“But what does that have to do with anything?”
“Who knows. But it means Sandy either has a poor memory or trouble with the truth.”
#
Hunter and Greene had to take the remainder of their interrogations to the production studio, because the crew was preparing to film the interstitial video segments for the following week.
The show must go on.
The first person they pulled aside was Erin Tortelli, the floor director. She was trucking a studio cam across the floor with one hand and talking into her walkie talkie with the other.
“I don’t care,” she said into the device. “Get the boom mics from next door, then. We have to have them for the rehearsal segments. Go!”
“Ms. Tortelli?” asked Greene as he and Hunter approached across the stage, which was covered in cables and script papers.
“What?” she barked, turning to see the detectives. “Oh, sorry. How can I help you?”
“Just a couple questions for you,” said Hunter. “Did you work closely with Lara LaGuardia?”
Erin rolled her eyes and sighed. “Yes, well – no, I mean, we weren’t close, if that’s what you mean. I had to work with her every day. If that’s what you mean.”
“Had to work with her?” asked Greene.
Erin folder her arms across her chest. “It’s no secret I hated her guts, okay? But I didn’t kill her. She wouldn’t be worth the trouble I’d get in. Besides, I have a temper, but I would never hurt anybody. There’s a difference, you know?”
“When did you last see her?” asked Greene.
“After the show last night. She actually walked up to me and said I had done a good job. Surprised the crap outta me. I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded and walked away.”
“Did you see her speak to anyone else last night?”
“Of course I did. She was a regular flibbertigibbet. She talked to everyone, all the time. Couldn’t shut her up, actually. Made my job a pain, sometimes, trying to get her to zip it when we needed quiet on the set.”
“All right, thanks, Ms. Tortelli, that’s all for now,” said Hunter.
Erin nodded and returned to her work, and Hunter and Greene headed into the booth to talk to Jeff Johnson.
“Hello, Mr. Johnson,” said Hunter. “I’m Detective Lynn Hunter and this is Detective Steve Greene. Can you take a few minutes to answer some questions?”
Jeff looked up from the scripts he was marking and said, “Sure. How can I help you?”
The lights in the booth were up, and the bank of screens turned off, except for the two main screens in the center which showed color bars. The room smelled like a hot television set. Nobody else was in the booth.
“Did you know Lara LaGuardia very well?” asked Hunter.
Jeff shrugged. “Not really. I mean, I know all the talent, on a professional level, but they don’t really mix much with the crew, ya know?”
“What’s the overall temperature around here?” asked Greene. “I mean, I know there’s gotta be some tension at this point in the season. You hear of any little blowups or infighting that maybe isn’t visible on the screen?”
“Oh sure,” said Jeff. “All the time. Just like in any workplace.”
“Anything involving Lara?” asked Hunter.
Jeff glanced over at the wall covered in soundproofing foam. “Not that I know of.”
“Okay, thanks, we’ll let you get back to your scripts,” said Hunter. “Let us know if you think of anything.”
“Wait,” said Jeff. “There is one thing. I don’t know if this is relevant, but, well. Never mind.”
“No, go on,” said Greene. “Any information you have could turn out to be useful.”
“You may or may not have heard this already, with your other interviews, but Bryan Oceanfest and Erin Tortelli – the floor director – well, they’ve got something going. You know – an affair.”
“And?” said Hunter.
“Well,” said Jeff, “Everyone knows Erin hated Lara’s guts. And you can look at Erin, see how tiny she is – well, it’s clear she couldn’t have killed anybody with her bare hands.”
“So your theory is . . . ” said Greene.
“I figure she got that cheeseball Bryan to do her dirty work. He’d do anything for her.”
#
The two detectives caught up to Bryan Oceanfest, who was sitting in the Green Room watching some playback of the previous night’s show.
“Looking for something in particular?” asked Hunter as they entered the room that resembled a big living room packed with cushy couches.
“No,” he said, inadvertently pausing the video on a shot of Lara and Sandy exchanging an awkward look. “I always watch my air checks to critique myself and improve for the next night.”
“Ah,” said Greene. He sat on the couch next to Bryan and gestured at the screen. “What are your feelings about Lara? How are you taking this?”
