Five Stories

"Yeah," she says with a more rural accent, and takes a deep drag. I wait for her to exhale. "Told her that shit would kill her."

"What's your name?"

"Rainey Diaz," she says, then looks at me. "Yes, that's my real name. Want my ID?"

"If you wouldn't mind," I say. Rainy reaches into her purse, accidently throwing out an unopened pack of cigarettes to find her wallet. It is indeed her legal name, and it's also a Kansas driver's license. "You two know each other from Kansas?"

"Besties since second grade."

"You don't seem all that torn up," I say. She looks like it's just another day, having her morning cigarette and coffee.

"We all mourn in our own way. Honestly, I don't think it was an accident," she says, and I tilt my head.

"Please explain that," I say. This girl needs to learn what not to say to a cop with a dead body in her house.

"I'm not saying nefarious. I'm saying she was tired of this shit. Didn't know the way out, took a different exit," she said, and dumped the cigarette in the can. A hiss echoes from within, and she starts smacking the top of the next pack in her palm.

"You think she killed herself?" I ask, and she nods. "What did she want out of?"

"Dee, see wanted to be famous. She settled for infamous. Back home, she was the queen of our small drama club in high school, but she was a looong way from Kansas. Talked about being the next Jennifer Lawrence. Small town country girl moving to Hollywood, being the next big thing. The only thing they ended up having in common was a cumshot to the face."

"So, porn?" I ask in simpler terms.

"And Deesohorny was born. Hard to turn down two grand for a twenty-minute blow job scene when the rent is due."

"What about you?" I ask.

"Me?" she asks and understands the question a moment later. "Fuck no. I'm going to animation school, work on movies, rather than in them. The door fee to see a producer isn't watching a guy jerk off into a potted plant. I just helped her pay the rent. We both had something we wanted to do here, so came together. Honestly, I couldn't even tell you if she was still my friend."

"Split off too much?" I ask, and she nods.

"My line was drawn when she was live streaming only fans in our living room. Tried to rope me into a threesome with her fuck boy. She tried a few times for some girl-on-girl stuff, said it could help get her numbers up. She then invited two other girls to live with us, and they're in the same profession. Eventually I just stopped talking to her. My room is close to the back door, so I go around the backyard when I get home to minimize my contact. I stopped doing the cleaning just to teach them a lesson. That's a week of just them."

"Why didn't you move out?" I ask.

"I've been looking, but I'm not paying for an apartment by myself in this city. She paid her part of the rent on time, so I just made do."

"Where are the other roommates?"

"Vegas last I knew. A car from the production company picked them up two days ago. They often film in Vegas because they don't have to wear condoms there. Ivy Pitts and Romana Holmes. Before you ask, yes, that's their real names."

"What drugs was she using?" I ask.

"Started with party drugs. E, mostly. That became chronic weed use, then cocaine, prescriptions, name it. She was an organic pharmacy. Never saw heroin until now, which kind of told me she either messed up her dose or didn't."

"You said you stopped talking to her?" I ask, her nodding. "How'd you know she wanted out?"

"The walls are thin, and she cried on the phone to her brother a lot."

"What's his name?"

"Dean Nicholson. Her stepbrother. Who she incidentally used to fuck when they were in high school. Girl was doing that before porn made it popular."

"Are you planning on leaving town soon?" I ask, and she shakes her head. I hand her my card, which she simply drops on the table without looking at it. "If you can think of anything else, give me a call. I might have more questions based on where this goes from here."

I leave Rainey alone and walk back through the house where the coroner is prepping to move her body out. All the detectives are now out the front door, the two locals are giving Max the cold shoulder.

"And?" Max asks.

"Her roommate suggests suicide, two other roommates are in Vegas getting gangbanged," I reply.

"What's the write up?"

"Suicide with an asterisk until tox comes back. Full work up though, social media, call her family. She has a brother back home she could have called a lot. You take him," I say, tearing off a page of my notebook and handing it to him.

My phone rings as he starts walking away, and I don't recognize the number and my phone tells me the area code is from Ohio.

"Roland," I answer.

"Detective Roland?" a male voice asks.

"You called me," I say.

"My name is Chase Kramner. I'm a private investigator doing some follow-ups on the death of Meg Fontaine. I was told you conducted the initial investigation." Not the first reporter who pretended to be an investigator to get a quote from me.

