by Barbara Paul
“But, but I thought you …”
Marian shook her head. “Where’s a phone?”
“In my dressing room. Oh, hell. Look, I’ll make the call. You go on and see how much you can find out. Midtown South, you say?”
“Just dial nine-one-one.”
Muttering under her breath, Kelly headed toward her dressing room. Marian went in search of the stage manager. His desk was in fact a wide podium; a middle-aged woman was using his phone. Leo Gunn was talking to two young men she supposed were stagehands.
“Each of you take half the prop list,” Gunn was saying, giving each man a sheet of paper; disturbingly, Gunn had a two-pronged hook in place of a right hand. “Don’t waste time looking for exact matches. Like, if they don’t have a black address book, get a brown one. Hell, get an orange one if that’s all they have in stock. But get something, and get it fast. Go!” The two young men hurried away.
Marian stepped forward and identified herself. “Mr. Gunn, was anything of real monetary value taken?”
“Monetary value? Well, the costumes run high, but other than that … no, I guess not. But my copy of the script was invaluable to me—to the play, too. Now I’ve got to sit down and try to remember all the light and sound cues, or tonight’s going to be a shambles.” He scratched his neck with his mechanical hook. “Curtain’s going to be late.”
“Depending on when the stagehands get back with the props?”
“Stagehands? Oh—Mort and Pete. They’re my assistants.” Gunn grinned sourly. “Stagehands don’t run errands. They don’t do anything unless the union says so.”
The woman on the phone hung up and said to the stage manager, “Essex says they can fit Ian Cavanaugh—they’re sending over half a dozen suits right now. He’s the only real problem. Shoulders are too big.” She looked at Marian. “Who are you?”
Marian showed her badge and asked the same question, learning that the woman was the wardrobe mistress. Marian said, “Would you make me a list of the costumes that were stolen and their cost? Shoes, accessories, everything.”
“Glad to. The biggest loss is the Bernhardt jacket … that’s irreplaceable. I just hope those blasted thieves know what they got.”
“Kelly mentioned a Bernhardt jacket,” Marian said. “What is it exactly?”
“It’s an ornamented jacket that once belonged to Sarah Bernhardt,” the wardrobe mistress explained. “Our producer bought it at an auction in Paris. He was letting Kelly wear it for a little while, but eventually it’d go to a museum.”
“Oh, what a shame. About that list …?”
“I’ll do it now, before those off-the-rack replacements start getting here.” She hurried off.
“And I’d like a list of the missing props from you, Mr. Gunn.”
He groaned. “The first night the properties master calls in sick. I just made out a list for my assistants—okay, I’ll do it again.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you could have everyone else gather on the stage for a moment. Which one is the director?”
“He isn’t here yet. Anything else?”
Marian smiled sympathetically. “No, nothing else. I won’t bother you any more.”
That sour grin again. “Good. You know, short of planting a bomb in the theater, there’s no better way of shutting down a show than by stealing all its small necessaries.” He hurried away.
A third possible motive? Marian mused. Play piracy, or souvenir-hunting, or the intent to close The Apostrophe Thief before the natural end of its run? Which?
Leo Gunn didn’t waste any time. In less than two minutes the cast, the playwright, and the stagehands were all assembled on the stage.
Marian moved to a spot where she was facing most of them and called for attention. “I’d like each of you to write down exactly what was taken from you—script, personal belongings, anything at all that’s missing. List the dollar value if you know it. Then sign the list and give it to me. Please do it now, before the replacement costumes arrive.”
“We’re getting costumes?” someone asked.
“So I understand. Please go make out your lists now.”
They all moved away purposefully. Giving them something to do might help settle them down a little, although Marian’s real purpose was to save time for the detectives from Midtown South when they got there. Speaking of which …
She went to Kelly’s dressing room. “You did call nine-one-one, didn’t you?”
“Sure did,” Kelly answered. “They said they’d get someone here as soon as they could.” She signed her name with a flourish. “Here’s my list.”
