Laura Lippman - Another Thing to Fall

He returned to the phone logs, going forward now. The strange happenings around the set had started after the suicide of Wilbur Grace. He didn’t want to connect the two things – he still believed that the production was simply having a run of bad luck – but someone else had been in Greer’s apartment. Someone else knew .

“Got your food,” Lloyd said, coming through the door, then stopping short, a frightened look on his face when he saw Ben rooting through the boxes. “Hey – I know I’m supposed to go through those things, but I thought it was okay to help on the script first, do the boxes in my downtime. Is that okay? I was just trying to be helpful.”

Greer had said those very words: I was just trying to be helpful . Ben stared absently at Lloyd, then shook his head. “I was procrastinating. The script’s not coming. I think I’m going to be here all night.”

“The security guard that the building hired leaves at eleven,” Lloyd said. “But I’ll stay, if you like. Lottie says no one’s supposed to be alone here anymore, not if the building won’t change the security code.”

“I can’t keep you that long. Tell you what – I’ll eat my dinner, see if I get a second wind. If I’m still not feeling it, we’ll both go. Sometimes, part of doing a job is knowing when to stop for a while.”

“I’ve got a lot to do,” Lloyd protested. “I really need to stay until I finish.”

You’re killing me, Lloyd . But what the hell, he could always come back.

“Tomorrow, Lloyd. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. One day, we’ll all be dead and none of this will matter anyway.”

“Okay. Can I grab my knapsack? I left it in Flip’s office.”

“Enjoying the big man’s digs while he was out today?”

Lloyd’s discomfiture was almost comic. “Well, he has a computer, and Greer’s is password protected and it was easier for me to work there until an IT guy could come in, and Lottie said it was okay-”

“Whoa, settle down. I was just teasing. Do whatever you have to do, and we’ll both head out when I’ve finished my dinner. You want some?”

Lloyd made a face. “That weird-ass hamburger? No, thank you. I grabbed a sub from Mustang’s.” Again, he looked guilty. “I hope that was okay, getting something while I was out-”

“Don’t sweat it, Lloyd.” Ben wished his own conscience could be weighed down by something so inconsequential as a sub.

A soft rain had started, a gloomy harbinger of the days to come. It always seemed to rain on her days off, not that it really affected Alicia, given that her primary day-off activity was smoking. Still, she objected on principle; the weather didn’t know that smoking was her only hobby. Oh, she did other things, too. Read – and smoked. Watched television – and smoked. Sat at the computer, paging through home decor sites, a cigarette burning almost constantly. Ran errands, smoking on the drive to and from. Some nights, when she tired of her own company, she would walk down to one of the local bars, buy a draft – and smoke. Maryland was one of the last holdouts, with smoking still permitted in its bars and restaurants, although that was said to be changing by next year. Until then – she was going to smoke every chance she got.

She looked at the piece of paper on the coffee table. Was it really so valuable? Without Greer, could anyone swear to its – what was that word, the one used for the antiques and rare objects that she studied covetously in the windows down at Gaines McHale? Provenance . Greer, who thought she was so clever, had been stupid to remove it from the envelope, but then – if she hadn’t opened the envelope, she never would have known what she had. What if the envelope had been sealed, after all those years? That wouldn’t have buttressed anyone’s position. Perhaps that was why Greer had gotten rid of the envelope. Plus, it would have been too bulky to hide in her choice spot, especially with that other sheet, which Alicia had left where she found it. She had debated that with herself, leaving the other document behind, but she decided to take only what she needed.

When she drove down to the production offices Friday night, her only thought was to be helpful. As she had told Mr. Sybert, she knew Greer, and if she thought things through, she would figure out her hiding place eventually. Greer couldn’t destroy the document, because that would end her power. So she had to put it someplace where it was unlikely to be discovered, but also in a location where, if it should be found, Greer couldn’t be blamed. That was Greer’s MO, avoiding blame, and she had to know that what she was doing was illegal. You couldn’t hide documents, because lawyers might want them, much less then swear they never existed. Greer had been willing to risk perjury, and for what? A job in the writers’ office, a job as Flip’s assistant, maybe a shot as a script supervisor or associate producer down the road.

Greer thought so small.

Alicia didn’t. And even as she told herself that she was just trying to help Mr. Sybert out, once she had the document, she couldn’t ignore its value. Oh, she would give Mr. Sybert a chance to make his best offer, but shouldn’t Ben and Flip have a chance, perhaps even Tumulty Sr.? He had the real deep pockets. He would probably be willing to put up a lot of money to bail out his own son – and avoid being tainted by the implication that he was somehow involved. Then there were her other… clients, as she liked to think of them. Was this item of use to them? Possibly, but that was harder to gauge. No, she wouldn’t bring them into this negotiation, and she didn’t owe it to them to do so. She had been paid to do specific things, create disruptions on the set, and she had. That account was in good standing. She was a freelance worker, not exclusive to anyone.

How much should she ask for? And – not to be a total geek, but she had to think everything through – what would be the tax implications? She should probably set it up as a contract, with her providing unspecified services to Tumulty’s production company. Quarterly payments for, say, up to five years. Too much? Not enough? A million dollars sounded like a lot, but it wasn’t enough to support her for the rest of her life, even if she checked out as early as her parents had. Maybe she should ask for a yearly stipend, some phantom job in Tumulty’s production company?

The phone rang, and she jumped, stabbing out her cigarette as if she had just been caught by one of the nuns, smoking in the girls’ room at St. Ursula’s. But it was just the contractor, pointing out the obvious: He couldn’t work on the deck tomorrow if the rain continued. No shit, Sherlock. Well, that suited her anyway. She had meetings set up for tomorrow morning, and it would be better if no one was there.

“Of course,” she said. “But it would be nice if you could get it installed in time for the Christmas holidays.”

“You use your deck at Christmas?”

Shit, didn’t anyone understand sarcasm anymore? She wanted to slam the phone down on him, but her contractor was one man she never risked offending. He was too much in demand. Instead, she told him to get to the job when he could – and she would pay the balance when the work was done. That should get results. Money was the universal language.

Speaking of which – she really should give Mr. Sybert a chance to counter before she approached Tumulty Sr. She didn’t think he could be competitive, but she owed him the courtesy of making his case, the sad old schlub. She felt almost guilty, taking his money all these weeks, and giving him nothing in return but the information on the e-mailed call sheets and memos, and the code to the security door, which he had never even used.