A Motive For Murder Part 9

"Deliberate?" T.S. asked. "Why would he do that?"

Levitt shook his head. "I've been asking myself the same thing. I never met the guy before this project, never worked with the kid either. Best thing I can think of is that he didn't like one of my investors. Or he just didn't care. Or maybe he likes ruining people. Maybe it was some kind of weird revenge for his past failures. He didn't like to be reminded of his days as a kid actor, I can tell you that."

T.S. was silent for a moment, considering the possibilities. "Did you ever work with Bobby Morgan when he was an actor?" he asked Levitt.

Levitt frowned. "Hey, do I look old enough for that to you? I'm forty-one, for chrissakes. He and I were about the same age. No, I didn't work with him way back when. I just wanted to work with his kid."

"Maybe he was afraid the salary you were offering Mikey would pull down his fees for other films?"

Levitt shrugged. "Look, the kid was already lined up to get a fortune on two other flicks once he finished my film. He gets more than any other kid in the history of Hollywood and more than most leading men I know. He could have knocked out my picture and then moved on, raking it in while he could. I don't think it was the money, but maybe it was. Maybe the father planned to wait a couple weeks then start the kid on one of the high-priced flicks instead of mine to cash in quick while the kid was still cute. I don't know." He finished his cigarette and went back to playing with the fountain pen.

"Who were your investors?" T.S. asked.

Levitt shrugged. "Some financial guys, representing a group of limited partners. Some old money attracted by the glamour. Plus a handful of industry old-timers, mostly producers out in L.A. and some aging film stars hoping to make money on the other end for once."

"And they all lost their money?"

"I'll say. But at least they kept their day jobs. Me, I'm ruined. I'll be lucky if I can raise enough money for my nephew's Christmas pageant after this." He threw the pen down and ran his hands over his head. "Sorry. I'm kind of nervous right now."

"Nervous?" T.S. said. "Over the future?"

"Over right now." He glanced at the door anxiously. "They're going to arrest me. I know it. They've already called twice. The cops."

"Arrest you?" T.S. said. "What for?"

"What do you think?" Levitt stared at T.S. "Come on, who has a better motive than me? The guy ruined me. I can't say I'm sorry he's dead. And I was there."

"You were there?" T.S. asked.

"I was there," Levitt explained defensively. "I came to opening night. I thought maybe if I could get Morgan alone at the party afterward, I could talk to him, get him to change his mind. Figured he'd be in a good mood. Instead, he decided to hang around backstage for a while." He grimaced again. "They're coming to take me away. I can feel it."

"Nonsense," T.S. said. "Police don't arrest you for nothing."

"Sure they do," Levitt said. "Don't you go to the movies?"

At that exact moment a man and a woman dressed in nearly identical gray suits stuck their heads into Levitt's office. "Gene Levitt?" the female half of the duo asked, shifting her gaze from T.S. to Levitt.

"That's me," Levitt said wearily, raising his hands above his head as if he were about to be shot.

"You don't need to put your hands above your head, sir," the detective explained as she flipped open a small leather case and flashed a gold badge. "We're just here to bring you downtown for questioning. I a.s.sume you're willing to cooperate?"

"Here," Levitt said, tossing a sc.r.a.p of paper at a startled T.S. "Call this guy for me, will ya? He's my lawyer. Make it sound like I got money, okay? Otherwise, he'll never come."

T.S. took the crumpled note and watched in bewilderment as Levitt was led from the office wedged between the silent detectives. His figure disappeared into the darkness of the deserted reception area, leaving T.S. feeling vulnerable in the sudden silence. He felt very lucky to be who he was. Here was a man without hope, without friends, without even a lawyer who could be counted on unless big money was on the table. You could take your celluloid dreams and Malibu beach homes, T.S. thought. He'd stay right here in New York where friends were friends and fortunes took a little bit longer to slide downhill.

He stared at the contract before him. Where had Levitt stored it? His eyes wandered to the double drawers anchoring the right side of the desk. If there was a contract, there was a file. If there was a file, it had the names of his investors in it. Looking around carefully to make sure he was not being observed, T.S. crept to the front of Levitt's desk and tried both drawers. The bottom one was filled with contracts and schedules for the aborted Mikey Morgan movie. Paging through quickly, T.S. removed all of the doc.u.ments pertaining to financial matters. He stuffed them under his sweater and guiltily fled the lonely office.

