High Risk 6.1

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A mob converged on Casey as he stepped down from the Monarch Pictures truck. “So this is what it’s like to be famous,” he said to the driver. “And to think that all I had to do was get myself arrested for murder.”

“If I wanted to be famous,” said the driver as Casey closed the door, “I’d sit on a flagpole.”

Why didn’t I think of that? Casey asked himself. Instead of which, all I’m going to be able to think about for the rest of my life is the way that woman looked when I found her. He had once convinced himself that after life in a front-line squadron he was beyond the ability to be horrified by anything. Now he knew that he’d been kidding himself.


“Casey! What the hell is going on?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Hogan,” Casey said to the flight-unit director. “Thanks for asking.”

“Goddamn it, man, don’t get cute with me,” Hogan said. “Do you have any idea how far behind I am because of you?”

“I’ll tell you what,” Casey said. “Let’s turn back the clock. I’ll do the flying, and you can spend the night in a Los Angeles police station, being worked over by idiot detectives.”

“Who was it?” Conrad Hart asked.

“What did you see?” asked a man in dungarees, presumably a member of the crew.

“What did they do to you?” That was Desiree Farrell, and Casey nodded acknowledgment to her. It was good to know that somebody out here actually wondered if he was okay.

“The talk is that she was an actress,” Hart said. “But Straebo won’t say anything to us. He’s been in meetings all morning, at the studio and out here. And nobody will tell us anything.”

“Well, I was sort of told not to talk about any of this,” Casey said. “But I don’t much like the men who told me that. So I’ll tell you: it was Lily Cross.”

“Sweet Jesus!” a man said, his voice catching. The crowd turned in on itself, swirling, gabbling, crying. Casey, scant moments ago the sole focus of attention, found himself completely ignored.

Stepping away from the truck, Casey looked around, at a loss as to what he should do next. Ed Hogan resolved that issue, suddenly appearing at Casey’s side. “You okay?” he asked. When Casey nodded, Hogan continued, “Good. Because we still have work to do, Casey. The Hollywoods can whimper and cry and tell themselves how much they loved that dead girl, but I have a schedule I have to keep or I lose money. Which means that you lose money. Follow?”

“Yes, sir.” He supposed that he ought to be horrified or upset or something about Hogan’s callousness, but Casey found himself looking forward to doing some flying. Compared with what he’d just been through, flying would feel pure, cleansing. “I don’t know that I’m going to be up to that crash today, though. “

“We’ve lost our chance for that—for today, anyway. We’ll just do take-offs and landings today, a couple with the Bristol, then some with my Tommy.”

“Good,” said Casey. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, and I’ve spent the last eight hours being hounded by policemen who make sergeant-majors seem like saints. I don’t think I’m up to anything complicated.”

“Takeoffs and landings can be dangerous enough,” Hogan said. “I don’t want you doing anything at all if you can’t do it right and do it safely.”

Casey’s reply was forestalled by a parting of the crowd of movie people. Through the gap Jerry Straebo walked, with porcine purpose, toward them. Behind Straebo, Casey saw a face he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to see again.

“Mr. Hogan,” Straebo said, “this is Detective Sergeant Clark of the Los Angeles Police. Detective Sergeant Clark is investigating Miss Cross’s murder.”

Hogan nodded a greeting but said nothing. Clark acknowledged Hogan’s nod, then turned his gaze to Casey and furrowed his eyebrows in a way that Casey guessed was supposed to suggest manly disgust.

“Um,” Straebo said. “That is, well, Sergeant Clark has informed me that although Casey here hasn’t been formally charged, he’s still considered a suspect in this case. The studio has to be concerned about the way this matter is going to be handled, you know.”

Casey closed his eyes. Here it comes, he thought.

“So you want me to fire him,” Hogan said. “No.” Casey opened his eyes and turned to stare at the man. He noticed that Straebo and Clark were goggling as well.

“Did you kill her?” Hogan asked him.

“No,” Casey said. “I hardly even knew her to look at her, much less murder her.” He knew as he said it that he wasn’t exactly being logical—people got themselves murdered by complete strangers all the time, according to the papers—but it seemed to him that this was hardly a logical situation.

“Good enough for me,” Hogan said. To Straebo he added, “Casey’s a good pilot. I’ve got a job to do and a limited amount of time to do it in. If I fire Casey it’s going to take me days, maybe weeks to find a replacement who’s as good. I’d have to bill Monarch for that, Straebo, and somehow I don’t think you or the New York types holding your leash are going to be too excited about getting that bill. So I think I’ll just make life a lot easier for all of us and keep him on. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gents, I’ve got some filming to do.”

“Now, wait a minute, Hogan.” Straebo’s voice sounded petulant, in a way that reminded Casey of Hal Telford. No surprise those two found each other, he told himself. “This is my show, not yours. If I say that Casey has to go—”

“I just ignore you.” Hogan turned back to Straebo. “You hired my aerial unit, Straebo. Casey isn’t contracted by you. He’s my hire. So the only way you get rid of him is by canceling our contract. Do you really want to do that?”

“He might,” Clark said. “If that’s what it takes to keep his movie going.”

“Why don’t you go find some real work to do?” Casey decided that he’d had enough of Detective Sergeant Clark. “Last I heard, Tony Cornero was still at large.” Come to that, Casey thought, Clark was probably in the bootlegger’s employ.

“Don’t get wise with me, fella,” Clark said. He took a step toward Casey.

“You wouldn’t know wise if it bit your arse.” Casey found himself automatically assuming a fighter’s stance. He noticed a look of surprise on Straebo’s face, and faltered.

Clark took advantage of the opening. A single punch to the jaw and Casey was down on the dusty grass of the airfield.

He didn’t stay down. But before he could retaliate, Hogan had him in a surprisingly strong grip. “You don’t want to do that, Casey,” he said.

“The hell I don’t.”

“Come on then, flyboy,” Clark taunted.

“That’s enough,” Straebo said. “Hogan, don’t you have filming to do?” Turning to Clark, he snarled, “And don’t you have a murder to solve?” Now it was Casey’s turn to stare at Straebo in surprise. It seemed as though the director had changed his mind about wanting Casey off the picture.

“Dirty bastard,” Casey said as he watched Clark and Straebo walk back to where the cast and crew continued to huddle together. He rubbed his jaw; it didn’t seem to hurt all that much.

“They’re all dirty,” Hogan said. “Or as close to all as makes no never mind.” He shook his head. “They’re not going to do any better a job on this than they did on the Taylor case.”

“But why me?” Casey asked. “I should be just about the last one on this field who’d be a suspect.”

“First witness, first suspect,” Hogan said. “You found the body. And you clearly don’t have much dough. For someone like Clark, that makes you an easy way to put this case into the books.”

“I’m not going to be so easy,” Casey said.

“Fine,” Hogan replied. “But whatever you’re going to do, do it on your own time. Until I’m finished with you, you do what I say. And I say, get suited and ready to take that Bristol up.”

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