Death of a Blue Movie Star (24 page)

The House O’ Leather filming had been arduous.

Larry had taken Rune off catering detail for the time being and actually let her operate the camera during one session.

It had been a long shoot. Daughter had needed eighteen takes before she could get two lines of dialogue in the can. But Rune didn’t care—the camera was a real Arriflex 35, a beautiful piece of precision machinery, and feeling the mechanism whir beneath her fingers made up for a lot of the recent grief she’d been put through at the company.

Mr. Wallet—she just
couldn’t
remember his name—had turned out to be not so bad. He thanked Rune whenever she brought him something to eat or drink and, on a break, they’d shared a few words about recent movies. He had pretty good taste.

Ad director Mary Jane, though, was a different story. She hovered over the set, wearing a distracting blue-and-red suit with shoulder pads like a linebacker’s. Wanting to correct the light, wanting to look through the Arri’s eyepiece. And when Rune wasn’t behind the camera the woman would ask her to make copies and retype memos. She
wondered
a lot (her favorite phrase seemed to be “I wonder if it might not be better to …”; the second was “I would have thought you …”). Her saving grace was that, unlike Mr. Wallet, she didn’t ask Rune to fetch coffee—which told her that in her pre-Ann Taylor incarnation Mary Jane had been a put-upon secretary (the resentments of servitude run deep, Rune knew).

The shoot was finished and Rune was in the office late,
checking props for the dramatic logo scene, to be shot in a day or two. This was Bob’s idea; it would be a tracking CU—a moving close-up shot—of dominoes falling over, followed by a pullback to reveal that the dominoes had formed the company’s name and logo. It had been Rune’s job to find and rent thousands of white, dot-free dominoes.

Rune heard a noise. She looked up and saw Sam Healy standing in the doorway.

She said, “If you’re here in a, like, official capacity I’m hauling ass outa this building right now,” she said.

“So you really
do
have a job.”

“That’s a real liberal use of the word
job
, Sam.”

He walked inside and she opened the massive refrigerator and gave him a beer.

“We’ve got one more shot for this stupid commercial. Then the boys collect a nifty two hundred G’s. And that’s profit.”

“Phew,” Healy whistled. “Not a bad line of work. Beats civil-servant pay grades.”

“At least you have your dignity, Sam.”

She showed him the studio, then ran some of the rushes from the House O’ Leather shoots on the Moviola.

“I can set you up with the daughter, you want.”

“That’s all right. Think I’ll pass.”

They walked back to the office and sat down.

He said, “A couple buddies from the Sixth Precinct checked up on Tucker. He looked guilty, they said. But so do most people when they’re being interviewed by two cops.”

He continued: “But here’s the gist of it. They checked out his military history. He hardly ever saw combat and once he was discharged never had anything to do with the military again. Was in theater all his life. No criminal record, no apparent contact with criminals. Attends church regularly. He—”

“But he still knows how—”

“Hey, hey, let me finish. They also checked out what an original play by an unknown playwright is worth. You’re talking in the thousands, tops, unless a miracle happens and it takes off—like
Cats
or something like that. And that’s a one-in-a-million chance. Believe me, nobody’s going to risk a murder conviction for a couple of thousand dollars.”

“But the play … I
saw
he’d changed the name.”

“Sure he did. She was killed and he figured he’d steal them and make a little money. Her estate wouldn’t even know about it. That’s larceny. But who cares?” Healy looked into one of the hundred of boxes of dominoes that surrounded Rune. “So?”

“So?”

“You out of the detective business?”

“Totally and completely.”

“I’m really glad to hear that.”

“I have some information,” the young woman’s voice said.

Sitting at his oak desk, Michael Schmidt held the phone receiver in one hand and with his other tapped on the unopened lid of the carton of clam chowder.

The voice, a woman’s and disguised somehow, continued. “It links you to Shelly Lowe’s death.”

He poked his finger listlessly against the cello packet of saltines until each cracker popped into crumbs. “Who is this?”

“I think it’s information you’d be interested in.”

“Tell me who you are.”

“You’ll meet me soon enough. If you’re not afraid to.”

“What do you want? You want money? Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“Blackmail? It’s funny you should mention that word.
Maybe I am. But I want to meet you in person. Face-to-face.”

“Come to my office.”

“No way. Where there are plenty of people around.”

“Okay. Where?”

“Meet me at noon at Lincoln Center. You know the tables they have set up there?”

