A/N1: Yeah, if Tyler Martin owned Chuck, maybe he would make some kind of weird psychedelic movie while on acid. With lizards playing the main characters, I guess. Fear and Loathing in Burbank.
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Martin, his hands trembling and tears in his eyes, took a bottle of vodka from the table and spent almost half a minute chugging from it. Putting down the bottle and wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he said, "I still can't believe 'e's dead. We were mates from when we were little. I don't know what I'm going to do without 'im. I don't have a clue how to run the business side of what I do. I can make music, but turning that into … well, money? That's a mystery. Gav was the best. He always looked out for me, no matter what."
Martin kept crying as he reminisced about his friend and manager.
"An not just me. 'E always got me to 'elp with all the charity stuff we do. Good lad 'e was. Savin' the world and whatnot. A bleedin' saint 'e was. See? Gav would get me a tattoo whenever we did something charity-like." Martin pulled back his shirt sleeve and showed a tattoo of a loaf of bread. "This was for the time we did a benefit concert for the people starving in Ethiopia." He pulled up the other sleeve and showed a tattoo of a tent. "And this one was for refugees in...well, I don't remember where it was, but they were refugees." He pulled off his shirt and said, pointing to the back of his right shoulder, "This one was from an award I got for helping the London homeless." The tattoo was of a house, or, probably, a home. He twisted around to show his other shoulder. "And this one is from a donation to a school we made in Cairo just last week."
Chuck said, "Ummm...Tyler, there's nothing there."
He pointed to his shoulder again and said, "No, Chuck. Right there."
"Chuck's right. There's nothing there. No tattoo," said Sarah.
Tyler twisted his head around, trying and failing to look at his own back. "No, don't be daft. There's a tattoo there. I just got it last week."
"Maybe it's somewhere else?" suggested Chuck. "Maybe you are just not remembering it right."
Martin got up from the couch and looked at his back in the mirror.
"Bloody weird. I could've sworn that's where the bloke put it. Aw well. Anyway," he pulled his shirt back on. "Gav was wonderful that way. Always lookin' out for folks who needed it. Who were less fortunate. Although I guess everyone is less fortunate than me." He shrugged. "Real inspiration 'e was."
There was a knock at the door. Sarah went to the door and looked through the peephole. She had had her weapon in her hand in case the other side of the door contained an unpleasant surprise, but holstered it when she saw who was knocking.
"It's the police, Tyler."
"Aw, shit. Can't we do this tomorrow?" he whined.
"I'm sorry, Tyler. I know how hard this must be for you," said Chuck. "But you've got to talk to the detectives. They've been super patient. If you want to catch the guy that did this to your buddy, this is the best way to help."
"Come on, Tyler," encouraged Sarah. "Can I let them in?"
"Alright, alright. Just let me take something to calm down first," he said, moving to a bag in the corner of the hotel room.
Sarah said, "Calm you down? You just drank half a bottle of vodka."
Martin looked at her with a sudden crooked grin, his tears still wetting his cheeks, and said, "I was thirsty."
He reached into the bag, pulled out a bottle of pills, removed a small tablet and popped it into his mouth.
"Ok. Let the constables in, please, Sarah."
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A couple of hours earlier, things at the Studio had been chaotic. Fitz had joined the head of the Studio's security force to liaise with the LAPD SWAT team when they arrived. A quick study of the security cameras had shown that, contrary to the initial reports, there was no active shooter situation. The single shooter had been tracked by the cameras as he left the Studio through a gap in the fence and disappeared at a run into the Burbank streets.
As the SWAT guys were replaced by regular uniformed officers and EMT's and crime scene personnel, the security force from the Studio led them to Building Six, where the two dead men could be found.
Just as the head of Studio security was beginning to lead the LAPD away, Booker and Chen arrived. Fitz sent the other man on ahead with the rest of the police while he took care of the detectives. With a smile and a wave, Fitz walked out to greet them.
"Hey, fellas. Good to see you," he said to them.
"Hello, Fitz. Good to see you too. I hardly recognized you without all the guns," said Booker with a smile, shaking the big man's hand.
Putting a large hand on the detective's shoulder, Fitz grinned and said, "Who said I don't have any guns?" They laughed and Fitz said, "Good luck that you guys caught this one."
"No luck. When we heard it was at the Studio we figured we'd better volunteer for it. Knowing the cast of characters, after all," said Booker.
"Yeah. That makes sense," said Fitz. "The less guys in the know about our situation, the better."
"So, tell us what's going on." said Chen as they turned to walk through the Studio to the crime scene.
"Not too sure. Doesn't have anything to do with the real work we do..." said Fitz.
"The spy shit?" asked Booker, with a grin of his own.
