Doyle’s road-worn Dodge Stratus approached the entrance of Nisswa Park on Brainerd’s border. To his recollection, it was the first time Doyle had ever seen a public park closed off to the public except for “Authorized Personnel Only.” He assumed it was the handy work of overly-protective film producers attempting to prevent any meddling with the film set. Doyle wondered what kind of fee they had to pay to close an entire park from middle-aged joggers and little kids who wanted to play on the lakeshore.
One thing Doyle noticed was yellow police tape. Lots and lots of yellow police tape, streaming across the gate, covering signs, littering the ground like confetti. Doyle thought it looked like a badly-themed outdoor prom.
“I bet we need a special license to swing on the monkey bars,” said Amanda. “This place seems so secure, it’s hard to believe a crime could have been committed within a ten-mile radius.”
“I know what you mean,” said Doyle. “I wonder how much of this was added after the crime took place, and how much was there before.”
“You think all of this police stuff could have been here already?” Amanda asked.
“Sure, I’ve seen it happen. Sometimes the city itself is extremely involved in the production of the film. It wouldn’t be surprising at all if some money exchanged hands in order to keep the police in close proximity to the film set.”
“Really? Producers will just fork money over to the city council and say, ‘Here ya go—make sure things go smoothly for us.’ Isn’t that illegal?”
“It’s a rather grey area,” said Doyle. “Legality becomes subjective at a certain point.”
“You’re definitely not a cop anymore, that’s for sure,” said Amanda.
A plump security guard who looked like the Michelin Man with a mustache approached from a small booth at the park entrance. He held a small clipboard that he tapped with a pencil as he eyed Doyle and Amanda suspiciously. Doyle was apprehensive when the guard neared the car, as the navy-blue security uniform he wore was so tight that Doyle feared any sudden movement from the guard could turn one of his shirt buttons into a lethal weapon.
“Park’s closed to the public,” mumbled the guard, as if the simple act of speaking took too much effort.
Doyle acted shocked as he looked from the “Authorized Personnel Only” sign, to the police tape, then back to the sign again.
“Why?” asked Doyle.
“Private,” said the guard.
“So, no public then?”
“That’s right. Back up and turn round,” said the guard, spinning his hand in a circular motion.
“Actually,” said Doyle. “I can’t do that. You see, I’m a detective from Minneapolis. I’m working on this case. You’ve been doing a tremendous job keeping the public out. Kudos. Now I’m going to ask you to let me and my partner into the park so we can begin our investigation.”
“Who are you?” asked the guard.
“I just said. We’re detectives.”
“I meant names,” said the guard, as if it should have been obvious.
“I’m Detective Doyle Malloy, P.I., and this is Officer Amanda
Hutchins, M.P.D.”
“Hi,” said Amanda. “I like your uniform.”
“It’s blue,” said the guard.
“That’s a good point,” replied Amanda. She looked at Doyle as if to say, Is this guy for real?
“Where’s your badges?” asked the guard.
As Amanda pulled hers out of her jeans pocket, Doyle said, “I don’t have one. Like I said, I’m a private investigator.”
“Then where’s your license?”
“Well, I … am between licenses at the moment. My last one was damaged in the washing machine,” said Doyle, not admitting that he had yet to receive his P.I. license from Hennepin County.
“That was dumb,” said the guard.
“Guilty as charged,” said Doyle.
The Michelin Guard perused his clipboard for a moment, then said, “You two aren’t on the list. You should leave now.”
Doyle was about to respond when Amanda suggested, “What if you add our names to the list?”
The guard looked at her as if she were insane. “I can’t just add names to the list! That ruins the whole purpose. Stop causing trouble and get out of here.”
“Okay,” said Doyle. “Who’s above you?”
“Jesus,” said the guard.
“No, no … I mean, for your job,” said Doyle.
“Oh,” said the guard. “That’s Mr. Winthrop.”
“Is he your superior officer?” asked Doyle, realizing before he said it that the guard wasn’t a police officer at all, he was simply a security guard-for-hire.
“Mr. Winthrop is the producer of the movie,” said the guard.
“So even though this is a crime scene, they haven’t asked you to do anything differently?” asked Doyle.
“Mr. Winthrop told me to not let anyone in, and if anyone gives me a hard time, I should call him,” said the guard.
“So … “ Doyle let his voice trail off.
“I guess I’ll call him,” said the guard.
The guard grabbed the walkie-talkie from his belt and brought it to his lips.
“Mr. W, this is Front Command, over,” said the guard.
“Who is this?” came a voice emanating from the walkie-talkie, loud enough for Doyle and Amanda to hear.
“Front Command,” repeated the guard.
“Steve? How many times have I told you—just say your goddamned name. I’m not playing this covert ops b.s.”
Steve, the guard, took two steps backward and whispered loudly into the walkie, “Sorry, sir, but there are two suspicious persons trying to gain access to the park.”
“Who are they? Teenagers? Burglars?” asked the voice.
