“Ever see this?” he asked, and handed her a copy of the letter Shanahan had passed on to him late yesterday afternoon. Connie took it, began reading it, recognized it at once, and handed it back to him.
“Yes,” she said. “So?,” and hurried past them to the exit door.
They came down the steps and into the street, Connie leading, glancing at her watch, walking quickly to the curb, looking up the avenue for a taxi. It was eight-thirty in the morning on a very cold day, the sky bright and cloudless overhead, the streets heavy with traffic. At this hour, it was almost impossible to catch a free cab, but the buses were packed as well, and getting anywhere was a slow and tedious process. Connie kept waving her hand at approaching taxis, shaking her head as each occupied one flashed by.
“I have to be downtown in ten minutes,” she said. “Whatever this is, I’m afraid it’ll have to…”
“Woman who wrote that letter was murdered,” Carella said.
“Jesus, what is this?” Connie said. “The Scottish Play?”
“What’s the Scottish Play?” Brown asked.
“We have to talk to you,” Carella said. “If you want a lift downtown, we’ll be happy to take you.”
“In what?” she said. “A police car?”
“Nice Dodge sedan.”
“Shotgun on the back seat?”
“In the trunk,” Brown said.
“Why not?” Connie said, and they began walking toward where Carella had parked the car, around the corner. She was in good shape; they had to step fast to keep up with her. Carella unlocked the door on the driver’s side, clicked open all the other doors, and then threw up the visor with the pink police notice on it. Connie sat beside him on the front seat.
Brown climbed into the back.
“Where to?” Carella asked.
“Octagon,” she said. “You’ve been there.”
“More auditions?”
“Endless process,” she said. “I don’t know this woman, you realize. If you’re suggesting her murder…”
“When did you get her letter, Miss Lindstrom?”
“Last week sometime.”
“Before the Meet ‘N’ Greet?”
“Yes.”
“How’d you handle it?”
“Dadier’s Nose,” she said, and shrugged.
“What’s that?”
“Too long a story. Too long a nose, in fact. Suffice it to say that plagiarism victims surface whenever anything smells of success. I turned the letter over to my lawyer.”
“Did he contact her?”
“She. I have no idea.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“Why should I care? We’re talking about a play written in 1922!”
“We’re also talking about a play that seems to inspire murder.”
The car went silent.
Connie turned to him, her face sharp in profile.
“You don’t know that for sure,” she said.
“Know what?”
“That the two murders are in any way connected. I suppose you’d both take a fit if I smoked.”
“Go right ahead,” Carella said, surprising Brown.
She fished into her bag, came up with a single cigarette and a lighter.
She flicked the lighter into flame, held it to the end of the cigarette. She breathed out a cloud of smoke, sighed in satisfaction. On the back seat, Brown opened a window.
“I know what it looks like,” she said. “Hale refuses to sell us the rights, so he gets killed. Woman writes a letter that could seem threatening to the show, and she gets killed. Somebody wanted both of them dead because the show must go on” she said, raising her voice dramatically.
“Well, I have news for you. The show doesn’t always have to go on. If it gets too difficult or too complicated, it simply does not go on, and that’s a fact.”
“But the show is going on,” Brown said. “And that’s a fact, too.”
“Yes. But if you think any of the professionals involved in this project would kill to insure a production…” She shook her head. “No,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“How about the amateurs?” Carella asked.
Sometimes it was better to deal with professionals.
A professional knew what he was doing, and if he broke the rules it was only because he understood them so well. The amateur witnessed a murder or two on television, concluded he didn’t have to know the rules, he could just jump in cold and do a little murder of his own. The amateur believed that even if he didn’t know what he was doing, he could get away with it. The professional believed he had best know what he was doing or he’d get caught. In fact, the professional knew without question that if he didn’t get better and better each time out, eventually they’d nail him. The irony was that there were more amateurs than professionals running around loose out there, each and every one of them thriving. Go figure.