"Yeah, the spy shit. At least not that we know of. Looks from what I've seen like it was an attempted hit on the rock star Tyler Martin. The shooter took out a bodyguard and Martin's manager. Martin himself ran for it and literally bumped into Chuck and Sarah, who protected him. The shooter split when he saw their weapons. Not interested in a fair fight."
"Angry husband or something?" asked Chen.
"No. From the video it looks professional. Had a can on the end of the pistol. A suppressor," said Fitz.
"You say he split. Any idea where?" asked Booker.
"Security cams followed him. Found a gap in the Studio's fencing and slipped through into the streets. The uniformed officers who replaced the SWAT guys were told and have a rough description from the video feeds. Your guys should already have the BOLO out."
They arrived at the scene. The EMT's had nothing to do and quietly left. Officers were interviewing people while the forensics folks did their jobs around the bodies of the two dead men.
Leaving Fitz standing to the side, the detectives went first to the two bodies. They were careful not to touch anything.
Fitz's phone rang. Taking it out of his pocket, he said, "Hi, Sarah...actually yeah. It's Booker and Chen, from a few weeks ago...right here. Hang on."
He leaned over to Booker and said, "Sarah for you."
Booker took Fitz's phone and said, "Hi, Sarah. Hear you're a hero again."
"Just trouble prone, Alan. Listen, Martin is coming apart at the seams. Ok if Chuck and I take him to his hotel and you interview him there?"
"Where's he staying?" Booker asked.
"The Amarano," replied Sarah.
"Yeah, sure. It'll take us at least another hour or two here. Just don't let him run away, please."
"Thanks. We'll keep an eye on him until you guys show up. See you soon," she said.
"Great. See you soon," he said and handed the phone back to Fitz with a nod.
Turning to Chen he said, "Chuck and Sarah are taking Martin back to his hotel to calm down. We can talk to him there later when we finish here."
"Right. Come here a sec. Look at this," said Chen, pointing to the body which had landed on its back. Chen pointed to the hole in the forehead with the tip of a pen.
Booker said, "Tiny."
"Yeah," said Chen. "A .22. Fitz was right. This was professional. Only a real pro would use that. You've got to be really, really good to make consistent kill shots with something that small."
"Arrogance," said Booker. "You're just showing off at that point."
Chen barked out a short laugh, looking for the shell casings he thought would be there. He found one. He didn't move it. The crime scene guys would do that after photographing it. But he looked at it closely. Yup, a .22 caliber. A professional's weapon.
He looked up at Fitz, still standing to the side. "I think your judgement was right, Fitz. Hitter was using a .22."
"Pro," said Fitz. "The Mossad uses them for hits."
"Hummm," said Chen.
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A couple of hours later, at Martin's hotel suite, Sarah opened the door to her friends, the detectives.
With a smile of greeting, she said, "Hi, Luke. Hi Alan."
As the detectives entered, she gave each of them a kiss on the cheek. "Hey, Sarah," they greeted her. "Hey, Chuck."
"Fellas," said Chuck with a wave.
Martin said to Chuck, surprised, "You know the cops?"
"Sure. We live here, right?" replied Chuck.
"Guess," said Martin. He stuck his hand out to the newcomers to the hotel suite. "I'm Tyler Martin."
Shaking hands, Booker said, "Detective Booker and this is Detective Chen. We'd like you to tell us what happened today."
"Right, right, right," said Martin. "'Ave a seat," he said, gesturing at the sofa. "Drink?"
"No, thank you," said Chen as they sat.
"Me mate was killed," said Martin. "That's what happened."
"Two men were killed," said Booker.
"Right. Danny too. But Gav and I were..." Martin stopped for a moment to collect himself. "...we were friends. Mates. From when we were little. 'E was my manager."
"Gavin Khalil," said Chen.
"Right. Khalil. His granda was from Egypt and worked with Monty's Army in the war. Moved to London afterwards, married, and had Gav's dad. We grew up together. Best mates."
"And today...?" prompted Booker.
"Right. We were taking a break from shooting the vid. I had fired the dance man and was in the little room they gave us to change and whatever. 'E..."
"Mr. Khalil?" asked Chen.
"Yes. Gav. 'E came to talk to me. We heard Danny outside the door trying to stop someone and get dead for 'is trouble. The door opened and that bastard was there. Gav lunged at 'im and … and..." Martin started to cry again.
Sarah got him a box of tissues from the hotel's bathroom.
"Thank you," he said, taking a tissue and wiping at his eyes. "The bastard shot Gav. And I ran away. I made it outside the building and kept running until I found Chuck and Sarah here. They … they stood between me and the gunman. They have their own guns, but I guess you know that since you're friends. When he saw them he ran away himself."
