Читать книгу The Unholy - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 9

2

Los Angeles County was known for its smog, but this afternoon was worse than usual. When Madison stepped outside to wait for Eddie Archer, she felt as though the day itself was in mourning for Jenny Henderson and the Archer family.

It was just the beginning of summer, and in the past few days the sky had been powder-blue with wonderful puffs of snow-white clouds; today, a fog had rolled in from somewhere and joined with the pollution of the massively populated area. She almost expected to hear crows caw in warning while bats took flight across a darkening sky. Like something of a ’50s horror movie…

Eddie Archer’s little hybrid car pulling up in front of her place brought her back to reality.

Eddie pulled to the curb. A man slid out of the passenger seat watching her as she approached. He seemed to fit right in to the California scene. He was tall, wearing dark glasses, and appeared to be fit and athletic, with a lean muscled frame. She slipped her own sunglasses on; sunglasses camouflaged a multitude of sins, or so they said—and allowed one to hide one’s emotions.

As she reached the car, he extended a hand. “Sean Cameron, Ms. Darvil. Please, take the front. I’ll get in behind you.” He had a low, smooth, throaty voice that suited his physique. Bogie, she thought, would label him “a man’s man.” There was a quality about him that conveyed an inner easy confidence. She sensed his compelling masculinity and realized that meeting him, just feeling his handshake, made her want to know him. She lowered her head for a swift moment, willing herself not to flush.

Why on earth was she instantly attracted to a man she’d barely met?

She steeled herself mentally, disturbed and annoyed with her own thoughts. Eddie was troubled. Alistair was in a grave situation. A beautiful young woman had been murdered. She was here to escort this man around the studio today, and that was it.

“After you,” he said.

She wasn’t short, but neither was she exceptionally tall, at five-eight.

“No, no—you take the front.” She managed a casual grimace. “Since I’m staring up at you, it’s obvious you have much longer legs.” He had to be six-three or six-four, she estimated. She felt she should tell him it was a pleasure to meet him, except that seemed kind of ridiculous at the moment. “I’m glad you’re here for Eddie,” she said instead.

He gave her a tight-lipped smile and a nod. “I’ll say the same,” he told her huskily. “Please, take the seat next to Eddie. There’s plenty of legroom in the back. Humor me—it’s a Texas thing.”

Madison decided she wasn’t going to wage a war over a car seat and got in.

When she was seated, Eddie turned to her. “Thanks, Maddie,” he said quietly. “Thank you, sincerely.”

“You’re welcome, Eddie.”

“So, the police still have the museum area—the tunnel—cordoned off. Naturally, Sean has jurisdiction anywhere, but I’d like you to show him the studio. You can answer any questions he might have.” Eddie’s voice grew emotional as he added, “I’m going to abandon you two and get back to the hospital to see Alistair. I don’t like leaving him alone. I don’t mean alone—I mean, without seeing me as much as possible.”

“I understand, Eddie,” Madison said quietly. Alistair—assuming he was innocent—definitely needed family support at a time like this.

But he had a stepmother, too, although it was true that Alistair had never called his father’s wives “Mother.” But he seemed to have a friendly relationship with Helena LaRoux, and as far as she could tell, Helena liked Alistair. Alistair was happy if his father was happy, and he found it amusing that Helena had made no bones about the fact that she’d loved Eddie and wanted to be Mrs. Eddie Archer. She claimed to love Eddie and maybe she did. It was a nice bonus that he was as powerful as he was—and Helena never pretended that she wasn’t eager to be rich and famous on her own. It seemed, however, that she was happy to share her journey with Eddie’s son.

Appearances, Madison thought. Hollywood was all smoke and mirrors.

“He’s got family there now,” Eddie told her. “Helena is with him. But we’ve only been married a year, and although she and Alistair get along fine, she’s not his real mom, and certainly not his dad, you know?” he ended hoarsely.

“No one else is you, Eddie.”

She noticed that Sean Cameron reached over from the backseat, placed a hand on Eddie’s shoulder and squeezed.

