Death of a Blue Movie Star

Then he looked up and saw the glass door to his office, the replacement for the one that was broken the other day in that abortive robbery. He'dthought nothing had been stolen in the break-in.

Tucker sat down slowly in his chair.

*****

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 justcouldn'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. Shewondered 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 reallydo have a job." "That's a real liberal use of the wordjob, 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?"