"And I think your situation warrants every precaution at this point, Mr. Steinberg. No offense, but there aren't that many of you left. Your chance of being the next victim is growing by leaps and bounds."
"All right." Steinberg sucked on his lower lip for a moment. "All right with you, Dennis?"
"Of course," Hamilton said. "If there's something there… something that can be found, let's find it." He sighed. "It won't do any harm. But does this clear Sid?"
Munro shook his head. "No. There's still the possibility that Miss Franklin's murder was an isolated incident. All the evidence points to Mr. Harper. Even someone with keys can't bolt a door when they're on the other side."
"What about with string?" Steinberg suggested. "I've heard of -"
"Now you're reading too many locked room mysteries, Mr. Steinberg. The investigators know all the tricks, and there was no trace of any gimmicks like that. It couldn't have been done, believe me."
"Do you think we should leave the premises?" Steinberg asked.
"Well, I’d sleep a lot better, knowing you folks were out of Kirkland, but it might not do any good. This… person would just follow you. No. Let me and my men come in and sweep the place, then change all your locks. That's a start. And if you see anyone suspicious hanging around outside the building, give us a call right away. I'd expect this to be someone from out-of-town, someone who followed you here, and we could find that out by questioning them." Munro sat back. "Is there anything you can tell me? Anyone you can think of who might have a reason, no matter how twisted, for doing these things? Any strange fan mail? Threatening notes? Calls?"
"No, nothing," Steinberg said. "My office handles all that, and there's been nothing out of the ordinary – the usual requests for autographs, pictures, things like that. Maybe two or three a day. But nothing in the least bit unusual."
"Do you save those items?"
"No. We just respond to them, then throw them away."
"Would you hang on to them from now on? I'd like to look at them.”
“Of course, if you like."
"Thanks. And thanks to both of you for coming in. Like I said, anything strange happens – anything – call me. We'll be over this afternoon."
It was only three blocks to the Venetian Theatre, and a sunny day. Steinberg and Dennis had walked over, and now they walked back, their eyes downcast, Steinberg deep in thought.
"Do you think he's right?"
Dennis's answer was a long time in coming. "Yes. In a way I do." There was something in his tone that made Steinberg stop.
"Dennis, do you know more about this than you let on?" Dennis said nothing, kept his eyes on the sidewalk. "Has anyone been in touch with you that I haven't been aware of?"
"No, John." The words were soft. Dennis still did not look at Steinberg.
"I've known you a long time, my friend, and I don't think you're telling me the truth."
"The truth is… that there's been no one in that theatre other than the people we know."
"My God, what are you saying? That it was one of us? Curt? Evan? Abe Kipp?”
“No, not at all, it's just… oh, forget it, John. Just forget it. I don't know what the hell I mean."
They walked on in silence. As they rounded the corner of the Kirkland Community Center, Steinberg saw a figure standing under the marquee. It was a heavy man in a dark blue, down filled jacket and a Irish bog trotter's hat. It was not until he turned around that Steinberg recognized Larry Peach, the reporter from The Probe who had accosted them at Tommy Werton's funeral.
"Hey, what a treat," Peach said, walking toward them. "Both of you at once. My luck's changed. Your security guys were so damn good after the first funeral I didn't get a chance to chat with either of you. But now here you are walking down the street. Saves me using my usual subterfuge to get in to see you."
"What do you want?" Steinberg asked.
"The usual. Maybe a picture, a little interview, a few kind words. Look, don't get me wrong. I'm simpatico. I know you've lost a lot of people. I mean, five deaths? And you're all still here? Hey, if it was me, I'd've hauled ass a long time ago. So what's the story? The cops around here don't say dick, and I've been driving since early this morning to get here. I think I deserve a little enlightenment."
"Mr. Hamilton has nothing to say," Steinberg said, walking around the man. Dennis tried to follow, but Peach blocked his way.
"You let Mr. Hamilton tell me that."
"I'm warning you," Steinberg said.
"Come on, Dennis Hamilton hasn't popped a reporter in years." He lifted his camera and took a close-up. The flash blinded Dennis and he put his hands up. "He's needed the publicity too much for that. Everybody needs publicity, am I right? Come on, Mr. Hamilton, you want the truth told, don't you? Not some silly bullshit. So talk to me, tell me what you know. The press is your friend if you know how to use it."
The flash exploded again. "Stop it," Dennis said. "No more pictures.”
“Then talk to me."
"I'm not talking to you."
"It's the only way you'll get rid of me."
"That's enough," Steinberg said.
" Talk to me!"
"Go away." Dennis flailed an arm weakly in Peach's direction.
"What do you know? Who do you think did it?"
" Stop it!" Dennis balled a fist and swung it at Peach. It grazed his shoulder, but did not even make him lose his balance.
"Fuck you," Peach grunted, and pushed a gloved left hand into Dennis's midsection hard enough to push him backwards and send him to the pavement on his rear, a dazed, drunken look on his face. "This is better than an interview," Peach said, raising his camera.
He never took the picture. John Steinberg swung him around and threw a right hook that caught him on the side of the head and felled him like a tree. The camera fell from his hand, and Steinberg brought his right foot down hard on it, shattering the lens and breaking the case so that the film was exposed to the bright daylight.
"You son of a bitch!" Peach yelled from the sidewalk. "You can't do that! Freedom of the press, you motherfucker! You'll pay for this!"
"I certainly will," Steinberg said, and removed a wad of twenties from his pocket.
"Buy yourself a new toy, but don't bring it back here to play with." He tossed the bills next to Peach's shattered camera, then helped a groggy Dennis to his feet.
"I'm gonna have the cops on you!" Peach said, pushing himself erect.
"If you do," Steinberg replied, "I'll file charges against you for harassment and assault."
"He hit me first!" Peach cried, for all the world like a child in a schoolyard. "That was scarcely what I would call a hit. Besides, it's your word against ours – and who will the police believe? Us, or a piece of slime who makes Morton Downey look like a bastion of good journalistic taste?"
"You're gonna be sorry – I'm gonna find out what the hell is going on around here!"
"If you do," said Steinberg, unlocking the door, "please inform us. We'd love to know."
"Yeah!" Peach yelled as the door was drifting closed. "You're all dying to know, aren't you? Dying to know!"
Dennis sat on the padded bench in the lobby, told John Steinberg that he would be all right, told him to go to his office, watched him go, thought to himself:
I wore a mask. For all those years I wore a mask to make myself strong. But it was a lie. Masks are weak. Only reality is strong. And now reality is the Emperor. Now I am weak, but he is strong, and yes, Jesus loves me, oh Christ.
He was weak. His rage at that reporter had been only false rage, his blow barely thrown. There had been a time when he might have waded into the man with both fists, broken his nose, turned his face into a smear of blood. But no more. He was weak. How had it happened, oh God , how?
He felt as if he knew nothing, as if all the laws of life, things he had accepted for years, had suddenly been proven false, and that he existed in some other world, where those laws were perverted, broken, turned into cruel lies.