What appeared highly incriminating to Michael and Toni turned out to be run-of-the-mill detecting as seen through the eyes of Detectives Devine and Henderson. They listened to the theory that the bed had been moved and examined the bolt that Michael produced as further evidence. They did not, however, see murder in the making.
“There’s no proof it was done deliberately,” Devine said later, after they were seated in the squad room at police headquarters. “The stagehands could have moved the bed for some perfectly good reason. Did you ask anyone?”
“No stagehands were there at the time,” Toni said.
“The bolt was in good condition,” Michael added. “How do you account for it coming out of the fixture like that?”
Henderson tilted his chair back and braced his knee against the side of the desk. “Bolts and screws have been known to loosen by themselves, given enough time.”
Toni felt disappointed and frustrated by the detectives’ lack of enthusiasm for their find. What she and Michael considered a second attempt on her life, they saw as nothing more serious than a miscalculation by the stage crew.
She stared at the men. “Does this mean you won’t conduct an investigation?”
“Miss Abbott,” Devine said, pointedly glancing at a small mountain of manila folders that threatened to slide off the corner of his desk. “I have here almost a dozen homicides my partner and I are investigating. Some we may never clear, but most of them will eventually be solved. What leads to solving them is hard evidence: eyewitnesses, fingerprints, prior threats, just for example. We have a finite number of hours in which to investigate each homicide, and even fewer to look into the kind of situation you found yourself in.”
He sounded so persuasive, Toni almost nodded in agreement.
“However, we’ll swing over to the studio in the next couple of days and ask a few questions. We’ll call it part of the ongoing Landis investigation. If nothing else, it will serve notice that the police are very much involved. So, if your suspicions are correct, it might be enough to throw a scare into someone.”
“I’m going to assume my client is no longer under suspicion,” Michael said.
“At this point, everyone who knew Landis is under suspicion.”
“I suppose so, but have you located Victor Marino?” It had been three days since Toni looked at mug shots of ex-cons.
“He hasn’t been sleeping at home lately,” Henderson said. “We’ll see if he checks in with his parole officer next week.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Toni asked.
“Then it won’t look so good when we catch up with him. And we will.”
Toni wasn’t so sure, and the whole idea of Marino on the prowl, his whereabouts unknown, scared the hell out of her. In her mind, Marino, like an animal intent on its prey, fit the profile of a man who had too much to lose to back off now.
“What about the man who rented the office to Landis that night, Kaufmann?” Michael asked next.
“He’s in the clear,” Devine said. “He spent the weekend on Long Island with his girlfriend.” Devine heaved a deep sigh, as though resigned to chasing dead-end leads.
“Miss Abbott,” Henderson said, “when you and the counselor were here the other day, we meant to ask you to take a look at the prints we developed from the film Landis shot the night he was killed. Damn things got misplaced. It happens.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “But we’ve got them now.” He went into another room, returned a minute later carrying a large manila envelope, and set it on the table. He opened it and several banded stacks of glossy photographs slid out.
As the detective laid out the pictures, Toni held her breath. The pictures at last. She’d finally know what happened in the office the night Craig died. So often her memory had pushed against the thick curtain that shrouded his death, and she wondered if perhaps now the events might become clear. Her face felt hot and tight, and she approached eagerly, anxious to put her memory to the test.
There were dozens of pictures, the clarity sharp and bright, and the large volume convinced her they must have spent considerable time in Kaufman’s office that night. All the prints showed her wearing the old-fashioned gown, and she studied it closely, admiring the beautiful lace collar and bodice, the swirl of skirt that flowed like a cloud around her legs. In all of photos, she wore the wig Alexandra would wear with the ornate dress.
“These are the pictures Craig took to publicize the new story line being considered for Alexandra Bradshaw.” The words came out as if someone had programmed her to speak.
She scoured the prints, searching for clues in the angles of doors and windows. She had worn white pants and a red T-shirt that night. Now she could picture in her mind’s eye the hallway where she’d changed into the long, white dress, leaving her own clothes on a bench.
“So, whaddya think?” Henderson prompted.
She pulled a photo from the arrangement on the table. In it, she leaned against a roll-top desk. The backs of the prints had numbers, no doubt indicating the sequence of the shots. However, did it really matter? What counted were the pictures themselves. They would tell a story if there was one to tell.
“Remember,” she said, “the camera doesn’t lie.”
“What?” Michael asked at once. “Why did you say that?”
Toni frowned, puzzled by her own words. She didn’t realize she’d spoken out loud. “I have no idea. The thought was somehow there.”
“Is that something Craig might have said to you?”
“Photographers keep up a steady chatter. It takes the subject’s mind off herself. He probably said a hundred different things not meant to be remembered.”
“Unless he saw someone at the last second,” Michael said. “He might even have said the name.”
