Romance

2

BECAUSE SHE DID A LITTLE DOPE EVERY NOW AND THEN, SHE was never comfortable around cops anyhow. She knew this had to be done, coming here this afternoon, but just approaching a police station made her nervous. Gave her the willies just seeing those big green globes with the numerals 87 on them, one hanging on each side of the tall wooden entrance doors, each one screaming “Cop! Cop!” And sure enough, a real live cop in a blue uniform was standing at the top of the steps just to the right of the doors, looking her over as she climbed the steps, and fumbled with the brass knob, and opened the door. She smiled at him as if she’d just killed her mother with a hatchet.

Where she was when she stepped through the door was inside a big, noisy, high-ceilinged room with a lot of uniformed cops milling around, and a high wooden desk on her right, with a brass rail in front of it about waist high, and a sign on the counter stating ALL VISITORS MUST STATE BUSINESS. There were two more uniformed cops behind the desk, one of them drinking coffee from a cardboard container. A clock behind the desk read ten minutes past four. The rain had stopped, but it was still pretty brisk for April, and the room seemed chillier somehow than it did outside, maybe because there were no windows in it or maybe because it was full of cops. She stepped up to the desk, cleared her throat, and said to the one drinking coffee, “My name is Michelle Cassidy, I’d like to talk to a detective, please.

“Kling wondered if Deputy Chief Surgeon Sharyn Everard Cooke had ever been inside a detective squadroom. You worked here at the Eight-Seven long enough, you began believing everybody in the entire city had been here before, everybody knew precisely what it looked like, down to the tiniest fingernail scraping. But he couldn’t imagine Sharyn’s job taking her anywhere near the outer reaches of the solar system here, which he sometimes felt the 87th Precinct was. A planet devoid of anything but the basest form of animal life, an airless, sunless, apple-green void where nothing ever changed, everything remained always and ever exactly the same.

He wondered if her office at Rankin Plaza was painted the same bilious green as the squadroom here. If so, was it as soiled as the paint on the walls of this room that was used and abused twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, six in leap year, which this happened to be? He could remember the squadroom being painted only once in all the time he’d worked here. He was not looking forward to that experience again anytime soon, thank you. He supposed apple green and shoddy were the operative interplanetary words that best described the squadroom, or in fact the entire station house. Well, maybe shoddy was too mild a word, perhaps a better description would have been seedy or even shabby, although to tell the truth the only valid description was shitty, a word he had not yet used in the deputy chief’s presence, and might never find an opportunity to use with her ever in his lifetime if last night’s date was any indication.

The Italian restaurant she’d chosen was called La Traviata, which might have led one to believe they’d be piping operatic music into the place, but instead they seemed to favor Frank Sinatra’s Hundred Greatest Hits. Which was okay with Kling. He was a Sinatra fan, and he really didn’t mind hearing him sing “Kiss” over and over again, even if by the fifth time around he knew all the lyrics by heart.

And so on.

But then “One for My Baby” came on for the third time.

The conversation had hit one of those unexpected roadblocks by then, although Kling couldn’t figure out what he’d said or done to cause her sudden silence. Being a detective, he knew that people sometimes reacted belatedly to something that’d been said or done minutes or even hours ago — sometimes years ago, as was the case with a lady they’d arrested recently for poisoning her husband twelve years after he’d called her a whore in front of their entire bowling team. So he was sitting there across from her, trying to figure out why all at once she looked so thoughtfully sullen, when, gee whiz, what a surprise, here came “One for My Baby” again. Hoping to yank her out of whatever the hell was bugging her, and thinking he was making a brilliant observation besides, he remarked that here was a song that merely threatened to tell a story, but never got around to actually telling the story.

“Guy’s had a disastrous love affair,” he said, “and he keeps promising the bartender he’ll tell him all about it, but all he ever does is tell him he’s going to tell him.”

Blank expression on her face.

As if she were ten thousand miles away.

He wondered suddenly if she herself was trying to recover from a disastrous love affair. If so, was she thinking about whoever the guy might have been? And if so, when had the ill-fated romance ended? Twelve years ago? Twelve days ago? Last night?

He let it go.

Concentrated instead on the linguini with white clam sauce.

