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Authors: C. E. Lawrence

BOOK: Silent Stalker
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C
HAPTER
F
OUR
The Noble Fools performed in a tiny black box theatre on the second floor of a commercial building on West Fifty-fourth Street. As he trudged up the drafty staircase, Lee wondered what it was about theatre that lured people into a life that was anything but glamorous. The theatre was cramped and claustrophobic, with no windows. The bare brick walls were covered on one side with a black felt curtain, and a rickety-looking spinet piano listed to one side on the raised stage. Lee figured the place could fit fifty people on a good night. At least the seating looked comfortable—rows of old-fashioned plush movie house seats, probably snatched up during the demise of the revival movie houses that had bitten the dust in the last few decades.
As they entered the theatre, a large red-haired woman in a purple flowered kimono swished toward them, trailing a cloud of sandalwood perfume. “Davillia Metcalfe-Smythe,” she purred, extending an extravagantly braceleted hand. “I'm the director. Can I help you?” Her accent was mid-Atlantic, artificially refined, reminiscent of film actors of the 1930s and '40s.
“Detective Leonard Butts, NYPD,” Butts said, shaking her hand. The jewelry on her arm jingled like tiny bells, and her large round hoop earrings bobbed like buoys stranded in a sea of henna.
Everything about her was oversized, from her blowsy figure to the extreme shade of her abundant curly hair—bright crimson with purple overtones. Her skin was so white that Lee wondered if she was an albino, but the paint on her face made it impossible to tell. Her lips were a crimson Cupid's bow, her arched eyebrows were penciled in an expression of permanent surprise, and mascara hung like Spanish moss from her eyelashes. Her nails matched her lipstick, and had been filed to a point, like talons. He imagined them ripping into flesh . . . actors probably watched their step around her. Even her name was too much.
Davillia Metcalfe-Smythe.
Who was she trying to impress?
But Detective Butts seemed unimpressed, grunting as she led them to seats in the audience section of the theatre.
“Now then, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” she asked, settling across from them in a canvas director's chair. Lee wondered if her name was stenciled on the back.
“I'm afraid I have some bad news,” Butts said.
“Dear me,” she replied, crossing her generous thighs under the purple kimono. “Is one of my cast members in trouble of some kind?”
Butts cleared his throat. “I'm sorry to have to tell you there's been a murder.”
“That's terrible!” she cried, but Lee sensed more glee than alarm in her response. This was a woman who fed off drama like a vulture off carrion.
“Mindy Lewis was found dead early this morning in her apartment building.”
“Oh my lord!” Davillia replied, her eyes wide, but she wasn't a very good actress, and failed to hide the thrill in her voice. “The poor dear! How was—how did she—?”
“We are not releasing the details of her death at the present time,” Butts said.
“But she was definitely—murdered?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you any idea who—I mean, do you have any leads? Any suspects?”
“We were hoping you and the rest of the cast might be able to help us with that.”
“Of course!” Davillia proclaimed, rising from her chair. She swept a fleshy arm majestically over the auditorium. “Anything we can do. Feel free to look around, ask as many questions as you like. The others will be here shortly, and I will put them at your disposal.” She took a stance like a general commanding troops, and Lee had to admire her flamboyant self-assurance. “We will help you find Mindy's killer!”
Lee had seen a lot of responses to the news of murder, but never one quite like this. He glanced at Butts, but the detective's face was impassive as he scribbled in the notebook he always carried with him. Butts had a memory like a steel trap, so he rarely needed to take notes on anything, but it was a departmental requirement. A detective's notes could be called upon during a court testimony, so it was important to have them.
“What can you tell us about the deceased?” Butts asked.
“Oh, she was a lovely girl—talented, hardworking. Had a ways to go as an actress, but then, this is off-off-Broadway, after all. I don't expect the young people I work with to be at the top of their game.”
Butts plucked a flyer from the seat next to him and held it up.
 
A Comedy of Errors
by William Shakespeare
 
“Is this what you're rehearsing?”
“Yes. I was lucky enough to find two sets of identical twins for the male leads and their servants.”
“Twins?” said Butts.
“It's a comedy based on mistaken identity,” she explained.
“How'd you manage that?”
