by Ed Gorman
"Right. I found something, Mr. Kemper."
"It's pretty bad, isn't it?"
"It's very bad, Mr. Kemper. You should stay back."
"Sometimes I hate the world we live in. The things people do to each other."
"So do I, Mr. Kemper," Cozzens said, and quietly closed the closet door.
He looked at the refrigerator.
He had this hunch, this cop-hunch, was all, figuring he knew where he'd find the head that had been severed from the body.
He stood staring at the refrigerator, gulping down bile. He didn't turn around to speak.
"Mr. Kemper?"
"Yes?"
"Why don't you go wait in the living room?"
"You think there's something in the refrigerator?"
"I'm afraid there probably is."
"I don't understand. If you found something in the closet, then what could possibly be in the—"
"Just go in the living room, Mr. Kemper."
"All right. I mean, if you want me to."
"I want you to."
"If there's anything I can do, you just holler."
"I'll just holler."
"I'll be in the living room, then."
"Thank you, Mr. Kemper."
Kemper went away, size seven feet padding softly back toward the sunlight and bird song.
Leaving Cozzens here to take out his clean, white handkerchief and move his hand toward the handle that would open the big, softly thrumming machine.
He opened the door and stared right at the Swallows woman.
All the blood and other goop was covered lightly with silver frost. Somebody had turned the cold up to high to cut down on the smell. There was even frost on the edges of her false eyelashes.
The curious thing was, even now he could see that she'd been a nice-looking woman. A fine, high forehead that bespoke intelligence, large blue eyes, a patrician nose and a full, slightly heavy mouth that suggested sensuality. Her hair was blonde and shoulder-length. She'd probably had many boyfriends.
He closed the door and went back to the living room. Kemper was staring at her books again.
When he heard Cozzens coming into the room, he said, "You look pale, Detective Cozzens."
"I feel pale, Mr. Kemper."
"Bad?"
"Beyond bad, Mr. Kemper." Cozzens nodded to the hallway. "Let's close things up here for now. I'd like to go downstairs and use your phone, if you don't mind."
"Are you going to tell me about it?"
"Maybe in a few minutes, Mr. Kemper."
"I guess you fellows really never do get used to it, do you?"
"No," Cozzens said. "No, I guess we never do."
They closed up the apartment and went downstairs and Cozzens used Kemper's phone to call all the appropriate people.
Chapter Four
1
Forty years ago, back in the days when names such as Hecht and MacArthur and Algren and Sandburg had been a source of pride to every literate Chicagoan, the Template Theater had been a very special place. Tennessee Williams had tried out several of his more successful one-act plays here. Olivier, on tour, had stopped by to see an old friend and had been talked into giving a reading. Several New York theater critics—in those halcyon days when NYC still had several theater critics—pronounced the place a "Midwestern Mecca."
Alas, those days were long gone, as Puckett and Anne learned when they walked into the place three hours after finishing an early dinner. The interior was scuffed and dusty, the small lobby area even displayed a few pieces of graffiti which had stubbornly resisted scrubbing. The theater itself was chilly, the seats squawked and squeaked from lack of care, and the stage lighting could most charitably be described as "adequate."
The crowd almost made up for this. To judge by all the minks on the ladies and the fancy Armani suits on the men, this was the opening night of a long-awaited Broadway blockbuster. The crowd chattered and chittered and laughed as if they were on display for the cameras of Time magazine and Entertainment Tonight.
Once they were seated, Anne said, "Look at the crowd."
"I am. I can't believe it."
"They must really want to see the show. To come to a place like this."
Puckett, who'd done a little reading about the Template Theater, felt a certain amount of pity for the shabby old place. "Helen Hayes performed here," he said.
"She did?"
He nodded. "And Arthur Miller first tried a one-act version of Death of a Salesman here."
"That's incredible."
Puckett made a sour face. "And, unfortunately, nobody seems to give a damn. Not the way they've let everything go to hell."
