Blood Will Have Blood (20 page)

“Does this have anything to do with—”

“It has to do with identifying résumé photos,” Spraggue said shortly.

“Oh. Go on, Mrs. Hillman.”

“Michael?”

Spraggue shrugged. “Tell the man what he wants to know.”

“One of the actors is a ringer. Like with racehorses. He's using a legitimate actor's résumé and name, but he's really someone else. I have a picture of the real actor with me. Professor Levinson had it.”

Hurley's foot beat a tattoo on the floor. “And the name of that actor is?”

Spraggue answered with her. “Eddie Lafferty.”

Hurley turned on him. “You knew?”

“Knew, hell. Guessed.”

“How?”

“The résumé he gave Darien was incomplete. According to his agent, Eddie Lafferty's done some major roles, even a
Hamlet
.”

“Why not tell me about it sooner?”

“Tell you what? That our Eddie Lafferty doesn't look like my idea of Hamlet?” Spraggue rubbed a hand across his forehead, smearing greasepaint. “I didn't say anything, Hurley, because the kid's got blue eyes. The phantom I saw had dark eyes. And we had this trip-wire business—Eddie
prevented
a disaster—”

“A typical maneuver to throw suspicion elsewhere.”

“That's what it looks like now.”

“Foley! Smithson!” Hurley shouted. Heavy boots rushed down the stairs. “Where'd you put the actors?”

“You told us to stick 'em in that green room. Head of the corridor. Henry's with them.”

“Let's go visiting.”

“Let me come along,” Spraggue said.

Hurley shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Michael,” Aunt Mary whispered. “What's going on?”

“Go home. I'll call you as soon as I can.”

“We're going
now
,” the detective said.

Spraggue followed Hurley down the hall.

The actors in the green room bore little resemblance to the tense, eager pre-performance crowd. Caroline Ambrose, her heavily powdered face ravaged by tear tracks, sat in a corner twisting her hands, toying with Mina's plain gold wedding band. Greg Hudson stood near the sink, an untouched cup of coffee in his hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. Emma, head bowed, sat on the sofa, an unmoving statue. Dracula's widowed brides hovered over her. Gus Grayling glared at nothing, his massive bulk in profile to the door. A tic in his lower jaw pulsed erratically.

“Edward Lafferty,” Hurley barked.

The actors shifted, stared blankly around the room. Emma lifted her head, let it sink back.

“Spraggue?” Hurley turned to him expectantly.

“Where's Eddie?” Spraggue said calmly. He kept his voice low, all inflection deadened.

Georgina cleared her throat, tried her voice out tentatively. “He's not here.”

Hurley rounded on the guard, the unsuspecting Patrolman Henry. “Why the hell didn't you—”

“Lieutenant, they told me this was everybody, everybody who was supposed to be—”

“And you believed—”

“Lieutenant!” Georgina's voice was firmer now, stronger. “It wasn't the officer's fault. Everything's been so confused—I guess we thought he might be in with the crew, with Karen—”

“Smithson!” Hurley bellowed.

“No, sir. No actors in with the crew.”

Hurley grunted, turned to Spraggue. “You know the address?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I'll take two men and check it out. Want to come?”

Spraggue hesitated. “No.”

“Okay.”

He followed Hurley out of the green room, wrote Eddie's address on a scrap of paper, thrust it at the lieutenant.

“Sure you don't want to tag along?” Hurley asked curiously.

“I want to get this crap off my face.” Spraggue tugged at his beard irritably.

“Suit yourself.” Hurley spun on his heel.

“One thing,” Spraggue said.

“Yeah?”

“Did your boys find a note? Near Langford's body?”

“Suicides leave notes, Spraggue. Not homicide victims.”

“Right.”

Spraggue waited until Hurley climbed the steps, his two minions struggling to keep up. Waited until their footsteps passed overhead, faded off down the corridor. If the actors were in the green room, where would they put the crew? Not backstage—too cramped, too crowded. Too easy for someone to stray. He mounted the stairs and knocked on the paint-room door. A red-faced, elderly cop cracked it open half an inch.

