Bad blood, p.22
Bad Blood, page 22
part #7 of Jack Dahlish Series
Bishop nodded acceptance, secretly feeling relieved to discover it hadn’t been another case of manufactured tv drama.
“Anyway, Arturo’s sugar was somehow substituted with salt during his baking process, even though we have him on camera testing a sample from the container several minutes before he used it. The cake that was produced was overcooked, dry, and far too dense. The reactions of the bride and groom were television gold, but no one on the crew felt anything other than horror over what was happening. The producers were sued again, but we had the video evidence that he had tested the product he used. No one but Arturo and his cameraman were near his station while he was mixing the batter, and I don’t know how the substitution could have been made.”
“So, you thought of ghosts?” Bishop asked incredulously. “What about the cameraman? Maybe one of the other contestants slipped him a few bucks to make the change?”
Terry recoiled at her words. “I vet my people assiduously, Miss Bishop. None of our crew would do such a thing. For one thing, they’d be blackballed in the industry if they were caught. And there are so many cameras on a production like On The Boil that they would definitely be caught.”
She shrugged. “Greed doesn’t always allow common sense to shine through, but I’ll take your word for it. You said there were more of these incidents in the second season?”
The cyclops nodded, turning so that only his eyepatch was visible to her. “We moved the location to Chicago for the second season. It hadn’t been planned, but after the unexplainable sabotages we decided to shake things up. I insisted we spend some of our profits on a totally new set, we brought in different crew members, and I doubled the security guards who would watch over the set between shooting sessions.
“Everything ran smoothly for the first six weeks, and I thought we’d put the first season’s problems behind us. But then, one of our contestants was injured. She was reaching into the oven to test the pies she was baking and claims that someone shoved her. Both of her hands suffered third-degree burns where she instinctively braced herself against the sides of the four-hundred-degree oven, and she had to be removed from the competition.” He shook his head sadly. “I reviewed the footage exhaustively, Miss Bishop, and I swear no one was close enough to have touched her. Yet, she is clearly seen to suddenly jerk forward just as she’s leaning into the oven.”
“She slipped,” Bishop said with a snort. “After it happened, the woman probably thought she could sue the show and make more money than if she won the contest. So, she came up with the story of being pushed.”
“Perhaps, but she is adamant that she was pushed. The lawyer who represented her has pictures of her lower back, taken in the back of the ambulance while she was on the way to the hospital. Two small handprints are faintly visible, as if someone had slapped her.”
Bishop chewed on her lower lip as she considered the new information. It certainly made fraud less believable, unless the woman had somehow convinced an EMT to fake the marks. The lure of the spotlight had convinced good people to do some seriously shady things before and would again. But she didn’t think that was what had happened here. “You said something else has already happened this year?”
Terry nodded. “Even though there was only the one incident last season, I decided it might be a good idea to shift the location of the show again. It has become a bit of a schtick for us, I suppose. I considered Los Angeles, but my friends told me the member of the Nine on the west coast was not as easy to reach as the one here in San Antonio. So, I decided to film here this season, at the Hill Country Resort on the northeast side of town.”
Bishop whistled, knowing the place and how expensive it could be to get a room there. It was also adjacent to the golf course where a PGA event was held every year. “Swanky.”
The cyclops smiled and turned his shining blue eye back toward her. “Quite, but well within our budget considering our viewership numbers last year. We get quite a deal on the rates, considering the exposure we provide the location that hosts the show, as well.”
“I’m sure,” Bishop laughed, unsurprised. “Sorry you moved it here and found I was the only one available to help out.”
“Richard speaks highly of you,” Terry said, nodding toward the bartender who was chatting with several other patrons farther down the bar. “He says you may not have the abilities of the member of the Nine who calls this town home, but that you are one of his Knights.”
She felt an embarrassed flush on her cheeks while also feeling a surge of pride. “Yeah, I am.”
He considered her again for a few moments before nodding. “Good, because I need all the help I can get. While arranging the set this week, two of our crew were injured in an accident that never should have occurred. They were assembling the cooking stations for the contestants, which consist of a long counter with a stove, cabinets, and small fridge. One of our electricians was burned when the wires he was connecting suddenly went live despite being turned off at the main panel. Another crew member was injured when the countertop he was installing suddenly slipped off the supports and crashed down on his leg. Those countertops are granite and weigh quite a bit more than you might expect, and it broke his femur.”
Bishop thought it wasn’t entirely unexpected to have a few accidents during set up. Especially if the workers were being hurried along so filming could be started as quickly as possible to minimize costs.
Terry’s next words negated that possibility. “We film on the weekends, in an effort to provide minimal disruption to our contestants’ lives. They fly in Friday evening, we film all day Saturday and on Sunday morning, and then they go home. What I’d like is to have you around during those sessions, so that you can spot any potential causes for the issues that continue to plague our production.”
