A tiny tremor scooted across Salander’s lips.
LeMoyne kept turning pages. “He’s trying to intimidate you, Andy.” To Milo: “That’s rubbish. On what grounds?”
“The thing is, Andy,” said Milo, “there’s a legal status called material witness that can reduce your freedom substantially. Same for ‘suspect.'”
Salander blanched. “I didn’t see anything, and I didn’t do anything.”
“That may be so, but my job is to suspect, not to adjudicate. And after a couple of days in custody—”
“Bullshit,” said LeMoyne, starting to get up. “Stop scaring him.”
“Please stay seated, sir.”
“Bullshit,” LeMoyne repeated, but he settled back down. “This is obscene. Oppressive. You of all people should—”
Milo turned his back on LeMoyne. “The thing that bothers me, Andy, is I specifically asked you to be available. Because you’re the last person who saw Lauren Teague alive, and that makes you a definite material witness. From my perspective, the fact that you agreed to be available but reneged makes you an interesting person.”
Long pause. Salander said, “I’m sorry—”
“Oh, Christ,” said LeMoyne. “Stop talking, Andrew. Shut up—”
“You went back on your word, Andy. That and the fact that you’re hiding out in this garden spot—”
“We are not hiding,” said LeMoyne, picking up the phone. “I’m calling my lawyer. Ed Geisman. Geisman and Brandner.”
“Be my guest,” said Milo. “Of course, once that happens, I won’t be able to control the ensuing publicity—agent and suspect apprehended in cheap hotel. I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.” Half-turning back toward LeMoyne. “It was my impression that agents preferred to sell stories, not create them.”
“Defame me and I’ll sue you.”
“If I defamed you, I’d deserve to be sued, sir. But release of accurate facts doesn’t constitute defamation.”
Salander said, “Justin, this is crazy, why are we fighting? I didn’t do anything. All I want is— I don’t care about the story.”
“Quiet,” snapped LeMoyne.
Milo smiled. Edged closer to the bed. “The story. So this is a story conference.” He laughed. “You guys are taking a meeting.”
“It’s not like that,” said Salander, wiping moist eyes.
“Stop blubbering,” ordered LeMoyne. “It’s unbecoming.”
“I’m sorry, Justin—”
“Stop apologizing^
“Let me guess,” said Milo, stepping between the men. “Insider’s view of a blond beauty’s murder. Are you thinking big screen or made for TV?”
“No,” said Salander. “No, no, it’s just— Justin said if we registered the idea with the Writers Guild we could be protected—it would be like life insurance.”
“Ah,” said Milo. “You think if someone comes gunning for you, the Writers Guild’11 ride to the rescue? Must be a new service they provide.”
Salander began crying.
“You asshole,” said LeMoyne. “You enjoy scaring him, don’t you.”
“He’s already scared,” said Milo. “Isn’t that right, Andy?”
“Don’t call him by his first name. It’s demeaning. Call him ‘mister.’ Treat him with respect.”
“I don’t care what he calls me, Justin.” Salander sniffed. “I just want to be safe.”
“That’s the problem,” said LeMoyne.
“What is?” Panic in Salander’s voice.
“You don’t care. You always fall short in the caring department. As well as in the thinking-things-through department.”
“Stop it, Justin—”
LeMoyne slammed the script shut. “This is bullshit. I’ve got appointments on hold, canceled meetings— Do what you want, Andy. It’s your life, take it where you want to—”
“The thing is,” said Milo, “I don’t care if you register the story. Make a million bucks from Lauren’s death, it’s the American way. But not before you tell me what you know. Because if you hold out, that puts into play yet another restriction of your freedom: withholding evidence.”
“Oh, bullshit,” said LeMoyne. “This is just total bullshit. I’m out of this, Andrew.”
“I need your help, Justin.”
LeMoyne gave a sick smile. “Oh, I don’t think so, Andy. I think you do just fine by yourself.”
“I don’t.” Salander wiped his nose with his arm. “I really need support, Justin—”
“That’s a brand-new shirt, use a tissue, for God’s sake.”
Salander looked around the room helplessly. Milo located the Kleenex box on the floor and handed it to him.
“What should I do, Justin?”
“Do what you want.”
Silence.
“I don’t know,” said Salander, throwing up his hands. He reached for the beer can.