by Ray Flynt
The taxi’s meter showed a $6.45 fare.
“I’ll get out here driver.” Brad handed him ten bucks and didn’t ask for change.
The traffic light switched to green as Brad climbed out of the cab to the sound of a horn from an impatient driver behind them.
He paused outside the store to admire the Kinky Boots poster, with its pair of sparkly red-hot, high-heeled boots forming the letter “K.”
He entered and the clerk pointed at a framed version. “We have this one autographed by several of the original cast members.”
Brad could afford it, and it would be a great Valentine’s gift for Beth. He extracted a credit card and asked if they could gift wrap and courier it to his hotel. The clerk bobbed his head and beamed.
“I’m interested in finding a script.”
“Scripts and librettos are in the back room. Anything particular?”
“Gambit. A new play.”
“Ah, you’re the third person to ask. Traditional script publishers, like Dramatists or Samuel French, don’t have it yet. We found a university press version from a year ago. Two copies came in this morning.”
Brad bobbed his head. “That will work.”
The clerk pointed. “You’ll find it on the right-hand wall. Plays are in order by the author’s name.”
Brad perused the shelves. Although he recognized a few titles, most were unfamiliar to the novice Off-Broadway producer.
He purchased a copy of Gambit and skimmed through its pages as he walked back to his hotel. Brad wondered how closely this script conformed to the version now playing at Stage 42.
What interested him most were details from the climactic scene of the play involving Cicely/Rook’s syringe attack and the subsequent toast proposed by Doug/Pawn. He found the appropriate passage just as he entered the Marriott’s lobby and sat on a bench to read.
BISHOP
I don’t know any of you, of that I’m certain.
KNIGHT
Then why are you here? And why did Hayden Whitcomb give you $2,000? More than any of the rest of us.
BISHOP
(Smirks)
Maybe to raise the IQ level of the group.
PAWN
(Mocking) Oh yeah, that’s an intelligent answer. You’re also the only one of us that hasn’t shared his real name.
BISHOP
Because it’s none of your fucking business.
PAWN
At least he’s fucking polite. We know that much.
KNIGHT
Doesn’t matter. (Scoffs) He probably uses an alias to chase after pre-pubescent girls on the internet.
BISHOP
(Glaring) No way! Based on what we heard earlier lady, you got no room to talk. For what it’s worth, I’m a well-respected coach.
ROOK
(Tuning in to the conversation) Where?
(Bishop ignores her)
ROOK
Where? What district?
BISHOP
(Changing the subject)
Does anybody think Hayden Whitcomb is the old geezer’s real name?
ROOK
You’re the basketball coach at Bishop Walker? That’s why he’s calling you Bishop.
(BISHOP walks away, as ROOK continues to stare at him. KNIGHT follows BISHOP.)
BISHOP
What are you staring at?
Having seen the play, Brad found it fascinating to read the printed page. The actors brought the words to life, not only by the way they said them, but with every facial expression and gesture.
He skipped ahead several pages to the point in the script when Rook returns from the bathroom brandishing the hypodermic needle.
BISHOP
She’ll be okay. Just needs a good cry.
(ROOK charges out of the hallway from the bathroom, holding a hypodermic needle like a knife.)
PAWN and KNIGHT
(At the same time)
Rook, don’t.
Bishop, look out.
(Amid screaming, chaos, and pandemonium, ROOK plunges the needle into BISHOP’s shoulder.)
KNIGHT
Oh my God! Insulin. She’s gonna kill him.
(BISHOP staggers and collapses into a nearby chair. KNIGHT tries using her phone.
ROOK realizes what she’s done and dissolves into tears.
PAWN moves away from the action and watches.)
KNIGHT
Dammit, we have to do something. Since we can’t use our phones, Pawn, why don’t you run to the nearest neighbor and get help.
PAWN
Don’t worry. It’s only a tranquilizer. He’ll be alright.
KNIGHT
But before, coming out of the bathroom, you said it was insulin.
PAWN
Figured I’d plant the idea.
KNIGHT
Why?
PAWN
I’m working on my master’s degree. Hayden Whitcomb is my uncle, and he agreed to help me demonstrate what might happen if people who’d only met in the cyber world suddenly confront their behavior in person. My thesis question: Are we so fragile that we must cloak ourselves with the anonymity of the internet rather than risk exposing our insecurities?
KNIGHT
(Pointing at ROOK)
You wanted her to try and kill him?
PAWN
I knew she’d be angry at the coach because of his bullying, and her brother’s suicide. Didn’t know what might happen. That’s what this face-to-face was all about.
BISHOP
(Like recovering from a hangover.)
This has all been a game?
PAWN
(Heads for the kitchen island)
An experiment. It’s time for a toast.
(PAWN pops a bottle of champagne and pours into waiting flutes. He serves the others, ending with BISHOP, who hesitates to take a glass. PAWN raises his glass.)
PAWN
In the immortal words of The Bard, ‘Conscience doth make cowards of us all.’ (Pausing) Let’s drink to truth, shall we? To being real with one another?