Bryan shook his head slowly, not taking his eyes off the screen. “It’s unbelievable. She was only a few years older than me. I can’t believe she’s gone. She really added something good to the judges panel, and I liked working with her.”
“You think this could kill the show?” asked Hunter.
“What? Oh no, no. We’re too big to fail. This’ll only generate more publicity. But really, when you’re as successful as me – I mean, us – no press is bad press. Even this.” He pointed at the screen. “Lara may even do more for the show in death than she did in life, hate to say.”
#
After a quick trip to the contestants’ mansion, Hunter and Greene headed to the commissary for lunch time. It was housed in a small, unused warehouse on the west side of the lot. The food tables, placed under hanging fluorescent lights, were packed with crew members from various TV shows.
Hunter and Greene stood in line for their shot at the buffet.
“Man, these people sure eat well,” said Greene. “Look at that spread.”
“Union does them well,” said Hunter.
“Of course, it doesn’t compare to that mansion the musicians are staying in,” said Greene, picking up a plate and loading it with ribs. “That place was phenomenal.”
“Yeah,” said Hunter, opting for the pasta salad. “And all six of the musicians had an airtight alibi – they were locked into the mansion immediately following the show.”
“Which means it had to be someone on the crew, or one of the judges.”
“Or Bryan Oceanfest,” said Hunter. “Did you notice how everything seemed to be about him, and the show? He seemed pretty detached from the reality of LaGuardia’s death. As if the whole thing was staged or something.”
“I don’t know,” said Greene, grabbing a chocolate milk and leading the way to an empty table near the door. He placed his tray down and straddled the cold metal bleacher-style bench. “I still wonder about Polly. She seemed the least concerned to me.”
“I’d have to disagree, there, partner,” said Hunter. “Erin the floor director was the least concerned of the bunch. She seemed practically glad to be rid of Lara.”
“Yeah, but she also seemed honest about it all,” said Greene.
“I still think there’s more going on here,” said Hunter, stuffing some salad into her mouth. “Not all is what it appears.”
The sound of a tray crashing to the floor made their heads turn to the other side of the commissary. Some people flinched, and there was a general murmuring.
“Seems like everyone’s pretty jumpy,” said Hunter.
“They’ve lost one of their own, in a pretty hideously violent manner,” said Greene. “I don’t blame them a bit.”
“Yeah,” said Hunter. “Thing is – one of these people did it.”
Greene’s eyes scanned the room. Suddenly everyone looked suspicious.
#
The show that night opened with Bryan Oceanfest solemnly taking the stage with no theme music or voice-over intro.
Instead, he chose a la
pel mic over his usual stick mic, and stood with hands clasped in front of him. A solitary spot light illuminated him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, by now you’ve probably heard in the news of the tragic death –” he choked on the word, then continued, “the tragic death of one of our own, the beautiful and talented Lara LaGuardia. The producers wish to convey, on behalf of all of us, our deepest condolences to Lara’s family. But they also want to do what they believe is what Lara would’ve wanted – to make sure that the show must go on. And so –”
“Standby to bring up studio lights,” said Jeff, “and bring up lights full.”
“Welcome to Symphonic Idol!” Bryan finished with a sweep of his hands and his million dollar grin as the lights flooded the stage and the theme music blared.
The crowd seemed a little perplexed, unsure whether to cheer as usual – feeling like they were dancing on someone’s grave.
“Bring up music,” said Jeff, trying to drown out the confused and lackluster crowd response.
Bryan’s blue eyes twinkled under the lights as he introduced the five remaining contestants and the crowd gradually warmed up to accept the surreal experience.
“Always the consummate professional,” whispered Greene to Hunter as they sat in the back of the booth, watching the production crew work their TV magic.
“I don’t know how he does it – how any of them do it,” said Hunter. “Their colleague was just brutally killed last night. And yet here they all are . . . the show must go on. Amazing.”
“Okay, camera two, standby to get the judges’ table,” said Jeff. “Remember to only get a three-shot – we don’t want to see Lara’s empty chair. Standby two, and take two.”