"Why not take the papers?" T.S. thought to himself as he hurried out to the street to find a cab. "By tomorrow, they'll just be sitting in a box in a precinct somewhere."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Auntie Lil was angry. "I would like to know why I was not informed of this meeting," she demanded. Lilah Cheswick was not present, leaving her without an ally. "And was Mrs. Cheswick notified?"

"We attempted to call you," Lane Rogers said stiffly. "I a.s.sumed you were too busy pursuing your investigative activities. As for Mrs. Cheswick, she seems a bit too busy to concern herself with our affairs these days."

Lane still looked pale and drawn, no better than she had at Bobby Morgan's funeral two days before. Her hair was pulled stiffly back from her face in an untidy bun and her makeup was unevenly applied.

"We did try to call you," Ruth Beretsky began, but she was a timid woman and immediately withered under Auntie Lil's steady gaze. "At least, Lane says she tried to call you."

"Ruth!" It was a bark more than a command, but it had its effect. Ruth fell silent. "It is a moot point, anyway," Lane said smoothly. "As we are all now very well aware that you are here, Miss Hubbert, this emergency meeting will come to order."

"What is the point of this meeting?" Hans Glick demanded. His usually impeccable grooming was marred by a crooked tie. On him, it looked as out of place as a dog wearing a hat.

"The point of this meeting is to ask you what financial standing the Metro currently holds," Lane replied. "Specifically regarding our insurance coverage."

"Why is that relevant?" Glick asked, his voice faltering. "I will submit my usual monthly financial review next week."

"It is relevant because we are being sued," Lane announced. A gasp ran through the room. "On behalf of his minor children, Bobby Morgan's ex-wife has filed a multimillion-dollar lawsuit against the Metropolitan Ballet for insufficient security and other safety violations which contributed to the death of her ex-husband. I was served the papers at the Plaza in front of half of New York. You can imagine my mortification. I fired my maid for telling the process server where I was."

On cue, Ruth produced a thick doc.u.ment from her briefcase and stacked it on the table for all to see.

"Are we insured?" a timid voice asked from the rear. All eyes turned to Glick.

"I believe so," he said uneasily.

"You believe so?" Auntie Lil repeated loudly.

Glick cleared his throat. "I was investigating a more economical source of liability insurance, but I believe the old policy is still in effect."

"You better do more than believe," Lane ordered. "You better find out right now." Her face flushed red. "Someone must pay for Bobby Morgan's death and I would prefer that it not be the Metro."

"I suggest you remain calm," Glick said, hoping to deflect attention from himself. "It would be a mistake to let your personal feelings interfere with your role as board chairman."

"My personal feelings?" Lane locked eyes with Glick and a dangerous glint flared in her gaze. "What do you mean by that?"

Glick cleared his throat again. "I mean that perhaps you are too close to the situation to be able to effectively govern. Perhaps someone more experienced in crisis management should take over. Someone who is not involved quite so personally. Someone like myself."

"What personal feelings are you referring to?" Lane asked, her voice quivering with incipient anger.

Glick straightened his tie and dropped his voice to a professionally soothing tone. "Now, now, Lane. No one is questioning your ability. It is just that we were all aware of your personal relationship with the deceased. Perhaps it is clouding your judgment here today."

Before Lane could react, the standoff was interrupted by a knock at the door. The room froze. Who would dare interrupt an emergency meeting?

The door opened and a beautiful woman in her late thirties entered. Her long brown hair rippled around her face in gentle Pre-Raphaelite waves, softening the effect of her sharp features and triangular chin. Her brown eyes were large and heavily rimmed with dramatic liner. She moved gracefully, her skirt swishing against long legs. She was-or had been-a dancer.

"I am Emili Vladimir," she announced to the startled board. Clearly, she was not cowed by the prospect of speaking before a group of strangers. She marched to the head of the table, her self-confidence obvious. Lane Rogers automatically sat down, then looked startled at her own reaction.

"My son, Rudy, is now dancing the parts of Drosselmeyer and the Prince," the stranger explained to the group.

"Of course," Raoul Martinez interrupted, his deep voice filling the room. "I am charmed, madam. A pity we have never met before." He slipped from his chair and hurried to kiss Emili Vladimir's hand. "I saw you dance in Paris, madam," he added. "The Dying Swan when you were with the Kirov. You were magnificent."

