Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

“How about you loosen this up, man. My circulation’s cut off.”

“Go on with your story. If I like it, we’ll talk then.”

He grumbled a bit but went on. Lyles said that several days after Cynthia Blair’s body had been discovered at the base of Cleopatra’s Needle, he got a call from Tracy Jacobs. She was extremely upset and talking about contacting the police to tell them about Marshall Fox’s violence.

“The thing is, like I said, she didn’t know a thing about Marshall getting that girl pregnant. All she knew was that he’d scared the hell out of her that night we all went out. I got her to hold off on calling the cops. I lied and told her that Marshall had an alibi for the night Cynthia got killed. Thing was, he didn’t. Cynthia had actually been up to his place the night she was killed, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell that to Tracy. She said it was her duty to contact the police and all that shit, but I got her to agree to hold off for a day. I didn’t know what to do. Crazy as he was, Marshall didn’t kill that girl.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Some things you just know, and I know that. But all the crap he was going through, the last thing he needed was Tracy getting the cops all excited about him. So I called Mr. Ross.”

“Alan Ross?”

“Yeah. I guess you can say he’s Marshall’s boss.”

“Why would you call him?”

“Ross is the guy Marshall always goes to when he’s in any kind of a fix. He’s connected, he’s smart. He’s one of those take-charge guys. I just thought it made sense.”

“And what did Ross say?”

“He said he’d take care of things. Just like I knew he would. Cool as a cucumber, that guy. He got Tracy’s phone number from me and told me not to sweat it.”

“And that was it?”

“Hell no, that wasn’t it. The next thing I know, Marshall’s all over my ass. He’s ready to kill me . He’s saying Tracy called up him and his lawyer and threatened to tell the police not just about him and Cynthia but about her being pregnant with his kid. I swear to you, I never breathed a fucking word to anyone about any of that. Especially Tracy. Not even that the two were screwing each other. No way she got it from me. But Marshall was ready to take my head off. He fired me on the spot and said if he ever saw me again, he would kill me. Meanwhile, Tracy flies off to Los Angeles, and the next thing you know, she’s on Century goddamn City . It’s totally nuts. This whole fucking show business is nuts.”

I took a minute with Lyles’s story. Then I took another one. There was a piece of his story I didn’t like. I could tell he was giving me the truth, but something wasn’t fitting. It was the same thing that hadn’t fit for Danny Lyles.

I asked, “You’re absolutely positive you didn’t tell Tracy Jacobs about Fox and Cynthia Blair? Or maybe she overheard you two talking about it.”

“No way. Totally positive, man. Marshall was completely nuts on that subject. The whole kids thing freaked him in general. You’ve never seen a guy who was so paranoid about ever being a father. Plus, he was already working on trying to get Rosemary to take him back. The last thing he needed was for the thing with Cynthia to come out.”

I got up and wandered over to the sliding doors leading out to the patio and stood looking at the falling snow. A pack of cigarettes sat on a cast-iron table, half covered in snow. A minute or so later, I returned to Lyles.

“Tracy Jacobs. Where is she now? Is she in Los Angeles?”

Lyles scooted up farther against the wall. “Yeah, that’s where she’s been. Except I ran into her here about a week ago. She was in town for a visit. The show’s not shooting right now. Can’t say she really wanted to talk to me.”

“She’s in the city? Do you have any idea where she was staying? Or how I could get ahold of her? A phone number?”

He grunted. “Hey. It’s fuck-you time, man. You want to talk to Tracy? Sure. I can tell you where she was staying. I don’t know if she’s still there. But you’re going to fucking untie me first, man. Time’s up. I’m not handing out any more freebies.”

I went into the kitchen and fetched a steak knife. May I say that the man looked just a tad uneasy as I approached him?

A FALSIFIED POLICE CAPTAIN’S BADGE isn’t the kind of thing you want to get into the habit of flashing if you can help it. I went with my slightly less impressive PI license, held up to the door that had opened only as far as the chain would allow. “I’m looking for Tracy Jacobs.”

The woman who peered at me had green eyes, burgundy hair and a tiny gem planted in the side of her nose. “Tracy’s not here.”

“But she’s still in New York,” I said. A statement, not a question.

The green eyes narrowed. They were quite pretty, in an almond-shaped heavy-lidded sort of way. They suggested the sort of person who always looks sleepy. Or slightly stoned. “I didn’t say that.”

“If she wasn’t in New York, you’d have said she’s not in town, or not in town anymore. You said she’s not here.”

The eyes took a moment to study my face. “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”

“I am pretty clever. But it’s just from years of talking to people through cracks like this. Anyone can learn to do it.”

That coaxed a smile. “Let me see that license thingy again.” I held it up next to my face. “Okay. It doesn’t say you’re a serial rapist or anything. Hold on.”

The door closed. I heard the chain being removed. The door opened again, this time in the complete welcoming position. A woman in her early thirties stood there. She was wearing a navy blue leotard and a man’s white oxford shirt with the top several buttons open, though no man had ever likely done for the shirt what she was doing.

“I’m Jane.”

“Fritz Malone.”

“I know. I read that on your thingy.”

JANE SETTLED ONTO the large plush armchair, hiding her feet under her fanny. I took a wooden rocker. The apartment was clean and pleasantly furnished, much like its occupant. I spotted several framed theater production posters on the walls, as well as a large framed photograph of a bewigged Jane landing with overstated exuberance on the overstated lap of what could only be a Falstaff. A familiar stone parapet against a dusk-blue sky was visible in the photo’s background.

“Delacorte?” I asked, indicating the photograph.

“Last summer. That’s Tim Robbins. He was a fantastic Falstaff. Who’d have thought?”

“Sorry I missed it. So if you’re doing Shakespeare in the Park, you’re doing okay. You’re the envy of a million waiters out there.”

“My, my. You’ve got a whole cute thing happening, don’t you? Have you ever acted?”

I thought, Like an idiot a few times . “Look, Jane, I really need to speak with Tracy.”

She gave an actorly pout. “Shakespeare’s not good enough, huh? Everybody wants the television star. So what do you want to see Tracy about? Is she in some kind of trouble?”

“I understand you and Tracy were roommates when she was living in the city.”

“That’s right, sir. Tracy and I were struggling actresses together.”

“Shakespeare in the Park isn’t exactly struggling.”

“Fine. She was struggling. Would you like me to be blunt about it?”

“I think I’d enjoy that.”

She had already warmed to the subject. “The only way Tracy saw the inside of a legit theater was with a ticket. I’m not being snippy, I’m just telling you. Tracy and I shared this place for a couple of years. I brought home an OBIE nomination, and she brought home a case of herpes.”