by Otho Eskin
“That sounds right. The two guns I placed on stage are props. There’s a starter pistol Mr. Toland, the stage manager, uses. I have nothing to do with that. I don’t know anything about the pearl-handled revolver you mentioned.”
“Is this where you sit during each performance?”
“That’s right. I keep an eye on my props.”
“So you have a good view of the backstage area?”
“Pretty much.”
“Including the door to the small drawing room where Miss West was shot?”
“It’s right there in front of me.”
“Did anyone go in or out of that door this evening?”
“Only Miss West during the performance. No one else went near the door.”
“Was there anyone backstage tonight you didn’t know?”
“I don’t really know any of the people in this production.” She smiles. “I just started working here three days ago.”
“What did you mean when you said you take care of the guns?”
“The stage manager—that’s Mr. Toland—just before curtain, he hangs the guns on wooden brackets above the fireplace below the saber. I don’t know why they’re there. I’ve never read the play.”
“Can you see Mr. Toland when he fires the starter pistol?”
“I can’t see him do that from where I sit.”
“Did you see Miss West during the performance?”
“I saw her when she went into the drawing room just before opening curtain. And later, during intermission, she came out. That’s when she and Miss Fletcher went upstairs to Miss West’s dressing room.”
“Who is Miss Fletcher? Is she part of the cast?”
“I think she’s Miss West’s agent or something.”
“This agent and Victoria West were alone together in Vickie’s dressing room? Have I got that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you know they were in the dressing room?”
“I could hear them.”
“Miss West’s dressing room is one flight up. That’s a long way.”
“They talked real loud. Like they were having an argument.”
“What did they say?”
“I couldn’t hear the words. When Miss Fletcher came out of the dressing room, she looked upset. Am I in trouble?” She asks.
“What makes you think you’re in trouble?”
“You think I gave Miss West the wrong gun.”
“What’s your name?”
“Everybody calls me Props.”
“What does the Department of Motor Vehicles call you?”
“They call me Lily.”
“Just to be clear, Lily,” I say, “When you heard Miss West and Miss Fletcher arguing, you didn’t know what they were arguing about?”
“I couldn’t make out a single word.”
“Thank you.”
“Except one.” She smiles sweetly at me.
“What word was that?”
“When Miss Fletcher left Victoria West’s dressing room the door was open, and I heard Miss West yell something that sounded like ‘Valerie.’”
“Like a name? ‘Valerie’?”
“Something like that.”
“Thank you, Lily.”
“I always like to help the police when I can.”
“Have you helped the police before?”
“Nothing like this. Nothing like murder. I used to date a policeman. He was a sergeant. That was in Cincinnati. His name was Larry. I’ve always had a weakness for policemen. Larry was nice but wasn’t as good-looking as you.” She smiles warmly.
I can’t help but ask. “What happened to Larry?”
“Larry went away.”
Lily’s attractive, and she has a way of cocking her head to one side, looking at me with a side-glance from the corner of her eye. A woman with an expressive, animated face is always appealing. Is it the darkness of the room? Is this girl flirting with me?
“Would you like to have a police officer drive you home? It’s very late, and it’s raining.”
“Are you offering to take me home, Detective?”
“Sorry. I have a murder to investigate.”
She gives me a pouty look. “I thought Miss West committed suicide.”
“It was murder. Definitely murder. I can have one of the officers drive you home.”
“No thank you, sir,” she whispers. “It’s very gallant of you to offer.” She collects her coat that hangs from the back of her chair, and picks up her purse. She wears black jeans, ripped at the knees, and scuffed tennis shoes. “Good night, sir.”
She makes a small kissing motion with her lips, turns, and disappears into the darkness.
That’s when I remember the question I wanted to ask Arthur Cantwell.
“Has Arthur Cantwell left the theater?” I ask Lucy, who’s standing at the edge of the stage and looking into the empty auditorium.
“I just saw him walking out the front door.”
Lucy and I catch up with Cantwell as he’s about to climb into a waiting SUV under the marquee in front of the theater. Beyond, a steady rain falls.
“Mr. Cantwell,” I call out, “I have one more question.”
Cantwell turns around and faces me; he’s not pleased.
“What is it, Detective? I answered your questions.”
“You mentioned something about an ‘ancient relationship’ with Victoria West. What was that relationship?”
He sighs heavily. “If you must know, Vickie and I were once married.”
“And you’re marrying each other a second time?” I’m having a hard time speaking.
“The triumph of hope over experience, as they say.” He smirks.
“That’s not funny.”
“I suppose I could never get enough of Vickie.”
“And you forgot to mention that you and Vickie were once married?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“What else did you forget to tell us?” Lucy asks.
“That was about it.”
“Tell me about your marriage.”
“Here? Standing on the street in the middle of the night? Now? In the rain?”
“Here. Now. In the rain.”
“We were both cast in the New York production of Hedda Gabler. We were young, and we fell in love. Vickie was a beautiful, passionate young woman, and ours was a very torrid, very public affair. We burned up the stage. Hell, we burned up the city of New York. Vickie had been involved with some loser before being cast in the show, but when she and I connected on stage, she dumped him.
My heart pounds with anger. And now I recognize the voice—the voice I heard long ago from Vickie’s bedroom telling Vickie to get rid of her noisy visitor.
“Vickie and I married just after the show closed,” Cantwell says. “We stayed married for a little while; got divorced. Both of us remarried later. It was long ago. If you want more details about my private life, you’re going to have to ask my publicist. I’m already late for a dinner engagement, although Vickie’s death has quite put me off my appetite.”
“One more thing,” I say. “Did you have a pet name for Victoria West? Something you called each other in your intimate communications? At least one other member of the production has used such a name.”
“A pet name? How adolescent. Certainly not! I wouldn’t do such a thing.”
Cantwell climbs into his SUV.
“Break a leg,” I call after him, hoping he’ll interpret me literally.
“He doesn’t seem like a very nice person,” Lucy says to me as he drives off.
“That’s just an act.”
“Where do we go next in this investigation?” she asks.
“Find out if anybody in the cast or crew knows how to use firearms. Victoria West was shot in a dark room, probably at some distance. That would take a skilled shooter. And find whatever device Vickie was charging in her dressing room.”
“How about you?”
“I’m going to find ou
t why Vickie West forgot her last line.”
As Lucy goes back into the theater, my cell phone rings. “Detective Zorn? This is Lieutenant Matt Granger of the Chicago Police Department. Sorry to be calling you so late in the evening but something’s come up.”
“How can I help?”
I guess this must be about the violent death of the former dictator of Montenegro on a street in Chicago, in which case I have no intention of helping. That would lead to him wanting to know why I was in Chicago and who was paying me. Neither subject do I want to share with the Chicago police.
“There were two killings here in Chicago this week,” Granger is saying. “We hope you can help us in our investigation.”
“The DC police are always happy to help our brothers in Chicago.”
There’s a brief pause at the other end while Matt Granger of the Chicago police tries to decide whether I’m being a smartass.
“I don’t see how I can help,” I say.
“I understand that you were in Chicago recently.”
“That’s right.”
“You may have been in contact with at least one of the victims. Does the name Milan Jovanovich mean anything to you?”
I am wrong. This isn’t about the murder of the general from Montenegro. This is something else.
“The name Milan Jovanovich doesn’t ring a bell,” I say.
“I’d like you to think very hard before you answer.”
I’m silent for a long moment while I pretend to think very hard. “Sorry. Can’t remember that name. If I think of something, I’ll get in touch.” I cut the connection.
My phone rings as I’m about to go back into the theater. The caller ID indicates it’s the US Secretary of State calling me. It’s the middle of the night and I’ve had a terrible day and I want to go home. I consider ignoring the call. But I can’t really do that, can I? That would be unpatriotic.
“I’m trying to reach a Detective Zorn,” a voice on the phone says.
“This is your lucky day.”
“My name is Saxton. I’m the personal assistant to the Secretary of State. I’m calling on his behalf. The Secretary needs to speak with you. Can you come to the State Department tomorrow morning at seven thirty?”
“Seven thirty in the morning?” I ask, trying to hide my shock.
“The Secretary has an opening in his schedule then.”
“Good for him.”
“I know it’s short notice but the matter is urgent: a matter of life or death.”
The man at the other end doesn’t say whose life or death, but I must assume it involves the visiting prime minister of Montenegro that Cyprian Voss told me about.
“I believe I may have an opening on my calendar at seven thirty tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll meet you at the Diplomatic Entrance.” Saxton doesn’t sound like he has much of a sense of humor.
“It’s a date,” I tell him.
CHAPTER FIVE
“OFFICER ZORN?” A tall man in a gray suit and tasteful gray tie asks as I get out of the police cruiser that has brought me to the State Department.
“In person,” I say.
The clouds above are dark and ominous. I had to get up much too early to make this. I hope the Secretary of State offers me coffee.
“I’m Jason Saxton.” The man holds a large umbrella above us so we both get some protection from the rain that’s coming down hard. “The Secretary is waiting for you.”
I follow Saxton into the Department of State’s diplomatic entrance, and we’re waved through an array of security checkpoints, across the vast lobby, to a bank of elevators. We ride to the seventh floor. Saxton leads me into a crowded outer office: a dozen young men and women peer at computer screens and speak in hushed tones.
“Mr. Secretary, Detective Zorn from the Metropolitan Police is here,” Saxton announces as we step into a large, elegantly furnished office.
The Secretary of State sits at an imposing desk; he’s in his shirtsleeves and wears a blue tie and dark blue suspenders. He looks at me over a pair of half-glasses, rises to his feet, and we shake hands. “I’m Leland Cross. Thank you for coming, Detective Zorn. I appreciate your taking the time to see me.”
I nod and study his face carefully hoping to determine whether this last-minute appointment is a good thing or if I’m in serious trouble. I’m pretty sure I’m not here because the Secretary of State has taken a sudden interest in my health. He looks like what he is: a former senator or governor from somewhere. Probably some place with amber waves of grain where the wind blows free, and therefore I’m pretty sure I don’t trust him.
Behind the desk are large windows looking out toward the National Mall and the Lincoln Memorial, although it’s hard to make much out. The rain has turned the city into a misty, gray mezzotint.
“Thank you, Jason,” Cross tells his assistant. “Ask Janet to wait for us. We’ll need to talk to her shortly.”
The office walls are hung with artwork, mostly modern American masters. I catch sight of an Edward Hopper called, I seem to remember Hotel Lobby an early Joan Mitchell, an inferior Willem de Kooning, and a nice Hans Hofmann. A Frederic Remington bronze statue of what seem to be three troopers shooting into the air, sits on a credenza.
“Please, make yourself comfortable, Detective.” Cross gestures to an armchair and we sit, facing each other, separated by a teak coffee table. Cross is tall and has a nice haircut. I must get the name of his barber.
“I know you have a busy schedule,” he tells me. “I apologize for taking you away from your duties. The mayor told me you are investigating the tragic suicide of Victoria West. I remember her from her movies, and my wife and I saw her just a few nights ago in a preview performance of Hedda Gabler. She was brilliant; such a tragic loss.”
“We have a team of experienced officers investigating that case,” I say vaguely.
I see no sign the Secretary of State is going to offer me coffee. I’m almost tempted to note the absence and inquire, in a friendly way, whether the State Department’s budget has been cut again. I decide against being a smartass this early in our meeting. At least not until I learn for sure why I’m here.
The Secretary places his manicured hands on his knees. “Have you been informed that you’ve been placed on temporary assignment to the Department’s Diplomatic Security division?”
This must be what Cyprian Voss meant when he told me I’d get my instructions in the morning. How does he manage these things? I must ask him next time I see him. Not that he’ll tell me.
I did agree to take on Voss’s assignment to protect the visiting prime minister, but that was before Vickie’s murder. That was before everything changed for me. I’m no longer sure I want to take time out to be somebody’s bodyguard. Right now my sole concern is to find Vickie’s killer.
“I’ve heard nothing about that,” I say. I don’t want the secretary asking where I’ve heard about this protection gig; I don’t want to tell Secretary Cross about Cyprian Voss. Ever. I don’t think Cross would approve of Voss. Or vice versa.
“I spoke with your mayor, and she has released you from your regular police duties. For the next few days, you will, technically, be working for me as a ‘special consultant.’ You will be paid the standard US government per diem. I’m sure you will do your duty. As a good citizen.”
It’s been a long time since anyone called me a “good citizen.” I want to tell Cross that I have something more important on my mind: a murdered woman who once gave meaning to my life. I don’t say anything though. From his perspective, Vickie is irrelevant.
“Very well,” I say, “I’ll do my duty, as you put it.”
“Good man.”
“What is it exactly I’m supposed to do?” I ask.
“The prime minister of Montenegro is coming to the US on a state visit. Her life has been threatened. You will be assigned to her security detail to help see that no harm comes to her.”
“I’m not a professional bodyguard,”
I protest. “I’m a homicide detective. Why have I been assigned this?”
Leland Cross looks puzzled. “Actually, I was rather hoping you could tell me.”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Have you ever met Nina Voychek?” Cross asks.
“Never.”
“Do you know anybody in the current Montenegrin government?”
“Not a soul.”
“I ask,” the Secretary of State goes on, “because we would very much like to know why you specifically—by name—were requested by the government of Montenegro to be the liaison with the visiting delegation. That’s most unusual.”
Maybe it wasn’t Cyprian Voss after all. Maybe somebody else has a hand in this. “I’d be happy to turn this assignment over to someone else,” I say.
“I’m afraid it has to be you. If we change the liaison officer at the last minute, it will complicate this visit—which is already far too complicated as is.” Cross sits back in his chair. “I don’t suppose you have top secret security clearance.”
“I’m afraid not.” I don’t tell him I once did have top-secret clearance but it was rather rudely taken away. He’d only want to know why.
“That makes things a bit awkward,” he says. “I’m going to share with you some information that is highly sensitive.” He pauses. “I’m going to take you into my confidence. You must on no account speak to anyone outside this room about what you learn here today. I rely on your discretion.”
“You have my word.” I need to know why I’ve been assigned to protect Nina Voychek even more than the Secretary of State needs to know. If Voss is not behind this, I must know who is.
“Your word will have to do.” Leland Cross presses a button on a small console on the table next to his chair. “Send Janet in.”
A moment later an African American woman enters the room. She’s in her early forties, a little over six feet, slender, and athletic. She carries a thin, black briefcase. “Mr. Secretary,” she says, nodding, then looks at me—not in a friendly way.
“Janet, this is Detective Zorn of the DC Police. Janet Cliff is with our Bureau of Diplomatic Security and is in charge of the Nina Voychek visit. Janet, please take a seat while we put Detective Zorn in the picture.”
“Good idea, Mr. Secretary.” She doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s a good idea at all. She sits where she can keep an eye on me.