do for right now.” He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and
handed it to Teri. “Call me after you’ve talked to the lawyer and the
mother. Then we’ll decide how to handle the writer.”
“Are you sure you haven’t already decided?” Teri asked.
Bozarth smirked, the only emotion he had shown all night, then
turned and left.
The others waited until Bozarth was out the door then Bob turned to
Teri, barely able to suppress his anger. “You remember that apology I gave
you? Well, I take it back.”
With that, he abruptly lurched to his feet and stormed off.
CHAPTER 18
Mike
walked Teri out to her car, which was parked next to his in
the parking lot. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close, but
she felt no warmth from the closeness. All she felt was the chill that Doug
Bozarth’s words, both spoken and unspoken, left in her heart. The truth
was that, when she first realized the implications of Leland Crowell’s
resurrection, her next thought was how much better off she would be if he
were dead. Then, when she pulled the .22 from her purse and aimed it at
him, thoughts of pulling the trigger tickled her consciousness. No one
knew she was there—or so she had thought at the time. And surely no one
would actually believe she had been there. What would Teri Squire be
doing in a squalid hotel room in that part of town?
Yes, it would have been easy enough to dispatch the man back to the
great beyond from whence he had apparently returned. She could have
taken the screenplay and its registration documents, slipped his drivers
license into her pocket, and no one would have been the wiser. It would
be quite unlikely that the man could even be identified. After all, he was
already dead, and had been for two years. How can you kill a dead man?
But as soon as those thoughts entered her mind, she banished them.
Killing a man eroded one’s soul, no matter how pure the motive might be.
That was more than esoteric bullshit. Teri knew it for a fact . And she also
knew that money—and surely that was what this was all about—was
never a pure motive. Yet that was Doug Bozarth’s motive. He hadn’t
actually said he was bent on killing Leland Crowell, but everyone at the
table knew that was what he meant.
The question that nagged at her was whether it was just talk, or
whether Bozarth was actually capable of killing a man over money. The
answer should have been obvious. Every day, newspapers carried stories
of people who killed over Dallas Cowboys jackets, basketball shoes, and
even parking spaces. Doug Bozarth had seventy-five million dollars on the
line, and that was motive in anyone’s book. If he carried out his promise
to “know” that Crowell would not show up on the back end with his hand
out, could she live with that? Or did she have an obligation to stop him?
And if so, how? She couldn’t very well go to the police and tell them that
Bozarth had indirectly threatened—very indirectly; so indirectly, in fact,
that it took considerable interpretation in her overactive mind to reach
that conclusion—to kill a man who was already dead. They would laugh
her out of the police station, lumping her in with other Hollywood crazies
and their insane rantings.
Mike
must
have
sensed her
thoughts. “He’s not going to kill
anybody,” he said.
“I know he’s not going to, but that doesn’t mean he won’t have it
done.”
Mike turned her around to face him, but she refused to make eye
contact. “Look at me,” he said. “Teri, look at me.”
When her
gaze
finally
settled on
him, he
continued. “He’s a
businessman. He travels in circles we can only read about, but they’re still
business circles. He’s not a killer.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I just know.”
Again, with the “knowing.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Look, our lawyers vetted him. Remember, we’ve got to comply
with the Patriot Act, so we’ve got to know where the money comes from,
especially foreign
handed it to Teri. “Call me after you’ve talked to the lawyer and the
mother. Then we’ll decide how to handle the writer.”
“Are you sure you haven’t already decided?” Teri asked.
Bozarth smirked, the only emotion he had shown all night, then
turned and left.
The others waited until Bozarth was out the door then Bob turned to
Teri, barely able to suppress his anger. “You remember that apology I gave
you? Well, I take it back.”
With that, he abruptly lurched to his feet and stormed off.
CHAPTER 18
Mike
walked Teri out to her car, which was parked next to his in
the parking lot. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close, but
she felt no warmth from the closeness. All she felt was the chill that Doug
Bozarth’s words, both spoken and unspoken, left in her heart. The truth
was that, when she first realized the implications of Leland Crowell’s
resurrection, her next thought was how much better off she would be if he
were dead. Then, when she pulled the .22 from her purse and aimed it at
him, thoughts of pulling the trigger tickled her consciousness. No one
knew she was there—or so she had thought at the time. And surely no one
would actually believe she had been there. What would Teri Squire be
doing in a squalid hotel room in that part of town?
Yes, it would have been easy enough to dispatch the man back to the
great beyond from whence he had apparently returned. She could have
taken the screenplay and its registration documents, slipped his drivers
license into her pocket, and no one would have been the wiser. It would
be quite unlikely that the man could even be identified. After all, he was
already dead, and had been for two years. How can you kill a dead man?
But as soon as those thoughts entered her mind, she banished them.
Killing a man eroded one’s soul, no matter how pure the motive might be.
That was more than esoteric bullshit. Teri knew it for a fact . And she also
knew that money—and surely that was what this was all about—was
never a pure motive. Yet that was Doug Bozarth’s motive. He hadn’t
actually said he was bent on killing Leland Crowell, but everyone at the
table knew that was what he meant.
The question that nagged at her was whether it was just talk, or
whether Bozarth was actually capable of killing a man over money. The
answer should have been obvious. Every day, newspapers carried stories
of people who killed over Dallas Cowboys jackets, basketball shoes, and
even parking spaces. Doug Bozarth had seventy-five million dollars on the
line, and that was motive in anyone’s book. If he carried out his promise
to “know” that Crowell would not show up on the back end with his hand
out, could she live with that? Or did she have an obligation to stop him?
And if so, how? She couldn’t very well go to the police and tell them that
Bozarth had indirectly threatened—very indirectly; so indirectly, in fact,
that it took considerable interpretation in her overactive mind to reach
that conclusion—to kill a man who was already dead. They would laugh
her out of the police station, lumping her in with other Hollywood crazies
and their insane rantings.
Mike
must
have
sensed her
thoughts. “He’s not going to kill
anybody,” he said.
“I know he’s not going to, but that doesn’t mean he won’t have it
done.”
Mike turned her around to face him, but she refused to make eye
contact. “Look at me,” he said. “Teri, look at me.”
When her
gaze
finally
settled on
him, he
continued. “He’s a
businessman. He travels in circles we can only read about, but they’re still
business circles. He’s not a killer.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I just know.”
Again, with the “knowing.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Look, our lawyers vetted him. Remember, we’ve got to comply
with the Patriot Act, so we’ve got to know where the money comes from,
especially foreign
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