“Is it because I’m black?” she asked suddenly.

“Is what because you’re black?” he asked.

“That you asked me out.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

Is it? he wondered.

Before now, he’d never dated a black woman in his life.

But what the hell had brought that on?

“Is it because I’m white?” he asked lightly, and smiled.

“That you accepted?”

“Maybe,” she said.

And did not return his smile, he noticed.

“Well… do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“No. Not now.”

“When?”

“Maybe never.”

“Okay,” he said, and went back to the linguini.

He figured that was the end of the story. So long, Whitey, nice to’ve known you, but hey, this ain’ gon work, man.

When she told him after dinner that she’d really rather not go to a movie, they both had to get up so early, and it was already close to ten, he was certain this meant so long and goodbye, bro, see you roun the pool hall one of these days. They shook hands outside her apartment. She thanked him for a nice time. He told her he’d had a nice time, too. It was still raining, but only lightly. He walked through the drizzle from her building to the train station five blocks away.

Three black teenagers came into the car while the train was still on the overhead tracks in Calm’s Point. They seemed to be considering him as they approached. He gave them a look that said Don’t even think it, and they went right on by.

The phone on his desk was ringing.

What Michelle saw when she reached the top of the second-floor landing was another sign nailed to the wall, indicating that the DETECTIVE DIVISION was either just down the corridor past several doors respectively labeled LOCKER ROOM and MEN’S LAVATORY and CLERICAL OFFICE, or else right there on the landing itself, since the sign merely announced itself in black letters on a smudged white field, but gave no other directions. She followed her instincts, and — being right-handed — turned naturally to the right and walked down the hall past the smell of stale sweat seeping from the locker room, and the stench of urine floating from behind the men’s room door, and the wafting aroma of coffee brewing in the clerical office, a regular potpourri here in this “little old cop shop,” as the Detective called it in the play they were rehearsing. At the end of the hall, she saw first a slatted wooden rail divider and beyond that several dark green metal desks and telephones and a bulletin board with various photographs and notices on it, and a hanging light globe, and further into the room some more green metal desks and finally a bank of windows covered with metal grilles. A good-looking blond man sat at one of the desks. She stopped at the railing, cleared her throat again the way she had downstairs, and said — remembering to project — “Detective Kling?”

Kling looked up.

The woman had hair the color of a fire truck dipped in orange juice. Eyes the color of periwinkles. Wearing a tight blue sweater that matched the eyes. Peacoat open over it. Navy-blue skirt to match the coat. Big gold-buckled belt. Blue high-heeled pumps.

“The desk sergeant said I should see you,” she said.

“Yes, he called me a minute ago,” he said. “Come on in.”

She found the latch on the inside of the railing gate, looked surprised when the gate actually opened to her touch, and came tentatively into the room. Kling stood as she approached his desk, and indicated the chair opposite him. She sat, crossing her legs, the blue skirt riding high on her thighs. She lifted her behind, tugged at the skirt, made herself comfortable in the hard-backed chair. Kling sat, too.

“I’m Michelle Cassidy,” she said. “I spoke to someone up here earlier this morning, he said I should come in.”

“Would you remember who that was?”

“He had an Italian name.”

“Carella?”

“I think so. Anyway, he said to come in. He said some-one would help me.”

Kling nodded.

“Let me get some information,” he said, and rolled a DD form into the typewriter. He spaced down to the slot calling for the date of the complaint, typed in today’s date, April 6, spaced down some more to the NAME slot, typed in C-A-S-S, stopped and looked up. “Is that A-D-Y or I-D-Y?” he asked.

“I,” she said.

“Cassidy,” he said, typing. “Michelle like in the Beatles?”

“Yes. A double L.”

“May I have your address, please?”

She gave him her address and the apartment number and her phone number there, and also a work number where she could be reached.

“Are you married?” he asked. “Single? Divorced?”

“Single.”

“Are you employed, Miss Cassidy?”

“I’m an actress.”

“Have I seen you in anything?” he asked.

“Well… I played the lead in Annie,“ she said. “And I’ve been doing a lot of dinner theater work in recent years.”

“I saw the movie,” he said. “Annie.”