Marian read it. “Script, hairbrush, lotion … a pair of old sneakers?”
“Very old. But comfortable as all get-out. I wore them during rehearsals a lot.” A sigh. “But now they’re gone.” Kelly had listed their value as twenty-nine cents.
Why would a burglar take a worthless pair of sneakers? Marian went back out to the stage, where Abigail James handed her a sheet of paper with only her name written on it. “You lost nothing?”
“I keep nothing here.” A wry smile. “The playwright doesn’t merit a dressing room or an office.”
“There are offices backstage?”
“One. The director uses it. Sergeant, we’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“We have indeed. At the opening night party.”
“Ah, I remember. You’re the one who asked me about the meaning of the title.” The Apostrophe Thief, she meant. “The only one to ask.”
“Still?”
“Still.”
Right then Ian Cavanaugh came up with his list. Shoulders are too big, the wardrobe mistress had said; they looked just fine to Marian. “Here you are, Sergeant. Truthfully, now, is there any chance of getting these things back?”
“Truthfully, not much,” Marian admitted, reading his list. “Most of the items taken seem to be of negligible value, but maybe some of them will turn up. Antiques dealers can be notified about your shaving mug—uh, it’s worth five thousand dollars?”
Abigail James laughed softly. “Oh, Ian.”
“It’s worth that to me,” he said blandly. “Would it help if I offered a reward?”
“Doubtful,” Marian told him. “The burglars took it not because of its intrinsic value, whatever that might be, but simply because it was there. They’ll dispose of it the same way—casually.”
The actor groaned. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say. You know, something like this happened once before. Remember, Abby? That piece John directed a couple of years ago, the one that called itself a circus-drama?”
The playwright remembered. “You’re right—I hadn’t thought about that. It was Gerald Hemley’s last play, ah, Three Rings, it was called.” She frowned. “But only the scripts were taken then, I think John said.”
“Who’s John?” Marian asked.
“John Reddick, our director. He could tell you about Three Rings.”
“Is there a Sergeant Larch here?” The voice that spoke belonged to a young black uniformed officer. He was followed by another officer, a jowly white man who seemed content to let his partner do the talking.
Marian identified herself. “Are you from Midtown South? Where’s the detective in charge?”
The young black officer grinned at her. “Yeah, we’re from Midtown South … and you are the detective in charge.”
“What? I can’t be—I’m Ninth Precinct.”
“We’re not fussy. What we are is a little short of manpower tonight, and the captain said as long as you’re already on the scene—”
“Whoa—how did he know I was here? I don’t even know your captain.”
The officer’s grin got bigger. “Well, it seems that the star of this here show called it in, and she made it purr-fectly clear that you have the sitcheation well in hand. Captain Murtaugh says tell you he’ll clear it with your captain tomorrow. Now, what do you want us to do?”
Kelly.
Marian turned just in time t
o see her friend darting back to the safety of her dressing room. “You can arrest that woman,” she growled.
4
The following morning found Marian once again sitting in Captain DiFalco’s office. The captain was making a bad job of hiding how delighted he was with the current turn of events. Wants me out of his hair until I cool down, Marian thought. DiFalco kept up a steady line of talk aimed at keeping her from saying anything.
“Sorry about breaking in on your personal time like this,” he said, looking anything but sorry, “but we didn’t call you, Kelly Ingram did. Still, there’s something to be said about getting back on the horse.”
And you had to say it.
“The job at Midtown South won’t last long. The theft of some playscripts and a few baubles isn’t a high-priority crime. Go through the motions, do what you can. But don’t sweat it.”
I don’t intend to.
“You’ll report to Captain Murtaugh or his lieutenant—shit, what’s his name? O’Bannion, O’Casey … another Mick, something starting with ‘O.’ But see Murtaugh, he’ll give you your instructions. This is the first time Midtown South has borrowed one of our people … make us look good, Larch! Murtaugh won’t keep you on it more’n two, three days. But the change’ll be good for you.”
And for you.
