Bob was at the kitchen table with a headache, a cup of coffee, and a bowl of Lucky Charms. He turned on the TV to catch the morning news as he enjoyed the magically delicious cereal.
Anchorman Todd Hererra hardened his face to give the impression that he was a man familiar with the darker side of human nature but no longer surprised by it. He said, “Shockwaves are rippling through Hollywood this morning as word spreads that Oscar-nominated director Peter Innish and an as-yet-to-be-identified young woman were found dead just a few hours ago at a house in the Hollywood Hills. Innish, whose latest film, Pole Position, has been described as the ‘gay NASCAR movie,’ reportedly received numerous death threats from motor sports fans after the release of the film. For the latest on this rapidly developing story, let’s go to our own Traci Taylor who is on the scene.”
Traci, an angular brunette with a smile like a meat slicer, held a microphone in one hand while pointing over her shoulder with the other as she said, “Todd, as you can see, I’m standing in the shadow of the famous Hollywood sign.” The camera followed Traci as she turned to say, “And just across the street from another famous sign in Hollywood…crime scene tape.”
Behind her, the end of a cul-de-sac and a uniformed cop guarding the gated driveway as moon-suited CSI techs scoured the grounds for forensic evidence and grey-suited detectives talked to the housekeeper and made notes.
“Celebrities and murder,” Traci said as she walked slowly toward the scene. “Here in Los Angeles, they go together like Will and Grace, Law and Order, Sex…and the City.” She glanced at the sky. “And so once again we find the hills are alive with the sounds of emergency vehicles and news helicopters. Todd?”
“What have you learned so far, Traci?”
“Police aren’t releasing any details publicly but someone close to the investigation tells me that despite the fact there were no signs of a struggle, they consider the deaths…highly suspicious.”
Todd donned a weighty expression and leaned toward the camera. “Have you been able to find out why they’re saying that?”
Traci nodded as if she’d seen the question coming. “Todd, my source tells me the medical examiner ruled out natural causes almost immediately.” Here she raised her eyebrows and the specter of nefarious activities simultaneously. “Since there hasn’t been time for an autopsy—indeed, since the two bodies haven’t yet been removed from the house—I asked how the medical examiner reached that conclusion. I was told off the record that there was something about the condition of the bodies that makes them suspicious.”
There was a quick knock at the door to Bob’s apartment, then it opened. Klaus came in with a newspaper folded under one arm. Bob looked up from the TV. “Hey, how’s your head?”
Klaus shrugged as he poured a cup of coffee. Then he said, “Have you heard from Mary?”
“Yeah, she called about an hour ago, said they were making one last stop up at Castaic.” He glanced up at the clock. “Should be here pretty soon.”
Klaus leaned against the counter, snapped open the paper and began reading.
Bob gestured at the TV with his spoon, spilling a marshmallow clover. “You seen the news?”
Klaus peered over the top of the front page of the LA Times, gave it a shake.
Bob shook his head and pointed at the TV. “No, I mean today’s news.”
From behind the paper, Klaus said, “Peace in the Middle East?”
“Better,” Bob said. “Celebrity death under mysterious circumstances. The guy who directed that gay NASCAR movie? Found dead in the sack with a young woman, the good money says aspiring actress.” He pointed at the television just as Traci was promising a special report in which she would deliver exclusive, shocking developments in the Peter Innish Murders.
“Thanks, Traci,” said Todd. “We’ll check back with you later in the newscast.” Turning to camera one, Todd’s pliable face swapped grave concern for amused disbelief. He even gave the impression of suppressing a chuckle before saying, “Southern California drivers had a real monkey-wrench thrown into their morning commute today when an unusual hitchhiker appeared on the 405. The Highway Patrol confirmed reports of a chimpanzee dressed in a cowboy outfit dashing into traffic and pulling his six guns, causing a multi-car pile up and snarling traffic for five miles.”
Bob looked at Klaus who was peering out from behind the paper. “You think it’s…”
“I think it is unbelievable they call this news,” Klaus said before reaching over to turn off the television.
Bob pointed at the black screen. “But, BeeBo…”
“Bob, do you remember last night when Mary called to say she was holding a gun on two men, one of whom claimed to be a CIA agent, the other an apparent assassin with our photographs? Does any of this sound familiar?”
Bob muted the television. “I was drunk,” he said. “But I wasn’t that drunk.”
“So you remember the part about Miguel DeJesus Riviera offering twenty million for our deaths?”
“Mary said she had it under control.”
“So any concern about the assassin part of the story is unwarranted?”
“You taught Mary and Katy all they need to know. I have full confidence in you.”
Klaus stared at him for a moment before saying, “Your optimism troubles me.”
“Uh oh, the sky’s falling again.” Bob took his bowl to the sink and said, “They’re an hour north of town, what’s to worry about? Besides, what can we do from here?”
“We could be packing,” Klaus said. “I predicted this. I told you word would get out and people would come for us. And it has, and they have, and so we have to disappear again.”
“Let’s talk to Treadwell, see if the DOD can help us out.”
“They are the ones who got us in trouble to begin with.”
“Perfect,” Bob said with a clap of his hands. “So they owe us.”
Not long after that there was a knock on the door followed by Mary saying, “Bob?”
“See? There they are.” Bob cinched his belt tight around his bathrobe as he crossed the apartment. When he opened the door he saw Mary, Katy, and a man in a priest outfit standing in front of another man who, apparently, had the gun.
“Hi, honey,” Mary said. “We’re home.” She had the chagrined look of someone who’d had the tables turned on her.
Katy said, “Hi, Dad. Guess what Mom did?”
Agent Parker nudged Mary in the back and said, “Inside. Let’s go.”
Standing in the living room, assessing the situation, Bob sounded more surprised than disappointed or accusing. “Sweetie, you said you had things under control.”
Normally Mary wouldn’t have said what she did, but for the past hour or so Katy had been giving her relentless and snarky teenage grief for letting Agent Parker get the gun back. By now Mary was sick and tired of all the Monday-morning quarter-backing, so when Bob said “Sweetie, you said you had things under control,” she couldn’t help but say, “I did, Bob, but shit happens.”
“That would be me.” The man in the back of the group waved his gun in the air. “Agent Nick Parker, CIA. You knew my boss, Mike Wolfe?” He passed his free hand over his head. “Crazy old white-haired coot.”
“Hard guy to forget,” Bob said.
Agent Parker looked past Bob and spoke louder. “Klaus? I assume that’s you in the kitchen.” He held the .45 in the air again and pulled the hammer back. “Hear that? It’s a big gun, Klaus. So why don’t you just put down the knife or the can opener or the zester or whatever it is you planned to kill me with, and come on out. There’s a lot at stake here, and I don’t intend to let this opportunity slip away.”
Klaus eased out of the kitchen with his hands raised in loose fists.
Agent Parker took a step back, extending his arm, bringing the gun up, aiming at Klaus. “What’s in your hands?”
“Nothing,” Klaus said. “Relax.”
“Open ’em up. Now!”
“Calm down.” Klaus kept moving toward Parker, his hands still closed.
“I said stop!”