Fare Play

by Barbara Paul

  Ivan sniggered. “Oh, he suits her all right!” “Ivan!” Mrs. Yelincic remonstrated. “You mustn’t make personal remarks. It’s not polite.” She looked surprised when everyone burst out laughing.

  Claire said, “Kelly Ingram sent an acceptance. Can you imagine? Kelly Ingram! At my wedding!”

  “Hey, I’ll be there too,” Ivan teased.

  Marian listened to their cheerful chatter and felt herself relaxing from the day’s tensions. Mrs. Yelincic was a wonderful throwback, the kind of professional mother you didn’t much see anymore, thank goodness. But Marian was able to like the woman, because she knew she wouldn’t have any sustained contact with her. She would not like having her for a mother-in-law. But Ivan seemed to have no problem with the prospect; he kidded Mrs. Yelincic and took no offense at her ways. It would be all right.

  When the evening drew to an end, Marian’s thanks were sincere; she’d enjoyed the hominess of the scene. She left with one last warning ringing in her ears about reminding the ushers of the rehearsal Wednesday evening.

  At home she got ready for bed feeling bone-tired … but it was the good kind of tiredness, the kind that would let her sleep. She crawled into bed thinking of Holland. The last two nights, she had shared a bed with him. She felt a little sad that he wasn’t there now.

  The phone rang.

  “Tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Oh yes.”

  “When?”

  She concentrated. “Noon. Do you mind coming by the stationhouse?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  She heard the click as he hung up.

  Saturday was not one of her workdays, but Marian couldn’t stay away from the station after yesterday’s breakthroughs. No sign of Hook Nose yet, but the word had been sent out to double the effort to find him. Marian had one bad moment when she saw Captain DiFalco walking through the detectives’ squadroom at Midtown South; but he was there to see Murtaugh, not her. A lot of brass around for a Saturday morning.

  Oddly, DiFalco didn’t stay long. And when he left, he was clearly in a hurry to get out of the place. Marian shrugged and turned to a pile of reports she hadn’t had time to read yesterday. But before she could get started, Captain Murtaugh loomed in her doorway.

  “I just got a call from the Commissioner’s office,” he said. “I’m to report immediately and explain why we’ve not yet caught this hired killer who’s quote running rampant through the city unquote.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “The Commissioner himself is coming in to hear what I have to say.” He gave her an ironic grin. “Your former captain was in my office when the call came. I suggested that since this was now a joint Midtown South/Ninth Precinct investigation, he might wish to accompany me to the Commissioner’s office. DiFalco declined.”

  Marian gave a short laugh. “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “I suppose it’s too much to hope for, but if anything comes in about Hook Nose while I’m there—let me know immediately.”

  She said she would. He left; Marian had noticed that he didn’t appear anxious about the upcoming interview. She supposed that yesterday’s breakthroughs would be enough to convince the Powers That Be that the police were on top of the investigation. She turned back to the reports.

  Most of them were from Campos’s squad; Buchanan’s was a little behind because of the sergeant’s involvement with the Robin Muller case. Police detectives were always behind in their reports. Marian had been in the same position long enough herself to know what it was like, trying to keep up with all the paperwork. If the sergeants in charge of the squads didn’t keep after the detectives, some of those reports never would get written.

  Two hours later Marian had finished the reports and Captain Murtaugh was back; he gave her the okay signal on his way to his office. It was eleven-thirty. Holland wouldn’t be there for another half hour. She might as well wait for him downstairs, save him the trouble of getting a visitor’s pass.

  But at the head of the stairs she veered and went to Murtaugh’s office instead. He looked up when he saw her standing in the doorway.

  “We’re putting all our eggs in one basket,” she said.

  He knew what she meant. “Gambling everything on picking up Hook Nose. What else can we do if David Unger is a dead end? He’s not going to incriminate himself.”

