Shadowtown

by Lutz, John

  Before Oxman and Tobin had a chance to go in to see Manders, prior to hanging it up for the night, Manders wandered out into the squad room and over toward them. The lieutenant looked weary, too. But he always did, with his basset-hound, downturned features and his sad, sad eyes.

  He sat on the edge of the desk. “Ox. Tobin. Any movement on the ‘Shadowtown’ thing?”

  Oxman handed him a copy of Dickerson’s statement.

  Manders’s features seemed to sag to even longer, more formless proportions as he read, as if the bone structure beneath his flesh were dissolving. The incredible melting lieutenant.

  “I don’t like this,” he said, giving the statement back to Oxman. “Damned news media will get hold of it and pound the public over the head with it for weeks. Vampires! Whole case sucks!”

  Oxman wondered if Smiley Manders knew he’d cracked a joke. He doubted it. The lieutenant wasn’t known for his sense of humor.

  Manders abruptly stood up from the desk, as if he’d just remembered he shouldn’t be sitting on furniture other than chairs. Oxman knew he wasn’t doing it from good manners; Manders had been bothered by piles lately and feared seeing a doctor and having that operation where he’d have to sit on a miniature inner tube for weeks and dread having a bowel movement. “So what do you make of this?” he asked.

  “Could be something,” Oxman said. “We have to check on it, send some troops down around Broadway and Third and see if anybody else had a run-in with a vampire lately. It’s possible whoever killed McGreery was wearing the missing Edgar Grume costume, and left it on while he traveled to lower Manhattan after leaving the crime scene.”

  “So maybe we have a description of the killer,” Manders said, cheering up a little. “I can stall the media with that, keep the bastards at bay for a while.”

  “Not much of a description,” Oxman said. “Tall—only the guy who saw him was lying on the pavement. Lean—only Dickerson was so shook up he can’t really recall his face, and the so-called vampire was wearing black clothing, including a cape. Oh, and white hair, of course.”

  “Don’t forget,” Manders said in a flat voice, “fella had fangs.”

  “Vampires don’t always have fangs,” Tobin said. “Sometimes only when they’re riled up or about to suck blood from a victim.”

  Manders looked at him as if he were crazy. “I seriously doubt if Vince McGreery was killed by a genuine vampire.” He felt in his pocket for change for the coffee machine, found some, and jingled it in his tobacco-yellowed right hand. Manders was smoking heavily again, trying to end up in the cancer ward. Couldn’t stop. “The media and commissioner will suck all the blood outta me if we don’t wrap this up in some way or other so it at least drops outta the news. Does anybody look like the collar might fit?”

  Oxman was tempted to name Zach Denton as the most likely suspect. Only it simply wasn’t true. “Nobody special yet, Lieutenant; we’re still working on the crew and cast of the show. Everyone seems to have had an opportunity to kill McGreery, but no one seems to have had a motive. Could be some whacko broke into the place, got surprised by McGreery, then killed him.”

  “But you don’t believe it,” Manders said.

  “No. And there are the threatening notes to Lana Spence. Something’s going on at ‘Shadowtown,’ Lieutenant, and it isn’t over yet.”

  Manders glared at Tobin. “You share that view?”

  “I lean toward the surprised whacko theory,” Tobin said. “The letters to Lana Spence might not have any connection with the murder.”

  Manders ran his hand down the loose flesh of his face. “Might is the word that’s giving me ulcers over this,” he said. “And celebrity. Too many damned celebrities involved in the case. That’s what keeps the press and politicians on my ass.”

  Oxman knew Manders hadn’t seen anything compared to what would happen if whoever wrote the Lana Spence letters made good on his or her word.

  “One thing that has been made clear,” Oxman said, “is that almost everyone has plenty of motive to murder Lana Spence. The ‘black widow,’ as some of her former lovers call her. She’s apparently one of those women who has to leave a man in ruins after an affair, so there isn’t much left for whoever gets him next. It goes against her grain to leave behind a usable discard.”

  “That’s the word I get on her, too,” Tobin said. “A genuine ballbreaker.”