A few years ago there had been serious talk about refurbishing this place. No longer. The recession had taken care of that. When you have five thousand people waiting in a single, unending line for three hundred minimum wage jobs, a city has other things to worry about than taking care of some once-proud old warhorse of a local theater.
Puckett understood this. But it didn't make looking around at this sad, dignified, relic of a theater any easier.
The play started twenty minutes later and, right from the start, Puckett saw why critics liked it so much.
Cobey narrated the entire play from stage right, frequently stepping into scenes center stage. In this respect, it was very much like Our Town. The play detailed, with great, sour humor and bawdy glee, the travails of a child TV star. The script was merciless on TV execs and their minions—and just as merciless on minimally talented children who let their modest ability go to their heads. And Cobey certainly hadn't spared himself.
In the guise of Randy, the dictionary meaning of which was not lost on Puckett, Cobey showed himself to be quite a jerk. Here he literally threw money at a pregnant girl who said she was carrying his child; there he got a scene-hogging co-star fired; here he sat in a small living room with his parents and listened with obvious and vast indifference as his father told him that he was dying of cancer. Cobey was deep into contract negotiations and didn't have time for such trifles as worrying about his old man; there he seduced a very young girl, in a scene that eerily paralleled the troubles he'd had in that Florida shopping mall.
All this was rendered in dialogue, off-stage narration, and even a few biting and very melancholy songs. And Cobey had written every bit of it. There could be no doubt about his talent as either writer or actor.
Many critics had applauded the risks Cobey had taken with his own character, and Puckett agreed completely with them. Randy was a despicable character in virtually every respect...and yet...and yet there was a sorrow and curious humor about him that rose from the ashes of his pettiness and egotism and made him...almost likeable.
Almost.
It was this tension, this unexpected candor, that was so thrilling to watch. The play ran one hour and thirty-seven minutes without an intermission, and, when it was over, the audience was immediately on its feet. Cobey took eight curtain calls.
Even half an hour after the play ended, backstage was jammed with people of every kind—reporters, celebrity-gawkers, spouses of the cast, stage hands, and actors appreciating all the attention they were getting—that little universe of wannabes and hangers-on and minor stars that make up every professional stage production.
In front of Cobey's dressing room stood Lilly Carlyle and a handsome, white-haired man Puckett recognized immediately as Wade Preston, the majority owner of International Talent Management.
Puckett and Anne went over, Puckett not being sure that Lilly would remember him from their brief visit the long-ago day he'd brought Cobey back from the asylum in St. Louis.
But she remembered him at once. "Wade, this is the private investigator who helped us with Cobey that time."
Puckett and Preston shook hands. "Is it all right to say that you were one of my heroes?" Puckett asked and smiled.
"I'm just gratified to know that at least some of the kids who grew up watching my movies went to work for the right side of t
he law," Preston said. "Unfortunately, I get a lot of prison mail from my little buckaroos. Seems not all of them trod the path of right and justice." His last words mocked themselves—a 1950's movie- and TV-star now mocking some of his old and very corny dialogue. Puckett liked the guy and, idiotic as it seemed, was thrilled to meet him.
Things didn't go so well with Lilly and Anne. She said, "And this, Wade, is Anne Addison, who wrote that very heavy-handed psychoanalytic article about Cobey that time. For Movie Talk, remember? I nearly had to get an injunction to force her to leave him alone."
Even in the shadows of the small hallway they were standing in, Puckett could see Anne blush.
Puckett started to say something but Preston said it for him.
"Now, Lilly, we're all here to celebrate the fine things that are happening to Cobey these days. Let's not let past history spoil the night. I'm sure that Ms. Addison's intentions were honorable."
And with that, he gently touched Anne's elbow and smiled at her. "Thanks for coming this evening, Anne."
She nodded, obviously thankful that he had so skillfully changed the moment into a pleasant one.