Brad closed the script. Zane’s directions called for Bishop to receive his glass of champagne last, but during the show Lauren/Knight received it. Who made the change? Hector? If so, was it significant?
28
When Brad called to arrange an appointment with Detective Victoria Russo, the duty officer suggested 2 p.m., since she would be getting out of a meeting at that time. He promised to alert Russo to Brad’s visit.
Midtown South Precinct was headquartered in the three-hundred block of West 35th Street. The cabbie knew the location, although the three-story building couldn’t be missed with all the police cruisers angled at the curb.
With Russo’s meeting still in progress, Brad waited near a second floor reception desk. He tried to reconcile Hector’s description of Russo as a “tough old broad” with his own perceptions of the unassuming professional who’d arrested Doug Brennan the night before. Ralph and Hector had snickered at the notion that Victoria liked to be called Vic. Perhaps the nickname afforded her more equitable treatment in a male-dominated profession.
The detective approached with a smile and a firm handshake. She didn’t wear much makeup but didn’t need to. He guessed her age as early forties, hardly qualified to be dubbed old. A gold detective’s badge gleamed on her blue shirt. “There’s a small no-frills conference room down the hall we can use. I only have a few minutes. We’re waiting for a search warrant, and plan to execute it as soon as it’s issued.”
Brad handed her his business card. “Hopefully, I won’t take much of your time.”
Russo settled into the chair across the table from him. “I hear you’re acquainted with Nick Argostino.”
A smile cracked his lips. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“When they said you were coming, I googled you. Nick’s name popped up in connection with yours on several stories.”
Nick was the reason Brad had become a private investigator. He helped the Philadelphia
detective solve the kidnapping and murder of his mother and sister, and Nick became a partner in the firm Brad set up to help bring justice to others.
“How do you know Nick?”
“We worked on a human trafficking case several years ago. NYPD has had an active program with the Port Authority and airlines to intercept and disrupt human trafficking. I worked in the Bronx back then, and we discovered a ring that used the Philadelphia Airport to transport young girls from the streets of Midwest cities and bring them by van to New York. Nick was our contact in the Philadelphia police department.”
“Nick’s a good guy. I’ve known him for close to twenty years.”
“He speaks highly of you, too.”
I didn’t see that coming.
“You called him?”
“Of course. Gotta know who I’m dealing with, and how close I need to keep my handcuffs.” She said it with a smile, and they laughed. “What can I do for you? I see you’re also an investor in Gambit.”
Her outreach and knowledge of him made it easier for Brad to lay his cards on the table.
“What can you share of your investigation into Lauren Parshall’s death?”
She leaned in, staring at him with steel in her gray eyes. “If I comment, will I read all about in tomorrow’s Times?”
Brad shook his head. “Her murder confounds everyone connected with the show. Doug got along well with Lauren. They don’t feel he’s capable of killing anyone.”
Russo smiled. “They never are.”
He’d made the same point to Zane a couple of hours earlier.
“What can you tell me?”
“Nothing.” Russo leaned back in her chair. “Until I get your assurance that I won’t see all the details in the media. A shake of the head isn’t enough.”
“I won’t be running to the media.”
“Ms. Parshall died of strychnine poisoning.”
Brad winced. He’d feared as much.
“Did you see the crime scene?” she asked.
Brad nodded. “I was there on Sunday afternoon, right after your team left.”
“In addition to the medical examiner’s determination, we found residue of strychnine in the broken glass Ms. Parshall drank from during the show. We also found a trace of poison on the silver tray Doug Brennan used to dispense what was supposed to be champagne.
“We spoke with the assistant stage manager who prepared the props. The tray and glasses were placed on the set’s kitchen island approximately three hours before last Saturday night’s performance. A test of the prop area showed no evidence of poison.”
“Aside from Doug dispensing the drinks, how do you connect him to the murder?”
Russo’s expression turned to a smirk.
Not a good sign.
“We did a thorough search of the theatre, including the dressing rooms.” She paused. Only the drum roll was missing. “In a drawer at Doug’s station was a plastic bag with strychnine residue.”
“It could have been planted.”
“The fingerprint on the bag was smudged, so unidentifiable. However, the smudge contained theatrical makeup. It’s undergoing further testing in hopes of finding skin cells, which might yield touch DNA.”
“No question, DNA has transformed investigations.”
“And we conducted a search of Doug’s apartment, one he shared with Cicely Jackson, and found a minute amount of poison in a canvas bag that he routinely transported to and from the theatre.”
Brad knew of Doug’s relationship with the woman who played Rook but wasn’t aware that they lived together. “Any chance the makeup-smudged fingerprint could have been from her?”
“Hardly. Being African-American, she uses a deeper shade. The lab identified the smudge as Ben Nye Color Cake Foundation, Tan No. 2.”
A rap sounded on the door. A man stuck his head in. “Detective Lewis said he’ll see you at the car in ten.”
