by C. S. Poe
“Shit.” I studied my red, irritated ear in the mirror. I lowered my head, braced my hands on either side of the sink, and took a few deep breaths. Never having to wear that hard nub of plastic again was the biggest incentive I had for closing this case immediately.
“You okay?”
I jerked my head up, and in the mirror’s reflection, I saw a man standing in the bathroom doorway. “Oh. Sure.” I straightened and turned around.
The stranger was considerably shorter than me, maybe five-foot-five, with a lithe build. He had dark-brown hair, cut and styled in a decidedly outdated fashion, but hell if I could pinpoint the decade in question. He had a beautiful jawline, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass with, and head-to-toe wore turn-of-the-century clothing.
“You must be one of the show’s actors.” Fucking duh. “Unless suspenders and waistcoats are proper set attire.”
He cracked a smile. No teeth, but a cute, boyish smirk crossed his features.
“Grow a beard, and you’d fit right in with Davey at some purposefully divey bar in Williamsburg,” I added.
His smile grew at that, and he looked away momentarily, giving his shoes his undivided attention while collecting himself. “I am talent,” he agreed.
“A shame.”
He brought his gaze up. “How so?”
I shrugged noncommittally. “I was hoping waistcoats were coming back.”
“Nothing like a man in a three-piece suit.”
“We all have our vices.”
My handsome stranger let the door fall shut behind him as he strolled across the bathroom. “You must be new.” He slid his hands into his trouser pockets.
Jesus. He looked so goddamn fine, it was practically criminal.
“What gave it away?” I asked, grinning broadly.
“I don’t know your name,” he answered.
“You make it a habit to learn everyone’s name?”
“I try to.”
I reached a hand out. “Rory Byrne.”
He removed his hand and accepted the shake. “A pleasure.”
“I suspect you have a name as well?”
The stranger flashed that lopsided smile again. “Sure.”
I leaned back against the sink, crossed my arms, and gave him another once-over. “You must be… what, about thirty? The most popular name for boys back then was… Michael, I believe.”
“I’m thirty-two,” he corrected coyly.
“Oh,” I said, as if it mattered. “It was still Michael.”
He laughed. “I’m afraid my parents used the census records from the 1880s to pick my name, not the 1980s.”
“John?”
“Marion,” he answered.
“Marion,” I repeated, putting two and two together. “Marion Roosevelt?”
Shit. Playful conversation with a background extra was one thing, but the lead actor of the show? Although… he did initiate our dialogue, exactly as John had insisted. Keeping a line of communication open with Marion would help me feel out the rest of the cast, as well as crew members above me on the hierarchical ladder.
“Your surprise suggests we had a moment of authentic flirting in the men’s bathroom,” Marion stated.
“Ah. Yes, but I didn’t—”
“Contrary to what the paparazzi would have you believe about film stars, we’re just people who sometimes really hope to be treated normally.” He leaned forward a bit. “That includes being flirted with.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Good.” Marion moved to the next sink over, turned on the tap, and began washing his hands. “Because you’re not half bad at it.”
“I’ve got the beginning part down pat.” I turned to watch him. “It’s the part that happens after where my luck tends to run out.”
“That’s relatable.” He shut off the water and grabbed a paper towel. Marion glanced at me, his brow furrowed a little, and he asked, “So how’s your ear?”
I instinctively reached up and touched the tender skin. “Agitated.”
“Some people have bad reactions to those surveillance pieces,” he said, inclining his head at the tube hanging over my shoulder. “Most crew members buy their own.”
“I’m still pretty green.”
Marion tossed the towel in the trash and stepped closer to examine my ear. He had big, expressive eyes. The actual sort that poets must have in mind when referring to them as windows to the soul. Belatedly, I took in that one eye was a very light green, and the other was actually a dark brown.
Marion must have sensed my staring. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“They’re real.”
“Excuse me?”
“My eyes.”
“They’re very pretty.”
“They’re responsible for the contracts,” Marion said with a wink. “But luckily, I’m a package deal.”
I snorted. “Funny.”
“I am sometimes.” He took a step back. “I might be able to help with your ear.”
“I think I’m a bit too old for kisses on boo-boos.”
Marion gave me a direct look, the corner of his mouth upturned again. “In that case… come with me.” He walked to the door, opened it, and stepped into the corridor.
I took a breath and followed him out of the bathroom. He led the way down the same hall John had earlier that morning. Toward the end, the left branch led to the production offices. The right went to set. We took the right. Marion walked through the vast staging area, paused long enough at crafty to grab a miniature package of gummy bears, and then brought me through the open set door.
He picked his way around equipment and crew members returning from lunch break. “Paul,” he called out to a man seated behind a cart loaded with a plethora of expensive-looking gear, including a multichannel mixing board.
Sound recordist, I determined.
Paul looked up, headphones in his hands, ready to put them on. “Marion. What’s up?”
“Do you have any extra earpieces?” Marion asked, tearing open the candy package. “The molded ones.”
“Looking to become my apprentice?”
