K is for Killer (Kinsey Millhone 11)

"If you're hungry, I can have someone bring you something to eat."

I turned. "I'm fine," I said automatically. In truth I was starving, but I knew I'd feel disadvantaged grubbing down food in this man's presence. "Kinsey Millhone," I said as I held out my hand. "Thanks for seeing me tonight."

"Joseph Ayers," he replied. He was probably in his late forties, with the intense air of a gynecologist delivering embarrassing news. He wore glasses with large lenses and heavy tortoise-shell frames. He tended to keep his head down, dark eyes peering up somberly. His handshake was firm, and his flesh felt as slick as if he'd just donned rubber gloves. His forehead was lined, his face elongated, an effect exaggerated by the creases beside his mouth and down the length of his cheeks. His dark hair was beginning to thin on top, but I could see that he'd been vigorously handsome once upon a time. He wore the requisite tuxedo. If he was still exhausted from long hours in the air, he showed no signs of it. He gestured me onto one of the leather chairs, and I took a seat. He sat down behind the desk and placed a finger against his lips, tapping thoughtfully while he studied me. "Actually, you might look good on camera. You have an interesting face."

"No offense, Mr. Ayers, but I've seen one of your films. Faces are the least of it."

He smiled slightly. "You'd be surprised. There was a time when the audience wanted big, voluptuous women-Marilyn Monroe types-almost grotesquely well endowed. Now we're looking for something a little more realistic. Not that I'm trying to talk you into anything."

"This is good," I said.

"I have a film school background," he said as if I'd pressed for an explanation. "Like George Lucas and Oliver Stone, those guys. Not that I put myself in the same league with them. I'm an academic at heart. That's the point I was trying to make."

"Do they know what you do?"

He cocked his head toward the window. "I've always said I was in the business, which is true-or at least, it was. I sold my company a year ago to an international conglomerate. That's what I've been doing in Europe these past few weeks, tying up loose ends."

"You must have been quite successful."

"More so than the average Hollywood producer. My overhead was low, and I never had to tolerate union bosses or studio heads. If I wanted to do a project, I did it, just like that." He snapped his fingers to illustrate. "Every film I've done has been an instant hit, which is more than most Hollywood producers can say."

"What about Lorna? How'd you meet her?"

"I was down in Santa Teresa Memorial Day weekend, this would have been a couple of years ago. I spotted her in a hotel bar and asked if she was interested in an acting career. She laughed in my face. I gave her my card and a couple of my videocassettes. She called me some months later and expressed an interest. I set up the shoot. She flew up to San Francisco and did two and a half days' work, for which she was paid twenty-five hundred dollars. That's the extent of it."

"I'm still puzzled by the fact that the film never went into distribution."

"Let's just say I wasn't happy with the finished product. The film looked cheap, and the camera work was lousy. The company that bought me out ended up taking my entire library, but that one wasn't included in the deal."

"Did you know Lorna was working as a hooker on the side?"

"No, but it doesn't surprise me. Do you know what they call those people? Sex workers. A sex worker might do all manner of things: massage, exotic dance, out-call, Lesbian videos, hard-core magazines. They're like migrant pickers on the circuit. They go where the work is, sometimes city to city. Not that I'm saying she'd done related work. I'm filling you in on the big picture."

I watched his face, marveling at the matter-of-fact tone he was using. "What about you? What was your relationship with her?"

"I was in London when she was killed. I left on the twentieth."

I disregarded the nonsequitur, though it interested me. When we'd talked on the phone, he'd been vague about how long ago her death had occurred. Maybe he'd done an internal audit in anticipation of my arrival.

He opened a drawer and took out a slip of paper. "I checked the payroll roster for the film she did. These are the names and addresses of a couple of crew members I've been in touch with since. I can't guarantee they're still here in San Francisco, but it's a place to start."

I took the slip and glanced at it, recognizing the names from the list I'd checked. Both San Francisco numbers were now disconnects. "Thanks. I appreciate this." Worthless as it is, I thought.