That apparently caught Henderson’s attention. He glanced at Toni. “Did he name anyone? The entry wound was in his chest, so he had to be facing whoever shot him.”
“I don’t know.” Did that happen in real life, or only in the movies: someone facing their attacker and shouting, “Larry, no!” just before the fatal bullet hit? Did anyone really do that? Had Craig?
She returned her concentration to the photos. In some she sat on the steamer trunk, in others she knelt before a glass-fronted bookcase. Several showed her with her back to an open window.
“Look,” she told the men. “In this one I’m lifting the hem of my dress because it was intolerably hot inside the office. At one point, I thought I’d melt right into the floor. I remember hurrying to the back of the office for a drink of water at the cooler.”
Michael smiled encouragingly at her. “Go on. What else do you remember?”
A montage of images swirled through her mind like leaves in a brisk wind: posing by an oak filing cabinet, staring at antique ceiling fans, hearing the incessant click of the shutter. The camera lens caught her standing in front of the window that opened onto the dark roofs of the buildings across the street. Lights on one, though. In several of the pictures she seemed to be staring in that direction. She brought the prints closer to the band of light from the naked fluorescent ceiling tubes. Nothing clicked.
“Here, where I’m turning my back to Craig, I guess I was showing him the back of the dress. Or maybe trying to catch a breeze. Sometime during the evening, Craig opened that large window.” She glanced at Michael. “I remember telling Craig that Leo was trying to have me written out of the show.”
“Anything else?” Devine asked.
“I’m sorry. I remember posing, but I don’t know what happened after the last picture.” She picked up a handful of prints and let them drop to the table. “I don’t even remember which he took last.” Whenever Craig had been killed, her memory stopped just short of that point.
Henderson gathered up the photographs. “Well, that’s the lot. We developed all the film we confiscated that night. If the killer walked in and shot him, Landis didn’t get it on film.”
Toni turned to Devine. “May I have these prints or copies? I might want to look at them again.”
“Sorry, no can do. The pictures are evidence and the D.A. is fussy about that. Wouldn’t want them falling into the hands of some cheap tabloid.”
Michael turned to Toni. “Don’t be discouraged. You remembered something. That’s a start.”
“It isn’t enough.” She sighed, watching the detective return the prints to the envelope. Did one of them hold a memory waiting to be unlocked? She needed something, anything, that would fill in the blank that still existed in her mind. Instead, all she’d seen were images of herself.
“I was afraid this was a dead-end,” Devine said.
“At least you don’t have a picture of me aiming a gun at him.” She tried for a laugh.
Devine’s face scrunched as if in disappointment, but he didn’t comment.
After thanking the detectives for their time, Toni and Michael left the building to find the sky almost totally dark.
“Let’s have some dinner,” he said.
“It’s late. You’re probably starved.”
“No problem. Our investigation tonight just took more time than we thought.”
He took her to an Italian restaurant decorated with bunches of plastic grapes hanging from criss-crossed strips of lath on the ceiling. Framed prints of Italian landmarks decorated the walls. Like lava on a tiny mountain, wax dripped from candles set into old Chianti bottles centered on each table. A violinist, a soprano, and a tenor performing “Come Back to Sorrento” stood near a dining couple. She ordered cheese ravioli, and he chose tortellini with shrimp.
After ordering, Toni glanced toward Michael. This was the third time they’d shared a meal. She liked being with an intelligent man whose judgment she trusted, who made her feel safe. And, more important, saw her as a person, not an actress.
She told him that the pictures had jogged her memory a bit; at least she remembered the photo session with Craig. “But not his murder. That’s still locked in my subconscious.”
“Not forever. Today you made progress. Tomorrow or the next day, or one day after that, everything that happened will be clear to you.”
She smiled and nodded. That was her fondest hope.
The waiter brought a basket of Italian bread, dishes of olive oil mixed with herbs, and the red wine Michael ordered. He filled their glasses.
Michael raised his in a toast. “Here’s to Alexandra Bradshaw. May she recover and spend the next five years tormenting men on Beekman Place.”
Toni touched her glass to his. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Or at least long enough for you to get noticed and win an Emmy Award.”
She looked up at him. “How do you know Nathan? Producing television shows and practicing criminal law don’t usually occupy the same niche.”
“We met at an AIDS benefit two years ago. After that he asked me to serve on a committee to raise funds for a medical clinic to serve the homeless.”
As they talked of social problems and the lack of finances to solve them facing not only New York but the entire country, Toni realized Michael Benedict would be a wonderful advocate for people in need. He seemed totally devoid of ego. She was beginning to like him a lot and not just because he was her advocate.
The waiter brought their dinners, and they ate in silence for a while.
“Nathan’s become a good friend,” Michael said. “I enjoy his company. Occasionally, when he needs an extra man, I get invited to his dinner parties and hear all the theater and movie talk. Perhaps that’s why he thought of me when you needed a lawyer.”
