Mannix’s gaze did not return to me; he was playing the room. What was his sudden interest in figuring out why Barney had been resting at the scene of the crime? “The faster this murder gets solved and somebody gets arrested, the faster I can figure if we still have a show on our hands,” he said without prompting. “So anything you can do to help, I’m hoping you’ll do it.”
“I would have anyway,” I said. “I have no reason to hold anything back.” I felt into my pocket for the tuft of what now appeared to be very bad fake hair and considered giving it to him, but Mannix simply nodded and moved on, shouting to someone named Billy as he did. I removed my hand; there was no point.
Just as well, because I made it to the door and the welcome feeling of cooler air when Detective Sergeant Bostwick, who was walking in, stopped me before I could make my escape.
“Has the bird told you anything else?” he asked.
“Yeah, he said to bet on Seabiscuit in the fifth at Aqueduct.” There just wasn’t much point in explaining the whole parrot speech thing again.
“Nobody likes a wiseass,” Bostwick said.
“Then explain Bill Maher’s career.” I was just in that kind of mood. I didn’t like being among a group of people who would have told you they were a family when they were all figuring ways to save themselves, possibly at the expense of others. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand or would have reacted differently in their position. In fact, that might have been what was making me uncomfortable. I needed to get home and talk to normal people like my parents, who had spent their lives pretending to be other people for the amusement of hotel and cruise ship patrons.
“Who?” He waved a hand to tell me not to answer, which was wise. “I just want to know if you have anything else to tell me that might help.”
I could think of the larger whole, after all. “Yes, I do,” I told him, reaching into my pocket. “I found this on Barney’s foot last night.” I searched a little harder.
“What?” Bostwick asked, suddenly interested.
“Um…” That was weird. “I’d swear it was here a minute ago…”
His eyes got suspicious. Of me. “What was there a minute ago?”
“This little piece of something you should see.” My jacket pocket wasn’t that deep or that wide. I should have found the evidence by now.
But it wasn’t there.
“Somebody stole my hair,” I said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
By the time Bostwick had agreed to believe I’d once had a small piece of physical evidence—one that I could not begin to explain in terms of significance—but now it was gone, the memorial service for Dray Mattone was about to begin. And I saw no graceful way to extract myself from the sound stage, so I was stuck.
I’d actually gotten Janine to come over and verify the fake hair had existed and had been in my possession. Bostwick had not exactly been skeptical, but he had seemed a little afraid to approach me, like I might next tell him Dray’s killer had escaped to Saturn, but I had a ship in the parking lot if he wanted to pursue.
He’d gotten a full description of whatever it was that tuft was made out of from Janine, but without the sample itself to test (and possibly even with it) did not seem to think it was much of a lead. “The bird could have picked that up anywhere,” Bostwick said to me. “Maybe he found it in your house.”
“There wasn’t anything like that in my house.” I was oddly miffed at the suggestion, like Bostwick was somehow insulting my admittedly shoddy housekeeping by suggesting fake hair could be found in my residence. “Besides, the only time he was out of his cage there was after he’d gotten that thing stuck to his foot.”
“I guess it’s worth checking if there was any similar evidence found in the trailer,” the detective admitted. “I’ll call the precinct when I’m done here.”
“What’s your agenda on the sound stage today?” I asked him after Janine, hearing that the memorial was about to start, headed toward the makeshift theater that had been constructed on the stage where Barney (and Dray) had been shooting the day before. It seemed there’d be a full house; whatever Les Mannix wanted, Les Mannix got.
“Following up,” Bostwick answered. “It’s a big company, there were a lot of people questioned after this happened yesterday. We have a few more questions that need answering.” Like, for example, who had killed Dray Mattone. Stuff like that.
“Anything for me?” I asked.
“No.”
That was definitive enough. I was swept up in the tide of people heading toward the memorial service, which I imagined Bostwick would want to watch anyway. I read in a detective novel once that the funeral (or as close as you were going to get) was a good place to look for suspects.
If that was the sergeant’s plan, he had his work cut out for him. There were at least seventy people crammed into the room. Temporary bleachers had been constructed since the meeting this morning, not long ago at all. I hoped the stagehands had been paid well. Wouldn’t want them to leave out a bolt or something due to their disappointment.
I sat all the way to the side, closest to the exit, about six rows up. This was a bigger group than simply the day-to-day workers on a TV series. Clearly every writer, producer, actor, and executive had been added to the usual list of technicians, stylists, and set decorators, and the army of production assistants who were paid either in college credit or at minimum wage for the endless hours they put in.
The magic of show business. Who wouldn’t want in?
The lights dimmed, which I hadn’t realized was possible, just as Bostwick slipped in behind me by two rows. I figured he would follow the book, even if it was a book by Raymond Chandler.
It would have been logical to expect Les Mannix to run the memorial service, but he was seated front-row center, with a very tasteful key light positioned to make him visible without being the center of attention. Film companies are stocked with very talented people, and TV companies have the same, only faster.
