“That’s not all that’s funny. I just spoke with Monarch’s Personnel Department again. It seems Erica Ziegler has a degree in cinematography from USC. Now why’s a person with a degree like that typing scripts?”

  Maybe it’s the only job she could get,” Wally suggested.

  “She also worked as a production assistant over at Metromedia for a year before she got this job. That’s quite a comedown from production assistant to lowly typist, especially for someone with her experience, don’t you think?”

  “But it’s so obvious,” Wally protested. “Surely she’s not the only one with—”

  “You’re right. According to the woman I spoke with, Carol Toomey, Jonah Sanders, another one of the floaters, and Terry Gibson have also had some theater classes at UCLA, or so their applications said.”

  “So that narrows our field of suspects down from thirty to four, huh?”

  “I’d say so. Hey, get back on the horn and see if old Erica has ever sold a script, will you? I’m going to check on that bank story of hers.”

  You got it,” Wally said, and immediately started dialing.

  As Howard suspected, the bank alibi washed out. They had no record of any deposits or withdrawals made in either of Erica M. Ziegler’s accounts on that day. He hung up the phone and waited for his partner to do the same.

  “Well?” he demanded before Wally even had the phone back in its cradle.

  “Guess who sold two scripts last season?”

  “Erica Ziegler.”

  “Yeah, but the best part is that it was to the same show whose story consultant happened to be Stephen Dietrich. Interesting, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It all fits,” Howard said, “but somehow it doesn’t feel right. She didn’t strike me as any kind of dumb broad. She had to know we’d check her alibi and that it wouldn’t hold.”

  Wally grabbed his jacket and moved to Howard’s desk. He tapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go to the studio and talk to our little friend in the Script Department.”

  “But I still haven’t heard from Matt yet,” Howard protested, already on his feet.

  “They can patch it through to the car. Come on.”

  * * *

  Evidently, the hub-bub of a few days before had died down, for there were no furious sounds of typewriters as the two detectives entered the Script Department. The two typists in the middle room were drinking coffee, and conversation halted in mid-sentence when they recognized the two plainclothes detectives.

  Erica sat behind the supervisor’s desk, stacks of files surrounding her, and a burning cigarette caught between the fingers of her right hand.

  “Hi,” she greeted them. “What’s happening?” she asked, but the tense lines around her eyes belied the cheerful voice.

  Howard perched himself on the desk opposite hers. “We thought you could tell us a little more than you did the other times we’ve spoken.”

  She leaned back in the once luxurious chair, her expression guarded. “What do you want to know?”

  “Where were you about nine o’clock last night?”

  “I heard about Dietrich,” she said, “if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “So where were you?” Howard repeated.

  “I had dinner with an old friend of mine. We went to the Spaghetti Factory on Sunset around eight. We ended up at my place about ten.”

  “How can we get a hold of your friend?”

  She rested a level gaze at Howard. “He left town early this morning. He’s a musician with the Jimmy Riebson band.”

  “Never heard of them,” Howard said.

  “You will,” she replied flatly. “Anything else?”

  “You might start by telling us where you were at the time of the murders.”

  Her mouth tightened, and she took a final drag of her cigarette before stamping it out in the ashtray. “I told you. I was at the bank. Bank of America, corner of Butler and Santa Monica Boulevard. I arrived there at precisely twelve fourteen—there were twenty seven people in front of me. I stood in line until twelve forty-five. I was late getting back to the studio because I bought a stamp from the machine at the post office across the street.”

  “Is that so?” Wally asked casually. “We talked with the bank. They have no record of you coming in.”

  “Well, they’re wrong.” She looked beyond Wally, who turned and noticed that the two typists were listening to the conversation. “Listen, do you mind if we continue this discussion out on the patio?” Erica asked. “I really don’t think—”

  “Sure,” Howard said. He stepped over and took her by the elbow. “In fact, we were thinking about finishing this conversation down at headquarters, weren’t we, Wally?” He grabbed the woman’s jacket from the coatrack and she retrieved her purse from one of the desk drawers. Howard guided her toward the door.

  “Carol, when Art gets back, tell him where I am.” She paused at the open door. “Debbie, you start breaking down that script when Shirley brings it in. Then, see if you can get Ethel for this afternoon. That script has to be done by tonight, and nobody goes home ‘til it’s done.” She glanced back to Howard. “Okay, handsome, lead on.”

  11

  The interrogation room was painted a dreary shade of gray, not that it was all that visible. The lone lamp that hung low over the steel and Formica table was bright, but illuminated only a small area, its glare biting into the retinas of those sitting under it.

  “I don’t need a lawyer,” Erica repeated, lighting up another cancer stick. “And you can can the tough-guy act,” she told Howard. “I’m willing to talk. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Do you want to tell us why you lied?” Howard asked.

  Erica sighed deeply. “I didn’t lie. I told you I was at the bank. I got there at exactly fourteen minutes after twelve. It takes ten minutes to get there from the studio. Hell, I even clocked it once.”

  “I know, you’ve already told us that. And we already told you that the bank has no record of your coming in,” Howard repeated.