She took a deep breath. What he was asking would tie her up in San Antonio for months, when she’d been expecting to be relieved so she could return to New York within two weeks. She’d been looking forward to seeing Dahlish again, and breaking heads alongside Nyk as they raided another Rosu hideout. But…WWDD. What Would Dahlish Do? She thought he would never turn away someone in need, especially when it seemed like doing so was likely to result in more injuries.
“You’ll have to put me on the payroll,” she said. “Both to make it official so no one questions my presence, and so people will follow my orders if I spot the cause for your problems.”
A bright smile appeared on his face. “We already have an opening for head of security, hoping you’d agree to help out. You might get some pushback from the director and other producers, but everyone else will know to do as they’re told.”
He held out a hand, and she shook to seal the deal. Worst case, she’d be getting paid to watch the magic happen behind the scenes of one of her favorite shows for a couple of months.
* * * * *
Bishop pulled up to the valet stand in front of the massive resort, and one of the young people manning the podium hurried over to open the door for her. She felt touched by the gesture but restrained herself to a small nod of appreciation as she got out of the Mustang. She grabbed her duffel bag from the trunk before the car was driven away, and then headed for the revolving door. As part of the gig, she also got a room at the resort for two nights each weekend, so she could be close to the production. As head of security, she was ostensibly in charge of keeping the set secure between filming sessions, though someone else would handle those duties during the week. She’d spend those days handling other issues across San Antonio for her regular job.
It took no more than a few minutes to check in and receive her key. Her room was low in the tower near the courtyard where the gigantic tent had been set up for filming. She could see it from the windows of her oversized room, and she snorted at the gawking spectators who stood around watching crew members prep the set for the arrival of the contestants the next morning.
After unpacking, Bishop decided to check out the set before it got absurdly crowded by the film crews and contestants. She wished she could walk in and immediately know if there was a Nox responsible the way Dahlish could, but she trusted her own senses to tell her if something strange was really happening. She hadn’t ruled out the idea of human sabotage for monetary reasons. After all, the ratings for the show had gone up with each “accident”, which could have been the reason behind them. That wouldn’t explain the issues during set up, but simple carelessness would.
As she left the hotel lobby through doors that led out onto the large lawn at the rear of the resort, she was confronted by an absurdly muscled man wearing a black t-shirt that was several sizes too small for him. “Private function,” he said in a strangely high-pitched voice that made her think of a teenager who hadn’t reached puberty yet. “You’ll need to use the doors farther down the lobby.”
She stared him up and down, shaking her head. If this was what Terry and the other producers considered security, it was no wonder someone was able to sabotage the set. Guys like this were okay as bouncers, where their size could intimidate most people, but they didn’t have the training to work real security gigs. “I’m Anne Bishop.”
His face changed instantly, and he almost seemed to deflate in front of her eyes. She snorted at the hopeful expression that met her introduction. “Thank God you’re here, ma’am. We already had another incident this morning.”
“Just call me Bishop,” she said, cringing at anyone who looked to be the same age calling her ma’am. “What happened?”
“Joey, one of the stagehands, was setting up the rig for the sound pickups over each station. The ladder he was on tipped over, but everyone swears it was steady and on flat ground.”
Bishop sighed, thinking that at least she wouldn’t have a chance to get bored on her first day. “Were any of the cameras rolling and pointed in his direction?”
The hulk beside her shook his head, an incredible feat on such a thick neck that looked immobile. “The overhead cameras are set up but won’t roll until tomorrow.”
“Show me,” she said simply, waving for the security guard to lead the way.
He started to walk toward the large white tent, and then came to a sudden stop. “Oh! Uh, I should probably check your ID, and make sure you’re really Anne Bishop. Sorry, ma’am.”
“Call me ma’am again, and you will be,” she said with a tight smile. She pulled her ID from the rear pocket of her jeans, already expecting someone to want to check it at least once.
“Cool, you’re good, ma’am. Uh, Miss Bishop.”
“Just Bishop. Should I have a badge or something, so everyone knows I’m with the show?”
“Yes, ma… Bishop. We’ll head there first.”
He shifted course to lead her to a smaller tent set up beside the large one. A couple of normal-sized people wearing black t-shirts with “SECURITY” written on back in yellow milled around there, and they snickered as the hulk led her toward a table where she had to sign in and present her ID once more. Bishop looked over at the tittering idiots, deciding that her first order of business would be to impart some sort of professionalism into the people hired to watch over the filming location.
She hung the lanyard she was given over her neck, chuckling to herself at the thought that while Dahlish got to wear a fancy coin, she was given a shiny badge with her name and a picture on it that Terry must have pulled from somewhere on the internet. She twisted the badge around to look, and grimaced as she realized it was her headshot from just after the Academy graduation. The woman in the photo looked far younger and more naïve than Bishop had felt in a long time.
