The Apostrophe Thief (5 page)

“Ah, well, you know. You might forget. And Abby might want to change something later.”

“Even if I didn't,” said a new voice, “there's the question of piracy.”

Marian turned to see Abigail James approaching;
The Apostrophe Thief
was her play. Marian had met her once, briefly. “What about piracy?”

“Pirated copies circulate,” the playwright said, “and other companies mount productions without paying royalties. Not a great deal of money is involved, but it's just another form of theft.”

“Someone mentioned an antique shaving mug.”

“That was Ian's. It belonged to his grandfather.”

Ian Cavanaugh, she meant, the play's leading man. “Sounds more like souvenir-hunters to me,” Marian said. “A star's personal possession? Just the sort of thing a fan would want. And didn't someone say that stage props were taken?”

“Mm, you may be right.” Abigail James looked carefully around the stage. “The place is filled with expensive lighting equipment, but none of that was touched.”

“But why
all
the scripts?” Marian mused.

“Leo had the master script,” Kelly said, “the one with
all
the blocking written in—”

“Blocking?”

“Stage movement. And it had the lighting cues and things like that as well. Leo kept it chained to his desk, so nobody would wander off with it. But they took that one too. Cut right through the chain.”

“Abby!” Ian Cavanaugh called from across the stage.

The playwright excused herself and left them. Marian said, “Kelly, you did call the police, didn't you?”

Her friend stared at her. “I called
you
. Oh lord, you didn't resign today, did you? I thought you were staying out the week!”

“No, it's not that. But this isn't my precinct. The Broadhurst is in Midtown South's jurisdiction. They're the ones who'll handle the investigation.”

“But, but I thought
you
…”

Marian shook her head. “Where's a phone?”

“In my dressing room. Oh, hell. Look, I'll make the call. You go on and see how much you can find out. Midtown South, you say?”

“Just dial nine-one-one.”

Muttering under her breath, Kelly headed toward her dressing room. Marian went in search of the stage manager. His desk was in fact a wide podium; a middle-aged woman was using his phone. Leo Gunn was talking to two young men she supposed were stagehands.

“Each of you take half the prop list,” Gunn was saying, giving each man a sheet of paper; disturbingly, Gunn had a two-pronged hook in place of a right hand. “Don't waste time looking for exact matches. Like, if they don't have a black address book, get a brown one. Hell, get an orange one if that's all they have in stock. But get something, and get it fast. Go!” The two young men hurried away.

Marian stepped forward and identified herself. “Mr. Gunn, was anything of real monetary value taken?”

“Monetary value? Well, the costumes run high, but other than that … no, I guess not. But my copy of the script was invaluable to me—to the play, too. Now I've got to sit down and try to remember all the light and sound cues, or tonight's going to be a shambles.” He scratched his neck with his mechanical hook. “Curtain's going to be late.”

“Depending on when the stagehands get back with the props?”

“Stagehands? Oh—Mort and Pete. They're my assistants.” Gunn grinned sourly. “Stagehands don't run errands. They don't do anything unless the union says so.”

The woman on the phone hung up and said to the stage manager, “Essex says they can fit Ian Cavanaugh—they're sending over half a dozen suits right now. He's the only real problem. Shoulders are too big.” She looked at Marian. “Who are you?”

Marian showed her badge and asked the same question, learning that the woman was the wardrobe mistress. Marian said, “Would you make me a list of the costumes that were stolen and their cost? Shoes, accessories, everything.”

“Glad to. The biggest loss is the Bernhardt jacket … that's irreplaceable. I just hope those blasted thieves know what they got.”

“Kelly mentioned a Bernhardt jacket,” Marian said. “What is it exactly?”

“It's an ornamented jacket that once belonged to Sarah Bernhardt,” the wardrobe mistress explained. “Our producer bought it at an auction in Paris. He was letting Kelly wear it for a little while, but eventually it'd go to a museum.”

“Oh, what a shame. About that list …?”

“I'll do it now, before those off-the-rack replacements start getting here.” She hurried off.

“And I'd like a list of the missing props from you, Mr. Gunn.”

