It seemed an odd detail to fixate on. “In Flip’s office and the anteroom where Greer worked. As I said, the theory is that someone tried to make it look like a burglary after the fact.”

“What kind of burglar goes through files in the writers’ office?”

“I didn’t say it was a good plan. The point is, if this was part of the ongoing campaign against the production, then Selene’s New York trip becomes a very visible alibi. Derek Nichole made a point of telling me he grew up in a tough part of Philadelphia, all but suggested that he was connected. And he did say that he wanted to help Selene.”

“Is she sleeping with him?”

“What?” Tess asked, even as she realized that Ben Marcus, for all his flippancy, was far more interested in Selene Waites than he wanted to admit, perhaps even to himself. “Look, Ben – as I keep telling you, it’s not my job to look into Greer’s murder. But if there is an organized campaign of vandalism against the production, and Selene is involved – I think it would be a good idea for you to come clean with Flip about the relationship.”

He shook his head. “I can’t, I just can’t.”

Tess remembered the online sexual harassment course she had been required to take as a condition of her contractual employment at Johns Hopkins night school. She had gotten a 93 percent and blamed her less-than-perfect score on a poorly worded question. “Is it a firing offense? Sleeping with an actor?”

“Is – God, no, I’m not sure it’s even possible to sexually harass an actor. Especially one who wants to get written out of the show. That’s the one thing I can’t do for Selene, and I made that clear early on. Although, I have to say, the networks are fucking the show over by switching the emphasis to her and making us keep Betsy as a character. Screwed up a lot of stuff we had planned for season two, if we get a pickup. Then again – without Selene, we won’t have a season two or three. It’s a real Hobson’s choice.”

“Were your plans for the show in the” – she needed a second to pull up the jargon – “the bible?”

He seemed to find her use of the lingo amusing. “Certainly, it was spelled out that Betsy would be left behind in the nineteenth century, where she belongs. Now she’s going to follow Mann wherever time travel takes him. Sort of like Mary Steenburgen’s character jumping into the time machine with H. G. Wells in Time after Time.”

“And there’s only one bible?”

“One copy? God no.”

“One version, I mean. It’s not a document that gets revised?”

“No, not really. It’s a planning document, a blueprint for the pitch. Next season – if there is a next season – we’ll take on some new writers, spread the work around, and we’ll have to work up some pretty detailed beat sheets for them. But the bible’s mainly for the network, when you’re trying to sell the show. There’s no reason to go back and change it. Why the interest in this kind of insider knowledge? You want to write for television?”

“God no,” she said reflexively.

“Then you’re the only one.” He flapped a hand at the people sitting around them, as if they were so many flies he’d like to swat. “I bet at least half the people here think they have a television show or a movie inside them. Of course, they don’t want to do the grubby work of actually writing it. They just want to tell someone their idea and share the money, fifty-fifty. Which, by the way, they believe is incredibly generous on their part, because their idea, as they’ll be the first to tell you, is a million-dollar idea. But here’s the thing that civilians don’t get – ideas are worthless.”

“I don’t know,” Tess said. “Some ideas have value. E equals mc squared, gravity. Those were kind of important.”

“It’s the application of ideas that have value, even in the sciences. They don’t give you a patent for the idea, they give you a patent for the execution of the invention. Television is the same way. It’s not the idea behind Mann of Steel that got us a deal-”

That was easy enough for Tess to believe.

“ – but our ability to execute it. Flip is an experienced show runner. I’m a writer with producing experience. We know how to make a television show. The idea is the easiest thing to have.”

Tess could see his point, although she was startled by Ben’s fervency on the topic. He smacked his hands against the table as he spoke, creating a counterpoint to his still-dancing feet.

“At any rate, I’ve seen enough of television production to know it’s not for me,” Tess said. “You guys work longer days than anyone I know, and the tedium – I wouldn’t have the patience for it. It’s worse than surveillance.”

Ben seemed mollified, or at least calmed by Tess’s token respect. “Sorry, I just thought – I mean, given the questions you were asking, about the bible and everything, I thought you were another screenwriting wannabe.”

“To throw some movie dialogue back at you – who would admit to being that?”

He continued to drum the table, but with less hostility. “Don’t tell me, don’t tell me, don’t tell me – The Untouchables. Sean Connery to Kevin Costner, when he says he’s an ATF guy. You didn’t get it word for word, though.”

Tess nodded. “We watched it recently. Part of Lloyd’s continuing education, although I’m not sure De Palma is the best influence on a kid we’re trying to keep on the straight and narrow.”

“I like Lloyd,” Ben said. He seemed vaguely surprised by the concept. “I’ll help him, anyway I can. He really should be working with Lottie – he’s clearly got more aptitude for the visuals than the words – but if I make that suggestion, she’ll shoot it down as if it were skeet. So I’m going to plant that idea in Flip’s head. Lloyd should be a P.A., work his way up on the production side of things, where his lack of a formal education won’t matter as much. Television and film are still democratic that way. If you can do the job, no one cares about your degree or pedigree. I knew a kid, started as a P.A. in high school, and he’s directing episodes of network television now. Ditto, if you can’t do the job – a big-deal degree is worthless.”

For a moment, Tess almost liked Ben Marcus. But then she registered that was exactly what he wanted. That he had, in fact, fastened on the topic of Lloyd’s future to divert her from something he didn’t want to discuss. Selene, Greer, Flip? It was like the childhood game of hot and cold, and Tess had been very hot there for a second, or at least warm. Now under the table Ben’s feet were still, his hands calm.

“Ben?”

“Yes?”

“Last night, after we spoke, Selene and I had a little chat. She told me her relationship with you began three weeks ago.”

“Give or take. I didn’t write it down in my diary, draw a big heart around the day, but, yeah, give or take, that’s when it started.”

“Greer was already working as Flip’s assistant by then.”

He was a bright guy. He didn’t need for Tess to connect the dots for him, to point out that this meant much of what he said was bogus. He was so bright that, when caught in a lie, he didn’t rush in with more words, or try to explain himself.

“That sounds right,” he said. “You know what, you’re good at continuity issues. You’d be a good script supervisor, if you put your mind to it. See, that’s what I do – I help people. I’m lovable that way, but I wouldn’t want it getting around.”

He grabbed his cup, rising to his feet so quickly that the small table rocked and Tess had to rescue her own cup of coffee before it toppled. “See you around, Sam Spade. Don’t take any wooden nickels.”