Kindle Edition
Amazon
Angel of Mercy by Tim Knox
Amazon
Category:
Mystery/Suspense
Publisher: Create Space
ISBN-10: 1478314672
Type: Fiction
Pages: 371
Copyright: January 2013
ISBN-13: 9781478314677
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
When Dr. Adrian Zoebel is accused, then cleared of mercy-killing twelve patients LA Times Reporter Matthew Cruze is determined to uncover the truth.
When Dr. Adrian Zoebel, the rich, handsome cancer specialist twice voted one of L.A.'s Most Eligible Bachelors, is accused of ending the lives of twelve of his terminally-ill patients, L.A. Times investigative reporter Matthew Cruze is determined to uncover the truth.
But before Cruze can start digging Hollywood mega-producer Marc Cronenburg rushes to Zoebel's defense and secludes the good doctor in his Malibu mansion. Cronenburg uses his considerable political clout to not only get the charges against Zoebel dropped, but to also get the medically-assisted suicide laws changed in California. Why the sudden interest in the right-to-die movement? Cronenburg is known for creating ultra-violent reality shows, not for his compassion for the sick and dying.
It becomes crystal clear when Cronenburg and Zoebel team up to create Angel of Mercy, a weekly reality show where terminally-ill guests vie for the chance to die at the practiced hand of their host, Dr. Adrian Zoebel. Three years later, Matthew Cruze is still obsessed with Zoebel's alleged crimes. It doesn't help that Angel of Mercy is the number one television show on the planet and Zoebel is an international superstar.
Then a ghost from Zoebel's past appears at Cruze's door in the middle of the night, offering to reveal the dark truth about Zoebel's victims; a truth that guarantees more people will die, perhaps even Matthew Cruze.
Excerpt
According to Wikipedia, Cronenburg Entertainment is the largest independent television studio in the world, covering nearly a hundred and fifty acres in the old studio district on the outskirts of Burbank, California. It’s also one of the most profitable studios in the world, independent or otherwise, with thirteen of the Top 20 shows in the US and another dozen or so in the Top 10 abroad, all of the reality genre, with a combined-revenue of over a billion dollars a year.
That’s why I was a little surprised to find that the outside of the place had all the charm of an Arkansas prison. The entire complex was surrounded by a tall chain link fence with barbed wire rolled along the top and little red signs every ten feet that warned of the dangers of electrical shock. There was a double gate with a guard shack on the Warner Boulevard side, but no signage that identified the place, which is why I missed the entrance the first time and had to circle back around.
I pulled up to the guard shack and lowered the window. Two serious-looking men in tan uniforms with compact pistols clipped to their belts stepped out and gave me the eye. Each carried a handheld computer. One went to the rear of my car to tap in my tag number while the other leaned down to peer inside the window.
The sun was in my eyes as I looked up at him. I shielded my face with a hand and said, “You guys ever think about maybe putting up a sign?”
I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I could tell he wasn’t amused by the tone of his voice. “Something I can help you with?”
“Matthew Cruze, Los Angeles Times,” I said, holding up my worn press credentials. I wasn’t actually there representing the Times. It was just a habit, holding up the little plastic card that made me sound much more important than I actually was. Not that it mattered to this guy. I was just an interruption to his day, just a name on a list.
I said, “I have an appointment with Mr. Cronenburg.”
He tapped the screen and slid a thick finger down a list until he found my name. He nodded toward a parking lot to the right of the entrance. “Pull into a visitor’s spot and come back here. I’ll get you a badge and escort you in.”
I parked as instructed, retrieved my bag from the backseat, and headed back to the shack. The guard gave me a plastic visitor’s badge that I clipped to my shirt pocket and had me scratch my name on the handheld with a stylus. I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed him toward the entrance to the main building; a five-story stucco with mirrored-glass windows and doors. When we reached the lobby he opened the door and nodded toward a reception desk.
“She’ll help you.”
The receptionist gave me a polite smile. Again, I automatically held up the press card and said, “Matthew Cruze to see Mr. Cronenburg.”
She glanced at the visitor’s badge and told me to wait a moment. She held a slender finger to the earpiece in her ear and punched a couple of numbers on the phone.
“There’s a Mr. Cruze is in the lobby to see Mr. Cronenburg. Sure, I’ll let him know.” She nodded toward the waiting area. “Mr. Cronenburg is on a call, but someone will be right with you. You can wait there.”
There were a dozen people parked in the lobby. Most of them were talking, but not to each other. Cellphones in ears and iPads on laps had their focus. I set my bag on the floor at my feet and gave the place a look around.
