The Fourth Wall (18 page)

“Men have been emasculated and lived to tell the story,” Lieutenant Goodlow said, “but the attacker couldn't count on it. Reddick could have died before an ambulance got there, and whoever our masked man is, he's no dummy. He wouldn't take a chance like that—since it would screw up his plan to keep his victims alive and suffering. Maybe it's enough just to make Reddick
think
he's in danger of being emasculated.”

“Oh, Lieutenant,” I said incredulously, “you aren't saying that whole scene was just to
scare
John?”

“Well, yes, that's what it comes down to Look. This man is out to destroy something that's valuable to each of the people he sees as his enemies. There's no delicate way of putting this, but aside from the theater, what's the most important thing in John Reddick's life?”

I nodded; the answer was obvious.

“Any man would panic, being threatened with emasculation,” Lieutenant Goodlow went on. “But a man who is a womanizer—why, the very idea of such a thing happening would be enough to make him lose his mind. Look at it from the murderer's point of view—to him it's a kind of poetic justice. Could there be any sweeter revenge than to force John Reddick to live out the rest of his life in absolute terror? You see what's happened—this man has attacked Reddick's fears, his insecurities. It's the perfect revenge.”

I was convinced. “That's exactly the way it would happen. Fear of the event perhaps being worse than the event itself? Something like that. Yes. It makes sense. My God, you've got to find John. You can't just let him run for the rest of his life.”

Lieutenant Goodlow's eyebrows shot up. “What's this about running for the rest of his life? We might just catch the murderer, you know—did you ever think of that?” His tone of voice said he wasn't offended.

I smiled uneasily. “John didn't think you would. He was convinced this faceless man would go on doing whatever he wanted to do as long as he felt like doing it.”

“And you? What do you think?”

I shrugged. “Does it matter what I think?”

Lieutenant Goodlow gave a short grunt. “That's a cop-out if I ever heard one.”

“Of course it is,” I agreed, “because I don't know what to think. I want to think you'll catch him. But frankly, my confidence is waning fast.”

“Then give us some help. Tell me why these things are happening. What did your repertory company
do
?”

“Nothing! We put on plays, that's what we did!”

“You were in operation for three years. Something must have happened during those three years.”

I snorted. “A lot of things happened. Do you know what it's like, putting on a play? It's an obstacle course, from beginning to end. You don't just wander into a theater and loll around being dramatic and creative and letting inspiration do all the work. And it
is
work, it's hard work, and things go wrong. All the time. You get a little paranoid sometimes, seeing how things are stacked against you. What can I tell you? How can I pick out one incident and say yes, this is what caused Rosemary Odell to be murdered, this is why John Reddick was threatened with emasculation?”

“You can narrow it down. We know the murderer isn't some would-be playwright out in the boondocks who went off his rocker when you turned down his script. And it isn't an actor who didn't get a part. It's somebody you know, and who knows you intimately, all of you. It's somebody who knows the best way to hurt Hugh Odell. It's somebody who knows how to reduce John Reddick to a bowl of jelly.”

I could only shake my head. “I don't know, I don't know.”

Lieutenant Goodlow stood up. “Could I have some soda water? My throat's getting dry.”

“Would you rather have a beer? Help yourself,” I gestured toward the refrigerator.

He got himself a beer and sat back down. “I sent a man to Yale to look up the records of Manhattan Repertory. We're not following up on it. Just too many names to check out—we have neither the budget nor the manpower to track down that many people. But I don't think it's necessary anyway. I think the answer is right here. With
Foxfire
. I think the murderer is actually in the company or at least someone well known to the company. For instance, how did he get backstage to kill Sylvia Markey's cat? He must be someone whose presence wouldn't be particularly noticed.”

He paused to drink some beer. “I want you to make out a list of everyone connected with
Foxfire
—cast, crew, the backers, the people in the box office—what do you call them?”

“Front-of-house. House manager, ticket sellers, secretary, ushers.”

