Martinez, Margaritas and Murder!

Murder is as old as Cain and Abel.

Remember your Shakespeare?

Who does the guilty party usually turn out to be?

Someone close to home.

Explain your title to me.

What The Cat Saw.

Animals carry around terrible secrets.

That's why the killer will never see a trial.

The one sensational witness has no scientific voice.

And the unsensational one?

The unsensational what?

There are two eyewitnesses to the murder.

Inside that apartment.

Uh, how do you figure?

Your killer is in the throes of madness.

It takes a level head to stage a crime scene.

There has to be a second person.

What makes you think it was staged?

The coffee table.

There are three fresh rings left by three margarita glasses.

I don't mention that in my script.

No blood spatter on the cat.

If the cat is as close to the slaughter

as you say it is...

It would be covered in blood.

And brain matter.

The cat licked it off.

That much blood?

And guts?

The cat would have gotten sick.

Someone would have had to wash the cat.

And the bloody paw prints on the floor.

And the vomit.

The police found no forensic.

Anything.

No matching shoes.

No clothes.

That brings us back to the second person.

Sounds like a case I worked five years ago.

That ended in a question mark.

Wouldn't it be funny if your screenplay

was directly tied to my question mark?

This is beginning to feel like The Orient Express.

You following the butcher case?

The bedroom butcher?

Of course.

Weren't you involved with the first victim?

Jeffrey Hillsborough.

For a while, but his priorities lay elsewhere.

Where?

Bath houses.

Bathroom bars.

The steam room at the gym.

Nice guy.

He just couldn't keep his zipper up.

That explains the butcher unzipping him.

How did you meet him?

Victim number two, ironically.

Anderson Emmett.

A kindly Doctor Jekyll until the bottle ran dry.

When Mr. Hyde reared his ugly head.

Using Anderson's head as a wine cellar.

Those two other friends of yours fared a little better.

The real estate guys?

Halton and Jose.

Nice guys.

Bitchy workaholics, but not a mean bone in their bodies.

That real estate sign impaling them both

post mortem was a nice touch.

Jeez, Valentino.

What do you consider light reading?

Autopsy reports?

And the butcher's only female victim?

Joanna Paganini?

How did you know her?

She was a stylist.

I met her on set.

We hit it off and became BFFs.

I always teased her about wanting to run barefoot

through her hair.

It was the best.

Butcher didn't think so.

He removed it.

Scalped her.

All these intimate details.

Aren't you supposed to keep them under your hat?

As an actor, you've worn some murderous hats.

Which one of those hats did you relate to the most?

Victim or executioner?

If you're not careful, you'll wind up in the chamber

of horrors exhibited at Madame Tussaud's.

Their true crime section.

Your tone is more...

Addison DeWitt than Hercule Poirot.

Monsieur Hercule Poirot would ask:

It's been five years.

The criminally insane don't get weekend passes.

Or an audience with police.

We all have our weaknesses.

The keen observer zeroes in on those weaknesses

and moves in for the kill.

Checkmate.

To the blindsided Mr. Martinez...

the whistle-blowing Margaritas...

And...

murder.

And we are live.

And here she is, the star of our show.

Madame Bella, who knows where all the bodies are buried.

Prepare to surrender to the gods of ecstasy.

Bella Erica.

Bello Freddy.

Sit and praise.

Euphoria.

The Bedroom Butcher will retire

in turn in his blade if he had you at his feet.

Bella.

That tickles my scary bones, sweetie.

To think that I actually was at the feet

of every one of his victims.

Poor boys.

Seven funerals in three months.

I don't think I could take another one of my boys

getting slaughtered by the Butcher.

Promoted to the FBI's top ten today.

Relax.

Relax, Bella.

He exercises restraint.

The Butcher only strikes late at night.

And...

This isn't a bedroom.

My poor Freddy.

All of them such good friends of yours, too.

Did they pin you?

Pin?

What, tie you down?

When you're a finalist for a role in a movie or TV show,

you are pinned.

And...

No.

Oh.

Well, you have more than a damn pin to worry about.

Your ass could be the butcher's next, baby.

Or yours.

Hey.

You okay, handsome?

Yeah.

Mani? Pedi?

Massage.

I got some, uh, encouraging news today.

Decided to treat myself.

What's the news?

Promotion.

Kinda prestigious.

Cool! Awesome sauce for days!

Congratulations.

Thank you.

William B. Henry.

But you can call me Billy.

Freddy.

Freddy Martinez.

Nice to meet you.

Yeah.

Well.

Enjoy your pedi.

Bella kills it with feet.

You be careful out there, sweetie.

Yummy.

Oh my God!

To die for!

- - Right?

If looks were a crime, he would be ripe for execution.

And so sweet, too, Billy.

And he's really smart.

Did you know he designs crossword puzzles

for the Steak and Kidney Society in London?

Oh. A steak and kidney society?

Yeah, it's this group of aristocrats who get together

to concoct the perfect murder.

You could speak French with some of them.

Oh. Oui, oui.

Oui, oui!

Enchantée.

Billy is fine!

You should put him in your new murder mystery movie.

If I ever get financing.

Hey, how's my Trent doing today, huh?

My titillating Trent?

You ungrateful, plastic, tofu-eating little bitch.

You're lucky your apartment is rent-controlled,

and I'm so fond of Freddy.

You're paying for this outfit.

Like hell I am.

You're not squeezing one cent out of me.

Oh, that's right, we can't dip

into your liposuction stash now, can we?

-You little-- -You should write a D

for dry and estrogen across your has-been,

old lady big tits and your boutique moth-eating

science-fiction cooch!