"Which outlet are you with?" I ask.

"What?"

"Which outlet? LA Times? New York Times? The Post?"

"Like I said, I'm a private investigator."

"This is my cell, how'd you even get my number?" I ask.

"It's on the card you gave Terry Opal," he says. "I get it, I used to be a detective as well. Reporters are dicks, but I need the interview notes you compiled during the case."

"Get in line with everyone else at the records and identification division."

"So the LAPD can sit on them for six months to a year?" He's not wrong.

"What's your name again?" I ask. I put the call on speaker to search his name.

"Chase Kramner."

"Two Ms?" I ask.

"K-R-A-M-N-E-R. Pronounced like Seinfeld," he says. I complete the search and get results of a PI firm in Ohio. C & H Investigations. He's made the news a few times himself. Major busts of organized crime as a detective, and a recent case of a missing girl landing the FBI two serial killers in Pennsylvania. He checks out.

"Who hired you?" I ask.

"Justin Fontaine."

"Do you know why he'd go out of state for this?"

"Said he didn't like the answers he was getting. Fruitlessly hoping an outsider wouldn't give him what he called the LA answer," he explains.

"Fruitlessly? You don't think you're going to find anything else either? Just taking advantage of a grieving father?" I ask harshly. Parasite.

"He came to me, not the other way around. Help me, or don't. Just tell me which one you're doing," he says. I end the speaker phone and place it back to my ear.

"A lot of good it'll do, but fine. Meet me outside of RHD HQ in about two hours," I say, and hang up.

--

It takes me an hour to get back to RHD. Traffic is always bad. Max and I briefly discuss the case on the way there. Luckily her brother was her medical executive, and he agreed to release her medical records to us. It's more difficult to circumvent HIPAA until we know it's a homicide. He was also strangely open to the fact him and Denise did sleep together when they were stepsiblings. Probably because he was a year younger than her, and that's every man's fantasy. He's not sold on the suicide angle, stating she was emotional, but not using suicidal language. He's still in Kansas, so he's not high on a list of potential suspects if this turns into a homicide investigation.

We exit the elevator on the fifth floor and exit the corridor to our workspace. Instead of seeing my desk empty, I see a man sitting on my chair.

"Who the hell are you?" I ask. The man spins the chair to me. He has a visitor's badge clipped to his shirt.

"Chase Kramner."

"Max, get some coffee," I say, and he does a military about face and vanishes into the maze of cubicles. "I said outside," I say, looking at my watch. "You're early. How'd you even get up here?"

"Old colleague of mine used to be LAPD. Jeff McCants. He went to the academy with one of the LAPD Deputy Chiefs," he says. I shoo him off my chair, and I watch him push himself off my desk because he's a lower leg amputee. I was going to make him stand, but now that feels a little excessive.

"Sit," I say, pointing to Max's chair. I take back my own. "You got some balls."

"So I've been told," he replies. I open the file drawer next to my desk and start digging through it. I keep copies of all my notes. Maybe if he begs I'll see about taking him down to records for the full case book.

"Any person in particular?"

"Whatever you got. I don't know what's important until I know it."

I find the notes from the Fontaine death. Max comes back with two coffees, and I hand him the folder to make copies. I'm the Detective III, and he knows it. He says nothing and vanishes again.

"It was an accident. It's a civil case and insurance problem now," I say once Max is clear.

"I have nothing to suggest otherwise so far." I sip my coffee and look at his leg. "I don't mind, you can ask."

"What happened?" I ask.

"Prisoner transport about five years ago. We got ambushed and the van flipped. Broke my leg and further damaged it beyond repair in the shootout that killed my friend. I carried his body out, that probably did most of the damage."

"Geez," I reply. "Homicide detective?"

"For a little bit, then Special Investigations. Sounds fancy, but it was just joint agency coordination and case auditing."

"Case auditor. That's a thankless job. You think that's why he hired you? Justin Fontaine, I mean. If anyone was going to find something, it'd be the guy who made a living out of finding stuff other people missed."

"Maybe, but I don't know."

One of the secretaries walks by and drops something in my inbox. I lean over and see it's a copy of Denise Horne's medical record. One of the fastest turnarounds I've ever seen. Helps when we have someone to clear the red tape for us. Now all I need is the tox screen and I can call this one done.

