Death of a Blue Movie Star (23 page)

And two file cabinets.

Rune started through the first one.

She was looking for evidence. A piece of wire. A book
on explosives. A letter from Shelly telling him he was a son of a bitch. A
Bible
, where Traub might’ve gotten the quote about the angels destroying the earth … Anything that might link him to the bombing.

Physical evidence
. That’s what Healy’d said she needed for probable cause.

She didn’t find any. Just contracts, correspondence. Just like any other businessman would keep in his office.

She turned to the second cabinet and started through it. This one contained more contracts and legal documents. She didn’t find anything significant until she got to the
L
’s and saw the file labeled
Shelly Lowe
.

But she didn’t have a chance to read it because just then the door swung open and Danny Traub walked inside.

He froze. Then recovered. He swung the door shut and, never one to neglect his invisible audience, said, “Well, this kiddo’s looking in my drawers. Wonder if she’s found anything interesting.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Rune closed the file cabinet, checking distances, checking exits. She was on the fourth floor. That was forty feet. Would a jump through the window kill her? Might.

Traub stepped toward her, shaking his head. “Gosh, here we are in New York, crime capital of the world…. I mean, there are people from Iowa hold on to their wallets when they fly
over
New York in an airplane. This city’s got such a bad rep, I can’t believe it.”

“I was just—”

“And what do we have here? A young lady stealing
files!
My God! Does she realize that those manila folders cost a couple cents each? Steal a hundred thousand of them—”

“I was—”

“—and she could buy herself a set of Tupperware. Or a Big Mac feast for her and her friends. Trying to fence them though’s a little tricky….” The smile faded. The audience was gone. “Okay. What the fuck you doing here?”
He walked over to where she was standing and lifted the file out of her hands. Glanced at the name on the folder.

He nodded knowingly. Tossed it back into the cabinet.

As he was turning to her Rune dropped to her knees and pulled the tear gas canister out of her purse.

But Traub moved faster. He grabbed the cylinder, ripped it out of her hand and shoved her into the couch. He looked at it closely, amused, it seemed. Rune sat up.

“What’s this all about? And don’t gimme this cute Nancy Drew shit. I had a fucking bomb take out my star and a floor of my company. I’m not in the mood.”

Rune didn’t say anything. Traub pointed the tear gas spray at her face.

Remembering the terrible sting, she cringed, looked away.

“Answer me.”

Breathlessly she said, “You didn’t tell me you had a policy on Shelly Lowe.”

He frowned. “A policy?”

“An insurance policy.”

“That’s right. I didn’t. But you didn’t ask me if I had one, now, did you?”

“It seems like that’d be a pretty normal thing to mention, I tell you I’m doing a film about one of your stars.”

Traub glanced again at the tear gas, weighed it in his hand. “You’re asking all this shit for your film? Is that it?” He leaned up against the door. Rune saw his muscles stand out, sinewy and pale. He reminded her of one of the flying monkeys in
The Wizard of Oz
—the characters that scared her the most, even more than the Wicked Witch.

“The police know I’m here.”

Traub laughed. “That’s like on D-Day, yelling to the Germans: ‘Ike knows I’m here.’ “He looked her over and the motion of his eyes was like his tongue coursing over her body. She pulled away from him, crossed her arms,
glanced down at the desk for paperweights. There was a letter opener she might go for.

“So, you think I killed Shelly, do you? That I planted a bomb so I’d get the insurance money.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Traub paced. Intermission was over; he was looking around once more. “That’s pretty good detective work this cookie’s done, don’t you think? She’s a star, she’s a regular little Sherlock Holmes. Well, you got me, honey. Yep, yep. The insurance company paid off. I got myself a check for five hundred thousand dollars.”

Rune didn’t answer.

Traub set the tear gas down. He looked at Rune, then took a key out of his pocket and walked behind his desk. Rune leaned forward, putting her weight on the balls of her feet. He was going for a gun. He could just shoot her like a burglar and the police wouldn’t do anything.

Traub glanced at her. “On your mark, get set … I don’t think she can make it in time.”

He grinned and pulled out the black pistol.

Enjoyed the sight of her eyes widening.

“Here’s a present for our little Ms. Detective.”

Rune winced. When it looked like he was going to pull the trigger she’d just dive forward, grab the tear gas and hope for the best.

Then Traub’s other hand emerged with a piece of paper.

Neither of them moved for a moment.