“Keep your eyes open while you’re there, see what you can pick up. One thing I’m sure you’ve thought of.” He actually winked at her, us conspirators against the rest of them. “You won’t have to work with Foley.”
Marian finally spoke. “I’ll never work with Foley again.”
“Hell, never say never. We’ll work out something. I’m going to have a good talk with Foley while you’re gone, straighten him out, make him see where he’s falling short—”
Marian got up and walked out.
His voice followed her. “Hold it right there, Larch! You don’t walk out on me!”
She kept on walking, right into the Police Detective Unit room. Foley was at his desk, ignoring her; fine. Marian had brought a cardboard box with her that morning; she set about clearing out her desk.
“Hey, mon, you movin’ or somethin’?” Gloria Sanchez’s Latina lilt floated across the room, more Sanchez today than Gloria. “The cap’n tol’ us you’d be gone only a few days.”
“I’m going for good, Gloria. I won’t be back.” She put a travel alarm, toothbrush and toothpaste, and a variety of headache medications into the cardboard box.
“What?” Foley’s voice rasped, his attention now fully on Marian. “You’re quitting?”
“No, wait a minute,” Gloria said, her Hispanic persona forgotten in an instant. “It’s a transfer, right? You’ve been assigned to Midtown South permanently?”
Marian shook her head. “It’s just that I’m never going to work for that man”—she waved an arm toward DiFalco’s office—“or with this man”—she looked at Foley—“again. Ever.”
Gloria gasped. Foley barked, “Too rough for you, huh?” and sniggered.
Marian didn’t answer him. “Don’t ask questions, Gloria. I’ll call you later and explain.” Coffee mug, notebooks, Kleenex, two nail files, a small carton of Wash’n Dri towelettes—into the box.
The other woman looked dubious, amazed, even a little alarmed. “Okay, if you say so. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“So do I,” Marian muttered. She packed the Rolodex and picked up the cardboard box.
“Hey!” Foley objected. “You can’t take the Rolodex!”
“I paid for it, I’m taking it,” Marian snapped. “Gloria, I’ll call you tonight or tomorrow morning. Don’t fret—please.”
Still looking dubious, Gloria nodded, reluctantly granting Marian permission to go ahead with whatever noodlenut plan she had.
The truth was, Marian had no plan. But sitting in the captain’s office and listening to oily-politician DiFalco trying to con her into accepting the status quo, she’d only become more determined to clean out her desk and be rid of the place. It did occur to her that if she simply refused to work with DiFalco without having officially resigned, she’d be subject to disciplinary action and might lose certain benefits when she did leave. So she would put in her final days among strangers at Midtown South; she ought to be able to keep out of office politics for that long. Too many DiFalcos and Foleys in law enforcement, not enough Gloria Sanchezes. But Gloria certainly wasn’t the only good cop in town; Marian felt a little like a deserter.
But saving the world was going to have to be somebody else’s job; she just wasn’t up to it. She’d do what she could about what she thought of as Kelly’s minor problem at the Broadhurst and then get out. She’d explain why, in great detail, to anyone who’d listen, and then she’d go. If she could open somebody’s eyes to the type of cop Captain DiFalco was—great. If she couldn’t, too bad. But she wasn’t going to waste one more minute of her life agonizing over the problem. It wasn’t worth it.
She carried her box down the stairs to the first floor of the stationhouse, where she was surprised to see Kelly Ingram, wearing a visitor’s badge and sitting disconsolately on a wooden chair. The Ninth Precinct didn’t get a lot of celebrity visitors; every cop in the place seemed to find an excuse to walk by. “Kelly,” Marian said, “why didn’t you come upstairs?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you.” Kelly looked up and saw the box in Marian’s arms; her eyes grew wide. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
“You didn’t want to disturb me? I can’t believe you said that. Come with me while I put this stuff in the car.”
Kelly caught on that Marian didn’t want to talk in front of the other cops. She returned her visitor’s badge and held the door open for Marian, and they trooped across to the other side of East Fifth to the stationhouse parking lot. There were shadows under Kelly’s eyes; she’d gotten up too early. Kelly’s workday began at about the time other people were thinking of dinner.