“This is New York, Detective. You can find anything if you look hard enough. We're also double and triple casting the show to make the cast as small as possible. I'm even playing a couple of roles myself.”
Butts looked at Lee. “You know this show?”
Lee nodded. “I've seen it.” What he didn't say was that he had played a minor role in a college production when he was at Princeton.
“It's one of Shakespeare's earliest efforts, but he only wrote one other play that observed the Aristotelian unities,” Davillia remarked, her bangles jingling as she waved her arms to emphasize her point. “And that was
The Tempest,
the masterpiece of his old age. Interesting, don't you think?”
“The Aristo—what?” asked Butts.
“Unities,” said Davillia. “The entire play takes place in twenty-four hours. It was one of Aristotle's theories about theatre.”
Though her extravagant personality and mannered language should have irritated him, Lee was finding Davillia Metcalfe-Smythe hypnotic. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or the warmth of the stuffy room, but the sound of her voice was somehow soothing, and he felt his eyelids growing heavy as she rattled on. For all her artificiality and pretense, Davillia was a big, comfortable earth mother—everything his own mother wasn't. Lee shifted in his seat, fighting to stay awake. The radiator at the back of the theatre clanked and moaned as steam rattled its aged pipes—a percussion section to the cadence of her voice as it rose and fell, gliding smoothly over the landscape of her speech. . .
Lee felt an elbow in his ribs and jerked back into awareness.
“. . . as I was saying, they should all be here soon. Poor dears—I hate to think how they'll take this terrible news.”
“You use any swords in this production?” asked Butts.
“Why, yes. Why do you—”
“Mind if I have a look at them?”
“They're just prop swords.”
“Plastic?”
“No, they're metal, but the blades have been capped.”
“Meaning?”
“Here, I'll show you.”
She led them backstage to an umbrella stand full of metal swords—foils, épées, even a couple of rapiers. Lee recognized them from his days on the fencing team in high school. Butts put on a pair of latex gloves and pulled out one of the foils to examine it. A square metal cap had been soldered onto the tip to blunt the weapon.
“Are they all like this?” Butts asked.
“Of course. You can't use real swords in a stage production. Someone might get hurt.”
Butts grunted and examined the rest of the collection. “You notice any missing lately?”
“No, but I don't keep an exact count of how many we have. Props come and go here all the time, and other theatre companies use this space as well. Why do you ask?”
Her question was interrupted by the arrival of two tall, good-looking young men who could only be actors—the New York variety, funkier and earthier than their California equivalents, but actors nonetheless. Their energy was unmistakable—boisterous, overly cheerful, and needy. Behind their eyes lurked a thirst for approval, the search for love and acceptance. What was more remarkable was that they were clearly identical twins. Dark-haired and lean, with deep-set brown eyes, they were almost a cliché of what a leading man should look like.
“I did not!” one of them said as they entered the room, the metal door clanging shut behind them.
“Like hell you didn't!” said his brother. “I saw you!”
When they saw Lee and Detective Butts, they ceased chattering and looked uncertainly at Davillia. She drew herself up with dignity and spoke with calm authority.
“These gentlemen are from the NYPD.” She turned to Butts. “This is one of the pairs of identical twins I told you about, Keith and Fred Wilson.”
“Detective Leonard Butts, Homicide,” Butts said.
“No kidding?” exclaimed the taller and thinner of the twins. “Has someone been killed?”
“If you don't mind, Keith, I'm going to wait until all of the actors are here to break the news,” said Davillia.
They didn't have long to wait. A middle-aged black man with a noble profile and an impressive head of salt-and-pepper hair entered, followed by another set of male twins, short, muscular redheads with pink skin and pale blue eyes. The only noticeable difference between them was that one of them wore glasses. The last to arrive was a lovely young woman who bore a striking resemblance to the murdered girl, with white skin and curly black hair. She looked around nervously upon entering, and when she saw Butts and Lee standing there she joined her colleagues.
“What's going on?” she said timidly.
“I'll tell you in a minute, Sara,” Davillia replied gently. “Is everyone here?”
“Yes,” said one of the redheaded twins. “Present and accounted for.”