  “Well, somebody screwed up, honey, because I was there.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us you had a degree in cinematography?” Wallace asked.

  “Do you want my entire résumé?” she shot back. “Come on, guys. What else have you got on me? Parking tickets?”

  “Why did you quit your job at Metromedia?” Howard started in again.

  “The pay sucked. I was running my ass off for a cheapskate producer and I just got sick of it. I figured working for a big studio would eventually come in handy.”

  “As a typist?”

  “Listen, honey, I started at two bucks an hour more at Monarch, the hours were better, and I didn’t have to put up with having a lecherous old fart chasing after me all day long. I’ve met a lot of important people at Monarch,” she continued, voice rising. “I even sold a couple of scripts once I read the shit they were accepting. I figure if I can get a year in as script supervisor, I can move on to—”

  “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?” Howard said, coldly.

  “I may be ambitious, but I’m not stupid enough to commit murder. I don’t know why Martha would either.”

  “Martha Adams was also murdered. It was staged to try to throw us off track.”

  “Okay,” she said, not the least bit rattled. “So Martha didn’t do it. But why pin it on me? Have you got to fill a quota for arresting women?”

  “Technically, you haven’t been arrested—yet.”

  “All right, all right,” she said and waved him off, focusing her attention on the ashtray. “Look, I know it all sounds fishy, but honest, guys, I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Let’s take it from the top,” Howard began again.

  Erica sighed, her lips tightening, and stubbed out her cigarette before lighting another one. “I went to the Bank of America,” she started in a sing-song cadence. “I stood in line for half of forever. I bought a goddamned money order. I walked over to the post office—”

  “Wait a minute. You bought a money order?” Wally asked. “I thought you said you made a deposit?”

  “Well, I meant I cashed my paycheck and got a money order. My landlady won’t take personal checks.”

  Wally nodded toward the door. “We’ll be right back,” he told the woman.

  Outside in the hall he asked Howard, “What exactly did the bank tell you?”

  Howard clenched his fist and punched the air. “I asked about a deposit or withdrawal. It didn’t occur to me—”

  “Okay, you call them back and check out her story. I’ll see if I can get anything else out of her.”

  “Why not? My tough guy approach didn’t do a damn thing for her. Hey, we still haven’t heard from Matt, yet. I’ll call the morgue, too,” he said, and started back for the squad room.

  Wallace went back to the interrogation room. He closed the door behind him and watched the woman for a few moments before speaking. “Tell me,” he began, “what do you know about Stephen Dietrich?”

  “Not much. I’d had him as an instructor at USC for a term. He was a lousy teacher.” She paused for a long moment, as though mulling over what she wanted to say. “I didn’t like him.”

  “You sold some scripts to that sitcom he was story consultant on, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. But I’ll tell you one thing, if the producer hadn’t been an old friend of Dietrich’s, he would have been out on his ass the first week. He got fired from UCLA last term, you know. Anyway, the studio was replacing him next season. Let’s face it, the show is shit. It only got renewed because it was on against reruns.”

  “But you sold them two scripts.”

  “So? I’m not saying I’m Hemingway. I figured I could use the extra bucks.”

  “Okay, then tell me about that script of his, Dagger’s Heart?”

  “It smells fishy, if you ask me. It’s not just the weird things that have been happening with the missing copies and all. I mean, it’s too good,” she explained, and paused to collect her thoughts. “Did you ever see Magical Moment? Greenpark Way? How about Sunnyvale Daydreams?”

  Wally shook his head. “Sorry, my partner’s the movie buff.”

  Yeah, well, I’ll bet even he never made it through any of those turkey B flicks from the nineteen fifties. Really the pits,” she said and poked a finger into her empty pack of cigarettes. “Hey, I’m all out.”

  “What about the script?” Wallace prompted.

  “It’s like I said. It’s—well, look, those other movies were sappy love stories. You know, struggling little husband and wife, complete with orphaned children, all that kind of garbage. A fantasy like Dagger’s Heart....” Again, she seemed at a loss for words. “It’s just too good. The story line is better than Lord of the Rings; the special effects ought to be fantastic. I just can’t explain it. On the screen it’ll be...magic.” She grew quiet and stared at the empty paper and cellophane wrapper in her hands.

  A knock at the door captured Wally’s attention, and a familiar head poked inside. “Talk to you for a minute?” Howard asked.

  “I’ll be right back,” Wally said, but Erica didn’t appear to hear him.

  Outside out in the hall he asked, “What did you get?”

  “Only one money order was sold between noon and one on Tuesday. For three hundred and seventy-five bucks. No name, but I have the money order number. Ask her if she’s got her receipt. They’re going to do a trace anyway, but unless it’s been cashed....” He handed Wally a slip of paper with the information. “I got hold of Matt. Dietrich was dead before the fire. Shot three times in the chest.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Wallace deadpanned.

  “Hey, I’ve been thinking. Lucy Pearson was on the company payroll working for Dietrich, maybe Erica knew her.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask her. Hey, she’s out of cigarettes, get her a pack, will you?”