She’d heard about Cameron before; she knew his name, and that he’d worked at the studio. Now that she was with him, she realized she’d even seen pictures of him with past creatures created at the studio and at industry parties. Once she’d actually wondered about him and joked with Carla, a seamstress, about him. Why didn’t he still work there, huh? she’d asked. She often worked a double shift, seventy to eighty hours, with a group that was seventy to eighty percent male. All those hours and all those men, and they were like fathers, uncles, little brothers or obnoxious cousins. Or uninterested in the opposite sex.

Carla had reminded her that she dressed some of the hottest actors in the business, and she’d been asked out often enough.

It wasn’t as if she was totally averse to a whirlwind romance—here today, gone tomorrow—it was just that the right opportunity hadn’t come along. She preferred to remain friends with men she might work with again, and she didn’t want the girlfriends, wives and lovers of actors or colleagues not wanting her to be part of future projects. So she kept her distance. Sometimes the actors she worked with could be cold and full of themselves, but luckily, that was seldom the case. And when she kept her distance, she earned their respect. Maybe men always admired and longed for what they couldn’t have. Maybe women, too.

And maybe she was just damaged. Maybe a friend like Bogie was a reward for the strange and painful things that had happened to her.

Right now, she needed to concentrate and focus on the moment—and not on Sean Cameron. She didn’t know the man. Not at all. She’d seen him standing outside a car. She’d heard his voice and shaken his hand. Watched how he’d silently laid his hand on Eddie’s shoulder, a true sign of friendship and support. There was something about his voice, though. It seemed to enclose her and make her feel his words were sincere, that he was some kind of secure bastion against the world. Eddie had called on him in a time of need.

As they pulled up in front of the cinema and studio, Madison saw that there were four police cars guarding the entrance. She looked past the cars and the crime scene tape to the beautiful Art Deco–style Black Box Cinema with its terra-cotta sunburst facade, and the elegantly crafted sign. The building itself was a handsome and historic structure; it appeared sad, though, wrapped in crime scene tape as it was.

When she looked to the side she saw the parking lot, empty now of cars. During lockdown it was usually crowded even at night—all hands on deck.

She noted a vintage Cadillac that was out of place among the clearly marked patrol cars. It was parked at the far end; there was a man standing outside the car, staring at the buildings, as if he was carefully watching the police and every move they made.

He turned as they drove up. Before they could exit, he walked over to the car, and Eddie rolled down the driver’s-seat window. From the passenger seat, Madison leaned over and saw that it was Andy Simons, Eddie’s partner.

“Hey, you doing okay?” Simons asked Eddie.

Madison didn’t know him half as well as she knew Eddie; Simons was money, Eddie was art. But the two were longtime friends and Simons—like everyone else associated with the studio—would stand by Eddie to the very end. Eddie and Andy were complete opposites in more ways than one. Eddie was slim and athletic, an attractive middle-aged man, casual and easy in his manner and dress. Andy was muscular and his clothing—even his jogging attire, as she’d seen once—was pure designer quality. He had a head of light blond hair that he kept artfully colored and his nails were manicured. He’d always been nice when Madison encountered him, he just didn’t have Eddie’s natural ease with the artisans and employees of the studio. However, that didn’t matter much, since he was seldom around.

“Thanks, Andy,” Eddie said huskily. “I’m doing all right.”

“And Alistair?”

“The best he can be—under the circumstances.” Eddie gestured at Sean. “Andy, you remember Sean Cameron—”

“Of course I do,” Andy said, looking into the backseat and smiling. “Nice to see you, Sean. We missed you—and your talent—when you left. Odd timing, though,” he added.

“He’s not here for his old job,” Eddie said. “Sean is with the FBI. His unit is going to take the lead on the investigation. I told you I was going to call in some favors to see that Alistair got a fair shake, that I wanted to bring in an FBI unit.”

“Yeah, I know. But, Sean—you’re FBI?” Simons asked.

“Career change,” Sean said with a shrug. “Life takes us to some strange places.”