  Manders sneered. ‘“Black widow,’ ‘ballbreaker.’ Sounds like something out of the National Enquirer.”

  “It might be,” Tobin said.

  “I think we better assign someone to watch her,” Oxman said. “Whoever wrote those threatening notes is serious.”

  “You sound sure of that,” Manders said.

  Oxman nodded. “I feel sure.” He looked over at Tobin.

  “I agree,” Tobin said.

  Manders tugged at a long-lobed ear, then said, “I’ll put Austerman on her for a while. Think we oughta tell her she’s being watched over?”

  “Not yet,” Oxman said. “She’d probably alter her behavior pattern so drastically that whoever threatened her would simply lie back and wait.”

  “Not tell her, huh? …” Manders said. “We’re talking about using her for bait.”

  “Only if we’re fishermen. I’m a cop, talking about the most logical way to catch a killer—and to prevent Lana Spence’s murder either now or later.”

  Manders raised a long-fingered, yellow hand. “Don’t get your nose outta joint, Ox. I agree with your suggestion. Austerman will latch on to her tomorrow and stay out of sight.”

  Oxman was satisfied. Austerman was young, but he was a good cop who had the patience to conduct a solid stakeout. Lana Spence would be as safe as she could be, under the circumstances.

  Some circumstances! A killer, maybe one who fancied himself a vampire, determined to spill her blood. And a world full of people who wouldn’t care. Who would, in fact, be glad to hear of her death.

  “Keep me informed,” Manders said, and walked away toward the lounge and its coffee machine.

  “It should be easy to keep him informed,” Oxman said, “considering how much we don’t know.”

  “I know this,” Tobin said, shoving a desk drawer all the way closed with his knee. “I’m going home and get some sleep, before Smiley comes walking outta that lounge bitching about the coffee and in an ugly mood generally.”

  Oxman was two minutes behind him. He knew when to lead and when to follow.

  Jennifer Crane—11:00 P.M.

  Jennifer felt the mattress shift and heard the groan of the springs as Oxman slid into bed beside her. She moved over close to him, feeling the subtle draw of his body heat. He was lying on his side, facing away from her. She scooted over until her breasts were pressed against his back, and rested an arm around him. He patted her hand.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “I think so. You?”

  “Tired.”

  She snuggled nearer and closed her eyes, listening to his deep, even breathing and trying to go to sleep. She thought Oxman might be asleep already; he could do that, sleep almost on command. He began to snore lightly. She envied him the control he had over his life.

  Half an hour passed, and Jennifer still couldn’t sleep. She climbed out of bed, padded into the kitchen, and heated some water in the kettle for a cup of caffeine-free tea. The tiled floor was cool on her bare feet. After adding plenty of cream and sugar, she carried the cup into the carpeted bedroom and walked to the window.

  The city was always awake. She could see lights across the Hudson in New Jersey, and a boat of some kind was making slow progress upriver. Faint, restful sounds of traffic filtered in from the street below. She wondered how many people like her were out there, unable to sleep, standing at darkened windows, staring blankly out at the night. Thousands of them, perhaps, with thousands of reasons not to sleep.

  Jennifer knew what was keeping her awake. Zach. Zach Denton back in her life. She’d thought he was relegated to
a deep corner of her mind where he wouldn’t bother her. Thought she’d come to terms with that part of her past.

  But she realized this wasn’t true. Since Oxman had entered her life, Jennifer had faced up to everything. She knew this couldn’t be an exception. Ox had taught her to stand firm and rely on her sense of worth and her honesty with herself.

  It had worked. It had changed her life.

  She’d made up her mind never to run again, from anything. It was a commitment she’d been sure she could keep.

  But now, tonight, sipping tea at a dark window and listening to Ox breathe, she felt the old puzzlement and hatred and self-incrimination when she thought about Zach. She didn’t want to face up to his re-emergence in her existence. She felt—God help her—guilty, and with no logical reason!

  And for the first time since falling in love with E. L. Oxman, she felt like running.

  Scene 3

  Sy Youngerman—8:35 A.M.

