Free The Midnight Show Murders (2) by Al Roker Page A

“It’s past time I hit the road. Thanks to Billy’s tiny bladder, I’ll be spending the next hour or more creeping through going-home traffic all the way to Costa Mesa.”
    “You live in Costa Mesa?” I asked.
    “Why would anyone live in Costa Mesa?” she replied, clicking the case shut. “I’m going there to see a revival of Equus at South Coast Rep. We’re about to put the young male lead under contract and, thanks to the full-frontal scene, I’ll never get a better chance to judge his talent.”
    She picked up the case and, apparently deciding it was too heavy for her, handed it to Whisper, who nearly threw her back out accepting it. The four of us took a crowded elevator down to the main floor. “Anything else you need, Billy,” Carmen said, “don’t hesitate to ask … Vida.”
    We watched her marching off past other exiting staffers, Whisper at her heels, struggling with the briefcase.
    “Well, that was bracing,” I said.
    “Carmen is definitely one of a kind,” she said. “I like working with her. This is Passive-Aggressive City. Passive to your face, doubly aggressive behind your back. Carmen gives it to you straight.”
    “So you’re my guide, huh? Things that slow at Hotline ?”
    “Hardly,” she said. “And this won’t be all fun and games. Your producer in New York sent a laundry list of ‘wants.’ ”
    “Why don’t we discuss them over dinner?” I suggested.
    “I’d love to, Billy, but I, ah … have another commitment.” She dug a card out of her handbag. “Call me tomorrow, any time after nine, and we’ll set something up.”
    She moved forward, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “See you when I see you.”
    Who says romance is dead?

Chapter
ELEVEN
    Carmen was right about the going-home traffic. It was even worse than it was on the drive in, the stop-and-go extending all the way to Malibu. It was after seven when my guidance system led me to a supermarket near the Sands, another forty-five minutes before I turned onto Malibu Sands Drive.
    Lars and Manny were on duty at the gate. I’d met them earlier, heading out for my walk to the car rental agency. At that hour their khaki uniforms had looked neat and pressed. Now, like the guards themselves, they’d lost some of their starch.
    Lars was in his forties, with a long, flat face that resembled the character actor who’d played the Frankenstein-like father in The Munsters , Fred Gwynne. Watery blue eyes, mouth turned down at the edges, gray hair, judging by what I could see of it under his peak cap. Manny, whose name was Manuel, I assumed, was in his twenties, Mexican American, slightly overweight but muscled. He was there for the heavy lifting.
    Neither man carried a gun, a good thing, probably, because when Manny first caught sight of me that afternoon, I’d had three strikes against me. I was a black man he didn’t know traveling by foot inside his gated community. Fortunately, Lars had recognized me before Manny even had the chance to slide his nightstick from his belt.
    But Manny and I seemed to be on good terms now. “Sweet wheels,” he said, waving me through.
    Security floodlights were brightening the area in front of Villa Delfina, illuminating two unfamiliar vehicles parked in the driveway, a pea-green Hummer that was about the ugliest SUV I’d ever seen and a dark blue Camry Hybrid. I anchored the Lexus between them, its proper gas-guzzling position.
    I put the top up and used the little gizmo to close the gate. I struggled out of the car, plucked the grocery bags from the passenger seat, and took the walkway beside the villa, heading for the guesthouse. I was almost there when I saw Fitz galumphing past the pool in my direction.
    “Yo, Billy,” he called out.
    I watched, bemused, as he approached. “Glad to see you, cobber,” he said, breathing hard for such a short dash. “Please tell me it was you left the slidin’ door open.”
    “I’m pretty sure I closed it, Fitz. In any case, I left