A Motive For Murder (16 page)

Herbert’s normally golden glow flushed slightly as he
patted a knapsack full of neatly packed clothing on the bench
beside him. “No. I have a ballet lesson to attend. I have caught
the bug, it seems.”

“I salute you,” T.S. said. “I suppose you’re wearing
tights?”

Herbert bowed modestly. “When in Rome, as they
say.”

 Gene Levitt had fallen on hard times with the
cruel swift–ness that only a career in the entertainment business
offers. His company had been reduced to a small but clean cubicle
in a shared office complex run by a desperate real-estate
management firm out to turn a buck on an under-occupied skyscraper
in midtown. The other cubicles were rented out monthly to
accountants, public-relations consultants, money managers, and
other entrepreneurs seeking success. Since it was after regular
working hours, the shared receptionist had long since departed.
Many of the offices remained well lit, however, as self-employed
hopefuls struggled to make ends meet.

Gene Levitt was clearly a soul on the way down. T.S.
knew that he had, until recently, headed up a successful
independent production company out of a studio in Hollywood. Now
his kingdom had dwindled to eighty rented square feet of not so
prime Manhattan real estate.

“It’s not much, I know,” Levitt said. “What can I
say?”

He was a small man, trim and deeply tanned with
receding black hair cut short and brushed back from a rounded
forehead. He had babyish features that looked out of place on such
a serious face. His button nose and pursed lips belonged on a
cherub, not a Hollywood executive facing disaster. He held his
energy close to his body, seeming to hover above surfaces rather
than sitting and standing like everyone else. His suit was
custom-tailored. T.S. guessed that his wardrobe would survive the
bankruptcy better than other aspects of his life.

“Have a seat.” Levitt nodded toward a small plastic
chair pulled up near his plain wooden desk. “I don’t suppose you
have money?”

“I beg your pardon?” T.S. asked. He felt
uncomfortable in his sweater and casual slacks. It made him feel
disadvantaged to face a man in a suit without similar corporate
armor.

Levitt waved a hand nervously in the air. “Don’t
worry. I know you’re here to ask me questions about that bastard
Morgan. The old lady was pretty explicit about what she wanted on
the phone. But I can’t help myself. Reflex action. Thought I’d give
it a try. So do you? Have money?”

“No money,” T.S. said quickly. “At least none I can
get my hands on.”

“Join the rest of the world,” Levitt said with a
grimace. Smiling had long since disappeared from his repertoire.
“That’s why I’m in New York. I’m here on the East Coast trying to
raise money for a new venture.”

“Having much luck?” T.S. asked politely.

Levitt shrugged. “Movies are glamorous,” he
explained. “And I have a pretty good track record. Two successful
independent features, nothing to write home about, but they made a
fair piece of change. A line of cheapo horror pics. They turned a
good profit, too. Plus a couple of made-for-television ventures. I
make my people money.”

“Or did, until the last time around,” T.S. said.

Levitt sighed and the energy drained from him like a
deflating beach ball. His compact frame slumped and he stared at
the desktop glumly. Until recently,” he admitted. “There’s no way
around it. It was a disaster.”

“What happened?” T.S. asked, wondering if he should
take notes. Sam Spade wouldn’t be caught dead taking notes. But
then, Sam Spade didn’t have to report to Auntie Lil...

“We’d signed Mikey Morgan to star in a big-budget
feature. Our biggest yet,” Levitt explained. He picked up a
fountain pen and jabbed joylessly at a blotter as he spoke. “We
were lucky. We signed him before his back-to-back hits and got him
on the cheap. Shooting was supposed to start last month in
Hollywood on soundstages, followed by Seattle this month. We’d
already contracted for the stages, put down a deposit, and invested
a lot of money on location in Seattle when we got the bad
news.”

“The news being that Mikey Morgan was pulling out of
the picture?”

Levitt nodded. “That bastard father of his left me a
message on my answering machine. Can you believe that? The guy is
costing me nine million dollars and he can’t even tell me the bad
news to my face.”

“Wasn’t there a contract?” T.S. asked. “How could he
break it?”

“Sure there was a contract.” Levitt rummaged around
in a lower drawer and withdrew a thick sheaf of paper, tossing it
across the desk at T.S. “Here. Maybe you can find a use for it.
It’s worthless to me.”

