Fare Play (8 page)

But
the
fan, the one Kelly was not happy to see, waited until the autographing was done before making her move. She wriggled her way through the group still gathered around Kelly and gushed, “Oh, Kelly, you were just marvelous tonight! Just marvelous! One of your best performances ever!”

“Thank you,” Kelly said coolly.

“But that new stage business of Ian Cavanaugh's—that part where he moves the chair? Do you know what I mean?”

Through clenched teeth, Kelly said, “Yes, Carla, I know what you mean.”

“Well, that chair business distracts from your exit. He shouldn't be allowed to get away with that! I think you should speak to him about it.”

“Thank you for sharing that.” Kelly grabbed Marian's sleeve and headed toward the chauffeured limousine Kelly had waiting to pick her up every night. The driver was holding the door open for them.

“I mean it!” the fan insisted earnestly, trotting along beside Kelly. “He's upstaging you! Are you going to speak to him about it?”

“Carla, I can't talk to you now. We're on our way somewhere.”

The fan glanced at Marian. “I don't believe I've met your friend.”

“That's right,” Kelly said blithely. “You haven't.” She climbed into the limo, Marian right behind. The driver closed the door.

As the car pulled away, Kelly made a sound of frustration. “I am finding it increasingly difficult even to be civil to that girl! Woman, actually. But she acts like a girl.”

“She seems harmless enough,” Marian said. “Who is she?”

“Her name's Carla Banner and she is incurably stagestruck. Other than that, I don't really know anything about her. Except that she's always
there
. Every night she comes in with the crowd after intermission and looks for an empty seat. She's waiting at the stage door every night. She shows up at every public appearance I make. When I go out on a date, there's Carla hovering somewhere in the background, watching. Somehow she got hold of my phone number and leaves a message on my answering machine every day.
Every
day.”

“She calls you by your first name.”

Kelly sighed. “That's my fault. The first couple of times I met her, she just about Ms-Ingramed me to death. I told her to call me Kelly.”

“Price of fame, kiddo.”

“To hell with that. I am getting
very tired
of Carla Banner.”

Kelly wanted steak, so they told the driver Gallagher's. Kelly created her usual stir when she made her entrance. Marian, trailing in her wake, got a kick out of the aplomb with which her friend carried it off. Neither of them objected when a table right in the middle of the room suddenly became available.

Kelly winked at Marian as they sat down. “Think everybody can see us here?”

“Hm. You could ask them to put the table up on a raised platform of some kind.”

“I came in here one night with John Reddick and Abby and Ian,” Kelly said, settling herself, “and they practically went out and hired an orchestra.”

After they'd ordered, Marian asked, “How's John doing?”

“Hard to tell. He says the play's going to be a disaster—but he always says that.”

John Reddick had directed
The Apostrophe Thief
, guiding Kelly skillfully through her first Broadway role. At present he was in England, directing the London production of the same play. He had not been invited to direct the film version.

Marian grinned. “Is he still madly, passionately in love with you?”

“He says so. Right before he starts complaining about how cold his flat is.”

They were halfway through their steaks when Marian happened to glance over Kelly's shoulder and spotted a familiar figure at a table against the wall. “Guess who's here.”

“Carla Banner,” Kelly said without turning around. “I told you. She's everywhere.”

Marian put down her fork. “You say this happens every time you go out?”

“Every time. You thought I was exaggerating, didn't you?”

“Did she follow us here?”

Kelly chewed a bite of steak, swallowed. “She must be independently wealthy or something. She spends a fortune on cabs. And she doesn't seem to have to be anyplace during the day. Yes, she followed us here.”

Marian scowled. “Technically it's not invasion of privacy, because you're both in a public place. So far she's just being a pest, right? I doubt if you could get a restraining order. Those are usually issued only in cases of provable harassment.”

Kelly nodded. “Thought it might be something like that. So far she hasn't found out where I live, thank god. Ian has had the same problem a number of times. He says the only way to put an end to it is to make them understand …” She hesitated. “Unequivocably?”