“Thanks, Danny,” said Davillia. “That's Danny Atkins,” she explained to Lee and Butts. “He's also our stage manager.” She turned back to her actors. “I think some of you may want to sit down.”
“Why? What's happened?” cried Sara. She looked terrified, whereas the rest of the cast looked merely apprehensive.
“I'm afraid Mindy has been murdered,” said Davillia.
A collective gasp arose from the group, and several who were still standing sank into the audience seats. But the most dramatic response came from Sara, who gave a horrified scream and fell into the arms of one of the redheaded twins.
“Mindy was playing her sister in the play,” Davillia told Lee and Butts.
“It's not that,” Sara said. “It‘s—it's—”
“What is it, dear?” asked Davillia. “What's wrong?”
“I found this in my mailbox today,” Sara said. With trembling hands, she produced a folded piece of paper from her purse and handed it to the director. Davillia read it and handed it to Butts, who glanced at it and held it up for Lee to read it. On the paper, printed in block letters, were two words.
 
YOU'RE NEXT
C
HAPTER
F
IVE
It took a while to calm Sara, and several other cast members appeared equally shaken. Davillia was remarkably adept at soothing the frayed nerves of her actors. Lee could see why she was a director—she was very good at handling people.
Detective Butts was irritated that the paper containing the message to Sara had been contaminated by so many sets of fingerprints. He pulled on a latex glove, snatched it away from Davillia, and dropped it into an evidence bag.
“Damn thing won't be much use now,” he grumbled.
“Too many prints on it already.” The detective pulled out his cell phone. “I'm calling the precinct,” he told Lee. “Maybe they can send a sergeant to help interview the actors. Since they're all here now, it'll save time.”
What he didn't say was that catching potential suspects off guard was always a good idea. If they postponed the interviews, it would give the perpetrator time to come up with an alibi—that is, if he was one of the actors. The precinct desk sergeant agreed to send over Sergeant McKinney, who Butts had worked with before.
Some of the actors were dismayed to hear they would be detained for questioning, though others seemed eager to help. First to volunteer for an interview were the redheaded twins, but they looked disappointed when Butts said they would have to be questioned separately.
“But we do everything together,” said Danny, the twin with the glasses.
“Not this,” Butts growled. “So, do you want to talk here or later down at the station?”
“We want to help in any way we can, Detective,” Ryan replied, nudging his brother with his elbow. “Right, Danny? ”
“Sure,” said Danny. “Of course we do.”
Just as they were about to divide up the actors, an extremely tall police officer entered the theatre. Even without the uniform, Lee would have spotted him as a cop. He had that combination of authority and wariness, striding down the aisle with a half-swagger, watching everyone's reaction to him as he took them in with his carefully composed gaze, calculated to give away nothing.
He was a bulky man, not only tall but beefy—but not in an athletic way. His uniform fit awkwardly, the pants gripping his legs, the jacket tight around his fleshy shoulders. His was an ungraceful form, and his buzz-cut dark hair only emphasized his ungainliness. He lumbered up to Detective Butts.
“About time, McKinney,” Butts grumbled, turning to the actors, who had been staring at Sergeant McKinney with apprehension. The appearance of an officer in uniform seemed to sober up even the recalcitrant Danny, who stared at him meekly.
“You got another room in here?” Butts asked Davillia.
“There's a greenroom backstage,” she replied. “It's not very big, but—”
“Okay,” said Butts. “McKinney, you take that room and I'll stay in here.” He turned to the actors and pointed to Sara, who was on the verge of tears. “Go with him, would you, sweetheart? When you're done we'll get you some protection before you leave.”
“Do you think the killer will come after me?” she whimpered.
“Don't worry—we'll put a watch on you 'round the clock just to make sure you're okay.”
“Is that really necessary?” asked Davillia.
“Hell, if it was my daughter I'd sent her to a damn convent,” said Butts.
“Get thee to a nunnery,” murmured Keith, the taller of the dark-haired twins. “It's a quote from
Hamlet,”
he explained in response to a glare from Butts.
“This killer isn't playacting,” the detective said. “The sooner you all get that into your heads, the better.”
Lee stayed in the theatre with Butts to observe the first couple of interviews, which he conducted at a table at the far end of the stage. The actors remained seated in the audience, drinking coffee and talking nervously with one another while they waited their turn.
