“No.” A look of sadness crossed his face. “Day after the holiday party for the cast and crew, he went home and blew his own brains out.”
“Damn,” Bailey said.
“Did not see that coming,” I said. I guessed we could probably scratch Tommy Maher off our suspect list.
Ned leaned forward and poked the keyboard of his computer with his thick finger. As it whirred to life, he said, “There was a blurb about it in the papers. See if I can pull it up for you.” He scrolled for a few minutes, then turned the monitor so we could see it. “Article doesn’t tell you much, but that’s the holiday picture of the cast and crew on the set.” Ned pointed to the right side of the screen. “Tommy’s the guy on the end.”
Bailey and I leaned in to get a better look. There was something about him that I couldn’t put my finger on. I tried to analyze what it was. He was of average height and size, not the look of a big bruiser who’d have the guts to knock someone down. But everything else about him fit that bill: the sour expression, hunched posture with hands shoved into his pockets; every bit of him telegraphed misery and barely restrained anger. I could see that guy getting wound up enough to coldcock someone. Or even commit suicide. I remembered one of the forensic shrinks saying that it takes a violent person to commit suicide.
I’d been staring at the photo as these thoughts circled, but then the something I couldn’t put my finger on suddenly became clear. “He looks like Brian.”
We read the obit. Sure enough, it said that Tommy Maher was survived by his wife, Estelle-and his son, Brian. Brian Shandling was Brian Maher. Had to be. It all fit. Brian taking jobs around Russell’s studio, using a fake name, getting next to Hayley. The article also mentioned that Tommy had a sister, Janice, who was an author and lived in upstate New York.
“Mind sending me this article?” Bailey asked.
“Sure.” He carefully punched a few more keys. I tried to imagine what it was like to type with fingers that big. “Done. I’m going to take a wild guess that this business with Tommy Maher’s important?”
“Might be,” Bailey replied.
He nodded. “Okay. I’ll ask around, see if there’s anyone who knew him.”
We thanked him and, to my annoyance, Bailey declined the offer of a ride back to the car.
“What’s up with nixing the ride?” I groused, once we were outside. “I dug that little golf cart. Reminded me of Autopia.”
“I hated that ride. Those cars were too slow.”