“That’s a major change.” Simons looked at Eddie, frowning. “I knew you wanted the FBI involved, but I wasn’t sure you could pull it off. But then, you’ve always been able to create magic.”

“Never hurts to have two law enforcement agencies working together—we can bring different specialties to the table,” Sean explained.

“But from fabricator…to FBI?” Simons said, grinning.

“You never know,” Sean Cameron said.

There was an air of expectancy in the silence that followed, but Cameron didn’t say anything else and Eddie spoke up.

“Madison is going to show him around the studio. It’s been a while.”

Simons nodded. “Great.” He smiled at Eddie and tried to sound cheerful. “No one works harder than Madison, and I’d say she’s definitely a good choice for bringing Sean up-to-date. And we can’t ask for anything better than the FBI,” he said. He bent lower and grinned at her. “You’re the best, too, Madison. We all appreciate what you’re doing, but I have to ask—you okay with this? You don’t have to be here, you know. We can only ask so much of you.”

“I’m just fine. I’ll do anything to help Alistair,” she said.

“Anything,” Simons repeated. His comment seemed odd to Madison, or maybe not. To the outside world, there was no way that Alistair hadn’t committed the murder. Maybe he was really asking if she’d be willing to lie, if necessary. Was he? she wondered. Andy Simons’s fortune was tied to Eddie’s, and while he might have had the seed money, it was Eddie’s talent that had kept them both going.

The one aspect of the business Andy didn’t have anything to do with was the Black Box Cinema. That was strictly Eddie’s.

“Agent Cameron, welcome, and thank you,” Simons was saying. He straightened a bit. “Glad you’re with us. I’ve been standing in the parking lot for hours—don’t know why, except that I want the police to realize that all of us at the studio believe in Alistair, and we’ll be watching them.”

“I know why you’re here. You’re my friend,” Eddie said. “And I’m grateful for the support.”

“Sure. With Sean on the case now, I’ll head home. But, Eddie, if you need me—for anything, anything at all—just call.”

“Thanks, Andy,” Eddie said.

“Thank you. And I will be calling on you.” Sean Cameron reached through an open window to shake the man’s hand.

“I’ll talk to you later, then.” Simons gave them all a grave nod and walked to his car.

“Thank God I do have friends on board, and we’re not just throwing Alistair to the wolves,” Eddie said.

“Character can mean everything, Eddie. And a vicious murder isn’t in Alistair’s character.” Sean Cameron opened his door to exit the car and Madison did the same.

“Keep the faith, Eddie,” Sean said, ducking his head down to the window.

“I will.” Eddie nodded, and eased the car toward the road.

One of the police officers on guard duty approached Madison and Sean. Madison felt awkward about this; Sean Cameron did not. He smoothly produced his credentials and they were ushered through the massive gates. They were stopped once again, at the entrance to the cinema.

“Even though you’re FBI, are you sure they’re going to let us in here?” Madison asked.

“Yes, they’re required to. The agencies will be working in tandem. I want to see the studio today. The crime scene experts are probably still in there—looking for anything and everything. But it’s important that I meet the LAPD detective in charge,” he told her. “How do you feel about Andy Simons?” he asked, looking at her closely.

“Andy? Honestly, I don’t see him that often. Neither Eddie nor Andy comes to the studio daily, although Eddie’s in far more often and is usually with us when we go on location,” Madison said. “When Andy does come in—maybe once every couple of weeks—he’s cordial, interested and decent to everyone.”

“How do you feel about him?” Sean persisted.

She smiled suddenly. “Well, I guess Eddie’s a man of the people. Andy is more like royalty condescending from on high. But like I said, he’s always been decent, and, odd couple though they are, he and Eddie have been friends for years. You don’t think Andy—”

“I don’t think anything yet. We’ve got a long way to go, Madison.”

He’d paused to look at her and she was startled by the little tremor that rippled down her spine. She’d just met him, and she was alarmed by her strange and instant admiration for him. She liked the steady gravity in his eyes as he spoke, and still felt touched by the sound of his voice and the honesty and sincerity with which he seemed to speak. He wasn’t muscle-bound like a prizefighter, but she had the feeling he was all lean strength.