  “Sure,” Howard said, and started down the hall toward the vending machines.

  Wally reentered the interrogation room and Erica looked up. “Are we finished now? I’ve got a hot script coming in today, and—”

  “Just a few more questions. Would you happen to have your receipt for that money order by any chance?”

  “I think so,” she said and reached for her purse. She found it immediately and handed it to him. It was made out for three hundred and seventy-five dollars and the serial numbers matched those Howard had just given him.

  He handed the paper back, pulled out a chair and straddled it. “If it’s any consolation, you’re in the clear for Friday.”

  “I did tell you that, didn’t I?” she said; her voice held the barest trace of irritation.

  “We’ll drive you back to the studio,” Wally clasped the top of the chair and leaned his chin on his hands. “By the way, do you know Lucy Pearson?”

  “Not very well. Why?”

  “She’s missing.”

  “She wasn’t at Dietrich’s house last night, was she? I mean, it was common knowledge she slept with the guy.”

  Wally shook his head, noting Erica’s relief.

  “It’d be just her luck if she had been there.”

  “How come?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. She seemed kind of sappy—just like those old movies of Dietrich’s. Otherwise why would she fall for a jerk like that? If you’re looking for someone who knows her, why don’t you ask Terry Gibson? I think he used to be engaged to her.” She rolled her eyes. “Boy, he’s another case.”

  “I take it you don’t like him much, either.”

  “He’s a creep. We all thought so, especially Lizzie, or maybe that was just because their romance didn’t work out.”

  “What is it about him you don’t like?”

  She shrugged, settling back in her chair. “When he first started working with us, he used to carry this big loose-leaf notebook around. He was always scribbling things down. It was kind of funny, because he was very secretive about the whole deal. We used to tease him. You know, ‘Hey, Terry, writing the great American novel?’”

  That struck a chord. “Are you saying he’s a writer?”

  She shrugged. ‘“I don’t know, I guess so.”

  “Just how well did he know Liz Garcia?”

  “I don’t know. They went out a few times. I didn’t pay much attention. Ask Terry. Or better yet, ask Debbie—she’s the eyes and ears of the world—or at least the Script Department.”

  Things were starting to fall into place quickly, and Wally sat up straighter. “Did Gibson know Dietrich well? Well enough to know where he lived, that kind of thing?”

  Again she shrugged. “It wouldn’t be too hard to find out.”

  “How?” he demanded.

  “Irene’s rolodex. Hell, she made sure she had the addresses and home phone numbers of everyone we did work for—a lot of actors, too, just in case we needed to get in touch with them.”

  “Who’d have access to it?”

  “I guess anybody who came in the office.”

  “Have you checked it recently?”

  “No. I was going to update it next week when I get those cards back that Sergeant Howard—”

  But Wally didn’t hear what else she had to say. He was already heading for the door, and ran straight into his partner who was returning with a pack of cigarettes for Erica.

  “Gibson is our man,” he said, passing his partner and racing toward the squad room.

  “Come, on,” Howard said to the woman, and the two of them followed Wally at a slower pace. By the time Howard and Erica caught up with him, Wally was already on the phone.

  “He didn’t show up? When? Do you have his phone number and address?”

  He scribbled down the information, then pressed the rest buttons on the phone. Punching the numbers, he waited for a few moments. “No answer.” He hung up the phone again. “He never came in to work today. She,” he indicated the Erica, “says Gibson was once engaged to Lucy Pearson.”

  “We’d better get over there—and fast,” Howard said, and the two detectives headed for the door at a dead run.

  “Hey,” Erica called after them. “How do I get back to work?”

  12

  “This is just like something out of a Sherlock Holmes story,” Howard called, eyes intent on the road as he maneuvered the Cougar through the busy mid-day traffic.

  “How’s that?” Wally yelled over the wail of the siren. “The killer always returns to the scene of the crime?”

  “Something like that. I knew there was something wrong with that Gibson guy from day one. Something he said when he identified the bodies for me—the way he asked me if they were all dead. Goddamn it,” he said, angry with himself. “The guy even volunteered that Martha did it. Jesus, how could I be so stupid not to pick that up?”

  “You weren’t exactly feeling so hot, remember? He must have killed Liz Garcia to shut her up—the others must have gotten in the way,” Wally hollered.

  “Goddamnit, when I get my hands on him—”

  “Concentrate on the road—we’ll worry about Gibson when we get there—” Wally started, but his words were drowned out as Howard made a sharp turn from Wilshire Boulevard onto one of the side streets. He cut the siren, and the Cougar skidded into the driveway of a small motel whose rooms with kitchenettes had been leased out as apartments. Mars light flashing, the detectives spilled out of the car and ran toward apartment seven on the ground floor. Howard hammered on the door with the butt of his gun.

  “Open up! Police!”

  No sound came from within.

  “Try the handle,” Wally suggested.

  Howard turned the handle gently, and was surprised when it moved.

  “Do you think it’s rigged?” Wallace asked.

 

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