Blood Will Have Blood by Linda Barnes Page B

force.”
    â€œYou have to tell me what to keep my eye on, Hurley. I’m just an amateur.”
    â€œSure. Anything out of the ordinary. But especially drugs. Somebody’s doing some fancy cocaine dealing around there. Neighborhood’s going to hell. Burglary, arson.…”
    â€œIf I stumble across the odd kilo, I’ll dump it at your door.”
    â€œI’ll owe you for anything that helps get me out of this crummy desk job. Those other two items you want are going to take me some time. The accident report from New York and that Chicago business—”
    â€œProbably just gossip-column fodder, but I’d appreciate it if you’d get me a copy of the death certificate.”
    â€œGeoffrey Ambrose, huh?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œLike I said, I’ll try. Call me in a couple days.”
    â€œI’ll call you tomorrow, Fred.”
    â€œGreat. I love to talk: But don’t expect anything until at least the day after. I can’t tell the cops that I’m holding up their stuff just to do you a favor, you know.”
    â€œTalk to you tomorrow, Fred.” Spraggue hung up.
    Outside the theater a limousine halted, tooted its horn twice. John Langford, swathed in a shapeless black cloak, wearing huge dark glasses, descended the theater stairs at a regal pace. The uniformed chauffeur got out of the car and opened the rear street-side door.
    But the limo didn’t move. It disrupted traffic on Huntington Avenue for the next few minutes. Then red-haired Emma appeared on the front steps, ran swiftly downstairs, and vanished into the car. The limo took off, just catching the tail end of the yellow at the intersection, and roared out of sight.
    Spraggue left the phone booth and strolled back to the theater to find Georgina Phillips.
    She was in her dressing room, eyes closed, feet propped up on the ledge that served as a makeup table. Spraggue was willing to bet that Georgina rated a private room only because no one else would put up with dressing in a closet. The cubicle reminded him of the phone booth he’d just vacated. Standing dead center, he could touch all four walls without stretching.
    Georgina had tried to make the phone booth livable. The far wall boasted a Sierra Club poster, framed to imitate the window the room sadly lacked. A paper lantern attempted to soften the glare from the bare bulb on the ceiling. Photographs covered up some of the peeling plaster. One was probably Georgina as a child. Hair ruffled, slender body hunched in sleep, she looked much the same now.
    She must have sensed his presence. Her eyes opened and she smiled. “What are you thinking?”
    â€œOh, something like, ‘There’s no art to find the mind’s construction in the face—’”
    â€œStop it!” Georgina sat up angrily. “That’s from Macbeth ! You should know better than to quote the Scottish play in a theater, of all places!”
    â€œI forgot,” Spraggue said. “I never really believed in—”
    â€œSome of us do.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
    Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You were probably thinking I looked dumb, and now I’ve just proved it.”
    â€œPretty. I was thinking you looked pretty.”
    â€œSame thing, huh? Men equate ‘pretty’ and ‘blonde’ with ‘dumb’ in these parts, or haven’t you noticed?”
    â€œI’ve noticed,” Spraggue said, “but it’s another thing I don’t believe in. I was wondering if you could help me.”
    Georgina shook her head, grinned ruefully. “Want to start over? I’m sorry. I guess you scared me. I woke up and there you were, towering over me.…”
    â€œForget it.”
    â€œWant to talk in the lounge? It’s kind of cramped in here.”
    â€œLet’s go for a walk,” Spraggue said.
    â€œSo nobody’ll overhear us?” Georgina