by James Hayman
Carter ushered McCabe and Savage into an apartment that made Bobby’s place on Sutton Place look like subsidized housing. A palace-like residence boasting a sixteen-foot-long entry foyer with white marble floor that led past an equally large kitchen with an angled window and what appeared to be a butler’s pantry. In front of them was a living room that had to be at least five hundred square feet, with oversized windows, covered with silk draperies that were tied back and offering great views of Central Park. There were photographs everywhere. Both on the walls and on various tables. Randall Carter with Robert De Niro. Randall Carter with Steven Spielberg. Randall Carter with Barack and Michelle Obama. What looked like a gas fire was burning in an elegant white Adam-style fireplace. Obviously Hollywood and Broadway had been very generous to a guy who had grown up on the mean streets of Bed-Stuy. Just as obviously he preferred old-fashioned luxury to contemporary hip.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” said Maggie.
Carter smiled. “Be it ever so humble. Now why don’t you two sit down and tell me why you’re here and what’s going on with Zoe. Who, by the way, is someone I both like as a person and respect as an actress.”
McCabe and Maggie remained standing. “When was the last time you saw Zoe?” asked McCabe. “And where did you see her?”
“About eleven o’clock last night,” said Carter. “We were both leaving the McArthur/Weinstein Theater down on the Lower East Side. She was playing Desdemona to my Othello. Last night was closing night of a twelve-performance run. But I’m guessing you already know that.”
“Did you speak to her after the performance?”
“Only for a minute. We were standing on the sidewalk and I was waiting for my car. I told her how impressed I was with her talent and that I hoped we could work together again.”
“Was that true?” asked Maggie. “Or were you just being polite? Or . . .” Maggie paused for effect, “possibly hitting on her?”
Carter laughed. “What’s true is that I’m thinking of bringing Othello uptown to Lincoln Center. It’s a great role, especially for a black actor, one that tests your talents and, if I can convince my backers to make it happen, I’d definitely want to keep Zoe as my Desdemona. As for hitting on her? I won’t deny the thought crossed my mind. I’m not married at the moment. And I happen to know she just broke up with the guy she’d been living with. So why not? Nothing wrong with that.”
McCabe resisted the temptation to suggest that, at forty-one and twice divorced, Carter might be a little old for his niece. But he held his tongue. That wasn’t why they were interviewing him.
But Maggie was less restrained. “You didn’t happen to suggest you might be more likely to keep Zoe as your Desdemona if she slept with you first?”
“Sounds like you’re suggesting sexual harassment? Is that what all this is about? Did Zoe complain to you about something?”
“No. No complaints. But Zoe’s a beautiful young woman,” said McCabe. “You’re a highly successful single man. A big-deal actor and producer on both coasts. Someone who has the clout to positively influence her career. To offer her the kind of breakthrough any young actress needs. The question is what do you get out of the deal?”
Cater didn’t look pleased. “Y’know, I think I resent your insinuation.”
McCabe shrugged. “Okay, resent it all you want. It’s a natural question and I’d appreciate it if you could give us a straight answer. You already admitted you might be interested in Zoe for reasons beyond her talent as an actress. Did that interest prompt you to ask if she might want to come home with you last night? Or if you could go home with her?”
Carter stared first at McCabe and then at Maggie. “All right. Before I say anything else, it’s my turn to ask you some questions. Maybe one or both of you would like to tell me what exactly is going on? Let’s put it this way, Detective. I’ll answer your question after you answer mine.”
“Fair enough. Mr. Carter,” said Maggie, deciding it was time to ease the tension. “The reason we’re interested and concerned is that no one has seen or heard from Zoe since last night.”
Carter looked at them skeptically. “Just since last night? What’s the big deal about that? She just closed a show. Maybe she spent the day snoozing and watching TV.”
“Normally a healthy, functioning adult being out of touch for less than twenty-four hours wouldn’t be of concern,” said McCabe, “But Zoe hasn’t returned multiple calls from her father telling her that her grandmother was in the hospital dying. Perhaps even more concerning, if you’ve been reading or watching the today’s news . . .”
“I try to avoid the news when I can. Specially these days.”
“Yeah. Me too,” said McCabe. “However, if you hadn’t been avoiding it you’d already know that a woman named Annie Nakamura was brutally assaulted and murdered last night outside the door to her apartment. What you wouldn’t know was that Nakamura happened to be Zoe McCabe’s next-door neighbor and that Zoe’s apartment appears to have been broken into at roughly the same time as the murder took place. We believe the man who murdered the neighbor may have kidnapped Zoe and that, if Zoe’s still alive, her life is very much in danger.”
“Dear Lord.” Carter steadied himself and then sat down on an uncomfortable-looking gold-colored chair that looked like it had been supporting human bottoms since the days of Louis XVI. He took a quick hit of whatever was in his glass. Maggie silently took note that the look of shock and concern that passed across Carter’s face seemed genuine. But of course Carter was a talented actor.
He took another sip of his drink and then said, “You couldn’t possibly be thinking I had anything to do with something like that. I admit I did mildly flirt with Zoe last night when we both left the theater. Just before my car picked me up. As I said, she’s a very beautiful and very talented young woman. I sort of suggested we might get together sometime.”
