The Apostrophe Thief (25 page)

“I guess,” Marian said.

“Do you know how to work it?”

“Not me.”

“Uh, I got to get back to my arson case,” Campos said and disappeared.

Perlmutter knew how. He had the small computer up and running in seconds and set himself the task of reading all the files. It didn't take long; there were only nine. “Four letters from Mitchell Tobin to his agent,” he said, “two to his business manager, one letter each to two different fans, and a letter to momma. That's it.”

“Just what he said was there,” Marian remarked. “What about hidden files?”

“No, the byte count doesn't leave anything unaccounted for,” Perlmutter said.

Neither Marian nor Murtaugh asked him what he meant. “Okay, that just confirms what we already know,” the captain said. “Tobin's out of it. So are Leo Gunn and the properties manager.”

“Their alibis check?” Marian asked Perlmutter.

“Yep. Ramsay didn't show up until a little after midnight, and he and Reddick left less than an hour later. The other three stayed until two
A.M
.—which is the latest time the ME set for the murder. So those three are in the clear.”

“But Ramsay could have killed Nordstrom at eleven-thirty,” Murtaugh said, “and then showed up at the bar in a hasty attempt to establish an alibi—which would indicate an impulse killing. Or Reddick could have been faking inebriation to establish his own alibi and then gone out again after Ramsay dropped him off—which indicates premeditation.”

Perlmutter was nodding. “One of those two.”

Gene Ramsay or John Reddick
. “The shaving mug,” Marian said.

“What?”

“Why'd the killer take Ian Cavanaugh's shaving mug? We know now he didn't take the computer, and taking the other costumes makes sense—hide one costume between two others? But why'd he stop to pick up the shaving mug? It doesn't fit.”

“Hide one costume between two others,” Murtaugh repeated slowly. “Yes, that's exactly what he did … he wasn't trying to confuse matters especially, he just didn't want to risk being seen carrying the jacket. As to the shaving mug …” He shrugged. “Maybe the killer didn't take that either. Nordstrom or one of the other two could have broken it when they were moving their haul into the van. I don't think it's important. Ramsay or Reddick, Larch. Which one would you say?”

“I'd say Ramsay, except for one minor little point.”

“No motive, right. Was the jacket insured?”

“Yes, for twenty-two thousand. But Ramsay's a high roller. Would he kill a man for twenty-two thousand dollars?”

“Depends on how badly he needed the money. I want you to run a financial check on him. Find out how the shows he's backed are doing, see if he's suffered any big losses lately. And check out Reddick too, while you're at it.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Marian said with a smile. “First thing Monday morning.”

Startled, Murtaugh looked at his watch. “Where the hell did Friday go to?”

Marian was wondering the same thing; the day had flashed by like lightning. But she felt good as she drove home. She felt good about finding the notebook computer, and she felt good about narrowing the field to two suspects. She didn't feel
quite
so good about the fact that those two suspects were men she rather liked; it was better when the bad guy was so callous and nasty you couldn't wait to punch him out.
I should have been a television cop
, she thought.

When she got home, the building super had a package for her. It was a compact disk player, plus a recording of
Don Giovanni
.

She'd fallen asleep to the strains of Mozart, happily thinking of nothing at all. And had a dream about Sarah Bernhardt: the Divine One was berating Marian for failing to find her jacket. Marian couldn't understand the words, because they were in French; but she couldn't mistake the essence. Sarah was furious with her.

Saturday morning Marian awoke slowly, lazily, not feeling the least bit guilty about having two whole days off. She felt totally relaxed, not tied up in knots the way she usually was when a case wasn't breaking. Give it time. After thinking about it a while, she decided to get up. The first thing she did was check the CD player; it had turned itself off sometime after she'd fallen asleep. That was nice. The phone rang, the strident sound jarring her mellow mood.

“So?” the sharp-edged voice demanded imperiously. “How did you like it?”

“Dammit, Holland, I'm not even awake yet!”

“That means you haven't had breakfast. I'll bring it.” Click.

