The Role Players (20 page)

“Let's move to New York,” he said as we made our way through the after-theater crowds toward the subway. “I want to be a chorus boy!”

“I see,” I said. “And what will we do with your plants?”

“We can bring them along!”

“All 14,000?”

He grinned. “There aren't that many. We can make a couple of trips.”

“And our friends?”

“They can come too!”

“Okay,” I said. I recognized an adrenaline fantasy when I heard one.

We stopped for something to eat before we got on the subway, which toned him down a bit, and he settled for humming and singing the entire score all the way to the apartment.

Max and Chris had just gotten home a couple of minutes before us and we sat and talked for an hour. When Jonathan did not mention the move, I assumed his feet had returned a bit closer to the ground. Chris announced that now that the production was running smoothly, he wouldn't be going in unless he was really needed for something, which would give him, at least, more time to spend with us during our last week.

“Just how much longer is it going to run?” Jonathan asked.

Max shrugged. “It's scheduled for four weeks,” he said.

“Any chance they might extend the run?” I asked, wondering if anyone other than Tait and Gene knew about the possible move to Broadway.

“I hope not,” Max said. “I signed on for the four-week run, with a possible two-week extension. After that, my stage-managing days are over, thank you.”

I had a new appreciation for Tait's eagerness to find out if anyone from the Whitman was involved in Rod's death. No one would want to invest in bringing a show to Broadway that had the albatross of a murderer hanging around its neck.

Just before 1 a.m. we called it a night and went to bed.

*

Jonathan, his arm across my chest, was breathing rhythmically against my shoulder, indicating he was fast asleep. Was I? Guess.

I lay there with a 4th of July fireworks of thoughts going off in my head. I'd never had a maybe/maybe not case like this, and I never wanted another one like it. But, as the smoke cleared, I realized I was reasonably well convinced that there
was
a case. Something was surely as hell going on with the Whitman, and statistically, most murders are committed by people known to the victim.

Everything hinged on the gun. Was it or wasn't it the one that killed Rod? Obviously, the thing to do is to look at it and see if I could tell anything from it.

Good luck, Charlie.

And then slowly my mind drifted to a mental image of Gene and Tait and Joe and Cam and a bunch of people I didn't know all dressed in long nightshirts and stocking caps, lined up across the stage doing “One” from
A Chorus Line,
and that was it for the night.

*

“Do you have a magnifying glass?” I asked as we all sat around with our morning coffee.

Looking a bit puzzled, Chris said, “Uh, yeah, I think so. You want it now?”

I grinned. “Not at the moment. But I'd like to take it with us when we go.”

“You won't have to,” Max said. “Joe has one in the booth he uses for checking wires.”

We had decided we'd make it a laid-back, pot-luck kind of day with no set itinerary, but I had requested that we stop by the Whitman for a few minutes first so I could take a look at the gun—which I probably should have done right after Jonathan told me about it.

We took our time finishing our coffee and getting ready to go out. Jonathan wore his new shirt, of course. He looked rather like a French sailor—a very
sexy
French sailor.

For brunch, Max suggested a new place he'd heard of that had both a regular brunch and a Sunday all-day buffet, which struck Jonathan as a great idea. Max called ahead for reservations.

But the theater first.

*

I wasn't sure if it was exactly kosher for me to examine the gun without letting Tait know, but since Max had a key to the theater, it wasn't quite the same as breaking and entering. And I hoped no one else would be there or come in while we were there. I suggested we take the gun and bullets up to Max's booth just in case, and when we got to the theater, Max went in first to make sure we would be alone, while Jonathan, Chris, and I went to the side door. Max locked the main doors behind him and a moment later opened the side door for us, which we also closed behind us.

I asked Max to go to the box office for the gun and bullets. I figured regular passers-by or anyone associated with the Whitman who might come along would recognize him as belonging there. Chris handed him the clean dust rags he'd taken from their kitchen before we left, so that Max would not have to directly touch the gun or the box. He went quickly into the lobby and returned a minute or so later.

“Yep,” Max observed, “Colt .38. Same gun as mine,”

Chris opened the door to the booth and flipped on the light switch just inside the door. We all climbed the steps to the small room, where Max laid the wrapped gun and shell box on his stage manager's desk.

“It's pretty crowded in here,” Jonathan said—and he was right. “Maybe I should go wait in the auditorium.”

“I'll come with you,” Chris volunteered, then said: “Tell you what…how'd you like me to give you a quick tour of backstage? I don't think you've ever been back there.”

“No, I haven't! That would be great—I'd love to see it.”

“This won't take long,” I said as they turned and went back down the stairs. Jonathan gave a one-handed wave over his shoulder without turning around. They closed the door behind them.

“O-
kay
,” I said as I unwrapped the gun. “I don't think this is going to work, but can I have that magnifying glass?”

Max went over to Joe's desk, returning with a Sherlock Holmes

sized glass. He handed it to me, then switched on the small table lamp on one corner of his desk.

Using the cloth to move the gun around, I took the glass and moved it in and out to get as sharp a focus as I could.

Nothing; just a reflection of the polished metal. I opened the chamber carefully. All six rounds were there, unfired. With the chamber still open I cautiously looked down the barrel, then sniffed it. What I was hoping to find I wasn't quite sure, but I could neither see nor smell anything that might indicate it had been fired recently. (Of course, it had been more than a week, now, since Rod was killed.) Closing the chamber, I looked at the outside of the barrel, and wasn't sure whether I could actually see something or just thought I could because I knew Jonathan had picked it up by the barrel. I turned the gun over, looking carefully again. Nothing.

