Cold Day in Hell (35 page)

I went back into the kitchen and fetched more water. I tried Megan’s number but got no answer. Lyles was tugging against the lamp cord when I came back out.

“How about you loosen this up, man. My circulation’s cut off.”

“Go on with your story. If I like it, we’ll talk then.”

He grumbled a bit but went on. Lyles said that several days after Cynthia Blair’s body had been discovered at the base of Cleopatra’s Needle, he got a call from Tracy Jacobs. She was extremely upset and talking about contacting the police to tell them about Marshall Fox’s violence.

“The thing is, like I said, she didn’t know a thing about Marshall getting that girl pregnant. All she knew was that he’d scared the hell out of her that night we all went out. I got her to hold off on calling the cops. I lied and told her that Marshall had an alibi for the night Cynthia got killed. Thing was, he didn’t. Cynthia had actually been up to his place the night she was killed, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell that to Tracy. She said it was her duty to contact the police and all that shit, but I got her to agree to hold off for a day. I didn’t know what to do. Crazy as he was, Marshall didn’t kill that girl.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Some things you just know, and I know that. But all the crap he was going through, the last thing he needed was Tracy getting the cops all excited about him. So I called Mr. Ross.”

“Alan Ross?”

“Yeah. I guess you can say he’s Marshall’s boss.”

“Why would you call him?”

“Ross is the guy Marshall always goes to when he’s in any kind of a fix. He’s connected, he’s smart. He’s one of those take-charge guys. I just thought it made sense.”

“And what did Ross say?”

“He said he’d take care of things. Just like I knew he would. Cool as a cucumber, that guy. He got Tracy’s phone number from me and told me not to sweat it.”

“And that was it?”

“Hell no, that wasn’t it. The next thing I know, Marshall’s all over my ass. He’s ready to kill
me
. He’s saying Tracy called up him and his lawyer and threatened to tell the police not just about him and Cynthia but about her being pregnant with his kid. I swear to you, I never breathed a fucking word to anyone about any of that. Especially Tracy. Not even that the two were screwing each other. No way she got it from me. But Marshall was ready to take my head off. He fired me on the spot and said if he ever saw me again, he
would
kill me. Meanwhile, Tracy flies off to Los Angeles, and the next thing you know, she’s on
Century
goddamn
City
. It’s totally nuts. This whole fucking show business is nuts.”

I took a minute with Lyles’s story. Then I took another one. There was a piece of his story I didn’t like. I could tell he was giving me the truth, but something wasn’t fitting. It was the same thing that hadn’t fit for Danny Lyles.

I asked, “You’re absolutely positive you didn’t tell Tracy Jacobs about Fox and Cynthia Blair? Or maybe she overheard you two talking about it.”

“No way. Totally positive, man. Marshall was completely nuts on that subject. The whole kids thing freaked him in general. You’ve never seen a guy who was so paranoid about ever being a father. Plus, he was already working on trying to get Rosemary to take him back. The last thing he needed was for the thing with Cynthia to come out.”

I got up and wandered over to the sliding doors leading out to the patio and stood looking at the falling snow. A pack of cigarettes sat on a cast-iron table, half covered in snow. A minute or so later, I returned to Lyles.

“Tracy Jacobs. Where is she now? Is she in Los Angeles?”

Lyles scooted up farther against the wall. “Yeah, that’s where she’s been. Except I ran into her here about a week ago. She was in town for a visit. The show’s not shooting right now. Can’t say she really wanted to talk to me.”

“She’s in the city? Do you have any idea where she was staying? Or how I could get ahold of her? A phone number?”

He grunted. “Hey. It’s fuck-you time, man. You want to talk to Tracy? Sure. I can tell you where she was staying. I don’t know if she’s still there. But you’re going to fucking untie me first, man. Time’s up. I’m not handing out any more freebies.”

I went into the kitchen and fetched a steak knife. May I say that the man looked just a tad uneasy as I approached him?

A FALSIFIED POLICE CAPTAIN’S BADGE isn’t the kind of thing you want to get into the habit of flashing if you can help it. I went with my slightly less impressive PI license, held up to the door that had opened only as far as the chain would allow. “I’m looking for Tracy Jacobs.”

The woman who peered at me had green eyes, burgundy hair and a tiny gem planted in the side of her nose. “Tracy’s not here.”