The three remaining judges gave their standard, brief opinions regarding the surviving lineup of musicians. Each was a little more somber than usual. Sidney seemed tired, Polly seemed drunk, and Sandy seemed to be trying a little too hard to sound as if nothing was abnormal, which made the whole segment seem awkward and uncomfortable.
“Standby to go to break, standby master control, and roll, and fade,” said Jeff. He then switched his headset channel to a private channel.
Or so he thought.
“Sandy, what do you think you’re doing out there, you fat fool!” he whispered into his mic. “You’re overdoing the ‘put on a happy face’ routine. You’re gonna get us both caught, and I swear I will not take the fall for this alone.”
“Back in thirty seconds,” called Erin from the floor. “Oh, and Jeff, your channel is open.”
Jeff’s eyes widened.
Sandy’s finger instinctively went to his earpiece as his head snapped around to glare at the booth.
Suddenly, Jeff whipped his headset off and burst out of the booth, loose script papers falling to the floor in his wake.
“And we’re live in ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five,” said Erin.
Hunter grabbed the technical director’s walkie talkie and said, “Security, stop Jeff Johnson! Don’t let him leave the building!”
Jeff spotted the security guards closing in on him. He froze, then growled and leapt out onto the stage and ran directly at the judges’ table.
Sandy jumped up, throwing his chair crashing back onto the floor.
Jeff dove over the table and tackled Sandy right as they came back on the air. In the booth, the technical director took over for Jeff and started catching the whole event live on the air.
“Standby two, take camera two!”
The camera switched to a view of the fight as Sandy braced himself for Jeff’s onslaught, but tumbled over backwards under the force of Jeff’s attack.
Greene and Hunter were close behind Jeff, and jumped into the fray.
Polly screamed and backed her chair away, but Sidney joined the skirmish, grabbing Jeff by one arm and pulling him off Sandy.
The crowd was on its feet – half of them screaming in fear, the other half screaming like excited sports fans.
Bryan Oceanfest stood center stage, flanked by the finalist contestants, an expression something between shock and amusement on his face. For once, he was speechless.
Sidney and Greene finally managed to pull Jeff off Sandy, but not before Sidney took an elbow to the nose, leaving a stream of blood pouring out onto his white t-shirt.
Then Jeff broke loose of their grip and ran across the stage. He jumped and tried to clear the brushed steel rail that bordered the front row seats, but his trailing foot caught the rail, and he landed face-first in the second row.
He stumbled to his feet, blood coming from a gash over his left eye.
He ran up the aisle, back through the crowd, but was headed off by security.
He scrambled over several seats to the wings, but was cut off again.
Trapped, he climbed the rigging, knocking a butterfly light from its mountings on his way up. It crashed on the stage below in a shower of sparks.
He started to cross a catwalk high above the stage, but lost his footing and tumbled over the hand rail.
He dropped about forty feet to the stage, and landed with a bone-splitting thud. He didn’t move.
His neck broken.
Dead.
Thankfully, the cameras didn’t catch that.
“And we’re clear!” yelled Erin, indicating they’d gone to commercial break.
“All right, Sandy, what’s the score?” asked Hunter. “Why did he do it? You might as well tell us – we know you were part of it. What happened?”
Sandy rubbed at his jaw and straightened his chains. “Fine, yo. You wanna know? I’ll tell you. I hired Jeff. He needed the money – said he wanted to retire after this season. I paid him to take care of Lara.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Little witch was blackmailing me. Made me sign over all residual royalties from the Baroque ‘n’ Legs album to her, in exchange for keeping quiet.”
“Quiet about what?” asked Greene as he slapped a pair of cuffs on the music mogul.
“We didn’t want it to get out. It would’ve looked really bad,” said Sandy.
“What?” asked Greene.
“Us,” said Polly, standing up on wobbly legs. “Sandy and I are - *hic* well – we’re sleeping together.”
“Excuse me?” said Greene.
“And we’re back in three, two, one,” announced Erin.
“I said, Sandy and I are sleeping together!” yelled Polly.
The crowd fell silent.
Apparently, her mic was hot.
The technical director was no dummy. He knew a ratings windfall when he saw one.
Greene just shook his head and looked at Hunter.
“Culture,” he said. “Heh.”
THE END
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