Magic Hour (28 page)
"I want to find out if there was about forty minutes of dead time. Twenty minutes between the set and Sandy Court, twenty minutes back. Now, who would be most likely to know her whereabouts? Her agent? Ever hear of a guy named Eddie Pomerantz?"
Bonnie knew the name. "He's probably been around since D. W. Griffith. I doubt if he'd be on the set with her. He's a businessman, a deal-maker, not a hand-holder. More likely it would be a manager, or a personal assistant, if she had one of her own people."
"No. I don't think so."
"She might have spent time with other actors."
"No. From what I saw and from what Monteleone told me, no one could stand her. She's cold. Nasty, like someone told her: Okay, Lindsay, you're absolved from all the normal rules of behavior that everybody else has to live by."
"But she
is
absolved. When you're a big success in the movie business, you have license to behave badly. You know that. But even though Lindsay is a perfectly awful human being, she can act—when she wants to. She's beautiful, and she has the best breasts in the world. And the most important thing—people feel compelled to watch her. They can't take their eyes off her. She is a true star. So it makes sense that she wasn't hanging out with anyone from the cast. They're just plain actors, not stars. And Santana: even if he is her boyfriend, by late afternoon he'd be too involved in problems on the set to take care of her."
I thought back to the reports I'd read and all the interviews I'd done. "From what I can remember, Santana was doing whatever it is directors do the whole afternoon. There's not even an indication he took time out to go to the John; he was out there the whole time. So who else could have been with her?"
"A lot of stars get close with their makeup and hair people. Like regular ladies do with their hairdressers; it's a natural, easy intimacy. They might have been working on her."
"The idea is to break down Lindsay's alibi, not reinforce it."
"The idea is to find the truth. Anyway, the makeup person would at least know if Lindsay had any good friends on the set. As for off the set, if she went anywhere or needed an errand, there'd be a Teamster driver. But I can't imagine her saying, 'Jack, drive me over to
"How can I get the names of all these different crew people, fast?"
"Everybody gets a crew list. There should be one at Sy's house."
"When Sy was killed, he was on his portable phone with Eddie Pomerantz. Do you think there's a chance that word had gotten back to Pomerantz that Sy was going to see other actresses in L.A.?"
"Sure."
"How?"
"Because this is a gossipy business. More than that: a public business.
Everything
—contracts, food, cars, sex, lawsuits, flatulence—is talked about. My guess is, if Lindsay hadn't figured it out for herself, Eddie Pomerantz would know what was going on, probably from two or three different sources, and was trying to convince Sy to call off his trip."
"He claims they were arguing about some photo-approval problems."
"To quote you," Bonnie said, " 'bullshit.' "
"Okay. I'm going out to see if I can dig anything up. I want you to stay right where you are."
Bonnie shook her head. "No, I have to get back."
"You're in a hurry to get arrested?"
"No. But I can't let you ruin your career by harboring a known fugitive. I mean that." She did.
"You may read mysteries, but you don't know shit about the law. You're not a fugitive. Not yet. You're just my houseguest. Relax. Read a book. Go to sleep."
"I can't sleep."
"So write a screenplay about a producer who gets killed, and figure out whodunit." She glanced past me, out into the house, toward the front door. "You're thinking of taking a nice little run after I go. Right, Bonnie? Maybe a nice ten-mile sprint over to Gideon's? Ask yourself: Do you want to put your best friend in the position of either protecting you or turning you in?"
"No."
"Then stay here. Promise me. I don't want my gut in a knot, wondering where you are, what you're doing, when I'm out there."
She reached out and took my hand. "Will you promise me that if you decide you can't help me, you won't arrest me?"
"Jesus, give me a little credit." She squeezed my hand, then let it go. "
If
I can't help you, I'll let you know. And you'll be on your own."
She said, "On my word of honor: No matter how it turns out, I'll never tell anyone you did this."
"I know." We stood together for a minute. Finally, I said: "I have to go now." But then I couldn't leave. "Bonnie?"
"What?"
"Want to kiss me goodbye?"
"I tried that once. It didn't work out so well."
"Yes, it did."
"No, it didn't. Anyway, you have bigger things to do besides kissing."
"Like what?"
"Like going inside and calling your fiancee and telling her chicken breasts or roast beef. And then going out to try to save my life."
