Murder on the Aisle Read online

  So Tobin sat and watched and tried hard to concentrate because he knew he was considered a Redford-Hoffman hater and he wanted to surprise his viewers by actually liking something these creeps did, but he couldn't. They were, as usual, dull. (Tobin had earned an unfair reputation as "negative. ") Actually (and he could prove it) 94 percent of all his reviews were positive, and whenever possible he sneaked in reminders of how underused many of our best actors were, from Albert Brooks to Jeff Bridges, from Marsha Mason (goddamn but she was good) to Carol Kane. He liked most actors and actresses and was a big admirer of many adventure films, including the early ones (especially) of Chuck Norris. So he wanted to like this movie, he really did, but it just wasn't a movie he could go for.

  He let his mind drift and of course it drifted back to the murder and he saw bloody Dunphy falling into his arms and saw smirking Huggins all but accuse him of murder and saw the sad satyr Neely waving good-bye and saying "It's a bitch of a world." And then he saw himself in bed last night—beyond the magic even of valium—wanting to call his eighteen-year-old son but knowing he was only being selfish, and so for once he didn't inflict his needs on others, just lay there and thought of Jane and how he'd loved her in his sad and clinging way all those years. . . . But did he love her now?

  A penlight went on two rows down. Then to his left another. Penlights were like fireflies in the shadows of the screening room. Ordinarily he hated them—too distracting—preferring to scribble his own notes in the darkness. He could read one out of maybe three lines afterward, but enough to finish his review. Then the penlights went off again—as if some secret signals had been exchanged—and so he drifted back to thinking about the murder again and the list he planned to compile today. . .

  Afterward in the lobby, several of the critics had cigarettes and exchanged quick opinions about the film. One liked it a lot, most seemed indifferent to it. Studio people tried to hover discreetly at the edges of the dialogue but you could see them leaning, leaning in hopes of hearing better.

  Chamales, from Manhattan East, was the first one to bring up what they all wanted to talk about.

  "Sorry about Dunphy," he said.

  "Thanks."

  Robert Chamales was a huge man who always dressed in worsted vested suits—Orson Welles as corporate executive. Tobin admired his writing and liked him personally, except for the old-fashioned English Oval cigarettes he smoked, which invaded the air like green apple farts. "Know what's going to happen to the show yet?"

  "Not really."

  "Poor Frank Emory."

  Tobin nodded. Chamales and Frank had gone to Yale together. Chamales said, "Your show was the only property he had."

  "Maybe we can find me a new partner—after a decent time, of course."

  As he was speaking, Tobin realized two things: his own crassness (talking about a new partner without expressing any sympathy whatsoever for the fact that his old partner had just been murdered) and that Chamales was proposing himself as Tobin's new partner.

  "Why don't the three of us have lunch sometime soon?" Chamales said.

  "Sure," Tobin said.

  "Why don't I call Frank to set something up?"

  "Fine." He was almost stunned by how indifferent they both were to Dunphy's death.

  Chamales took out a little leather notebook and wrote out a few lines with a tiny golden pen made even more delicate by his sausage fingers. "There. Fine," he said, dotting one of his Is the fussy-precise way Oliver Hardy would have. Then he said, "I don't suppose you're going to be taking over his screenwriting class, are you?"

  "I don't think so." Actually, Tobin had forgotten all about the class that Dunphy taught two nights a week at City College.

  "I suppose he would have given it up anyway. After the sale, I mean."

  "Sale?"

  Chamales glanced at him curiously. "You mean you didn't know?"

  "Know what?"

  "That he'd sold a screenplay to Paramount?"

  "No. No, I didn't."

  "Well, he did, and just yesterday afternoon." He frowned. "Maybe he just hadn't had time to tell you. I heard about it at the Regency. From his agent. Nearly six hundred thousand and half of it up front." The bar in the Regency Hotel was one of Chamales's favorite places. Chamales had once told him that if you sat in there three hours a day and stayed reasonably sober, you could learn half the things that mattered in the entire universe.