Marian stowed the box of belongings in her car and said to Kelly, “I haven’t resigned yet—I’m just not going back there again, thank god. I’ve been temporarily assigned to Midtown South. To check into your missing scripts et cetera. I’ll do what I can there, before I quit.”
Kelly groaned. “That’s why I came—to apologize.”
“For what?”
“I tell you in no uncertain terms that I want you to resign right now—and the first thing that goes wrong, I scream for you to come make it right. I just didn’t think about the resigning business, Marian, not until you were already on your way. The minute I saw we’d been burglarized, the only thing I could think was Call Marian.” She paused. “You must think I’m terribly two-faced.”
Marian smiled. “No, I think you were scared. A stranger invades your private space and helps himself to your things … that scares everybody.”
Kelly made a face. “Do you have to be so damned understanding? I’d feel much better if you’d yell at me a little.”
“No way, kiddo—you gave me a perfect excuse for walking out of that place. Without those scripts to go looking for, I’d be over there telling people off and getting into all sorts of hot water.”
Kelly glanced across the street at the stationhouse. “And you’re really never going back?”
“Really never. How’d you get here, by taxi? Get in—I’ll drop you off.”
They climbed in the car and Marian pulled out of the parking lot. Kelly said that new costumes were being made, and all the missing props would be replaced in time for that evening’s performance. “Do you want to see the play again?” she asked Marian.
“You bet! You said you’d let me know when a few remaining rough spots got ironed out.”
“Well, we’re pretty close to that now. By Saturday we ought to have everything right. Is Saturday night okay?”
“Saturday’s fine—thanks, Kel.”
Kelly hesitated. “How many tickets?”
Marian thought a moment. “Make it two.”
“Terrif. Who�
��re you bringing? Whom.”
“Oh, I’ll find somebody.”
Marian dropped Kelly off at her building, and then headed for the Midtown Precinct South stationhouse on West Thirty-fifth Street.
Captain James Timothy Murtaugh had a lived-in face and graying temples; he sat behind his desk like Authority Incarnate, a man who’d long ago stopped being surprised by what he saw. The captain looked as if he didn’t smile often, but his manner of speaking was friendly enough. “I thought the first thing I’d say to you would be an apology for the highhanded way I preempted your services last night.” He paused. “But now that doesn’t seem like enough. Last night I didn’t know you’d taken down a perp Sunday and were on personal time. If you’re not ready to come back, say so. I’ll get somebody else to take the Broadhurst case.”
Marian shook her head. “Not necessary, Captain. I don’t need any more time off.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Internal Affairs says it was a clean shoot. You saved your own life and that of an FBI agent who was working with you in what was an unusually messy situation. You harboring any guilt feelings?”
So he’d been checking up on her. “Regrets, but not guilt,” Marian said. “I wish there’d been another way of handling it, but I know there wasn’t. It was him or us. No, I don’t feel guilty.” Since I didn’t shoot anybody.
Murtaugh nodded. “That’s good enough for me.” He sat up straight. “I’ll tell you, Sergeant, we wouldn’t bother investigating the theft of a few playscripts, but the value of the costumes puts last night’s little bit of chicanery into the category of grand larceny. Then there’s a couple of paintings taken from the dressing room walls, an antique shaving mug—”
“Ah, I think some of those dollar-value estimates are a mite inflated,” Marian murmured.
“Probably. But we have to check them out just the same. Go see Lieutenant Overbrook—you’ll be reporting to him. And Sergeant … glad to have you with us.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
After a little searching, Marian found Lieutenant Overbrook’s office. The lieutenant was almost a stereotype of the grizzled old cop—sloppy, overweight, overworked, and losing his gray hair; Marian thought he must be near retirement. DiFalco’s voice suddenly spoke in her head: Another Mick, something starting with ‘O.’ Asshole. Overbrook surprised her by shaking her hand and then waved her to a seat.