Easton had taken to his bed and hadn't gotten out, but at least he wasn't sleeping with his blankie pulled over his head anymore; he was lying on his side, his cheek propped up by his hand, and he was absorbed in a script. I was mature, big-brotherly. I yelled "Boo!"
He screamed, but he was so startled it sounded more like the squawk of an oversize bird. "Don't ever do that again!" he roared. "Don't you dare!" Two seconds later, he calmed down enough to ask, "What did you do, you dimwit? Sneak up the stairs so you wouldn't have to say hello to Mother?"
"Yeah. You know, I remember when you used to call her 'Mom'—before you decided to be born upper-class."
"At least I can get away with it. If you tried it..."
I liked it. Easton appeared to be coming out of his big sleep. Not exactly tear-assing around town—he was still in his striped pajamas—but to be fair, where did he have to go that needed a pair of pants? "You sound a lot better. When I spoke to you on the phone, it was like listening to a Quaalude commercial."
"I feel better. I've had some good news!"
"What?"
"I'd been planning on making a few calls, to see if I could find something resembling work. Never got around to it. Too upset. Well, a friend of Sy's whom I'd met, Philip Scholes, the director ... He'd been renting over in Quogue in July and needed some Xeroxing done fast and called Sy to find out where to go. Sy wasn't in, but I offered to help and got it done for him in less than an hour. Well, he called me today! He's been needing an aide-de-camp, and when he heard about Sy, he started thinking about me. Bottom line is, he's paying for a round-trip ticket so I can go out to
"Hey, terrific!" Easton smoothed down the top of his pajamas as if about to begin the job interview. "I'm really glad for you. It was such a rotten break with Sy. You'd come into your own, working for him; I'd never seen you so happy." My brother gave a fast, sad nod of assent, but I could see his allegiance was already transferring to Philip Scholes. "You can do something for me."
"What?"
"Get me a copy of the crew list. You have one?"
Easton got out of bed, slipped into his backless leather slippers and padded into the next room, the study, the slippers flapping against his heels. "Why do you need it?" he asked.
"Checking out if certain people were where they claimed they were last Friday."
"Like who?"
"Like everyone who gave a statement. Routine shit."
But Easton shook his head, stubborn, not buying it. "Lindsay?"
"Lindsay."
"Steve, believe me, you're way off base."
"East, believe me, you've got such a hard-on for her you can't see straight."
"Well, maybe I do. But so did Sy. He never would have gotten rid of her." He got a little petulant. "I
told
you that." He opened a drawer of his desk, drew out a manila folder with an orange tab, leafed through the neat stack of papers. He knew precisely what he was looking for and where. It was amazing; we were so alike in that regard. Everything had to have a place, be under control. For most of my drinking days, when I'd come off a bender, I'd find bottles and cans neatly lined up against the splashboard of the sink; in that last year before sobriety, when I started finding beer cans on the floor by my TV chair and, once, an empty bottle of wine cooler on the bathroom sink, I began to understand how lost I was.
Easton handed me the crew list. "I know what you told me about Lindsay, but we've got a lot of evidence that says you're wrong, that Sy was getting ready to bounce her." Easton looked unconvinced, and a little shaken by the threat to Lindsay. I tried to cheer him up. "Look, I'm sure she was in her trailer from four to seven, with a dozen unimpeachable witnesses. It's just that we found out that there was bad blood between her and Sy. Plus she was screwing around with"—my brother drew back his head, as though somehow he could avoid hearing—"Victor Santana." No expression, not even surprise, crossed his face. "And it turns out she may have known how to shoot a rifle. She had some firearms instruction for a movie she did.
Transvaal
."
Easton smacked the folder onto the desk hard, as if swatting a big, obnoxious insect. "But what about Sy's ex-wife? Damn it all. I thought you had her dead to rights."
"We're having doubts. Oh, by the way, did Sy ask you to buy a computer and a printer for her?"
Boston looked blank for a second. Then he stared up at the ceiling, as if searching out the answer there. I was getting a little scared. What if she was still lying? Finally, he said: "Right. I remember now. A bargain-basement computer and printer. Sy said forget IBM; too expensive. He'd heard the Korean ones were all right, and not to go above a thousand for the whole package."