“Worse,” whispered Steve, not taking his eyes off Doyle or Amanda.
Doyle heard the voice mumble something, but couldn’t quite make it out.
“Did that Winthrop person just say something about minorities?” asked Amanda.
“I couldn’t tell,” said Doyle.
“Who the fuck is it?” yelled the voice from the walkie.
“Two people claiming to be detectives working on the murder,” said Steve.
“And … ?” asked the voice.
“I thought you didn’t want anyone getting into—“
“For fuck’s sakes, Steve—let the detectives in! Let them do whatever the hell they want!”
“Yes, sir,” said Steve.
The frazzled guard approached the car.
“You may enter,” said Steve, motioning for them to move through the entrance.
“Thanks, Steve. Could you tell us where we can find Mr. Winthrop?” asked Doyle.
“He has a trailer set up near the lake. You’ll see several trailers there, but you’ll know which one is his. It’s the big one.”
“You’re too kind,” said Amanda.
Steve furrowed his brow and said, “Move along.”
“THIS IS A BIGGER PARK THAN I THOUGHT,” said Amanda, as the car zigzagged along the crooked path, passing clumps of maples and elms, as well as jumbo trailers and what appeared to be a catering stand.
“I was up here once when I was a boy, and it certainly didn’t look anything like this,” said Doyle.
“I can’t believe how many RV’s there are,” said Amanda. “Did everyone from Hollywood move into Brainerd?”
“So it seems.”
Amanda cranked her head in all directions. “I haven’t seen a film crew or even a single camera yet. I wonder where they’re filming?”
“If we drive along the lakeshore and pass those trees, it opens up into another park area, which is where I’m guessing they’re filming, away from the trailers.”
“That makes sense,” she said. “Should we try to find the producer … what was his name? Winthrop?”
Doyle nodded. “We should look for him soon, but I think we’ll be better off finding William first. It’s possible William’s already interviewed Mr.
Winthrop. We should catch up and make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Good idea,” said Amanda. “Why don’t you try calling him?”
At her suggestion, Doyle reached into his coat pocket for his cell phone, almost ramming his car into a cedar tree in the process.
“Should I make the call?” asked Amanda.
Doyle answered her by flipping open his phone and dialing, then making one more quick swerve.
Amanda rolled her eyes.
After twenty seconds, Doyle flipped the phone shut and said, “No answer.”
“Maybe he’s in the middle of an interrogation?” she asked.
“Possibly,” said Doyle.
As Doyle drove along the shoreline around a large outcrop of trees, he was pleased to see that he was correct. The park opened up into a second huge area where, from the looks of the camera equipment, boom mikes, and lighting stands, the filming was taking place.
“Where is everyone?” asked Amanda. “I see a lot of movie thingamajigs and whatnots, but no people.”
“I couldn’t have said it better. I’m sure they’ve halted filming until some of the investigation has been completed. They’re probably in their hotel rooms, I’m guessing.”
“Hey, look over there,” Amanda said, pointing straight ahead of her.
“I see a couple of people in the distance there.”
Doyle looked ahead. Sure enough, amongst all the equipment were two individuals tumbling about one another. “I see them,” said Doyle, although he couldn’t quite make out what they were doing.
“Are they … dancing?” asked Amanda, doubtfully.
“No, it looks more like … wrestling, maybe?”
“I don’t think so. Too much flailing for that. Drive in closer,” she said. “Okay,” said Doyle, putting some extra pressure on the gas pedal.
As they neared the couple, Doyle began suspecting he knew at least one of them.
“It’s a fight,” said Doyle.
“Who are they?”
As Amanda finished speaking, a camera tripod that stood between the feuding couple and Doyle’s car crashed to ground with such force it sounded like a gunshot. Falling over the camera equipment was Doyle’s business partner and fellow private investigator, William Wright. His hair was disheveled, his glasses crooked, and his face bright red. Doyle couldn’t tell if he was flustered or embarrassed, or if he’d just been slapped around a few times.
“William!” Doyle yelled from his car, now only a few yards away. He slammed the car in park.
William looked towards the car with a dumbfounded expression. Then the confusion transitioned to pain as a slender brunette woman leaped over the now horribly wrecked tripod and landed horizontally on William, a knee making direct contact with his testicles.
William screamed, “My bullocks! My bloody bullocks!”
“Oh, shit,” said Amanda. “We better separate them.”
Doyle nodded and jumped out of the vehicle. He ran to William, while Amanda grabbed the mystery woman under the armpits and yanked her off William.
“Let go of me,” snapped the brunette. “Get your hands off me this instant.”
Doyle was intrigued that she had a British accent, same as William.
“Please don’t let go of her,” gasped William, holding his testicles and writhing in pain, inching along the ground like an earthworm.
“What exactly is going on here, William?” asked Doyle.
“Doyle, Amanda,” said William through his gritted teeth. “I’d like to introduce you to my ex-wife, Eva.”