“But she’s still in New York,” I said. A statement, not a question.

The green eyes narrowed. They were quite pretty, in an almond-shaped heavy-lidded sort of way. They suggested the sort of person who always looks sleepy. Or slightly stoned. “I didn’t say that.”

“If she wasn’t in New York, you’d have said she’s not in town, or not in town anymore. You said she’s not here.”

The eyes took a moment to study my face. “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”

“I am pretty clever. But it’s just from years of talking to people through cracks like this. Anyone can learn to do it.”

That coaxed a smile. “Let me see that license thingy again.” I held it up next to my face. “Okay. It doesn’t say you’re a serial rapist or anything. Hold on.”

The door closed. I heard the chain being removed. The door opened again, this time in the complete welcoming position. A woman in her early thirties stood there. She was wearing a navy blue leotard and a man’s white oxford shirt with the top several buttons open, though no man had ever likely done for the shirt what she was doing.

“I’m Jane.”

“Fritz Malone.”

“I know. I read that on your thingy.”

JANE SETTLED ONTO the large plush armchair, hiding her feet under her fanny. I took a wooden rocker. The apartment was clean and pleasantly furnished, much like its occupant. I spotted several framed theater production posters on the walls, as well as a large framed photograph of a bewigged Jane landing with overstated exuberance on the overstated lap of what could only be a Falstaff. A familiar stone parapet against a dusk-blue sky was visible in the photo’s background.

“Delacorte?” I asked, indicating the photograph.

“Last summer. That’s Tim Robbins. He was a fantastic Falstaff. Who’d have thought?”

“Sorry I missed it. So if you’re doing Shakespeare in the Park, you’re doing okay. You’re the envy of a million waiters out there.”

“My, my. You’ve got a whole cute thing happening, don’t you? Have you ever acted?”

I thought,
Like an idiot a few times
. “Look, Jane, I really need to speak with Tracy.”

She gave an actorly pout. “Shakespeare’s not good enough, huh? Everybody wants the television star. So what do you want to see Tracy about? Is she in some kind of trouble?”

“I understand you and Tracy were roommates when she was living in the city.”

“That’s right, sir. Tracy and I were struggling actresses together.”

“Shakespeare in the Park isn’t exactly struggling.”

“Fine.
She
was struggling. Would you like me to be blunt about it?”

“I think I’d enjoy that.”

She had already warmed to the subject. “The only way Tracy saw the inside of a legit theater was with a ticket. I’m not being snippy, I’m just telling you. Tracy and I shared this place for a couple of years. I brought home an OBIE nomination, and she brought home a case of herpes.”

“Okay,
that
might qualify as too much information.”

“Sorry. I’m just a bitter old washed-up thirty-two-year-old. Any of a dozen regional theater directors would vouch for my talent, but look who ends up the TV star. Tracy’s the laughingstock of that stupid TV show she’s on, but do you think she even knows it? The whole thing is like a big cosmic joke. Tracy Jacobs, an
Argosy
client? I’m sorry, but that’s Alice-through-the-looking-glass time.”

“What’s Argosy?”

“Only the top boutique agency in the biz. They take only the cream of the cream.”

“And what you’re saying is that Tracy Jacobs is not cream.”

“As an actress? Low-fat skim. Curdled.”

“You
are
bitter.”

“I’m just a jealous bitch. This town is full of us.”

Jane offered me a cup of tea. Lapsang souchong, which is a tea that tastes like smoke. I passed. “I really need to speak with Tracy.”

“Tracy has been in Paris. They’re still on holiday hiatus with their show. She came here for about a week and then she went over to Paris. She’d never been. Check this out. She actually told me that her character on the show has been to Paris and that she thought it’d be a good idea if she went so she could be more convincing about it.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve never been a barmaid in Elizabethan England, but you know what?”

I said, “It’s called acting.”

“Don’t get me started.”

“When is Tracy due back from Paris?”

Jane consulted her watch. “You’ve got impressive timing, I’ll give you that much. If the snow doesn’t slow things down, she’s due to land about an hour from now.”

I asked, “What do you know about her relationship with Danny Lyles?”

She made a face, and she made it well. “You know him?”

“We met this morning.”

“If you’d like to take a shower, I’ll understand.”

