“Let’s see the wallet.”
Teddy smiled. “I’m holding on to it.” He flipped it open, pretending to read the ID. “His name is Todd Reynolds.”
* * *
—
The receptionist at Glendale Management was holding a telephone to her ear. As Teddy approached the desk she said, “Hold, please, for Mr. Dirkson.” She pressed another line and said, “Mr. Dirkson? Mr. Williams on three.” She looked up and smiled at Teddy. “May I help you?”
“Todd Reynolds, please.”
“I’m sorry, he’s not in his office.”
“Oh? That’s odd. I’m supposed to have a meeting with him. If you could ring his cell phone.”
She shook her head. “I can’t disturb him. He’s in with Mr. Dirkson.”
“Perfect. I’m supposed to meet with him, too. It’s this way?” Teddy was already around the desk and making his way to the door marked DIRECTOR.
The receptionist sprang up. “You can’t go in there.”
“Actually, I can,” Teddy said, and pushed the door open.
Todd Reynolds stood talking to a plump man with three chins who was sitting behind a large desk.
“Ah, Mr. Dirkson, I presume. Just the man I wanted to see. Todd said you were the man I wanted to talk to.”
The fat man looked at his subordinate. “Todd?”
“I did no such thing,” Todd sputtered. “This is the man from the meeting. He must have followed me here.”
“You let yourself be followed?” Dirkson said.
Teddy flopped into a chair, pulled a humidor of cigars across the desk, and inspected one. “Don’t blame him. He’s an amateur.” He pointed the cigar at the fat man. “You’re the one to blame, promising your lowlife clients anonymity.”
“Get out of here or I’ll call the police.”
“Good idea. They’ll get some answers. They’ll certainly want to know on whose behalf you’re having me arrested. Do you think you can stand up to a police investigation?”
Dirkson snatched up the phone. “Margo, get me the police.”
Teddy nodded approvingly. “Nicely played. Most men would fold in your position. It’s plain to see you’re a pro. Excellent. I was trying to ascertain how complicit you are in the situation. It’s clear you’re a main participant.”
“Now, see here—”
“No, no,” Teddy said, waggling his finger. “You can’t throw me out and give me a lecture. Pick one.”
The phone rang. Dirkson scooped it up. His eyes never left Teddy. “Yes? . . . No, not now.” He slammed the phone down again. “Are you going to leave of your own accord?”
“Absolutely,” Teddy said. He rose from the chair. “I’m sorry you don’t feel inclined to discuss this amicably. Mr. Reynolds made quite an interesting motion at today’s meeting. I was hoping to learn more about it.”
Dirkson didn’t bite. He just sat there and waited until Teddy left.
Teddy stopped on his way out and smiled at the receptionist. “Did you get through to the police?”
She frowned. “I thought the call was canceled.”
“It’s all right, I’ll call them myself.”
Teddy whipped out his cell phone and began punching in numbers.
The telephone buzzed. The receptionist picked it up and said, “Yes, sir.” She clicked on a line and punched in a number. “Mr. Dirkson for Mr. Kimble. One moment, please.” She picked up the first line. “Mr. Kimble on two.”
Teddy looked up from his cell phone. “Busy,” he said. He shook his head, shrugged, and rang for the elevator.
41
Teddy stopped by the Centurion office.
Ben jumped up when he came in. “What happened? Did you find out who he represents?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it. Do know anyone in the industry named Kimble?”
“Why? Is that him?”
“I’m not sure. Do you know him?”
“I don’t know him, but there’s a B-movie producer named Mason Kimble. I’d hardly flatter him by saying he’s in the industry. He has his own company, Star Pictures, and he makes the kind of movies you wouldn’t let your kids go to. Low-budget shoot-’em-ups with a lot of gratuitous violence and nudity, and not much plot.”
“Does he have any reason not to like you?”
“Why?”
“These guys are trying to oust you as the head of production. Either it’s business or it’s personal. If this Mason Kimble is behind it, would he have any reason to hate you?”
Ben shrugged. “He pitched a project to me and I shot it down, but that’s hardly grounds. He couldn’t possibly have thought I would seriously consider his film. I figured he pitched it to me so he could tell people he did.”
“Some people have an unrealistic assessment of their own worth. Okay, he’s one possibility. Is there anyone else you’ve shot down who might have reason to take it personally? Anyone who might regard it as a slight?”
“I’ve rejected a number of projects. Most producers take it as a matter of course. I suppose there are screenwriters who might feel their work had been unfairly assessed.”
“Any screenwriter who might be successful enough to buy up nearly half the Centurion stock?”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
Teddy considered. “Do you have a slush pile of rejected scripts?”
“Are you looking for one of Mason Kimble’s?”
“No, but I’m glad you mentioned it. Can I see them?”
“In the outer office. Janet can show you. You don’t have to read them, we keep the coverage.”
Centurion, like many movie studios, hired interns to write two-page summaries and assessments of screenplays for producers to use as shorthand.
“Thanks,” Teddy said. “That will help.”
Janet set Teddy at a table with a pile of scripts to look at. He sorted through them, careful to choose one that was not associated with Mason Kimble. The coverage was most helpful in narrowing down the type of script he had in mind. He chose one entitled Night Noises. The reader’s report described it as “an erotic thriller” with “more nudity than scares.”
Teddy turned back to the title page: