"What happened?"
"After I called her to give her the bad news--I felt I owed her that--Shelly made an appointment to see him. We'd already cast somebody else by then but I guess it half-crossed my mind that she was going to try to charm, if you want to be euphemistic, Michael into giving her the part after all."
"Shelly wouldn't do that."
Becker looked at her with his eyebrow raised.
"Not to get a part," Rune said. "She wasn't like that. It doesn't make sense but I know that about her now. There were some lines she wouldn't cross."
"In any case that's what occurred to me. But that wasn't what happened...." His voice faded. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this."
Rune squinted. "Just pretend it's gossip. I love gossip."
"A terrible fight. Really vicious."
"What could you hear?"
"Not much. You read poetry, Robert Frost?"
Rune thought. "Something about horses standing around in the snow when they should be going somewhere?"
Becker said, "Ah, does anybody read anymore? ... Well, Frost coined this term called the sound of sense. It refers to the way we can understand words even though we can't hear them distinctly. Like through closed doors. I got a real sense of their conversation. I've never heard Michael so mad. I've never heard him so scared, either."
"Scared?"
"Scared. He comes out of the meeting, then paces around. A few minutes later he calms down. Then he asks me about the new lead for the play and whether the Equity contract has been signed and I tell him it was. And I can tell he's thinking about casting Shelly again even though he doesn't want to."
"What happened, do you think?"
"I noticed something interesting about Shelly," Becker said. "She really did her homework--getting the script in the first place, for instance. See, we get a lot of young, intense hopefuls in here. They know Chekhov and Ibsen and Mamet cold. But they don't have a clue about the business of the theater. They think producers are gods. But as creative as Shelly was she also had a foot in the real world. She was a strategist. For the first EPI, she'd found out everything there was to know about Michael. Personal things as well as professional." Becker gave Rune a meaningful smile and when she didn't respond he frowned. "Don't you get it?"
"Uh, not exactly."
"Blackmail."
"Blackmail? Shelly was blackmailing him?"
"Nobody here knows for certain but there're rumors about Michael. A few years ago he was traveling through some small town in, I don't know, Colorado, Nevada, and we think he got arrested. For picking up a high school boy--the story was that he was just seventeen."
"Ouch."
"Uh-huh. Also around that time there was an announcement that Michael had paid two hundred thousand for the rights to a play. Nobody pays that kind of money for a straight, nonmusical play. It had to've been a phony transaction--I'm sure he used company money to pay off locals and keep out of jail."
"I thought he was a deacon in his church?"
"This was before he saw the light."
"You think Shelly found out about it?"
"Like I say, she did her homework."
Rune said, "He fired you. You're a little prejudiced against him."
Becker laughed. "I respect Medea's strength. Can I forgive her for killing her children? I respect Michael for what he's done for New York theater. Personally, I think he's a pompous ass. Draw your own conclusions about what I tell you."
"One last question. Was he in Vietnam? Or was he ever a soldier?"
"Michael?" Becker laughed again. "That would have been a delightful sight. When you're in the army I understand you have to do what other people tell you. That doesn't sound very much like the Michael Schmidt we all know and love, now does it?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
His eyes squint, picking up golden light from the sun, as he gazes over the sagebrush and arroyos for signs of Indians or buffalo or strays. His .45 is always on his hip....
Rune was using her fingers as an impromptu camera viewfinder to frame Sam Healy. She waved to him and he ambled slowly toward her.
He'd be great in her film.
There was something different about him today. Two things, in fact. One, he wasn't somber anymore.
And, two, he gave off some kind of quiet strength she hadn't seen before in his face.
Then Rune looked past him and she realized why the change. The ten-year-old boy, who Rune had thought just happened to be walking beside him, was undoubtedly Adam, his son. Healy's face revealed the protective, authoritative, aware nature of a parent.
Sam seemed to stop just short of a hug and a kiss and nodded to her. "Thanks for meeting me. Well, us."
"Sure," she answered, wondering why he hadn't told her he was bringing the boy. Maybe because he'd been afraid she wouldn't show up.
Healy introduced them and they shook hands. Rune said, "Nice to meet you, Adam."
The boy said nothing, just looked at Rune critically. Healy said, "Come on, son, what do you say?"
The boy shrugged. "They're getting younger all the time?"
Rune laughed and Healy, blushing a bit, did too. The successful joke had been delivered so smoothly she knew he'd used it before.
They started down the sidewalk in lower Manhattan.
"You like U2?" Adam asked Rune as they walked along Broadway past the Federal Building. "They're so totally awesome."
"Love that guitar! Chunga, chunga, chunga ..."
"Oh, yeah."
Rune said, "But I'm mostly into older music. Like Bowie, Adam Ant, Sex Pistols, Talking Heads."
"David Byrne, yeah, he's like your megagenius. Even if he's old."
"I still listen to the Police a lot," Rune said. "I kinda grew up with them."
Adam nodded. "I heard about them. My mom used to listen to them. Sting's still around."
Healy said, "Um ... Crosby, Stills and Nash?"
Rune and Adam looked at him blankly.
"Jimi Hendrix? The Jefferson Airplane?"
When he got a stare in response to "The Doors?" Healy said quickly, "Hey, how 'bout some lunch?"
They sat across from the ornate Woolworth Building, Rune and Healy. Adam, replenished by two hot dogs and a Yoo-Hoo chocolate soda, chased squirrels and shadows and scraps of windblown paper.
"Sam," she began, "say you have a couple different suspects and you know one of them did it but you don't know who."
"In a bombing?"
"Say, any crime. Like you're an ordinary movable investigating something."
"Portable, not movable. But it'd probably be a detective evaluating suspects."
"Okay, a detective with three suspects. What would you do to figure out who the perp is?"
"Perp," he said. "See, I said you were a born cop."
In a thick Slavic accent: "I learned English from Kojak reruns." She grew serious. "Come on, Sam. What would you do?"
"In order to make an arrest you need probable cause."
"What's that?"
"Something that shows your suspect is more likely than not to've committed the crime. A witness, conflicting alibis, physical evidence at the scene connecting the suspect and the crime, fingerprints, genetic marker test ... A confession's always good."
"How do you get confessions?"
"We put the suspect in a room, turn the camera on and ask them questions. You don't arrest them because then their lawyers show up and tell them not to say anything. They can leave at any time but we ... encourage them to stay."
"You ever trick somebody into a confession?"
"Sure. That's part of the game. But no more answers till you tell why you're curious about police procedures."
"Okay, I've got three suspects."
"What suspects?"
"In the Shelly Lowe killing."
"Three suspects? You mean, you know three people in the Sword of Jesus? Why didn't you tell Begley or somebody in Homicide?"
"Oh, there is no Sword of Jesus. It's a cover-up
. Somebody's making it look like it's a religious thing but it's not."
"But--"
She continued before he could ask what would undoubtedly be some questions that would result in either awkward answers or outright lies. "See, Shelly didn't just do those movies. There's this guy named Arthur Tucker. He was Shelly's acting coach. Only you know what's interesting?" Her voice faded and she looked at him. "What's the matter?"
"Rune, you weren't going to do this."
"I was just interviewing people about her, for my film, and I found some funny things." She grew quiet, looking up at the gargoyles two-thirds of the way up the skyscraper. She wondered if she and Healy were about to have their first fight. That was really a bad sign--to have a fight before you'd spent some time seriously kissing someone.
Healy glanced at Adam, stalking a mangy pigeon twenty feet away, and rested his large hand tentatively on her knee.
Rune stared at the gargoyles. They were smiling, not leering, she thought. It seemed that was an important omen but she couldn't tell what it meant.
Healy didn't speak for a second. He clicked his tongue. "Okay. Funny things. Go ahead and tell me."
