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No frigging idea. Another stellar investigating job by
More or Less Investigations
. Sometimes we really missed the obvious. No one knew who the third guy was. I had to lay this one on James, but then, I always lay the blame on Lessor. And I’m almost always right.
    When the breeze died down, the warm, still evening was almost cloying. The humidity coming off the bay and the eighty-plus-degree temperature covered me in a damp coating of moisture. As I turned, ready to walk back to the trailer, I heard what sounded like a cough or someone clearing their throat. Very soft.
    Maybe a tropical bird. Maybe a motorboat starting up on the bay. Then faintly another cough, on the backside of the scaffold. Now stone-cold silence. Was someone out there watching me? Or just innocently having a cigarette break? I sniffed the air. No sign of tobacco.
    â€œIs somebody there?”
    No response.
    â€œHello?”
    Nothing.
    I considered walking toward the sound, making loud sounds like clearing my throat and stomping on the ground as I walked. I had several options, but I also possess the courage of the Tin Man. No courage at all. So I stood still for several minutes, then crept back to our trailer.
    I was convinced someone had been following me, watching me. I just didn’t have the courage to find out who it was. And then I was confused. Maybe it was the lion who wanted courage. The Tin Man wanted the heart. I figured James would remember so I didn’t worry about it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    At midnight we met Em at Primos, a trendy club in the lobby of her condo building. Crowded around a small table, I watched the bar as leggy European women in short skirts, young men with airbrushed tans, and guys and girls in jeans and T-shirts all jockeyed for position, ordering outrageously priced drinks with infused vodka or spiced rum.
    â€œGreg Handler is not Greg Handler,” I said.
    â€œIs this a riddle?” she asked.
    â€œNo. The photograph doesn’t match the description that the crew recalls. Our picture doesn’t even come close.”
    â€œThen who is he? The guy we have in the driver’s license photo?”
    â€œThe guy who is the head grip says the photo doesn’t look anything like the camera guy he met.”
    â€œMakes no sense.”
    â€œChad, the grip, says our photo looks like a bad makeup job.”
    Em smiled and rolled her eyes.
    â€œWe’re in the middle of make-believe, boys. Movie magic.Someone could make up anyone to look different. We women do it all the time.”
    â€œAnd, someone can fake a driver’s license. This entire business revolves around fooling one hundred percent of the people.” I realized Em was right. We were in the middle of make-believe.
    â€œAnd,” Em added, “so far someone seems to be doing a pretty good job of fooling everyone.”
    â€œYou talked to Clint Anders?” James wanted to make sure she was earning her third of the take.
    â€œI did, James. He was reluctant at first, but I told him I’d been hired by a third party and that I was harmless. I explained I just wanted some general information, so he agreed. The guy seemed genuinely broken up about the suicide. The death.”
    Looking at me, James said, “There’s a lot of money riding on this, amigo. You know if it was suicide, we don’t have a case.”
    â€œWell,” Em stated, “Clint thinks the man took his own life. When I talked to him, there was no question about it.”
    â€œHe was a good friend. Any reasons?”
    â€œHis marriage was over. He was distraught.”
    â€œDistraught?” James frowned. “Over a failed Hollywood marriage? Man, if everyone out there who got divorced decided to off themselves, there wouldn’t be any movie actors left. Look, he was murdered.”
    â€œOkay,” I agreed, “let’s assume he was murdered. After all, we’re collecting a nice paycheck from Ashley Amber to prove