The Apostrophe Thief by Barbara Paul Page A

souvenir-hunting.”
    â€œThen start with that. See if there’s a market for things like”—he looked at one of the lists—“Kelly Ingram’s old sneakers.” He raised two shaggy eyebrows.
    â€œThere probably is. Do I get any help?”
    â€œSporadically, when it’s available. I can let you have Perlmutter for the rest of the morning, but he’s due in court at two o’clock.” Lieutenant Overbrook heaved his considerable bulk up from the desk and stepped over to the office door. “Perlmutter! In here.”
    Marian looked at her watch: after ten. An undernourished-looking man in his thirties with a nimbus of wiry black hair appeared in the doorway. Overbrook introduced him as Detective Perlmutter, no first name, and brought him up to date. “Sergeant Larch is in charge of the case. You help her whenever you can squeeze out a spare minute.”
    Perlmutter nodded noncommittally at Marian. “What do you want me to do?”
    â€œI want you to find out how the thieves got into the theater. They used crowbars to break into the dressing rooms but all the outside doors are intact. Check watchmen, people in the box office, whoever.”
    â€œOkay. Where’ll you be?”
    â€œI want to talk to the play’s director. Another play he once worked on had all its scripts stolen.”
    Lieutenant Overbrook raised his hands, palms up. “Have fun.”
    Marian and Detective Perlmutter set out to walk the nine short blocks uptown to the Broadhurst Theatre. If the director of The Apostrophe Thief wasn’t there, somebody would have his home address.
    â€œWhere’d you transfer from?” Perlmutter asked.
    â€œNinth Precinct, but I’m here for just this one case.”
    Perlmutter made a sound of surprise. “For stolen play-scripts? That’s all?”
    â€œCostumes, too. And personal belongings.”
    â€œStill not big enough to import a sergeant for. I don’t get it.”
    â€œI was on the scene last night,” Marian explained, “and Captain Murtaugh pretty much shanghaied me into taking it on.”
    The other detective laughed. “That sounds like Murtaugh. At least he bucked the case down to Lieutenant Overbrook instead of running it himself.”
    Marian shot him a look. “That’s an advantage? What’s wrong with Murtaugh?”
    â€œNothing, really. He’s a good cop, good to work for. But he does have a reputation for being kind of hard on his sergeants.” Perlmutter paused.
    Marian knew a cue when she heard one. “In what way?”
    â€œWell, a sergeant he was working a case with once took a shotgun blast meant for Murtaugh.”
    â€œGood god. Did he live?”
    â€œYeah, if you call spending the next forty or fifty years in a wheelchair ‘living.’ The blast guaranteed he’d never be a poppa, and a fragment got all the way through to nip the spinal cord. Can’t walk, can’t screw. Can’t bloody do anything. Of course, that was back when Murtaugh was still a lieutenant.” As if that made a difference.
    Marian was silent a moment and then slid her eyes sideways toward her companion. “Is that the story you scare all the new kids with?”
    Perlmutter grinned. “Yeah, but it’s true just the same. Just thought you ought to know, you bein’ a sergeant and all.” His tone changed. “Look, I can give you only a few hours today—I have to be in court by two.”
    â€œThe lieutenant told me.”
    At the Broadhurst, one of the two people in the box office said that John Reddick, the play’s director, was backstage. Perlmutter lingered to interview the box office crew while Marian made her way through the auditorium. The curtain was open; the stage set loomed dim and shadowy under the minimum-wattage work lights. The place was utterly silent.
    Reddick’s office was a windowless cubicle next to the prop room.