  “I’m putting Perlmutter and O’Toole on a deep background check Monday. Everything they can find about Unger. Tax fraud isn’t good enough—the man ordered a murder. There must be some way we can link him to Virgil.”

  “I’m open to suggestion.”

  Marian had half an idea, not completely worked out. “Whatever O.K. Toys is a front for, it was Oliver Knowles who set it up, not Dave Unger. So our kindly little old toymaker was a criminal. Do you think it’s likely that the toymaker’s son never knew what Daddy was doing?”

  “Austin Knowles?” Murtaugh chewed that over. “Get him for guilty knowledge?”

  “Austin must be ready to jump at the chance to put away the man who killed his father. Offer him immunity in exchange for spilling the beans about what was really going on behind that toy company front.”

  “That would help the feds’ tax fraud case, not our murder case.”

  “Maybe, but it’s the only cage we’ve got to rattle. There’s a chance Austin knows something that will let us link Dave Unger to Virgil.”

  The captain thought it over, and then decided. “All right, go for it. But check with the DA’s office Monday about immunity before you approach Austin Knowles.”

  “Right. Thanks, Captain.” She turned to leave and almost walked into Holland.

  “Yes, I’m early,” he said. He looked coolly at Murtaugh and said nothing.

  But Murtaugh did. One word. “Holland.”

  Holland nodded. “Murtaugh.”

  Murtaugh roused himself to further effort. “I understand we owe you thanks for doing the computer work tracing our missing Rosalind Bowman.”

  “You understand incorrectly. You owe me nothing.”

  The captain glared but kept his civil tone. “Nevertheless, I do thank you for helping the police.”

  “You’re welcome,” Holland said icily. “Your gratitude means a great deal to me.”

  “I had a feeling it would.” Murtaugh now matched Holland’s iciness.

  “How reassuring, to learn your ‘feeling’ is so reliable.” Holland smiled a slow, sarcastic smile. “That must be a great comfort to you.”

  Murtaugh’s face was glacial. “More than you can possibly know.”

  Impasse.

  Both men looked away, toward Marian. “Don’t look at me,” she said blandly. “I’m not going to smooth things over for you. You got yourselves into this, you can get yourselves out.”

  It was Murtaugh who laughed. “Go on, go. I’ll see you Monday.”

  On the stairway down, Marian fretted. “Why don’t you and the captain get along? I know why he doesn’t like you—you’re rude and arrogant every time you speak to him. But why don’t you like him?”

  “Because he’s not rude and arrogant,” Holland answered blithely. “Now, where would you like to go for lunch?”

  28

  They managed to avoid the point of contention between them all through lunch. Afterward, neither of them wanted to go anywhere. The weather was foul; the moisture falling from the sky had stopped pretending to be snow and was coming down in a cold, steady drizzle. They ended up in Holland’s apartment.

  Marian stood at the glass sliding door that led to the balcony, looking out over a gray Central Park. A rainy Saturday afternoon ought to be the perfect time for a good snuggle, she thought unhappily. Yet they could barely talk to each other, tiptoeing around the subject as if it were a bomb.

  She decided to bring it out into the open; they were too old to be playing Let’s Pretend. Without turning around from the glass door, she said, “You obtained an investigator’s license through fraudulent means. That’s a felo
ny.”

  He came up to stand behind her but didn’t touch her. “I did take the state licensing exam.”

  And probably aced it, she thought. “You have too much money. You’ve always had too much money.” She turned to face him. “Look at this place,” gesturing vaguely to the posh apartment. “Your offices … they scream money, money, money. Where does it come from, Holland? Where do you get all this money?”

  “I earn it,” he said shortly.

  She just looked at him. “That’s the kind of answer you always give me. Abrupt, unresponsive. You’re the most secretive man I’ve ever known. I don’t know anything about you, I don’t even know where you were born—I don’t know what kind of life you lived before I met you.”

  “London.”

  “What?”

  “I was born in London.”

  That surprised her. “You’re British?”

  “I’m an American citizen.”

