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“In the normal course of events,” Eissen went on, and the room grew deathly still again, “we would delay the production and recast Miss Forrest’s part.” He smiled, an even thinner and less humorous twitch of the lips that made me wish I was armed. “For her own protection, of course, as well as to protect what is a considerable investment of the Big Ticket Network’s time and money.” He nodded at Jackie, and she nodded back, with a much better fake smile than Eissen’s.
“However,” he said, and under the table I felt Jackie’s hand clamp onto mine, “in this case we have come up with what we hope will be a … productive alternative.” He frowned slightly, as if he was unhappy with his choice of adjective. “There are certain risks involved, but after consulting with Captain Matthews”—Eissen tilted his head to the side, and Matthews cleared his throat and then nodded—“and the detective in this case …” Anderson made a slight move, as if to step forward and say his name, but Eissen went right on, and Anderson settled back and continued to stare furtively, and hungrily, at Jackie.
“… I believe these risks can be minimized,” Eissen said. He spread his hands to indicate the whole room. “The entire cast and crew are here, in a relatively expensive location, and that represents a great deal of money. If we delay the production now, that money is lost. And so I have decided”—Eissen closed his eyes and gave his tiny smile again—“in consultation with the network, of course”—he opened his eyes again—“that we will go forward as scheduled. With … Miss Forrest.”
Jackie squeezed my hand so hard I thought she might break bones, and once again a whisper of surprise filled the room. Eissen waited for it to fade, and then went on.
“I admit I have been influenced by my publicity staff, who are … excited … by the kind of buzz this situation will create.” He nodded twice, and said, “A show about a policewoman who c
hases killers—shot while a real killer chases her.” Once more his lips moved into a thin smile. “When I say ‘shot’ I mean the pilot, not Miss Forrest.”
Nobody laughed at this frigid flight of wit. It might have been his timing.
“In any case,” Eissen went on, “this will almost certainly generate some very good publicity.”
“And if I get killed,” Jackie said, “it’s even better publicity.”
Eissen fixed his deadly stare on Jackie, but the quick bark of laughter from nearly everyone else in the room stopped him from optically flogging her, instead forcing him to put on his awful little smile again. “There is that,” he said, and he got his own, slightly smaller laugh this time. “Of course, we all hope it won’t come to that.” Someone near the coffee urn muttered, “Of course.” Eissen ignored that and went on.
“You have all signed a nondisclosure agreement,” he said. “Our lawyers assure me”—and he paused for a moment to let us all feel the weight of that word—“that it applies to this situation. If you speak of this to anyone … Well, take my advice and don’t.” I looked around the room; it looked to me like nobody thought Eissen was kidding.
“Captain Matthews has assured me that his people can supply enough security to minimize the risk. For all of us. And I am asking you all to be extra-vigilant. This is a closed set. If you see anybody who doesn’t belong, or notice anything out of the ordinary, tell a policeman. There will be plenty of them around.” He glanced at Matthews, and the captain nodded.
“All right,” Eissen said. “Let’s go make a pilot.” He gave a very slight wave of his hand. “Captain?”
Captain Matthews cleared his throat and stepped forward, frowning solemnly at all of us. “I want to reassure you all,” he said. “We have this situation completely under control, and the investigation is moving forward in a very … ahemp. A satisfying manner.” His frown deepened. “That is, we are quite confident that there is no significant danger that can’t be, ah …” He glanced at Anderson, who just stood there, unsuccessfully trying to look serious and competent. “The investigating officer has assured me,” Matthews said, and his tone made Anderson stand a little straighter, “that an arrest is expected very shortly.” Anderson squirmed slightly, and Matthews paused for several powerful throat-clearing noises, a ploy I was quite sure he meant to let Anderson appreciate the fact that it was a threat—and probably to cover his own embarrassment at having to deliver such a dreadful Cop Cliché. “Arrest is expected” is an ancient phrase that means, freely translated, “We don’t have a clue,” and Matthews had used it very publicly to make certain that if an arrest did not, in fact, materialize, it would be Anderson’s fault.