“Yes, of course,” she said quickly, stepping back. She was making far too much of a simple moment they were sharing in the pursuit of justice.

They were approached by another officer and stood at the door, waiting, while he went into the building.

“We will get in there,” Sean muttered.

The officer returned, leading a tall, bald-headed man of about forty. The newcomer eyed Sean suspiciously, but had apparently expected him. He was Detective Benny Knox, and he was polite enough, although he glanced at Madison as if he wasn’t impressed and was, in fact, indifferent to her presence. She wasn’t sure how he’d figured out that she didn’t know a thing about crime scenes. Sean, however, introduced her as “Eddie Archer’s most trusted studio artist,” and the detective assessed her again and nodded grimly.

“I heard you worked here once, Cameron,” Knox said.

“I did.”

“I assumed they brought you in because you know the place yourself.”

Sean gave a slight shrug. “But things change over time. Madison has the position I had years ago, so she’ll know what I’m talking about when I ask a question.”

“And she’s Eddie’s girl,” Knox said.

Madison frowned. “I’m not anyone’s ‘girl,’ Detective. I’m here to make sure Agent Cameron has knowledgeable updates on any changes in the studio.”

Knox raised his eyebrows, then nodded.

It was fine for them to be in the studio, Knox assured them. Fingerprints had been taken from the door that connected the tunnel to the studio, and the rooms had been searched. Knox actually managed something of a smile when he told her that some of his most seasoned people had been startled more than once, running into the creatures in production and in storage. She forced a weak smile in return.

The police were finishing up in the cinema and the tunnel, he went on to say, and, as law enforcement, Sean would understand that they didn’t want tainted evidence. But before the biohazard teams were called in to clean up, Sean would have access to everything.

“Notes from the first officer on the scene?”

“Yes—and my own. Officer Braden was pretty thorough, and he knew the drill. He didn’t touch anything until I was called. Of course, there’s no such thing as a pristine crime scene in a situation like this—Alistair Archer had been slipping around in the blood, the guard rushed in and he had blood on him. But after that, the scene was contained. Let me know what you want when, and I’ll see that you get it.”

Once Knox had finished speaking, he studied Sean carefully. “What I hear—and this comes straight from the governor’s office—is that you’re lead investigator on this, along with your team. It’s your ball game,” he said.

“Not all—we need and appreciate you and your men, Knox. I’d like you to keep the lead until we’re completely established. I want to get the lay of the land again, so to speak. Raintree is due tonight or tomorrow morning with the rest of the team. I’m not sure what plans they’ve made as yet. Now…we’ll go through the parking lot to the studio, staying out of the way of the forensic experts.”

Knox seemed mollified. He kept nodding.

Madison and Sean started across to the main studio entrance.

As they walked, Madison asked, “Is it always like that? I mean, it felt like he was throwing massive webs of power and testosterone there. Aren’t you both working toward the same goal, as in the truth of what happened?”

Sean Cameron grinned at her; he was strikingly good-looking, she realized again, and could have been in the movies instead of the magic behind them.

Step back, think sanely. You’re just here as a guide, she reminded herself.

She still wasn’t quite sure how one went from being a visual fabricator and creator to an FBI agent, but she was glad to see his grin. She had to admit she hadn’t relished this assignment and wished they could rewind time—go back twenty-four hours, make sure Alistair Archer was nowhere near the Black Box Cinema last night and that the entire place had been locked down tight. Then she’d be at work, consulting with her colleagues, studying sketches, and then computer simulations, discussing materials….

“Sometimes the L.A. cops have taken a beating when they haven’t been the ones to mess things up. And if you’re asking whether law enforcement agencies can be territorial—you bet. I actually belong to a unit of people who are ready to stand down, suck up when necessary and just get our part done. But yes, we are all working toward the same goal, and a team like mine doesn’t have the manpower to do it alone. If you have good cops on your side, you’re ahead of the game.”

“You worked for Eddie for several years, right?” Madison asked him.