“Lead on,” she said, gesturing to the large man at her side. Add another eighteen inches of height, she thought, and he could compete against Nyk for number of muscles. The bounty hunter’s looked far more natural and less chemically-induced, though. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Everyone calls me The Kid,” he said in a surly tone that suggested he didn’t like the nickname but had resolved himself to it.
Bishop eyed him again. He was a little shorter than average, but she didn’t think anything about him would earn that kind of nickname. “Why do they call you that?”
“My voice,” he said, flushing with embarrassment. “I know I sound like a teenager, but I can’t help it.”
“Uh huh.” Professionalism just moved way up her list. “What’s your real name?”
“Bryan.”
“Good to meet you, Bryan. I have to admit I might have underestimated you on first sight.”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Everyone does. I guess they think brains turn into muscle or something.” He grinned at her, exposing a gap between his front teeth that was somehow endearing. One massive arm swept aside a heavy white cloth. “This is the set for the show.”
She brushed past him to go through the opening, then stopped to stare in fascination at the familiar scene she’d watched on TV so many nights. Twelve stations were set up in front of her, six on each side of the tent, all facing the far side. They consisted of the familiar white granite countertop, with an array of cabinets and appliances beneath. Beyond them, she could see the opening to a smaller tent where the host and judges could relax while the contestants were busy cooking for whatever challenge had been presented.
“The ladder was right here,” Bryan said, pointing to a spot in front of the closest righthand station. “The only other people in the tent were working over there,” he said, pointing toward the front of the tent. “They heard him shout before he fell, but no one was close enough to have caused it.”
“No one saw it happen?”
“No, ma… Bishop. They were running wires under the floor for the microphones. From where they were bent over, the stations at the front of the tent blocked their view.”
She stamped on the floor under her feet, finding it much harder and more rigid than she’d been expecting. It made sense, though, since the producers wouldn’t want contestants tripping over canvas floors that could bunch up with frequent passage.
Bishop crinkled her nose, picking up a strange scent on the air. “Have they already started cooking in here?”
“Not until tomorrow. I think someone fired up the ovens on Tuesday to make sure everything is working, but they haven’t been touched since then.”
She almost blurted out that she smelled something sour and bitter, then bit her tongue as she realized it was the kind of enigmatic statement Dahlish would make. She swore that man liked to be as mysterious and frustrating as possible, sometimes. “What did Joey say? Did he know what caused his ladder to topple?”
“Um, he got knocked out, Bishop. His head clipped a countertop on the way down. The medical team called in an ambulance right away. He woke up as they were taking him away, but he wasn’t all there yet, if you know what I mean.”
She nodded, quite familiar with the results of head injuries. It was likely his memories of the fall would be hazy, if they still existed at all. “Give me a little time to look everything over, and then I want an all-hands meeting in here with the security team.” Bishop pulled out her phone to glance at the time. “In thirty minutes. Spread the word, Bryan.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said excitedly, disappearing though the flap that looked like smooth wall once he had released it. That explained why she never noticed the potential opening while watching the show.
Bishop wandered around the tent, fighting amusement over the way Bryan had proved to be a shy young man instead of the tough ultra-alpha male she’d expected when she saw all the muscles. She didn’t like the others on the security team picking on him, either. Often, such nicknames were given in good fun and enjoyed by everyone, but this time she could tell it had been an act of malice. As if they couldn’t help picking on the quiet one, even though he could have broken them like matchsticks if he’d had a more forceful disposition.
She ran a hand across one of the counters as she passed, sucking in a breath as she got a strong static shock. Her fingers flew through the air as she tried to shake off the sharp tingles, and she added a mental note to have the electricians recheck everything. The last thing they needed was one of the contestants getting shocked like that in the middle of filming.
Standing at the front of the tent, smiling as she realized it was the same position the host and judges would take at the beginning of each episode, Bishop cast her eyes around the darkened tent. It was illuminated only by the light shining through the thick white canvas, since the clear plastic sides were currently covered to keep curious looky-loos from peering in. There was enough light for her to see every inch of the tent, however, and she set about committing it to memory. If anything shifted in the slightest, she wanted to be aware of it almost immediately.
“It’s quite the thing to see in person, isn’t it?”
Bishop whirled to find Terry standing just inside the open flap from the smaller front room. She snorted and nodded. “It looks bigger on TV.”
The cyclops chuckled. “The sets always do. What do you think so far?”
“It’s a hazardous place to work,” she said. “You heard about the stagehand?”
Terry’s lips tightened in something akin to sadness. “I did. Joey has worked on my shows for years, and I know him to be a responsible and thoughtful man. He wouldn’t have set up a ladder in such a way that it could topple beneath him.”
“Other shows?” Bishop asked, wondering if that’s how he’d made the money to finance something like On The Boil.
“I’ve been in television for more than thirty years, Miss Bishop. I started out as one of the crew, running errands for the directors and producers, and worked my way up to more important positions. I became a producer fifteen years ago, helping to finance a small reality show that started off as an internet show. The buzz was good, and it got picked up by one of the cable channels.”