Puckett made note of the good cop-bad cop routine for which International was famous. With his handsome, Roman senator head and courtly bearing, Wade Preston of the dark suits and brilliant white shirts, shining gold cufflinks and honest blue eyes—Wade Preston could never be anything except the good cop.
The bad cop role was left to Lilly Carlyle who, industry gossip had it, relished the part. Usually it worked opposite tonight's sequence. Usually, Preston tried to talk an uncooperative client into doing the proper thing. Sweet talk, that is. Using words such as right and honor and best intentions. And if that failed, then plump but beautiful Lilly in her $3,000 Rodeo Drive suits came at you. And the words she used were far different. Motherfucker. Asshole. Never work in this town again. And with a few cocksuckers and rip-your-balls-off thrown in for good measure.
"You're here to see Cobey, I take it?" Preston said.
"Just to say hi, see how things are going," Anne said, speaking directly to Preston and not even looking at Lilly. "I want to ask him if he'd let me do a piece on him. The magazine contacted your office, Ms. Carlyle, several times. But we got no answer."
Preston did not look happy. "Which magazine is it, my dear?"
"Pinnacle."
"And Lilly didn't get back to you?"
Preston looked most unhappy. He shot a nasty little glance at Lilly and then turned his attention back to Anne. "Pinnacle is a very important magazine in our industry."
"It's probably the best," Puckett said.
"And we'd be very happy to have Cobey be in it," Preston soothed. "But, really, the decision is his." He shot his sleeve and consulted his watch. "Lilly and I have a dinner engagement and we're going to be late if we hang around here anymore. Why don't you give our best to Cobey—and then ask him yourself about the article?"
Anne smiled, obviously pleased at the turn this conversation had taken.
Lilly glared at her, not even trying to hide her displeasure.
"Good night, Ms. Addison."
"Good night, Mr. Preston. It was really nice to meet you." Anne laughed. "I wanted to say the same thing Puckett did. I grew up watching your movies, and your TV series, too. I had this terrible crush on you for years."
Preston tapped a forger to his forehead. "Music to a former matinee-idol's ego." He nodded to Puckett. "Good night, Puckett. Nice to meet you."
The two men shook hands again.
Lilly Carlyle got in one more good glare and then left on Preston's arm.
"I don't think Lilly's going to invite you to her next birthday party," Puckett said.
"Good," Anne laughed. "Because I wouldn't go, anyway."
After the photographers, after the two wealthy Chicago matrons, after a college drama instructor and his three very cute coeds, after the two overweight leaders of Cobey's Chicago fan club...after all these people, Puckett and Anne finally got to see Cobey...
They walked into his dressing room and there he sat, Diet Pepsi in one hand, cigarette in the other, a very good-looking young man in a dark V-neck sweater, jeans, and white Reeboks.
When he saw who Anne was—when she really registered on his mind—a curious expression filled Cobey's eyes and he jumped up from his chair.
But then Cobey stopped himself, looking over at Puckett. It was obvious that, at first, Cobey didn't recognize Puckett, even though the man looked familiar somehow.
Puckett said, "I did some work for your manager, Lilly, a few years ago."
"Sure!" Cobey said suddenly. "The trip from St. Louis."
"Right."
Cobey stuck out his hand. His grin seemed real. "How are you, anyway, Puckett?"
"Doing fine. Do you remember Anne?"
"Of course," Cobey said and moved over, as if in a receiving line, to shake her hand, too.
Puckett sensed something right then, but he wasn't sure what. Just some kind of jolt that passed from Anne to Cobey as they shook hands...a sense that was reinforced by the strange way they stared at each other.
Then Anne laughed. "I wondered if you'd let me do a follow-up article on you?"
"Hell, yes, I will. I was very happy with that first one."
They looked at each other another long moment and then Cobey laughed and said, "How about a Diet Pepsi for either of you?"
They both accepted.
Cobey took two icy cans from a small brown refrigerator next to his closet door. He handed them each a Diet Pepsi and then invited them to sit down.