Marian had to think. “Unequivocally.”

“Make them understand unequivocally that their attentions are not welcome. Ian advocates rudeness, name-calling, and yelling and screaming.”

Marian smiled … but then thought of something. “Wait a minute. You said she doesn't know where you live—but she follows you everywhere?”

Kelly blanched. “She could have followed me home?”

“I'd bet on it. What makes you think she doesn't know?”

“Well, she's never come there, or left little notes with the super. She sends mail addressed to me at the theater.”

“Nevertheless—”

“Oh shit. I have got to get rid of this person!”

Marian sympathized. “Have you ever tried telling her straight out?”

Kelly toyed with her wineglass. “That's what I'm going to have to do, isn't it? I suppose long-timers like Ian can handle this sort of thing without losing any sleep over it. But it's the first time it's ever happened to me.”

“Here's your chance,” Marian said with a grimace. “She's coming over.”

Carla Banner approached their table diffidently, a please-like-me look on her puppy-dog face. “Hi again,” she said softly. “I hope I'm not intruding, but—”

“You are,” Kelly said shortly.

“But I wanted to urge you again to say something to Ian Cavanaugh about moving that chair,” Carla went on, unhearing. “He really shouldn't be allowed to push you around like that.”

“Sit down, Carla.”

The young woman flushed with pleasure and sat quickly before Kelly could change her mind. “Oh, this is very nice of you, Kelly—”

“Now listen to me. Listen carefully. Ian Cavanaugh is not ‘pushing me around.' And even if he were, that would be
my
business, not yours.”

“Oh, but he—”

“I said listen to me. I want you to stop following me, Carla. I want you to stop calling me every day. I want you to stop showing up every place I go. Do you hear what I'm telling you? Get out of my life.”

Carla laughed carelessly. “Oh, I couldn't stop going to
The Apostrophe Thief
. That's the high point of my—”

“Go to the play as often as you like,” Kelly continued relentlessly, “but stop waiting by the stage door every night. Do you hear me?
Stop it
.”

The younger woman was still attempting to treat it all as a joke. “Hey, it's a free country!”

“I mean it, Carla.” Once Kelly had made up her mind to confront this irritant in her life, she wasn't pulling any punches. “You are invading my private space and I resent it. Have I made myself clear? I want you to stop. Find something else to do with yourself.”

Marian thought:
At least she didn't say “Get a life.”

“But, Kelly,” Carla said plaintively, “I'm your number-one fan! You don't know how important you are to—”

“Goodbye, Carla,” Kelly interrupted. “Go away now. Don't come back.”

Her face tightened. “You invited me to sit down.” Pouting.

“And now I'm inviting you to stand up. And walk away. Far away.
Right now
.”

Carla Banner stood up slowly … and at the last minute thought of a face-saving out. “It's Ian Cavanaugh who's put you out of sorts. Don't worry, Kelly. What you just said—I won't hold it against you. I know you're upset.” She hurried away before Kelly could answer.

Kelly growled. “I hate hit-and-run talkers.”

Marian shook her head. “Your number-one fan seems to be hard of hearing.”

“You don't think I got through to her?”

“I think she'll be back.”

12

Snow had fallen during the night, not the city-prettifying snow but the kind that turned to slush one inch before it hit the sidewalks. Cold, wet, dark, dreary … happy February to you.

In muscle-flexing compensation for Out There, the stationhouse was defiantly overheated. Marian had put on tights under her trousers when the Weather Channel had told her what kind of day to expect. Tights and panties and trousers and tucked-in shirt and belt and jacket. Six layers around her middle; she was beginning to sweat. Marian slipped out of her jacket.

“Oliver Knowles's secretary,” she said, “Lucas …?”

“Novak,” O'Toole supplied.

“Lucas Novak. When's he getting back from Florida?”

“Today,” Perlmutter said. “Plane gets in at ten-thirty. We'll catch him this afternoon. Mrs. R said he was down there for a family funeral.”