"Did he say why he was sending it to her?"
"No. I assumed it was a consolation prize for rejecting her screenplay."
"Do you have a copy of the screenplay?
A Sea Change
."
"No." He paused. "Steve, I'm not telling you your business, but she had every reason to kill him."
"Why?"
"He passed on her script."
"Did you read any memos, any letters he sent her, that said 'I pass'?"
"No. That sort of thing he'd dictate to his secretary in the New York office over the phone; unless she faxed it back for him to proofread, she'd have signed his name. It wouldn't have come back to the house."
"So you don't actually know that he turned down her script."
"He couldn't have been trying to cement a relationship, for God's sake. He ordered her off the set. Very harshly. She must have been humiliated."
"Even if she was, it may not be motive for murder—unless she's crazy, and she just doesn't seem crazy."
"So you need a suspect, and now you're going to pick on Lindsay?" My brother, Mr. Moderate, wasn't acting so moderate. His neck and ears were flushed bright red. He was really working himself up, defending his damsel in distress. "
Why?
Give me one good reason why Homicide would go after her. The publicity?"
"Don't be a jerk."
"I think what you're doing is out-and-out disgraceful!" I shrugged. Easton stomped over to the leather couch and plopped down on it. He put his face in his hands and shook his head back and forth. I was about to break in, when he looked up.
Easton's mood had changed. He was quiet, thoughtful, no longer outraged; he seemed like a man beginning to acknowledge doubt. "I don't know; maybe I can't see straight when it comes to Lindsay—my adolescent crush. Maybe you're right."
"Right about what?"
"About Lindsay being less than the loving ... well, not wife. Less than the loving lover. It's possible she
could
have been stepping out. I can't swear to it. You see, no one would talk in front of me because I was Sy's boy, so to speak. But I did hear a few whispers about her and Santana."
"Was there any chance Sy knew about the two of them?" Easton gave it a lot of thought. Too much; it was getting late. I glanced at the crew list, then at my watch. Most of the
Starry Night
company was staying at a motel in the Three Mile Harbor section of East Hampton. Maybe I could catch them; some of them might have left town for a long weekend, but I didn't think many would voluntarily walk away from what was probably the most renowned vacation spot in America for three days on West Ninety-fifth Street or in Hoboken. "East, I've got to go."
"Sy played it very close to the vest," he said thoughtfully, not hearing me. "But I remember one thing. Maybe it's significant. Every Saturday, the week before, and the first two weeks of shooting, he gave Lindsay a present. Left it at her place at the table so when she came down for coffee, she'd find it. I don't mean a box of chocolates. I mean Art Deco diamond ear clips. Five-hundred-dollar cashmere shawls in a rainbow of colors: I think he gave her seven or eight of them at once. They were spilling over her chair; it was an incredible sight. A Piaget watch. Nothing he gave her cost less than two or three thousand, and the average was closer to five. But that last Saturday he was alive, all he left was a note: 'In tennis tournament. See you tonight.' "
"You saw the note?"
"Yes. It was just lying there. Not in an envelope, or even folded. And all right, maybe I'm not the gentleman I pretend to be. I guess you know that better than anyone. I have no qualms about reading other people's mail, especially not a note to Lindsay."
"Was he actually playing in a tennis tournament?"
"I would seriously doubt it. He wasn't a particularly good player. Limp forehand; he would have been eliminated long before lunch. And, Steve, this is the thing: I was in the house when Lindsay came down. I saw her. She looked at her place setting. Nothing there. At her chair, under the table. Nothing. Then she read the note. And she
stormed
out of the room."
The only time I went into a bar anymore was when I was on a case; otherwise it was a risk I figured I didn't need to take. Still, even though it was business, the first thing I did when I walked into the Harbor Room at the Summerview Motel was to grab a glass of club soda, grip it hard and sip like crazy.
The Teamster drivers, a group of six, were big-bellied and Irish, beardless Santa Clauses who could hold their liquor. They were guys who had brothers or sons who were cops and who respected the shield. We got to be pals fast. Lindsay's driver was a two-hundred-fifty-pound, apple-cheeked guy named Pete Dooley.
"She doesn't get a chauffeured limo?" I asked.
