Another Thing To Fall

by Laura Lippman

  "Maybe."

  "When you first hired me, you said all these things happened subsequent to the suicide of a man who might be Selene's stalker."

  Flip at least had the good manners to look embarrassed about lying. "There were photos of Selene in his home, three or four. I was truthful about that. They appeared to be shot early on, when we were on location for the pilot last spring. There was some other stuff, too, the cops told us. Homemade movies of kids. Not porn, but kind of creepy. Selene looks fourteen, so maybe she was his type. The weird part was — he had a photocopy of the pilot script, the minipub."

  "The what?"

  "The minipub is the first version of the script, which means it has the most limited distribution. In our office, each copy has a name and number. This was a photocopy, with the number blocked out, so it couldn't be traced back to the source. The dead man also had the show bible, which outlines the first season. Lottie thought my previous assistant, Alicia, did it, and insisted she be fired. Alicia said she was innocent but agreed to be fired for the unemployment insurance, which makes me think she wasn't so innocent. After all, innocent people have nothing to fear."

  Tess didn't bother to contradict Flip on that score, although she knew from personal experience that innocent people are often the most vulnerable in a criminal investigation.

  "And this is—?"

  "Midsummer, right after we returned to shoot. Things escalated after that. And that's when I began to think Selene was involved."

  "Why would Selene give some stranger the script?"

  "With a script, and the bible, he could get some sense of what we were doing, and wreak havoc. Of course, he'd need our shooting schedule to figure out where we were filming on any given day, but he could have figured that out via our permits, for example. Or, again, through Selene. The call sheet is faxed to her apartment every night, even if she's not needed on set the next day."

  "Do you think Selene was cultivating the dead man, using him to be her troublemaker, then moved on to someone else after the suicide?"

  Flip looked at his wineglass with sudden distaste. He seized his water glass and gulped down its contents as if doing a keg-stand. "Maybe he was just one of the people Selene was working with," he said. "I don't know. I was counting on you to keep tabs on Selene, making it harder for her to cause mischief. Look, I'm not saying she would have Greer killed. But she's stupid enough to hire someone stupid enough to screw up that way. Say she asked someone to break into the office last night, knowing she's going to have this elaborate alibi. Maybe the guy didn't expect to find Greer."

  "When the police came to talk to you about the suicide — did you tell them that you thought the script had been provided by someone in your office?"

  "No. I suggested it could have been found in a Dumpster, which was a lie — we have a strict shredding policy in the office. But we had already started having problems with that crazy community activist, and I didn't want any more bad press."

  "Is that all? Is there anything else you haven't told me? Because, at this point, the lying has to stop. If I had known why you needed me in the first place, I would have been much more vigilant around Selene, approached the job differently."

  Flip took his time answering. "I think so. Look, I never meant to deceive you. I needed someone to watch Selene. It didn't seem vital to me that you have all the background. As long as you were with her, I'd know what she was up to."

  "Only she dumped me, first chance she got, and went out on the town with Derek Nichole, someone who seems very sympathetic to Selene's desire to get out of her contract and establish herself as a legitimate movie star."

  "You're not suggesting—"

  "No, just observing. How will Greer's death affect Mann of Steel, day to day?"

  "We lost today," Flip said. "And the network types are blaming Baltimore, saying this would never have happened if we filmed in L.A. Or Vancouver. Charm City's homicide rate is suddenly right at their fingertips, and it's being suggested that I pushed to film here because of some Oedipal issue, akin to George W. going after Saddam to placate Daddy."

  "Locust Point isn't exactly murder central. I won't speak to your Oedipal issues."

  "Thanks," Flip said. "That puts you in the minority, unfortunately. Everyone else feels very free to speculate on my ‘issues' — Ben, Lottie, columnists for Variety. Anyway, I talked the network down. For now. We've agreed we'll put up a reward for information leading to Greer's killer and we'll have a memorial service Sunday. By the way, when that rolls around, make sure Selene wears something appropriate."

  Tess hadn't expected this. "I'm still on that detail? After what happened?"