"Current case?" Chase asks.

"Yeah. Apparent suicide by intentional intravenous heroin overdose," I say, and start scanning over the more recent records. Not long after Denise's arrival in LA, she started a religious monthly process of STI testing. Herpes. Everyone in porn has herpes.

"History of drug use?" he asks.

"Indeed. She graduated to heroin as her final bow."

"No heroin before?" he asks, and I shake my head. "Check her immunization record."

Max returns and hands me the original of my notes, and I point to Chase to hand him the copies. "Why her immunization record?" Odd recommendation to challenge a suicide.

"Could be nothing. Could be everything. Thanks," he says, gesturing with my notes. He pushes himself up again, and lumbers down the hall to the elevators.

I'm curious, so open her immunization record. Booster shots from when she was kid. Hepatitis, tetanus, measles, seasonal flu. Gangs all here, nothing special. Why would he think this was relevant? Then I look at the doctor's notes.

Note: Patient has debilitating phobia of needles. Prone to fainting spells during injections.

"You gotta be shitting me," I say, and stand up just in time to watch the elevator close.

--

-Chase Kramner-

Jo called to let me know she had arrived in LA. She didn't even drop off her luggage at the hotel before going to conduct her first interview with the stunt team. She let me know she was going to leave those interviews and go straight to the medical staff who were on set that day. The next on my own list is the director on set Fabian Prince.

Fabian Prince is a seasoned television director who never managed to make the transition to movies. When I did my research on him, I found he had paid his dues by directing music videos and broadcast television. Even two Prime Time Emmy nominations for best director never gave him the opportunity to direct something bigger. After decades in the industry, he's made a handsome living, but he hasn't gone as far as he hoped. On the other end of that, his wife is a screen writer with three Oscar nods and two wins for both adapted and original screenplay.

Fabian agreed to meet me at his home in Brentwood. If I didn't stop and take a picture where OJ Simpson's house used to be, I'm not doing Brentwood correctly. Shortly after the trial, he sold it and the new owner had it bulldozed. Now a completely different house is there. I pull up to the curb, snap a quick picture, and send it to my father with a caption. The case mom almost got.

Doris Kramner, my mother, was a defense lawyer, and my dad was a tough on crime prosecutor before being appointed as a judge to the Maryland Court of Appeals and finally to the DC Court of Appeals. My mom was who you called when a celebrity did something stupid. She consulted on the OJ defense before Cochran took the lead chair from Shapiro. Besides the occasional celebrity, she mostly defended politicians embroiled in scandal. They forgot they went to law school together, until they found themselves on opposite sides of a trial. Dad always said the last person he ever wanted to go against in a trial was my mother.

My mother always suffered from soul crushing depression and bi-polar disorder. She worked through it all her life. She had to stop practicing law when she developed late onset schizophrenia. Sometimes she was violent when she'd transition, and in the end, she committed suicide when I was eight. Years later I learned it was because she was scared she'd hurt my siblings and me. At least more than she already had.

My phone chimes and I see a message from my dad.

Glad she didn't. Why are you in LA?

On a case.

I pull out onto the street again and follow my navigation to Fabian's house. There is a large metal gate at the front of the driveway. I roll down the window and push one finger against the intercom button.

"Who's that?" a voice asks. Slightly distorted, so I can't make out the gender.

"Chase Kramner. Mr. Prince is expecting me."

The intercom buzzes, and the gate begins to slide open. I wait for it to clear before I drive forward up the driveway. I park behind a Tesla which is charging in front of a four-car garage. Before I exit the car, I double check my leg. I walk up the cobblestone path to a Spanish Colonial Revival style house. White smooth stucco, terracotta tile roof. The lawn and gardening are immaculate, and the air smells like freshly trimmed grass. The stairs up to the small porch and large brown door are accented by turquoise blue tiles.

At the door I knock, and do not have to wait long. I immediately hear the door begin to open. A Latina woman invites me inside and closes the door behind me.

"Mr. Prince will be down soon," she says in functional, but broken, English. I give a slight nod in acknowledgement, and she asks if I want a drink.

"Coffee, if possible," I reply, and she disappears from the room.