The dressing room was more like a spare room where odds and ends of furniture had been stored. Only the round, theatrical mirror with light bulbs encircling it bespoke show business. On the long dressing table stood several vases of dead flowers with tiny white note cards taped to each vase—the remains of opening night well-wishing.
"So how about you?" Puckett asked. "How've you been, Cobey?"
The grin again. He'd been a handsome kid and now he was a handsome young man. Especially when he grinned that Cobey grin. "Fantastic. I know that sounds gushy as hell, but it's true. You've heard that two of the networks are talking to us about new shows for the fall?"
"Congratulations, Cobey," Anne said.
"And there's talk about HBO taping this show and running it as a special."
"Things are starting to roll again for you," Puckett said.
Cobey hoisted his Diet Pepsi. "As long as I stay on the wagon, I'm fine."
He was just about to toast his guests when there was a knock at his door and a very pretty, very shy young woman said, "I saw the Dragon Lady leaving so I thought it'd be safe to come in."
Cobey laughed, jumped up and walked over to slide his arm around the woman. "Veronica Hobbs, this is Anne Addison and Mr. Puckett."
Veronica Hobbs nodded quietly to them. She was, Puckett guessed, in her very early twenties, blonde and pale, like a beauty from Poe, perhaps, possessing an ethereal quality that only made her gentle beauty more mysterious. In the proper light, those shadowed eyes would be a deep green. And if she ever smiled, there would be as much pain as pleasure in that smile. She wore a simple, green, woolen jumper that flattered her slender but attractive body.
"'The Dragon Lady' Veronica was referring to is Lilly," Cobey said. "They're not exactly what you'd call the best of friends."
"She hates me," Veronica said simply. "She wants Cobey for herself."
There was no humor in her remark and Cobey looked uncomfortable. He guided Veronica over to the last empty chair, got her seated and got her a Diet Pepsi.
"Anne Addison..." Veronica said. "Now I remember. You wrote an article about Cobey."
"Yes."
"That's the best thing ever written about him."
"Thank you."
"You're still writing, I hope?"
"Writing about Cobey again, in fact."
"I'm surprised you haven't written a book by now," Veronica said to Anne.
/>
"Well, I'm trying to put one together—the best of my pieces on movie- and TV-stars over the years. Even a lot of the things I had to do under pen names."
"Why did you use a pen name?"
"Usually because I had more than one article in the issue and the editor didn't want my name appearing twice. I'm making decent money now, but when I was just starting out I really had to write a lot."
"God, I wish I could write," Veronica said. "I'm twenty-two years old and I don't have any talent at all. For anything."
"C'mon, now," Cobey said, gently kidding her. "Don't get into this." He leaned over and put his hand fondly on Veronica's shoulder. "This is a woman who was a piano prodigy and paints well enough to have her work hung in several New York galleries...but she says she doesn't have any talent."
"I'm a dabbler," Veronica said. "I'm not a professional the way Anne is or you are."
Puckett could certainly understand Cobey's fascination with the young woman. She was even prettier when you watched her close up. And her self-deprecation was so sincere and painful, it was fetching. You wanted to put your arm around her and protect her.
"I know how you feel," Puckett said. "I'm the same way, Veronica. I'm constantly surrounded by really talented people, but there isn't a damn thing I can do."
"By the way," Cobey said, "Puckett is a cop. A private one these days. And one of the best paid in Los Angeles. So he must be doing something right." Cobey clapped his hands together as if he were leading a hoe down. "But, c'mon, people. Let's stop all this self-deprecation and really dish somebody."
Anne giggled. "Now that's more like it, Cobey. Let's really do a number on somebody."
"Have you heard the gerbil story?" Cobey said.
"That old chestnut?" Anne laughed. "You can do better than that."
"But apparently it's true. He really did put a gerbil up his—into his behind," Cobey said.
"I'd like to take his defense," Puckett said. "I don't think that ever happened. I think it's one of those stories that some malicious twit started that took on a life of its own."
"You know the guy?" Cobey said.