“I wasn’t in the movie,” she said.

“Good movie, though,” he said. “Are you in anything right now?”

“I’m rehearsing a play.”

“Would it be a play I know?”

“I don’t think so. It’s a new play, it’s called Romance. We’re opening it uptown here, but we hope to move down-town later. If it’s a hit.”

“What’s it about?”

“Well, that’s the funny part of it.”

“What is?”

“It’s about an actress getting phone calls from somebody who says he’s going to kill her.”

“What’s funny about that?”

“Well… that’s why I’m here, you see.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Cassidy, I’m not foll…”

“I’ve been getting the same kind of calls.”

“Threatening calls, do you mean?”

“Yes. A man who says he’s going to kill me. Just like in the play. Well, not the same language.”

“What does he say? Exactly?”

“That he’s going to kill me with a knife.”

“With a knife.”

“Yes.”

“He specifies the weapon.”

“Yes. A knife.”

“These are the real calls we’re talking about, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Not the ones in the play.”

“No. These are the calls I’ve been getting for the past week now.”

“A man saying he’s going to kill you with a knife.”

“Yes.”

“Which of these numbers does he call?”

“My home number. The other one is the backstage phone. At the theater.”

“He hasn’t called you there?”

“No. Not yet, anyway. I’m very frightened, Detective Kling.”

“I can imagine. When did these calls start?”

“Last Sunday night.”

“That would’ve been… “He looked at his desk calendar. “March twenty-ninth,” he said.

“Whenever.”

“Does he seem to know you?”

“He calls me Miss Cassidy.”

“What does he…?”

“Sort of sarcastically. Miss Cassidy. Like that. With a sort of sneer in his voice.”

“Tell me again exactly what he…”

“He says, `I’m going to kill you, Miss Cassidy. With a knife.’ ”

“Have there been any threatening letters?”

“No.”

“Have you seen any strangers lurking about your building…’’

“No.”

‘’… or the theater?’’

“No.”

“Which theater is it, by the way?”

“The Susan Granger. On North Eleventh.”

“No one hanging around the stage door…”

“No.’’

“… or following you…?”

“No.”

“… or watching you? For example, has anyone in a restaurant or any other public place…?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Just the phone calls.”

“Yes.”

“Do you owe money to anyone?”

“No.”

“Have you had any recent arguments or altercations with…”

“No.”

“I don’t suppose you fired anyone in recent…”

“No.”

“Any boyfriends in your past who might…”

“No. I’ve been living with the same man for seven years now.”

“Get along okay with him?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I have to ask.”

“That’s okay. I know you’re doing your job. We have the same thing in the play.”

“Sorry?” Kling said.

“There’s a scene where she goes to the police, and they ask her all these questions.”

“I see. What’s his name, by the way? The man you’ve been living with.”

“John Milton.”

“Like the poet.”

“Yes. Well, actually, he’s an agent.”

“Would anyone have reason to be jealous of him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Or want to get back at him for something? Through you?”

“Gee, I don’t think so.”

“Do you get along with all the people involved in this play?”

“Oh, sure. Well, you know, there are little…”

“Sure.”

“… tiffs and such. But for the most part, we get along fine.”

“How many people are there?”

“In the cast? Just four of us, really. Speaking roles, any-way. The rest of the people are sort of extras. Four actors do all the other parts.”

“So that’s eight altogether.”

“Plus all the technical people. I mean, this is a play. It takes lots of people to put on a play.”

“And you say you get along with all of them.”

“Yes.”

“This man who calls you… do you recognize his voice, by any chance?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t sound at all familiar, him?”

“No.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think it would. But sometimes…”

“Well, he doesn’t sound like anyone I know, if that’s what you mean. Personally, I mean. If that’s what you mean.”

“Yes, that’s what I…”

“But he does sound familiar.”

“Oh^?“

“He sounds like Jack Nicholson.”

“Jack…?”

“The actor.”

“Oh.“

“That same sort of voice.”

“I see. But you don’t know Jack Nicholson personally, is what you’re…”

“I wish I knew him,” she said, and rolled her eyes.

“But you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

“The caller just sounds like Jack Nicholson.”

