"No."
"Why not?"
"Doesn't concern you."
"You just filed it away, what he said. And that's it?"
"No, that's not it." Healy debated for a moment. Finally he said, "The witness wasn't helpful."
"So there're no leads."
"There're leads."
"But nobody's following up on them," she said cynically. "Because of the word, right? From downtown."
"I'm following up," Healy said.
"What?" she asked quickly. "Tell me!" And she guessed he was wondering whether the date had been a good idea.
"I checked the fingerprints from the phone where the killer called her the night of the bombing."
"And--"
"Nothing. I'm also tracking the explosives. The wrapper I mentioned. I think we can trace the inventory."
"So, you going to get fired for doing all this? Because of the word from headquarters?"
"Way I figure it, the ops coordinator or precinct commander's got my phone number. They want me to stop, they can always give me a call."
Her hand closed on his shoulder. She felt a sizzle. Part of it was gratitude that he was going out on a limb to find out who'd killed Shelly. Part of it was something else.
But she concentrated on the detective part at the moment. "Look, Sam, how 'bout I help you?"
"Help me what?"
"Find the killer."
"No."
"Come on, we can be a team!"
"Rune."
"I can do stuff you can't. I mean, you have to do things legally, right?"
"Rune, this isn't a game."
"I'm not treating it like a game. You want to catch a perp." She emphasized the word to let him know she'd been around crime and criminals. Then added, "And I want to make a film." Her lips were taut. "That's not a game."
He saw that fire in her eyes. He didn't say anything else.
After a moment she asked, "Just tell me one thing."
"What?"
"Promise you'll answer."
"No."
"Please."
"Maybe," Healy said.
"What about the fingerprints?"
"I told you. They were negative."
"Not on the phone," Rune said. "On the letters? The ones from the Sword of Jesus, about the angels?"
He debated. Then said, "Whoever wrote them used gloves."
"Where was the paper from?"
"I said I'd answer one question."
"You said maybe you would. Which means you haven't ruled out answering two."
"I make the rules. I answered you. Now promise me you'll just make your movie and stay out of the investigation."
She brushed her bangs out of her eyes, then stuck her hand out. "Okay. But only if you give me exclusive press coverage."
"Deal." His large, tough hand enfolded hers. He didn't let go. For a moment the only sound was of the wind. She knew he wanted to kiss her and she was ready to kiss him back--in a certain noncommittal way. But the moment passed and he released her hand. They gazed at each other for a moment. Then he turned toward the pit.
"Come on," he said, "I'll let you throw a hand grenade, you want."
"Yeah?" she asked excitedly.
"Well, a practice one."
Rune said, "That's okay. I'll work my way up."
Through the huge backstage doorway Rune saw a construction site, not a theater.
The aroma was of sawn wood and the nose-pinching, sweet smell of paint and varnish. Lumber was in constant motion, carried by husky men in T-shirts printed with the names of long-gone Broadway plays. Cables snaked along the dusty, battered stage.
Shouts, the boom, boom, boom of hammers, the shrill screech of electric saws, routers, drills.
She walked into the wings of the stage. True, she'd painted backdrops for one high school play, as she'd told Arthur Tucker. And she had been in several pageants. But she'd never been backstage at a real theater. And she didn't realize how much space there was behind the curtain.
And what an ugly, scuffed, beat-up space it was.
A huge cavern, a massive pit in the Underworld. She made her way unnoticed to the front of the stage. Three people sat in the front row, bent over a script. Two men and a woman. Their discussion was animated. They were having a disagreement.
Rune interrupted. "Excuse me.... Are you Michael Schmidt?"
A man about forty-five looked up and his first motion was to remove his reading glasses, which had half lenses in the bottom of the frames.
"Yes?"
The others--a heavy man in a work shirt and a woman inhaling greedily on a cigarette and looking grim--had not looked up. They stared at the script as if they were identifying a body in the morgue.
Rune said, "Your office told me I could find you here."