“Mrs. R,” Marian murmured. “The housekeeper. That's what Knowles's son calls her, Austin Knowles.”

Perlmutter shrugged. “She said call her Mrs. R.”

Ellen Rudolph
, Marian reminded herself. “Two more I want you to check out.” She handed Perlmutter a sheet of paper with two names and addresses on it. “You can split up on these. David Unger is the general manager of Oliver Knowles's toy company, and probably the next owner. Elmore Zook was Knowles's lawyer.”

“I'll take the lawyer,” Perlmutter said, tearing the page in half and giving Unger's name to O'Toole. “Beneficiaries, state of Knowles's finances … anything else?”

“‘The man had a gift for recognizing his own kind,'” Marian quoted.

“What say?” Perlmutter was copying both names into his notebook.

“It's something Austin Knowles said about his father. That he had a talent for finding people like himself. Try to get a personality fix on Unger and Zook. That should tell us a little of what Oliver Knowles was like.”

“Son didn't tell you much?”

“As much as he could. His mother just died recently too … he's pretty shaken. What's the name of Knowles's toy company?”

O'Toole beamed. “O.K. Toys. Oliver Knowles. See? Initials.”

“Got it, O'Toole,” Marian said. “I want you to pin down the financial arrangement David Unger had with Knowles senior. The son said he has stock options.”

Perlmutter looked up from his notebook. “Is he our suspect?”

“Not yet. But he's the only one so far with a possible motive. Pin down the money, O'Toole. Get the name of Unger's lawyer.”

“Right.”

She waved them out.

Marian spent the next hour reading reports. Sergeant Buchanan's squad seemed on top of their cases, but Sergeant Campos's detectives had two that had been dragging on too long. She stepped into the doorway of her office and saw Campos just sitting down at his desk in the squadroom.

“Sergeant Campos!” she called out. “In here, please.” She must remember to stop saying
Please
.

Campos took an insultingly long time standing back up again. He moved toward Marian's office as if walking underwater. His face was carefully blank, but his body language spoke resentment in every movement.

Marian sat down at her desk and picked up the two reports. “The bar brawl that ended in a stabbing. You know the perp and you've got his address. Why haven't you picked him up?”

He was slow to answer. “DA's office says we need eyewitness testimony. To ID the perp.”

“And?”

“We got two witnesses, but they're both outa town.”

“Did you call them?”

One corner of his mouth lifted insolently. “Of course I called 'em.”

“And? Come on, Campos, don't make me drag it out of you.”

“They'll be back, one of 'em tonight. We'll get the ID tomorrow and wrap it up then.”

“All right.” She put that report aside. “What about the Sanderson case?”

The sergeant's manner shifted slightly … more defensive now? “We got nothin' that proves Sanderson's a fence. The guy runs a clean shop, far as we can tell.”

Marian sat back in her chair. “There's nothing in the report about a tail.”

“Oh hell, I'd have to pull men off bigger cases to give 'im a round-the-clock. It's not worth it, just to nab one more penny-ante fence. You know that …
Lieutenant
.”

She overlooked his tone and asked, “How do you know he's penny-ante?”

“Hey, stands to reason, don't it? Have you seen his shop? Hanging by a thread.”

“Have you seen his home?”

Campos didn't answer.

“How well does he live, Campos? What does he drive? Where does he have his suits made? The one time he was in here, that was no off-the-rack he was wearing. The man has money, Campos. Where does it come from?”

Campos muttered something unintelligible.

“The truth is,” Marian went on, “you don't know anything about this guy.” She looked at the report. “Detectives Walker and Dowd, acting on a complaint from another small businessman in the building, visited Sanderson, looked around, didn't see anything wrong, brought Sanderson in for questioning once, and then let it drop.” She raised her eyes to Campos. “No follow-up. None.”

The sergeant clenched his jaw. “I'm tellin' you, this is penny-ante stuff.”

“I sincerely hope you're right. But you don't know it and I don't know it. Walker and Dowd sure as hell don't know it. It's sloppy police work, Campos.”