“I’m grateful.” She hesitated, not sure if she should say what was on her mind, then went ahead. “Did any of the ladies Nathan paired you with for an evening take you off the ‘extra’ list?”
“Not so far. Having been married once, I’m not in a hurry to repeat the experience.”
She put her glass down and reached for a slice of bread. “Was it that bad?”
He sipped his wine for a moment before answering. “My ex-wife is very beautiful, but what I interpreted as sophistication turned out to be a lack of interest in anyone but herself.”
“I believe you told me you had no children.”
“No, we were only married three years. By that time we realized we had little in common. Jeralyn liked a very social—read shallow—crowd. People who couldn’t care less if the oceans turn into nuclear waste dumps, the poor get poorer, and the street people multiply exponentially. Provided it’s not in their neighborhood, of course.” He stopped abruptly, as if he’d said more than he intended.
“She didn’t mind being divorced?”
“Not a bit. She was relieved, because at that point, I wanted to leave the security of the well-known firm I’d joined right out of law school to open my own practice.”
“It would seem you’ve done well on your own.”
“I wish I’d met you at one of Nathan’s parties.”
For a moment, Toni didn’t know how to respond. She was beginning to like him a lot, to think about him as a man, not just her attorney. Still, he was her attorney, and that put a different complexion on it. She looked down, not at him.
He summoned the waiter and ordered Cappuccino for them both. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that Gil is working on a promising angle.” He drained the wine from his glass and set it down.
“Which promising angle is that?”
“Looking into Craig’s background. Turns out he came from a family with money. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t. He never talked about it. My impression was that his sole concerns in life were cameras and women.”
“They were. He was a black sheep. Wouldn’t finish college, left home, and became a newspaper photographer. Did some porn stuff on the side, Gil found. However, his parents gave him the money to start his business with Flax.”
Toni frowned. “Was he still doing pornography?”
“Probably not since he opened the business. Why jeopardize his reputation with something sleazy?”
“There are rumors Craig was moonlighting with Leo’s daughter, Veronica, filming her in the nude. She’s only sixteen. If he planned to sell them—”
“Gil seems to think Craig’s interest in Veronica was strictly personal, that he was probably taking her to bed.”
Toni winced. “That business of the falling light makes it seem I might have been the murderer’s original target, but if Leo knew about Craig and Veronica …. Is Gil investigating that possibility?”
“I’m sure he’s following up on everything.”
“Leo’s reputation is far from pure. There’s talk he used drugs. He cheated on all three wives.”
“Sometimes men can turn surprisingly virtuous where their own daughters are concerned.”
“Veronica has a lot of natural talent. She’s become a good actress. If Craig was on the point of spoiling all that, who knows? Yet I can’t see her in the role of killer.”
“Don’t forget Janet Whitman, or the model Kristianna, who’s going to have his child.”
“I can’t think of any reason Janet would have for killing Craig, even though she seems to have disliked him intensely. And why would Kristianna kill him? She can’t establish paternity and get the court to order child support when the man is dead.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t need child support. What if he refused to acknowledge paternity? Or, if he had, threatened to sue for custody after the baby is born?”
Toni finished her coffee and set the cup down. “I know all these people. It’s hard to imagine any of them actually murdering anyone else. I’d like to think it was Victor Marino—someone who’s lived a violent, illegal life already. If he’s guilty, he could be sent to prison for life this time.”
“I hope the police find him and arrange for a line-up.”
“I didn’t recognize anyone in the mug shots they showed me.” She folded her napkin. “Speaking of pictures, I wish they’d given me copies of the ones Craig took. I have a strong feeling I need to see them again.” A strange thought came to her mind. “Can you think of a way to get them for me?”
He picked up his empty wine glass and rolled the stem between his fingers. “I might.” He changed the subject. “For the more immediate present, I have something to ask you. My parents are planning their annual Labor Day barbecue at their home in Connecticut. I’d like it very much if you could join us.”
That came as a surprise. Meeting his family.
At her hesitation, he went on quickly, “Fran and Richard will be back from London by then. My brother Brad and his family are due from California, and my two other sisters and their husbands have promised to be on hand. It should be more than the usual madhouse. You’ll have a good time. In addition, in spite of all our other faults, we’re a pretty discreet lot. No one will ask you any embarrassing questions.”
“It sounds lovely … if you’re sure I wouldn’t be intruding.”
“Far from it. They’d all love to meet you, and I can guarantee you’ll like them.”
If they were all like Michael, how could she help it? She envied him his large and obviously close family. She’d never had that, and hadn’t, until now, realized she missed it. She’d formed no serious attachments, putting her career first. Her fellow actors were her family. It was so obvious. The lonely child seeking attention and getting it from strangers.
She smiled across at Michael. “Why don’t I bring the dessert?”