“The restaurant outside?”

“Yeah, there. Meet me there. And don’t bring anybody with you. Got it?”

“I—”

The line went dead.

Schmidt sat staring at the glossy black-and-gray phone for a full minute before he realized he was still holding the silent receiver. He hung it up angrily.

He felt like swearing, though he knew that if he did he’d immediately regret saying the cuss word. He was proud of the fact that he was both a tough, moneymaking businessman and a deeply religious man who abhorred the use of obscenities. With his thumb he continued to crush the crackers into dust.

His appetite for the soup was gone and he pitched it into his wastebasket. The lid came off and the soup spilled into the plastic bag lining the garbage can. The smell of fish and onions wafted up, which made him even more angry.

But he remained completely still as he folded his hands together and prayed until he was calm. That was one thing he had learned to do—he never made a decision when he was in what he called a secular state.

In five minutes the spirit of the Lord had calmed him. His decision was to do exactly what he’d thought of doing when he’d hung up after speaking to the girl. He picked up the phone and gently pressed out a number.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“You can use L&R’s camera. It’s got a telephoto built in.”

Stu, the cook-editor-food stylist from Belvedere Post-Production, said, “Why exactly do you want to film this guy?”

“I’m going to get a confession. I’m going to trick him.”

“Isn’t it illegal to film people if they don’t know about it?”

“No. Not if they’re in a public place. That’s what public dominion means.”

“Public domain. And that’s something different. The copyright law.”

“Oh.” Rune was frowning. “Well, I don’t know. But I’m sure it’s okay and I’m doing it.”

“What kind of camera is it?”

“Betacam. Have you—?”

“I know how to use one. Ampex deck?”

“Right,” Rune said. “You’ll be up on the balcony at
Lincoln Center, shooting down. That’s all you have to do. Just tape me talking to this guy.”

“You still haven’t told me why. What kind of confession?”

“I’ll have a tape recorder,” she said quickly. “You don’t even have to worry about audio.”

“I’m not going to do it, you don’t tell me what you’re up to.”

“Trust me, Stu.”

“I hate that phrase.”

“Don’t you like adventures?”

“No. I like cooking, I like eating. I’d like money if I had any. But one thing I definitely don’t like is adventures.”

“I’ll give you a credit on my film.”

“Great. Just be sure to put my prison number after my name.”

“It’s not illegal. That’s not the problem.”

“So there
is
a problem…. What is it, getting beat up? Or killed? Will you dedicate the film to my memory?”

“You aren’t going to get killed.”

“You didn’t say anything about not being beat up.”

“You won’t get beat up.”

“It sounded to me,” Stu said, “that there was a tacit
probably
attached to that last sentence. Was there?”

“Look, you
definitely
won’t get beat up. I promise. Feel better?”

“No … Lincoln Center? Why there?”

Rune slung the battery pack over her shoulder. “So that if you do get beat up there’ll be plenty of witnesses.”

Rune had flashed an ID to the security guard of Avery Fischer Hall. His eyes went wide for a moment, then he let her into the quiet hall.

“We’re doing some surveillance,” she told him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered and returned to his station. “You need any more help you give me a call.”

“What’s that?” Stu asked. “That you just showed him?”

“An identification card.”

“I
know
that. What kind?”

“Sort of FBI.”

He said, “What? How did you get that?”

“I kind of made it. On L&R’s word processor. Then I had it laminated.”

“Wait—why did you tell me? I don’t want to know things like that. Forget I asked.”

They continued up the stairs. On the walls were dozens of posters of operas and plays that had been performed at Lincoln Center. Rune pointed at one. “Wild. Look.” It was for Offenbach’s
Orpheus in the Underworld
.

Stu glanced at it. “I prefer easy listening. What’s the significance?”

Rune was quiet for a moment; she felt like crying. “That’s Eurydice. That woman. She reminds me of someone I used to know.”

They climbed the top floor and stepped out on the roof. Rune set up the camera.

“Now, don’t pan. I’m worried about strobing. Don’t get fancy. Keep the camera on me and the guy I’m going to be talking to. I want a two-shot most of the time but you can zoom in on his face if I give you the signal. I’ll scratch my head. How’s that? To zoom you just—”

“I’ve used a Betacam before.”

“Good. You got an hour’s worth of tape, two hours of batteries. And this’ll probably be over in fifteen minutes.”

“About the length of time of an execution. Any final words?”