Marion smiled, but it was a different smile than what I’d experienced in the bathroom. Instinctual. Polite. A bit reserved, even. “My friend here is having issues with the cheapo ones they give PAs.”
Paul only acknowledged my existence when Marion motioned to me with one hand. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the side of my head. “He sure is. You’re what—about a medium?”
“Large where it counts,” I joked, because I honestly had no idea what he was referring to. I glanced sideways at Marion.
He’d crossed one arm over his midsection and placed a hand against his mouth, failing to hide his amusement.
Nice to know my childish comment hadn’t worked against me.
“Yeah, I bet,” Paul said sardonically. He pushed his chair back, leaned down, and retrieved a leather pouch from the bottom shelf of the cart. He unzipped it, sifted through various oddities I’d never seen outside of the personal-care aisle in Duane Reade, then offered a pink earpiece still in its packaging. “Don’t lose it. And you owe me twenty bucks.”
“Thank you,” I said graciously. “I really appreciate it.” I tore it open, stuck the piece onto the end of the plastic tube, and fit it in my ear.
“Better?” Marion asked me as he stepped away from Paul.
I nodded, following him. “A lot better. How’d you know about these?”
“I try to be conscious of the crew.”
I raised an eyebrow.
Marion simply shrugged. He popped a red bear into his mouth.
I started to speak, but someone called Marion’s name from behind, interrupting the last chance I had to… well, do what, exactly? Flirt some more? Marion was undoubtably gorgeous, devastatingly sweet, and I was reluctantly enamored at first sight. But showing interest in a guy while working a case—where said heartthrob had not been ruled out as a suspect—was strictly against th
e policies of Dupin Private Investigations. I was merely rebounding after severing ties with Nate that morning.
And rebounds were fine.
Just not with Marion Roosevelt.
Nothing to see here. Move along, Rory.
A man easily my height and build, with black hair and a matching goatee peppered with silver, came toward us. He wrapped a large hand around Marion’s arm and tugged him sideways. “I need to speak with you.”
Marion’s physical response would have likely gone unnoticed if I wasn’t trained to read body language. The muscle to the right of Marion’s mouth, which gave him such a pleasing, crooked smile, tightened. His heterochromatic eyes narrowed at the same moment. Maybe it was an over-the-top and unprofessional description, but the light in Marion’s face seemed to fade.
“Yes, of course,” Marion answered, flashing a fake smile worthy of an Oscar. He followed Mr. Top-Ten-Beards-in-Hollywood-According-to-BuzzFeed toward the set without so much as a second glance my way.
EXT. CHAPTER THREE – NIGHT
“So?” John asked impatiently.
We stood on the sidewalk outside the studios after dark. It was bitterly cold, and I pulled the collar of my coat up on the back of my neck before stuffing my hands deep into the pockets. Most of the crew had clocked out for the evening, giving John the opportunity to circle back with me for the first time since that morning to harass me for details I didn’t have.
“Who did it? Who stole it?”
“John, please,” I interrupted. “It’s not that easy. These situations can take some time.”
“I don’t have time,” he protested. “Once this show wraps on principal photography, that’s it. The thief gets away. Forever!”
“I’d like you to clarify a few details for me,” I said, reeling him back from the ledge he was about to fling himself from. “Tell me about the post-production team.”
“What about them?”
“While I did some work in the office, I noticed their suite was empty.”
“Yes. They arrive later in the day—after lunch. The schedule allows them to finish work from the previous day, and then by the time Ethan and I are done on set, we can sit with the editors and go over dailies and watch some rough cuts.”
“And Ethan’s the director, is that right?” I’d gathered that much after a sneak peek at the crew roster when work resumed after lunch and Mr. Goatee was the one calling action!
“Ethan Lefkowitz,” John said with a nod.
I grunted. “And on Sunday, was the editing team working?”
“No. None of us were. Double time on Sunday. We avoid it at all costs.”
“And you are absolutely certain your script was in the office Friday and Saturday, but gone by Monday?” I pressed.
“Yes, and I’ll tell you—we had a pick-up scene to shoot Saturday. A character that only appears in one episode had a scheduling conflict. We had to shoot Saturday. So I was here. I went to my office afterward, did some minor editing on the script, but I was so tired, I didn’t stay late.”
“But production had for sure wrapped by then?” I asked, using the term I’d heard the assistant director call out earlier on set to indicate our job was done for the day.
John nodded vigorously. “And we had no post-production crew on Saturday.”
“What about the office staff?”
“I recall a few,” he confirmed.
I ran my fingertips through my hair a few times. “What about the possibility of someone coming in to work on an unscheduled—”
John shook his head dramatically. “No, no, no. Union rules, Rory. That doesn’t happen without the assistant director or production coordinator knowing. News would travel like a wildfire in California.”
“Fine. Tell me what time you arrived yesterday morning.”
“Seven.”
“And the script was already gone?”
“I, er—” John hesitated. He started patting his jacket, searching for his cigarettes, no doubt. “I’m not certain. Probably. But I didn’t take notice until I’d gone back to my desk around ten to make a phone call.”