“Or somebody trying to imitate Jack Nicholson.”

“I don’t suppose you know anyone who does Jack Nicholson imitations, do you?

“Yes, I do,” she said.

“You do?” he said, and leaned across the desk toward her. “Who?”

“Everybody.”

“I meant personally. Anyone in your circle of friends or…?”

“No.”

“Can you think of anyone at all who might want to harm you, Miss Cassidy?”

“No, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t suppose you have caller ID, do you?”

“I sure don’t,” she said.

“Well,” he said, “let me talk this over with some of the other detectives, get their opinion, run it by the lieutenant, see if he thinks we can get a court order for a trap-and-trace. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“I wish you would,” she said. “I think he’s serious.”

There were three deputy chiefs working under the police department’s chief surgeon. One of these was an elderly shrink, another was an administrative executive, and the third was Sharyn herself. Sharyn was a board-certified surgeon with four years of medical school behind her, plus five years of residency as a surgeon, plus four years as chief resident at the hospital. The shingle on the door to her office read:

She had worked here at 24 Rankin Plaza for the past five years, competing for the job against a hundred applicants, some of whom now served elsewhere in the police department’s medical system; there were twenty-five district surgeons employed in five police clinics throughout the city. Each of them earned $62,500 a year. As one of the deputy chief surgeons, Sharyn earned $68,000 a year, for which she had to put in some fifteen to eighteen hours a week here in the Majesta office. During the rest of the week, she maintained her own private practice in an office not far from Mount Pleasant Hospital in Diamondback. In a good year, Deputy Chief Cooke earned about five times what Detective/Third Grade Kling earned.

Which had nothing to do with the price of fish, as her mother was fond of saying.

She had not yet told her mother she’d dated a white man last night.

Probably never would tell her.

The man in her office at four-thirty that Monday after-noon was a black man. There were some thirty-one thousand police officers in this city, and whenever one of them got sick, he or she — fourteen percent of the force was female — reported to one of the district police surgeons who worked for two and a half hours every day of the week at staggered times specified by the department and familiar to every member of the force. The district surgeon conducted a thorough physical examination, and then determined whether the officer should be allowed to stay out sick — with full pay, of course — or be put on limited-capacity duty for ninety days, after which the officer was expected to return to active duty unless he was still sick. It was up to the district surgeons and ultimately the deputy chief surgeon to determine whether a cop was really ill or simply malingering. Any cop who was out sick for more than a year was brought before the Retirement Boad under Article IV, and requested either to return to full duty or else leave the job. There was no alternative. It was all or nothing at all.

The black man sitting in a straight-backed metal chair alongside Sharyn’s desk had been out sick for a hundred and twenty-two days now. Part of that time, he’d been flat on his back in bed at home. The rest of the time, he’d worked on and off at restricted-duty desk jobs in precincts here and there throughout the city. His name was Randall Garrod. He was thirty-four years old and had been a member of the force for thirteen years. Before he began developing severe chest pains, he had worked as an undercover out of a narcotics unit in Riverhead.

“How are the pains now?” Sharyn asked.

“Same,” he said.

“I see you’ve had an electrocardiogram…”

“Yeah.”

“… and a stress test…”

“Yeah.”

“… and a thallium stress test, all of them normal.”

“That’s what they say. But I still have the pains.”

“Gastroenterologist took X rays, did an endoscopy, found nothing.”

“Mm.”

“I see you’ve even had an echocardiogram. No indication of a mitral valve prolapse, everything normal. So what’s wrong with you, Detective Garrod?”

“You’re the doctor,” he said.

“Take off your shirt for me, will you?”

He was a hit shorter than she was, five-seven or — eight, Sharyn guessed, a small wiry man who stood now and unbuttoned his shirt and then draped it neatly over the back of the metal chair. His chest, arms, and abdomen were well-muscled, he obviously worked out regularly. His skin was the color of a coconut shell.

She thought suddenly of Bert Kling. Stethoscope to Garrod’s chest, she listened.

That color is good for you.

Referring to her suit. The blue of her suit. The smoky blue that matched her eye shadow.

“Deep breath,” she said. “And hold it.”

Listening.