He groaned. “The first night the properties master calls in sick. I just made out a list for my assistants—okay, I'll do it again.”

“And I'd appreciate it if you could have everyone else gather on the stage for a moment. Which one is the director?”

“He isn't here yet. Anything else?”

Marian smiled sympathetically. “No, nothing else. I won't bother you any more.”

That sour grin again. “Good. You know, short of planting a bomb in the theater, there's no better way of shutting down a show than by stealing all its small necessaries.” He hurried away.

A third possible motive?
Marian mused. Play piracy, or souvenir-hunting, or the intent to close
The Apostrophe Thief
before the natural end of its run? Which?

Leo Gunn didn't waste any time. In less than two minutes the cast, the playwright, and the stagehands were all assembled on the stage.

Marian moved to a spot where she was facing most of them and called for attention. “I'd like each of you to write down exactly what was taken from you—script, personal belongings, anything at all that's missing. List the dollar value if you know it. Then sign the list and give it to me. Please do it now, before the replacement costumes arrive.”

“We're getting costumes?” someone asked.

“So I understand. Please go make out your lists now.”

They all moved away purposefully. Giving them something to do might help settle them down a little, although Marian's real purpose was to save time for the detectives from Midtown South when they got there. Speaking of which …

She went to Kelly's dressing room. “You did call nine-one-one, didn't you?”

“Sure did,” Kelly answered. “They said they'd get someone here as soon as they could.” She signed her name with a flourish. “Here's my list.”

Marian read it. “Script, hairbrush, lotion … a pair of old sneakers?”

“Very old. But comfortable as all get-out. I wore them during rehearsals a lot.” A sigh. “But now they're gone.” Kelly had listed their value as twenty-nine cents.

Why would a burglar take a worthless pair of sneakers?
Marian went back out to the stage, where Abigail James handed her a sheet of paper with only her name written on it. “You lost nothing?”

“I keep nothing here.” A wry smile. “The playwright doesn't merit a dressing room or an office.”

“There are offices backstage?”

“One. The director uses it. Sergeant, we've met before, haven't we?”

“We have indeed. At the opening night party.”

“Ah, I remember. You're the one who asked me about the meaning of the title.”
The Apostrophe Thief
, she meant. “The only one to ask.”

“Still?”

“Still.”

Right then Ian Cavanaugh came up with his list.
Shoulders are too big
, the wardrobe mistress had said; they looked just fine to Marian. “Here you are, Sergeant. Truthfully, now, is there any chance of getting these things back?”

“Truthfully, not much,” Marian admitted, reading his list. “Most of the items taken seem to be of negligible value, but maybe some of them will turn up. Antiques dealers can be notified about your shaving mug—uh, it's worth five thousand dollars?”

Abigail James laughed softly. “Oh, Ian.”

“It's worth that to me,” he said blandly. “Would it help if I offered a reward?”

“Doubtful,” Marian told him. “The burglars took it not because of its intrinsic value, whatever that might be, but simply because it was there. They'll dispose of it the same way—casually.”

The actor groaned. “That's what I was afraid you'd say. You know, something like this happened once before. Remember, Abby? That piece John directed a couple of years ago, the one that called itself a circus-drama?”

The playwright remembered. “You're right—I hadn't thought about that. It was Gerald Hemley's last play, ah,
Three Rings
, it was called.” She frowned. “But only the scripts were taken then, I think John said.”

“Who's John?” Marian asked.

“John Reddick, our director. He could tell you about
Three Rings
.”

“Is there a Sergeant Larch here?” The voice that spoke belonged to a young black uniformed officer. He was followed by another officer, a jowly white man who seemed content to let his partner do the talking.

Marian identified herself. “Are you from Midtown South? Where's the detective in charge?”

The young black officer grinned at her. “Yeah, we're from Midtown South … and
you
are the detective in charge.”

“What? I can't be—I'm Ninth Precinct.”

“We're not fussy. What we are is a little short of manpower tonight, and the captain said as long as you're already on the scene—”

“Whoa—how did he know I was here? I don't even
know
your captain.”

