James Patterson - #1 Suspect

I reached out and shook her hand again.

This time I said, “Welcome to Private.”

The movie was being shot north of LA, just outside the town of Ojai, on a ranch-style property set back from a winding country lane.

Del Rio stood in the shade of an avocado grove, watching the crew set up the first shots of Shades of Green. A few yards away, Scotty leaned against the white horse fence that separated the avocado trees from the drive, the lawn, and the eccentric-looking house, maybe a hundred years old.

Right then, eight-fifteen a.m., the crew was adjusting the lights, the sound level, the camera angles, focusing on the blue Ferrari parked in front of the house.

Danny Whitman was in the driver’s seat, and his costar, sixteen-year-old Piper Winnick, was sitting beside him. The two were joking around, getting into the personalities of the characters, two young spies who’d fallen in love despite the odds, seeing as Danny’s character was marked for assassination.

Del Rio was reminded of the characters in one of those Bourne films starring Matt Damon and an actress whose name he didn’t know. Unlike the brunette in that Bourne movie, Piper Winnick was a honey blonde. She wore her shining hair shoulder length and was dressed in a yellow sundress with a straw hat shading her eyes.

Danny Whitman wore a blue polo shirt, jeans, and a baseball cap, and he was nuzzling his costar, who was fake-pushing him away, calling him “stupido,” the two of them laughing.

What Del Rio liked was how there were no other houses visible from this property, that the situation was under control. He lit a cigarette. He wasn’t hooked, but there were times when it just felt good to exhale and watch the smoke blow away in the breeze.

Del Rio watched the actors, thinking the film was pretty much guaranteed to be next summer’s blockbuster-if Danny didn’t go to jail. Or maybe the film would be even more of a box office bonanza if he did.

The director was talking now, telling the couple to take their places. They got out of the car and went into the house of many crazy additions, just as three of Danny Whitman’s handlers ambled up from the road.

Scotty left his post at the rail, came over, and stood next to Del Rio.

He said, “Of the three of them, I only like Schuster, the manager. I think he likes Danny for real. Barstow, Danny’s agent? He doesn’t like anybody. Merv Koulos. I understand him. He doesn’t try to hide that it’s all about money.”

Del Rio said, “It’s all about the money for all of them, Scotty. Just different shades of green.”

The three men came up to the investigators, Schuster saying, “You’re the guys from Private, right?”

Del Rio thought Schuster looked happy for good reason. He’d waited a long time for the cameras to roll, and today was the day.

Barstow said, “You can get something to eat if you want. The chow wagon is behind the barn.”

Del Rio said, “Thanks, but we’re good.”

He was thinking how it was great to get a softball job once in a while. Everything under control.

FIFTY FEET AWAY from the avocado grove, the director’s assistant called, “Quiet please. Let’s have quiet.”

Someone clapped the boards, said, “Take one.” And the AD said, “Four, three, two and…action.”

The camera was focused on the front door, Danny coming out of the house followed by Piper. Danny turned to Piper, saying, “You gotta understand, that guy is crazy.”

“Cheesecake. I mean fruitcake,” Piper said in an Italian-accented voice.

They got into the car, Whitman saying, “Try to keep it straight, okay?”

Winnick said, “I know; cheesecake is girly pictures and fruitcake is cuckoo. And keep my head down.”

The star said to his movie girlfriend, “I’m fruitcake to let you come with me. If anything happens to you, Gia-”

The girl laughed, said, “Stupido,” as Danny started the snazzy car. He gunned the engine. Piper yelped and flew back against the seat as the sports car shot toward Sisar Road.

It was traveling way too fast.

That was not in the script.

The crew and the bystanders stood and gaped as the car blasted through the open gate and kept going. The director yelled, “Cut,” but the car didn’t stop.

Instead, Danny took a hard left onto the two-laner, and the car became a vivid blue streak, getting smaller until it vanished from view and they couldn’t hear the engine anymore.

The director yelled, “What the fuck? What the fuck is going on here?”

Schuster, standing next to Del Rio, was punching numbers into his cell phone. Merv Koulos did the same.

“Danny. It’s Merv. Damn it,” said Koulos. “Danny, call me. This isn’t funny.”

“He’ll be right back,” Scotty said to himself. He turned to Del Rio. “He just likes the car and the girl. He’s going to turn back in a second. He’s just goofing around.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Del Rio.

Del Rio’s contentment was gone, replaced by a feeling like a cold wind blowing through his rib cage. He opened his cell phone, dialed Justine, and when she answered, he said, “We’re on the job for one hour and we lose the damned kid. Yeah, right, Danny. He took off at a hundred twenty in a three-hundred-thousand-dollar sports car. Brace yourself, Justine. He took the girl with him. Piper Winnick. No. Nope. If he said where he’s going, no one here got the memo.”

It was late afternoon, nearly five.

Justine and Scotty had spent the day looking for Danny. They’d been to his house and Piper’s house in the Hills. They had contacted both sets of friends and families and were only now leaving the studio after talking to everyone who had an opinion on Danny’s disappearance-which was everyone period.

Half the people they talked to said they thought Danny was irresponsible, immature, just didn’t understand the consequences of his actions.

The other half guessed that Danny understood the consequences full well, that his disappearance was a publicity stunt mimicking the movie plot. Several people suggested that Danny’s agent, Alan Barstow, had put Danny up to it.

In any case, Justine knew that soon the police would be looking for a blue Ferrari and two young movie stars.

Justine told Scotty to strap in, then she drove off the Harlequin Pictures lot with tires squealing, heading toward Beverly Hills.

As she drove, Justine beat on the steering wheel with her palms in frustration, furiously trying to make sense of Danny’s insane and dangerous escapade. He couldn’t claim that he’d had one of his blackouts when he’d driven that car off the location with Piper Winnick riding shotgun.

What had she missed?

Was he a narcissistic child?

Or was he a psychopath?

Either way, he was self-destructive.

Danny Whitman, the kid with everything to lose, could go to prison for twenty-five to life.

And that was if he hadn’t hurt Piper.

Justine sped through a yellow light, saying to Scotty, “You heard me tell him ‘Play it straight. Don’t go anywhere with the opposite sex.’”

“You have to turn in two blocks, Justine. Maybe you want to get over into the left lane now-”

“He agreed to our terms. I keep asking myself, is he crazy? I mean, is he actually crazy?”

Scotty stomped on an imaginary brake on his side of the car as Justine took a hard left through a red light.

Justine said, “See, I liked him, Scotty. I liked him a lot. Tell me that address again.”

“Three forty-five North Maple. Should be about three blocks down. I take responsibility, Justine, but I don’t know what I could have done differently. We had to stay out of the shot, which went all the way out to the road.”