LITMIR.BIZ

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of the book consisted of professional acting headshots in a variety of poses and costumes, but virtually no changes of expression, like flesh-and-blood paper dolls. There was no agent logo on the shots, just “Nora Frost, Alpha Productions,” and a phone number. I pulled out the card Nora had given me and checked it against the photos: the phone numbers were the same.

      It was getting a bit dark inside the house, since the sun was sinking behind a hill, so I took the liberty of turning on a few lamps. It was quiet, too; the only sound I heard was the ticking of the clock that hung on the wall over the television, and which, miraculously, did not have pictures of the Brothers Alpha on its face.

      I walked to the spacious dining room, which did not appear to have hosted many recent meals despite the large table. The table was covered with what looked like week’s worth of mail, Hollywood trade papers, BackStage, which was a casting newspaper, and a box full of mailer tubes. I presumed these would eventually contain the posters of the boys protesting fox hunts. “You guys okay?” I called into the void.

      “Of course we’re okay,” a voice replied, and I think it was Burton’s. “It’s our house.”

      “We’re having soda, and Mom doesn’t allow us to bring soda in the living room,” Taylor’s voice added. It stood to reason: what would happen if all those photos were to have something spilt on them?

      “Okay, just checking.”

      A little while later, through the dining room window I could see headlights. Nora Frost’s Lexus was pulling into the driveway and not a moment too soon for me. It had not been two hours, or even close to it, but it seemed like it. I went to the door to wait for her and she burst through a moment later. “Where are the boys?” she asked, not bothering with such formalities as “Hello.”

      “In the kitchen,” I said. “They wanted sodas.”

      “I guess they can have a little splurge, since they performed so admirably today,” she said. “Come with me.” I followed her into the living room where she opened up her purse and withdrew not a cashier’s check, but a stack of cash, which she flopped on the coffee table. “It’s the whole ten-thousand, not half. I didn’t think you would mind.”

      I had never before heard the sound of ten-thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills thumping down on a hard surface, but I enjoyed it. It was rich, warm and resonant. “I decided this would be easier than a cashier’s check,” she said.

      I tried to think of a cool Bogarty comeback that would hide my astonishment at the sight of so much cash in one place at one time, but failed. Even inside my head, all I heard was an impressed, Bogart whistle. So after gaping for a moment, I said, “I don’t mind at all. This is fine.”

      “Count it.”

      “Cases such as this are based on trust.” I picked the stacks of bills up and forced them into various pockets. I probably looked like I was wearing bad stunt padding. Do you have ten grand in c-notes in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me? Mae West cooed inside my head. “I’ll send over an agreement for you to sign tomorrow.”

      “Can’t we operate through a verbal agreement?” she asked.

      “A signed contract is standard procedure,” I told her. “Sometimes people refuse to pay the investigator if they don’t like the results of the investigation, so this is protection against that.”

      “But I’ve already paid you.”

      “All right, I’ll send over a receipt for the cash, then.”

      “I would really rather prefer no paperwork of any kind, unless it’s required by law.”

      “No, no, the law doesn’t really have an opinion about it—”

      “Then it’s settled.”

      Why was she so resistant to having a paper trail? Well, I would worry about that later. Lots later. I had ten-thousand of her dollars already in my pockets, and I didn’t want to push so hard that she would think better of the deal and ask for it back.

      “Do you need anything else, or do you have enough to get started?” she asked.

      “I’ll need the names of any of the women you suspect might have sent that letter. Oh, and I’d like to see the letter, too.”

      “I have it locked away upstairs in my bedroom,” she said. “I didn’t want to leave it anywhere the boys might see it. I’ll go get it. Stay here.”

      She left the room and I heard soft footfalls on a staircase. In less than a minute, they returned, this time coming back down. Nora’s eyes darted around the room as she walked in, as though making certain the boys had not come in while she was gone. Once satisfied, she came over and handed me a piece of paper. It was plain typing paper on which was written in Sharpie:

      TO NORA FROST.…

      EITHER KEEP THOSE KIDS OF YOURS OUT OF AUDITIONS OR I WILL. THIS IS NO JOKE! I HAVE HAD IT WITH TAYLOR AND BURTON GETTING ALL THE ATTENTION! UNLESS YOU WANT THEM TAKEN AND CUT UP INTO PIECES, YOU WILL RETIRE THEM FROM THE BUSINESS. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING.

      “Did this come in an envelope?” I asked.

      “Yes.”

      “Do you still have it?”

      “No, I threw it away.”

      I sighed. Doesn’t anybody watch cop shows on television anymore? “Could it still be in the trash somewhere?”

      “Trash pick-up was this morning. Did I do something wrong?”

      “There is a lot the envelope could have told us. Its postmark could have identified the location of the sender.”

      “It didn’t come in the mail,” she said. “It was slipped under the door.” She began pacing again. “That’s what’s so terrifying about it. Whoever sent it already knows where we live. But you said the letter itself might have fingerprints on it.”

      “There probably are, but the problem with fingerprints is that unless the suspect has a record, or was once in the military, or has a government job, there would be nothing to match them up against. But I’ll see what I can deduce from this letter. Can I take it with me?”

      She nodded.

      “How soon can I get that list of people who might be responsible for this?”

      “It will take me a little bit to put it together. How can I get it to you?”

      “Email works,” I said, reaching for my wallet and pulling out a business card. Taking a pen from my shirt pocket, I jotted my new email on the back of the card. One of these days I would have to get cards reprinted to include all the pertinent information, but I still had a box of the old ones, and I hated to see them go to waste. “The sooner the better.”

      “Tomorrow morning. Is there anything else you need from me?”

      The question was asked with a pregnancy of tone that I did not really want to contemplate at the moment. So I settled for a legitimate question. “What do you do, Nora?”

      “Do?”

      “For a living. I’m looking around at all these photos and oil paintings and photographic cutouts, and you clearly paid for that photo shoot today, and you’ve just handed me ten-thousand dollars in cash, not to mention this house, so you clearly have money. I’m just curious what you do to get it.”

      “Well, I and the boys receive a military pension from my late husband, but.…”

      “But?”

      “I am what you would call independently wealthy through an inheritance. My parents were quite well off. Will that suffice, or do you need to know who they were?”

      “Well, I think—”

      “Have you ever heard of Steve Cousins and Natalie Strange?”

      Had I? “Are you kidding?

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