Emili Vladimir dipped in a practiced half curtsy, acknowledging the compliment. "I am no longer a performer," she explained modestly to her waiting audience. "My grand days are over now. I come before you today as a mother."

Martinez took an empty seat nearby and gazed at her as if he were a disciple awaiting instructions. She looked around the room carefully, making eye contact with everyone present. "I wish to personally thank all of you for giving my son the opportunity to dance in these roles." A slight Russian accent lent steel to her otherwise softly husky voice. "It is a great step forward for him. He has worked very hard to get here. We have come many miles to be in America and sacrificed a great deal for his studies, as I am sure you know. There have been many obstacles along the way, but we did not let anything stop us. We have worked hard to attain this dream. I am here today to a.s.sure you that Rudy will make the Metropolitan Ballet proud, not only now but for many years to come. If his father were here, I am sure he would be deeply grateful for your generosity."

The board sat, stunned into silence. Her appearance was so unexpected and her gracious words so at odds with the board's bickering that no one knew how to react. Some of the members felt unfamiliar patriotic pride stirring within them at her words of praise for America, land of opportunity. Auntie Lil was more pragmatic. She was wondering where Emili Vladimir had been the night Bobby Morgan died and how she had known of the board meeting today.

Martinez broke the silence. "Your son is a most talented dancer," he cried suddenly, leaping to his feet and bowing again. "Most talented. I am proud to say he is a student of mine."

"Yes." Her smile was beatific. "When he was a child, I taught him myself. But, of course, I cannot claim credit for his talent. It is G.o.d we must thank for that."

She had pointedly not thanked Martinez, Auntie Lil noted with amus.e.m.e.nt. She suspected Emili could dance rings around the artistic director, both inside the cla.s.sroom and out.

Lane Rogers looked up from her notes at the slender creature standing beside her. Tight lines of authority appeared grimly at the corners of her mouth. But before she could speak, Hans Glick interrupted. "We are most pleased with your son," Glick told Emili. "Ticket sales are overwhelming and the reviews in today's papers were glowing. I received word just a few hours ago that we are sold out throughout the run."

"That is not my son's doing," Emili said modestly. "I am sure it is due to the epic scope of your production and to the talents of the young ballerina Fatima Jones."

Martinez took "epic" as a compliment and moved closer to their visitor. She smiled prettily, but nonetheless stepped back out of panting range.

Lane Rogers had had enough of the interruption, particularly the spectacle of men melting in front of her eyes. "Thank you for stopping by," she said briskly. "We are delighted that you are pleased. Good day."

Emili turned her placid eyes to Lane. Her smile did not waver. "You must forgive my interruption," she said sweetly as she floated toward the exit with trained grace. "It is just that we are not used to such opportunity, to having the doors opened in this way. Life has been so very hard for Rudy and me. America is truly a wonderful place. I just wanted to thank you all personally." She smiled and bobbed her head before slipping out, leaving most board members wondering uneasily just how terrible things had been for the Vladimirs in Russia.

"A charming lady," Martinez announced in the silence.

"Pick your jaw up off the floor," Lane snapped. "We have work to do." She glared at Glick. "I suggest you check on that insurance policy now. Ruth will accompany you to the files and make photocopies of the current policy for everyone."

"Oh, shut up, Lane!" Ruth cried out unexpectedly. The entire room stared in astonishment. "I'm tired of you telling me what to do all the time. Go make the d.a.m.n photocopies yourself."

"The idiot let our liability insurance lapse," Auntie Lil explained over a belated dinner in a brick-and-hanging-plant-heavy restaurant across from Lincoln Center. "If we don't prove that the Metro is not responsible for what happened-and find out who is-we could lose everything."

"We?" T.S. asked uncomfortably.

"Not our foundation, but the Metro. I'd like to strangle Glick. He was pursuing some sort of scheme designed to involve his company in supplying the Metro's insurance." Auntie Lil was enthusiastically demolishing a grilled steak the size of Montana and a pile of mashed potatoes that rivaled Mount McKinley. "He said it would have saved us a lot of money. Now, of course, we could lose millions. I thought the board was going to turn on him and strangle him with his tie. So did Glick. He announced a prior appointment and left."

"What does this mean for us?" T.S. asked, savoring his more modest meal of lamb chops and rice.

Auntie Lil shook her head. "We have to try even harder, Theodore. And for G.o.d sakes, pray the killer has nothing to do with the Metro."