Instead of Mannix, a woman I had not seen before stood up from the same row where he was seated and walked to the center of the stage, where an actual spotlight was being directed by a tech guy in the top row. Apparently there had not been enough time to create a lighting system that could be run from the booth.
She was tall and willowy, which was not the least bit unusual for a TV crew, and I took her to be an actress. I was not a huge fan of Dead City, unless a huge fan was someone who had never watched so much as one episode of the show. I had read the script pages Barney needed to learn and that was about it. So I did not recognize the woman and I got the feeling I should have.
“Good afternoon, everybody,” she said in a voice just as sheer and flowing as her top, which had no doubt been made for swirling. It was not black, which you might have expected, but was blue. I guessed that was the closest she could come on such short notice. “For those of you who don’t know, I’m Mallory Jenkins.”
There was a small chuckle from the gathered group. Who could possibly not know Mallory Jenkins?
She acknowledged the response with a nod. “Les asked me to lead the ceremony today, and I haven’t had time to prepare, you know. This all happened so … suddenly.” Now, Mallory happens to be a good actress, and I knew that because I couldn’t tell whether the tear she was wiping away was one she’d produced for effect or a genuine one. I was not that far away and I can spot a phony from much farther distances.
“I’m not going to make a speech,” she went on. “You know me—I can’t really improvise too well.” Again, a knowing titter from the group. “But I didn’t ask the writers to give me words to say. Today is about saying what’s in your heart.” I’ll bet the writer she had asked to put together a speech had thought hard about that passage. It played beautifully.
“All I can say is that I know we all loved Dray very much. He was such an open spirit. He would listen to your troubles and he would care, you know? Not like in a way that he wanted you to see him caring. Like, for real.” She
was going off-script now, unless her ghostwriter had intentionally made her sound like a nineties Valley Girl.
“So let’s all think good thoughts about our dear friend and wish his safe passage to wherever he might be going now.” Mallory was back with the program now. She sounded more confident and more sincere, which was weird because these clearly were someone else’s words she was reading. Actors. They’re better at being someone else than they are at being themselves.
She bowed her head, skillfully leading the others to do the same. Then she looked up and said, “We’ve got a few people who have asked to be given time to speak now. But if you want to say something too, please just come on down here and take the mic. We’ll let you know when, okay?
“Our first scheduled speaker is one of Dray’s best friends on the show and someone I’m sure you’re understand—”
She never got the chance to mention who this close friend and constant companion might be because a young woman on the other side of the bleachers, far to my right, stood up and pointed dramatically (what else?) toward the stage area. “Murderer!” she shouted. “Murderer!”
This was probably the worst time and place to audition for a part ever, but this young brunette, slim and petite, was overplaying her role to an unconscionable degree, I thought. Who yells, “Murderer”?
The voice was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. But the most disturbing part was her hair.
It was dark brown and curly and looked really fake.
Mallory, down at the center of attention in what now might be taken as a boxing arena, looked up, confused. Her head went to one side, then the other, then back at the pointing woman, who continued to shout, “Murderer!” at the top of her lungs. “Me?” Mallory asked, seemingly baffled.
“No, not you!” the accuser shrieked from her spot in the bleachers. “Him!”
She was pointing directly at Les Mannix, who stood up and pointed at himself in some confusion.
“Yes, you!” the woman shouted.
I saw Bostwick, whom I had turned around to face, tense up his arms. His hands were in his pockets, with his jacket open and the lower end of his shoulder holster visible on his left side. He didn’t reach for it, but he wanted to be sure it was handy. It was.
Mannix was the showrunner, meaning he was an executive producer with the final say on the program from beginning to network (which always has the final final word). So he had two priorities in this situation: showing he was still in charge and effective, and not being implicated in the shooting of the star of his series.
As one might expect of a television producer, he chose to demonstrate his authority.
“I’m responsible for everything that happens on my show, so I guess you’re right that I take some blame for the tragedy that befell our own Dray,” he said. No microphone, no amplification. The man was a professional. The befell was unfortunate, but it communicated the gravity and formality Mannix was trying to maintain under the circumstances.
“No!” The brunette wasn’t buying his passive-aggressive bit. “You killed him! You went to Dray’s trailer and shot him!”
There was something of an uproar in the room. People stood in all sections of the bleachers and began screaming, either at Mannix or at the woman making the accusation. I was still sitting—I figured there was no way I was going to see what was happening anyway, and it had already been a long day—so my view was somewhat obstructed. If I’d paid for this seat I would have been profoundly disappointed.
I did see that Bostwick had heard enough. He started working his way right to the end of the row, where he could more easily reach the woman who was accusing Mannix of pulling the trigger on Dray. People were not exactly standing in his way, but those who hadn’t spoken directly to the sergeant the day before wouldn’t have known he was a detective and therefore might not understand why he needed to question her immediately. They didn’t simply fade back and let the cop through.
So it took a little longer than it normally would for him to reach the woman he had wanted to question. And that was a problem, apparently, because after about a minute I heard him shout, “Did anyone see where she went?”