"Shelly was a legitimate actress and she wrote plays, okay? She and her coach, this Arthur Tucker, had a big fight when he found out about her movie career. Oh, oh--he also was a commando in the war. So he knows about bombs."
"But you need a motive to--"
"I've got one. He stole a play that Shelly wrote. He took it and put his name on it. He told me he'd never gotten anywhere with his career and I think he could've killed her and stolen that play."
"Pretty damn speculative. Who else is a suspect?"
"Michael Schmidt."
Healy was frowning. "It's familiar. Who's he?"
"The Broadway producer. The famous one."
"Him?"
"Right. He told me he didn't remember Shelly but he was lying. It turns out he'd almost offered her a role in one of his plays. Then he found out she did porn and withdrew the offer. She was going to blackmail him into getting the part."
"You don't kill someone--"
"He's a deacon in the church. She could've brought down his whole career. He's also an obnoxious son of a bitch."
"That doesn't violate the Penal Code of the State of New York, being obnoxious. Who else is on the list?"
"Another asshole. Danny Traub. He's part owner of Lame Duck. Shelly's company."
"And you heard about an insurance policy on the building?"
"No. On her."
This got Healy's attention. "Go on."
"Shelly told me that she had a terrible fight with someone she worked with. I think it might've been him. He was always flirting with her and she was rejecting him. And he's really into S and M; he gets off on beating women. So I broke into his town house--"
Healy put his face in his hands. "Rune, no, no, no. You can't do these things."
"It's okay. One of his girlfriends said it was all right. She also let me go through his safe."
Healy sighed. "At least you didn't steal anything." He looked at her. "Tell me you didn't steal anything."
"What, I look like a thief?" Rune asked. "Anyway, what I found was this insurance policy on Shelly. Almost a half-million dollars."
"No exclusion for murder?"
"Nope. His girlfriend made a copy of it for me."
"You've got three suspects. Could any of them been the one who attacked you?"
"They're all about the same build. Oh, and Schmidt's eyes were all red. Like he'd been teargassed recently."
"Teargassed? What does that have to do with anything?"
"The man in the windbreaker?" she said sheepishly. "I sort of teargassed him."
"Sort of?"
"Self-defense," she pointed out in a lame voice.
But Healy didn't lecture her about illegal weapons in the city of New York. He just shrugged. "I don't know. Tear gas burns disappear within twelve hours or so. How 'bout the other two?"
"They're all built about the same. Not muscle builders."
"Did any of them look really shocked to see you? I mean, if they'd tried to kill you, there would've been some recognition in their faces."
"I don't think so," she said, frowning in disappointment.
"Of course," Healy added, "the smart thing would be to hire a strong-arm."
"A hit man?"
Healy was nodding absently. "That's good.... It's not enough for probable cause but ..." Then he laughed and shook his head as if coming out of a daydream. "Hey, forget this whole thing." He held up his hand--not the one that was still resting on her knee. "I'm not even in Homicide.... I don't want to know any of this."
"Just tell me about the explosives. From the second bombing."
"No."
"I thought you were having them traced."
"I am."
"Well?"
"No results yet, and when I get them I'm writing them in my report and sending it upstairs. And that'll be that."
She said defiantly, "I'll just have to keep looking, I guess."
"Rune." Healy was debating. "Tell you what. I'll steer a couple guys from Homicide over to check out--what was his name?--the acting coach. He's the only one seems to know anything about explosives."
"Really? Only promise you won't arrest him till I'm there. I want to film the bust."
"I think you know we can't make any promises like that."
"Well, just try. Please!" Rune wrote Tucker's name on a mustard-stained napkin and handed it to Healy. She asked, "What about the other two?"
"You want my opinion? The insurance angle with, what's his name, Traub. That's too obvious. And Michael Schmidt? Doesn't seem a celeb like him'd risk a murder conviction because of a blackmail threat."
"Oh, but he's got an ego like the Grand Canyon."
Healy looked at the napkin. "Let's do one at a time. No rush. There's no statute of limitations on murder."
"See, I told you we'd make a great team."
