The cops were a little more interested in Teddy’s theories this time.
“I don’t know what I can tell you about Bruce’s death. I don’t know any more than you do.”
“Are you surprised he did it?”
“You can’t say for sure that he committed suicide. He could just as easily have lost control and driven his car off the road.”
“You think it was just a coincidence?”
“I wouldn’t say coincidence. The young man had a lot on his mind. It was bound to affect his driving.” Teddy cocked his head. “Are we about done?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re done.”
“You keep going over the same ground. You pulled me off the set. No big deal, I’m a producer, they can film without me. But you have Viveca Rothschild down the hall, and she’s got scenes this morning.”
“That’s too bad. This happens to be an attempted murder.”
“She didn’t do it.”
“Oh, no? C-four was found in her house.”
“Where was it?”
The detective didn’t answer.
“You didn’t find it in any part of the house connected to her, did you? You found it in Bruce’s exercise room, or a workshop, someplace only he would have used. That’s why you’re so desperately questioning Viveca, to find some way you can connect it to her. Which you couldn’t do, even if she didn’t have a team of lawyers throwing roadblocks in your path and making your life a holy hell.”
The detective scowled.
Teddy grinned. “If I were you, I’d let me go, so you can sneak down the hall and get a look at her. I know it’s been distracting you the whole interview to think your buddies got a blonde Hollywood starlet and you’re stuck with me.”
“Don’t be silly,” the detective said, but he seemed to be considering it.
Teddy pressed his advantage. “If you do kick me loose, the least you guys could do is drive me back to the set. You pulled me off it, so I don’t have a car.”
There was a knock on the door, and an officer stuck his head in. “They’re going to let the girl go. They said you’d want to know.”
The detective frowned.
Teddy suppressed a grin.
In the hallway Officer Murphy took out his cell phone and called Sylvester. “Billy Barnett.”
“What about him?”
“The cops brought him in for questioning. He’s here now.”
Sylvester hung up and called the shooter. “Billy Barnett’s at the police station.”
“You guys are unbelievable.”
“What do you mean?”
“Could you be any more outrageous? The Oscars? The police station? Do you think I have a death wish?”
“Just passing along the information.”
“Do me a favor. Stop. I don’t need your help. Your constant nagging is a pain in the ass. I’ll do the job when I do the job, on my schedule, not yours. You got that?”
“Got it.”
“And when I do, don’t be alarmed if a day goes by and you don’t hear from me. I find it advisable to put some distance between the job and the payment, in case someone is trying to run a trace.”
“Of course.”
“Meanwhile, knock it off with the ridiculous suggestions. The police station, for Christ’s sake!”
The shooter snorted and hung up.
The shooter lay flat on the roof on a six-story office building and trained his sniper’s rifle on the entrance of the police station, three hundred and fifty yards away.
Who were these amateurs? Did they really think he couldn’t find his target?
As the shooter lay thinking that, his target came out the door. His finger tensed on the trigger, then relaxed.
The target was not alone. Billy Barnett was flanked by two uniformed cops and was semi-concealed, flitting in and out of his sights in no predictable manner. It was almost as if the target was aware of the danger and had taken precautionary measures.
Before the assassin could take the shot, the target climbed into the back of a police car, and the cops got in and took off.
The shooter exhaled in exasperation.
All right. At least he knew where they were going.
The shooter rolled over, sat up, and began packing away his rifle.