Marian banged down the receiver and headed toward the shower, her languid mood completely shattered.
Aren't you supposed to feel happy and excited when your lover is coming to see you?
she thought. Even a twice-only lover who irritates the hell out of you sometimes.

But by the time she'd finished her shower, she'd regained some of her former good mood.
Today is for relaxing
, she thought as she dressed.
Monday I'll find a way to nail Gene Ramsay
.

With a shock, she realized what she'd just thought: sometime during her sleep, she'd eliminated John Reddick as a suspect. She finished tying her sneakers and sat down to figure out why. After a while she thought it must be Ramsay's office, laid out as it was to intimidate anyone approaching the producer. It was the office of a man who enjoyed his power, and power always went hand-in-hand with a certain amount of ruthlessness. But was he ruthless enough to kill? More so than John Reddick, Marian thought. Abby James had said John was more likely to run away from trouble than meet it head on, and Marian respected Abby's judgment. The woman who wrote
The Apostrophe Thief
had to know a great deal about what made people tick.

But none of that was evidence. Monday she'd check into Gene Ramsay's finances and see where that led. Marian went into the kitchen to start the coffee. She'd just taken out the pot when the door buzzer sounded.

Holland breezed in, smelling like a brisk autumn day. “Don't bother with coffee,” he said, putting down his packages on the kitchen counter.

“Don't bother with coffee?” What an outrageous suggestion.

“We can have it later, if you like, but with this breakfast, the taste is wrong. Where are the plates? You get the silverware.”

Marian set the kitchen table and sat down to Holland's idea of breakfast. Cold lobster. Sliced tomatoes. Champagne.

Five minutes later she was thinking it was the best breakfast she'd ever eaten. And he was right about the coffee; it wouldn't have gone with the rest of the meal. She told him so.

“I know,” he said seriously. “I tried it once. Just not right, somehow. Now tell me. How did you like
Don Giovanni?
”

“Mm, I thought it was very nice.”

“Nice?” He put down his fork. “Did you say … nice?”

“Wrong word? I liked it. But I haven't heard all of it yet.” She didn't think it necessary to mention she'd fallen asleep.

“What part did you like best?”

“Uh, I don't know the names of the arias or anything.”

Holland picked up his fork and resumed eating, eyeing her suspiciously all the while. “You
did
listen to it.”

“Yes, I did,” Marian said firmly. “And thank you for sending it. I'm genuinely pleased to have it.”

They continued eating, Holland not completely convinced. “How was it compared to that rock band you listened to Tuesday night?”

“Well, Waltzing Brünnhilde is a lot louder.”

“And?”

“And more bad-tempered.”

“Ah. That's something. What else?”

“I didn't know there was going to be a quiz,” she said caustically and speared the last piece of lobster on her plate.

He looked at her a long moment, and then said, “Try this.” He whistled two notes.

“Mau fuh.”

“Your mouth's full?” He waited until she'd swallowed and whistled the notes again.

Marian whistled back. “What's this all about?”

“Try this.” He whistled two more.

She shrugged and whistled. “What's the name of this game?”

“Please. Just once more.” Two more notes.

Marian whistled and said, “That's it. Tell me what you're doing.”

He was working hard at keeping his face impassive. “How many notes did you hear me whistle?”

“The same one, over and over. Are you going to explain yourself?”

“I whistled six notes. Three different musical intervals. You heard one note, over and over. You're tone deaf.”

She felt as if she were being accused of some embarrassing breach of taste. “Oh, I'm so ashamed. Should I apologize?”

He let his feelings show—a disconcerting mix of astonishment, horror, and pity. “Mozart and rock, they're the same to you, aren't they? All you hear is noise.”

“Not exactly. I can hear rhythms. And variations in volume. It's just that I'm not always sure whether the notes are going up or going down.”

“Good god. Why didn't you tell me?”

Now she was astonished. “Why on earth should I? I didn't tell you about a scar on my knee I got playing softball, either.”