That couldn’t be good.
Chaos, or at least the TV equivalent, ensued for some minutes. I kept my seat because I didn’t see how I could be of much help. There was, I’ll confess, a moment where I considered trying to walk down the bleachers and out the sound stage door, but I felt that might look somewhat suspicious, and besides, there was a wall of people everywhere I looked. If there’d been a back on my seat, I’d have stretched and tried to shut my eyes for a bit, but these were uncomfortable metal bleachers.
So I did what any self-respecting agent would do under the circumstances: I got out my smartphone and checked my email.
While I did I heard various shouts from the crowd: “Did you see her?” “Who was that?” “Where’s Les?” “Did he shoot Dray?” “Who’s your agent?”
My ears perked up at that last one, but none of my clients or potential clients is able to actually conduct a conversation, so I just kept checking messages. There was a text from Patty reading Can you take Barney again tonight? This was not exactly the thing I had been dearly hoping I’d see. I considered my options, realized I didn’t have any, and sent back If you need me to, which was about as passive-aggressive a response as I could conceive. I knew Patty would not back off on the request and I knew also that it was not my responsibility to take care of her parrot while she was ill even if he (the parrot) was a client.
Thanks so much, she sent back.
Swell. I sent a text to Mom telling her we’d have company for the evening again and once again considered trying to escape so I could at least stop by my office after picking up Barney at his home again. But now the crowd was starting to climb down the stairs to the stage area and the bleachers were therefore emptying out. Before too long it was just Bostwick and me situated at opposite ends of the sound stage.
I looked over at him. “Come here often?” I asked.
“Lately, yeah.” He stood up and started to walk toward me. “How come you’re hanging around?” There was an edge to the question. He wasn’t bantering; he was asking with a purpose.
“I was texting and didn’t notice everybody was leaving until just this minute.” Now I stood up, to prove I was planning on doing the same. “I’m on my way to my office.”
“I’ll walk you,” Bostwick said. We met in the center and began walking down toward the floor, which took only a few seconds. The bleachers were wide but not high.
“I’m just going to my car,” I said in case he thought I was a permanent member of the company and had an office on the lot. “My office is in East Harlem.”
We started toward the sound stage door as stagehands began dismantling the bleachers and some production assistants, clipboards at the ready, shuffled around the sound stage, no doubt having been told to find an authentic leprechaun for the leading actress or a 1940s Moviola for the editor despite his having no intention of using one. Bostwick was looking down, perhaps wondering if the solution to Dray Mattone’s murder was resting on the concrete before us waiting to be picked up.
“Why is your office in East Harlem?” he asked. “The show shoots here in Queens.”
For a detective, he had a lousy memory. “I told you yesterday, I don’t work for the production company. I’m the parrot’s agent.”
He nodded to indicate his comprehension. “Of course.”
“Why aren’t you chasing after the woman who yelled that Les Mannix killed Dray?” I asked.
“There are uniforms for that. They chase. I detect. It’s all in the union contract.” Bostwick thought he was being charming. I got the impression he believed that helped him get people to confess their guilt or something.
“Did anybody know who she was?” Outside it was sunny and warm. In the bleachers during the memorial service it had felt close and constricting. The weather outside was a pleasure, except I had a cop on my
right acting strange. “She had the same kind of hair as the piece I found on Barney’s leg. You could test it if I could find it and you could find her.”
Bostwick shook his head. “Nobody had ever spoken to her, but a couple said they’d seen her before. Even the guy sitting next to her in the bleachers, the head gaffer, whatever that is, said he didn’t see where she went after all the yelling started.”
“A gaffer is an electrician,” I told him. “As you might expect, they need more than a few around here. Don’t you think it’s odd that nobody recognized this woman, but there she was pointing at Les Mannix and accusing him of murder as if she knew him really well?”
The detective shrugged. “Maybe she’s his vengeful ex-wife,” he said. “She doesn’t have to be a member of the TV crew to be annoyed with the guy.”
“No, but she has to be a member of the TV crew to get admission to the sound stage, and for that matter, the lot,” I said. We reached my car and I got my keys out to open it. “Was she wearing a lanyard?” I held out my own to prove I had one, I guess. “I couldn’t see from where I was sitting.”
“I couldn’t either,” Bostwick said as I opened my car door. “The real question is, did Mannix have access to Dray Mattone’s trailer?”
I slid into the driver’s seat. Bostwick, for a detective assigned to a case on a TV studio lot, didn’t seem to know anything about the television business, which I guess wasn’t terribly surprising. “He’s the showrunner, the producer who’s in charge of everything,” I told him. “He has access to anything he wants.”
“You going straight to your office?” he asked me without acknowledging the information I’d given him.
“First to pick up Barney, then to my office, then home,” I said. “Do you want to be my chaperone?” I closed the door and started the car so I could open the window.
“Does the parrot’s agent always take him home with her every night?” Bostwick said.
I could feel my left eye twitch a little; there was something in the way I was being questioned that … well, what’s a comfortable way to be questioned?
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