  "I've got no issue with your job performance, I just wish you could dial the sarcasm down a notch. The way I see it, I set you up by not telling you what a devious little bitch she is. I should have been straight with you, not try to play you. Besides, someone on the production was killed. Now we have even more reason to guard our precious little Selene, right?"

  Tess grinned. She liked Flip's conniving streak when it wasn't directed toward her.

  "I hate her, I wish I didn't have to work with her, but she may be my only hope for getting a pickup. From now on, don't eat or drink anything that she's had access to. In fact, if she offers you an aspirin from a sealed bottle, be skeptical. She's evil."

  "She's twenty. And not exactly a criminal mastermind."

  "She's precocious, and she's got great instincts. Probably what makes her such a good actress."

  "Actor, I thought. We're supposed to call them actors."

  "You're a quick study, Monaghan." He raised his water glass in salute, and Tess was almost flattered — until she realized that was his intention. He was still playing her. Then again, she wasn't being completely honest when she told him she wasn't interested in Greer's death. Oh, she wouldn't interfere in the homicide investigation. But, as she interpreted her role, she now had free rein to figure out what was happening on set — and whether it was a coincidence that Selene was in New York the night that Greer was killed. She would need backup, of course. But at the prices she was charging Hollywood, she could more than afford it.

  Chapter 16

  That got out of hand fast.

  What was that from? Something, something recent, seen on the cable with Marie, the two of them drowsing on the sofa together, too tired to stay awake, yet not wanting to retreat to the bedroom. It was like that game he and Bob had once played, dropping a line of dialogue into conversation — something deceptively ordinary, no smell-of-napalm-in-the-morning, no offers-you-can't-refuse, nothing instantly recognizable. Anyone would know those lines. That got out of hand fast. Did anything about that strike you as unusual? This shit just got serious.

  He thought he was doing pretty well, all things considered, until he reached for his coffee and the cup slipped from his hand and into the saucer — not enough of a fall to break the heavy cup, but coffee sloshed everywhere, irritating the waitress who had to mop up the spill.

  "I shouldn't be drinking caffeine so late in the day," he said, hoping to make a joke of it.

  "You're having decaf," she pointed out.

  "So I am. May I have a refill?"

  She stood over him, holding the orange handle that signified the decaf pot, looking as if she wasn't sure she was going to grant his wish, as if he had no standing to ask for anything, even something as small as a refill, and he was reminded of the very person, the very thing, he did not want to remember.

  "Please," he said at last. It was several minutes before he trusted himself to raise the cup to his lips.

  She had been so young. It had been easy to lose sight of the fact when she was a disembodied voice — on an answering machine, picking up the phone in the production office. She was young, not that much older than the teenagers he used to teach. He should have been able to bully her, use his age and gravitas to his advantage. And for all her bluster, she was scared of him, at first. Then something had switched, and she had the uppe
r hand. How had he betrayed his uncertainty, his desperation?

  You have to pay attention to me, he had said. You have to acknowledge me. A small word, a small thing. But she had shaken her head. "You're wrong, it never happened. I'll swear you're lying. Besides, it doesn't work that way." Kept repeating these things, in fact, over and over again. It doesn't work that way. In that moment, she reminded him of every customer service representative with whom he had ever quarreled, every bureaucrat on North Avenue, every medical professional and insurance company employee who had refused to authorize certain treatments for Marie. It doesn't work that way. As if they were talking about immutable laws of nature, instead of man-made rules and systems. Didn't this girl see that her very existence was proof that things did work that way? If there was room for her — young, barely out of school, with no discernible talent for anything — then there must be room for anyone. He said as much. She continued to shake her head, increasingly sure of herself, smug. The power had shifted. It doesn't work that way.

  And she had pushed him. Don't forget that. She had pushed him, tried to rush past him, and he had grabbed her arm.