  Youngerman waited at his desk in his office at Shadowtown Productions, wondering just what sort of questions E. L. Oxman would ask him. He’d handled the black guy, Tobin, okay. Talking with the police made Youngerman uneasy; had since those drug busts in his early days. Cops were a source of trouble for everyone, the guilty and innocent alike.

  Of course, they weren’t the only source of trouble for the innocent. Anybody, by virtue of his or her job, could wind up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Could wind up dead, like Vince McGreery.

  The intercom buzzed and Youngerman’s secretary told him Oxman was in the anteroom.

  Youngerman stood up, put on a relaxed kind of smile, and went to the door and opened it.

  Oxman nodded a good morning to him. The detective had on dark brown slacks, a tan sport coat that was a bit wrinkled around the elbows, serviceable brown dress shoes. Serviceable—that was Oxman. Maybe the job had done it to him.

  “Come on in, Lieutenant,” Youngerman said, injecting some morning cheer into his voice. The important executive, eager to begin a new day and meet fresh challenges. He remembered last night, when he’d orchestrated the consumption of alcohol and cocaine with a precision that had opened new interior worlds.

  “Sergeant,” Oxman corrected.

  Youngerman walked back behind his desk, waited until Oxman was seated in the nearby leather-upholstered chair, then sat down in his Danish desk chair with the built-up lumbar support. He swallowed; he was tremendously thirsty, though he didn’t feel at all hung over. Still, maybe he’d been tripping and boozing it up too often lately; maybe that explained what he’d seen, or thought he’d seen, this morning. There must be some explanation.

  “What can I do for you, Sergeant Oxman?” he asked casually.

  “I have some questions.”

  “Of course.” What else?

  Youngerman put everything out of his mind except the task of fielding Oxman’s questions.

  They were the same questions Detective Tobin had asked him yesterday. Sometimes they were even worded the same. Oxman was insistent. Youngerman was running low on patience.

  “Seems I’ve already answered all these questions,” he said, finally. “Your partner Tobin asked them. Is it standard police procedure to ask the same questions of the same …” Youngerman almost said “suspect.”

  “Yes, we do that. Then we compare notes.”

  “Ah, to see if anyone’s lying.” Like in a low-budget thriller.

  “It works out that way sometimes, but other times whoever’s answering the questions phrases something differently, in such a way that it will shed some light. And you’d be surprised how much more people remember when asked the same questions twenty-four hours apart. Memory’s an unpredictable thing.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t remember anything more.”

  That didn’t deter Oxman. He continued in his calm way to fire the same questions at Youngerman. Where was Youngerman when this happened? When that happened? Who was with him? Who’d remember him? How well did he know McGreery? What time was this? What time was that? Youngerman felt like calling Security and having Oxman tossed out of the office.

  Then, suddenly, a new tack:

  “What do you know about Lana Spence?” Oxman asked.

  Youngerman was a little confused. Was Lana a suspect? “I know she’s a good actress,” he said. “Not great, but good. She knows her lines and picks up on her cues. And she’s the backbone of the show as Delia Lane.”

  “Is Lana the kind of bitch she plays as Delia?”

  Youngerman hesitated, then figured he might as well be candid. Oxman must have questioned other people about Lana. “She can make Delia look like Mother Teresa,” he said.

  “You sound as if you know her well. Lana, not Mother Teresa. Were you ever … involved with her?”

  Youngerman smiled. “I assume you mean Lana. Involved romantically?”

  Oxman nodded.

  “For God’s sake no, not after what I’ve seen her do to other men. I’ve known Lana for years, Sergeant Oxman, watched her operate on her victims.”

  “People often use the word victim in describing the men in her life,” Oxman said.

  “She likes to make sexual conquests,” Youngerman said, “and that’s all. I doubt if she’s capable of what you or I might think of as love.”

  “But your partner Overbeck got involved.”

