What’s up, Molly,” he said.

  There was a pause before he responded.

  “Send everyone you have. Seal it off. Call Captain Healy. I’m on my way,” he said, and closed the phone.

  Jesse looked up at Goodwin and LaBrea without really seeing them.

  “There’s been a shooting,” he said, almost to himself.

  He looked at LaBrea and, without warning, slapped the Ruger from his hand. He reached into his jacket pocket for his .38-caliber Smith & Wesson backup pistol and trained it on a cringing LaBrea.

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s bad manners to point guns at people,” Jesse said, grabbing LaBrea by the neck.

  He smashed the heel of the Smith & Wesson into LaBrea’s nose, then let go of him. LaBrea fell heavily to the floor, screaming in pain.

  Jesse pocketed LaBrea’s gun, then took his Colt from Goodwin’s desk and returned it to its holster.

  LaBrea’s nose was bleeding profusely. Goodwin rushed to his aid.

  As Jesse headed for the door, he said to Ida, “Don’t wait too long before calling nine-one-one. You wouldn’t want him to bleed out.”

  —

  Jesse stopped in front of the cottage on Lakeside Drive and switched off his siren and lights. He got out of the cruiser.

  People were milling about in stunned silence. Some were crying. Others were staring aimlessly into space.

  Suitcase hurried over to him.

  “Marisol took one shot to the head,” he said. “Death was instantaneous. Not pretty.”

  “Frankie?”

  “She was hit in the chest. Bullet did some damage, but it missed her heart. Medics were noncommittal. Ambulance took her to Paradise General.”

  “Any idea as to the identity of the shooter?”

  “None. No one saw him.”

  “His whereabouts?”

  “Ditto.”

  “Crow?”

  “With the body.”

  The night sky was lit up by four giant ten-K movie lamps that threw pools of illumination onto the darkened landscape, creating areas of both light and dark.

  Jesse saw Crow sitting next to Marisol’s covered body. He sat dejectedly amid the circles of light and dark, an eerie portrait of sadness and isolation.

  When he saw Jesse and Suitcase approaching, Crow looked up at them.

  “This is all on me,” he said.

  “Tell me how it went down,” Jesse said.

  “They were waiting to get off the first shot. Frankie was showing her some script changes. I was hovering as usual. She asked me to get her script. It was in the trailer right over there. Inches away. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so I went to get it for her. I couldn’t have been gone for more than a minute.”

  “That’s when it happened?”

  “Guy came out of nowhere and shot them both.”

  “Any idea who it was?”

  “Had to have been the husband.”

  Jesse didn’t say anything.

  “Had to have been,” Crow said.

/>   Jesse turned to Suitcase.

  “Who’s here,” he said.

  “Bauer. Perkins.”

  “Would you mind finding them and bringing them to me.”

  “No problem,” Suitcase said, and hurried off.

  “On my watch,” Crow said to Jesse after Suitcase had left. “It was the only time she had been alone since I got here.”

  “How bad was Frankie?”

  “Bad enough.”

  “She gonna make it?”

  “She lost a lot of blood. I was able to stanch it somewhat. She was unconscious when the medics got to her.”

  “What a mess,” Jesse said.

  “He won’t get away with it. I’ll find him.”

  “He could be halfway to the moon by now.”

  “I’ll find him.”

  Jesse saw Peter Perkins and Rich Bauer heading in his direction, followed closely by Suitcase.

  Jesse stepped away from Crow and took the three officers aside.

  “What can we do, Jesse,” Suitcase said.

  “I want you to phone California DMV and find out what vehicle or vehicles are registered to Ryan Rooney. I need license plate and registration numbers. Then put out an APB. He’s likely on the move.”

  “Got it, Jesse,” Suitcase said.

  “Pete,” Jesse said. “I want you to find phone numbers for Mr. Rooney. Home, cell, everything. Call him. If he answers, bring me the phone. If his machine answers, listen carefully to the greeting, then contact the service provider and find out where the most recent outgoing calls were made from. Get the provider to check his messages and make a note of them. I also want you to contact Marisol Hinton’s cell provider. I want a complete list of all of the incoming and outgoing calls made over the last ten days.”

  “I’m on it, Jesse,” Perkins said.

  Both officers hurried away.

  Jesse looked at Bauer.

  “Something I can do, Skipper?”

  “Get a photo of Ryan Rooney. Easy enough to find on the Internet. I want you to show it to every motel and hotel in the area. See if any of them have laid eyes on him.”

  “Sure thing, Skipper.”

  Jesse opened his cell phone and called Molly.

  “This is going to escalate,” he said to her. “I want you to put a lid on it. No pronouncements. No publicity. Nada.”

  “Copy that.”

  “I want a full department meeting at six a.m. tomorrow.”

  “Got it.”

  After a moment, she said, “I’m sorry about Frankie.”

  “Any word from the hospital?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Let me know?”

  “The moment I hear anything,” she said, and ended the call.

  Jesse stared at the phone for a moment.

  Crow walked over to him.

  “What are you looking for,” he said.

  “Anything that might resemble a clue. Mostly relevant information regarding Ryan Rooney. Did he call her? If so, when? From where? Can his movements be traced to Paradise. That kind of stuff.”

  The two men were silent for a while.

  “My watch,” Crow said.

  “Mine, too.”

  “Mostly mine.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. Whoever did it was ten steps ahead of us.”

  “It’s got to be Rooney.”

  “We don’t know that for certain.”

  “I want to go after him.”

  “Needle in a haystack.”

  “I still want to do it.”

  “Because?”

