Scene Stealer by Elise Warner

chocolate he’d bought for an afternoon snack. Plenty more in the vending machine. Besides, he should lose a few pounds; the elastic on his jockeys felt tight. Maybe he’d take up jogging or biking, something he could do with his son.
    Every time his son said he wanted to be a cop, his ex-wife threw a fit. He had mixed feelings about it. Plenty of time—his son was only eleven. No. Twelve. He’d have to give him a call, didn’t see enough of the boy. Boy. He wouldn’t be a boy much longer. Next birthday he’d be a teenager. They got along all right when they got together. Seemed like his son was skipping years, growing up too soon He’d call him tonight. Maybe they’d have dinner together.
    â€œLieutenant.” Marjorie was back. “Clarence checks out. The superintendent says Clarence worked all day. The security guard saw him, so did one of the tenants who slipped and nearly fell on the wax Clarence sloshed on the floor near the elevators.”
    â€œLunch hour? The loser could do it on his lunch hour.”
    â€œDidn’t take one. Had to clean up the wax before the landlord got sued.”
    Marjorie handed O’Brien a peppermint and offered him one. In her battle to stop smoking, Sergeant Harris constantly popped Life Savers into her generous mouth. He wouldn’t mind a taste of that peppermint. Damn. He banished the thought of Marjorie Harris, her lips, legs, the whole enchilada from his mind. The woman should get married and have a kid of her own. She’d make a good mother. His ex-wife was a good mother; he’d give her that. Just couldn’t stand being a cop’s wife. Few women could.
    He thought about the street kid again. Three strikes against him but the lieutenant had a feeling he’d never be out. Sharp and street-wise, the kid would survive. The lieutenant wished he could feel as sure about Kevin Corcoran. No ransom note yet; there should have been a ransom note by now. Worst case scenario: some crazy had the kid, and they were standing around playing.
    â€œMarjorie, we have work to do.” The lieutenant pulled on his left earlobe again and headed for his office. “We’re gonna take the Corcoran kidnapping from the top.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Abner T. Bean’s Theatrical Agency was located in a famous, but by New York standards, old building on Broadway. There is always an old building being torn down or a new edifice going up in Manhattan. Bean’s building, in the heart of the rapidly diminishing theatre district, had once housed music publishers and tunesmiths. They were gone now, along with their melodies and lyrics. The building’s designation as a landmark, however, kept its handsome brick from being torn down and replaced by another featureless office tower.
    No longer a mecca for musicians, the building served as a backdrop for gaunt, sad-eyed peddlers and hustlers who set up cardboard boxes on the once-glamorous street; here they hawked their bogus merchandise. New Yorkers ignored them; tourists stopped, examined and occasionally bought an imitation Gucci scarf or fake Rolex watch.
    The building was equipped with two elevators, their doors decorated in early twentieth century art deco designs and vibrant colors. Unfortunately, only one was in working order. A man who looked as though he had been installed along with the car operated it. The worn, visored cap perched on his head must have been the last surviving remnant of his uniform.
    â€œAfternoon, miss.” He removed the cap and passed a comb over his nearly hairless head.
    â€œGood afternoon. Mr. Abner Bean’s floor, please.”
    â€œWon’t see you, miss. Mr. Bean has an open call for actors on Tuesdays between 12:00 and 2:00 p.m. Today’s Thursday. Come back tomorrow. If you like I’d be glad to hand him your picture and resume.”
    The old coot winked at me! Oh, dear. It couldn’t be. Perhaps it was merely a