The Movie-Town Murders (The Art of Murder 5)

Chapter Seven

If Hugo Quintana had been suspicious of Jason before, it was nothing to his level of distrust after he realized Jason had altered his appearance.

Nor did he accept Jason’s off-hand, “I didn’t realize there was a dress code,” as an explanation. Quintana was equally unconvinced by the exasperated property manager’s assurance that Jason had permission to stay in Professor’s Ono apartment. Once again he insisted on accompanying Jason to the thirty-first floor.

It was tempting to whip out the old tin and dazzle Quintana with police science, but Jason understood the reason behind the hypervigilance, even if it was belated.

When they at last reached Ono’s apartment, Jason unlocked the door using the pin code. As the electronic lock turned over, Quintana growled, “I have my eye on you.”

“That’s very flattering, but I’m engaged.” Jason closed the door in Quintana’s face. Just before the door settled into the frame, Jason saw Quintana’s complexion turn puce, saw the fury in his black eyes.

We are not amused.

Might be a good idea to have Russell take a look at Touchstone’s security team. Presumably LAPD had run a basic background check on anyone who might conceivably have access to Ono’s apartment, but LAPD had been operating on the assumption that Ono killed herself.

And security personnel? Well, results may vary.

He walked down the short hall to the atomic blast of light that was the living room. He was starving. The cheese and pickle sandwich of that morning felt like another lifetime. There hadn’t been time to pick up anything in the way of groceries, so hopefully Quintana and Co. would lower the drawbridge for a DoorDasher.

Jason heeled out of his shoes, shrugged off his jacket, pulled off his shoulder rig, and flung himself on the long and not particularly comfortable white couch.

He’d catnap for ten minutes, then he’d rustle up some dinner, then he’d take another, closer look at the case files, noting his thoughts and observations, and then he’d prepare for class tomorrow.

It sounded exhausting…

When he opened his eyes, it was dark and the entire room was shaking.

Earthquake.

Jason sat up, groggy and disconnected, realizing he was lying on a…padded table? In an unfamiliar room. For a second or two he thought he was back in Amsterdam, but no hotel in Amsterdam—in all of the Netherlands—had been this uncomfortable or noisy.

Ceiling fixtures were not falling, the cupboards were not emptying their contents onto the floor. Not an earthquake. That rumble was not the building coming apart, it was an engine. A plane was passing overhead.

He went to the glass doors and gazed out. He could see the anti-collision lights flashing red and white on the fuselage, wing, and tail tips. They looked close enough to touch, and a frisson of alarm rippled down his spine.

That thing had just missed— Had that thing just missed—

Holy hell.

He watched the plane grow smaller and smaller and finally disappear into a web of thready clouds.

Feeling for his phone, he saw it was nearly eight. That felt like a bigger disaster than nearly getting wiped out by a 747. He took another look around, trying to locate a lamp. Table lamps did not appear to be a thing Professor Ono was into.

He finally located the switch for the overhead lights in the hall.

Hard white light illuminated the ultramodern living room and kitchen. The place reminded him of a stage set, though it was hard to know how it had looked when Ono lived and worked there. Presumably she’d occasionally left a book lying on a table or a coffee cup sitting in the sink.

In Jason’s opinion, you could tell quite a bit about people from their taste in art, but the artwork in Ono’s living and dining rooms and kitchen was that kind of prefurnished stuff: silk plants, metal wall art, throw pillows that came with the furniture. No paintings or art photography. Granted, the lack of choice revealed character too.

The framed posters and movie memorabilia in Ono’s office, the personal photos in the bedroom, made him think those were the rooms where she’d actually lived. The front rooms were for display. The modern equivalent of a Victorian era parlor.

He placed a food delivery order for grilled chicken Mexican Caesar salad, placed another order with Instacart for some basic groceries, then phoned down to notify the security desk that company was a-coming. He had just hung up when his cell phone rang and Sam’s photo—Sam looking fractionally less forbidding than usual because the pic had been snapped during their brief vacation in Wyoming—popped up.

“Hi!” Jason was surprised. This was early for Sam to phone.

“Hey.” Sam’s voice sounded…off. Not soft exactly, but less terse than usual. “I hear you had a close call.”

“I did? Did I? Oh, the plane.”

“Jonnie heard it on the news. A 747 departing LAX nearly clipped the top of the Touchstone building.”

Jason leaned back against the kitchen counter. He wasn’t sure if that funny feeling in his chest was from realizing he’d genuinely had a close call or the fact that Sam was reaching out to him after the close call.

“I kind of missed it. I was napping.”

“Napping?”

Jason laughed at Sam’s tone. “Mere mortals occasionally need some shut-eye.”

“You’re jetlagged.”

Something that Sam rarely seemed to experience. Maybe because he never seemed to sleep much regardless of time zones.

“Probably.”

Neither said anything for a moment.

“How’s the case?” Sam asked.

“The case? It’s looking more and more like murder by death.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I don’t either really. The verdict seems to have been decided by committee.”

“How so?”