  Hm. “Your parents are American?”

  “I don’t know who my parents were.”

  Oh, good heavens. “Have you tried to find them?”

  “No.”

  The way he said it made it clear the matter held no interest for him, speaking of them in the past tense as if they were dead. Whoever they were who gave him life—they weren’t part of that life. Subject closed.

  He turned away and started pacing. “If I’m secretive, it’s because certain things are best kept secret. For my own self-protection. I admit I have done things that you would say I should not have done. I’ve skirted the law more than once. But that was a different life. I’m not living that life now.” He stopped and faced her. “Can’t that be enough, Marian? Can’t you accept me for my present life alone? For what I am?”

  “Holland—”

  “I’m not hurting anyone. I’m not robbing any banks or running any frauds. I’ve opened a business, my first ever. I’ve assumed responsibility for nine employees now, with more to come later. For all of my life, I’ve never called any place in the world home—but now I’m trying to anchor myself to one spot. Here. Can’t that be enough?”

  Could it? He was angry, proud. He was telling her there were things about his life he’d not reveal to her or anyone, that some part of him would always remain private. She’d never know the total man. The question then became: Would the part of him he was willing to share suffice for her? Could she live knowing she would never know?

  She looked at that tense face waiting for her reply. “Then I guess it will have to be enough,” she said quietly.

  Holland moved swiftly toward her and wrapped both arms around her, holding her close. They stood like that a long time, until the tension had drained out of him and was replaced by something very like joy. He said, “You know, I’d stopped looking for you.”

  “For me?”

  “For a partner. For someone I belonged with.”

  In the bedroom they set about celebrating their new understanding. For the truth was, Marian was happy when she was with Holland. Maybe she too had stopped looking for a partner, and he was as big a surprise to her as she was to him. She felt a grudging admiration for his refusal to spill his guts for her. This was a private man she had here; his air of reserve was not a challenge, but something to be respected. She knew she already had that same respect from him. In spite of all the baggage he brought with him, Holland was the one she belonged with.

  They lazed the afternoon away, making slow, quiet love and reveling in their new freedom from tension. It was something like being let out of prison. They talked a little and laughed a little, at peace with each other.

  On the table on Marian’s side of the bed, her beeper sounded.

  “I knew it was too good to last,” Holland said. He picked up the phone receiver from the table on his side and pulled up the antenna. “I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to tell them you’re in the hospital having your appendix removed?”

  “Gimme.” She took the receiver and punched in the number of Midtown South.

  The police dispatcher told her there was an intruder at the Broadhurst Theatre, a young woman who’d been lying in wait for Kelly Ingram. When Ms Ingram tried to throw her out, the intruder escaped—and was hiding in the theater right now. The stage manager didn’t want police tramping all over the place looking for her during the matinée performance, so she was still there. Since the lieutenant was a friend of Ms Ingram’s, the dispatcher thought she’d want to know.

  Marian thanked the dispatcher for informing her and broke the connection. She told Holland what was going on and asked if he’d like to go to the Broadhurst with her. “I’m not on duty. We’d be dropping in as Kelly’s friends.”

  “Of course I’ll go,” he said. “Kelly’s being stalked?”

  “Technically, no. This woman has never menaced Kelly or interfered with what she was doing. She’s just always hanging around. A nuisance, not a threat. This is the first time she’s ever invaded the theater. I wonder if she broke into Kelly’s dressing room? If she did, then we’ve got something to charge her with.”

  It was dark outside; they’d lingered longer than they thought. By the time they were showered and dressed and had taken a cab to the Broadhurst, the rest period between the matinee and evening performances was over; Kelly was onstage performing again. Two uniformed officers were stationed backstage, looking very much out of place.

  Marian didn’t know either of them. She went up to the nearest and identified herself and led him to the dressing rooms section where they could talk. Holland wandered off in search of the stage manager.

