She fell back in the chair, disgusted. “I put it right to her. I asked her if she slept with Ross. She thought I was kidding at first, but I was serious. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. Tracy swore up and down that it was nothing like that. She said Ross told her he had this role in one of his shows that he thought she might be perfect for. I don’t know, maybe the guy’s a genius. Essentially, the character’s a trophy wife. And not the brightest bulb in the pack, or whatever that stupid phrase is. So maybe you can say typecasting, right? But still, there are plenty of actresses out there who’d have killed for that role. I mean name actresses, not this total unknown.”

“What’s your take? Do you think she slept with Ross?”

“It’s too screwy. A guy like that doesn’t need Tracy Jacobs. Or let’s put it this way-he doesn’t need to promise her the moon if he wants to get her in the sack. Tracy told me that Ross had her back to the network the next day for what sounds to me like the world’s lamest audition. It was just him in his office running the camera and audio. She read a monologue. Cheesiest dialogue in the world. She showed it to me. You can’t believe they pay people good money to write this dreck. Not that Century City is exactly David Mamet, but please. On the basis of this, she lands a gig like that?” Jane wrapped her arms around her knees and gave herself a good hug. “Oh well. Fuck it. I’ll always have Tim Robbins, right?”

Before I left, I asked Jane what airport Tracy was scheduled to fly into. Kennedy. Air France. At the door, Jane told me she would be appearing in a show in February in Chelsea.

“I play a Mormon lesbian who’s running an orphanage in Kabul. There’s some music in it, too. It could be good or it could stink. If you’re interested, I could probably get you some comps.”

I told her I’d keep it in mind.

“No, you won’t,” she said flatly. “You’ve already written me off as a theater flake. That’s okay. It was nice snooping with you.”

On the street, I hailed a cab. As we made our way slowly up Sixth Avenue, I dialed Margo’s number.

“I’m going to throw a name at you,” I said when she answered. “Tell me what comes to mind. Free association.”

“Sure,” she said. “Fire away.”

“Tracy Jacobs.”

“Tracy Jacobs. Easy. Actress. TV show. Looks like a hundred other actresses.”

“Have I ever seen her show?”

“Century City? I think it came on the tube once, and you said something like ‘Life’s too short.’ It’s not so bad, as those things go. It can take in a sucker like me. But Tracy Jacobs is definitely the weak link. She’s pretty, but no big deal. Why do you ask?”

I gave her a quick rundown of what I’d picked up from Jane and from Danny Lyles concerning the meteoric rise of Tracy Jacobs. Margo listened without interruption. As the cab crossed Twenty-third Street, a florist delivery van in front of us went into a slow-motion skid. My driver whipped the wheel left then right and tapped the brakes, and we slid deftly by the van at a slight angle. The driver muttered a creative curse.

“Somebody’s lying,” Margo said. “If Tracy Jacobs called the police and told them about Marshall Fox and Cynthia Blair, then clearly she knew. Maybe she overheard Fox saying something to his driver.”

“No. Lyles swears that didn’t happen. He says she was threatening to call the cops, but only to give them a heads-up about Marshall Fox’s penchant for violence. That’s when Alan Ross contacted her and ended up offering her the role in his TV show. According to Lyles, Tracy supposedly called both Fox and Zachary Riddick sometime later and said she knew that Cynthia Blair was pregnant with Fox’s kid and that if Fox didn’t come clean to the police, she’d tell them.”

“Was she trying to get money? Was it an extortion thing?”

“Lyles didn’t say it was. But maybe. He was out of the loop by then.”

“So what do you do next? Take your taxi up to Seventy-first Street and mull it all over with your one and only while the gorgeous snowfall continues?”

“Can I take a rain check?”

She laughed. “In this weather?”

“I’M HERE TO SEE Alan Ross.”

The woman at the security desk picked up her phone and slid a ledger toward me. “Sign here. Your name, please, and-Oh. There he is.” She pointed in the direction of the front doors. “See the man standing there?”

Through the revolving doors was a figure in a gray coat, wearing a hat.

