After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

As she lay in the street he waited, focusing on the body, noticing how it neither twitched nor moved in any way.

Exquisite.

From years of experience he counted silently. Five, four, three, two, one. Still no movement, the “corpse” in place, the street empty, rain and a bit of fog visible. The camera had zoomed in on the open mouth, glazed eyes, and dark blood on the white blouse.

Satisfied that the shot was flawless, he yelled, “Cut!” and punched the air from his director’s chair. He felt ridiculously triumphant that the death scene had finally worked. Man, what a relief! They’d shot the scene over and over the day before, never getting the actio

n and ambience to meld to his satisfaction. Something had always been missing. But today after several failed attempts, finally everything had worked like clockwork, the actors and crew were spot-on, the energy on the set was right for this, the climax to the end of the scene. “That’s it!” he yelled, then added under his breath, “Thank God,” because truth to tell, the scene had been a bitch.

As he climbed out of his chair, the lights came up and the darkened Portland street was suddenly illuminated, its asphalt still shining from the mist provided by the sprinklers used to simulate the gloomy Northwest rain. The quiet that had been the set was replaced by a cacophony of voices and sounds. Crew members were spurred into action, hustling to break down the facades and get them moving so that the street could be reopened. In the bright lights, the sidewalks and storefronts appeared less ominous than they had.

Sig Masters, the actor who played the assassin, tore off his ski mask and headed off set for a smoke. The fake rain pouring from hidden, overhead sprinklers was turned off, only a bit of drizzle remaining as the lines emptied. Everyone was going about their business, already breaking down the pieces of the set that had been added to the cordoned-off street, everyone but Lucinda Rinaldi, the body double who still lay unmoving on the pavement.

Dean Arnette, the director of Dead Heat, a movie he already believed would become a blockbuster once it was released, smiled to himself. The script was cutting-edge, moody, the dialogue razor-sharp, the emotions raw, and his star, Allie Kramer, was rapidly becoming a household name. Her on-screen portrayals were mesmerizing and her offscreen life the stuff of tabloid fodder. She had a famous mother, a tragic, complicated past, an intense love life, and a hint of the bad-girl image she didn’t try to erase. It all kept her fans guessing and her public interested. Allie Kramer had no trouble trending on the Internet.

More perfection.

A sense of relief ran through him as he absently reached into the empty pocket of his shirt for a nonexistent pack of cigarettes. God, he still missed smoking every damned day, especially after sex, a meal, or like now, a satisfying final take on a particularly difficult movie.

“Something’s wrong,” his assistant whispered as Arnette climbed down from his director’s chair.

“The scene was perfect.”

“I know . . . but . . .”

“But what?” He didn’t bother hiding his irritation. Beatrice Little was always finding something wrong. Barely five-two, she couldn’t weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet and wasn’t quite thirty. Still, she took “anal-retentive” to a new level. She was shaking her head, a dark ponytail fanning the back of her T-shirt with the movement.

“It’s Lucinda.”

Arnette figured if he was satisfied, the whole damned film crew should be, including Little Bea as she was often called. “What about her?” Arnette glanced at the still unmoving actress. “She was great.”

“I know, but—”

“Hey!” a sharp female voice cut in. “That’s it. Let’s go,” Sybil Jones, one of the associate producers, yelled in Lucinda’s direction. She clapped twice. When Sybil didn’t get a response, she rolled her expressive eyes beneath the brim of her cap as she turned to Arnette. “Maybe you should talk to her, Dean. She’s not paying attention to me. Big surprise.”

Lucinda, B-list on a good day, was always working to be noticed, hoping to overachieve her way up the stardom ladder, even though in this film she was used only as a body double. No matter how small the role, though, Lucinda was known for staying in character long after a scene had wrapped. “Come on,” he said, walking briskly in her direction. “That’s it, Lucy!”

Still she didn’t so much as turn her head toward him. His skin crawled a bit. There was something off about her and it bothered him, a niggling worry that burrowed deep in his brain. This production had been a bitch from the get-go. The stars were always at each other, there was that sibling rivalry crap on the set between the Kramer girls and now they were here, reshooting this scene at the very last minute. “Hey! Time to get a move on,” he said, and then a little more loudly, “Come on, Lucinda, that was great. It’s a wrap!”

Still she didn’t flinch, her eyes staring upward, even when one of the booms was moved, swinging only a foot from her face.

His stomach knotted.

As he reached her side he noticed that the bloodstain on her coat was far more than the bag of red dye would release. Oh, crap! “Lucinda?” he said, bending down on a knee, his heart beginning to drum. “Hey.” Anxiety mounting, he stared into eyes fixed on the middle distance. What the hell?

“Lucinda, come on, it’s over,” he said, and leaned closer, hoping to feel her breath against his face or see her blink, silently wishing this was her ploy.

No movement. None.

Shit!

He touched her neck, felt no pulse, and his fears escalated.

Sybil and Beatrice had followed him across the street. He looked up, over his shoulder, to meet Sybil’s eyes, which were still guarded by her baseball cap. “Get the medic,” he ordered, “and get him now.”

She nodded sharply, didn’t wait for another command, then turned and started yelling for help. “We need a medic,” she yelled, turning back. “ASAP! Where the hell’s Jimmy?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Bea whispered as Dean turned back to the woman lying on the street. His fingertips pressed a little harder, hoping to find even the faintest tremor of a pulse.