Which meant either that 1) fingerprints don't show on polished metal surfaces, or 2) the gun had been wiped clean—including Jonathan's prints? Unlikely—or, most probable of all, 3) I just couldn't see them.

“Well,” I sighed, setting the magnifying glass aside, “that was pretty much a waste of time.” I then turned to the box of bullets. Clear plastic lid, again no discernable prints. Manufacturer's name and “50 .38 Caliber bullets” printed on the sides. There were eight neat rows of five bullets across, and three bullets lying on their sides at one end of the box, where the last two rows had been used to load the gun.

So much for…
three
bullets?

I looked again. Three loose bullets where the last two rows should have been. Five bullets to a row. Ten bullets. The chamber held six rounds. Six from ten equals four.

Where was the missing bullet?

I was pretty sure I knew.

CHAPTER 8

Circumstantial, Hardesty, purely circumstantial,
my mind said as I followed Max down the steps.

And, as I am so fond of quoting, “Circumstantial evidence is finding a trout in the milk.”

I waited in the foyer until Max came back from returning the gun and bullets to the box office, then we headed down the side aisle for the door beside the stage which, I assumed, led backstage. We'd gotten about halfway there when the door opened and Jonathan and Chris came into the auditorium.

“Good timing,” Max said.

“Yeah, well, thank Jonathan's stomach for that,” Chris said with a grin. “I thought we had a cage full of lions back there.”

“So I'm hungry,” Jonathan said. He put his hand on his stomach, looked down at it, then looked up at me. “Hey!” he said brightly, “Maybe I'm eating for two!”

“With that appetite, I'd say you were eating for six,” I said.

“Good!” he said. “Then we'll be sure to make the papers!”

*

We left the theater by the side door, making sure it was locked behind us, and took our time walking to the restaurant, which was farther than I'd expected. But it was a beautiful day—we'd really been lucky with the weather—and no one seemed to mind. Though I had told Chris and Jonathan about the missing bullet, everyone seemed to respect the fact that I couldn't tell them everything I might know or surmise. As for me, I felt…what? Relieved? Vindicated to know I finally might have some solid evidence to work with? Now I had only one small detail to resolve: who did it?

One thing that had bothered me since Jonathan found the gun was the fact that if it was the murder weapon and the killer was aware (or thought) that the gun might be tested, all he really would have had to do would be to get rid of it. Sure, that would pretty much telegraph to those few people who knew the gun existed that it was
the
gun, but if it was gone, there'd be no way to prove it. But I had an idea.

“Max,” I said, “can I ask you a real favor?”

“Sure,” he replied without hesitation. Chris and Jonathan looked at me, curious.

“Would you be willing to substitute your gun for the gun in the box office?” I asked.

Max looked puzzled. “I guess, sure. Why?”

“Because,” I said, “if the box office gun is indeed the murder weapon, the killer knows that it is the only solid link between Rod's death and the Whitman—and, ultimately, him. And with all the prying around I've been doing, he might be having second thoughts about having returned the gun and decide to get rid of it, especially if he may still assume no one else is aware of the gun or where it is.”

“Okay,” Max said. “We can make the switch either when we get home today or first thing in the morning, if that's soon enough.”

Well, actually, I'd have preferred to do it right then, but didn't want to take up any more of our together time than I already had.

“Sure,” I said.

We got to the restaurant in time for our 11:30 reservation, but still had to wait about twenty minutes until our table was ready—which, again, no one minded.

It was worth the wait. Chris and Jonathan opted for the brunch buffet, while Max and I ordered Eggs Benedict from the regular brunch menu. Jonathan insisted I take a couple of sausage links, two or three strips of bacon and one of his three breakfast rolls, which hardly left a dent in the mound of food on his plate.

All in all, a really great brunch, both for the food and the company. And the fact that I might have an actual murderer to find rather than a bunch of might-be suspects to eliminate made it all the better, I'm sure.

*

After brunch we made our way up to the Guggenheim, which for some reason reminded Jonathan of a snail, and spent quite some time there, then crossed 5th Avenue to Central Park and strolled around enjoying the weather, the ample supply of two-legged fauna (male variety, on foot, bicycle, and skates) and each other's company. When we came across the Conservatory Gardens, Jonathan insisted we go in.

If I didn't know we were in the center of the largest city in the nation, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of millions of people, we could have been in another world—one of calm and quiet. I think I enjoyed it almost as much as Jonathan did, though he was mildly frustrated because he had forgotten his camera and none of us had a pen and paper so he could write down the names of trees and plants he wasn't familiar with to be able to look them up in his books when we got home.

I was really quite proud of myself in that I somehow managed, despite finally having resolved the “is there a case or isn't there” issue, to put it out of my mind all but completely for the entire day. Well, most of it.

“Where to now?” Jonathan asked as we left the park.

Chris looked at Max. “How about Billy D's?” he asked.

“Great idea,” Max said.

“What's Billy D's?” Jonathan asked.

“It's normally a piano bar on the northern edge of the Village,” Max said, “but on Sunday afternoons and early evening they have a fantastic banjo quartet. Lots of college kids, a few straights, but mostly gay. It's really a fun place.”

Jonathan looked at him closely. “Banjos? You mean like in
Deliverance
?”

Chris grinned. “Yep. Only there's four of 'em.”

“Wow!” Jonathan said. “Sounds great!”

And it was.

*

We got to the bar just before four o'clock. Apparently the quartet was on a break, but the place was packed. Max had been right about it being largely a college crowd, but a nice mix of people.

Is it just me,
my crotch asked innocently as I looked around the room,
or are college guys getting cuter over the years?