"Did they now? I'll have to talk to someone about that." Schmidt was short, very compact, and in good shape. Rune could see his biceps squeezed by the cuffs of his close-fitting short-sleeve shirt. Though he was muscular his face looked unhealthy; his eyes were red and watery. Maybe allergies.
Maybe, she thought, CS tear gas ...
She looked around the seats near the producer for a red windbreaker and a hat. Didn't see any.
And he didn't seem to recognize her as the person he might've attacked on the pier. Still, his profession was creating the illusion of the theater....
"What do you want?" he said curtly.
Rune said, "Can I have your autograph?"
Schmidt blinked. "How the fuck did you get past security?"
"Just walked in. Please, I've always wanted your autograph."
He sighed.
"Please."
He glanced at the others, who were still staring at the script and whispering darkly. He stood. Schmidt was limping and winced once as he climbed a stained set of plywood stairs onto the stage.
She stuck her hand out. He glanced at her without a bit of expression on his face and walked past. Went to the coffee machine and poured himself a large cup. He returned, glanced again at the arguing writers, or whoever they were, and said, "Okay."
"This is so neat. Thanks." She handed him a piece of paper and a Crayola.
"To who?"
"Mom."
He scrawled some illegible words. Handed it back. Rune took it, then gazed up at him. He sniffled, blew his nose with a linen handkerchief and asked, "Anything else I can do for you, Miss Rune?" He stood with a cocked hip, looking at her, waiting.
"Okay." She put the autograph away. "I lied."
"I figured that."
"Well, I did want your autograph. But I wanted to ask you a couple questions too."
"I don't do casting. Give your resume to the--"
"I don't want to be an actress either."
He blinked, then laughed. "Well, in that case you're the only woman under twenty-five in the whole city who doesn't."
"I'm doing a film about an actress who auditioned for you. Shelly Lowe?"
Did his eyes flutter like a startled squirrel's? So maybe had he recognized her now?
He said, "I don't recall a Shelly Lowe."
"You must. I heard you almost offered her a part in this play."
He laughed, startled. "I must? Well, young lady, I don't."
"She was going to be the lead."
"There were hundreds of actresses who hoped to be the lead in this play. We finally selected one. It wasn't a Ms. Lowe. Now, if you'll--"
"She was killed."
His attention wavered. He studied some of the construction. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Which he wasn't, Rune could see. She remained silent, staring up at him.
Schmidt finally said, "And you're doing her life story?"
"Something like that. Here's her picture." Rune handed him a publicity still that Nicole had given her. He studied it with the detached interest of a bored traffic cop reading a driver's license and handed it back to her. "Don't recall her. Why do you think she auditioned for us?"
"I heard
she did."
"Ah," Schmidt said, smiling again. "Theatrical gossip. Never to be trusted."
"Then maybe you can set the record straight. You really don't remember her?"
"Miss Rune, you've got to understand. First of all, I do none of the preliminary casting myself. We have a casting director for that--"
"What's his--"
"--who is no longer with the company, and I don't know where he is. Second, most of the people who say they interview or audition with Michael Schmidt do nothing more than have their agent send a head shot and a copy of their resume to us or stand in line for an EPA or EPI that lasts ten seconds. Did this Ms. Lowe ever really audition for us? I doubt it. Did she ever audition for me? No disrespect to the dead ... but if your friend said she almost had the part"--he turned his palms upward--"she lied."
There was a loud crash nearby. A stagehand had knocked over a huge stack of two-by-fours. Schmidt turned to him, the producer's face twisted in fury. "What are you doing?"
"Sorry, Mr. Schmidt. I--"
"We're behind schedule because cretins like you don't know what on earth you're doing. One more mistake and you're out of here."
"I said I was sorry," the beefy young man said. "It was an accident."
Schmidt turned back to Rune. "Idiots all around me ... Next time you want to talk to me, call my office. Make an appointment. Although"--he turned and walked toward the stairs--"I sincerely hope there won't be a next time."
Rune watched him for a moment. Saw that as far as Michael Schmidt was concerned she had ceased to exist. She slipped backstage and paused, watching the young stagehand angrily restack the lumber that had fallen to the floor.