“I don’t know about her but the suspense is killing me. Is she going to read it? Is she going to make a paper airplane?”

Rune took the sheet of paper and read:

Dear Mr. Traub:

With intense, heartfelt gratitude, we acknowledge receipt of your check in the amount of $400,000. Your generosity will go very far in supporting research to find a cure for this terrible
affliction and in easing the burden of those whose lives have been affected by it
….

The letter was signed by the director of the New York AIDS Coalition.

“Oh.”

Traub dropped the gun in the drawer. “‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Oh …’ Well, you know, there’s still a hundred of the insurance proceeds unaccounted for. But since I personally take home a hundred fifty a year cash, off the books, you can probably deduce that I ain’t gonna kill my biggest star to pick up fucking chicken feed. Oh, by the way, my personal property insurance has a hundred thousand deductible so with the repairs to the floor downstairs this whole thing was a wash for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

He tossed the tear gas to her. “I think it’s time for our little detective to leave. Let’s give her a big round of applause.”

Throughout the interview Arthur Tucker never quite got over the shock that two police officers were questioning him as a suspect in a murder case.

They were polite as they asked him questions about Shelly Lowe. They tried to make it seem casual but there was something they were trying to get at. Something they knew.

What? he thought desperately. He felt vulnerable—as if they could see into his mind but he had no clue as to what they were thinking.

One of the officers glanced up at Tucker’s medals. “You in the service, sir?”

“I was in the Rangers.”

“You ever do demolition?”

He shrugged. “We all knew how to use bangalore torpedoes, grenades. But that was forty years ago…. Are
you suggesting that I had anything to do with those bombs?”

“Nosir. We’re just looking into what happened to Ms. Lowe.”

Tucker looked perplexed, confused, and asked them about the Sword of Jesus.

They continued to be evasive.

But it was more than evasion. They were grasping at straws and even then they came away holding nothing at all. He wondered how on earth they had come to think he might be the killer. He supposed that Shelly had written his name in a Day-Timer or a wall calendar. Maybe she kept a diary—he told all of his students to keep one—and she’d written about one of their lessons. Maybe about one of their fights.

That could have brought them here.

But as he thought about Shelly, his mind wandered, and with his strong will and talents at concentration he brought his attention back to the policemen.

“She was a fascinating person, Officer,” Tucker explained, with the sorrow and reverence one should have in his voice when speaking of a fascinating person who had just died. “I hope you’re close to catching these people. I can’t condone her career—you know how she made her living, I suppose—but violence like this.” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “Inexcusable. It makes us all barbarians.”

Tucker was a good actor. But they didn’t buy it. They looked at him blankly, as if he hadn’t said a word. Then one officer said, “I understand you write plays too, sir. Is that correct?”

He believed his heart stopped beating for a moment. “I’ve done just about everything there is to do in the theater. I started out as a—”

“But about the writing. You do write plays?”

“Yes.”

“And Ms. Lowe did too. Isn’t that correct?”

“She may have.”

“But she was your student. Isn’t that something you’d talk about with her?”

“I think she did, yes. We were more concerned with acting than writing in our—”

“But let’s stick with the writing for a minute. Do you have in your possession any plays that she wrote?”

“No,” Tucker answered, managing to keep his voice rock-firm.

“Can you account for your whereabouts the night Ms. Lowe was killed? At around eight p.m.?”

“I was attending a play.”

“So I guess there’d be witnesses.”

“About fifteen hundred of them. Do you want me to give you some names?” Tucker asked.

“That won’t be necessary.”

The other cop added, “Not at this time.”

“You mind if we look around the office?”

“Yes, I do. You’ll have to get a warrant for that.”

“You’re not cooperating?”

“I have been cooperating. But if you want to search my office you’ll have to get a warrant. Simple as that.”

This didn’t evoke any emotion at all in their faces. “Okay. Thank you for your time.”

When they were gone Tucker stood at his window for five minutes—making sure they’d left the building. He turned back to his desk and with unsteady hands found the script for
Delivered Flowers
. He put this into his battered briefcase. He then began looking through the manuscripts on his credenza. Throwing the ones Shelly had written into the briefcase too.

But wait….

One was missing. He searched again. No, it wasn’t there. He was sure he’d left it there. Jesus … What had happened to it?

Then he looked up and saw the glass door to his office, the replacement for the one that was broken the other day in that abortive robbery. He’d
thought
nothing had been stolen in the break-in.

Tucker sat down slowly in his chair.