If no witnesses came forward to identify the car, it was still possible there was forensic evidence at the scene. I looked closely to see if anything might have fallen off—the hood ornament, a side view mirror, a strip of trim. They would likely find something. All I could do was hope it wouldn’t be enough to positively ID the vehicle and trace it back to me. Because then they’d figure out what I was really hiding, that I was guilty of something else entirely.
I wondered how long and hard the police would look for the perpetrator. Murder investigations sometimes take years. Cases go cold, then suddenly warm back to life with an unexpected recollection or new piece of evidence. How determined would the cops be to solve the case? And how foolish was I to think this would eventually just go away?
I remember hearing a case about a prominent real estate developer who was murdered in his home in White Plains. Detectives interviewed the dead guy’s neighbors. One of them recalled seeing an unfamiliar car parked across the street that morning—a white Camry. His security camera had a picture. I guess there were a lot of white Camrys in the state of New York, because two years later they still hadn’t found it. So they put the case on ice.
I don’t know what compelled the detective to reopen the file after those two long years—pressure from the family? A spell of boredom? But he did, and this time he found something—a tiny detail he’d originally overlooked. The Camry had a transponder in it—a flat, white box glued to the windshield that allowed the car to cruise through tolls and be charged automatically. With that one distinguishing element, using security cameras across the tristate area, the detective was able to track that Camry all the way from the crime scene to a rental car outfit over three hundred miles away. It took six more months, but they caught the guy, and two years later he was convicted. When I read the story, the murderer was awaiting the death penalty in a maximum-security prison. All because of that little white box.
I didn’t know what was going to give us away, but I had no doubt there was something out there that could. It was just a matter of if someone found it.
CHAPTER 15
“Your ten o’clock is here,” my assistant said, poking her head into my office. “He’s early,” she added, to make sure I knew I didn’t have to rush. I looked at my watch. It was only 9:40. I was already impressed.
“You can bring him back,” I said, eager to get the day started.
I didn’t have to come to the office every day—I could read scripts at home—but I liked being on the lot. I had been in the movie business for almost thirty years, but I was still enamored with the process. A movie set was like the human body, with all its organs—costumes, sets, props, lights—working in harmony to create something bigger than the sum of its parts. Making movies was nothing short of magic—we literally created whole worlds—and I loved seeing them come to life.
I had a studio deal, which meant I got an office and a staff, and a budget to buy and develop scripts. The funny thing about having a studio deal is, if you don’t spend the money the studio gives you, they take it away. It is counter-productive to be frugal. You have to go after the fanciest writers, the most expensive books, the biggest stars, because if at the end of the year you’re under budget, your budget for next year will be that much less.
Unlike some producers, my deal was richer than it was when I was lured into it six years ago. I’d had box office success as an actor, director, and producer, and the studio rewarded me handsomely. But it was September, and I’d hardly bought anything this year. To keep the money flowing, I needed to spend.
Being away all summer on someone else’s movie didn’t help matters. My development team had been reading books and scripts and hearing pitches, but nothing really happens when I’m away. And I was a little busy before I left trying to cover up a murder.
I had to make up for lost time. I needed projects, and all the writers I knew were working, so I had to branch out. I was excited about the guy coming in this morning. He had been an investigative reporter, and his portfolio of articles was as eclectic as it was deep. I’d read one of his scripts, as well as a handful of articles he’d written for the New York Times, and knew his writing to be colorful and sharp. I was hopeful he’d have a movie idea for me—a true story I could option, or a new script that hadn’t yet made the rounds. The studio’s money was burning a hole in my pocket, and I needed a project to keep my mind from going to dark places, which—since the horrific events of the spring—it was prone to do.