She yawned so hard that her jaw shivered and from her eyes sprang thick tears.
It was ten p.m. Rune sat in the L&R studio, at the Moviola--an old flatbed film editing machine--rewinding the footage for the House O' Leather commercial. Larry'd shot about an hour of the homely daughter doing retakes against the pimply backdrop. Rune was editing together chunks of the film, following Bob's notes.
Mary Jane--who Rune decided would have made someone a wonderful administrator--had left a note of her own, a long list of corrections to the estimate. She signed off with: Please aim for 8:30-ish. And remember: big day tomorrow. Let's all be bright-eyed. Ciao! M. J. C.
The door opened. Bob came in and walked right over to the gray machine, staring at the screen. He didn't say anything to her for a moment. "'Ow're they coming, luv?"
"I'll have them for you in the morning." He waved her hand away from the crank and turned it himself, studying the jerky scenes in the small screen. Rune watched his 18-karat gold bracelet as she said, "I didn't know you did daily rushes when it's just a commercial."
"We're being a little more--whatsa word?--diligent with this one. The budget and all, you know."
"How was the client dinner?"
"Guy's an old fart and his daughter ... Christ. She 'ad 'er foot up to no good, you know what I mean. On me thigh. Wanted a drink after, just the two of us. I 'ad to plead bloody exhaustion, get away from the crazy bird. And then Mary bleedin' Jane--there's an iceberg for you." He spun the knob. He frowned. "Add two more seconds of 'er before the fade. Her old man thinks she's some kinda Princess Di."
"I've already finished her sequence."
"Well, finish it again."
"Did you think about me, sitting here hungry, while you were eating a gourmet meal?"
"Ah, brung you a present."
He handed her a paper bag with a grease spot on it.
"Yeah?"
She opened it. Inside was a foil swan.
"Hey, you brought me something to go."
"Well, yeah."
She opened the swan's back. She stared down at it.
"It's leftovers, isn't it, Bob? This isn't a swan bag. It's a doggy bag."
"Thought you might like something."
Rune was poking at the contents with a pencil. "It's green beans and potatoes. That's all that's left. What went with it?"
"Dunno. May've been a steak." He stretched and for a moment looked like the cute, innocent boy he had never in his life been and walked out the door. "Eight-thirty for tomorrow, doll. 'E likes croissants, so pick up some on your way in, could you?"
The door shut behind him.
She wadded the cold potatoes up and was about to throw them out when she felt her stomach rumbling. Her hand hesitated.
"Double damn."
Rune opened the foil and then, with a glance out the window to make sure Bob had left, cued up her own videocassette on the Sony video editor next to the Moviola and started the tape. She watched it as she ate the potatoes and beans, using two pencils like chopsticks.
The shots of Danny Traub told her nothing other than that the porn producer was a stupid, egotistical, horny bastard. The shots of Michael Schmidt--taken with the hidden video camera--told her that he was a smart, insincere, egotistical bastard, who may or may not have been horny, but at least didn't let it get in the way of his job.
Rune replayed the flicker in his eye when she mentioned Shelly Lowe's name. A tiny motion. What was he thinking? What was he remembering?
She couldn't tell. As Larry had told her, "Cameras don't lie, luv, but that doesn't mean they tell the whole truth."
No, Schmidt's tape told her very little. But the tape of Arthur Tucker ... that was different.
The first thing she noticed: Shelly's acting coach had spent several minutes casually covering up something on his desk as he talked to her. It might have been a pile of papers or a manuscript. He'd been very subtle; she hadn't even noticed him doing it in the office. What didn't he want her to see? Rune rewound the tape and freeze-framed the image. She couldn't make out anything.
But then she glanced at a plaque on the wall behind him. It held a set of medals. But not those mail-order medals that commemorate stupid events like Great Moments in the Industrial Revolution. Franklin Mint stuff. These were real-looking military medals, along with other mementos, including a gold cross.