  Later, standing at the water's edge, he regarded the bloody bat in his hand. It was no ordinary bat, but one inscribed TO FLIP JR., A "FLIP" OFF THE OLD BLOCK — BARRY. Oh dear, it must be from The Natural, a gift from Levinson to a little boy, probably no more than ten at the time. Had Redford held this bat? Or, at the very least, Joe Don Baker?

  He had stood at the water's edge longer than he should, summoning the will to toss the storied bat, something he would have loved to own, once upon a time, even twenty-four hours ago. He had to tell himself that no one of note had touched it, that it was probably just a leftover prop, something that otherwise would have been thrown away. Why, he wouldn't be surprised if the bat had never been in the movie at all. They had probably purchased them in bulk and given them away, telling the same lie over and over.

  Still, he clutched it, realizing that his cynicism about the business had come too late to save him. Too late to turn back now. Was that a line of dialogue? It should be.

  He threw the bat as far as he could, surrendering his piece of Hollywood history, with absolutely no regret.

  PART TWO

  BALTIMORE

  BABYLON

  Would someone please tell Selene Waites that girls-gone-wild is so five minutes ago? The very wobbly demi-star was glimpsed leaving the SoHo Grand in what she obviously considered the middle of the night — that's 11 A.M. to you poor slobs with normal jobs. Clutching a Starbucks cup that was almost larger than she was, she jumped the cab line without an apology — or a tip for the doorman who hailed it for her, unless you consider a glimpse of lime green La Perla undies a tip. Hotel types insist that she wasn't registered, and we believe them. But we also know that Derek Nichole, who has taken a very proprietary interest in the rising star — all professional, of course — is staying at the SoHo Grand and was seen with Selene just last night in the hotel's bar. Of course, the semilegal blonde was drinking Shirley Temples. (Ginger ale, cherry grenadine, and a shot of vodka chased by Red Bull — that is the traditional recipe for a Shirley Temple, right?)

  — From an Internet gossip column

  "Gawker Stalker"

  Selene Waites, lurching around Penn Station, trying to find the first-class waiting room. Very pretty in person, but scary thin, and her clothes looked as if she had slept in them, assuming she had slept at all. Shot video of her on my cell and posted it to YouTube.

  THURSDAY

  Chapter 17

  Although twenty-four hours had passed since the Internet had provided helpful video of Selene wandering dazedly through Penn Station, Tess expected to find a young woman still suffering the effects of her long night's journey into day. Yet the actress — actor — made her 11 A.M. call time without any sign of wear or tear. Her skin was glowing, her eyes fresh and bright. Oh, to be twenty again.

  "I'm so sorry you got sick up in New York," Selene said, sitting in the makeup chair. It took more than an hour to arrange her hair in the elaborate style that had been copied from one of the portraits of Betsy Patterson, a so-called triple portrait by Gilbert Stuart, which was pinned to the mirror, a reference point for the stylist. "But that's the risk with Mexican food — what do they call it, Petaluma's revenge? I wanted to take you to a hospital, but Derek said you'd be okay if we just let Moby drive you home, and I could follow on the train. Did you know the train is actually faster than a car?"

  So that's how you want to play it, Tess thought. She and Flip had discussed at length how she should behave with Selene, and he had urged her to pretend to accept Selene's version of events — even as she allowed Selene to suspect that Tess was running her own game. As someone who could flub a role as a spear carrier — this was not hyperbole, Tess had been fired from her bit as a supernumerary in Aida a few years ago — Tess wasn't sure she had the acting chops to achieve the desired effect. But then, the whole point of the exercise was to act badly.

  "Oh, it was fine," she said. "When nausea comes on that way, the only place you want to be is your own bed. I so appreciate you getting me home. I'm not quite recovered — that's why Flip hired a rent-a-cop to guard your condo last night. But I'm getting better."

  "And you're not mad at me?" Selene put on a little-girl voice, her eyes sliding away from Tess's reflected gaze.

  "No, it's not your fault I had a bum quesadilla."

  "I don't remember you eating a quesadilla…."

