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

“I am, yeah.”

“You’re not with the FBI?”

Jason swore inwardly and kept smiling for all he was worth. “Long story. Actually, did you want to grab a coffee and catch up?”

“Uh, sure. When?”

Jason did some quick recalculating. The meeting with Bern, though important, could be postponed. He definitely did not want Alex wandering around, perhaps speculating publicly about whether Jason still worked for the FBI.

“Now?”

Alex shook his head. “Sorry. I’m late for class now.”

Jason swallowed his exasperation. “Right. How about lunch?”

Another regretful shake of Alex’s head. “I’ve got an optometrist appointment. How about dinner?”

“I’ve got plans for dinner, but I’d love to grab a quick drink first.”

Alex brightened. “That’d be great. How about the Tuck Room Tavern on Wilshire at six?”

Jason was already in motion, walking backward, saying, “Terrific. I’ll see you then!”

Alex smiled, gave him a thumbs-up, and called—within earshot of at least fifty people, “Don’t worry! Your secret’s safe with me!”

“You!”

Once upon a time Jason had been reasonably popular with security personnel. But either his aftershave had turned or he’d lost his mojo because when he finally stepped out of the elevators into the dim, climate-controlled recesses of the Archive Research and Study Center (ARSC), he was immediately accosted by a small, spry man in a navy-blue uniform. The guard had sparse yellow hair and glasses with lenses thick enough to adorn a cartoon character.

“Me?” Jason glanced around the deserted corridor, fully expecting to see some other miscreant. But nope. It appeared he was indeed the offender.

Up close, the little man was older, closer to retirement age than Jason had thought, and more irate.

“Students aren’t allowed down here.”

Jason tried to get a look at the name on the ID badge. The light was abysmal in this underground chamber, but he thought the last name was MacIntyre. “Sure. I’m not a student. I’m—”

“Unauthorized personnel are not allowed down here.”

“Right. Mr. MacIntyre, is it? I’m—”

Like Hugo Quintana before him, this guy wasn’t having anything Jason was selling.

“You’ll have to leave now.”

“I have identification.”

“Pop!” Aric Bern stood in his office doorway. “This is Professor West. We’re squeezing him in with us for the time being.”

“He’s a professor?” Pop protested.

“I’ll try not to take that personally,” Jason said.

Bern, tall, handsome, and silver-haired as an aging matinee idol, said patiently, “Remember? Professor West is covering for Professor Dahle while he’s on sick leave?” He smiled. “Jason, meet Martin MacIntyre. Pop’s an institution around these parts. He makes sure the doors stay locked and the vending machine stocked.”

Pop was unswayed by flattery. “But what’s he down here for? Instructors don’t keep office hours down here.”

Actually, nobody but Bern and a collections intern, two film prep technicians, and a handful of other archive-related staff kept office hours down there, which made it ideal for Jason’s base camp.

Bern said apologetically, “That’s true, but we’re extremely short on office space on this campus.”

Ono’s office had been down here, but it was hard to say if that had been her isolating herself from all irritating others or her being isolated from irritated others.

“No problem,” Jason assured him, as if all this hadn’t already been settled. He offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, Pop.”

Pop muttered something that was probably not the pleasure’s all mine, and walked away.

Bern shook his head. “Anyway, it’s good to see you again, Jason.” He ushered Jason into a cozy office lined with shelves overflowing with books, DVDs, and movie memorabilia. A movie-screen-style frame of Bern with his wife and kids sat on his desk. A red, white, and black poster for Martin Scorsese’s Mean Streets hung on the wall behind Bern’s desk.

Bern closed the office door and beckoned Jason to a black canvas director’s chair. “Don’t mind Pop. He’s getting cranky in his old age. But he’s worth his weight in gold.”

Which was probably how they’d originally paid him, given that he looked like he’d arrived with the building in 1927.

“Better to care too much than too little,” Jason replied.

“He definitely cares, which is a good thing, given that our security budget isn’t what it used to be.”

Probably not. In 2015, the 450,000 films, TV shows, and other moving image materials, some dating all the way back to 1889, that made up UCLA’s Film and Television Archive, had been moved to the monumental, state-of-the-art Stoa building in Santa Clarita, along with a good portion of the archive’s staff. The university’s Archive Research and Study Center continued to coordinate access to the archive through the Powell Library Media Lab, but the demand for security was hardly what it had been when the actual archive had been there to protect and preserve.

“I bet,” Jason said. “We’re all safety-minded these days.”

“Yes, we are. Anyway. Did you run into any problems this morning? Is there anything I can do to facilitate your investigation?”

Jason had previously worked with Bern on two separate piracy investigations. He was unfailingly charming and helpful, but distracted. A very busy guy. Judging by the way Bern was trying not to look at the miniature silver and black Hollywood movie clapboard clock on his desk, it seemed not much had changed.

“What can you tell me about Professor Ono?”

Bern’s brows rose. “I can tell you I was surprised when the administration informed me her case had been reopened.”

“You had no trouble believing that her death was accidental or even possibly suicide?”

“I don’t think she killed herself.” Bern sounded definite. “Even accidental is a stretch. She was so cautious. So careful. She wasn’t the kind of person who had accidents.” He made a face. “Granted, I didn’t know her as well as I imagined.” He shook his head. “That was crazy.”