“Yes. Then I returned to Texas—had a close friend with cancer, and I wanted to be around to help with what was needed.”

“How did you find your way into law enforcement?”

“I didn’t. It found me,” he said.

They were in front of the studio door now. He indicated that she should get out her key, and she knew that their conversation on his history was over.

Madison fumbled in her purse and produced the key, then opened the door and stepped inside. As she’d expected, once they’d entered the vestibule, she saw Colin Bailey on duty behind the little glassed-in reception area.

During the day, when work was in progress, two people handled the reception desk. The hallways that led down to the studios, work areas and offices weren’t locked, but a security officer usually sat in front with the receptionist. Today, no receptionist was on duty, but Colin Bailey was there, formidable despite his age. Colin had been a boxer in his day. Like the cop she’d just met, he was bald, but his bare pate was a present from nature, and not the work of careful shaving. He had bright blue eyes and jowls that would have done a bulldog proud. His nose had been broken a dozen times and looked it.

He could be gentle as a lamb, but when it came to defending Eddie Archer or his property and reputation, Colin turned into a cobra.

“There’s no entrance! Absolutely no—Oh! Madison, it’s you. And the FBI man, I assume?” Bailey rose from his swivel chair, opened the door dividing the entry from the reception area and came out to greet them. He inspected Sean, and then smiled. “Why, it’s you, kid!” he said with enthusiasm. “I thought I got the name wrong or something!” He took Sean’s hand and shook it with enthusiasm. “Wow, it’s true! So you’re a G-man, huh? For real?”

“For real, Colin, my friend, for real,” Sean told him. “So, you’re doing well?”

“Great!” Bailey said. “Well, until last night,” he added, his smile fading.

“You were on duty?”

“I was. And I take that seriously, as you know, especially during lockdown.”

“You had your eye on the video screens?” Sean asked.

Bailey grimaced. “For all the good it did. And the cops have the video now.”

“The cameras still cover the same areas?”

Bailey nodded. He motioned to them to join him in the reception area. As they walked in, Madison realized she’d never been there herself; she’d never thought about the security cameras.

There was a bank with six screens. One showed the entry. Another focused on the main work area, encompassing the shop, the main construction area and, somewhat obscured, the rest of the floor. Another screen covered the parking lot, and yet another, the upstairs hallway. One showed the cemetery and parking lot to the right if one were facing the studio entrance, and another showed the side of the Black Box Cinema.

“You can’t see the entrance to the Black Box,” Madison noted.

“The Black Box Cinema has its own security camera that focuses on anyone coming through the main entrance,” Bailey told her. “But as you can see, these screens will tell you if anyone is entering the studio by the main entrance, and if anyone tried to get through the fire exits, an alarm would have gone off.”

“There’s no security footage for the tunnel—the museum—itself?” Sean asked.

“Yes, but it’s seldom used,” Colin said. “There never seemed to be a reason. No one’s allowed down there except by appointment or on movie nights, and there’s always a guide with anyone who does go down. Film noir buffs always want to see it, but it’s not like it’s the biggest tourist attraction in Hollywood or anything. The cinema’s Eddie’s baby—has been from the start. He grew up loving film noir, and I guess he feels it’s just a little collection he shows friends, even if the friends are people he doesn’t know. You can ask for a tour if you’ve come to see a movie. You don’t even have to pay the nominal five bucks, just bring your ticket stub during opening hours. Like I said, there never seemed to be much need for security down there.”

Sean Cameron didn’t respond to that. Maintaining a pleasant expression, he said, “Thanks, Colin. Madison’s going to catch me up on any of the changes that have happened around here since I left. We’ll check back in before we leave. Obviously, we have to leave this way, don’t we?”

Bailey nodded. “Unless you open a fire door and, if you do, alarms will go off like firecrackers.” He grinned at his own mild joke.

Sean looked at Madison. “If we go to the right, that’ll still lead us to the main work areas?”

“Yes, the hallway to the left has two meeting rooms, plus the stairs up to the offices and meeting rooms on the second floor.”

He moved quickly, heading to the right. She followed him at the same pace.

