Jill’s eyes widened. ”Fat?“ she said.

”Fat,“ Susan said, ”and, if I may say so, gone south a little.“

Jill began to breathe faster, her eyes still very wide. Tears formed and began to roll down her face. ”You are through,“ she said. ”Both of you are not going to work on my goddamned show again.“

”Curses,“ I said.

”Take me home,“ Jill said. ”Now.“

It was a strained and sullen trip back to the Charles Hotel. Jill sat in the back in haughty silence and smoked cigarettes which she lit herself, in a kind of self-imposed martyrdom. She got out when we got there and stalked into the hotel without a word. I drifted along behind her to make sure security was alert. They were. A guy picked her up in the lobby and went up with her in the elevator.

Back in the car I looked at Susan.

”I knew you’d get her to see it our way,“ I said.

”I shouldn’t have lost my temper at her. But…“ Susan shrugged.

”Hard not to,“ I said.

”And that damned coquettish Czarina act that she does with you…“

I nodded. We were cruising along Memorial Drive, heading into town, with the river on our right.

”What would you like to do now?“ I said.

”Let’s go to your place. You make a fire. I’ll make a lunch. We’ll open a bottle of wine and see what transpires.“

”I’m pretty sure I know what will transpire,“ I said.

”No fair,“ Susan said. ”You’re a trained detective.“

I nodded and turned right onto the Western Avenue Bridge.

”I don’t think her fanny is fat,“ I said.

Susan smiled, the way she does when her face lights up and her eyes get brighter, and you know just what she looked like when she was sixteen. ”All’s fair in love and war,“ she said.

Chapter 13

I PICKED Jill up Monday morning and took her to the I studio as if I hadn’t been fired. She made no mention of Saturday. It had begun to snow late Sunday night and there was about three inches of soft feathery snow accumulated with no sign of slowing. I had the Cherokee in four-wheel drive and drove with the arrogance that only a man in a four-wheel-drive vehicle can feel. The California guys at the studio were all bundled up like Admiral Byrd as they stumbled around the studio parking lot.

The drivers were gathered in fur-trimmed parkas, holding coffee in thick-gloved hands and kibitzing in the cafeteria downstairs. I followed Jill to the wardrobe office. The door was ajar, and we went in. There was no one there.

”Kathleen?“ Jill called. ”Ernie?“

The lights were on. The clothing for costuming hung in neat order on pipe racks, filling most of the room. There was a counter to one side and an open space with tnirrors, a cutting table, and an ironing hoard. On the counter was a glass jar of hard candies. I took a red one, hoping for cherry. It was raspberry. Even for the discerning palate, however, in hard candies the difference was but slight.

Jill said, ”Spenser.“

I turned and saw what she saw. Behind the counter, facedown on the floor, was a woman’s body. The white blouse she was wearing was darkly blotched with dried blood.

I went around the corner and knelt. I knew she was dead. Checking her pulse was just a formality. Her skin was cold when I touched it. There was no pulse. There hadn’t been for some hours. The woman’s head was turned left, and the side of her face that showed was blank and meaningless. Her hair was the same coppery color that Jill’s was.

I stood. Jill was standing very still. Her hands, clasped together so hard her knuckles were white, were pressed against her lips.

”You know who this is?“ I said.

”I don’t want to look,“ Jill said. She kept her hands pressed against her mouth as she spoke.

”I don’t blame you,“ I said. ”But one glance, please.“

I walked around the counter and put my arm around her shoulders and moved her gently to where she could see the body. She kept her eyes closed.

”Okay,“ I said. ”It’s not that bad, just a look at her face, then you won’t have to look again.“

Jill opened her eyes, stared down for a moment over her clasped hands. Then she clamped her eyes shut again, very tightly.

”Oh, Jesus,“ she said softly. ”Oh, Jesus.“

”Who is it?“ I said.

”Babe,“ she said. ”Babe Loftus, my stunt double.“

There didn’t seem anything to say. I squeezed her a little tighter with my arm around her shoulders. She let her arms drop and turned her head in against my chest. We stood that way for a moment. There was a phone on the counter. Still holding on to Jill, I reached out and got it and punched in a number I knew too well by now.

A radio car showed up about two minutes after I called, and the two prowlies in it came in, looked things over, and were as careful as civilians not to touch things.

”You got a detail officer on this deal,“ one of the cops said.

”Ray Morrissey,“ I said.

”Tommy,“ the cop said to his partner, ”whyn’t you go and see if you can round him up.“

The partner left.

I said, ”I’ll take Miss Joyce to her mobile home.“

”No,“ she said, ”Sandy’s office.“

She had her face still buried against my chest. ”Upstairs,“ I said, ”in the line producer’s office.“

”Be sure to stay there. Homicide don’t like it when they get here and the witnesses aren’t around.“

”We’ll be there,“ I said.

Everybody looked stiff and uneasy as we passed through the corridor and up the main stairs to Salzman’s office. The two women in the outer office were both on their feet at the top of the stairs looking down.

”Somebody said it was Babe,“ one of the women said.

I nodded. We went into Salzman’s office. He wasn’t there. He was on his way in.

Jill sank into one of the leather armchairs near Salzman’s desk. Outside the picture windows the snow came steadily in wide pleasant flakes, drifting as it fell, but falling with the kind of purposeful steadiness that means business. Traffic was very slow on Soldiers Field Road. Cars had their headlights on in the gray daylight and the lights made a weak glow through the snow that accumulated on the headlight lenses. Wipers made dark rhomboids on the windshields, and beyond, winding through the white landscape, the river was icy black. The snow came thick enough so you couldn’t see the other bank of the river.

Jill and I sat very quietly while we waited. That someone had shot Jill’s stunt double didn’t have to be connected to the threats and scary phone calls that Jill had been getting. But you could make a pretty good case that it might be, and you couldn’t assume it was not.

After about twenty minutes Belson came into the office. He had his tan trench coat on with the collar up. The coat was unbuttoned. The tweed seally cap he was wearing was tilted down over the bridge of his nose so he had to tilt his head back a little to see. He stopped inside the front door when he entered and put his hands in the hip pockets of his pants. You could see where he had his gun holstered inside his belt.

”Good day for it,“ Belson said. He had one of his ugly little cigars in the corner of his mouth.

I introduced Jill. Jill raised her eyes slowly from her lap and fixed Belson with a tragic stare.

”Oh, Frank,“ Jill said. ”It’s my stunt double.“ If Belson minded being called Frank by a murder witness, he didn’t let it show.

”You discovered the body,“ he said. I said yes.

”Together?“

”Yes.“

Belson nodded. As he spoke his eyes moved around the room, filing everything. Three months from now he would be able to describe the place in exact detail.

”I talked with Morrissey,“ Belson said.

”So you know what I’m doing here,“ I said.

Belson nodded again. He pushed a couple of items away from the corner of Salzman’s desk and sat on it, one leg dangling, one leg still on the floor.