  “Vengeance,” Crow said.

  44

  The CSI unit arrived, followed by Captain Healy, the state Homicide commander.

  “Another fine mess,” Healy said.

  “It is, isn’t it,” Jesse said.

  They walked to Marisol’s body, followed by the crime scene techs. They looked at her, small and bloodied. Then Jesse told Healy what he knew.

  Peter Perkins approached them.

  “No answer at either of his numbers,” Perkins said, referring to his notepad. “His phone greeting says he’s hiking in Grand Teton National Park and will be out of cell range for a number of days. Carrier says the greeting was recorded in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, one week ago. I also found a voice mail message from him on Marisol’s cell. It, too, came from Jackson Hole. Also one week ago. There’s been no activity on his phone since.”

  “Suggesting that he might actually be hiking in the Tetons,” Healy said.

  “Not likely,” Jesse said.

  “How so?”

  “If he was driving across country, he could just as easily have taken the northern route, stopped in Wyoming, made the two calls, and then continued on his way here.”

  “Smoke and mirrors?”

  “Be my guess,” Jesse said.

  “So where is he now?”

  “That would be the question, wouldn’t it?”

  “Bauer wanted me to tell you that Rooney drives a late-model Toyota Prius,” Perkins said. “He’s put the description and the plate number on the wire.”

  “Thanks, Pete,” Jesse said.

  “No problem.”

  Perkins hurried away.

  “Tell me again why you think it was the husband,” Healy said. “He’s some kind of movie star, right?”

  “Not a star. An actor, though.”

  “Why do you think it’s him?”

  “Coply intuition.”

  “Gut rumbling, you mean.”

  “Eloquently stated.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jesse didn’t say anything.

  “There are going to be repercussions,” Healy said.

  “Meaning?”

  “High-profile case like this, I’m betting that the first person I hear from will be Lucas Wellstein.”

  “The Boston FBI agent?”

  “The very same. He’ll want to get his fangs into this one.”

  “Can you stall him?”

  “Hard to say. Once the tabloids blow this thing onto page one, he’ll smell the ink and want some of it. I’ll do my best to protect your jurisdiction. But I can’t promise anything.”

  “He’ll be a pain in the ass, right?”

  “Worse.”

  —

  Jesse entered Paradise General Hospital and checked in with the chief resident, Jim Lafferty, who told him that Frankie had pulled through the surgery and was now in recovery, where she would spend the rest of the night. Her prognosis was uncertain.

  “She lost a great deal of blood,” Lafferty said. “The bullet did some serious arterial and tissue damage. At the very least, we were able to repair the torn arteries and stabilize her. Now it’s a question of hurry up and wait.”

  “What do you think,” Jesse said.

  “We’ll know more in the morning.”

  “May I see her?”

  “Not a good idea. She’s unconscious and hooked up to a shitload of IVs and monitoring devices.”

  Jesse sighed.

  “She’s in good hands, Jesse,” Lafferty said. “She’s resting comfortably. We’re optimistic.”

  The two men shook hands.

  Jesse looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly two a.m. He went home and sleeplessly waited for morning.

  45

  Jesse arrived at the station a little before six. He dropped his things on his desk, poured himself a mug of black coffee, and headed for the squad room.

  The entire police force was there. Jesse took his seat at the head of the table.

  “Good morning,” he said. “Sorry to drag you in here so early. As you already know, this one’s a bitch. One dead. One seriously wounded. Killer or killers still at large.”

  He looked at Suitcase.

  “What’s new from your end, Suit,” he said.

  “Movie’s temporarily shut down. I spoke with Buddy Keller, the lead producer. He says they’re waiting on a meeting between the studio production wonks and the insurance adjusters.” />
  “When will he know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Whether or not the movie will resume production.”

  “He said probably today.”

  Jesse nodded.

  He turned to Rich Bauer.

  “Any luck with the photo?”

  “A few people recognized Ryan Rooney,” Bauer said. “But no one had seen him. I left copies of the picture at all of the motels and hotels.”

  “We need to expand the search so that it encompasses every rental unit in Paradise. Even those that aren’t listed. If there’s a room for rent, canvass it. I don’t care where or what it is.”

  “I’m on it, Skipper.”

  “I also want you to hit every restaurant, bar, fast-food joint, supermarket, mini-mall, and big box store. By the time you’re through, I want everyone in Paradise to be on the lookout for Mr. Ryan Rooney. Divvy it up. I want as many bodies on this as possible.

  “Pete, I want you and Arthur to scour the Fisherman’s Road neighborhood. A lot of the cottages are boarded up. Investigate them all. See if there have been any break-ins.

  “We’re looking for an armed and dangerous killer, people. If you should find this person, make every possible effort to apprehend him. But if that’s not possible, if you’re met with resistance of any kind, do everything in your power to protect yourself. Including shooting the son of a bitch, if it’s necessary. Am I clear?”

  Jesse looked around the table and made eye contact with his officers, all of whom nodded their assent.

  “Captain Healy thinks we might be usurped by the FBI. Regardless of whether or not that happens, I want you to undertake as thorough an investigation as is humanly possible.”

  Jesse stood.

  “Give Molly a list of who’s in what vehicle. And I want each vehicle to check in with her every half hour. Good luck.”

  As the officers pushed back their chairs, Jesse motioned to Suitcase.

  “Suit,” he said. “Come see me when you have a moment. You, too, Dave.”

  He went back to his office.

  He phoned Paradise General and got through to Dr. Lafferty.

  “I’ve got nothing new to report, Jesse.”

  “No improvement?”