As nondescript as the exterior was, there was no doubt what went on inside. The lobby walls were covered with framed posters of Cronenburg’s shows. He was a pioneer in what was called “violent-reality”. Angel of Mercy, Real Boys In The Hood, Ultimate Cage Match, American Hitman, American Militia, Gang Wars, Running Man 2013, Swimming With Sharks, Last Man Standing, Teenage Gang Bangers, Death Race 2013, Drug Cartel Housewives, Terrorist Hunters, The Executioners, Bring ‘em Back Dead or Alive, Shotgun Repo, and my personal favorite, Animals That Eat Their Owners.
My eyes lingered on the larger-than-life image of Dr. Adrian Zoebel, host of Angel of Mercy and the biggest star in the Cronenburg sky. He was shown from the waist up, big smile, eyes twinkling, blue scrubs with a stethoscope draped around his neck, shaved, muscular arms folded over his chest.
The Angel of Mercy logo was at the top of the poster; the slogan “He’s changing lives!” at the bottom. He’s changing lives, seriously? Changing lives by putting an end to them was the version of the slogan I had used in my book that had the same title as his show. I was still a little surprised that Cronenburg let me get away with that one without a call from his lawyer.
It was easy to see why female viewers – who I was sure made up the majority of Zoebel’s audience — would be attracted to the good doctor. I don’t even think he had to be Photoshopped for the poster, he was that good looking. Square jaw, dark skin, bright blue eyes, perfect teeth. There was no shortage of women who would throw themselves at the good doctor given the chance. Even Charles Manson and the Menendez Brothers got marriage proposals while in prison. Women love bad boys. Especially L.A. women. Maybe that was why I was still single. Probably not.
Across the lobby a set of elevator doors opened and a pretty girl who didn’t look like she was spat from the Hollywood mold headed my way. She was wearing faded jeans and a black t-shirt with the Blue Man Group on the front and a pair of black Converse tennis shoes with lavender trim. She wasn’t like other girls you’d meet in Los Angeles on any given day. Her makeup was modest, not slathered on with a trowel. She wasn’t pierced anywhere that I could see other than her earlobes or wearing clothes that were three sizes too small. There were no overinflated boobs struggling to break free from the top of her blouse and no Botox tracks on her face. She was a natural beauty, with welcoming green eyes that were aimed in my direction.
I got to my feet and took her outstretched hand. It felt nice; soft and warm. I never know how hard to shake a woman’s hand. I shook it like a limp noodle. She pulled her hand back and smiled. She said, “Mr. Cruze, I’m Sierra Simms, executive producer for Angel of Mercy. I hope we haven’t kept you waiting long.”
“No, not long at all. I just got here, in fact.” I was stuttering. Christ, I was smooth with the ladies. I said, “I’m supposed to have a meeting with Marc.”
“Right, he’s on a call and asked me to bring you up to his office. Would you follow me please?”
I picked up my bag and followed her to the elevator. She pressed the button for the third floor. She glanced sideways at me and said, “I assume you’ve been here before?”
“No, I’ve been to Marc’s office in Studio city, but this is my first time here,” I said. “I almost missed the place, had to circle back around. Maybe you can get them to put up a sign.”
The elevator slowed to the third floor. She said, “Marc likes to keep things very low key on the outside. Helps cut down on the number of people hanging around waiting to catch a glimpse of their favorite reality star.”
“You mean Adrian Zoebel.”
“Adrian and a number of other stars who are here frequently,” she said. “This complex is home to all of Marc’s shows, so we have a number of famous faces who come and go through those gates.”
The doors parted and there was a stunning redhead waiting there. Sierra introduced her as Marc’s assistant. “Lisa will take you to Marc’s office,” Sierra said, keeping the elevator door open with her finger on the button. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”
“I certainly hope so,” I said, though I didn’t know why we would. The redhead turned in her high heels and led me through a glass door and down a long hallway to Cronenburg’s oversized corner office.
“Ah, Matthew, come on in.” Cronenburg moved from behind a large glass desk and stuck out his hand. He was wearing wrinkled chinos and a black Polo with the collar upturned. His feet were bare on the thick carpet. There was a pair of well-worn loafers kicked off in front of the desk. I did not see socks. He didn’t look like the most powerful man in the business, but looks can be deceiving. He let go of my hand and motioned for me to sit in one of the overstuffed chairs in front of the desk.
