Death of a Blue Movie Star

Rune dropped to her knees and pulled the tear gas canister out of her purse.
    But Traub moved faster. He grabbed the cylinder, ripped it out of her hand and shoved her into the couch. He looked at it closely, amused, it seemed. Rune sat up.
    “What’s this all about? And don’t gimme this cute Nancy Drew shit. I had a fucking bomb take out my star and a floor of my company. I’m not in the mood.”
    Rune didn’t say anything. Traub pointed the tear gas spray at her face.
    Remembering the terrible sting, she cringed, looked away.
    “Answer me.”
    Breathlessly she said, “You didn’t tell me you had a policy on Shelly Lowe.”
    He frowned. “A policy?”
    “An insurance policy.”
    “That’s right. I didn’t. But you didn’t ask me if I had one, now, did you?”
    “It seems like that’d be a pretty normal thing to mention, I tell you I’m doing a film about one of your stars.”
    Traub glanced again at the tear gas, weighed it in his hand. “You’re asking all this shit for your film? Is that it?” He leaned up against the door. Rune saw his muscles stand out, sinewy and pale. He reminded her of one of the flying monkeys in
The Wizard of Oz
—the characters that scared her the most, even more than the Wicked Witch.
    “The police know I’m here.”
    Traub laughed. “That’s like on D-Day, yelling to the Germans: ‘Ike knows I’m here.’ “He looked her over and the motion of his eyes was like his tongue coursing over her body. She pulled away from him, crossed her arms, glanced down at the desk for paperweights. There was a letter opener she might go for.
    “So, you think I killed Shelly, do you? That I planted a bomb so I’d get the insurance money.”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    Traub paced. Intermission was over; he was looking around once more. “That’s pretty good detective work this cookie’s done, don’t you think? She’s a star, she’s a regular little Sherlock Holmes. Well, you got me, honey. Yep, yep. The insurance company paid off. I got myself a check for five hundred thousand dollars.”
    Rune didn’t answer.
    Traub set the tear gas down. He looked at Rune, then took a key out of his pocket and walked behind his desk. Rune leaned forward, putting her weight on the balls of her feet. He was going for a gun. He could just shoot her like a burglar and the police wouldn’t do anything.
    Traub glanced at her. “On your mark, get set … I don’t think she can make it in time.”
    He grinned and pulled out the black pistol.
    Enjoyed the sight of her eyes widening.
    “Here’s a present for our little Ms. Detective.”
    Rune winced. When it looked like he was going to pull the trigger she’d just dive forward, grab the tear gas and hope for the best.
    Then Traub’s other hand emerged with a piece of paper.
    Neither of them moved for a moment.
    “I don’t know about her but the suspense is killing me. Is she going to read it? Is she going to make a paper airplane?”
    Rune took the sheet of paper and read:
    Dear Mr. Traub:
    With intense, heartfelt gratitude, we acknowledge receipt of your check in the amount of $400,000. Your generosity will go very far in supporting research to find a cure for this terrible
affliction and in easing the burden of those whose lives have been affected by it
….
    The letter was signed by the director of the New York AIDS Coalition.
    “Oh.”
    Traub dropped the gun in the drawer. “‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Oh …’ Well, you know, there’s still a hundred of the insurance proceeds unaccounted for. But since I personally take home a hundred fifty a year cash, off the books, you can probably deduce that I ain’t gonna kill my biggest star to pick up fucking chicken feed. Oh, by the way, my personal property insurance has a hundred thousand deductible so with the repairs to the floor downstairs this whole thing was a wash for me.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    He tossed the tear gas to her. “I think it’s time for our little detective to leave. Let’s give her a big round of applause.”

     
    Throughout the interview Arthur Tucker never quite got over the shock that two police officers were questioning him as a suspect in a murder case.
    They were polite as they asked him questions about Shelly Lowe. They tried to make it seem casual but there was something they were trying to get at. Something they knew.
    What? he thought desperately. He felt vulnerable—as if they could see into his mind but he had no clue as to what they were