Eyes of Prey

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?” thecopy 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, ona 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.
    The man was in blackface. There was something about his