Another Thing To Fall Page 25

  "I pulled the gun, but only to get what I wanted." He was still trying out his story, thinking as he spoke. "It was an accident?"

  "I can see how that might happen," she lied. Again, one didn't have to be a regular viewer of CSI to wonder how a person got shot in the back of the head, accidentally. The silence in the room stretched out, uncomfortable, possibly lethal. Tess knew that she could get to her gun and get a shot off. But Ben was so nearby. She couldn't be sure that Mr. Sybert wouldn't shoot him, if only by accident. And — she tried to suppress the thought, but there it was, flickering at first, then bright as neon: She didn't want to kill this man, if she could avoid it. Yes, she knew he had shot Alicia, and probably in the most cowardly fashion possible. She didn't believe his story about Greer, either. Yet she couldn't help thinking that if she kept calm, if she continued to show him respect, all three of them might leave here alive.

  "A friend of mine explained the basics of the Zervitz case to me," Tess said, more to Ben than to Sybert, as if she had all the time in the world. "The thing that sticks in my head is that they never proved the producers of the film saw the original treatment. They just proved that they might have, that it was reasonable to infer that from the similarities. Expert witnesses for both sides then argued whether the film clearly plagiarized the two-page scenario. The plaintiff 's witness said yes, the defense's witness said no, and the jury decided they believed the plaintiff."

  "Home court advantage," Ben muttered. Tess wished he would stop being so damn feisty. She had a hunch that simple acknowledgment could go far in this situation.

  "Well, let me be the judge. Literally. Mr. Sybert, would you show me the letter—"

  "No," he said, patting his breast pocket with his left hand. "I don't intend to let anyone else touch this."

  "Then read it to me, Mr. Sybert. Go through it, a paragraph at a time, and then we'll let Ben counter how his idea was different. After all, with me you'll have — what did Ben call it — home-court advantage. And I always root for the home team."

  She was charmed in spite of herself by how conscientiously Mr. Sybert managed to remove the letter and his reading glasses from his pocket, all the while keeping a firm grip on the gun. Ah, too bad, she had hoped he might put it down for this recitation.

  "Let the record reflect," he began "that the letter is dated June 19, 1992. Now that I have it in my possession, I can have someone test it, however they do that, prove that it was written when it says it was, but you can see" — he flipped it quickly, too quickly for Tess to see anything, not that it mattered — "that it was written on a typewriter, just as I told you. That typewriter is still in Bob's house by the way, so we'll be able to match it."

  "Noted for the record," Tess said, in what she hoped was a judicious tone.

  "For fuck's sake," Ben said. Tess tried another stern look, but Ben was impervious. Luckily, Mr. Sybert had started to read.

  "‘Dear Mr. Tumulty: As you may recall, we met a few years ago, when you were filming Pit Beef. I was the photographer who came to the set with my brother-in-law, George, and talked to you about the old Westview movie theater, how weird it was to see Barry Levinson use that as a nightclub in Tin Men. Anyway, I am a filmmaker, too, and although I usually work from classic texts, my brother-in-law, George, had a terrific idea the other day: What if Wallis Warfield Simpson, a Baltimore girl as you well know, didn't marry King Edward, but instead settled in Windsor Hills with a nice Baltimore boy who worked in a factory?'"

  He looked up at Tess expectantly. "Okay," she said. "I see the royal angle. You had the would-be Duchess of Windsor settle for a Baltimore boy—"

  "A factory worker," Mr. Sybert clarified.

  "Ben has a steelworker romancing Napoleon's future sister-in-law. I'll give you that point. It's suspiciously similar."

  "Don't I get to speak?" Ben asked.

  "Keep it brief," Tess admonished.

  "Okay, two things: Betsy Patterson's marriage to Jerome Bonaparte didn't last. And, two, our original plan was for Mann to leave Patterson in the nineteenth century, let her pursue her destiny. That's in the bible. It's the network that wanted them to marry and time-travel together."

  Tess pretended to think about this. "I see what you're saying," she said. "Still, this round goes to Mr. Sybert."