  "Didn't I? The chips, then. Although we all ate the chips, didn't we?" Selene had licked the salt off one chip, exactly one chip, as Tess recalled, while still maintaining that she could eat whatever she wanted, thanks to her fantastic metabolism. "Oh well, what does it matter what caused it? The thing is, I'm still a little shaky, and I can't let that get in the way of Job One, which is looking after you, especially now that we're going twenty-four–seven. Which means, of course, I'm going to require backup. I'm only one woman, I can't be with you constantly."

  "Back" — Selene paused almost five seconds before squeaking out — "up?"

  By then she had registered the tall blonde entering the makeup trailer. It was Tess's oldest friend, Whitney Talbot, whose very posture seemed to scream "boarding school headmistress on crack." This was Jean Harris before she shot Dr. Herman Tarnower. Mere moments before. Whitney was wearing riding pants and boots, although Tess knew that her friend hadn't ridden for years, and the kind of gone-to-seed Burberry blazer whose elbow patches weren't for show. In fact, Tess was certain that she recognized the blazer from their freshman year in college, and she had thought it looked like a dog's blanket then.

  "Around the clock?" Selene said sharply, dropping her usual little-girl lilt. "Isn't that excessive?"

  "Not at all. What if something had happened to you in New York when I got sick? And, truthfully, this isn't just about you, Selene." The girl gave the tiniest bit of a pout, as if she found it sacrilegious to suggest that anything was not all about her. "This is a twenty-five-million-dollar production. If anything happens to you, all that money will be lost."

  "But they have insurance for that," she said, her antennae up.

  "Some. But they wouldn't recoup all their losses, and they wouldn't be compensated for the money that they expect to make when Mann of Steel takes off. Anyway, this is Whitney Talbot."

  Whitney shook Selene's hand so hard that what little flesh the girl had on her arms wobbled up to the shoulder and back again. Skinny as she was, Selene didn't have a lot of muscle tone.

  "Delighted," Whitney said. "What was your name again? I'm afraid that I don't get to the movies much."

  "Selene Waites."

  "Right. You were in the movie about the prodigy."

  "P-p-prostitute."

  "Well, that's a kind of prodigy, isn't it? And I'm sure you were utterly convincing in the part."

  "Th-thanks."

  Whitney was acting, too, of course, but only a little. Tess knew that her friend real
ly did go to the symphony more often than the cinema, and she wasn't inclined to be impressed by any actress, even one who insisted on being called an actor. The movies that Whitney knew tended to feature Katharine Hepburn, Myrna Loy, or Jean Arthur. Or, as she liked to say: "They were called the talkies for a reason, once upon a time."

  Tess patted Selene's bony little shoulder, and the girl shot her a look, as if it were a breach of etiquette to touch her without permission. "Anyway, Whitney's going to hang here on set today, then I'll meet you back at the apartment, where we'll both be sleeping for the duration of the shoot."

  "You and me?" Selene's voice squeaked.

  "You, me, and Whitney. Quite a threesome, don't you think, but you've got all those empty rooms, right? Oh, I might sneak home to check up on my houseguest, Lloyd, but Whitney will be there every night."

  "With my rifle," Whitney added.

  Selene bit her lip, studying the two women. Tess was determined not to underestimate her again, and she doubted that the girl would give in easily. But, for now, she seemed cowed, and Tess felt more than comfortable leaving her in Whitney's care.

  "My family was distantly related to the Pattersons," Whitney said, peering over Selene's shoulder to study the facsimile of the Gilbert Stuart triptych. "Of course, we kept our money."

  The production office was still cordoned off, an official crime scene for at least one more day, and the writing staff had set up a makeshift workstation in another suite of offices one floor down. Tess was impressed to see Lloyd at the photocopier, running off pages with the rapt attention of a young novice.

  "He doing okay?" Tess asked Ben, who was working nearby. Well, lolling, but he could have been thinking deep thoughts about the script in front of him.

  "He's great, actually. Seems thrilled to do anything we ask, and never complains, even about the most trivial assignments. I think he would draw my bathwater if I asked him — and drink from it afterward."