“And so … ahemp,” Matthews said, “I ask you all to hmp. Be watchful, just like Mr. Eissen said.” He smiled down at Eissen, who didn’t appear to notice. “There is really nothing to worry about. With a few precautions. So just tell an officer if you see anything that seems, ah, dangerous.” He frowned, as if he had heard the contradiction in what he had said, which didn’t seem likely to me. Then he turned and stared at Deborah for a moment, before clearing his throat again. “Sergeant Morgan,” he said ominously, and then turned back to face the room, “is familiar with the, ah, appearance. Of the suspect.” He glared at Debs for a moment before going on. “Hmp. And she will be on set,” he said, “for the duration of the filming process. The whole thing.”
Deborah did not move, not even a twitch, but she radiated such angry unhappiness that I could feel it in my seat halfway down the table. Matthews put his stare on her for another long and awkward moment, and then turned back and gave the room a small and spasmodic smile. “So,” he said. “I want to reassure you that we have given this matter our full attention. And I want to say again how happy we are to have you here, in Miami. And I hope you will all get a taste of the real Miami to, ah …” He paused and looked around, as if he had realized what he might be wishing on them, and wondering where he could stack the bodies. “The, uh, South Beach, you know,” he said. “Nightlife. And the beaches.” He nodded at the room, and gave them a manly and confident smile. “Enjoy yourselves,” he said.
And while he was apparently wondering if he had any more to say, Eissen quietly slapped the palms of both hands on the table. “All right,” Eissen said. “Thank you, Captain. And officers.” He nodded once and glanced around the room. “We are all here to do a job. Let’s do it.” He scanned the crowd, possibly to see whether anybody would deny it and go on strike, and when no one did he nodded, stood up, and walked briskly out of the room.
Victor Torrano, the director, stood up from his seat near the head of the table. “All right, people,” he called out, raising his voice over the babble. “We are already two hours behind schedule and we haven’t started shooting yet. Let’s get out there and get busy.” One of the technical people yelled out, “Boo!” Victor shook his head and said, “Keep it up, Harvey. Just remember this is a right-to-work state,” and people laughed and began to move off toward the door.
Victor moved toward the door, too, revealing a tense tableau behind the chair where Eissen had been sitting. Captain Matthews had turned around and was speaking quietly but firmly to Deborah, and she did not look pleased to have his full attention. Anderson stood behind them, head swiveling from one to the other as if he was watching a tennis match. I did not need to read lips to know that Debs was getting a reprimand, and Anderson was loving it.
“Thank God,” Jackie murmured beside me. “Oh, thank God …”
I turned to face her. She was still showing the world a confident, carefree smile, but her voice trembled a bit, and her hand came back and clamped onto mine again under the table. She took a deep and slightly shaky breath, let it out, and then said, “I’m alive.”
“And I’m very glad you are,” I said.
She squeezed my hand, then let it go and stood up. “Let’s find my dressing room,” she said.
I followed her out the door and off along a branching hallway to the right. The first door we passed stood ajar. I glanced in: Both sides of the long room were covered with well-lighted mirrors, and a counter ran the whole length at waist level, a dozen chairs tucked under it. Against the back wall stood a clothing rack filled with cop uniforms, suits, shirts, and pants, with a neat row of shoes on the floor underneath. A piece of tape was stuck on the door at eye level. It said, MEN.
“That’s where you’ll get dressed,” Jackie said. “With the other small-part guys.”
“Small part?” I said.
She smiled and patted my shoulder. “Not the part that counts,” she said.
The next door led to a nearly identical room, but it was labeled WOMEN this time. “You stay out of there,” Jackie said, with a menacing frown. “It’s filled with hussies.”
“Yes, O Mighty One,” I said.
The next door was closed, but labeled RENNY BOUDREAUX. Just past that was ROBERT CHASE, and as we came abreast of it, the door opened and Robert stood there in the doorway, blinking. His eyes flicked to Jackie, then to me; he froze, and he just goggled at me for a few seconds. “Oh,” he said with a strange expression of some kind on his face—shock? Guilt? And then he quickly stepped back and closed the door.