  "No, I hadn't heard about it." Tobin heard his voice shaking, his cheeks flush. So Dunphy had won the contest.

  There had been an unspoken competition between them that one of them would someday sell a screenplay and therefore become, without question, the dominant member of the duo.

  Which is just what Dunphy had done. It was pretty damn unbecoming to be jealous of a dead man, but that's just what Tobin was.

  Jealous.

  Of a dead man.

  He said good-bye to Chamales and went down into the elevator and into a world that was noisy with jingle bells and the sound of the cash register ringing. When a Salvation Army Santa Claus called after him for being such a cheapskate, Tobin flipped him the bird.

  Chapter 11

  1:27 P.M.

  Tobin cabbed to Hunter College and got out on the east side of Sixty-Eighth Street. The sun had appeared. Though classes were out for the holidays, there were several coeds with pink winter cheeks and sparkling eyes of recognition (otherwise eminently sane people went absolutely crazy when you were a TV star and wanted to do all sorts of things for and to you).

  He got out of the cab with the list Neely had started for him last night stuck between his gloved fingers. Though he had debated several additional names, he had not come up with any firm suspicions, so he couldn't yet write their names down. He was looking for motives.

  Hunter had once invited Nicholas Ray to speak in the sad last days of the director's life, which was how Tobin recalled where the film department was.

  A girl in a ponytail and with a breathtaking little ass was standing up at a moviola when he walked in.

  "Hi," he said.

  She turned around. She had an almost unnervingly sweet face, cowy brown eyes and ripe lips, but when recognition came she frowned. Most definitely frowned. As if she'd just spotted Hitler's son. "You're Tobin, the TV guy, aren't you?"

  "Yeah. Guess I am."

  "I really resented all the stuff you said about John Hughes a couple weeks ago."

  "Don't people say 'Hi' around here before they attack someone?"

  "It really unfair. He's great. Really. Great. Especially Ferris Bueller's Day Off."

  He was running on caffeine and fear, and so he was ready to go off. The girl's snottiness set him off. "He's just what I said he is. A racist homophobic candy ass."

  He could hear the high killer edge of drinking nights and simple animal rage in his voice. This was how he was when he pulled his motorcycle up five flights of stairs to a party or pushed a dishwasher downstairs.

  "Some of the staff were placing bets that you killed Richard and I was saying no but now I'm not so sure."

  The man who spoke was at least six feet five and he wore a blue cardigan sweater and neatly pressed chinos in such a way that he looked like a private-school boy even though his gray hair and stern, arrogant features marked him as middle-aged. He stank of books.

  He came out of an office in which a poster of Gloria Swanson as the Hollywood Medusa in Sunset Boulevard was prominently displayed.

  "I'm Baines. One of the film instructors here." He put out a lean hand, which Tobin accepted. Baines had a grasp like a snake bite—quick and stinging. "Sorry Marcie was so belligerent. But I guess you're not exactly a wonderful guy, are you?"

  Tobin was on the defensive now. "I don't care much for suburban fascists like Hughes."

  Baines smiled. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to change my bet, Mr. Tobin."

  Tobin shrugged. "Then you'd lose. I didn't kill him."

  "From the Post, I get the impression that isn't what the police think."

  "You read the Post?"

  Baines laughed. "I even read Dear Abby."

  The girl came up and put out her hand. "'My name's Marcie Pierce. I guess I was kind of rude."

  Tobin shook. "So was I."

  "Man, you really do have a temper. You were really mad."

  "I'm under some strain."

  "No kidding," she said. She looked back at the editing machine and the moviola she'd been working on. A frame of film was frozen there—a ballerina toweling her face after a performance.

  "Marcie's doing a ten-minute film on her roomie, who's in dance."

  "That's a nice shot," Tobin said. And it was.

  "Thanks," Marcie said. "Well, I'm going to go out for some lunch. You want anything, Larry?"

  "No, thanks. Already had a bite."