Sinatra was singing “Kiss” for the ten thousand, two hundred and twenty-eighth time.

— So hold me tight and whisper

— Words of

— Love against my eyes.

— And kiss me sweet and promise

— Me your

— Kisses won’t be lies…

“Another one, please. And hold it.”

— That color is good for you.

But what had he really been saying, this blond, hazel-eyed honkie sitting opposite her, twirling linguini on a fork, what had he really been saying about color? Or trying to say. How come he hadn’t until that very moment noticed or remarked upon the very obvious fact that she was black and he was white? That color is good for you, sistuh, and then moving on fast to comment pithily on a dumb song featuring a drunk in a saloon pouring out his heart to a jaded bartender who kept setting them up, Joe, when all she wanted to know…

— Is it because I’m black?

— Is what because you’re black?

— That you asked me out.

— No, I don’t think so. Is it because I’m white? That you accepted?

— Maybe.

— Well… do you want to talk about it?

— No. Not now.

— When?

— Maybe never.

— Okay.

Which, of course, had been the end of all conversation until it calve time to say Gee, you know, Bert, I don’t think we have time to catch that movie, really, and besides we’ve both got to be up early tomorrow morning, and anyway do you really like cop movies, maybe we ought to call it a night, huh?

— Thank you, I had a very nice time.

— No, hey, thank you. I had a nice time, too. Palpating the chest wall now, pushing along the sternum…

“Feel any pain here?”

“No.”

“How about here?”

“No.”

Ruling out any inflammation of the carti…

“What’s this?” she asked suddenly.

“What’s what?” Garrod said.

“This scar on your shoulder.”

“Yeah.”

“Looks like a healed bullet wound.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that what it is?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t see anything in your file about…”

“It’s in there, all right.”

“A gunshot wound? How’d I miss a gunshot wound?”

“Maybe you didn’t go back far enough.”

“When did you get shot?”

“Six, seven months ago.”

“Before the chest pains started?”

“Yeah.”

She looked at him.

“The scar’s got nothin to do with those pains,” he said. “The scar don’t hurt at all.”

“But the pains started after you got shot.”

“Yeah.”

“You keep testing normal…”

“Yeah, but…”

“EKGs, stress tests, GI tests, everything normal, no muscular problems…”

“One thing’s got nothing to do with…”

“How soon after the shooting did you go back to work?”

“Few weeks after rehab.”

“Where was that?”

“Buenavista.”

“Good program there.”

“Yeah.”

“Went back to undercover?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you doing undercover when the chest pains started?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Who’d you work with at Buenavista?”

“Oh, the physical therapists. Getting the shoulder working again. I’m in good shape, you know…”

“Yes.”

“So it didn’t take long.”

“Did you talk to anyone about getting shot?”

“Oh, sure.’’

“About the psychological aftereffects of getting shot?”

“Sure.”

“About post-trauma syndrome?”

“Lots of cops in this city get shot, you know. I’m not anybody special.”

“But you did talk to someone at Buenavista about…”

“Well, it didn’t apply, you see. I had no problem with it.”

Sharyn looked at him again.

“There’s someone I’d like you to see,” she said. “I want you to stop at the sick-call desk on your way out, and make an appointment with him. His name is Simon Waggenstein,” she said, writing it on one of her cards. “He’s one of the deputy chief surgeons here.”

“Why do I have to see another doctor? All I’ve done so far is go from one doctor to…”

“This one’s a psychiatrist.”

“No way,” Garrod said at once, and stood up, and yanked his shirt from where he had draped it over the chair. “Send me back to active duty, fuck it, I ain’t seeing no psychiatrist.”

“He may be able to help you.”

“I got chest pains and you want me to see a head doctor? Come on, willya?”

Angrily pulling on the shirt, buttoning it swiftly, not looking at her.

“Why haven’t you applied for a pension?” she asked.

“I don’t want a pension.”

“You want to stay on the force, is that it?”

“I’m a good cop,” he said flatly. “Getting shot don’t make inc no less a good cop.”

“But you can quit with a pension anytime you want…”

“I don’t want to quit.”

“You don’t have to invent imaginary chest pains to keep you off the street…”

“They’re not imaginary!”