"Team," he was saying, only in a softer voice. He leaned toward her. His head tilted slightly. His eyes darted to where Adam had been just a moment before; the boy wasn't visible. Quickly Healy bent closer to her. "You're very pretty. You know that?"
She didn't know it at all. But it didn't matter. She was perfectly happy to know that he felt that way. Rune found her eyes closing, her head tilting back, lifting up to meet his lips. He reached over and took her hand and she was surprised that his was shaking slightly.
"Don't do it," Adam said, scaring the hell out of them both as he climbed on top of the bench from behind it, where he'd been stalking them. "You'll scar me for life."
Healy jerked back.
The boy grinned and motioned for Rune to help him chase pigeons. She squeezed Healy's knee and ran into the park.
"Where do I apply?"
The receptionist on the fourth floor of the Lame Duck studio looked up at Rune, scanned her figure, and went back to her occult paperback. "We don't need no secretaries."
"I want to be in films," she said.
"You know what kind of films we make here?"
"I figured The Erotic Adventures of Bunny Blue isn't an army training film," Rune said.
Today--after another phone call--Rune had found that Danny Traub was at home, entertaining some prospective actresses, if that verb worked with Traub. The woman who'd blown the whistle on the insurance policy had assured her that the producer would be busy for hours.
The Lame Duck receptionist marked her place and looked up from underneath a sheen of brown eye makeup.
Rune had decided she wasn't as content as Sam Healy was to forget about the other two suspects. So she was going to find more evidence--either for or against Danny Traub and Michael Schmidt.
The receptionist continued. "The thing is, the people they hire are a certain kind of person."
"Certain kind?"
"A little, well ..."
"What?" Rune was frowning. The girl glanced at her chest.
&nb
sp; "More ..."
"Are you trying to tell me something?"
"... voluptuous, like."
Rune's eyes went wide. "Don't you know about the Constitution?"
The horror novel was a loss. The girl folded it over without marking her place. "Like the ship? That was a ship in the Civil War? What's that got to do with--"
Rune said, "You can't discriminate against anyone just because they aren't Dolly Parton."
"Dolly Parton?"
"All I want to do is audition. If you don't want me because I can't act, okay. But you can't deny me a chance to try out because I don't have big boobs. That's, like, a federal lawsuit."
"Federal?"
There was a pause. The woman debated within herself, rifling pages of the paperback.
Rune asked, "Can I have an application?"
"They don't have applications. All they do is, like, they look at a reel you bring in of yourself. Or else you go into the studio here and, you know, do it. They tape it and if they like it, they call you back. Let me see if there's anybody around."
The girl stood up and walked into the back part of the office, swaying her independently connected hips. "Wait here."
She returned a minute later. "Go on back, the second office on the right." She looked at her novel with disappointment, realizing she'd have to find her place again.
The rooms were divided off with the same clumsily cut Sheetrock rectangles that she remembered from Nicole's so-called dressing room. The walls had been recently painted but the surfaces were already scuffed and dirty. The posters and shades were from discount import stores, the sort where newlyweds and NYU students buy wicker, bamboo and plastic to furnish first apartments. There was no carpet.
The Second Office on the Right contained more or less what she'd been expecting. A fat, bearded man in a T-shirt and black baggy slacks.
He looked up and smiled in a curious way. It wasn't lecherous, wasn't provocative, wasn't friendly. The odd thing about this smile was that the face it was etched into didn't seem to understand he was looking at another human being.
"I'm Gutman. Ralph Gutman. You're who?"
"Uh, Dawn."
"Yah. Dawn what?"
"Dawn Felicidad."
"I like that. Are you, what? Hispanic or something? You don't look it. Well, doesn't matter. So you want a job. I'm a tough guy to work for. I'm a ballbuster. But I'm the best producer in the business."
"I think I may've heard of you."
His Second Office on the Right glance said, Well, of course you've heard of me.
"Where you from?" Gutman asked. "Jersey, right?"