  She grinned. "You think I should say, 'Nice to meet you'?"

  Tobin smiled back. "Sure, why not?"

  She shrugged. "Well, then, nice to meet you."

  When she was gone, Baines said, "She's one of our best students."

  Tobin nodded. "Sorry for my temper."

  "No harm done." He took a small pipe from his pocket and placed it between his teeth unlit. "Trying to kick cigarettes. This is my teething ring."

  "It's not easy. I've tried several times. And failed." Baines took the pipe from his mouth. "So how can I help you?"

  "Well, frankly, I wondered if I could see Richard's office."

  "His office?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you mind if I ask why?"

  "I'm not sure why."

  Baines seemed to assess him for a long and silent moment during which Tobin became aware of frost on the corners of the windows and boot tracks where snow had melted on the floor. "May I ask you a question?"

  "Sure."

  "Does this have anything to do with the script?"

  "What script?"

  "The one he sold."

  "No. No, it doesn't."

  "I see."

  Now it was Tobin's turn to regard the other man at some length. "Why did you ask me that, Dr. Baines?"

  "No particular reason."

  "You're not telling me the truth."

  Baines startled Tobin by smiling and saying "No, Mr. Tobin, I'm not, am I?"

  "What's going on here?"

  "There was a break-in last night."

  "Here?"

  "Yes. In Richard's office, as a matter of fact."

  "Was anything taken?"

  "No one can be certain. But we do know that something was left."

  "What's that?"

  "This."

  From his pocket Baines took what appeared to be a small pin. He handed it to Tobin, who looked at it closely. "It's a union pin. Local 2786."

  "Right."

  "And you found it in Richard's office?"

  Baines nodded.

  "And nobody has any idea about its significance?"

  Baines shook his head. "Afraid not."

  "You called the police, I assume?"

  "Yes. Yes, we did."

  "Why don't they have this?"

  "Well, the fact is, we found it only a few hours ago. Marcie found it, as a matter of fact."

  "The police are pretty good at searches. Wonder how they missed this?"

  "I consider that curious, too."

  "What time were the police here?"

  "Around nine. Last night. I'd come in to work on a film I'm making and I found Richard's office forced open and papers strewn all over."

  "But Marcie found this pin this morning?"

  "Right."

  "Mind if I keep this?"

  "Mind if I ask why?"

  "What if I said I was working on a murder investigation and this might come in handy?"

  "They're really moving in on you, aren't they?"

  "Yes. That's why I need to find somebody else who'll look good to them."

  Baines stroked his face with long fingers. "I suppose I could be a suspect myself."

  "Why?"

  "I didn't like him and I made no secret of it. I used to do the screenwriting course and then they gave it to him. I resented that. A great deal, actually. I have much better credentials."

  "Oh?"

  "Sold two screenplays to Roger Corman a few years back, and last year NBC took an option on a mini-series idea of mine. Richard never sold anything except one terrible novel."

  Most Roger Corman scripts aren't terrible? Tobin wanted to ask. But a virus of civilization came over him. "Until recently. I'd consider six hundred thousand dollars a pretty decent sale." He felt good about defending Richard. That's what he should be doing, with Richard dead less than twenty-four hours.

  "Yes, I'd have to say that was a lot of money."

  "But other than yourself, you don't have anybody I could add to my suspect list?" He waved the piece of paper at Baines.

  "No, I'm afraid I don't."

  "No run-ins with students or faculty members or irate parents?"

  "None. He spent very little time here except when he lectured or when he came to see Sarah Nichols." He inclined his head to the open door. "Her office is right down the hall."

  "Maybe I'll stop by when I'm finished looking through Richard's office."

  Baines smiled again. "I don't recall saying I was going to let you do that. I'm not sure I can let you do that. The police have a yellow piece of tape across the doorframe that means verboten."

  "So you're not going to let me go in there?"

  "He may; but I won't."

  He didn't need to turn around to find out who stood in the doorway behind him.

  "Hello, Sarah," Baines said as she came in the room.

