NYPD Red(16)

She took a swig from the tumbler. “I knew how important this scene was to Ian, so I went into my diva act and refused to come out. I decided to let him sweat for a while.”

“What motivated you to finally do the scene?” Kylie said.

“Oh, you’re cute,” Edie said. “You wouldn’t ask that question if you didn’t already know the answer. The director came to my trailer. Let’s just say he’s very persuasive. He convinced me.” Another gulp from the glass. “Convinced the hell out of me.”

“And when you got to the stage, were you still angry at your husband?” Kylie said.

“What do you think?”

“And were you uncomfortable with the fact that a lot of people on the set knew he was having an affair with Devon Whitaker?”

“No, sweetie. I’m uncomfortable when my panty hose ride up. When I walked out on that stage in front of all those gossiping extras, I was mortified. But how I felt and what I did are two different things. The prop guy gave me the gun. I didn’t know there were any real bullets in it. If I did, I would have fired the two blanks at Ian and put the entire clip into Devon Whitaker. She’s the one who told the cast and crew that she was screwing my husband.”

“Thank you for talking with us,” I said. “Again, we’re sorry for your loss.”

“I called Ian’s brother Sebastian in London,” she said. “They agreed to let us have a memorial service in New York for his fans. Then they want his body sent back home as soon as possible.”

“The medical examiner should be finished with the autopsy by tomorrow or Wednesday,” I said. “The family can claim his remains after that.”

“Thank you,” she said, draining what was left in her glass. “Shelley, would you mind staying after the detectives leave.”

Kylie and I took our cue and exited the trailer.

“If we’re looking for someone with a motive,” I said, “she’s got one with a capital M.”

“She’s a bitch,” Kylie said, “but she’s innocent. Ian Stewart was a world-class skirt chaser, and Edie knew it. He’d cheated on her before, and she figured he’d cheat on her again. I’m sure she wanted payback, but more on the order of a nice little bauble in a robin’s-egg blue Tiffany box, not a dead husband. She didn’t do it. She didn’t set it up.”

“You sure?” I said. “Whatever happened to ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’?”

“It doesn’t apply here,” Kylie said. “A lot of these people sleep around, but in show business, adultery isn’t a motive for murder; it’s a lifestyle.”





Chapter 18



THE CHAMELEON WANTED to scream. It had all been going so well, and suddenly the two detectives had pulled the rug out from under him.

His cell phone vibrated. Another text from Lexi: Ian is a trending topic on Twitter. Congrats. UR242.

He hated all that childish text lingo. He’d mastered ROTFLMAO and a few others, but this was a new one. It took him a while to parse this one out: you are two for two.

He was, but he wasn’t happy. He had switched magazines on the SIG Pro—as writ. The armorer gave the loaded gun to Edie Coburn—as writ. Ian Stewart was lying in a pool of blood—as writ.

But the next scene was the one he’d been waiting for all day. It was a turning point in his script.





INT. SOUNDSTAGE—SILVERCUP STUDIOS—DAY


The Chameleon waits his turn as the detectives interview the extras. He knows all about the elite task force they call NYPD Red. He was looking forward to jousting with them. They’d try to trip him up a hundred different ways, but he was ready. They were smart. But he was smarter.



When he wrote the script, The Chameleon had no idea who the lead detectives would be. All he knew was that there would be a dead man on the floor, he was the killer, and he would be standing face-to-face with two of NYPD’s smartest cops. Staring them down. Dodging their obvious trick questions. It was great theater.

But it wasn’t happening.

The two detectives talked to the whacked-out director, then they walked off with Shelley Trager. Walked off. He wanted to scream out at them, I’m the killer! Grill me. Suspect me. The audience will love it. It’s fucking drama, you assholes.

But no, they simply left the studio—disappeared—leaving him to answer dumb questions from a bunch of unsophisticated, low-level bozos in blue uniforms. They would lump him in with ninety-nine other extras, none of whom were worth two seconds of screen time.

His cell vibrated again. He read the text: Jonesing 4 ice cream. Bring home sum Rocky Road. Luv u. CU46.