  Youngerman realized that Oxman knew a great deal about Lana already. The detective would be comparing answers. “Harry was dumb enough to fall for her,” he said. “She used him and then threw him on the scrap heap. I don’t think he lasted six months. When he didn’t want to let her go, and the fact of their relationship might have proved harmful to her career, she pretended they’d only been friends. To back up that fabrication, she spread the rumor that Harry was a homosexual. Which, incidentally, is only a rumor.”

  “You and Overbeck are the producers. Didn’t you consider firing her after she did this to Overbeck?”

  “Not for a second,” Youngerman said. He knew it was probably hopeless to explain the nature of show business to a cop like Oxman, a plodder. “Harry never considered firing her, either. Lana means that much to ‘Shadowtown.’ Our ratings would plunge without her. And in this game, ratings are everything.”

  “So you keep personal relationships separate from business.”

  “We try. Though it isn’t easy at times. Let’s face it, many people in our business are … temperamental. They have big egos.”

  “And Lana Spence, being somewhat temperamental and egotistical, is likely to get involved with that same sort of actor.”

  “Sometimes, anyway, Lieutenant.”

  “Sergeant. What about Sales?”

  “Arthur? Oh, he had his turn with Lana. But he’s used to callow show-business affairs. He escaped with some dignity, though his marriage might still be suffering. His wife, Wendy Conroy—Conroy’s her maiden and stage name—used to be an actress, and she knew how to deal with Lana Spence. I don’t know exactly what she did, but the Sales and Lana affair ended abruptly after she found out about it.” Youngerman sat and watched Oxman jot some kind of shorthand in his note pad. “What’s with all the questions about Lana Spence?” he finally asked.

  Oxman glanced up from his notes. “She might make the world behind the camera go round,” he said, “just as she does the world in front of the camera.”

  “How cryptic. Are you implying that she’s somehow central to the murder of poor Vince McGreery?”

  “It wouldn’t be cryptic anymore if I answered that,” Oxman said, smiling.

  Oxman was holding something back. Something big. Youngerman could sense it, and not just on the basis of what Oxman had said about Lana Spence. For a moment Youngerman thought he might hold something back from Oxman, then he decided he’d tell him. Here goes …

  “As I was getting out of my car in the parking lot this morning,” Youngerman said, “I, uh … Well, you’re going to laugh at this, but I thought I caught a glimpse of a tall figure dressed in black, with a
long cape and flowing white hair.”

  Oxman didn’t laugh. In fact, while he didn’t seem too surprised, he appeared to become rather serious.

  “It was just for a second,” Youngerman said. “I can’t be sure.”

  “What time was this?” Oxman asked.

  “About seven-thirty. I often come in very early to work.”

  “Broad daylight, huh?”

  “Not exactly. Because of the fog this morning, it was gloomy. And the area where I saw the figure was pretty much deserted. I doubt if anyone else saw it.”

  “Can you remember any details?” Oxman asked. “How tall was the figure?”

  “Seemed tall, but it was impossible to tell for sure.”

  “Did you see any of the features?”

  “Oh, no. It was too far away, and this all happened too fast. It was something I saw, yet didn’t see because my mind wouldn’t accept it right away. It just wouldn’t register as real. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” Oxman said. He seemed pensive, even somewhat worried.

  “Anything else, Sergeant?” Youngerman asked. “I need to get busy for today’s shooting. Delia’s going to bribe Midge Brown to stay away from Roger Maler.”

  “Will Midge do that?” Oxman asked. Youngerman could tell he was only half serious.

  Youngerman smiled. “She will when Delia threatens to reveal Midge’s secret passion for the bottle.”

  “Sometimes,” Oxman said, “I feel as if I’m walking a dotted line and now and then I wander out of the real world and into ‘Shadowtown.’”

  “You and forty million viewers,” Youngerman said. “That’s the idea.”

  “Guess it is,” Oxman said. He stood up.

  Youngerman felt relief that the interview was over. He held out his right hand to Oxman and they shook. The cop’s firm grip was warm but dry.

  “Thanks for your cooperation,” Oxman said.

  “Anything to help find whoever killed Vince McGreery,” Youngerman told him. “I guess, him being an ex-cop, you guys are especially anxious to get his killer.”