The officer's grin got bigger. “Well, it seems that the star of this here show called it in, and she made it
purr
-fectly clear that you have the sitcheation well in hand. Captain Murtaugh says tell you he'll clear it with your captain tomorrow. Now, what do you want us to do?”

Kelly
.

Marian turned just in time to see her friend darting back to the safety of her dressing room. “You can arrest that woman,” she growled.

4

The following morning found Marian once again sitting in Captain DiFalco's office. The captain was making a bad job of hiding how delighted he was with the current turn of events.
Wants me out of his hair until I cool down
, Marian thought. DiFalco kept up a steady line of talk aimed at keeping her from saying anything.

“Sorry about breaking in on your personal time like this,” he said, looking anything but sorry, “but we didn't call you, Kelly Ingram did. Still, there's something to be said about getting back on the horse.”

And you had to say it
.

“The job at Midtown South won't last long. The theft of some playscripts and a few baubles isn't a high-priority crime. Go through the motions, do what you can. But don't sweat it.”

I don't intend to
.

“You'll report to Captain Murtaugh or his lieutenant—shit, what's his name? O'Bannion, O'Casey … another Mick, something starting with ‘O.' But see Murtaugh, he'll give you your instructions. This is the first time Midtown South has borrowed one of our people … make us look good, Larch! Murtaugh won't keep you on it more'n two, three days. But the change'll be good for you.”

And for you
.

“Keep your eyes open while you're there, see what you can pick up. One thing I'm sure you've thought of.” He actually winked at her,
us conspirators against the rest of them
. “You won't have to work with Foley.”

Marian finally spoke. “I'll never work with Foley again.”

“Hell, never say never. We'll work out something. I'm going to have a good talk with Foley while you're gone, straighten him out, make him see where he's falling short—”

Marian got up and walked out.

His voice followed her. “Hold it right there, Larch! You don't walk out on
me
!”

She kept on walking, right into the Police Detective Unit room. Foley was at his desk, ignoring her; fine. Marian had brought a cardboard box with her that morning; she set about clearing out her desk.

“Hey, mon, you movin' or somethin'?” Gloria Sanchez's Latina lilt floated across the room, more Sanchez today than Gloria. “The cap'n tol' us you'd be gone only a few days.”

“I'm going for good, Gloria. I won't be back.” She put a travel alarm, toothbrush and toothpaste, and a variety of headache medications into the cardboard box.

“What?” Foley's voice rasped, his attention now fully on Marian. “You're quitting?”

“No, wait a minute,” Gloria said, her Hispanic persona forgotten in an instant. “It's a transfer, right? You've been assigned to Midtown South permanently?”

Marian shook her head. “It's just that I'm never going to work for that man”—she waved an arm toward DiFalco's office—“or
with
this man”—she looked at Foley—“again. Ever.”

Gloria gasped. Foley barked, “Too rough for you, huh?” and sniggered.

Marian didn't answer him. “Don't ask questions, Gloria. I'll call you later and explain.” Coffee mug, notebooks, Kleenex, two nail files, a small carton of Wash'n Dri towelettes—into the box.

The other woman looked dubious, amazed, even a little alarmed. “Okay, if you say so. I hope you know what you're doing.”

“So do I,” Marian muttered. She packed the Rolodex and picked up the cardboard box.

“Hey!” Foley objected. “You can't take the Rolodex!”

“I paid for it, I'm taking it,” Marian snapped. “Gloria, I'll call you tonight or tomorrow morning. Don't fret—please.”

Still looking dubious, Gloria nodded, reluctantly granting Marian permission to go ahead with whatever noodlenut plan she had.

The truth was, Marian had no plan. But sitting in the captain's office and listening to oily-politician DiFalco trying to con her into accepting the status quo, she'd only become more determined to clean out her desk and be rid of the place. It did occur to her that if she simply refused to work with DiFalco without having officially resigned, she'd be subject to disciplinary action and might lose certain benefits when she did leave. So she would put in her final days among strangers at Midtown South; she ought to be able to keep out of office politics for that long. Too many DiFalcos and Foleys in law enforcement, not enough Gloria Sanchezes. But Gloria certainly wasn't the only good cop in town; Marian felt a little like a deserter.