  The man's chest seemed to expand. Someone was listening to him, drinking in every word with rapt attention. Attention must be paid, as Mrs. Loman had tried to tell us. Mr. Sybert resumed reading.

  "‘Now, as many people know, Edward was thought to be a Nazi sympathizer. But if Wallis Warfield Simpson had married someone else and Edward had not, in fact, given up the throne, could that have affected the outcome of World War II? In our alternative version of history, Mrs. Simpson's decision to marry a Baltimore man has that catastrophic effect, and the present day shows us a world controlled by the Nazis. The resistance's only hope is to send an emissary back into the past and get Mrs. Simpson to make a different romantic choice.'"

  "That's a direct steal from the Terminator," Ben said. "I can't believe you're calling me a plagiarist when you're ripping off James Cameron right and left."

  "Ours is an homage," Mr. Sybert replied. "Besides, that's our very next line — Think Terminator, by way of Robert Harris. See, the fact that you mentioned that movie proves that you read Bob's letter."

  "Or proves that there's no such thing as an original idea, so it's actually reasonable to believe I developed my show without ever seeing your stupid letter."

  Stupid was a mistake. Tess saw the man's cheeks redden while his chest, swollen with pride just a few seconds ago, started heaving.

  "I agree with Mr. Sybert," she said quickly. "There's a difference between conscious tribute and ripping off someone's idea without acknowledgment. And it is awfully coincidental that you cited the same movie, Ben."

  "A person would have to be a moron not to see—" he began, then finally — finally — caught the look in Tess's eye and seemed to realize exactly who, in this scenario, was being moronic. "Okay, I concede this round, too. I mean, I'm not admitting that I did anything, but I can see that a jury might find it suspect. But then I always knew that a jury might not believe me. That's why I panicked when Greer showed me the letter, stuck in a bunch of school crap that Flip asked her to sort. My conscience is clear on this score, and I haven't been able to say that very often in my life. I think the local jury was crazy to find for the plaintiff in that other case, but I could see that these guys had an even better case. I told Greer I would get her a paid job if she could make the letter disappear."

  "And that's when she became Flip's assistant," Tess said, still trying to work out the timeline.

  "No, that was a few weeks later, after Alicia was fired for letting go of the pilot script. Remember, Greer was an unpaid intern at first, going through boxes of crap, same as Lloyd is doing now. God knows what he'll find on me, given enough time. When she came back for the second favor, I saw I was never going to be free of her."

  "So you killed her," Mr. Sybert said.

  "What the fuck are you talking about? I wasn't even there that night." Ben's confusion was genuine, but Tess realized that Mr. Sybert was sophisticated enough to realize that a defense attorney could offer conflicting theories if he were tried in Greer's death — the boyfriend did it, the blackmailed writer did it. But Mr. Sybert was still going to have to explain how Alicia had ended up dead at his feet.

  "This is about money," she said. "Plain and simple. Mr. Grace's idea was used, and he was entitled to payment. Mr. Sybert, as his heir—"

  "Well, my wife, Marie, is his heir, but she's helpless about money matters," he said. The warm, wry affection inspired by his wife was so normal, so endearing that Tess almost forgot the gun in his hand, the one, maybe two people he had killed.

  "What if we paid you a half million and gave your brother-in-law a created-by credit?"

  "No fucking way," Ben fumed, but Tess could tell he was playing along now, that he realized he shouldn't
cave too easily. "I could have optioned the last three Pulitzer Prize winners for that kind of money. And I've got the created-by credit on this. You're taking money out of my pocket."

  "Well," Tess said, "that's how damages work. Someone has been hurt. Someone has to make up for that. And I know from the background checks that I performed on the production that you have that much cash in your Fidelity account alone. You could probably run up to the local branch right now and get a cashier's check in that amount. I'll stay here, for insurance as they say."

  "It's almost five now," Mr. Sybert objected, "and he'd never make it in time, not in rush hour."

  "Not even if he took Northern Parkway to Perring, then took that back way over to Providence Road?"

  "Oh, I know a better shortcut than that," Mr. Sybert said.

  "No way. How would you go?"

