Cassie Lasch was sitting on the floor of the ticket lobby of the Lost River Theater. She was wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt and was digging through a gray plastic garbage bag. Lucas pushed through the revolving door into the lobby, and, as she looked up at him, he stopped short.
"The actress," Lucas said. He paused, his eyes still adjusting to the dim light. "Lasch. Cathy."
"Cassie. How are you, Davenport? Want to help? I'm looking for a clue."
Lucas squatted next to her. The weather was too cold for a T-shirt, but the woman seemed not to notice. Her arms were strong, with long, round muscles that carried up to her neck. And she was tanned, as much as a redhead could tan, too smoothly, by artificial lights. A lifter, Lucas thought. "What clue?"
"The cops were here all morning and I forgot to tell them…" She stopped rummaging through the garbage for a moment. A tiny scrap of paper was stuck to the side of her jaw, and her red hair had fallen over her eyes. She brushed it back and said, "Nobody asked about the guy who tried to get on the guest list last night. Remember, I told you that the ticket-office lady tried to call Elizabeth about the freebee, and couldn't get her?"
"I remember," Lucas said, nodding. He reached over to her cheek, peeled off the scrap of paper, showed it to her and flicked it away.
"Thanks… uh…" She'd lost her thought, and she smiled up at him, her crooked tooth catching on her lower lip. Her face was just the slightest bit foxy, and mobile. Freckles were scattered lightly over the bridge of her nose.
"The guest list," Lucas prompted.
"Oh, yeah. This guy says he's some big-time reviewer and wants on the list as Elizabeth's friend. I asked the ticket-takers this morning and they said they didn't give out any freebees last night. Whoever called didn't show up. That could be a clue." She said it seriously, intently, like a Miss Marple with terrific breasts.
"Why is that a clue?"
"Because maybe if he knew Elizabeth, he went over there… I don't know, but he didn't show up."
Lucas thought for a minute, then nodded. "You're right. The list is in here?"
"Somewhere. On a piece of notebook paper from one of those teeny brown spiral notebooks. Probably wadded up."
"So let's dump it out," he said. He picked up the garbage bag by its bottom and shook it onto the lobby rug. Most of the litter was paper, much of it soaked with Coke and 7-Up, and toward the bottom, they found a paper coffee filter full of grounds.
"Ugh. Maybe you shouldn't have done that," Cassie said, wrinkling her nose at the mess.
"The hell with it," Lucas said. "We need the list."
They spent five minutes pawing through the sodden trash, working shoulder to shoulder. She had, Lucas decided, one of the better bodies he'd ever brushed up against. Everything was hard, except what was supposed to be soft, and that looked very soft. Every time she leaned forward, her breasts swelled forward against the thin fabric of the T-shirt…
Jesus Christ, Davenport, you're ready for the peep shows…
He smiled to himself and picked up a cardboard cup. Inside was a paper wad the size of a marble. He unwrapped it, turned it around. At the top somebody had written "Guests" and, under that, "Donaldson Whitney, LA Times."
"This it?"
Cassie took it, looked at it and said, "That's it. Kelly-the ticket-window lady-said the guy was from LA."
Lucas stood, the cartilage in his knees popping. "Got a phone? Someplace quiet?"
"There's one in the office, but there're a couple of people in there… There's another one in the control booth. What do we do about this garbage?" She looked down at the pile of trash on the floor. The coffee grounds were smeared where Lucas had stepped on them.
He frowned, as though seeing it for the first time, and said, "I don't care. Whatever you want."
"Well, fuck that, I didn't put it there," Cassie said. She flipped her hair and turned away. "C'mon, I'll show you the control booth."
She led him down a hall to the theater auditorium. In the light of day, the place was a mess. Black paint was scaling off concrete-block walls, the seatbacks were stained, the overhead light rack was a tangle of electrical wires, ropes, spotlights, outlets and pulleys. At night, none of that would be visible.
The control booth was at the back of the auditorium, up two short flights of stairs. The booth itself was built out of plywood, painted black on the outside, unfinished inside. A barstool and a secretary's swivel chair sat in front of a control panel. Extension and computer cords were fixed to the walls and floors with gaffer tape. A phone was screwed to the wall to the left of the control panel.
Cassie noticed him looking around and said, "No money for luxuries."
"First time I've been in a theater control booth," Lucas said.
She shrugged. "They mostly look like this, unless the theater's getting government money."
Lucas used his credit card to call Los Angeles, Cassie leaning against the control panel, arms locked behind her back, listening with interest. Whitney was not at his desk, Lucas was told. He pressed, was switched around, and eventually talked to an arts copy editor who made the mistake of picking up a ringing telephone. He said that Whitney was on vacation.
"In Minneapolis?" Lucas asked.
"Why would he be in fuckin' Minneapolis in April?" the copy editor asked crossly. "He's in Micronesia on a skin-diving trip."
"Well?" Cassie asked, when Lucas had hung up.
"Well, what?"
"Was it him last night?"
"Uh, I appreciate your help, Miss Lasch, but this is police business…"
"You're not going to tell me?" She couldn't believe it. She reached out, took hold of his jacket sleeve and tugged at it. "C'mon."
"No."
"No fair…" Her eyes were as large as any he'd ever seen, and dark again, with a spark. She tipped her head, a tiny smile on her face. "I'll show you my tits if you tell me."
"What?" He was surprised and amused. Amused, he thought, watching himself.
"Out there in the lobby, you were doing everything but feeling me up, so… tell me, and I'll give you a look."
Lucas considered. "This is embarrassing," he said finally.
"I don't embarrass very easily."
"Maybe not, but I do," Lucas said.
Her eyebrows went up. "You're embarrassed? That shows a certain unexpected depth. Do you play the piano?"
She was moving too fast. "Ah, no…"
"Quick, Davenport, make up your mind…" She was teasing now.
Lucas put her off: "What do you do besides act? You said you don't get the good parts."
"I'm one of the world's great waitresses. I learned in the theater restaurants in New York…"
"Hmph."
"So how about it?" she pressed.
"You'd have to keep your mouth shut," he said severely.
"Sure. I'm very secretive."
"I'll bet… All right: The Times guy is in Micronesia, on a skin-diving trip. Micronesia's in the middle of the Pacific Ocean."
"I know where it is, I've been there," she said. "Then there's no way in hell he could have been here last night."
"No." Lucas glanced around. There was no one else in the theater area, and the booth was even more isolated. "So…"
"If you're waiting to see my tits, forget it," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Ha. Rat out on a deal, huh?" he said, grinning.
"Of course. When you want to find out something, first you try treachery-that wouldn't work in this case-and then you make weird sex offers," she said calmly. "Usually, you'll find out what you want to know. I learned that from dealing with agents."
"Fuckin' women," Lucas said. "So casual about the way you break a guy's heart."
"You look thoroughly destroyed," she said.
Lucas took a short step toward her, not knowing exactly what he was planning to do. Whatever it was, she didn't back away; but at that moment, a man walked out on the stage below them, and Lucas stopped and looked down. Without a word, and apparently unaware that they were in the booth, the man hit a light switch, stepped to the center of the stage and began juggling. He'd brought a half-dozen baseballs with him, and they spun in a circle, smoothly, without a miss, and then, just as abruptly as he'd begun juggling, he started to tap-dance. Not a simple tap, but a dance almost baroque in its complication, and all the time the balls were in the air.