Marcia Clark - Killer Ambition

“Did you order for me?” I asked. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the large pot on the table.

“Yeah, your pathetic little egg whites and stewed tomato are over there.” She pointed to a silver dome on the side table.

I sat down and spread a napkin on my lap. “What do you think of the story Brittany told us about that writer, Tommy Whatsisname?” I uncovered my sad little egg whites, scooped up a forkful, and tried to look ecstatic.

“Tommy Maher,” she said. “So now we’ve got someone with a possible motive.”

“If that script really did turn into a mega-blockbuster, I could see how someone would go nuts enough to want to destroy Russell.”

“But it’s been what? Ten years since that movie came out?”

“At least. Yeah, that’s an awfully long time to wait for revenge.”

“Still, we may as well see where it takes us. I looked up the show Brittany starred in at the time: Circle of Friends. They shot it at the Warner Brothers Ranch Studio in Burbank. We can go talk to them and see if anyone remembers the story.”

“You want to call ahead and make sure they get us a ‘drive-on’?” I said as I slithered my fork toward Bailey’s pancakes. I was getting into position to sneak a bite while she made the call.

“Look at you, using the lingo,” Bailey said. “Been there, done that. And I see you, Knight, so put down the fork.”

Seeing my crushed look, Bailey relented and pushed her plate forward. “I’m done anyway. But make it snappy, we’ve got to get moving.”

Ten minutes later, and a little high on carbs and syrup, I was in the car and we were heading for the freeway.

The Warner Brothers Ranch Studio is a little gated city. The head of security had arranged a parking space for us and sent out a guard in a golf cart to escort us to his office. Bailey and I had discussed whether we should just ask Russell about what happened with Tommy. But if this argument had some significance to the case, it would be better for us to find out all we could from uninvolved-or less involved-third parties before we heard Russell’s side of things.

The guard drove us to a building at the far end of the studio lot and stopped in front of a door marked HEAD OF SECURITY. The nameplate under that title said NED JUNGER. We knocked on the door, and a ruddy-faced man as wide as he was tall-and he was at least six feet two-answered.

“Detectives,” he said.

We shook hands, and mine disappeared into his gigantic paw as I told him I was a prosecutor. No sense getting off on the wrong foot by pretending to be someone I’m not. This time at least. He gestured for us to take a seat in the wire-framed chairs in front of his desk, and he settled into his own much larger and cushier chair behind it.

I told him what we’d heard about Tommy Maher and Russell. He nodded.

“I remember that. I’d just started here. That was, what, ten years ago? But I heard about it. You thinking that has something to do with Hayley being missing?”

“We don’t know,” Bailey said. “We’re just checking into all possibilities.”

“Sure. Though it’s hard to see the…well, why don’t I just tell you what I know and leave you two to connect the dots?”

Ned leaned back and held on to the arms of his chair. “Russell came up with that screenplay, and right away there was talk about it being a blockbuster. Wonderland Warriors. You ever see it?”

We admitted we hadn’t. I could see Ned was winding up to tell us a story that was probably recycled for every newcomer on the lot.

“Movie wasn’t half bad. Kind of a kid thing, but adults liked it too. Can’t go wrong when you hit the whole family that way. Action-type film like The Transformers but with a fairy tale attached to it, like The Princess Bride. Anyway, the buzz started right off the bat about this great script and the big deal Russell would be getting. For a young TV writer-hell, for anyone-it was a huge deal. You ask him, he’ll tell you.”

Bailey nodded encouragingly and Ned continued.

“So Tommy gets wind of it and goes apeshit. Starts yelling that it was his script, that Russell stole it from him. Now, Tommy always had been a bit of a loose cannon. Wasn’t the first time he’d complained about someone taking credit for something he’d done. Got into a lot of fights in the writers’ room over people stealing his story ideas-”

“Maybe they did,” I said.

“Sure, maybe they did. Problem was, he cried wolf one too many times in the past. So when he got all nuts about this script, no one really paid attention.” Ned sighed and sat forward. “But that film script was the end of him. Tommy started coming to work drunk, sometimes even got drunk while he was at work-and he wasn’t a nice drunk. Got more and more belligerent. Then, one day, he got into it with Russell over some network notes and decked him. Just ‘boom’! Coldcocked ’im, knocked Russell on his ass.” Ned shook his head. “After that, they moved Tommy out to the edge of the lot-”

“Why didn’t they just fire him?” Bailey asked.

“He was under contract. Easier to put him in Siberia and let his contract run out at the end of the season. ’Course Tommy had to know that was coming.”

“So did he ever sue Russell over the theft of the screenplay?” I asked.

“No.” A look of sadness crossed his face. “Day after the holiday party for the cast and crew, he went home and blew his own brains out.”

“Damn,” Bailey said.

“Did not see that coming,” I said. I guessed we could probably scratch Tommy Maher off our suspect list.

Ned leaned forward and poked the keyboard of his computer with his thick finger. As it whirred to life, he said, “There was a blurb about it in the papers. See if I can pull it up for you.” He scrolled for a few minutes, then turned the monitor so we could see it. “Article doesn’t tell you much, but that’s the holiday picture of the cast and crew on the set.” Ned pointed to the right side of the screen. “Tommy’s the guy on the end.”

Bailey and I leaned in to get a better look. There was something about him that I couldn’t put my finger on. I tried to analyze what it was. He was of average height and size, not the look of a big bruiser who’d have the guts to knock someone down. But everything else about him fit that bill: the sour expression, hunched posture with hands shoved into his pockets; every bit of him telegraphed misery and barely restrained anger. I could see that guy getting wound up enough to coldcock someone. Or even commit suicide. I remembered one of the forensic shrinks saying that it takes a violent person to commit suicide.

I’d been staring at the photo as these thoughts circled, but then the something I couldn’t put my finger on suddenly became clear. “He looks like Brian.”

We read theobit. Sure enough, it said that Tommy Maher was survived by his wife, Estelle-and his son, Brian. Brian Shandling was Brian Maher. Had to be. It all fit. Brian taking jobs around Russell’s studio, using a fake name, getting next to Hayley. The article also mentioned that Tommy had a sister, Janice, who was an author and lived in upstate New York.

“Mind sending me this article?” Bailey asked.

“Sure.” He carefully punched a few more keys. I tried to imagine what it was like to type with fingers that big. “Done. I’m going to take a wild guess that this business with Tommy Maher’s important?”

“Might be,” Bailey replied.

He nodded. “Okay. I’ll ask around, see if there’s anyone who knew him.”

We thanked him and, to my annoyance, Bailey declined the offer of a ride back to the car.

“What’s up with nixing the ride?” I groused, once we were outside. “I dug that little golf cart. Reminded me of Autopia.”