“How did she react to that?” asked Maggie.
“I’d say she seemed fairly receptive. We exchanged cell numbers.”
“But you didn’t bring her here?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“I take it you’re not currently involved with anyone else,” said McCabe.
“No. I divorced my second wife a little over a year ago. But my conversation with Zoe last night was mostly professional. Like I said, I mentioned the possibility of taking Othello uptown and keeping her as Desdemona. I asked her if she’d be interested in that. The last thing Zoe said to me was that she was meeting a friend at a bar called the Laughing Toad over on Rivington. Then I got in the car that was waiting for me and left. I assume she headed for the Laughing Toad. That’s all I know.”
McCabe studied Carter for a minute. Joe Ralston said the guy he’d seen with Zoe was Caucasian. But Carter had fairly light skin, and the guy had been turned away and hiding his face with a hat.
“You didn’t ask if you could join her?” Maggie asked.
“No. I got the impression that the friend was male.”
“A boyfriend?”
“Possibly. I have no idea. But boyfriend or not, that kind of bar is not my scene. Too full of young artsy types and wannabe artsy types who try to suck up to anyone who’s even modestly well-known.”
“What if I told you Zoe was last seen walking home from the Laughing Toad with a man who fit your description?” asked McCabe.
Carter shrugged. “Whoever it was, it wasn’t me.”
“Where did you go after you left the theater?”
“Here. Like I told you, a livery car was waiting for me at the theater and it brought me straight back to the apartment.”
“Do you happen to know the name of the driver?”
“No. But I use the service all the time. It’s called Pro-Call Cars. I’m sure they have a record of the pickup. Should also know who was driving. Where I was picked up and where I went.” Carter opened his wallet and handed McCabe a card. “Here’s their number.”
“Thank you,” said McCabe. “One l
ast thing. Didn’t you produce this Othello as well as star in it?”
“Yes. I was thinking of it as kind of a practice session. A chance to get into the role and get a sense of what worked and what didn’t.”
“Do you happen to know if there was anybody in the cast or crew Zoe was particularly friendly with?” he asked.
“I don’t really know. Though thinking about it, she seemed friendly with a young actor named Jack Timmons. He played Roderigo.”
McCabe rose. “Thank you, Mr. Carter. I think that’s all for now. If you think of anything else, please let us know.”
“You know, there is something. I didn’t think of it till just now but given what you’ve told me, I’ve got a feeling it might be important.”
Maggie and McCabe exchanged glances. “What would that be?” asked McCabe. He and Maggie sat down on a small sofa as Carter walked to a side table, picked up a decanter and poured more whiskey into his own glass.
“Sorry I didn’t ask earlier but would either of you like a drink? Or a glass of water or anything?”
“No, thank you,” said Maggie. “No drinking on duty.”
“Really? Are you telling me I’ve never seen an on-duty cop in a bar?”
McCabe resisted a temptation to say, You’re absolutely right. Randall. Lots of cops go to bars and I’m one of them. And thanks for the offer, I’ll have a Scotch. In fact, make it a double. But Maggie was right. Not a good idea. Instead he said, “I’m sure you have, and there are times I’ve been one of them. But not tonight.”
“Your call,” said Carter as he headed back to his chair. “Othello was a limited-run engagement. Twelve performances over two weeks. What I think may be important is I noticed the same man in the audience every night. He attended every single one of those twelve performances and he always sat in the same seat. Front row on the aisle. Stage left. Right side of the theater from the audience perspective.”
“You’re sure it was the same guy?” asked McCabe. “I mean the theater was dark, wasn’t it? How could you see him?”
“It’s a small theater and the stage lights hit the first couple of rows well enough to make out people’s faces. Not the ones further back, but those upfront. And I tend to be aware of the audience reaction when I’m on stage. I think most actors are. Positive audience energy makes performances better. So yes, I’m sure.”
“And this man attended every performance?”
“Yes.”
“And he always sat in the same seat?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Was he always by himself?”
“Hard to say. It’s a small theater and we always had a full house. So there was always somebody sitting next to him. But as far as I could see it was never the same person twice.”
“Can you describe this man?” asked Maggie.
“I can try.” Carter took in a deep breath and expelled it slowly. He stared over Maggie and McCabe’s heads as if he was trying to recreate the image of the man in his mind. “He was a big guy. About my size. Broad-shouldered. Good-looking. White. Fairly young by the look of him. Maybe thirty. Maybe a little older. Dark hair. Usually wore jeans and some kind of old army jacket. I first noticed him because he kept showing up in the same seat. The other thing that makes me wonder about him is he always seemed to be looking at Zoe even when she was onstage but not part of the action. Like when she was off to the side and somebody else was center stage speaking their lines, he wasn’t looking at the actors who were speaking, but at her. I didn’t make much of it at the time. Zoe’s so damned gorgeous I’d probably stare at her too if I was out there. But this guy’s look was always so intense it felt kind of creepy.”
McCabe thought about that. “Do you think she noticed him?”
“No idea. If she did, she didn’t say anything. There was also something else about him that was kinda funny.”