“You’re entitled to the pension…”

“I don’t want the…”

“You can claim…”

“I want back on the street!”

“… federal disability incur…”

“I wasn’t afraid to go back!”

“But if you didn’t want to risk it again, nobody would blame…”

“They already blame me!” he said. “They think I got shot because I wasn’t doing the job right. I must’ve been doing something wrong or I wouldn’ta got shot in the first place, you understand? To them, I’m some kinda failure. They don’t even want to be around me, man, they’re afraid they’re liable’a get shot if they’re even around me. I take that disability pension…”

He stopped, shook his head.

“I’m a good cop,” he said again.

“You go another eight months with chest pains nobody can find, you’ll be looking at an Article Four…”

“Yeah, but if I quit…”

“Yeah?”

“If I grab the pension and run…”

“Yeah?”

“They’ll say the nigguh’s got no balls.”

“Neither have I,” Sharyn said.

They stood looking at each other. The phone rang, startling them both. She picked up the receiver.

“Chief Cooke,” she said.

“Sharyn? It’s me.”

Bert Kling?

Now what the hell?

“Just a second,” she said, and covered the mouthpiece. “Promise me you’ll make that appointment,” she said.

“Give me the fuckin card,” he said, and snatched it from her hand.

The rehearsal had resumed at five P.M. that Monday and it was now a little past six. All four actors in the leading roles had been on the stage together for the past hour in three of the play’s most difficult scenes. Tempers were beginning to fray.

Freddie Corbin had named his four major characters the Actress, the Understudy, the Detective, and the Director. Michelle found this pretentious, but then again she found the whole damn play pretentious. The other four actors in it played about ten thousand people, half of them black, half of them white, none of them with speaking roles, all of them intended to convey “a sense of time and place,” as Freddie himself had written in one of his interminably long stage directions.

The two male extras played detectives, thieves, doormen, restaurant patrons, ushers, librarians, cabdrivers, waiters, politicians, hot dog vendors, salesmen, newspaper reporters and television journalists. The two female extras played prostitutes, police officers, telephone operators, secretaries, waitresses, cashiers, saleswomen, token takers, newspaper reporters and television journalists. All four, male or female, were also responsible for quickly moving furniture and props during the brief blackouts between scenes.

There were two acts in the play and forty-seven scenes. The sets for each scene were “suggestive rather than literal,” as Freddie had also written in one of his stage directions. A table and two chairs, for example, represented a restaurant. A bench and a section of railing represented the boardwalk in Atlantic City, where the Actress wins the Miss America beauty pageant that is the true start of her career.

The scene they were rehearsing this afternoon was the one in which someone stabs…

“Do we ever find out for sure who stabbed her?” Michelle called to the sixth row, where she knew their esteemed director was sitting with Marvin Morgenstern, the show’s producer, affectionately called either “Mr. Morningstar” after the Herman Wouk character, or else “Mr. Money-bags” after his occupation. Michelle had shaded her eyes with one hand and was peering past the lights into the darkness. She felt this was a key question. How the hell was an actress supposed to portray a stabbing victim if she didn’t know who the hell had stabbed her?

“That’s not germane to the scene,” Kendall called from somewhere in the dark, she wished she could see where, she’d go out there and stab him.

“It’s germane to me, Ash,” she called, whatever the hell germane meant, still shading her eyes, still seeing nothing but the glare of the lights and the blackened theater beyond.

“Can we just get on with the scene?” he said. “We’ll go over who done what to whom when we do notes.”

“Excuse me, Ash,” she said, “but the scene happens to be what I’m talking about. And the whom who gets the what done to her happens to be meem. I come out of the restaurant and I’m walking toward the bus stop, and this person steps out of the shadows…”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Meesh, let’s just do the fucking thing, okay?”

Mark Riganti, the actor playing the Detective. Tall and lean and dark-haired and wearing jeans, sneakers, and a purple Ralph Lauren sweater.

“We’ve been doing the fucking thing,” Michelle said, “over and over again, and I still don’t know who it is that steps out of the shadows and stabs me.”

“That’s not important,” Andrea said.