Chen looked up at Chuck and Sarah, who nodded in confirmation.
"What did he look like?" asked Booker.
"Older fella. Maybe 40? 50? Pale. Blonde hair. Clean shaven. Oh, and pale eyes. I don't know what color they were, but they were really pale colored."
"Wearing?" asked Chen as he and Booker took notes.
"Jacket and baseball cap," he said.
"Colors?" asked Chen.
"Jacket was black. Cap was blue," said Martin.
"Any insignia on the cap?"
"Um, yeah. Something white, I think," said Martin.
Booker showed him something on his phone and said, "Like this?"
"Yeah," said Martin.
"Dodgers," said Booker. "Local baseball team. It's a pretty common cap around here."
"Ah," said Martin.
"Mr. Martin, this attack has the mark of a professional job. Is there someone who wants you dead?" asked Chen.
"Me? I don't know. Music critics? The fathers of some of the groupie girls? No husbands...at least none I know of, I don't do that shit. Marriage is sacred. Housekeepers from all the hotel rooms I trash. I may be a rum-soaked narcissist, but I'm just a musician, guys. Don't do political shit. Don't deal with more drugs than I can consume myself. I pay my bills, at least I think I do, since Gav did that."
Chuck said, "On Facebook there's a page called 'I Want to Kill Tyler Martin.' Not that I'm a member. That's just wrong."
Martin scoffed dismissively. "Ah, bunch of stupid gits. My bodyguards keep an eye on that. They don't like the music. Whatever. Don't listen to it if you don't like it. So, my answer, detective, is that I have no idea of who wants me dead. But it's insane. It's bloody insane."
"Yes, Sir," said Chen. "Could there be something in your business dealings?"
"Gav handled all of that. You're welcome to look at all my business dealings. If I have anything to hide, I don't know about it." He started to laugh at himself. "Guess if I don't even know myself, I can't hide it, can I?"
"Thank you, Mr. Martin. We'll let you know if that's going to be necessary," said Chen.
"No problem, lads. Won't be the first time I've had the coppers crawling up my arse. Bloody hell, not even the first time this week," he said with a sardonic grin and a shake of the head.
Booker and Chen glanced at each other. "How so?" asked Booker.
"Aw, not you lot. The Egyptians. Just came here to Cleveland after finishing up a concert in Cairo."
"You're in Los Angeles," said Sarah.
He looked at her with a smile and said, "I'm dyslexic. Anyway, on the way out of Egypt me and the band were held at the airport for over seventeen hours while the Egyptian authorities searched every stitch of clothing, every piece of paper, every guitar pick, every bloody thing we had and then did it all over again from scratch. Polite buggers, I'll give 'em that. But short of shoving a finger up my bumhole, they checked us all out from top to bottom. Gav was screaming bloody murder the whole time. Threatening to get the Embassy involved. Get the press involved. Whatever. Finally worked and they let us go."
"Did they find anything?" asked Booker.
"Oh, 'ell no. I'm smarter than that. Strict rules. No drugs cross the borders. Use it in place or flush it, but never try to move around with it. None of the band or the crew. That's the last thing we need. Tyler Martin arrested on drug charges. And in a Muslim country, no less? 'Oly fuck. Not me. No way. Mrs. Martin's boy is smarter than that."
"Is that what they were looking for?" asked Chen.
"Of course. What else?" Martin looked surprised at the question.
The two detectives looked back and forth at each other and neither could come up with a more reasonable explanation.
"Mr. Martin, is there anything else you can tell us?"
"Tell you? No. But I have a question. What do you lads think if I posted a reward to catch this bastard? Five million pounds to whoever gives the lead to you lads? I really want him in the electric chair."
"Can't hurt, Mr. Martin," said Booker, with a shrug.
"But we don't have the death penalty in California," said Booker.
"No? Pity," said Martin, shaking his head with regret.
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A/N2: Why did Chen believe he'd find shell casings when no one had told him if the weapon used was a revolver or a semi-automatic pistol? Well, he knew it was a semi-automatic (which would eject the spent shell casings) because of the suppressor. Suppressors don't work on revolvers because the loud expansion of the propellant gases squirts out the side of the weapon, rather than through the suppressor at the end of the barrel. If you see any movie or TV show showing a revolver with a suppressor, please roll your eyes and scoff.
A/N3: My son has a buddy out in Colorado with multiple tattoos. When I met him in April of 2020, he told me he had a covid tattoo. As I was curious, he pulled up his shirt sleeve. It was a tattoo of a little bottle of Purell. Classic.
A/N4: Another step in the mystery. What do you guys think?