Magic Hour by Susan Isaacs Read Free Book Online Page B

regular sibling routine—being irritated by each other. I decided this was one time I should be unirritated. More than that. He was my brother. He was genuinely upset; I should be gentle.
    "There doesn't seem to be any evidence of a burglary attempt," I said, as softly as I could.
    "How was he killed?"
    "Shot. From some distance. Most likely with something like a .22. It doesn't look like an impulsive act." We had a long moment of silence. "Listen, one of the other guys will interview you, probably tomorrow. Go on home."
    He shivered again. " He was really good to me."
    "Yeah. Listen, I'm sorry. Oh, East, one more thing. Forget nglits, threats. Did Sy give any indication that he was having problems with anybody?"
    To give him credit, my brother really seemed to think about it. "I've only been working with him for three and a half months. I can't set myself up as an expert. But from what I've seen, when you're producing a movie, you have problems with everybody . You're dealing with a cast and crew of a hundred prima donnas—and their agents, and their unions. And then you have the moneymen, who always make life a living hell. A producer has to be tough-minded—and tough. And Sy was. He never backed off from a confrontation. He just kept going." A small, affectionate smile passed over Easton's face for a second. "Sy was like a steamroller. He wouldn't stop. You either moved or got crushed. At some point, just about everyone involved probably told him, or wanted to tell him: Drop dead."
    "Son of a bitch!" Carbone blew up in front of me and Robby Kurz. He was yelling about Eddie Pomerantz, Lindsay's agent, now safely on his way home, who, two minutes earlier, had informed him that Lindsay had taken a couple of Valium and was out like a light, but who then admitted, when Carbone started screaming at him, that she'd had four or five. Possibly six, although he wanted it clearly understood that his client was seriously not into drugs. Carbone explained to us: "I had that doctor from the M.E.'s office—the one with the Dumbo ears—go up to her room. He says she could be genuinely knocked out for more than eight hours. Passive-aggressive bitch." We sat in Sy's office, a room on the second floor that had probably been a kid's bedroom. You knew it was an office because there was a phone with so many buttons that it looked like it could launch a satellite, and a small computer. But that was it for modern stuff. The rest of the room looked like some fish-crazy English gentleman's study: there was a stuffed marlin on the wall, some washed-out paintings of salmon leaping out of the rapids, a bunch of gleaming, never-used rods, perfectly, casually arranged in a corner.
    Carbone scanned his notepad. "Now listen, no matter when we get out of here tonight or tomorrow morning, I want both of you back at ten to interview Lindsay Keefe. I'll probably be stuck in a meeting with Shea on how to handle this thing. This thing's bigger than Newsday . It's national. International. Now, Robby," Carbone went on, "before ten, get what you can from Steve's brother, Easton. Then meet Steve here, for Lindsay. After you're through with her, you work on Sy's business associates. First from this movie. Then start working back.
    "Steve, you concentrate on all the nonbusiness-type movie people. Oh, and his women. Look into if he was currently involved with anyone besides Lindsay. And check his ex-wives. He had two of them. One lives in Bridgehampton, so maybe you can get to her before ten." He glanced down to his pad. "Bonnie Spencer."
    I shook my head. It sounded vaguely familiar, but I was sure it wasn't anyone I'd actually met.
    "A movie writer." He handed me a piece of paper with an address. "You know where it is?"
    "About two minutes from where I grew up."
    "The other ex lives somewhere in the city. She was the first, and we'll have a name and address on her by tomorrow. All right? We'll use
Southampton
Village
's squad room as a command post for the next