“Why?” T.S. asked. He paged curiously through the
document, amazed at the complexity of the terms and the petty
conditions attached as riders. “Jellybeans?” he asked. “In five
specified flavors at all times?”

Levitt shrugged. “I hope the kid’s teeth rot.
Soon.”

“What excuse did Morgan use to pull out?” T.S.
asked.

 “Claims he had a prior legally binding
arrangement elsewhere that was running over schedule. It was a
lie, of course. He was stalling for time so he could stonewall the
film. He knew I put my investors together project by project and
that they aren’t the most patient backers in the world. If he could
have held out long enough, I would have had to fold the flick and
go on to something else. If I took him to court, the kid would have
been so old by the time the case came to trial that no one would
have wanted him when we were through. Face it. He has another year
or two of being cute and then it’s good-bye time. It’s already too
late for me, of course. I’m ruined. I don’t know if Morgan knew how
far we had extended ourselves with pre-production expenses, but I
wouldn’t be surprised if he had. He had a reputation of costing
people money.”

“You sound resigned to losing your shirt,” T.S.
said.

“I’m not.” Levitt patted down his pockets and located
a pack of cigarettes. “But I’m prepared for the inevitable. Want
one?” He offered the pack to T.S.

T.S. declined but did not have the heart to ask him
to hold off. The guy needed a smoke pretty badly if his shaking
hands were any indication.

“Morgan could have pulled his kid out a hell of a lot
earlier,” Levitt admitted. “Before I’d put all that money on the
line. Waiting until he did is what put me under. I gotta wonder if
maybe it wasn’t deliberate.”

“Deliberate?” T.S. asked. “Why would he do that?”

Levitt shook his head. “I’ve been asking myself the
same thing. I never met the guy before this project, never worked
with the kid either. Best thing I can think of is that he didn’t
like one of my investors. Or he just didn’t care. Or maybe he likes
ruining people. Maybe it was some kind of weird revenge for his
past failures. He didn’t like to be reminded of his days as a kid
actor, I can tell you that.”

T.S. was silent for a moment, considering the
possibilities. “Did you ever work with Bobby Morgan when he was an
actor?” he asked Levitt.

Levitt frowned. “Hey, do I look old enough for that
to you? I’m forty-one, for chrissakes. He and I were about the same
age. No, I didn’t work with him way back when. I just wanted to
work with his kid.”

“Maybe he was afraid the salary you were offering
Mikey would pull down his fees for other films?”

Levitt shrugged. “Look, the kid was already lined up
to get a fortune on two other flicks once he finished my film. He
gets more than any other kid in the history of Hollywood and more
than most leading men I know. He could have knocked out my picture
and then moved on, raking it in while he could. I don’t think it
was the money, but maybe it was. Maybe the father planned to wait a
couple weeks then start the kid on one of the high-priced flicks
instead of mine to cash in quick while the kid was still cute. I
don’t know.” He finished his cigarette and went back to playing
with the fountain pen.

“Who were your investors?” T.S. asked.

Levitt shrugged. “Some financial guys, representing a
group of limited partners. Some old money attracted by the glamour.
Plus a handful of industry old-timers, mostly producers out in L.A.
and some aging film stars hoping to make money on the other end for
once.”

“And they all lost their money?”

“I’ll say. But at least they kept their day jobs. Me,
I’m ruined. I’ll be lucky if I can raise enough money for my
nephew’s Christmas pageant after this.” He threw the pen down and
ran his hands over his head. “Sorry. I’m kind of nervous right
now.”

“Nervous?” T.S. said. “Over the future?”

“Over right now.” He glanced at the door anxiously.
“They’re going to arrest me. I know it. They’ve already called
twice. The cops.”

“Arrest you?” T.S. said. “What for?”

“What do you think?” Levitt stared at T.S. “Come on,
who has a better motive than me? The guy ruined me. I can’t say I’m
sorry he’s dead. And I was there.”

“You were there?” T.S. asked.