“Lieutenant Hurley wants to see the stage manager,” Spraggue said.

“Ain't here.”

“Not—oh.” Spraggue was shaken.

“Try downstairs, first room on your left. They stuck her in with the actors.”

“Thanks,” Spraggue said through dry lips. In with the actors. Sure.

He bluffed his way past the guard at the double doors. The stage area was ablaze with light—each instrument focused on the raised dais in the secret cavern. All focused on Langford's corpse. Cameras clicked. A few officers shouted orders; some crawled on hands and knees, clutching plastic evidence bags.

Spraggue craned his neck skyward, searched the catwalk overhead. If she were still in the theater, where would the stage manager hide? He stared put into the auditorium, scanned the empty rows. The tiny, darkened lighting booth at the rear of the house almost blended into the back wall.

Spraggue approached the booth purposefully, a technician on his way to work. The door was closed, not locked. He entered, shut the door, reached for the light switch.

A hand closed on his wrist. “If you turn the light on, they'll be able to see us,” said Karen Snow.

“Let them,” Spraggue said roughly. “You've got nothing to hide. Right?”

“Spraggue—” she protested.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“So you were dancing with Eddie when the lights went out last night—”

“I—”

“And because I believed you, Langford is dead.”

“That had nothing to do with John—”

“You set me up.” Spraggue's eyes adjusted slowly to the dark. He pushed Karen back into the lone chair, kept his hands pressed against her shoulders even after she stopped squirming. “That night you ‘helped' me with my blocking, Eddie broke in so you'd have an alibi—”

“I didn't know anything about it!”

“And then you arranged that farce at his apartment so I'd rule him out. You must have called Eddie just after I left the theater. A shame to let him stand on that chair too long.”

“Eddie didn't kill anyone.”

“Do you know who your Eddie is?”

“He's not
my
Eddie,” she said sadly. “I just inherited him.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“He's my stepbrother.”

Spraggue placed a hand under her chin and gently tilted her face until their eyes met. “Then he's not your lover.” He said the words softly, bit them off when he realized they were audible.

“What?”

“It doesn't matter,” he said. Not anymore. And then aloud: “So you know his real name.”

“Was I supposed to turn him in for changing his name?” Karen asked furiously. “He can act. He got the job through an audition.”

“Which job? Company assassin?” Spraggue straightened up, massaged the back of his neck with one hand. “I thought he'd go for Darien,” he said almost to himself.

Karen reached for his arm, squeezed it tightly. “He had no reason to hurt John.”

“But reason enough to hurt Darien,” Spraggue said. “Alison Arnold.”

Karen looked away. “You know about her.”

“Was she his sister?”

“Yes.” Karen clasped her hands in her lap, stared down at them. “His
real
sister. His only sister. Maybe ten years older.… God, he idolized her.”

“What's his name?”

“Gene. Eugene Arnold.”

Spraggue drew in his breath. “You didn't say anything, didn't warn anyone?”

“What could I say?”

“And
you
didn't have anything against Darien?” Spraggue wished the light were better, wished he could see every line and shadow on her face.

“I never knew Alison. I'm not sure what happened seven years ago. Darien's one of the best directors I've worked for. He may have been an alcoholic. He's cured now.”

“But you went along with Eddie's scheme.”

“At first, I didn't know about any scheme, and then I couldn't stop him. Gene didn't intend to
hurt
anyone—”

“John Langford is
dead
, Karen.”

“I watched Gene every minute he was offstage tonight. I told him I wouldn't let him interfere with a performance. I swear he never went near that prop table. Never.”

Spraggue sat on the floor next to Karen's chair, cross-legged on the cold concrete. “Why did he run then?”

“He didn't run,” she said firmly. “Give me the phone.”

“Huh?”

“There's a phone on the counter, a few feet to your right. Dial 9 first. Now 555-6843. Gene'll answer. He just went home. I don't know why, but he just went home!”

Spraggue dialed. He held the receiver in his left hand, slightly away from his ear, so Karen could hear. Her dark hair brushed his cheek. The phone rang, seven times, eight, ten. Someone picked up the receiver. Karen breathed her relief. The voice was harsh, but familiar.