She squinted as she studied them, recalling one of her favorite movies. A black-and-white film made by Metropolitan Studios in the fifties. The Fighting Rangers. A World War Two film. One of the main characters--the nice kid from a Midwestern town, played by somebody like Audie Murphy--is terrified of battle. He's never sure if his courage is going to break. But in the end, he sneaks up on an enemy bridge and blows it to bits all by himself to keep the enemy from sending reinforcements.
She remembered the little crescent name badge--the simple word RANGERS on the hero's shoulder--when he lay dying in the last scene of the movie. It looked just like the tag Arthur Tucker had in his plaque of medals. He'd been a Ranger too.
The other thing she remembered was the scene earlier in the movie when another soldier had asked the hero if he knew how to rig the explosives on the bridge.
And he'd answered, "Sure, Sarge. All Rangers know how to blow up things. It's what they teach us in training."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Arthur Tucker was feeling old.
Sitting in his dusty Times Square office, he dropped a dull-white heater coil into a chipped cup of water. It sputtered fiercely. When the water boiled he removed the coil and dropped in a twice-used, crusty Lipton tea bag. The sunlight came through the curtains, which were faded in waves that marked the sun's passage over the year. Outside, the sounds of construction were like the noises of battle.
Feeling old.
Sometimes, watching one of his young proteges on stage, he felt anything but old. He almost believed he was still the twenty-five-year-old, dressed in the musty costume of Rosencrantz or Benvolio or young Prince Hal, waiting for his cue to enter from stage right.
But not today. Something had triggered this morbid feeling of antiquity as he'd climbed off the Eighth Avenue train at Fiftieth Street and walked in a slow zigzag to his office. Looking at the marquees of the theaters. Many of them were now on the ground floors of high-rise buildings; they weren't
separate structures like the grand old Helen Hayes, the Martin Beck, the Majestic. He thought that said something--the theaters being parts of office buildings. When he remembered the old marquees--the huge, jutting trapezoids of dotted lights--he remembered mostly the logos of musical comedies. Why did he picture those (a form of theater he did not enjoy and rarely attended) more easily than the marquees announcing the plays of Miller and O'Neill and Ibsen and Strindberg and Mamet, all of whom he believed to be geniuses?
It must be because he was getting old, he figured.
He thought of his students. Where were they all? A dozen on or off Broadway. Six or seven on television sitcoms or adventure shows. Two dozen in Hollywood.
And hundreds and hundreds that had gone into accounting or law or carpentry or advertising or plumbing.
Hundreds and hundreds who were good but weren't good enough for the system: the star system, that goddamn inverted pyramid, with so little room for people at the top.
Arthur Tucker sipped the tea and wondered if his life had been a failure.
And now ... the incident with Shelly Lowe. He wasn't sure if--
His phone rang, a jarring metallic blare. He picked it up, said, "Hello."
And heard some breathless young girl talking a mile a minute. Checks? She was saying something about a problem with the mail. She was on the first floor of the building and some checks addressed to him had been misdelivered to her office. Tucker didn't believe he was expecting any checks. Most of his students paid in cash at the end of their lessons, handing him the crisp, precious twenties straight from the Chase ATM.
"Well, they look like checks. I'm all alone here. I can't bring them up. You want me to leave them outside my door tonight."
In which case they'd vanish in five minutes, he knew.
"I'll come down. What office?"
"One-oh-three. If I don't answer right away I might be on the phone," she said. "I'll just be a minute."
Tucker pulled on his tweed jacket, with its leather elbow patches and torn satin lining. He forwent his hat. He walked into the dark corridor, locking the door after him. He pressed the big black button to summon the elevator and waited for three minutes until it arrived. He stepped inside and began the grinding journey down to the first floor.
Rune tried a dental pick.
She'd bought it at a pharmacy from a clerk who didn't seem particularly curious why someone wearing Day-Glo Keds and a miniskirt printed with pterodactyls would be interested in a dental tool. Then she'd gone back to the houseboat. She'd practiced on the locks to some of the interior doors and got them open pretty fast. She hadn't graduated to the front door, which had a doorknob cylinder and a Medeco, because she got impatient. Anyway, she figured, the theory was undoubtedly the same.
Death of a Blue Movie Star Page 11