“Everybody. The janitors, the watchmen, and the doorkeeper. Then go through the list one name at a time and try to remember if each one had
any
connection, any connection whatsoever, with Manhattan Repertory. Only when you're absolutely certain there's no connection, then cross that name off your list. Will you do that?”

“If you think it'll help,” I said without enthusiasm.

“I think it's essential,” he said shortly. “I'm going to ask the others to do the same thing—Hugh Odell, Ian Cavanaugh, Vivian Frank. What about Leo Gunn? Could he help? I imagine he did most of his work backstage, didn't he?”

“Oh no, not at all. Leo was on the governing committee.”

“What's that?”

“Well, we didn't have a producer per se. We hired a business manager, but we acted as our own producers. That's what the committee was for. It was made up of representatives from the various groups that work on a play—directors, actors, designers. Leo represented the backstage crews. He was in on all the decisions we made—what plays to produce, whom to cast, how much money to spend on each production.”

“Then I'll definitely want a list from him. How well did your committee work together?”

“About as well as any committee can be expected to. Perhaps a little better than most. We were all basically agreed about what we wanted or we wouldn't have been there in the first place.”

The Lieutenant finished his beer. “There's one other thing I want you to do. You have three locks on your front door. Buy two more. Then leave one unlocked every day. To fool anybody with a set of picks who might be trying to get in.”

I told him I'd see to it; I'd heard of the trick. Before he left he checked my back door and advised two more locks there as well. On his way out he said, “Try not to worry about your friend. I'm sure Reddick's all right.”

“But what if you can't find him?”

“If we can't find him, the murderer certainly won't. He doesn't have the resources we have. But I think the worst part is over, for Reddick. Keep your door locked.”

And on that cautionary note, he departed.

4

Griselda Gold accompanied the
Foxfire
tour company to Cleveland, where they opened Thursday night to lukewarm reviews. I thought I was prepared for that, but I wasn't. But in spite of the critics, the run was completely sold out, as was the next week's run in Chicago. Rosemary Odell's murder had made the name of the play familiar to the entire country. What a shitty way to make it big.

I called a locksmith and had the new locks installed, as Lieutenant Goodlow had suggested. Most of my time was spent working on The New Play. It was going fast, faster than I usually wrote. Short, cinematic scenes; multileveled stage with a minimum of props and stage furniture; all scenery projected. If I had a scene that could go three different ways, instead of deciding which would be best I'd write it all three ways and then leave it to decide upon later.

Lieutenant Goodlow called and wanted to know if I had his list of
Foxfire
people who'd also been associated with Manhattan Rep. I lied and said I hadn't quite finished; in truth, I hadn't even begun. But I couldn't put it off forever, so I got down to it.

Right away I was in trouble. Lieutenant Goodlow had asked me to consider everybody, and I realized I didn't know the name of a single one of the ushers. I knew the doorkeeper, and the night watchman's first name was Howard; but I didn't remember the name of the day watchman, the old man who'd been chloroformed when the set was wrecked. He might not even be working there any longer. And the guards Gene Ramsay had hired—what were their names? I'm sure I must have known their names at one time. But I was fairly certain none of these people had had anything to do with Manhattan Rep.

Allowing for all those question marks, I came up with the following names: John Reddick, Sylvia Markey, Ian Cavanaugh, Hugh Odell, Vivian Frank, Leo Gunn, Abigail James. I called Lieutenant Goodlow and read him my list.

“Similar to Cavanaugh's list—but with one exception,” said the Lieutenant. “He included a name you didn't. Jerry Rosen.”

Blank. “Who's Jerry Rosen?”

“Your former properties manager. Before, er, Tiny.”

“Oh, that Jerry. But he wasn't with Manhattan Rep.”

“Evidently he was. Both Cavanaugh and Leo Gunn put him on their lists.”

I tried to think. People had come and gone in the backstage crews at Manhattan Rep; it was hard to remember all of them. When I'd been introduced to Jerry during the
Foxfire
rehearsals, I'd spoken to him as to a new acquaintance and he hadn't corrected me. But maybe he'd forgotten me too, or had been too polite to remind me we'd met before.