"Uh-uh." Classic Brooklyn. "Maybe, you know, Stallone, somebody like that. Lindsay gets me and a station wagon." He glanced at my glass. "Want something stronger?"
"Can't." He understood. "What's she like, Pete?"
"I've had worse. She's a bitch. Big deal. Doesn't feel she has to say things like hello or please or thank you. But on the other hand, she don't snort coke, or mess herself, or cry and ask me to hook up a hose to the tail pipe."
"She ever talk to you?"
"Uh-uh. Just says where she wants to go, what she wants."
"What did she want on the day Sy Spencer was shot?"
"Nothing much. I picked her up at six in the morning. Didn't drive her home. Her agent came to break the bad news, and he took her back."
"Did you see her at all during that day?"
"Just, you know, around. Before lunch, she sent a P.A. over to me with a note. I should pick up a package at an underwear store on Hill Street back in Southampton. Pay them, get a receipt—and make sure to count the change. What a bitch! So I waited till after lunch, did it, came back."
"The package was already wrapped?" He nodded. "Did it feel light like underwear, or could it have been something heavier?"
"Underwear. Four hundred sixty-three bucks and eighteen cents' worth of underwear, and this is for someone who lets 'em bounce all the time. Never wears a bra. What the hell could cost over four hundred bucks?"
"Beats me. Fancy lace shit, maybe. She gave you the money in cash, Pete?"
"Yeah. Twenties."
I got another club soda. He and the other drivers went over the crew list with me. They said Barbara, her makeup lady, had gone back to the city for the weekend, but to try the hair guy and the costume lady. They pointed out their names and said they were probably somewhere around the motel.
Except for the fact that he had four or five super-blond, Lindsay-color wigs in his room, on faceless Styrofoam heads, the hair guy could have passed for a cabdriver, or a steamfitter. He was about as stylish as the pizza sauce, cheese and pepperoni that had plopped down onto his shirt. He and a couple of other guys—he said they were grips—were watching one of those soft-core horny-airline-stewardess movies that motels pipe into rooms. All he could tell me was that in the party scene they'd been shooting, Lindsay, trying to show how wild and carefree she was even though she was hurting inside, ran into the ocean, fully dressed. On the TV, a stewardess with no underwear in a tiny skirt was bending over to serve a passenger a drink, and the hairstylist kept turning back to watch her, like he'd never seen a bare ass before and couldn't get over how wondrous it was. Lindsay, I reminded him. We're talking about Lindsay. Right, he said.
Lindsay's own hair had been under a wig cap, and they'd put on dry wigs for when she ran and a wet wig for when she came up out of the water; he'd stood there in the surf, styling it for her. When they'd called her for a scene, she'd always been ready. Where was she when she wasn't acting? In wardrobe or her trailer. Yes, it was possible for her to have gone out and come back. Sometime late afternoon, there had been a turnaround that took over an hour. There was no big deal with the lights, but the Steadicam operator was having trouble with his harness. No one saw her during that time; she always liked her privacy. Nobody knew what she did: probably read magazines, because the trailer was filled with every magazine ever printed—she was probably looking for her name or her picture; they all did that. But maybe she slept, or meditated. Who knew? Who cared?
I thought that Lindsay would have been taking a big chance if she'd tried to slip away unnoticed, because of the time factor. Besides, as the hair guy explained, there could always be a wardrobe or script crisis that required her presence. Also, she was just too noticeable.
I asked if there were any other wigs around. Not white-blond ones. He said there were a couple of dark-brown ones in the makeup trailer, but they were for Nick Monteleone.
On the TV, one of the airline stewardesses was starting to play with another one's nipples; they were standing in the galley with their blouses off. I yawned. I was so wiped out. The grips gazed at the screen, nudged each other. I lost the hair guy's attention. I was too tired to care. I left the room.
The Summerview was standard motel, an elongated two-story rectangle with a balcony running the length of the upper floor. It was not for the socially ambitious visitor to East Hampton: no famous newspaper columnists or politicians or fashion designers would be found rubbing shoulders over the toaster waffles in the King of the Sea Coffee Shop. It was a place for normal people who wanted to sit on a perfect beach by day and get a little glamour by night: browse in shops they couldn't afford, or squint into passing Rolls-Royces to see if Steven Spielberg was inside.