“What?” asked Maggie, leaning forward. “What was kinda funny?”
“I don’t know if you know the story of Othello . . .”
“Well enough,” said McCabe. “I read it in high school. Saw the movie version. The one with Laurence Fishburne playing Othello. I also remember Ronald Colman playing the crazy Shakespearean actor who turned out to be a murderer in A Double Life.”
Carter laughed. “You remember A Double Life? Jesus, you’ve really got to be an old movie buff.”
“I am,” said McCabe.
“Well, anyway, you know how toward the end of the play Iago convinces Othello, me, that Desdemona, Zoe, has been unfaithful to him, and later in the throes of jealousy, Othello murders the woman he loves? Smothers her by holding a pillow over her face?”
“Yes. Okay. I remember that. What about it?”
“Well, I’d swear that during the murder scene . . . when I was holding a pillow over Zoe’s face . . . I swear it seemed to turn the guy on. Maybe I’m making too much of this. Probably am. I only really saw him with my peripheral vision. But night after night he would lean forward during that scene as if he wanted to climb up onto the stage and do the smothering himself. And I’m pretty sure he was also mouthing the lines I spoke after Othello learned he’d been fooled into killing Desdemona. Spoke them to himself as I was speaking them.”
“What lines?” asked Maggie.
“The most famous ones in the play: When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,/Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,/Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak /Of one that loved not wisely, but too well. Night after night as I was saying them, he was mouthing the lines right along with me.”
“Do you have any idea what the number was of the seat that the guy was sitting in?” asked McCabe.
“No. But I’m sure you can check it out at the theater. Like I said, aisle seat, front row, stage left. But I’m not sure how much good it will do if you’re looking to find the guy. McArthur/Weinstein doesn’t sell tickets by seat number. Anyone who buys a ticket can sit anywhere in the theater.”
“But if I wanted to check credit card receipts to see who might have purchased single tickets for all twelve performances, do you have any idea who I should call?” asked McCabe.
“Not really, but I’d start with a woman named Mollie Rosen. She manages the theater. The office is probably closed now but I can give you Mollie’s mobile number.” Carter took out his own phone, hit contacts and read out a phone number and e-mail address.
“Thank you, Mr. Carter,” said McCabe. “That was very helpful. One more question. Would you be willing to come down to the Seventh Precinct and look at photographs of known sexual predators to see if you can help us identify this guy? Also work with a sketch artist to see if we can get a reasonable likeness?”
“Of course.”
“Tonight?”
“I have a date scheduled with a friend but yes, of course I’ll break it. We’re talking about saving a life here. Not just a life. A pretty spectacular life.”
“It might take a few hours. Maybe longer,” said McCabe.
“As long as it takes. No problem.”
“Okay, so I’ll have Lieutenant Astarita send a car to take you down to the precinct.”
“No need to spend city resources. Plus I’d just as soon not have some jerk from one of the tabloids taking a picture of me getting into a police car. I’ll get a car of my own.”
“That’s fine. When you get there ask for Lieutenant Art Astarita. Seventh Precinct, 17½ Pitt Street on the Lower East Side.”
McCabe hit Astarita’s number. Gave him a quick summary of the conversation with Randall Carter. Art said he’d have Diane Capriati, one of the precinct’s two task force detectives, sit with him and take him through photo files and then have a guy named Tony Renzi try to produce a likeness using Identi-Kit.
“One other thing, Art,” said McCabe. “If this is our guy, and he sat in the same seat for twelve straight performances, he must’ve left a little something of himself behind.”
“Ce
rtainly worth a try. Though it’s possible the cleaning crew, I assume they have one, might have wiped anything useful away.”
“Maybe. But they might not be all that thorough.”
When McCabe ended the call he said to Carter, “Okay. You’ll be going over photo files down at the Seventh Precinct with a Detective Capriati. Then working with a specialist using something called an Identi-Kit to create a facial composite sketch of the guy based on your description.”
Carter phoned for a car. Said, when he’d broken the connection, ‘Okay, my car’ll be here in about three minutes.”
“Okay. We’ll go downstairs with you and wait for it together.”
“Fine.”
Carter went to a hall closet. Put on a blue peacoat that didn’t seem particularly stylish for an Oscar-nominated actor and went down in the elevator with Maggie and McCabe.
“If we need anything else we’ll call.”
“And if I think of anything else, I’ll call. Also please let me know when and if you find her. Alive, God willing. She’s not only a talented actress but she’s a lovely young woman who I genuinely care for. I’d hate to think of anything bad happening to her.”
McCabe shook Carter’s hand on the sidewalk. “Yeah. We’d hate that too.”
A black Lincoln pulled up a minute later. Carter got in, and Maggie and McCabe watched it head south on Central Park West.
McCabe called Art back and told him Carter was on his way down.
“Any chance our big-deal star is blowing smoke up our butts about going straight home last night?” Astarita asked him. “Maybe Carter really was the guy Joe Ralston saw walking with Zoe on Clinton Street, and maybe this whole thing about seeing some guy sitting in the front row is just a diversion. I mean, you just told me Carter was about the same size as the guy Ralston saw walking, didn’t you?”