"Maybe it was someone connected to Gene Levitt," T.S. said hopefully. He summarized what he had learned in his meeting and produced the list of investors in the failed Mikey Morgan movie.

"You don't think it was Levitt himself?" Auntie Lil asked.

T.S. shrugged. "He's so nervous. He shakes all the time. I just can't see him holding still long enough to conk someone over the head and string him up."

"Theodore!" Auntie Lil stared at him, wide-eyed.

"What?" He dabbed self-consciously at his chin with a napkin, thinking she had spotted stray food. For someone with such creative table manners, Auntie Lil was awfully picky about his own.

"You're absolutely right. I should have thought of it myself. Bobby Morgan had to have been conked out first and then strung up," she said. "He would have put up too big of a fight any other way." She leaned forward, her bright orange scarf trailing across a mound of baby carrots. "This means the struggle could have occurred at any time prior to or during the performance-and the body could have been stored somewhere for a while. I couldn't figure out why no one noticed the struggle, but that explains it. And it gives us hope. Perhaps it wasn't someone in the company at all. Everyone had access to the backstage area." She drummed her fingers on the table. "Let me see the list of investors."

T.S. pulled out the pertinent papers and they scanned the materials while they ate. "I don't really see any names I recognize," Auntie Lil admitted. "I think this woman was on some television show a few years back and I thought this fellow had died years ago. Hmmm... here's a name that looks familiar. Know him?"

T.S. shook his head. "No. But I've heard of him. He must be one of the Hollywood types Levitt spoke about. Here are a couple of guys I recognize. But they're well-respected money managers. Wall Street leaders for sure. I can't imagine them killing Bobby Morgan over an investment."

Auntie lil stared out the window of the restaurant and across Ninth Avenue toward Lincoln Center. "I wonder what Levitt's telling the police," she said. "Do you honestly think he told you everything?"

T.S. shrugged. "I'm surprised at how much he did tell me. I don't know him from Adam and he freely admitted anything I wanted to know. I think I would have heard his whole life story if the detectives hadn't arrived to take him away."

"Isn't that Herbert?" Auntie Lil asked suddenly, peering across the traffic at the subway entrance. She could have put her reading gla.s.ses on to make sure, but hesitated in front of her nephew. She disliked admitting any sort of physical weakness.

T.S. stared out the window. "I don't see him. What would he be doing up here anyway?" he asked innocently, knowing full well that Herbert was hiding his ballet lessons from Auntie Lil in the hopes of sparing her feelings about her own inept.i.tude.

"Maybe not," Auntie Lil said slowly. "But that's definitely Jerry Vanderbilt. Rehearsals must be over." She waved her handkerchief in the window like a seaman semiphoring for help.

"Not now," T.S. said, staring balefully at his remaining lamb chop. "I'm tired of talking to suspects."

"Too late. Here he comes!" Auntie Lil declared gaily, her spirits buoyed by the prospect of more information.

"Thank G.o.d!" the Metro's accompanist cried as he burst through the restaurant's swinging doors. Several New Yorkers at the bar froze but returned to their wine spritzers after satisfying themselves that he wasn't waving a weapon. "I've been looking for you everywhere. I heard you were at a board meeting, but when I got there, it had already been adjourned."

"News travels fast." Auntie Lil moved over to make room for him. "I suppose you heard about the lapse in liability insurance as well?"

The pianist flapped a long hand, dismissing the topic. "Who cares? That's only money. You've got to help Gene."

"I beg your pardon?" Auntie Lil asked.

"Gene Levitt?" T.S. interrupted.

"He didn't do anything wrong. You must help him."

"You know Gene Levitt?" T.S. asked.

The flush that spread over Jerry Vanderbilt's craggily masculine face was remarkable. T.S. looked tactfully away, but Auntie Lil scrutinized him with frank curiosity. "What's going on?" she demanded.

"I met him at a party last month," Jerry explained.

"This is very important," Auntie Lil said, suddenly alert. "Did he introduce himself to you or was it the other way around?"

"It wasn't like that," Jerry said. He stared down at the table. "It was a tree-tr.i.m.m.i.n.g party in the Village. My friends John and Grant were hosting. They knew Gene from when they lived in Los Angeles. They invited him because he had just moved to New York and didn't know anybody. They were the ones to introduce me to him."