  The officer, whose name was Franzino, said he and his partner had searched for the intruder between performances as well as they could. “Sure is a lot of places to hide in a theater,” he said ruefully. “We couldn’t cover everything. The stage manager, he don’t want us moving around during the performance. So we have to wait ’til they’re done.”

  “Are there just the two of you?”

  “Yeah. Well, this intruder ain’t armed or dangerous. We catch her, it’s just a trespassing charge. It’s no big deal, Lieutenant.”

  “Maybe. Was she hiding in Kelly Ingram’s dressing room?”

  “Nope. Kelly Ingram, she said she unlocked the door to her dressing room and before she could get it closed again, this Banner woman had slipped inside. No breaking and entering.”

  “Hm. And you’re going to resume your search after the performance? What if Banner just walks out with the audience?”

  “We got a good description, Lieutenant. Me and my partner’ll be out front watching the audience when they leave. The doorkeeper’s gonna watch the backstage exit.”

  Marian nodded; it was as good an arrangement as possible with only two bluesuits on duty. She warned Officer Franzino that Banner was kind of nondescript and easy to overlook.

  Back near the stage area, she caught sight of Holland standing in the wings watching the play.

  When she went up to him, he put his mouth close to her ear and said, low, “Leo Gunn knows this Carla Banner. She once worked for him, as an assistant stage manager.”

  That was interesting. So Carla the Mouse had once tried for a theatrical career herself … and failed? And was now trying to live her life vicariously through Kelly?

  The first act of The Apostrophe Thief drew to an end. Kelly came storming off the stage, spotted Marian, and marched right up to her. “I want you to explain to me,” she said heatedly, “exactly what is considered justifiable homicide in this state!”

  Marian smiled. “You won’t have to kill her. We’ll get her.”

  “I hope so,” Kelly retorted. “Because if you don’t … I will.”

  29

  Carla Banner had stayed in the theater all night, she’d told Kelly. She’d bought a ticket for Friday night, watched the play, and then hidden while the rest of the audience filed out after the performance. It was the only way she could think of to get to Kelly alone.

  And why? She wanted to be Kelly’s right
hand, she’d said. She wanted to persuade the star to let her take care of her. She’d make Kelly’s appointments, answer her fan mail, arrange her transportation, fetch and carry … whatever Kelly needed to be done, she’d do it. She wanted to take care of all those troublesome little details that clutter up a life, leaving Kelly free to concentrate on her career.

  “She wants me to grow dependent on her, that’s what she wants,” Kelly grumbled. “She kept saying, ‘You need me—I wish I could make you understand how much you need me.’” Kelly snorted. “I need Carla Banner in my life the way I need a hole in the head.”

  “Obviously she’s the one with the need,” Holland remarked dryly. “This one isn’t going to go away just because you tell her to.”

  “So what do I do? How do I get rid of her?”

  “Your mistake,” Ian Cavanaugh said, “was in being too nice to her in the first place. You must never let a fan start thinking of you as a personal friend.”

  They were in the big brownstone that Ian shared with Abigail James. The playwright was still in Hollywood, still submitting to that particular brand of California torture called the story conference. Ian hadn’t wanted to go out to eat because he was expecting a call from Abby, so they were all sitting in the dining room around a munificent deli spread. Ian brought a phone in from another room and plugged it in.

  Marian swallowed a bite of her food and said, “Carla Banner must have family. Maybe they could make her see the error of her ways. Worth a try.”

  “Do you know,” Ian said, “that name sounds so familiar to me. I know I’ve heard it before. Carla Banner.”

  Holland said, “She was once Leo Gunn’s assistant.”

  “Oh, is that right?” Ian closed his eyes to concentrate, opened them again. “No, I can’t place her.”

  Holland was doing all his eating with his right hand. He’d pulled his chair closer to Marian’s and was resting his left hand lightly on the back of her chair. Not really possessive, not really warning Ian Cavanaugh off—but some sort of gesture was being made. Marian smiled to herself; Holland still had a few old bugaboos to get rid of himself.