Body Copy - Michael Craven [81]
Sitting outside Latham’s now, man, wrecked from the heat. Beat. Beat from the heat.
Tremaine thinking, the letters, the picture, and the movie Aliens in America. The movie was the confusing element. Surely Latham’s smart enough to know I could find out that he had produced a movie that Kelly Burch was in.
But he’s never heard of her? Is Latham dumb? Could that be it? Does he think I’m dumb?
B O D Y C O P Y
Could it have slipped his mind that Kelly’s credits would be accessible? Could he have been sitting up here with his memories, in his former producer’s throne, four drinks in, thinking that extras don’t get credits?
Still sitting in his car, Tremaine thinking, this case is bizarre, this case is bullshit. Roger Gale had an affair, but he didn’t. He went into the karate place, but he didn’t. Dean Latham produced a movie Kelly was in and wrote her love letters, and took a picture with her, but he doesn’t know her. Bullshit. And he doesn’t even have the sense to at least admit that he knows her, even if he didn’t kill her.
Man, Tremaine was hot. From the desert, from the case.
Tremaine, opening his door, clenching his jaw, saying to himself, let’s see how Latham handles a little pressure.
Tremaine, through the front gate, at Latham’s door, knocking.
Latham opened the door.
“I thought you were going to call me,” Latham said.
“I lied,” Tremaine said. “Just like you.”
Tremaine walked in Latham’s house.
Latham said, “What are you talking about? You want to see the tickets?”
“Shut up, Latham, I know you knew Kelly Burch.”
Tremaine took a tone with Latham, gave him a look.
Telling Latham with his eyes, I’m gonna fuck you up, man.
“I’ve never heard of her,” Latham said. “Not until you said her name.”
“I know you knew her.”
“Tremaine, I’ve never heard of her.”
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Michael Craven
“She was an extra in Aliens in America.”
Dean looked at Tremaine, hung his head, shook it, and said, “So were about a thousand other desperate people in this town.”
“The girl had love letters with your name on them, she was in one of your movies, she was stunning. You knew her. You were in love with her.”
Tremaine was in Latham’s face. Trying to press a confession out of him, making Latham think he was about to blow his top. But he really wasn’t going to blow his top, right? This was a bluff. The frustrations of getting nowhere weren’t affecting him, making him angry.
Right?
“What? I didn’t know her,” Latham said. “And I sure as hell wasn’t in love with her. If she had love letters, they weren’t from me. She might have loved me, like from afar or something, but I didn’t even know her. I’ve never heard of her. And when she was killed, I was out of town. I’ll show you the tickets.”
Tremaine didn’t know what he was going to do with Latham’s confession once he got it, but he was going to get it. He ramped up the insanity in his eyes.
“Bullshit,” Tremaine said. “Admit it, admit you knew her.”
Tremaine walked toward Latham, stood right in front of him. “Admit it, Latham. Right now. Or you will wish you had.”
After laying down the threat, Tremaine felt less and less like he was bluffing. His act was colliding with his true feelings. His act was allowing his true frustrations to come out. He was realizing that maybe he didn’t know shit.
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B O D Y C O P Y
Maybe even if he did pull the truth out of Latham, what was he doing threatening some washed-up producer about a case he wasn’t even on? But Tremaine wasn’t stopping now, nope, too late.
Latham said, “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are or what you think you know. But if you don’t get out of my house, I’m going to call the cops. Then I’m going to call my lawyer.”
“I’m sure they’d all like the information I have,” Tremaine said.
“They can have it,” Latham said.
“Tell me what you know, Latham.”
Tremaine inched closer to Latham.
Latham picked up his cordless, “Tremaine, get the