  And that was all it took, the Achilles' heel of the born, bread-and-buttered Baltimorean, his — or her — certainty of the city's geography, the parochial pride in knowing the best shortcuts. Mr. Sybert put his gun down on the coffee table, ready to show Tess on the back of one of Alicia's magazines how to drive to Towson in rush hour — and she head-butted him, threw herself into his soft, round stomach so hard that she tipped over the chair in which he was sitting.

  There was much thrashing of limbs and grunting on both their parts, more than Tess had anticipated. He was stronger than he looked, but then — he would have to be. After all, she was now certain that he had beaten a woman to death, which required considerable stamina and commitment. All Tess could do was hope that Ben Marcus had seen enough goddamn movies to realize he should grab the gun left on the table.

  In fact, Ben had the posture down — legs braced, if a little quivery, both hands holding the gun. Yes, he had the posture down, but not, thank God, the patter. In fact, Ben didn't utter a single syllable in the endless two minutes it took for Tess to retrieve her own gun and call 911.

  Not that Mr. Sybert was fighting anymore, either. He sat placidly on the floor, reading and rereading his brother-in-law's letter. He wasn't smiling — he wasn't so crazy that he couldn't realize how much trouble he was in — but the letter clearly brought him some comfort. He had proof, and someone had finally listened to him. On some level, he believed himself vindicated.

  "He was really so very clever," he said when the sirens began echoing down Walther Avenue. "My brother-in-law, I mean. Bob. He could have made a beautiful movie, as good as anything you'd see in Hollywood, if only someone had given him a chance."

  "I suppose," Tess said, as kindly as she could to a man who had killed two women, "that it really does come down to who you know."

  Ben opened his mouth, as if to contradict her, then stopped. His instincts were good. If he had said something argumentative or tried a bit of snappy banter just now, Tess might have pistol-whipped him, too.

  LAST LOOKS

  JANUARY

  Chapter 34

  The Mann of Steel premiere — really, more a onetime showing for the Baltimore-based crew and their families, as the real premiere was to be in Los Angeles two days later — was held at the Senator Theater. The grand old movie house had screened many of Baltimore's homegrown projects and had its own Grauman-style sidewalk devoted to the various productions. The squares didn't come cheap, and Tess knew that Lottie had wanted to forgo the tradition. But Flip was keen to have one, even if it did end up in what Ben called the "Tumulty ghetto," just beyond the area devoted to his father's work.

  There was even a red carpet of sorts, although no real stars to walk it. Selene Waites was in Prague, working on an independent film, while Johnny Tampa refused to attend when the production — Lottie again — balked at sending him four first-class tickets — one for him, one for his mother, one for the newly minted Mrs. Tampa, and one for her mother. Lottie was willing to go as high as three but drew the line at Tampa's mother-in-law. The new Mrs. Tampa, a former Miss Hawaiian Tropic Tan, had been met and married in a whirlwind courtship over the Christmas holidays. But the courtship was not so heady, according to gossip, that Johnny had neglected a prenup.

  Good old Johnny, Tess thought, studying one of the posters outside the theater, where Johnny had been given the benefit of a much tighter jawline than he had in real life. He thinks everything through.

  A local television reporter tried to catch Tess's eye when she stopped, but she managed to get inside before he could approach her. She and Ben had agreed not to talk publicly about what happened in Alicia Farmer's house, and George Sybert was remaining silent as well. As far as the public knew, a city man had killed a city woman in some sort of personal dispute, then agreed to a plea bargain that the beleaguered state's attorney's office was happy to make. Some details couldn't be kept back — George Sybert's name, the fact that he had been fired from the school district a few months earlier and was increasingly desperate to provide for his invalid wife — but those facts only confused the situation more. A deal had been struck, and there would be no jailhouse interviews about stolen scenarios and The Duchess of Windsor Hills, no accusations of plagiarism.

