“Yes, sir, we realize that. But if you can spare a moment…”
“Barely.”
“… there are some questions we’d like to ask.”
“What about?”
He was scowling now. Carella wondered what had put him so immediately on the defensive. Brown was wondering the same thing.
“Did you know a man named Andrew Hale?” he asked.
“Yes. I also know he was murdered. Is that what this is about?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“In which case…”
“Did you ever have occasion to visit Mr Hale?” Carella asked.
“I met with him on three occasions,” Zimmer said.
“What for?”
“We had business to discuss.”
“What kind of business?”
“That is none of your business.”
“Get into any arguments on those occasions?” Brown asked.
“We had some lively discussions, but I wouldn’t call them arguments.”
“Lively discussions about what?”
The door from the waiting room opened, and a tall, thin woman wearing a mink coat and matching hat stepped into the room, hesitated, said, “Oops, am I interrupting something?,” and seemed ready to back out again.
“No, come on in,” Zimmer said, and turned immediately to the detectives again. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but why are two police detectives asking me…?”
“Won’t you introduce me, Norm?” the woman said, and took off the mink and tossed it casually over the back of one of the chairs.
“Forgive me, this is Connie Lindstrom,” Zimmer said. “Detectives Carella and Brown.”
She was a woman in her mid-thirties, Carella guessed, wearing the mink hat at a rakish tilt that gave her a somewhat saucy look. Dark hair showed around the edges of the silky brown hat. Darker eyes flashed at Carella for a moment. “Nice to meet you,” she said, and turned away.
“Mr Zimmer,” Carella said, “do you know a woman named Cynthia Keating?”
“I do.”
“Do you know she’s Andrew Hale’s daughter?”
“I do.”
“Did she recently sign some papers for you?”
“Yes, she did.”
“Assigning some rights to you?”
“Why should a business deal we made with Cynthia Keating…?”
“We?” Brown asked.
“Yes. Connie and I are co-producing Jenny’s Room.”
“I see.”
Threatened him how?
Told Mr Hale he‘d be sorry. Said they‘d get what they wanted one way or another.
They? Was that the word he used? They?
Pardon?
They‘d get what they wanted?
Yes. I’m pretty sure he said they.
So now we’ve got two producers, Brown thought, and they are doing this show here. The rights to which they finally got from a woman whose dear old dad got killed a month ago. My, my, what a tiny little world we live in.
“The newspaper said you worked very hard acquiring the rights to this show,” he said.
“Yes, we did.”
“Original copyright holders all dead…”
“I’m sorry, but this is really none of your…”
“Had to track down whoever’d succeeded to ownership, isn’t that correct?”
“Wow, it is fucking cold out there!” a voice from the door said, and a short, dark man wearing ear muffs, a camel-hair coat, and blue jeans stuffed into the tops of unbuckled galoshes-though it wasn’t snowing outsideburst into the room like a rocket. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, “there’s construction on Farrell Avenue.”
“There’s always construction on Farrell Avenue,” Connie said, and opened her handbag. Removing a package of cigarettes from it, she lighted one, blew out a stream of smoke, and said, “Excuse me, Norm, but there are some things we ought to discuss before…”
“This won’t take a minute more,” Zimmer said.
“One of the owners in London,” Brown said. “Another in Tel Aviv.”
“Is that some kind of code?” the man in the camel-hair coat asked. He swung a tote bag off his shoulder, took off the ear muffs, carefully folded them into their own spring mechanism, unzipped the tote, and dropped them inside it. Tossing his coat carelessly over Connie’s mink, he said, “Are we reading truck drivers today?”
Brown guessed he and Carella were the truck drivers in question. “Mr Zimmer,” he said, “when did you learn that Andrew Hale’s daughter owned these rights you needed?”
“Why should our business affairs be of any interest to you?” Connie asked suddenly and quite sharply.
“Ma’am?” Brown said.
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me, mister,” she snapped. “I’m young enough to be your daughter.” She turned abruptly to Carella, effectively dismissing Brown. Puzzled, he gave her a closer look. He figured her to be thirty-two, thirty-three, what the hell did she mean, old enough to be her father? Or did she find it difficult to judge a black man’s age? Was he dealing with a closet racist here? “If your visit has anything at all to do with our show,” she told Carella, “perhaps our lawyers…”
“You won’t be needing lawyers just yet, Miss Lindstrom,” he said.
“Is that some sort of threat?” Zimmer asked.
“Sir?”
“The ‘just yet’? Are you indicating we might be needing lawyers sometimes in the future?”
“Anytime you want one, that’s your legal right, sir,” Carella said.
“Oh, look, the new police politeness,” the man in the unbuckled galoshes said, and rolled his eyes.
“You are?” Brown asked.
“Rowland Chapp. I’m supposed to be directing this show. If ever I get a chance to cast the damn thing.”