I stand alone in a massive living room. Modern furnishings from makers I probably couldn't pronounce. A staircase curves up to the second floor with a balcony overlooking this room. Pictures are on the walls, showing a steadily aging couple at galas and award shows. No kids from the look of it. On the mantle above the stone fireplace are awards and trophies. Including Claudia Herman-Prince's Oscars.

The woman returns with a tray carrying several empty cups and a porcelain coffee pot.

"Lucia, we'll take the coffee in the loggia," a male voice says from the stairs. I turn over my shoulder and see an older man, not decrepit, but old, coming down the stairs using the banister for support. He's in sweatpants, fluffy slippers, and an oversized sweater for the Lakers. "Mr. Kramner?"

"Yes sir. Mr. Prince?" I ask.

"We'll talk in the loggia," he says, and follows Lucia. I don't know what loggia means, but I soon learn it's an enclosed patio outside with open walls and a beautiful view of their back garden. Exotic flowers follow along a stone path to the fountain in the center. We sit on opposite sides of a table adorned with roses on wicker furniture with thick cushions.

Lucia pours the coffee for us both and asks if he needs anything else. He thanks her before asking her to continue with her duties.

"Must be nice to have Justin's pocketbook. Keep hiring investigator after investigator," Fabian says. He pours himself a little cream and drops a cube of pure brown sugar in his drink with a tiny pair of tongs. "Cream?"

"I take it black," I say as I lean over to take my cup. Damn that's some good coffee. "His pocketbook? You seem to be doing well."

"I've lived here since the eighties. When we got the house, it was only worth seven hundred," he replied. Only seven hundred. Oh, the humanity. "Let's get this over with."

"Mind if I record?" I ask, and he shakes his head. I prepare the recorder and provide the basic administrative details.

"When did you start your career?" I ask.

"What does that have to do with Meg?"

"I don't know yet. I operate under what I call the full person concept. I need to understand the full person I'm interviewing. Just bear with me."

"Fine. I majored in film at York University in Toronto. I graduated in 1971, and eventually managed to get on the set a few TV shows. You wouldn't know them, no one picked up the pilots. I worked where I could. Lighting, props, every department under the rainbow. 1979 I got offered the chance to take over the cinematography of a short film. The film won some awards, got my name out there, and I got offered to be the assistant director of a full picture in 1981. Simon and Sally. Dumb teen romance, small budget, but it made money. MTV came out that same year, and I took to directing music videos. I kind of got pigeonholed into that for a decade. Money was good, but it was never what I wanted to do."

"You wanted to do movies?" I ask.

"Always. I figured the music videos were a good steppingstone, and they were. The step was just longer than I thought it would be. 1993 I finally get the chair for a pilot. And the pilot is picked up, and the show runs for four seasons. Alec. It was a Canadian legal drama, still syndicating in Canada. I directed most of the episodes until 1997. I still did music videos during summer hiatus. I did get to direct a full movie in 1998. My wife wrote it, but it bombed. Ten-million-dollar budget, made less than three hundred thousand."

"Ouch," I reply.

"Never got another chance. Been doing television ever since."

"How did you become attached to the show Scarlett?" I ask.

"Terry Opal put out the ad, and I interviewed for it. I directed a few episodes of 24 and one episode of Chuck, so I had the spy thriller credentials. He asked me to story board, and he liked mine the best."

"Had you worked with Terry before?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"I had heard of him. Maybe we were at the same event a few times, but we had never shaken hands before the interview."

"What about Meg Fontaine?" I ask.

"Her I did know from before. She had a supporting role in the first season of Shattered Cross that I directed last year in Georgia. The Netflix show."

"I've heard of it, never seen it though. My wife watches it," I reply.

"When Scarlett started production, I remembered her, and asked her to audition. Managed to convince the producers. Her dad being Justin Fontaine probably helped, but she had the talent even without him."

"Let's move to the stunt itself."

"We're filming at a building we acquired for the production. We do the take twice, and I think it's good. Nothing we couldn't do in pickups if we really had to. I start telling everyone to get ready for the next scene to keep on schedule, but Meg wouldn't budge. Absolutely refused to work unless we did the stunt again. I hold my ground, tell everyone to keep getting ready, and she storms off to her trailer for three hours."