The studio seemed strange. Empty. She came in early sometimes, but a lot of workers did, and Madison couldn’t remember a single time when she’d come in and one of the seamstresses or construction engineers hadn’t already been at work. The sounds of sewing machines, electric saws, hammers and other work-related noises were constant, although someone usually had a stereo system playing pop music or rock classics. Today, there was no stereo on. Materials were piled up on the tables that stood by the sewing machines, and the shop area itself felt eerie. It was almost like walking into a home whose owners had mysteriously disappeared.

The walls were pinned with fabric and materials and drawings. Creatures they’d made for movies, shows or advertisements were lined up on the floor and arranged on shelves—some might be used again, and some were kept because they’d required a great deal of work and had turned out exceptionally well. They also kept some of the projects that hadn’t worked quite as well, a reminder of the thought and care that needed to go into any creation.

A giant rat stood next to an equally large penguin. The rat had been used in a public service announcement and the penguin had been animated to advertise a new adventure park in Oregon. Robotic creatures from the last sci-fi movie they’d worked on were lined up together, and above them was an old bicycle being ridden by a very evil-looking big, bad wolf. Zombies created for Apocalypse from Beneath the Sea were against the far rear wall, and the bloodied victims from a Victorian-era murder mystery were on the high shelving ten feet above the floor—above the zombies. Madison noted that Sean was staring at the victims, Miss Mary, Parson Bridge and Myra Sue. He was thoughtful, and she suspected he was imagining that the appearance of Jenny Henderson’s body must have been disturbingly similar to these props. The studio was known for the realism of what they created.

“Life imitates art and art imitates life. In this case, the question is which came first,” Sean murmured.

Madison glanced down, troubled by the creatures that were just rubber, plastic, fabric and paint. She’d drawn the designs for some of them; she’d dressed Myra Sue. Suddenly, Myra Sue and the other “victims” didn’t seem like props designed for a movie. They looked like flesh and blood.

A lot of blood.

Madison found herself turning away from Myra Sue’s one sightless eye.

“Fire door is still in the back, right?” Sean asked her.

She nodded. “Between these guys and the Planet Mondo air creatures over there,” she said, pointing to the door. There was a large sign that said Fire Door, but it was partially obstructed by the wings of one of the Planet Mondo air creatures.

“Hasn’t changed much,” Sean said. He nodded to one of the giant robots across the workstations, beside the climate control room. “I worked on Hugoman. He’s been here awhile.”

“Really? He’s fantastic. And I love the movie!” Madison said. She did love the creature in the movie Hugoman. He was the invention of a mad scientist who’d given him his son’s personality through partial cloning; the massive machinelike creature was kind and fought only to save lives. Of course, he’d been misunderstood, and when he’d saved the community from an attack by mutant creatures, he had died—a moral about judging people, or creatures, on appearances. Hugoman had actually been low-budget and promoted as an action/monster flick, but it had been extremely well written and had become a cult classic.

She flushed; they were here because of a murder, and because someone they both cared about had been accused of that murder. And yet, she wasn’t sure why they were just touring the studio. The murder hadn’t taken place in the studio; it had happened in the museum tunnel.

He wasn’t appalled by her sudden enthusiasm; he smiled at her. “Thanks. I loved working here. I needed to go back to Texas for a bit, and then…then you get swept up in life, so I wound up staying and working there. But I did love the time I spent here, working for Eddie Archer. I was proud that we helped create a cult classic on a budget.” His tone became businesslike. “So, as far as I know, that’s our fire door on this side of the building downstairs, and we have another over by the offices?”

It took her a second to follow his quick change of subject, but she managed not to blink.

“To the best of my knowledge, yes,” she told him. “And there are corresponding exits upstairs, with ladders in case of fire. Eddie’s always been very careful, dealing with some of the flammable materials as we do.”

Sean nodded. “Okay, what’s going on in the shop. What are you working on right now?”

