IT WAS CLOSE to 5 A.M. when I finally got home.
I pulled off my ankle boots, exchanged the suede blazer for a comfortable old sweater and made a big pot of coffee. Because Tommy Zenos was in Connecticut for his uncle’s funeral, it was my job to alert the director, Joe Niles, to the emergency changes in the day’s taping schedule. Joe was our most frequently used director on the show’s “director wheel.” A well-known early-riser, and British, he answered the phone with a clipped, “Niles here.”
“Cybelle’s been in an accident,” I said without preamble. “She and Damon were crossing the street last night and a car hit them. Damon has a broken leg and arm, and Cybelle has a broken right leg.”
Joe was silent for a moment. He didn’t react to the news about Damon and Cybelle being out together, so perhaps he knew about that, but then he surprised me by asking what struck me as an odd question. “Are they in pain?”
“It’s manageable,” I said, then I steered him back to business. “In place of the Kira and Nicky scenes, we’ll tape tomorrow’s Jeff and Michelle. Their scenes use today’s sets, and the actors already have their scripts.”
“That works. I’ll let them know.”
“One more thing. I wrote a new scene for Link. I’d like you to tape it at the end of the day, after everybody else is gone.”
“Ah, the plot thickens. Tell me all.”
“I’ll explain it later,” I said.
“Good enough. I enjoy a mystery.” I heard the scraping of a match. “The only thing I like about the French are their cigarettes,” he said, and I heard him take a deep drag of one of his strong Gauloises.
It isn’t very nice of me, but, frankly, I’m glad Joe smokes. I saw an example of his low character at the same time I’d discovered what kind of a jerk Rick Spencer really is. In my opinion, Joe Niles will deserve whatever his cigarette habit might do to him. When Tommy told me a couple of weeks ago that Joe’s wife left him, without knowing the details of their split, or even knowing the woman, I was inclined to be on her side, not his. Joe interrupted my thoughts when he asked, “What other actors will you need in the new scene?”
“No one. Link will be all by himself.”
“He’ll love that. But he’s not scheduled to work today.”
“I’ll call him.”
After telling Joe I would see him in the studio later, I said a quick good-bye. He would call the rest of the production team. I poured a super-sized mug of coffee and added my usual three packets of Sweet’N Low and half an inch of half-and-half. Lots of cream and lots of sugar. You drink coffee the way children drink coffee, Ian used to say. But there was no time for memories. I set to work reorganizing the scripts for the next few days.
AN HOUR LATER I clicked “Send” on my computer and zapped the revised scripts into the production secretary’s computer. She would now grab the baton and run the next lap in our creative relay race, printing out the new script pages, then copying and distributing them to all relevant parties. I reached for the show’s personnel directory, found the number of Link Ramsey’s apartment and dialed. The phone rang eight times before I heard a sleepy, “Hello.”
“Hi. It’s Morgan Tyler. Sorry to call so early, Link.”
“You’ve decided to kill me off.”
He was serious; it was every daytime actor’s fear.
“Not today,” I said. “Actually, I have something interesting in mind for you.”
“Yeah?” He was fully awake now, his antennae quivering.
“Come into the studio late this afternoon to tape a new scene.”
“You got it. Fax me the lines—”
“No lines.”
Silence on his end. Then he surprised me.
“I hear my Cody’s catching on with the fans.”
“You think Cody is getting hot?” I stalled.
Even though the letters are addressed to them, actors don’t get their fan mail until after the producers, the network and the head writer—me—read it. Sometimes that takes weeks. The official reason—in TV speak that means the official lie—is that it’s a precaution, in case any of the letters are from dangerous nuts. The truth is we want to learn what the fans are feeling before the actors do. This way the actors can’t, say, use a rise in popularity to try to sweeten their deals. Link was right, but it was too soon for him to know it.
“What gives you that idea?” I continued, sounding, I hoped, doubtful.
On the other end of the line, I heard Link Ramsey chortle. “There’s no such thing as a well-kept secret anymore,” he said, “just a friendly press. And the Internet.”
“Who said that?”
“My publicist. What’s cookin’, Cookie? Come on, you can trust me.”
Abraham Lincoln trusted an actor. Look what that got him.
“Call me ‘Cookie’ again and I will kill you off.” Unfortunately, I had to trust Link. His cooperation was vital to what I had in mind to keep our ratings up. “Moreover, I’ll make it happen offscreen, so you won’t get a death scene, or a memorial service with film clips of you.”
“You’re tough. Can I call you ‘Cutie’?”
“Call me Morgan.”
Then I told him what I was planning for Cody, the character he played.
When I finished, Link Ramsey was one happy actor.
I WAS DOWNSTAIRS and on my way out through the Dakota’s courtyard when I was surprised to see Detective Phoenix. He was just entering the courtyard from the street.
“What’s happened?” I asked, immediately thinking the worst.
He assured me he wasn’t there to deliver bad news.
“Then why . . . ?”
“I’d like to get a look at the environment, at the studio where Ms. Carter works. And it’s in the same building as Mr. Radford’s office.”
He’s been doing his homework.
“If you’re on your way over there, Mrs. Tyler, I’ll drive you.”
And he has a nice smile.
“It’s only a few blocks, Detective. I like to walk.”
He put his six-foot-something frame in gear to match my five-foot-six stride.
“Where’s Detective Flynn?” I asked. “I thought partners investigated together.”
“We’re off duty.”
The thought that he was walking beside me when he was off duty made me self-conscious. I tried to set myself at ease with humor. “You’re a homicide detective. Aren’t people killing people in your precinct this morning?”
“It’s only seven-thirty.”
He has a nice voice.
“The muggers have gone home to sleep and the murderers are still having their coffee.”
And a nice face.
“Last night, when the doctor said Radford wanted to see ‘Mrs. Tyler,’ I thought you were married, but you said you were alone watching the Home Shopping Network, and later somebody mentioned that you’d lost your husband.”
Somebody mentioned. The idea of being talked about made me angry.
“My husband is dead, Detective. I didn’t misplace him.”
“That sounds like it still hurts.”
It did, but I wasn’t going to discuss it. I decided to turn the tables and see how he liked someone prying into his life. “Did someone you loved ever die?” I asked.
“She only changed. I’ve seen too much of real death to use that word lightly.” His beeper went off. He looked at it quickly, frowning. “Sorry. Gotta go. Maybe I can stop by the studio later.” He hurried back to where his car was parked.
I was astonished to discover that I was just a little bit disappointed we weren’t going to spend more time together.