  She wore a forest-green sweater that made the auburn highlights of her hair dance in the sunshine. Her discreet brown skirt was meant to be prim but was all the sexier for its good intentions.

  She didn't say hello. Just came in and walked up to Tobin and said, "You're not going in there. You have no right."

  Her beauty faded a bit close up. She'd obviously spent a sleepless night crying.

  "In less than twenty-four hours, you struck Richard twice. Now you're here going through his personal belongings and I won't have it."

  Perfect fury blazed in her eyes and Tobin knew better than to say anything at all. He just had to let her work through her rage.

  "You knew damn well the public preferred him to you and that's why you wouldn't let him out of his contract—because you knew that, without him, you wouldn't be anything."

  He didn't believe that. Not at all. But all he could do was let her yell.

  "So you killed him." She started pacing now, and if her gestures—wild hand-flinging and glares that teetered on madness—were somewhat theatrical, he sensed that they were deeply felt, too. He was in the presence of a woman who had loved a man in the most profound way possible, and he couldn't help, but be awed and moved by the experience. "You did the only thing you could to save your trivial little career—you killed him. You killed him!"

  And that was when she slapped him.

  A good hard right hand exactly on the right cheekbone. Enough to daze him momentarily.

  His right hand came up automatically, but fortunately he stopped it in time.

  She stood in front of him, enraged and exhausted and completely spent yet somehow she found the strength to raise her hand again, but this time Baines took her wrist so she couldn't follow through. He let her fall against him, sobbing. As he led her out the door and back to her office, he nodded silently to Richard's office, giving approval for Tobin to go in and look around.

  Which Tobin, a few minutes later, did.

  And didn't find a damn thing.

  He stood on the corner of Sixty-eighth Street listening to Nat "King" Cole's "Christmas Song" coming from the speaker of a small grocery store nearby and watching people float by with holiday shopping bags and mufflers half hiding their faces. He was waiting for a cab. When one came he got in and gave the driver directions to Emory Communications and that was when he saw them.

  Just as the cab was pulling away.

  Just when he couldn't do a damn thing about it. The two of them.

  Standing near one of the college buildings. Talking. Richard Dunphy's agent Michael Dailey and the film student he'd just met, Marcie Pierce.

  Dailey was handing her a white envelope of some kind and Marcie was smiling.

  Smiling as if she had just been given a Christmas present that included at least half a dozen rubies.

  Chapter 12

  5:47 P.M.

  "My father’s right. I’m not cut out to be a boss."

  "Jesus, Frank."

  "You want to see the books, Tobin? I mean, would you care to sit down and go over the last P and L? You'd know what a loser I really am."

  "'There's nothing like self-confidence, Frank." But of course he was lying. He really didn't have much faith in Frank. He'd once attended one of those gaudy conventions where syndicated shows are sold and bartered to local TV stations. Frank had been a Boy Scout in a room filled with child molesters.

  "I'm a loser," Frank went on. "I'm not ashamed to admit it. Some men are tall—no offense, Tobin—some men have red hair, and some men are losers. It's all genetical in the end. All genetical."

  "You're drunk."

  "You're not doing too bad yourself."

  "At least I'm not making up words."

  "What words?"

  "Genetical. That's not a word."

  "Well, it damn well should be."

  "Will you for Christ's sake stop pacing?"

  "Oh, sure. Sure. Stop pacing so I can sit over there behind the desk. In the boss's chair."

  "That's right. In the boss's chair. Where you, as Frank Emory, President of Emory Communications, belong." Tobin waved his sloshing drink as he talked. Sloshing on his sleeve. Sloshing on the couch. Tobin and Emory had been pouring whiskey into empty stomachs for two hours now.

  At least he went over, Frank did, and sort of squatted on the edge of the desk. At least he was done with his pacing, which was starting to make Tobin seasick.

  "I'm no boss, Tobin."

  "Yeah, but you look like one. Six-two. Patrician features. Graying at the temples. Thick wrists."