Wain sighed, extracting a cigarette from his shirt pocket, searching absentmindedly for his lighter.
“Well, Avery always liked the long shots, Sergeant,” he said. Then, with another sad smile, added, “And I must say, quite often they came in for him. Quite often.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
MONDAY MORNING THE TWO DETECTIVES once again returned to Lauria’s former home. There, they showed a recent photograph of Avery Mallard to the Annasias. Neither remembered ever having seen him in Lauria’s company or in the vicinity of the house.
As Rizzo drove once again to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, Priscilla commented from the passenger seat, “I like workin’ Brooklyn, Joe. I get to spend lotsa time in Manhattan.”
“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “And the tolls are on the city.”
Her face grew serious. “I still think we shoulda called first. This could be a waste of time. These people may not even be in today…”
“Yeah, could be,” Rizzo said, “but I wanna catch ’em cold. I don’t want them with any time to think about this, why two cops are comin’ to see them. With Kellerman and Thurbill and the others, they already talked to cops, they knew they were involved. These people at the agencies, they have no reason to think cops are coming to talk to them. It’s better this way, trust me.”
She nodded. “Well, when you put it like that… I guess so. Okay, so we’ll just drop in.” Her face brightened. “We can say, Oh, we were just in the neighborhood and figured we’d stop by and ask, ‘Hey, you kill these two guys? You know who did, maybe?’ I can deal with that.”
“Yeah, exactly,” Rizzo said. “Catch ’em with their alibis all up in the air.” He shrugged. “We’ll see.”
The first literary agency they visited was located on Columbus Avenue at West Seventy-first Street. A little research by Priscilla had shown that this particular agency was well known for its representation of stage drama. The eventual letter declining the work had been signed by an Evelyn Myerson.
Ms. Myerson was twenty-six years old, employed by the agency as a first reader, and assigned to what was referred to as the “slush pile,” a myriad of eclectic unsolicited works received by the dozens each month. Myerson had obtained her B.A. in English literature from a small local college in her native Midwest, then relocated to New York City for a career in author representation.
After a short interview, it was clear to both detectives that the surprised, pleasant young woman had no recollection of Robert Lauria or his play. It was apparent to Rizzo that the woman had, most probably, scanned the work only briefly before returning it to the unproven, unknown Brooklyn playwright.
The second agency, at Ninth Avenue and Fifty-third Street, proved to be a dead end as well, also involving a young, inexperienced first reader serving more as a clearing house worker than literary representative. She, too, gave the detectives the impression that she hadn’t read
Rizzo had deliberately started the interviews in the northernmost location of the city, working southward and nearer to Brooklyn as the day progressed. He and Priscilla left the Impala parked on Seventh Avenue and Twenty- seventh Street, stopping at a panini shop for a quick lunch.
The last of the three agencies was located in a tall office building on Seventh between Twenty-seventh and Twenty-eighth Streets in Chelsea. They rode the elevator and entered the third-floor office complex.
A young receptionist examined Rizzo’s badge and I.D., her eyes growing wide.
“Oh,” she said. “Is everything all right?”
Priscilla smiled. “Yes, everything is fine,” she said. “We just need to speak to Linda DeMaris. Is she in?”
“Linda?” the young woman asked. “Linda doesn’t work here anymore, Officer.”
“Oh?” Rizzo asked. “Since when?”
“I’m not sure… If I had to guess, maybe about a year.”
“Okay,” Rizzo said. “Was she a first reader here?”
The woman shook her head. “No, not when she left. Maybe she started as one, but I wouldn’t know.”
“So what was Ms. DeMaris?” Priscilla asked. “An agent?”
“No,” the woman said, her voice lowering, her eyes widening once more. “Is Linda in some kind of trouble?”
“No, nothing like that,” Rizzo said. “We just need to ask her about something, no big deal. But tell me…
“No, sir, she was an administrative assistant. To Helen.”
“Helen?” Priscilla asked.
“Yes, Helen Crothers, one of the agents here.”
Rizzo nodded. “Do me a favor, will you? Get ahold of Helen. We’d like to speak to her.”
The woman reached for the intercom. “Sure,” she said. “Helen’s usually out to lunch at this hour on Mondays, but she happens to be here today. I’ll get her.”
HELEN CROTHERS was in her mid-fifties, sharp-eyed and intelligent-looking, her black hair short and dabbed in gray. She smiled across her desk at the two detectives.
“So,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“Well,” Rizzo said, “we wanted to speak to Linda DeMaris, but we understand she no longer works here.”
“Yes, that’s correct. She left about a year ago.”
Priscilla spoke up. “She was your administrative assistant?”
“Yes, that’s correct.” She frowned. “Is Linda okay? Is everything all right?”
“Far as we know, yeah,” Rizzo said. “We just need to ask her a question or two.”
“Is there anything I can help you with?” Crothers asked.
“Maybe you can,” Rizzo said. “Let me ask you, as an administrative assistant, did Ms. DeMaris screen incoming manuscripts? You know, unsolicited stuff the agency receives for representation?”
“Sometimes, but not very often. Actually, Linda resisted those assignments.” She smiled. “She’d spent more than a few years as a first reader, Detective. Her promotion to A.A. was somewhat long in coming.”
“So she did have a history here as a reader?” Priscilla asked.
“Most definitely,” Crothers answered. “As I said, for a good number of years, until about fours years ago.”
“And, as your assistant, she’d still occasionally read submissions that came in unsolicited?”
“Yes. Occasionally.”
“Ms. Crothers, you ever hear of a guy named Robert Lauria? From Brooklyn? Wrote an unproduced play called
The woman frowned, then shook her head. “No, those names are not ringing a bell. Why?”
“His name came up on a case we’re working,” Rizzo said. “It turns out he submitted a play to this agency and it was rejected by Ms. DeMaris. We were just hoping maybe she had some additional info on the guy.”
“That would be unlikely, Detective,” she replied. “We process hundreds of submissions each year.”
“So we’ve been learning,” Priscilla said. “Do you keep any record of them?”
Crothers tossed her head from side to side. “Yes and no. When a first reader turns down a work, generally no record is kept. But when something goes beyond the first reader and receives serious consideration, it will often be entered into our databank.” She turned to the computer on her desk. “What were those names again?”
After keying in the information, Crothers shook her head. “No,” she said. “Neither is showing here.”
Rizzo nodded. “Okay, thanks, we’ll just talk to Ms. DeMaris. Do you know where she’s working now?”
“Oh, yes, Detective, I can help you with that. You see, Linda left us for a marvelous opportunity that opened up for her.”
“Oh?” Priscilla asked. “And what was that?”
Crothers’s smile broadened. “A personal assistant position for a very important and influential man.”
Rizzo crossed his leg, sitting back in his seat. “And who might that be, Ms. Crothers?”
“Thomas Bradley,” she said. “The Broadway producer. Have you heard of him?”
Rizzo turned to Jackson, and they exchanged smiles. Turning back to Crothers, he began to stand as he answered her.