“Don’t you know?” she asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s kind of ironic. We’re working on a remake of Sam Stone and the Curious Case of the Egyptian Museum. It’s updated, and it’s been retitled The Unholy. The script is really good—and different enough to make this a different movie. From what I’ve seen so far, I’d compare it to Disturbing Behavior, which was, in essence, a remake of Hitchcock’s Rear Window.”

Sean frowned. “A remake of the movie—and Jenny was killed in front of the tableau?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not just ironic,” he told her. “That sounds intentional. And it changes everything.”

“The original movie was filmed well over half a century ago. What could this have to do with the movie we’re making now?”

“Everything,” he said curtly. “It could be a motive for murder. And lockdown—that’s incredibly important, too. Lockdown should eliminate anyone who isn’t close to the studio.”

Madison spoke through clenched jaws. She wasn’t in the FBI or the police; she wasn’t required to understand motive and investigation. “Even when we’re not in lockdown, the curious can’t just wander in. I have to have permission to bring in a guest on a regular day, and I wouldn’t have been given permission at all now.”

“Well, there’s permission, and there’s giving yourself permission by dodging the rules. On a regular day, someone could try to slip someone else in.”

“What about the security cameras, Sean? People here don’t want to risk their jobs.”

“Of course not. Still…”

He walked toward the climate-controlled room, but looked through the windows for a moment, and never tried the door. He seemed uninterested.

“Where’s your workstation?” he asked her.

Her work area was a few feet from the climate-controlled area. She pointed it out to him, and he went over to it.

It seemed bizarre that everything was just where she’d left it on Friday night. There were pieces of the leather coat she’d chosen for the costume of actor Oliver Marshall, playing antihero Sam Stone in the new movie.

“I saw the movie as a kid. But refresh me,” Sean said.

What did this have to do with the murder?

“In a nutshell? There are a series of murders—people ripped to shreds by something in the night. Then an incredibly wealthy philanthropist with a gorgeous young wife is found murdered in a similar manner in his Egyptian Museum. The cops want to arrest the wife, so she goes to Sam Stone. Various clues suggest she’s the murderer, but she denies it. The movie is great because it leaves the audience wondering—was something supernatural happening, or could it all be explained? The Egyptian mummy supposedly sent from the Department of Antiquities turns out to be a priest heading an ancient cult and in the end, needless to say, he proves to be the murderer. Sam Stone falls in love with the wife—Dianna Breen—but she dies at the hand of the priest before she’s proven innocent.”

“Who’s playing Sam Stone?” Sean asked.

“Oliver Marshall.”

“Hmm. How is he to work with?”

“He’s fine. He’s always in the tabloids for being a party boy, but he’s polite and courteous, shows up for his fittings and works well with everyone behind the scenes. He’s very pleasant and makes everyone at the studio think he’s just one of the gang. I like him.”

“Good to hear. When’s the last time he was in?”

“Friday. I was working on his costume.” She gestured at the fabric on the table. “He was in for fittings. Sam Stone carries concealed weapons, so everything about the costume has to fit perfectly.”

“Those…creatures evoked by the Egyptian priest—what’s his name?” Sean pointed to some of their newest creations, including giant fanged jackals, birds and bizarre giant snakes.

“The priest is Amun Mopat, and yes, they’re for the movie.”

“What will the priest be wearing? Same type of costume as in the film noir?” Sean asked. “And who’s playing him?”

“That role hasn’t been cast yet,” Madison told him. “There’s a mannequin over by the wall with a mock-up of the robe he’ll be wearing. It’s an homage to the original film. Almost exactly the same.”

“Where? Show me.”

Madison walked over to the mannequin that stood behind one of the jackal-like monsters created for the movie.

There was nothing but a plain brown monk’s robe on it.

She looked at Sean as shivers of fear streaked down her spine.

“The robe—it was just a mock-up. But it’s gone,” she said. “I suppose someone might have taken it…. Mike Greenwood could have shown it to someone. I’ll ask Mike and Eddie where it is.”

Sean shook his head. “They won’t know—and the robe isn’t coming back. It’s been used,” he said grimly, “by the killer.” He turned to look at her. “Find that robe, and we’ll be on our way to finding a killer.”