“How long were Tracy and Lyles seeing each other?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. No more than a couple of months is my guess. They met at some club in the meatpacking district. Tracy had a thing for trolling the hot venues. Though if all she’s going to come up with is a charmer like Danny Lyles, I say stay home and watch water boil. I’m sure Tracy thought that by hooking up with Danny Lyles, she was getting herself in tight with the Marshall Fox club.”

“According to Lyles, Tracy did meet Fox.”

“Oh, sure, she met him. Big deal, meeting a celeb. Though it’s totally screwy. I mean, Tracy thought that by sleeping with Marshall Fox’s driver, she was making a real career move. And it turned out she was right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Argosy. The TV show. Miss Hotshot flies to Paris. The whole thing. If not for the fluke of her meeting Alan Ross, none of that ever even becomes a pipe dream. If you—”

“Slow down a minute. Where does Alan Ross fit into this? Lyles told me that he gave Tracy’s number to Ross.”

“Oh yeah. You said a mouthful. Somebody got somebody’s number, all right. Sure. Ross called her up. He had her come into his office to meet with him. And the next thing I know, she’s going back the next day for an audition, so she says. By the time I come home, she’s sitting on that couch over there with a bottle of champagne and she’s landed a plum role on
Century City
and she’s moving to Los Angeles immediately.
And
Ross has told her he’ll get his wife to sign her up with freaking Argosy. People slit wrists to get a meeting with Gloria Ross.” Jane leaned so far forward I thought she was going to fall right out of the chair. “You have to understand something. Our friend Tracy? Didn’t. Even. Have. An agent.”

She fell back in the chair, disgusted. “I put it right to her. I asked her if she slept with Ross. She thought I was kidding at first, but I was serious. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. Tracy swore up and down that it was nothing like that. She said Ross told her he had this role in one of his shows that he thought she might be perfect for. I don’t know, maybe the guy’s a genius. Essentially, the character’s a trophy wife. And not the brightest bulb in the pack, or whatever that stupid phrase is. So maybe you can say typecasting, right? But still, there are plenty of actresses out there who’d have killed for that role. I mean name actresses, not this total unknown.”

“What’s your take? Do you think she slept with Ross?”

“It’s too screwy. A guy like that doesn’t need Tracy Jacobs. Or let’s put it this way—he doesn’t need to promise her the moon if he wants to get her in the sack. Tracy told me that Ross had her back to the network the next day for what sounds to me like the world’s lamest audition. It was just him in his office running the camera and audio. She read a monologue. Cheesiest dialogue in the world. She showed it to me. You can’t believe they pay people good money to write this dreck. Not that
Century City
is exactly David Mamet, but please. On the basis of
this
, she lands a gig like
that
?” Jane wrapped her arms around her knees and gave herself a good hug. “Oh well. Fuck it. I’ll always have Tim Robbins, right?”

Before I left, I asked Jane what airport Tracy was scheduled to fly into. Kennedy. Air France. At the door, Jane told me she would be appearing in a show in February in Chelsea.

“I play a Mormon lesbian who’s running an orphanage in Kabul. There’s some music in it, too. It could be good or it could stink. If you’re interested, I could probably get you some comps.”

I told her I’d keep it in mind.

“No, you won’t,” she said flatly. “You’ve already written me off as a theater flake. That’s okay. It was nice snooping with you.”

On the street, I hailed a cab. As we made our way slowly up Sixth Avenue, I dialed Margo’s number.

“I’m going to throw a name at you,” I said when she answered. “Tell me what comes to mind. Free association.”

“Sure,” she said. “Fire away.”

“Tracy Jacobs.”

“Tracy Jacobs. Easy. Actress. TV show. Looks like a hundred other actresses.”

“Have I ever seen her show?”

“
Century City
? I think it came on the tube once, and you said something like ‘Life’s too short.’ It’s not so bad, as those things go. It can take in a sucker like me. But Tracy Jacobs is definitely the weak link. She’s pretty, but no big deal. Why do you ask?”

I gave her a quick rundown of what I’d picked up from Jane and from Danny Lyles concerning the meteoric rise of Tracy Jacobs. Margo listened without interruption. As the cab crossed Twenty-third Street, a florist delivery van in front of us went into a slow-motion skid. My driver whipped the wheel left then right and tapped the brakes, and we slid deftly by the van at a slight angle. The driver muttered a creative curse.