I played it with Easton the way I always played it. I 422 / SUSAN ISAACS
gave him exactly what he felt he deserved: sympathy and support. “It must be such hell,” I said.
“It is. Complete hell.” I shook my head as if I couldn’t bear his—our—sadness.
What the fuck right did he have to kill? To fly off, with a new wardrobe of ties, to California, leaving Bonnie to spend the next twenty-five years paying for what he did?
I felt no sadness for my brother’s stupid, wasted, empty life, and no guilt, not a goddamn twinge, about not having been a better older brother so I could have given him some values or shit like that. No, I just felt cold and very tired.
“Tell me how it happened, East,” I urged. Oh, did I sound full of compassion.
“You’re calling me ‘East’ again.”
I smiled. “I know. Hey, you’re my brother, aren’t you?
Come on. Let’s talk. Tell me what went on. Was there any discussion about getting rid of Lindsay before that night at dailies?” Every now and then I slipped, but I knew to avoid the word “kill” when questioning a killer.
“No. Nothing. I knew they were having troubles. Sy had turned off on her completely, went from hot to cold overnight. But I’m sure you know by now that he wasn’t the confiding type.”
“But then there was that remark that if lightning struck Lindsay, if she died, the problems with Starry Night would be over. What happened after that?”
Easton didn’t answer. He yanked at the hem of his bathrobe. It was one of those Saks uglies that my mother had bought on final, maximum markdown and saved for Christmas; it was some sort of strange, long-haired terry cloth, and grayish-brown, the color of a rag used for unpleasant chores.
“Who brought up getting Lindsay out of the picture? You or Sy?”
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“I did, but it isn’t the way it sounds. I just asked him some questions about the completion insurance. He said that if a star dies, the guarantors will pay to make another movie. If you’re on a forty-day shooting schedule and she dies when you’re fifteen days into it, the producers will get fifteen days of money. Well, minus a deductible of either a couple of hundred thousand or three days. But Sy said the coverage was quite fair.”
“But there was no suggestion he wanted you to facilitate matters?”
“No. Not then.”
My brother’s face reflected a little hurt, as in why hadn’t Sy leapt at his unstated offer right away. I had absolutely no doubt that Easton’s questions about insurance were openings to Sy. Maybe Sy hadn’t even thought about offing Lindsay before. Who knows? But all of a sudden, there it was, out in the electrified air: if lightning struck.
But Sy was no fool. He knew lightning was dangerous; only an expert could handle it. Like Mikey. Not a jerk like my brother. So he’d bypassed Easton, who was, most likely, doing everything but jumping up and down, waving his arms, calling out: Just ask me, Sy. I’m your boy. I’m your assistant producer. I’ll do whatever you think needs doing. Sy, though, had gone to a pro. But the pro had been smarter than both Sy and Easton put together. He just said no.
“When did the matter come up again?”
“Wednesday night.”
I sat back on the bed, as though I were getting comfortable, all ready and eager to hear about my kid brother’s first day of junior high. “Tell me, how did he bring it up?” I asked.
“That’s what amazed me, Steve! He was so unbelievably direct. He said, ‘We’ve got to terminate Lindsay.’ He already had the plane reservations and the
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appointments in L.A., so he wanted it done over the weekend, when he was out there.” Easton was talking fast, freely, so I didn’t stop him to ask how come he’d done it the day before the weekend. “He didn’t say, ‘Will you do it?’ or anything. He just assumed I would.”
“Goes with the territory, right?”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”
“Hey, East, I’m not. But I want us to talk straight, matter-of-fact. No bullshit between us. We’re brothers.”
“Don’t condescend to me, Steve. That’s all I ask.”
“I’m not. Now, did he plan it out, or did you?”
“He had it all mapped out. He invented this imaginary killer—a crazy fan. He would make believe Lindsay had gotten a letter from the fan, telling her he loved her, threatening to kill her if she didn’t write back to him.”
“But she’d never gotten any letter like that?”
“Well, she had gotten crazy letters. All actors do. That was the beauty of it. She’d talked about them, to her agent, to some of Sy’s friends at a dinner party a few weeks ago. Sy said that this murder would just seem to be a horrible extension of those letters. He’d tell the police she’d seemed a little upset about some new threatening letter, but that he’d never seen it. He’d say he kept after her to have one of the private investigation agencies who handle things for public figures look into it, and she kept saying fine, but she was busy with the movie and never bothered. And then I was supposed to say—but not volunteer it, only if the police asked me—that I’d overheard Lindsay telling him about the letter.”
“Was he going to write one for the police to find?”
“No. He said he’d given it a lot of thought, and almost did it, but it was just too chancy. Who knows MAGIC HOUR /