“Thanks.” As I turned for the doors, a silver car pulled up. The driver got out and Ross climbed in behind the wheel. I was spinning through the doors as he pulled away from the curb. The cab I’d just taken was still idling at the curb. The driver was busy jotting down something in a notebook. I yanked open the rear door and hopped back in.

“See that silver car? I want you to stay with it.”

The driver turned around in the seat. “Hey. It’s you.”

“Silver car.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Go!”

Ross followed Sixty-sixth across the park. At Lexington, he cut over to Fifty-ninth then went east toward the river. At Second Avenue, he took a right. I didn’t need to instruct the driver to hang too far back. Who in New York City sees a yellow taxicab in their mirror and thinks they’re being tailed? We were as ubiquitous as the snow.

“Looks like he’s heading for the tunnel,” my driver said. I’d just had the same thought-the Queens Midtown Tunnel. And just like that, I knew where Alan Ross was headed. Before we went into the tunnel, I tried Megan’s number. As the signal began to break up, I got her voice mail.

“Rosemary Fox’s rough boy is a guy named Danny Lyles. Lyles was Fox’s driver. It’s a cozy bunch, these people. But forget about Lyles. Alan Ross. You want to start shaking every tree with Alan Ross’s name on it and see what starts falling.” I added, “And answer your goddamn phone, would you?”

The mouth of the tunnel loomed. I’ve got a thing about tunnels, particularly the ones that go underwater. Not a good thing. Dark, closed-in places. I took a deep breath as we plunged into the hole.

42

ROSS PULLED INTO short-term parking. I had the cabbie pull over at the parking gate. The lot wasn’t terribly full, and I was able to keep an eye on Ross’s car. I paid off the cabbie and tracked Ross at a parallel, several hundred feet from him. As soon as he entered the terminal, I raced over to the door he’d used and followed him.

I found him standing at a bank of monitors. I moved off to a nearby electronic check-in kiosk and mimed the securing of a boarding pass. Ross remained staring at the monitors a long while, then broke away and turned in my direction. I leaned in to the kiosk screen. The image of a woman in her crisp flight attendant’s uniform came up. What can I do for you today? Ross passed me. I took a ten-count then went over to the monitors. Air France Flight 8830 from Paris. Like most of the others on the screen, the Air France flight was delayed. It wasn’t due to land for another forty minutes. Gate C3. Even as I looked at the monitor, several more flights were being shifted to delayed. Low groans sounded from the people around me.

Because Tracy’s flight was coming from overseas, all the passengers would be funneled through customs, which I knew was on the level below. Ross apparently knew this, too. I took the escalator down and spotted him taking up position in front of the retractable barriers where all the passengers would be emerging. He had removed his overcoat and folded it over his arm. He stood there a few minutes, consulted his watch, crossed his coat to his other arm, went over to a row of black chairs and took a seat.

I had a decision to make. My impulse was to lay back and wait for the Air France passengers to begin streaming out from customs and baggage claim. I was more than a little curious to witness the reunion of Ross and Tracy Jacobs. A lot can be drawn from whether two people greet each other with a handshake or a pat on the shoulders, or whether they bury their tongues halfway down each other’s throats. My curiosity was far from cursory. If the lovely Jane was to be believed-and who would doubt the lovely Jane?-the crossing of Alan Ross’s and Tracy Jacobs’s stars suggested something less than a natural and readily explained trajectory. A no-talent nobody lands a continuing role in a popular television series mere days after threatening to blow the whistle on one of the network’s top talents. From where I sit, a plum TV role and an invitation to join the roster of a prestigious talent agency sound like pretty enticing hush money. I knew about Ross and his money. Had giving Tracy Jacobs the Century City role been Alan Ross’s way of taking extreme measures to protect his boy Marshall, or did Ross know more about the murders of Cynthia Blair and Nicole Rossman than he’d been willing to share with the authorities? When I’d met him in his office, Ross claimed he’d wanted me to go out there and dig up information for him. It seemed the network executive had a few interesting items in his pocket already. I considered briefly the old trick of waiting until the passengers were emerging, then having Alan Ross paged to a different part of the terminal so I could be the one to greet Tracy Jacobs and see if I could pull a few answers out of her. But I realized that I didn’t even know what she looked like. That’s what I get for not watching more television.