“So you’re saying he wasn’t really hostile toward Professor Devane.”
“Of course not, he’s mellow. In fact I think we had him on our Nice Guy show a year ago—you know, finishing last and all that. He’s quite good. Adaptable. One of those faces you forget.”
“So no one remembers they’ve seen him before?”
“We stick a beard on them, or a wig. People aren’t that observant, anyway.”
“I’d still like to speak to him. Do you have a number handy?”
Another pause. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal.”
“Do I get to choose between the money and what’s behind Curtain Number Three?”
“Very funny,” she said, but the friendliness was back in her voice. “Here’s the deal: Call me as soon as you get a solve on the murder so we can have first dibs on a follow-up show, and I’ll give you Karl. Okay?”
I pretended to deliberate. “Okay.”
“Excellent—hey, maybe you can come on, too. Ace detective and all that. Do you photograph well?”
“Camera lights turn my eyes red but my fangs stay white.”
“Ha ha, very funny. You’d probably do real well. We’ve had cops on before but most of them are pretty wooden.”
“Like professors.”
“Like professors. Most people are wooden without help. Or some big story to tell.”
“I watched Professor Devane’s tape,” I said. “She seemed pretty good.”
“You know, she was. Class act. Really knew how to work the audience. It’s really terrible about what happened to her. She could have become a regular.”
Karl Neese’s number was out in the Valley but his machine said to reach him at work if it was about a part. Bo Bancroft’s Men’s Fashions on Robertson Boulevard.
I looked up the address. Between Beverly and Third, right off Designer Row. At this hour, a twenty-minute drive.
The store was closet-sized, full of mirrors, weathered Brazilian antiques painted with roses and religious icons, and racks of three-thousand-dollar suits. Disco-remixed easy listening on the sound system, two people working, both in black: a blond girl with bored eyes behind the register and Neese folding cashmere sweaters.
Since the show, the actor had let his hair grow to his shoulders and raised a prickly beard. In person, he looked younger. Pale and hungry-looking. Very long, very white fingers.
I introduced myself and told him why I was there.
He finished folding and turned around slowly. “You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was, Mr. Neese.”
“You know, right after it happened I wondered if someone would call me.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because the show got nasty.”
“Nastier than it was supposed to get?”
“No, they paid me for nasty. “Go out and be an asshole.’ ” He laughed. “How’s that for artistic direction?”
“What else did they tell you?”
“They gave me her book, told me to read it so I’d know what she was about. Then come on like a schmuck, get on her case to the max. Not a bad gig, actually. Six months ago I was on Xavier! as an incestuous father with no remorse. Cheap beard and sunglasses and a shirt I wouldn’t be caught dead in, but even with that I kept worrying some idiot would see me on the street and take a punch.”
“You do a lot of this?”
“Not as much as I’d like to. It pays five, six hundred a throw but there’re only so many openings a year. Anyway, I’m not saying it’s weird for you to come by, see if I’m the big bad wolf, but I’m not. The night she was killed I was doing dinner theater out in Costa Mesa. Man of La Mancha. Four hundred senior citizens saw me.” He smiled. “At least fuzzily. Hell, some of them might even have been sober. Here’s the producer’s number.”
He read off a 714 exchange, then said, “Too bad.”
“About what?”
“Her being killed. I didn’t like her but she was sharp, really handled my bullshit beautifully. You’d be amazed how many can’t cope, even when they know what’s going down.”
“So she knew?”
“Of course. We never had a formal rehearsal but they did get us together before the show. In the greenroom. I told her I’d be coming on like Frankenstein with a militia card, she said fine.”