“Hurley speaking.”

“This is Spraggue. Have you got him?”

“Nah. He's gone. Cleared out.”

Karen's strong hands grabbed the phone, slammed it down in the cradle. The gesture seemed to drain her completely. “God, Michael, what am I going to do?”

He turned away, tried to forget the wildflower hair and soft brown eyes. What he wanted to do was hardly appropriate for time or place. “You have three choices,” he said finally.

“Yes?”

“When the police question you, clam up, lie, or tell the truth.”

“Any recommendations?”

“It depends—did Eddie set that trip wire?”

“No.” She said it quick and strong. If she was lying, Spraggue decided, she was damn good.

“Then tell the truth. Believe me, the safest place for Eddie is in jail.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Tell the truth. Shit. Four hours later, Spraggue jammed his clenched fists into his jacket pockets and strode down Massachusetts Avenue, too angry to stop and call a cab.

Of all the cops, they had to send out Menlo! Why not leave Hurley in charge? Hurley was a goddamned lieutenant! He'd worked Homicide! He'd been there, at the scene! Why Captain Hank Menlo, with his ugly, jutting boxer's mug and his negative IQ? The only time Menlo smartened up was in front of a TV lnstacam. A publicity windbag, Spraggue had called him once, to his face.

Spraggue and Menlo were oil and water. When Spraggue had turned in his private investigator's license, Menlo had sent a congratulatory note.

“Poking your nose in again, I see.” That was Menlo's idea of hello. The longer Menlo spoke, the more Spraggue felt his resolve to tell all weaken.

He'd tried. But he'd only gotten up to the part about Georgina's past when Menlo interrupted.

“And you kept that to yourself?” the beefy captain had shouted.

Spraggue hadn't bothered to answer.

“And here I thought you'd learned about obstructing justice when you were a P.I. Have to refresh your memory, I guess.”

“How?” Spraggue had asked quietly.

“A few nights in the clink—”

Spraggue hadn't really meant to laugh, but he was pleased with the relaxed sound of the laughter. “I think you're the one with the short memory, Captain. Forgotten that last time you met up with my lawyer?”

“Then you had that damned private-eye card to hide behind—”

“Right. And this time I'm just a concerned citizen, helping out my fellowman. Please. Arrest me. Maybe with one more illegal bust on your record, you'll get tossed out for good. Do a hell of a lot for the image of the Boston Police.”

Menlo had smiled, but his fingers had started tapping the desk just the way they used to. “Sergeant,” he yelled. “Make me out a warrant. Georgina Phelps, alias Gina Phillips. Then get her in here. And tell the press—no, better yet, bring 'em all in here. I'll set up a conference—”

“Arresting her just to make the early-edition deadline, Captain?”

“Shut up.”

“She'll be out of jail so fast—”

“Yeah? She got a hotshot lawyer, too?”

“You bet she does.”

Menlo had raised his huge head, issued the snort that served him as a laugh. “Hurry up with that warrant, Sergeant. Have to be in time for the morning edition.”

After that, Spraggue had answered yes and no.

He yawned; his jaw ached from clenching his teeth. He drew his hands out of his pockets and flexed his bloodless fingers, slowed his pace. Breathe in for four, hold for eight, breathe out for eight. His mind started to clear and he recognized his anger for what it was, fury at his own inadequacy. If he'd figured things right, Langford wouldn't have died.

He walked along Commonwealth Avenue, heading into Kenmore Square. Even that most frenetic part of the city stood empty at four
A.M
., the disco joints silent, the neon lights dimmed. Spraggue hailed a lone taxi, gave the Brookline address, and sat back to think.

“Mind driving with the dome light on for a while?” he asked abruptly, five minutes later.

“Nah. Maybe it'll keep me awake.”

Even before he heard the cabbie's answer, Spraggue had his small notebook spread out on his knee, open to the page where he'd listed the joker's pranks.

1. Frank's Bloody Marys

2. Spraggue's decapitated bat

3. Georgie and Deirdre's decapitated dolls

4. Greg's bloody mask

5. Darien's dead raven