Andrea Packer, the All About Eve twit who was playing the Understudy. Andrea was nineteen years old, with long blond hair, dark brown eyes and a lean, coltish figure. In real life, she had a waspish tongue and a cool manner that perfectly suited the character of the Understudy; sometimes, Michelle felt she wasn’t acting at all. Her rehearsal outfit this afternoon consisted of a short blue wraparound skirt over black leotard and tights.

Michelle hated her guts.

“Maybe it’s not important to you,“ she said, “but then again you’re not the one getting stabbed. I’m the one getting stabbed by this unidentifiable person who steps out of the shadows wearing a long black coat and a black hat pulled down over his or her head, who is really Jerry…”

“Hi,” Jerry said, popping his head out from behind the teaser, where he’d been waiting for his cue.

“… who was the waiter with the mustache in the scene just before this one. I don’t think it’s the waiter with the mustache who’s stabbing me, is it? Because then it becomes just plain ridiculous. And it can’t be the Detective who’s stabbing me because he’s the one who leads me back to finding myself again and all that. So it’s got to be either the Understudy or the Director because they’re the only other important characters in the play, so which one is it? Is it Andrea or is it Coop, I just want to know who it is.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s me,” Cooper Haynes said apologetically. He was forty-three years old, a dignified-looking gentleman who’d done years and years of soap opera — daytime serial, as it was known in the trade — usually playing one or another sympathetic doctor. In Romance, he was playing the Director. Actually, he was much nicer than any director Michelle had ever met in her life, even the ones who didn’t try to get in her pants. “I haven’t been playing the part as if I’m the one who stabs her,” he said, and shaded his eyes and looked out into the darkness. “Ash, if I am the stabber, I think I should know it, don’t you? It would change my entire approach.”

“I think we’re all entitled to know who stabs me,” Michelle said.

“I truly don’t care who stabs you,” Andrea said.

“Neither do l,” Mark said.

“Ashley’s right, it’s not germane to the scene.”

“Or even to the play.”

“Maybe the butler stabs you,” Jerry whispered from the wings.

“If a person gets stabbed, people want to know who stabbed her,” Michelle insisted. “You can’t just leave it hanging there.”

“This isn’t a play about a person getting stabbed,” Andrea said. “Or hanged.”

“Oh? What’s it about then? An understudy who can’t act?”

“Oh-ho!” Andrea said, and turned away angrily.

“Freddie, are you out there?” Michelle shouted to the theater.“Can you tell me who stabs…?”

“He’s not here, Michelle,” Kendall said wearily.

He was uncomfortably aware that Morgenstern was sitting beside him here in the sixth row and he didn’t want his producer to get the impression that he was losing control of his actors, especially when he actually was. The moment an actor started screaming for clarification from the playwright was the moment to come down hard, star or no star. Which, by the way, Michelle Cassidy wasn’t, Annie or no Annie, which was a hundred years ago, anyway.

Using his best Otto Preminger voice, seething with controlled rage, he said, “Michelle, you’re holding up rehearsal. I want to do this scene, and I want to do it right, and I want to do it now. If you have any questions, save them for notes. Meanwhile, I would like you to get stabbed now, by whoever the hell stabs you, as called for in the script at this point in the play’s time. You have a costume fitting at six-thirty, Michelle, and I would like to break for dinner at that time, so if we’re all ready, let’s begin again. Please. From where Michelle pays her check, and comes out of the restaurant, and walks into the darkness…”

From where he stood in the shadowed side doorway of the delicatessen that shared the alleyway with the theater, he saw her coming out of the stage door at the far end, tight blue sweater and open peacoat, short navy-blue mini, gold-buckled belt, blue high-heeled shoes. He backed deeper into the doorway, almost banging into one of the garbage cans stacked alongside it. She checked her watch, and then stepped out briskly in that long-legged stride of hers, high heels clicking, red hair glowing under the hanging stage door light.

He wanted to catch her while she was still in the alley, before she reached the lighted sidewalk. The delicatessen’s service doorway was just deep enough in from the street to prevent his being seen by any pedestrians, just far enough away from the stage door light, too. Clickety-click-click, long legs flashing, she came gliding closer to where he was standing. He stepped into her path.

“Miss Cassidy?” he said.

And plunged the knife into her.