It had been a couple of years since I’d seen him up close. He was in his mid-forties now, a little grey showing at the temples, some faint webbing at the corners of the eyes, but still a good looking guy, even by Hollywood standards. He had a welcoming demeanor that made you like him immediately, no matter how hard you tried not to. And there was the rub. I did like Marc Cronenburg, even though he had more than once threatened me with bodily harm and financial ruin. He smiled as if he knew what I was thinking.
The desk was relatively neat except for a menagerie of origami animals, a couple dozen or so, made from hundred dollar bill. Swans, giraffes, elephants, cranes, frogs, and a single rhinoceros; all perfectly folded and tucked to perfection. Cronenburg caught me looking at them. He picked up the rhino and smiled.
“Little hobby of mine,” he said. “I like to keep my hands busy.”
“You’re very talented,” I said.
He feigned modesty. “Ah, it’s just folded paper.”
He gently put the rhino back in place and leaned back with his fingers laced behind his head. He smiled at me like a long lost friend. “So, Matthew Cruze, it’s been a while. I’ve missed you.”
“Like a dog misses a flea, I’d expect,” I said. “Last time we spoke you threatened to rip off my head and use it as a soccer ball.”
“We say things in the heat of the moment we don’t really mean,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m cool if you are.”
“I’ll let you know how cool I am after this conversation,” I said. “Why am I here?”
“I thought you and I should map out a few things if you’re going to be working with Adrian,” he said. There was a notepad computer on the desk. He slid it in front of him and tapped on the screen. “What’s your schedule like for the next couple of months? Are you relatively flexible?”
I held up a hand to slow him down. “What are you talking about?”
His forehead wrinkled. No Botox yet. Good for him.
He said, “Adrian’s autobiography. I want you to co-author it.”
I shook my head to make sure I was hearing right. “Excuse me?”
“Adrian’s autobiography.” He looked confused. “I want you to co-author it.”
“Sorry, Marc. I don’t do ghostwriting.”
“I don’t want you to ghostwrite it, dummy,” he said, the smile coming back. “I want you to co-author, as in your name on the cover below Adrian’s and a picture of the two of you on the back like old pals. I talked to your literary agent in New York about it this morning. Didn’t he tell you?”
“I don’t know anything about it,” I said. “I got the message you left for me at the Times office an hour ago, but nothing from my agent. Hang on.” I fished my phone from my jacket and found the ringer silenced. I thumbed through the menu and found several voice mails and a text message from my agent. The voicemails I’d listen to later. The text message from my agent read: Cronenburg wants you to pen Zoebel autobiography. Believe the balls on this guy? Can you work with the devil if the price is right?
I wiggled the phone at him and said, “OK, my agent says you want me to work on Adrian’s autobiography. Given our history I can’t imagine that’s true.”
“Oh, it’s true.” He leaned forward on his elbows and gave me a serious look. “Here’s the deal. Angel of Mercy is a ratings juggernaut. It’s been the number one show for three years running and Adrian Zoebel is one of the most recognizable celebrities on the planet.”
“I’m aware of his appeal,” I said.
“We have a dozen publishers battling for the rights to an Adrian Zoebel autobiography. I’m talking a deal worth twenty million dollars, minimum. All we have to do is choose a writer, deliver a good manuscript, and we all get rich.”
“You and Adrian are already rich,” I said.
“Then you get rich and we get richer. That’s even better.”
He paused, arched his eyebrows. He could tell I wasn’t ready to jump onboard just yet. He said, “Look, let me bottom-line it for you. I can seal the deal with the publisher with a phone call. I can have a million-dollar advance in escrow by Monday and can cut you an advance check for a hundred grand on Tuesday.”
“I’m really not that motivated by money, Marc.” That wasn’t quite true and we both knew it.
He swatted a hand at me. “Don’t give me that bullshit. Everybody’s motivated by money. And if the money’s not lure enough for you think about this: you will have unfettered, behind-the-scenes access to Angel of Mercy. That means access to Adrian, the production crew, producers, directors, guests; anyone you want. Think about that, Cruze. You wrote a bestselling book about Adrian. You built your reputation crucifying him in the Times, but you’ve never even met the man in person; never even been face-to-face. Here’s your chance.”
I took a moment to process it all. It felt like a weird dream, sitting there across from the infamous Marc Cronenburg, talking about co-authoring a book with the world’s biggest television star; a man I still thought was a murderer, or at the very least a man who escaped the justice I felt he deserved. How the hell could I even be considering this? And yet here I was, struggling to find a reason to say no.
“Opportunities like this don’t come along every day, Cruze,” he said. “What do you say?”
I asked the only question I could think of. “There are a thousand other writers who would give their left arm to do this project. Why me?”
His smile returned. He said, “Who better?”
|
