Eyes of Prey

head . . . . An effect of the makeup, the wide white-greasepainted lips, the strange flat nose?
    Cassie caught Lucas’ interest and stepped close behind him and whispered, “Carlo Druze, one of the actors. This is one of his routines.”
    Druze began to sing, a phony black accent, minstrel-show style, in a shaky baritone, “Way down upon the Swanee River, far, far away . . .”
    “We’re doing a thing called Whiteface, it’s like a racial-satire thing . . . .” She was whispering, but Druze apparently heard. He took down the balls in a swift, coordinated sweep.
    “I’ve got an audience?” he called, looking up at the booth.
    Lucas applauded and Cassie yelled, “Just us, Cassie and a cop.”
    “Ah . . .” Was he startled? Lucas wasn’t sure. Was there something wrong with his face?
    “That was really good, Carlo,” Cassie said.
    Druze took a bow.
    “If only Miz Cassie wuz runnin’ d’show,” he said, going back to the accent.
    “We’ll get out of your hair,” Cassie said, leading Lucas out of the booth and down the steps toward the exit light.
    In the hall on the way back to the lobby, Lucas asked, “Was what’s-his-name here last night?”
    “Carlo? Yeah. Most of the time, anyway. He was working on the set. He’s the best carpenter in the company. And he does great voices. He can sound like anybody.”
    “Okay.”
    “He’s a tough guy,” she added. “Hard. Like his face.”
    “But he was here?”
    “Well, nobody was taking names. But yeah. Around.”
    “Okay.” Lucas followed her down the hall, watching her back and shoulders in the dim light. She looked delicate, like most slender redheads, but there was nothing fragile about her, he realized. “You’re a lifter, right?” he said.
    “Yeah, some,” she said, half turning. “I don’t compete or anything. Do you lift?”
    “No. I’ve got some weights in my basement and I’ve got a routine I do in the morning. Nothing serious.”
    “Gotta stay in shape,” Cassie said, slapping her stomach.They stepped into the lobby, and Cassie stopped suddenly and caught Lucas’ arm: “Oh, no,” she groaned.
    “What?”
    “Deep shit,” she said.
    A man stood over the garbage on the rug. He was dressed all in black, from his knee boots to his beret, and his shoulder-length auburn hair was tied in a stubby ponytail. His hands were planted on his hips, and one foot was tapping in anger. Cassie hurried toward him and he looked up when he heard her coming.
    “Cassie,” he said. He had a goatee, and his teeth were a brilliant white against the beard. “Did you do this? One of the ticket women said you were looking through the garbage . . . .”
    “Uh . . .”
    “I did it,” Lucas said, his voice curt. Cassie flashed him a grateful look. “Police business. I was looking for information involving the Armistead killing last night.”
    “Well, are you going to clean it up?” the man asked, nudging a wet ball of paper with the toe of a boot.
    “Who are you?” Lucas asked, stepping closer.
    “Uh, this is Davis Westfall,” Cassie said from behind him. She still sounded nervous. “He is . . . was . . . the co-artistic director with Elizabeth. Davis, this is Lieutenant Davenport of the Minneapolis police. I was showing him around.”
    “She’s been a help,” Lucas said to Westfall, nodding at Cassie. “Mr. Westfall . . . Miss Armistead’s death would put you in sole charge of this theater, would it not? I mean, in one sense, you’d be a . . . beneficiary?”
    “Why . . . that would be up to the board,” Westfall sputtered. He glanced at Cassie for support, and she nodded. “But we’re a nonsexist theater, so I imagine they’ll appoint another female to take Elizabeth’s place.”
    “Hmp,” Lucas said. He studied Westfall for anothermoment, skepticism on his face. “No major disagreements on management?” he asked, keeping Westfall pinned.
    “No. Not at all,” Westfall said. Now he was nervous.
    “But you’ll be around?”
    “Well, yes . . .”
    “Good. And don’t move this garbage right away. Our crime lab might want to look at it. If they’re not here by . . .”—Lucas glanced at his watch—“six o’clock, you can have somebody pick it up.”
    “Anything we can do . . .” Westfall said, thoroughly deflated.
    Lucas nodded and turned to leave. “I’ll show him to the door,” Cassie said. “I’ll make sure it’s locked.”
    “Thank you,” Lucas said