Blood Will Have Blood by Linda Barnes Page A

Spraggue.
    â€œEddie?”
    â€œHe’s all right.” Spraggue could hear the sigh of relief, felt irrationally displeased by it.
    â€œCan I talk to him?” she asked.
    â€œNo. Later.”
    â€œDarien’s rehearsing. He’s not going to like it.”
    â€œGet him here in ten minutes or he might not have anything to rehearse. Okay?”
    â€œOkay,” she said. The phone went dead.
    Eddie was sitting up, the towel clutched to his throat. His color was better. He looked at Spraggue and managed a grin.
    â€œDon’t bother talking,” Spraggue said shortly. “Go over the whole incident in your mind, see it again. Do it like an acting exercise, one sense at a time. Maybe you can get those numbers back.”
    Eddie nodded.
    Spraggue searched the room. It was a shambles, a useless mess. What to look for? A button off a long dark cloak? A fingerprint left by a gloved hand? Somehow his eyes kept coming back to the writing on the walls. That familiar printing, those unevenly scrawled black caps. Carefully uneven, planned sloppiness—the person who’d created that mask of Greg Hudson could do a far neater job. Spraggue sniffed at the gooey letters, scraped some of the gunk off on a fingernail. Lipstick. Deep, blood red.
    A female? No. Actors were comfortable with lipstick, men and women. And no clue to the prankster’s height. The inscription ran all around the room at different levels, sometimes skirting the floorboards, sometimes almost at ceiling height. He must have used a chair—and an entire tube of lipstick.
    The message, though, never varied. CANCEL THE SHOW CANCEL THE SHOW CANCEL THE SHOW ; it said over and over.

Chapter Eight
    Arthur Darien decided against the police. Buoyed by Darien’s concern and his offer to pay all damages, Eddie went along with him. Spraggue called them anyway, dialing a number three years hadn’t made him forget.
    The pay phone on the corner of Huntington Avenue was in typical shape: door kicked in, phone book ripped out. But it had two advantages: it commanded a view of the front door of the theater, and was far enough from that front door so that no one entering or leaving the theater could overhear Spraggue’s end of the conversation.
    Lieutenant Detective Fred Hurley grabbed the phone on the first ring. “Hurley. Records,” he snarled.
    â€œCharming as always,” said Spraggue.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œDid you happen to find an envelope on your desk this morning?”
    â€œYeah, but I figured I was seeing things ’cause the guy that sent me the envelope, I haven’t seen him for years. Is that you, Spraggue?.”
    â€œYou don’t recognize my voice?”
    â€œAfter all these years? Christ!”
    â€œCan you help me out?”
    â€œYou back in the business, Spraggue?”
    â€œNo. Just a little thing I’m handling for a friend.”
    â€œSome little thing. Must be ten names in that envelope.”
    â€œEleven. All I want is a rundown, anybody with a record. I listed birthplaces and last known addresses. That should help.”
    â€œYou’re all heart. Look, I’m busy, but I’ll try.”
    â€œJust charge a little of that overtime to me instead of the city. That’s all I’m asking.”
    Hurley’s voice took on a new note. “You going to tell me who you’re working for?”
    â€œNo harm in that. I’m acting again, for Arthur Darien, over at the Fens Theater.”
    â€œOver by Symphony, right? Old District 4. Interesting.”
    â€œWhy?” Spraggue asked. Hurley’s brain was like a camera. Once it photographed information, the image stayed put. That was the department’s excuse for sticking the former homicide specialist at a desk in Records.
    â€œYou help me, I help you, right?” said Hurley.
    â€œRight.”
    â€œThen keep your eyes open. That area’s very intriguing to your local police