Butts began with the older, dignified-looking black man, whose name was Carl Hawkins. Mr. Hawkins told them he was playing the role of the Duke of Ephesus, as well as some other minor roles. He hadn't known any of the other actors before this production, and had been “jobbed in”—as the only member of Actors' Equity in the cast, he was actually getting paid.
“I don't like to bring it up around the others,” he said. “It's not a secret, but I don't want them to feel bad.”
“Or jealous?” Butts mused, studying him.
“That too. It breeds bad blood.” His voice was articulate, educated, and slightly Southern.
“Sounds to me like there's already some bad blood,” Butts remarked. “Can you think of anyone in the cast you'd suspect of doin' something like this?”
“I don't know them that well—we've only been in rehearsal for a couple of weeks.”
“Off the top of your head, say. Any suspicious behavior?”
“Not really. Though Ryan Atkins did seem to have a crush on her.”
“He's one of the redheads?”
“Right.”
Butts made an entry on his notepad. “Did she reciprocate?”
“Not that I could see. Davillia frowns on that kind of thing during rehearsal, so I don't know what happened outside of here.”
“Hear any gossip about it?”
Hawkins smiled. “Detective, I'm old enough to have fathered most of these young people. If you want gossip, you'd best talk to one of them.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“The Wilson twins are always whispering together. I guess a Harvard degree doesn't mean you're immune to tittle-tattle.”
“They both went there?” asked Lee.
“Class of '96. I wonder if their folks feel the investment is being squandered in a squalid off-Broadway theatre in Hell's Kitchen.”
“Thanks,” said Butts, handing him a business card. “Give me a call if you think of anything else.”
The detective took Mr. Hawkins's advice and called over one of the Wilson twins, while Lee decided to see how Sergeant McKinney was getting on. The smell of sawdust and shellac hung in the air as he picked his way past half-painted flats of scenery, weaving between backstage ropes and pulleys before squeezing through the tight corridor that led to the greenroom.
McKinney was interviewing Danny Atkins, the redheaded twin who wore glasses. The “greenroom” was a musty area backstage that also appeared to double as a dressing room, with a row of mirrors bordered by bare lightbulbs along one wall. A moth-eaten oriental carpet covered most of the floor, and a pair of shabby couches with protruding springs faced each other in the center of the room. Theatrical posters adorned the walls. Sergeant McKinney was seated at a long folding table, with Danny seated opposite him.
“Did you notice anyone suspicious hanging around the theatre?” McKinney asked.
Danny's eyes moved up and to the left as he pondered the question. “Not that I can remember. I wish I could be more helpful.”
“Anyone in the cast sweet on the vic—uh, Ms. Lewis?” the sergeant said.
Danny looked away. “Not really.”
“That's not what I heard,” said McKinney. “I heard your brother Ryan asked her out.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess he did.”
“Did she go out with him?”
“I don't really know. My brother and I aren't joined at the hip.”
“I thought twins shared everything.”
“That is a misconception promulgated by the mainstream media.”
Sergeant McKinney smiled and scribbled something in his notebook. “You got some ten-dollar words there.”
Danny Atkins looked down at his hands. “Look, Detective—”
“Sergeant.”
“Sergeant. Things have been kind of rough since our mother died, and my brother hasn't been all that talkative lately.”
“When was that?” Lee asked.
“A couple of weeks ago, right before we began rehearsals.”
“I'm sorry for your loss,” McKinney. “You're the stage manager for this group?”
“Yes—why?”
“You'd have access to everyone's address.”
“Sergeant, there's a cast contact list—we all have that information.” Danny removed his glasses and wiped the sweat from the frames. “Is this going to go much longer?”
“Just one more question,” said McKinney. “If you had to put odds on who in this company might want to kill Mindy Lewis, who would it be?”
Danny replaced his glasses and folded his hands in his lap. “I'm sorry, Sergeant, but I'm not a betting man.”
“That's interesting,” Lee said after Danny had left.
“Earlier he claimed that he and Ryan did everything together, but just now he went out of his way to avoid giving that impression.”
McKinney nodded. “Wonder what he's trying to hide?”

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