“I've seen the scar.” Holland's voice softened. “Marian, I'm sorry. When I think of all you'll never be able to hear …” He shook his head.

This was ridiculous. “So I've got a tin ear—so what? It's not a handicap, you know.” He looked as if he didn't agree. “Holland, you're beginning to annoy me.”

A sigh. “Yes, I'm sure I am. I'd be annoyed too, in your place. But try to see what a shock this has been. Music is important to me. I wanted it to be important to you as well.”

“So music is important to you, okay. But is that any reason to look at me as if I'm the two-headed beast from twenty thousand fathoms that ate Tokyo?”

He laughed. “Is that what I'm doing?” She nodded. “Grossly unfair of me, I must admit,” he said. “I know perfectly well you never ate Tokyo.”

“
Holland!
”

He pointed a finger at her. “Gotcha.” They were both smiling, the danger point passed. Holland leaned back in his chair and looked at her through half-closed eyes. “We still have a lot to learn about each other, haven't we?”

Lord, yes
, Marian thought. Starting with where he lived. But she was damned if she'd ask; when he wanted her to know, he'd tell her. If he wanted her to know. When, if.

When the phone rang, Marian was inclined to let the answering machine take it. But then she heard a voice identifying itself as belonging to Matthew Zingone, and she picked up. “Matthew—I'm here. Got something?”

“I'm not sure. You'd better come take a look.”

“What is it?”

“I'd rather not say. It may be nothing.”

“Oh, Matthew. Just tell me what it is.”

“You want to know what it is? You come look at it.” He hung up.

Marian did the same. “I've got to go to the Zingones',” she said to Holland.

He raised an eyebrow. “Will you need a passport?”

“The Zingones are dealers, in the Village—you know about them. Luke's the one who told the hairy-spider story, remember?”

He remembered. “I'll go with you.”

“No, you won't. This is police business. Why don't you, ah, listen to
Don Giovanni?
I shouldn't be long.”

He didn't like being left out, but it wasn't his case. “That's turning into my primary occupation,” he said testily as she went out the door. “Waiting for you.”

17

Mark and Janet were there with Matthew, but Janet wasn't speaking to Marian. She turned her back and retreated to the rear of the shop. “She's still mad at you,” Mark said unnecessarily.

Because she gave away too much about how you do business
. “I know, and I'm sorry,” Marian said. “What have you got?”

“This.” Matthew reached under the counter and brought up something wrapped in tissue paper. He pulled back the tissue to reveal two amber velvet sleeves.

“The sleeves,” Marian said flatly. She'd never expected
that
.

“
The
sleeves?” Matthew asked. “From Sarah Bernhardt's jacket?”

Marian picked one up and looked at it closely. It was stained and wrinkled, but the amber velvet looked like the right color. The trouble was, she'd seen the jacket only once, and that time from the audience. “You fellows are the experts,” she said. “How old would you say this material is?”

Matthew fingered the other sleeve. “At least fifty years old.”

“Older,” said Mark.

“What about seventy?” Marian asked.

“Easily. It's old enough to have belonged to Bernhardt, if that's what you're getting at.”

She looked at the part of the sleeve that attached at the shoulder; it had been ripped away, not cut, with no care taken to preserve the material. Marian brushed away what looked like coffee grounds. “Garbage?”

Both brothers nodded. “One of the scroungers found them,” Mark said. “Not in the garbage, although that's where they've been, obviously. But a bag lady working the same garbage cans as the scrounger was wearing them.”

“She was wearing them?”

Mark laughed. “Yeah. See how the seams are strained? She pulled them on right over the sweatshirt she was wearing.”

“Did your scrounger ask her where she got them?”

“He tried to,” Matthew said. “But she just kept mumbling about signs and portents and the price of cheese. He thought she was one of those people who get released from Bellevue too soon.”

“But she wasn't completely nuts,” Mark added. “She made him pay fifty bucks for the sleeves.”

“And he charged
us
seventy-five,” Matthew finished.