Death of a Blue Movie Star (Rune 2)

"Please."

"Maybe," Healy said.

"What about the fingerprints?"

"I told you. They were negative."

"Not on the phone," Rune said. "On the letters? The ones from the Sword of Jesus, about the angels?"

He debated. Then said, "Whoever wrote them used gloves."

"Where was the paper from?"

"I said I'd answer one question."

"You said maybe you would. Which means you haven't ruled out answering two."

"I make the rules. I answered you. Now promise me you'll just make your movie and stay out of the investigation."

She brushed her bangs out of her eyes, then stuck her hand out. "Okay. But only if you give me exclusive press coverage."

"Deal." His large, tough hand enfolded hers. He didn't let go. For a moment the only sound was of the wind. She knew he wanted to kiss her and she was ready to kiss him back--in a certain noncommittal way. But the moment passed and he released her hand. They gazed at each other for a moment. Then he turned toward the pit.

"Come on," he said, "I'll let you throw a hand grenade, you want."

"Yeah?" she asked excitedly.

"Well, a practice one."

Rune said, "That's okay. I'll work my way up."

Through the huge backstage doorway Rune saw a construction site, not a theater.

The aroma was of sawn wood and the nose-pinching, sweet smell of paint and varnish. Lumber was in constant motion, carried by husky men in T-shirts printed with the names of long-gone Broadway plays. Cables snaked along the dusty, battered stage.

Shouts, the boom, boom, boom of hammers, the shrill screech of electric saws, routers, drills.

She walked into the wings of the stage. True, she'd painted backdrops for one high school play, as she'd told Arthur Tucker. And she had been in several pageants. But she'd never been backstage at a real theater. And she didn't realize how much space there was behind the curtain.

And what an ugly, scuffed, beat-up space it was.

A huge cavern, a massive pit in the Underworld. She made her way unnoticed to the front of the stage. Three people sat in the front row, bent over a script. Two men and a woman. Their discussion was animated. They were having a disagreement.

Rune interrupted. "Excuse me.... Are you Michael Schmidt?"

A man about forty-five looked up and his first motion was to remove his reading glasses, which had half lenses in the bottom of the frames.

"Yes?"

The others--a heavy man in a work shirt and a woman inhaling greedily on a cigarette and looking grim--had not looked up. They stared at the script as if they were identifying a body in the morgue.

Rune said, "Your office told me I could find you here."

"Did they now? I'll have to talk to someone about that." Schmidt was short, very compact, and in good shape. Rune could see his biceps squeezed by the cuffs of his close-fitting short-sleeve shirt. Though he was muscular his face looked unhealthy; his eyes were red and watery. Maybe allergies.

Maybe, she thought, CS tear gas ...

She looked around the seats near the producer for a red windbreaker and a hat. Didn't see any.