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“Sergeant, was Hartshorn tall and gray-haired?”
Skakel laughed. “No. Short and bald as a beagle. What’s with the job? You got leads?”
“Lindenaur’s on the City end, and there’s no real leads yet. What was your take on Hartshorn?”
“He’s no killer, Upshaw. He’s rich, he’s got influence and he won’t give you the time of day. Besides, pansy jobs ain’t worth it, and Lindenaur was a punk. I say c’est la vie, let sleeping queers lie.”
Back to the City, kid gloves this time, nothing to spawn more lies and trouble. Da
Rival union factions were picketing by the front gate; Da
Da
“I want to talk to the people who worked with Duane Lindenaur.”
The guard didn’t flinch at the name; Lindenaur’s monicker hadn’t yet made the tabloid. He checked a sheet on a clipboard, said, “Set 23, the office next to the Tomahawk Massacre interior,” hit a button and pointed. The gate opened; Da
A voice called, “It’s open”; Da
Da
The young man dropped his briefcase; his hands twitched up and adjusted his glasses. “Mm-mm-murdered?”
“That’s right.”
“And y-y-you’re a policeman?”
“Deputy Sheriff. Did you know Lindenaur well?”
The youth picked up his briefcase and slumped into a chair. “N-no, not well. Just here at work, just superficially.”
“Did you see him outside the studio?”
“No.”
“Did you know George Wiltsie?”
“No. I knew he and Duane lived together, because Duane told me.”
Da
“I wouldn’t dream of speculating on their relationship. All I know is that Duane was quiet, that he was a good rewrite man and that he worked cheap, which is a big plus at this slave labor camp.”
A footstep scraped outside the door. Da
Da
The man was closer to a boy—ski
“So that gives you the right to eavesdrop on official police business?”
The kid primped his hair. Da
“No, that doesn’t give me—”
“Then why did you?”
“I heard you say Duaney and George were dead, and I knew them. Do you know—”
“No, I don’t know who killed them, or I wouldn’t be here. How well did you know them?”
The boy played with his pompadour. “I shared lunch with Duaney—Duane—and I knew George to say hi to when he picked Duane up.”
“I guess the three of you had a lot in common, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you associate with Lindenaur and Wiltsie outside of here?”
“No.”
“But you talked, because the three of you had so goddamn much in common. Is that right?”
The boy eyed the floor, one foot drawing lazy figure eights. “Yes, sir.”
“Then you tell me about what they had going and who else they had going, because if anyone around here would know, you would. Isn’t that right?”
The boy braced himself against a spotlight, his back to Da
Da
“I don’t know.”
“Who else did Wiltsie and Lindenaur party with? Give me some names.”
“I don’t know and I don’t have any names!”
“Don’t whine. What about a tall, gray-haired man, middle-aged. Did either Lindenaur or Wiltsie mention a man like that?”
“No.”
“Is there a man working here who fits that description?”
“There’s a million men in LA who fit that description, so will you please—”
Da
The kid turned and rubbed his wrist. “I don’t know of any men like that, but Duane liked older guys, and he told me he dug gray hair. Now are you satisfied?”
Da
“I don’t know, we never discussed music.”
“Did they ever talk about burglary or a man in his late twenties with burn scars on his face?”
“No.”
“Were either of them hipped on animals?”
“No, just other guys.”
Da
Da
City turf. Da
Gerstein said, “I heard you were looking for the guys some script hack works with. That true?”
“Duane Lindenaur. He was murdered.”
“That’s too bad. I don’t like it when my people check out without telling me. What’s the matter, Upshaw? You ain’t laughing.”
“It wasn’t fu
Gerstein cleared his throat. “To each his own, and I don’t have to beg for laughs, I’ve got comedians for that. Before you go, I want to inform you of something. I’m cooperating with a grand jury investigation into Commie influence in Hollywood, and I don’t like the idea of extraneous cops asking questions around here. You dig? National security outranks a dead script hack.”
Da
Gerstein looked him over. “Now that really ain’t fu
“Vividly.”