Scavenger Hunt by Robert Ferrigno Page B

hurry down the grassy slope, then turned to see Rollo leave the chapel and walk rapidly toward him. The flowers and funeral expenses had been picked up by the Directors Guild, a legal obligation that hadn’t entailed any current members showing up for the service. Jimmy had been disappointed when he found out who had paid the bill—he had hoped it would be the good wife. Or even an anonymous benefactor he could have tracked down.
    “I signed the guest book,” said Rollo, oddly dapper in a blue suit—Armani, it looked like, one of the latest shipments of merchandise to fall off a truck at the precise instant that Rollo was there to catch it. “You wouldn’t believe some of the nasty things people wrote in the book, Jimmy. What’s wrong with people?”
    “They think the dead can hear them. Evidently so do you.”
    Rollo slipped a business envelope out of his inside jacket pocket. “I brought you a surprise. Don’t open it here.”
    Jimmy tore open the envelope and pulled out five pages of telephone numbers with dates and time of day listed. He stared at the billing records. “How did you
get
these? Jane wasn’t sure she could get prepaid records even with a court order.”
    Rollo blushed. It made him look about thirteen. “These are only the records for the cell phone he had when—when we found him. No way to pull up any calls he might have made from another line.”
    Jimmy riffed through the list. “You’re amazing.”
    Rollo pushed back his glasses.
    “How much do I owe you?”
    Rollo shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I know you’re trying to help Mr. Walsh.” He stuck a finger under his glasses and wiped an eye. “Someday people are going to realize what a great man he was.”
    Jimmy slipped the records into his pocket.
    “I’m going home and watch some movies. This is a bad day at Black Rock, man.”
    Jimmy waited until Rollo disappeared into the parking lot before walking over to where Mick Packard was being interviewed. Jimmy had been on his way to talk to the actor when he ran into ATM, and he had kept Packard in sight ever since. He was interested in Packard, but he was even more interested in the woman hovering just behind him, keeping a discreet distance.
    Packard was at least twenty pounds heavier than Jimmy remembered, his extra chin badly hidden by a turtleneck.
    The interviewer was a freckle-faced redhead who kept thrusting the microphone at Packard’s face. Packard had to pull back before he spoke. The cameraman was equally young, a well-built jock in shorts, muscle-T, and backward ball cap. The camera atop his shoulder had FULLERTON STATE UNIVERSITY stenciled on the side.
    Jimmy pulled out his reporter’s notebook as he approached. The woman with Packard was in her early thirties, a beautiful brunette, long-limbed and tan, wearing a slinky charcoal-gray dress and huge dark sunglasses. Packard was shorter in person than onscreen, his thinning hair slicked straight back.
    Packard put his hand over the microphone. “I’ll be right with you,” he said to Jimmy. He acted like Jimmy should be grateful.
    “Hey, this is my interview,” the redhead said to Jimmy.
    “Take your time,” said Jimmy.
    “I don’t want you listening in to my questions,” said the redhead.
    “Don’t fight, boys,” Packard said beneficently. “There’s plenty of me to go around. Just ask your questions,” he said to the redhead. “I’m sure this gentleman will respect your professionalism.” He glanced at Jimmy. “Who are you with?”
    “SLAP magazine.”
    Packard brightened, then turned to the redhead. “Let’s wrap this up.” He smiled into the camera. “I had intended—make that, I had
hoped
that Garrett Walsh and I would have the opportunity to work together again. He was a flawed man, a haunted man, but I considered him a spiritual brother in arms, another Hollywood outlaw, just like myself.” He nodded to the camera, walked over to Jimmy, and threw a mock karate