“I was there,” Levitt explained defensively. “I came
to opening night. I thought maybe if I could get Morgan alone at
the party afterward, I could talk to him, get him to change his
mind. Figured he’d be in a good mood. Instead, he decided to hang
around backstage for a while.” He grimaced again. “They’re coming
to take me away. I can feel it.”

“Nonsense,” T.S. said. “Police don’t arrest you for
nothing.”

“Sure they do,” Levitt said. “Don’t you go to the
movies?”

At that exact moment a man and a woman dressed in
nearly identical gray suits stuck their heads into Levitt’s office.
“Gene Levitt?” the female half of the duo asked, shifting her gaze
from T.S. to Levitt.

“That’s me,” Levitt said wearily, raising his hands
above his head as if he were about to be shot.

“You don’t need to put your hands above your head,
sir,” the detective explained as she flipped open a small leather
case and flashed a gold badge. “We’re just here to bring you
downtown for questioning. I assume you’re willing to
cooperate?”

“Here,” Levitt said, tossing a scrap of paper at a
startled T.S. “Call this guy for me, will ya? He’s my lawyer. Make
it sound like I got money, okay? Otherwise, he’ll never come.”

T.S. took the crumpled note and watched in
bewilderment as Levitt was led from the office wedged between the
silent detectives. His figure disappeared into the darkness of the
deserted reception area, leaving T.S. feeling vulnerable in the
sudden silence. He felt very lucky to be who he was. Here was a man
without hope, without friends, without even a lawyer who could be
counted on unless big money was on the table. You could take your
celluloid dreams and Malibu beach homes, T.S. thought. He’d stay
right here in New York where friends were friends and fortunes took
a little bit longer to slide downhill.

He stared at the contract before him. Where had
Levitt stored it? His eyes wandered to the double drawers anchoring
the right side of the desk. If there was a contract, there was a
file. If there was a file, it had the names of his investors in it.
Looking around carefully to make sure he was not being observed,
T.S. crept to the front of Levitt’s desk and tried both drawers.
The bottom one was filled with contracts and schedules for the
aborted Mikey Morgan movie. Paging through quickly, T.S. removed
all of the documents pertaining to financial matters. He stuffed
them under his sweater and guiltily fled the lonely office.

“Why not take the papers?” T.S. thought to himself as
he hurried out to the street to find a cab. “By tomorrow, they’ll
just be sitting in a box in a precinct somewhere.”

Auntie Lil was angry. “I would like to know why I was
not informed of this meeting,” she demanded. Lilah Cheswick was not
present, leaving her without an ally. “And was Mrs. Cheswick
notified?”

“We attempted to call you,” Lane Rogers said stiffly.
“I  assumed you were too busy pursuing your investigative
activities. As for Mrs. Cheswick, she seems a bit too busy to
concern herself with our affairs these days.”

Lane still looked pale and drawn, no better than she
had at Bobby Morgan’s funeral two days before. Her hair was pulled
stiffly back from her face in an untidy bun and her makeup was
unevenly applied.

“We did try to call you,” Ruth Beretsky began, but
she was a timid woman and immediately withered under Auntie Lil’s
steady gaze. “At least, Lane says she tried to call you.”

“Ruth!” It was a bark more than a command, but it had
its effect. Ruth fell silent. “It is a moot point, anyway,” Lane
said smoothly. “As we are all now very well aware that you are
here, Miss Hubbert, this emergency meeting will come to order.”

“What is the point of this meeting?” Hans Glick
demanded. His usually impeccable grooming was marred by a crooked
tie. On him, it looked as out of place as a dog wearing a hat.

“The point of this meeting is to ask you what
financial standing the Metro currently holds,” Lane replied.
“Specifically regarding our insurance coverage.”

“Why is that relevant?” Glick asked, his voice
faltering. “I will submit my usual monthly financial review next
week.”

“It is relevant because we are being sued,” Lane
announced. A gasp ran through the room. “On behalf of his minor
children, Bobby Morgan’s ex-wife has filed a multimillion-dollar
lawsuit against the Metropolitan Ballet for insufficient security
and other safety violations which contributed to the death of her
ex-husband. I was served the papers at the Plaza in front of half
of New York. You can imagine my mortification. I fired my maid for
telling the process server where I was.”

On cue, Ruth produced a thick document from her
briefcase and stacked it on the table for all to see.