had any time alone with her. My recollection is that she didn't go in much for anything except straight ESP powers. Back when I worked with her before, I mean. She said that she thought that the ESP 'gifts,' as she called them, could be explained scientifically. But she pretty much rejected the supernatural and things like that. I remember she said that she felt sorry for the people who got rooked into them."
"She seems to have changed her mind."
"Her sister told me that she now sees all these things as 'of a piece.'"
"I imagine that's a useful way of seeing things when you've got a TV show to do each week," she said. "So tell me more about the shooting."
I did better than that. I put the shell casing on her desk and then drew a description of the cleated boot impression I'd found. I was telling her about the angle the shooter had used when a tall blond man with actor good looks and actor arrogance knocked loudly on the frame of the open door. He wore a white silk shirt, chinos, and had a blue tennis sweater tied jauntily around his neck. He had that easy, smirking, big-lug kind of arrogance that never quite went out of style, not even when most of the men on TV were turning sensitive back in the seventies and eighties. "Excuse my interruption, folks. I'm looking for Laura and Tandy. I'm Noah Chandler. I produce their show."
"There you are!" a female voice said from down the hall.
A stocky woman in uniform khaki appeared, out of breath, next to Chandler. "You were supposed to wait for me to bring you back." She looked at Susan Charles. "I'm sorry, Chief."
"It's all right, Am."
"Sorry," Chandler said, giving us a boyish Hollywood grin. "I saw you on the phone and figured you'd be on there for a while."
"They'll be in the interrogation room," the chief said to Am.
"Well, nice to meet you." Chandler said, giving us a little salute before leaving the room. He stared openly at Susan. Irrationally enough—and to make my ninth-grade crush complete—I got jealous.
"He used to be on a TV show."
"Professional wrestling," I said.
She smiled. "No, some kind of cop show. He was a detective or something." Then, "Well, back to business."
She kept the shell casing and the sketch of the boot sole.
Her phone rang. She listened a moment and said, "Sounds bad. Just a second. Mr. Payne—"
"Please, just Robert."
"Robert, then. There's been a train derailment and I have to see to it. I was going to walk you down to the interrogation room, but I guess you can find it by yourself."
"Sure."
"Straight down to the end of the hall. Then turn left. It's right there."
"Fine."
"Thanks."
"Thank you," I said.
I left her office and started down the hall.
I was about halfway to the end of the corridor when I saw them, two unmistakable impressions made by mud and cleated shoes on the newly polished floor. Three rows of Vs. Just like the ones the shooter had left in the woods. Fresh, too.
The tracks grew faint but they led right to the interrogation room where Mr. Showbiz himself, Noah Chandler, was standing in the doorway.
FOUR
H e held the door for me and I walked in past him. "There's another door," he said, nodding toward the east wall. "That's where they are. I was just thinking about knocking and going in."
We walked over and he knocked. He smelled expensive. He was undoubtedly wearing a cologne whose name was something manly. Mountain Musk. Canyon Connection. Stallion Sweat. You know what I mean. He shouldn't have ogled Susan that way.
Laura said, "Come in."
There were five of them at a long, plain folding table, the kind you rent for weddings and funerals. There was an outsize cassette tape recorder on the table. Deputy Fuller sat near us, at this end of the table, by himself, his back to us. Arms folded.
I assumed that the kid with the pimple on the tip of his nose and the green sleep boogers in the corners of his green eyes and the straggly, long, unclean black hair and the black western shirt with the fancy piping
"She seems to have changed her mind."
"Her sister told me that she now sees all these things as 'of a piece.'"
"I imagine that's a useful way of seeing things when you've got a TV show to do each week," she said. "So tell me more about the shooting."
I did better than that. I put the shell casing on her desk and then drew a description of the cleated boot impression I'd found. I was telling her about the angle the shooter had used when a tall blond man with actor good looks and actor arrogance knocked loudly on the frame of the open door. He wore a white silk shirt, chinos, and had a blue tennis sweater tied jauntily around his neck. He had that easy, smirking, big-lug kind of arrogance that never quite went out of style, not even when most of the men on TV were turning sensitive back in the seventies and eighties. "Excuse my interruption, folks. I'm looking for Laura and Tandy. I'm Noah Chandler. I produce their show."
"There you are!" a female voice said from down the hall.
A stocky woman in uniform khaki appeared, out of breath, next to Chandler. "You were supposed to wait for me to bring you back." She looked at Susan Charles. "I'm sorry, Chief."
"It's all right, Am."
"Sorry," Chandler said, giving us a boyish Hollywood grin. "I saw you on the phone and figured you'd be on there for a while."
"They'll be in the interrogation room," the chief said to Am.
"Well, nice to meet you." Chandler said, giving us a little salute before leaving the room. He stared openly at Susan. Irrationally enough—and to make my ninth-grade crush complete—I got jealous.
"He used to be on a TV show."
"Professional wrestling," I said.
She smiled. "No, some kind of cop show. He was a detective or something." Then, "Well, back to business."
She kept the shell casing and the sketch of the boot sole.
Her phone rang. She listened a moment and said, "Sounds bad. Just a second. Mr. Payne—"
"Please, just Robert."
"Robert, then. There's been a train derailment and I have to see to it. I was going to walk you down to the interrogation room, but I guess you can find it by yourself."
"Sure."
"Straight down to the end of the hall. Then turn left. It's right there."
"Fine."
"Thanks."
"Thank you," I said.
I left her office and started down the hall.
I was about halfway to the end of the corridor when I saw them, two unmistakable impressions made by mud and cleated shoes on the newly polished floor. Three rows of Vs. Just like the ones the shooter had left in the woods. Fresh, too.
The tracks grew faint but they led right to the interrogation room where Mr. Showbiz himself, Noah Chandler, was standing in the doorway.
FOUR
H e held the door for me and I walked in past him. "There's another door," he said, nodding toward the east wall. "That's where they are. I was just thinking about knocking and going in."
We walked over and he knocked. He smelled expensive. He was undoubtedly wearing a cologne whose name was something manly. Mountain Musk. Canyon Connection. Stallion Sweat. You know what I mean. He shouldn't have ogled Susan that way.
Laura said, "Come in."
There were five of them at a long, plain folding table, the kind you rent for weddings and funerals. There was an outsize cassette tape recorder on the table. Deputy Fuller sat near us, at this end of the table, by himself, his back to us. Arms folded.
I assumed that the kid with the pimple on the tip of his nose and the green sleep boogers in the corners of his green eyes and the straggly, long, unclean black hair and the black western shirt with the fancy piping
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