  And no charge against Sybert for the murder of Greer Sadowski. That one remained on JJ Meyerhoff 's scorecard. Sybert could not be shaken in his story: He went to the office that night to confront Greer, and she was already dead. Yes, he was the one who had opened drawers, but he hadn't taken her ring, didn't even remember seeing a ring. Tess had been scouring pawnshops and less-than-meticulous antique dealers all fall and into the winter, looking for the simple pear-shaped diamond she remembered, but nothing had shown up. She had even asked Marie Sybert if she had received the gift of a ring last fall, but the poor woman had denied it, and Tess didn't have the heart to press her. Marie Sybert had enough worries, with her brother dead and her husband in prison.

  Tess understood the police indifference to breaking Sybert's story down. There was no percentage in letting citizens know that they had killed the wrong suspect while the real killer had remained at large, only to kill again. She understood — the first rule of bureaucracy is "Cover your ass," as her father might say — but she didn't have to like it. The only consolation was that the decision had been made far above Tull's head, and she believed that this particular closed case would remain forever open to the conscientious detective. If he got a chance to clear Meyerhoff, he would. Would a ring in a pawnshop prove anything? Only if someone at the store could swear that it was Sybert who had brought it in. Even then, that might not be enough. She was chasing her own MacGuffin, but it seemed more productive than trying to persuade Sybert to confess. Still, she kept visiting him, in hopes he might come clean.

  "I wish you had killed me that night," George Sybert said the last time that Tess saw him, a week before Christmas. "My life insurance would have been sufficient to take care of Marie."

  "Are you sure?" Tess asked.

  "Oh yes, I know all the ins and outs of my policies."

  "No, I mean — are you sure that you'd like to be dead?"

  "Marie would be better off."

  "Does Marie think so?"

  His eyes moistened, and Tess had to remind herself that this disarmingly devoted husband had killed two women. The problem with George Sybert — the problem with most of humankind — was that the only pain that mattered to him was his own. He mourned his brother-in-law and best friend. He would go to any lengths to take care of his Marie. But what about Greer? What about Alicia? Neither one deserved to be dead.

  Boy meets girl. Bob Grace gets to Alicia, then Greer gets to him, promising him the document he thinks will prove everything. Boy loses girl. Greer recants, and Bob Grace, despairing of seeing his dream realized, kills himself. His brother-in-law takes over his quest. Boy gets girl. George Sybert kills Greer, then Alicia.

  "Popcorn?" Crow asked.

  "Of course," Tess said.

  Tess, Crow, and Lloyd had been given reserved seats, far better than Lloyd's status would normally confer, just two rows behind the producers. Ben motioned Tess to join
him in the aisle.

  "Can you keep a secret?" Ben asked.

  "I would think that my track record speaks for itself."

  The old Ben might have had a comeback for that. The new one said:

  "We're getting a pickup, even before the first episode airs. It's not exactly the vote of confidence it seems — they just don't have enough in the production pipeline, so they're using the pickup to create heat for the show. You know — a show so good we didn't even wait for ratings. That kind of crap. But they were really excited by the reaction at T.C.A."

  "T.C.A.?"

  "The television critics. They meet twice a year, preview stuff. We got great buzz."

  "Congratulations. So Mann of Steel returns to Baltimore. I'll try to keep the glorious news to myself."

  Ben glanced over his shoulder to see who was nearby. "That's the thing — we're not coming back here. The network gave us an early pickup, in part, so we could figure out a way to work around everyone's schedule. Johnny's going to do his film this winter, while we've agreed to keep Selene light during the season so she can go make her vanity biopic. But the trade-off is we have to do it closer to home, probably Vancouver. It simplifies things, especially now that Johnny's new wife has decided she wants to live in Hawaii part of the year. Besides, the Maryland Film Commission's budget was slashed. No more givebacks."

  "So everyone gets what they want, and Baltimore is left empty-handed?"

  "Most of Baltimore. How many people live here? Six hundred thousand or so? Well, five hundred ninety thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine get bupkes. But if Lloyd settles down, earns his GED? Flip and I are committed to paying his way through school. USC, NYU, community college, a technical school if that's what he wants — he gets in, we pay. And we'll do whatever we can to find him work when he gets out."

  Tess was stunned — happily, for once. "That could be a lot of money, four years of college."