Death of a Blue Movie Star

hands. Rune said, “Nice to meet you, Adam.”
    The boy said nothing, just looked at Rune critically. Healy said, “Come on, son, what do you say?”
    The boy shrugged. “They’re getting younger all the time?”
    Rune laughed and Healy, blushing a bit, did too. The successful joke had been delivered so smoothly she knew he’d used it before.
    They started down the sidewalk in lower Manhattan.
    “You like U2?” Adam asked Rune as they walked along Broadway past the Federal Building. “They’re so totally awesome.”
    “Love that guitar! Chunga, chunga, chunga …”
    “Oh, yeah.”
    Rune said, “But I’m mostly into older music. Like Bowie, Adam Ant, Sex Pistols, Talking Heads.”
    “David Byrne, yeah, he’s like your megagenius. Even if he’s old.”
    “I still listen to the Police a lot,” Rune said. “I kinda grew up with them.”
    Adam nodded. “I heard about them. My mom used to listen to them. Sting’s still around.”
    Healy said, “Um … Crosby, Stills and Nash?”
    Rune and Adam looked at him blankly.
    “Jimi Hendrix? The Jefferson Airplane?”
    When he got a stare in response to “The Doors?” Healy said quickly, “Hey, how ’bout some lunch?”

     
    They sat across from the ornate Woolworth Building, Rune and Healy. Adam, replenished by two hot dogs and a Yoo-Hoo chocolate soda, chased squirrels and shadows and scraps of windblown paper.
    “Sam,” she began, “say you have a couple different suspects and you know one of them did it but you don’t know who.”
    “In a bombing?”
    “Say, any crime. Like you’re an ordinary movable investigating something.”
    “Portable, not movable. But it’d probably be a detective evaluating suspects.”
    “Okay, a detective with three suspects. What would you do to figure out who the perp is?”
    “Perp,” he said. “See, I said you were a born cop.”
    In a thick Slavic accent: “I learned English from
Kojak
reruns.” She grew serious. “Come on, Sam. What would you do?”
    “In order to make an arrest you need probable cause.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Something that shows your suspect is more likely than not to’ve committed the crime. A witness, conflicting alibis, physical evidence at the scene connecting the suspect and the crime, fingerprints, genetic marker test … A confession’s always good.”
    “How do you get confessions?”
    “We put the suspect in a room, turn the camera on and ask them questions. You don’t arrest them because then their lawyers show up and tell them not to say anything. They can leave at any time but we … encourage them to stay.”
    “You ever trick somebody into a confession?”
    “Sure. That’s part of the game. But no more answers till you tell why you’re curious about police procedures.”
    “Okay, I’ve got three suspects.”
    “What suspects?”
    “In the Shelly Lowe killing.”
    “Three suspects? You mean, you know three people in the Sword of Jesus? Why didn’t you tell Begley or somebody in Homicide?”
    “Oh, there is no Sword of Jesus. It’s a cover-up. Somebody’s making it look like it’s a religious thing but it’s not.”
    “But—”
    She continued before he could ask what would undoubtedly be some questions that would result in either awkward answers or outright lies. “See, Shelly didn’t just do those movies. There’s this guy named Arthur Tucker. He was Shelly’s acting coach. Only you know what’s interesting?” Her voice faded and she looked at him. “What’s the matter?”
    “Rune, you weren’t going to do this.”
    “I was just interviewing people about her, for my film, and I found some funny things.” She grew quiet, looking up at the gargoyles two-thirds of the way up the skyscraper. She wondered if she and Healy were about to have their first fight. That was really a bad sign—to have a fight before you’d spent some time seriously kissing someone.
    Healy glanced at Adam, stalking a mangy pigeon twenty feet away, and rested his large hand tentatively on her knee.
    Rune stared at the gargoyles. They were smiling, not leering, she thought. It seemed that was an important omen but she couldn’t tell what it meant.
    Healy didn’t speak for a second. He clicked his tongue. “Okay. Funny things. Go ahead and tell me.”
    “Shelly was a legitimate actress and she wrote plays, okay? She and her coach, this Arthur Tucker, had a big fight when he found out about her movie career. Oh, oh—he also was a commando in the war. So he