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“That’s two questions,” Vince said. “But the same answer: nope.”
“Aha,” I said. “If you don’t think that’s too corny.”
“Why aha?” he said.
“Because Kathy—the victim—was never ever without her phone. So if you don’t know where it is—”
“Egads,” he said. “The killer took it.”
“Egads?” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “Because you got to say aha. I assume you told this to Anderson?”
“I assume that’s a joke?”
“Ha!” Vince said, with his terrible fake laugh—much worse than mine.
“Did it look like the same killer?”
“Well,” Vince said carefully, “of course, I am no Detective Anderson.…”
“Thank God for that.”
“But it didn’t look like it. The eye was gone, and naturally Anderson jumped on that and said quod erat demonstrandum.”
“He said that?”
“Words to that effect. Fewer syllables,” Vince said. “Anyway, he was sure it was the same. But the thing is, the body was a mess. Eleven stab wounds, including a couple that chopped open the carotid artery.”
“Oh, my,” I said, thinking of the great awful gouts of sticky wet blood.
“Yeah, really,” he said. “And even worse? There was vomit all over. Like he took a look at what he’d done and then blew lunch. I really hate working with vomit.”
“Cheer up,” I said. “In a few hours you’ll be right back with severed heads and fecal matter.”
“Fascinating stuff, fecal matter,” Vince said thoughtfully. “It’s in all of us.”
“Some more than others,” I said. “Thanks, Vince.”
“Hey!” he said, before I could disconnect. “Are you hanging out at the movie? With Robert?”
“He’s around somewhere,” I said. “I’m supposed to give technical advice—and also,” I said, trying to sound very casual, “I have a small speaking part.”
“Oh, my God,” he said. “You’re gonna be in this?”
I covered the phone with one hand and changed my voice. “Five minutes, Mr. Morgan!” I said, and then, back into the phone, “My call. Gotta go, Vince. Say hi for me to all the little people.”
“Dexter, wait!” he said. “Is Robert—”
I broke the connection and stood up.
I wandered down the hall to Wardrobe. Jackie was still in conference with Sylvia, standing with her arms held straight out while Sylvia made marks on her shirt with a piece of chalk and her two assistants ran by; one carried an iron, the other an armful of rubber boots.
I closed the door and looked around. I had nothing to do for at least another fifteen or twenty minutes, so I indulged my curiosity and went to take a look at the soundstage. I had never seen one before, and if this was going to be part of my new life as Dexter Demosthenes, I thought I should see what it looked like.
I went through the heavy metal door and into the room. It was about the size and shape of an airplane hangar, with a high ceiling and a cement floor. Except for isolated patches of illumination from electric lights, the room was dark. There were no windows, or anything else that might let in light, and thick black curtains hung down from the walls.
The crew swarmed in and out of the pools of light like ants skittering around on a hive that someone had smacked with a stick. In twos and threes they hurried by, performing their mystical tasks, slapping tape onto the floor in precise and nonsensical patterns, moving metal light stands from place to place, rolling out thick cables, two and three bundled together, and carrying odd bits of scenery: a window, a bright red fire door, a swivel chair.