Based on this timeline—unreliable though it was—I could rule out the entire post-production team simply because they hadn’t been in the building over the weekend, nor did they arrive on Monday early enough to abscond with the script. I couldn’t clear all those admins in the bullpen, though. Either before John’s early arrival yesterday, or in between his back-and-forth to the set, any one of those staffers could have been presented the opportunity to slip inside his room nestled between the production manager around the corner and show accountant in the next office over.
I also couldn’t rule out Ethan Lefkowitz, the director. It seemed ridiculous that a director would have a reason or desire to steal a script. As far as my understanding went, he was near the top of the food chain on a film set. He held a lot of power over the content, gained prestige for overseeing the performances, and was likely being compensated quite well. On the other hand, if there was a crew member John would have casually spoken to about his personal writing, or mentioned it to in a moment of bragging, it’d be someone he considered his equal.
Plus, I hadn’t been able to silence the warning bells in my head after witnessing the domineering way Ethan touched Marion, and said actor’s almost flawless performance to cover his discomfort.
Something was wrong there.
Something that merited further inquiry.
So where’d that leave me? Twelve suspects down, only about eighty to go?
“I’d like a list of all the cast members who worked Friday, Saturday, and Monday,” I said.
“Sure.” John tugged a cigarette free from a crushed pack and lit it. He stuck the stick in his mouth and then immediately took it out when the request sank in. “You think the thief is talent?”
“I think nothing. I want the names in order to do cross-referencing.”
John’s face was pinched, his spectacles lifting up with the movement of his muscles. He took a few puffs, then whipped out his phone. “What’s your email?”
I recited my Dupin address, retrieved my cell from a pocket, and less than a minute later it dinged with an incoming email. I swiped, opened the message, and several PDFs with the cast schedule loaded. “Great,” I murmured, studying the times and names.
Marion Roosevelt.
Marion Roosevelt.
Marion Roosevelt.
So there was no crossing my—their—heterochromatic actor off the suspect list yet.
“Does Mr. Roosevelt work every day?” I asked.
John turned his head and blew smoke into the darkness. “Most. Marion is a true gem. No complaints, no egotistical, star-studded temper tantrums, and he doesn’t use a stand-in.”
I turned off the phone’s screen and stared at John.
He shook his head like, Oh, right, this man has no idea what I’m talking about. “Some actors have a double stand in for them when shooting the lines and reactions of the other talent. Marion is vehemently against that. He’ll be on set twelve, sometimes fifteen hours just to respect the process of his fellow actors.”
“He seems like a decent person,” I agreed.
“To say the least.” John tapped the end of his cigarette. “Do your cross-referencing-what-have-yous with those names, but Marion is not a suspect. In fact, I’m asking you as the client, don’t investigate him.”
“John, that’s not how—”
“I can hire someone else,” John threatened.
That’d piss off Shelby.
“No one is above suspicion.”
“If I lose Marion, the whole show falls apart. There’s no appeal without him. No audience draw. The man is just this side of perfect,” John babbled.
Picture perfect.
“He’s not a thief,” John continued. “If there’s one person I’m certain is innocent, it’s Marion. So I’m telling you, I do not want him investigated.”
I took a deep breath and let the air briefly fre
eze my lungs. After a slow release, I avoided a response by motioning to the pack John still held in one hand, and asked, “Can I bum one of those?”
He looked surprised but offered a cigarette. “You shouldn’t smoke.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, accepting his lighter next and setting the flame to the tip. “How much is your script worth?”
John wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. “It’s a really good idea,” he said by way of answering.
“If the thief isn’t caught now,” I continued, before taking a brief drag, “you could still easily prove the project is yours.”
“True. It’s not like I don’t have copies. But if I stole it, I’d rework it, you know?”
“Hmm.”
“Harder to prove it’s stolen when it’s not outright plagiarism,” John murmured, looking at the ground. “But the idea would be tainted after that.” He sounded almost… melancholy.
“Do you know of anyone on set having issues? Finances, things like that?” I tried.
“I’m not their damn mother.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry,” John said quickly. “Oh boy. Too much nicotine.” He flicked the cigarette. “Not enough sleep.”
I checked my watch. “Why don’t you go home? I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” John echoed, but he headed back in the direction of the studio.
I turned to Thirty-Fifth Avenue and walked toward the end of the block. Potted plants lining the Kaufman entrance were buried in freshly fallen snow, and my shoes crunched loudly on the salted sidewalk.
“Rory Byrne, are you following me?”
I looked over my shoulder while taking another drag from the cigarette. Marion emerged from the darkness, as if he’d detached from the night itself and taken human form. “I think you’re following me,” I countered.
I caught his smile as he walked under a lamppost before coming to a stop beside me on the street corner. “Think I can steal one of those?” he asked, pointing discreetly at the cigarette hanging between my lips.
I removed it and said, “I actually bummed this one.” I twisted my hand around and offered the filtered end.
“Are you sure?” Marion asked.
I nodded. “It’s a bad habit.”