“I'm sorry, Lieutenant, I just don't remember him.”

“Leo Gunn says he came in during the third year. Does that help?”

Then something clicked. The last two plays before we shut our doors forever. A big-eyed, skinny kid who looked as if he should still be in high school. “Yes,” I sighed, “Leo's right. Jerry was still a boy then—I didn't make the connection.”

“See how easy it is to overlook someone? Will you give it some more thought? There might be someone else.”

I promised I would.

“By the way, Jerry Rosen is in the clear. At the time Rosemary Odell was killed, he was in Beth Israel Hospital having a polyp removed from his nose. One more thing. Do you think you could nudge Vivian Frank a little? I still don't have her list.”

I said I would, and we both hung up. I still had my hand on the phone when it rang.

“Abby? This is Ian. Can you meet me for lunch? There's something we need to talk about.”

“Yes, certainly. What is it?”

“I'd rather tell you when I see you.” He named Paone's on East Thirty-fourth, and an hour later I was seated in the roomy restaurant worrying about fatting myself to death.

“It's John Reddick's apartment,” said Ian. “I'd assumed his parents would come to New York and close the apartment, but Goodlow says no.”

“Should it be closed?” I said.

“That's what I was wondering. What if John needs the place? He could still be in New York.”

“I doubt that. Goodlow says he didn't leave the country, but that still leaves a lot of space out there to hide in. Still, I think you're right—the apartment should be kept available. Just in case.”

“Will his parents pay the rent?”

“I've never met John's parents. But from what he's said about them, I don't think they can be counted on for much of anything.”

In the end we decided to take care of it ourselves—both of us hoping against hope that John might come out of hiding at any time. Ian would pay the rent and I'd take care of the utilities and the answering service, which we decided to continue for at least another month. It was a fair division of responsibility; Ian made a lot more money than I did.

“What do you think of Lieutenant Goodlow?” asked Ian.

“I like him,” I said. “And I think he's probably a good cop. But I don't expect any miracles. Have you ever seen him smile? I don't think I have.”

Ian toyed with his fish Malandrino. “I went to a private investigator, Abby. He wouldn't touch the case. Said there was nothing he could do that the police hadn't already done.”

I stopped eating.

“I'm next, you know,” Ian said calmly. “He missed me once, but that doesn't mean I'm off the hook. Sylvia took the cold cream that was meant for me, but he'll come up with something else. The private investigator advised me to leave town.”

“You're not going to, are you?”

“I've thought about it. Maybe John has the right idea. But one person can hide a lot easier than three. And I can't run away and leave my family here alone. I hate like hell the idea of going back to a bodyguard, but maybe that's the answer.”

I swallowed a little wine. “It seems to be working at the theater. Gene Ramsay's round-the-clock guard, I mean. It wouldn't hurt, Ian. I know you don't like the idea of a stranger in your home, but surely this can't go on forever.”

Ian gave a slow, sad smile. “Do you really believe that?”

I didn't answer.

“Abby. We're going to have to tell Goodlow about Michael Crown.”

Coming at me like that, out of the blue, it caught me off guard. Ian was evoking an ugly episode from our shared past that I'd thought was buried and done with. “I haven't thought of Michael Crown for years,” I said. “Why bring him up now? The man's dead. So is that whole episode. What can it possibly have to do with what's happening now?”

“I don't know. But Goodlow keeps hammering away at the idea that Manhattan Rep must have done something. Abby, we lived in a state of constant crisis the whole three years we were in operation—but there was nothing unusual about that. The only unusual thing that happened to us—the
only
thing—was Michael Crown.”

Michael Crown was a man who'd taken his own life three weeks before Manhattan Rep had officially opened its doors for the first time. Crown had never worked with Manhattan Rep—so I hadn't thought of him when trying to figure out what the company had done to cause such a rampage of vengeance. “I suppose you're right. I think I'd sealed Michael Crown off in a separate compartment of my mind. But I still don't see any connection between a suicide eight years ago and what's happening now.”