The woman slid into the driver’s seat of the Porsche 911 GT3 RS, started the engine, and switched on the lights.
A man rose up in the shadows of the backseat and held a straight razor to her throat. “Hello, Pamela,” he said.
“Cut,” cried Peter Barrington. “Good for camera? Good for sound? Print it, new setup, let’s come in for the close-up from the killer’s POV.”
Peter pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. It had vibrated during the take, and now it read Missed Call. He hit the callback button and stepped away from the street set where he was filming on the back lot of Centurion Studios.
“Hi, Dad. What’s up?”
“You got time to talk?”
“A little. We’re in between takes.”
“How’s the picture coming?”
“Couldn’t be better. The cast is great, and the dailies look fantastic. We’re getting plenty of coverage, and the editor has more footage than she needs. I wish they were all this easy.”
“Is your new producer working out?”
“Just fine. Not that I don’t miss Ben, but Billy’s a natural. We’re actually ahead of schedule.”
Dino’s son, Ben, had been producing Peter’s films ever since they graduated from Yale drama school, but recently he’d been elevated to the head of Centurion Studios, leaving Peter without a producer.
“Is Ben around?”
“He drops in now and then. He’s the head of the studio, he can make his own schedule.”
“So he could help you out if you needed anything?”
“I suppose so. What’s going on?”
“Do you think you could get along without Billy for a few days? I’ve got a sticky situation and could really use his help.”
“It’s important?”
“You wouldn’t believe.”
“Then take him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be okay.”
“Great. I’ll give him a call.”
“Hang on, Dad. He’s on the set, I’ll get him for you.”
Billy Barnett was overseeing the camera move, which was going smoothly. Billy had a way of making things happen without seeming to push, a valuable asset for a movie producer. Union men couldn’t be hurried, and didn’t take kindly to the suggestion they might be dogging it. But Billy had an easy rapport with the crew, and he was a big reason the film was coming in ahead of schedule.
Peter tapped Billy on the shoulder and crooked a finger.
Billy followed him away from the set. “What’s up? We got a problem?”
Peter shook his head, held up his cell phone. “You have a call.”
“Oh, really?” Billy took the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, Billy,” Stone Barrington said. “Do you know who this is?”
“Yes.”
“What are you up to?”
“Shooting night scenes for Peter’s movie.”
“How’s it going?”
“Great. I’m really getting into this whole producer thing.”
“Glad to hear it. Think you could come to Washington, D.C., for a while?”
“Are you kidding?”
“No.”
“I’d rather be shot dead.”
“I understand. But I’m afraid it’s a matter of national importance.”
“Come on. You’re in Washington. Don’t they have that agency—what do they call it?—the CIA?”
“Sorry, I can’t use the CIA. I need you.”
“Aw, hell,” Billy said. “I’d have to check with Peter.”
“I did. It’s fine with him.”
“Then I guess I’ve got to go.”
“How quick can you get here?”
“It’s too late to catch the red-eye. I can get a flight tomorrow morning.”
“That won’t do. I need you here tomorrow morning. Can you fly Peter’s jet?”
“Sure, if he lets me borrow it.”
“Tell him I said so. You can’t fly commercial anyway, if you’re going to bring your stuff.”
“I gather I should come prepared for . . . certain eventualities?”
“Be prepared for anything.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Don’t come by the hotel. Can you make an eleven o’clock brunch?”
“What restaurant?”
Stone chose one within walking distance of his hotel.
“Okay. See you there.”
Billy gave the phone back to Peter and managed to herd him away from the set.
“Your dad wants me to borrow the Cessna.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?”
“I have a lesson, but I’m sure Tim can scare something up.”
Tim Peters was the pilot who managed the hangar and handled Peter Barrington’s flying lessons.
“If it doesn’t work, call your dad. This is his party.”
“No big deal. I’ll get along fine.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You still have to give Betsy the news.”
When Billy first met his wife she’d been working at a Las Vegas casino under the name of Charmaine. She’d changed her name to Betsy when they ran off to L.A., and they’d been married under the names of William and Elizabeth Barnett. Billy had gotten her a job as Peter’s assistant. She’d proven invaluable, and had been working for him ever since.
Billy found her conferring with the script supervisor.
Betsy saw him coming and smiled. “Hi, honey. I was just taking a look at those two lines you mentioned. It makes sense to cut them, but Peter will have to sign off on it.”
“I’m pretty sure he will,” Billy said. “They can always fix it in the mix, but if they shoot it they’ll have an awkward jump-cut to deal with. It’s so much easier just to leave it out.”
“Don’t worry. I’m on it.”
“Good.” Billy took a breath. “Honey?” he said hesitantly.
Betsy knew that tone of voice. She sighed. “Oh, hell.”