Killer Ambition - [25]

“Movie wasn’t half bad. Kind of a kid thing, but adults liked it too. Can’t go wrong when you hit the whole family that way. Action-type film like The Transformers but with a fairy tale attached to it, like The Princess Bride. Anyway, the buzz started right off the bat about this great script and the big deal Russell would be getting. For a young TV writer-hell, for anyone-it was a huge deal. You ask him, he’ll tell you.”

Bailey nodded encouragingly and Ned continued.

“So Tommy gets wind of it and goes apeshit. Starts yelling that it was his script, that Russell stole it from him. Now, Tommy always had been a bit of a loose cannon. Wasn’t the first time he’d complained about someone taking credit for something he’d done. Got into a lot of fights in the writers’ room over people stealing his story ideas-”

“Maybe they did,” I said.

“Sure, maybe they did. Problem was, he cried wolf one too many times in the past. So when he got all nuts about this script, no one really paid attention.” Ned sighed and sat forward. “But that film script was the end of him. Tommy started coming to work drunk, sometimes even got drunk while he was at work-and he wasn’t a nice drunk. Got more and more belligerent. Then, one day, he got into it with Russell over some network notes and decked him. Just ‘boom’! Coldcocked ’im, knocked Russell on his ass.” Ned shook his head. “After that, they moved Tommy out to the edge of the lot-”

“Why didn’t they just fire him?” Bailey asked.

“He was under contract. Easier to put him in Siberia and let his contract run out at the end of the season. ’Course Tommy had to know that was coming.”

“So did he ever sue Russell over the theft of the screenplay?” I asked.

“No.” A look of sadness crossed his face. “Day after the holiday party for the cast and crew, he went home and blew his own brains out.”

“Damn,” Bailey said.

“Did not see that coming,” I said. I guessed we could probably scratch Tommy Maher off our suspect list.

Ned leaned forward and poked the keyboard of his computer with his thick finger. As it whirred to life, he said, “There was a blurb about it in the papers. See if I can pull it up for you.” He scrolled for a few minutes, then turned the monitor so we could see it. “Article doesn’t tell you much, but that’s the holiday picture of the cast and crew on the set.” Ned pointed to the right side of the screen. “Tommy’s the guy on the end.”

Bailey and I leaned in to get a better look. There was something about him that I couldn’t put my finger on. I tried to analyze what it was. He was of average height and size, not the look of a big bruiser who’d have the guts to knock someone down. But everything else about him fit that bill: the sour expression, hunched posture with hands shoved into his pockets; every bit of him telegraphed misery and barely restrained anger. I could see that guy getting wound up enough to coldcock someone. Or even commit suicide. I remembered one of the forensic shrinks saying that it takes a violent person to commit suicide.

I’d been staring at the photo as these thoughts circled, but then the something I couldn’t put my finger on suddenly became clear. “He looks like Brian.”

13

We read the obit. Sure enough, it said that Tommy Maher was survived by his wife, Estelle-and his son, Brian. Brian Shandling was Brian Maher. Had to be. It all fit. Brian taking jobs around Russell’s studio, using a fake name, getting next to Hayley. The article also mentioned that Tommy had a sister, Janice, who was an author and lived in upstate New York.

“Mind sending me this article?” Bailey asked.

“Sure.” He carefully punched a few more keys. I tried to imagine what it was like to type with fingers that big. “Done. I’m going to take a wild guess that this business with Tommy Maher’s important?”

“Might be,” Bailey replied.

He nodded. “Okay. I’ll ask around, see if there’s anyone who knew him.”

We thanked him and, to my annoyance, Bailey declined the offer of a ride back to the car.

“What’s up with nixing the ride?” I groused, once we were outside. “I dug that little golf cart. Reminded me of Autopia.”

“I hated that ride. Those cars were too slow.”

“But the golf carts are faster,” I said as we got to our car. “So we’re not passing up the ride next time. Got it?”

Bailey rolled her eyes. “When was the last time you hit the gym?” I folded my arms and refused to answer. Bailey nodded. “Exactly.”

But all joking aside-or more accurately all joking now possible-we were fired up. Finally we had what felt like a real lead.

Bailey and I got into the car and she pulled out her cell. “I’m forwarding the article to you. I’ll put out the alert with Brian’s true name, you call in and get the info on the wife and sister.”

We made our respective calls. “I’ve got a suggestion,” I said when we’d both finished.

“Space Mountain?”

I gave her my steely-eyed look. She yawned in terror. “Since we’re on the Valley side of the world, why don’t we hit the jewelry store where Brian was last employed?” I said.

Bailey started the car. “A surprisingly good idea.”