Brad’s time with her was running out. What hadn’t she told him? “Were you able to determine the source of the strychnine?”
“It’s consistent with levels found in rodent poison. We didn’t find any containers at Doug’s apartment. His parents live on a farm in Duchess County.”
Isn’t that where Zane taught college?
“We know Doug visited his parents last week. We’re working on a search warrant to look there for rodent poisons that might contain strychnine as the active ingredient.”
Brad wondered if that was the search warrant she mentioned earlier.
Russo pushed forward in her chair. “To your earlier point that Doug wouldn’t want to cause any harm to Lauren, the circumstances look random. She was the unlucky recipient of the glass with poison. It could have been any of the others.”
“I disagree. Based on what I’ve learned, Lauren Parshall was the target.” Brad went on to describe what he’d discovered about Doug’s routine pour pattern for the prop champagne. After explaining Oliver’s relationship to his associate and his remarkable powers of observation using sound, Brad shared that it was the third glass poured, which contained the poison. “Ed Minteer, who plays Bishop in the show, once had a relationship with Lauren, which by all accounts did not go well.”
Russo’s gaze narrowed, and a perplexed look formed on her face. She scooped up Brad’s business card from the table and deposited it in her pocket.
“Have you had a chance to question Doug?” Brad asked.
She shook her head. “After his arrest, a man approached us just outside of the hotel ballroom. He identified himself as a lawyer, handed Doug his card, and said, “Don’t say anything until we talk.”
“Do you know who the man was?”
“His name is Quentin Dobbins.”
The name seemed familiar, but Brad couldn’t place where he’d seen or heard it. Odd that the attorney made contact at the same moment Zane and Ralph made a public spectacle of themselves fighting over the issue.
“Has the attorney reached out to you?”
Russo stood. “No. I have to go.”
“I appreciate your time.” Brad rose to his feet. “I may reach out to the attorney.”
She flashed a good-luck-with-that grin. “The attorney can call me if he’d like to talk.”
Russo swept out of the room, leaving Brad to contemplate a smudged fingerprint, possible DNA, and rodent poison.
29
Brad took a cab back to the Marriott Marquis midafternoon to await Beth’s return from her day at the New York office of Oring-Whitman. She would leave for Washington, DC, the following morning. He wanted to make the most of their time together with a romantic dinner. He secured an 8 p.m. reservation at Becco, famed chef Lidia Bastianich’s restaurant on 46th Street.
He planned to remain in New York for two more nights, explaining to Beth that he wanted to see what kind of shape the show was in with a second cast replacement. In truth, his curiosity would poke at the edges of the Stage 42 murder mystery.
Quentin Dobbins’ name had been floating in and out of his consciousness ever since Detective Russo mentioned it. As he stepped from the taxi at the hotel, it occurred to him the name was associated with Gambit. Brad sat in his suite’s living room and studied the show’s Playbill, finally finding Dobbins among the producers’ names.
The internet yielded the attorney’s website, with his office located on 49th Street near Rockefeller Center. The photo on the website revealed a man in his early forties with a full head of brown hair and gleaming teeth worthy of a poster for cosmetic dentistry. He didn’t recall meeting the man at the opening night party, despite having been introduced to dozens of people, including investors.
Using the hotel’s phone on the desktop, he called, explained his connection to Gambit, and asked to speak to Dobbins.
“Mr. Frame!” Dobbins’ baritone boomed through the receiver. “You were pointed out to me at the party last night, but I never got the chance to say hello. Ralph tells me you’re investigating Ms. Parshall’s murder.”
Ralp
h lies.
“Well, not quite. I told him I’d look around and talk with the cast and crew. I witnessed Doug’s arrest. I hear you’re representing him?”
Brad wasn’t ready to disclose his meeting with Detective Russo.
“Yes. I spoke with Doug earlier today.”
“Where’s he being held?”
Dobbins sighed. “North tower of Manhattan Detention Center—what they call The Tombs.”
Brad knew of the name, which didn’t conjure a warm and fuzzy image. “I visited the theatre right after the police left the scene. I have a few thoughts. Any chance you’d be available for a meeting in the morning?”
“Hmmm.” Paper rustled in the background. “I could do eight-forty-five.”
“Great. See you then.” He ended the call.
Moments later, his cell rang. Zane Tilghman’s name appeared on the screen.
Brad frowned. If he ignored the call, he risked repeated attempts to reach him later that evening. He took a deep breath. “This is Brad.”
“Mr. Frame, it’s Zane.” He sounded somber. “I want to apologize for not thanking you for buying breakfast this morning.”
“No worries.”
“My head is clearer now. I didn’t have the best morning, as you might have noticed.”
Brad didn’t react, sensing Zane had more to say.
“Tomorrow…there’s a group of us going to Lauren’s funeral at Temple Judea in Bucks County, PA. We’re renting a van. There’s room for you if you’d like to go.”
Brad recalled the scheduled meeting with Doug’s attorney. “What time are you leaving?”
