'What's the address?'
'I don't know.'
'But if the police could get there in time-'
'I've lost it,' Graham said. 'It's gone. I'm sorry. It's all gone for
now.'
He felt cold and hollow inside.
Shortly before two o'clock in the morning, after a conference on the set
with the director, Anthony Prine left the studio and went down the hall
to his suite, which served him as office, dressing room and home away
from home. Inside, he walked straight to the bar, put two ice cubes in
a glass and reached for the bottle of bourbon.
His manager and business partner, Paul Stevenson, was sitting on the
couch. He wore expensive, welltailored clothes. Prine was a smart
dresser, and he appreciated that quality in other men. The problem was
that Stevenson always destroyed the effect of his outfit with one
bizarre accessory. Tonight he was wearing a Seville Row suit-a
hard-finished gray worsted with a midnight-blue That silk lining-a
hand-sewn light blue shirt, maroon tie, black alligator shoes. And
bright pink socks-with green clocks on the sides. Like cockroaches on a
wedding cake.
For two reasons, Stevenson was a perfect business partner: he had money,
and he did what he was told to do.
Prine had great respect for the dollar. And he did not believe that
anyone lived who had the experience, the intelligence or the right to
tell him what to do.
'Were there any calls for me on the private line?'
Prine asked.
'No calls.'
'You're certain?'
'Of course.'
'You were here all the time?'
'Watching the show on that set,' Stevenson said.
'I was expecting a call.'
'I'm sorry. There wasn't one.'
Prine scowled.
'Terrific show,' Stevenson said.
'Just the first thirty minutes. Following Harris, the other guests
looked duller than they were. Did we get viewer calls?'
'Over a hundred, all favorable. Do you believe he really saw the
killing take place?'
'You heard the details he gave. The color of her eyes. Her name.
He convinced me.'
'Until the next victim's found, you don't know that his details were
accurate.'
'They were accurate,' Prine said. He finished his bourbon and refilled
his glass. He could drink a great deal of whiskey without becoming
drunk. Likewise, when he ate he gorged himself, yet he had never been
overweight. He was constantly on the prowl for pretty young women, and
when he paid for sex he usually went to bed with two call girls. He was
not simply a middle-aged man desperately trying to prove his youth. He
