Free High Fall by Susan Dunlap Page B

plungers full of heroin?”
    “Either.”
    He swung the door back and forth on the hinges. “Where’d you hear that?”
    “What is this, Twenty Questions? Look, Yarrow, you give me a song and dance about Lark Sondervoil being a sharp stunt woman—I take sharp to mean bright enough not to stumble over a bluff when you’re loaded.” With another potential client she would have come on easier, but Trace Yarrow was such an in-your-face little guy, he’d mistake courtesy for weakness. ‘With him, the winner of the game would be the guy who shoved the hardest.
    “I didn’t—”
    “Save the excuses. Just tell me what’s the story on Lark Sondervoil.”
    His hand tightened on the door. “Skip it. I’m not Lark’s keeper. And there are plenty of gumshoes dying for work.”
    “Fine. Run an ad. I’ll cancel my order with the Maserati dealer.” She grabbed the door. “Consider the hour I spent in the screening room a gift.”
    “You got in to see the rushes?” he asked, clearly so impressed he lost track of the game.
    “Didn’t you think I would?”
    “So what’d you learn?” he asked, avoiding concession.
    Kiernan restrained a grin. She loved the jab and run; the thrill of the game; always alert, all the chips in the middle of the table, all the cards facedown and nothing to do but psych out the other guy. It made her feel—well—alive. But she knew the pitfalls of guys like Yarrow, driven, single-minded, men who made love like there’d be no morning. There were reasons why they were ex-lovers, and reasons why after each one she’d sworn Never again. In a dark alley they were the best guys to have striding beside you— if they showed up. She ought to grab this out, press her palms together in thanks, and shut the door behind her.
    But Yarrow knew things about Lark Sondervoil she’d never find out elsewhere—Lark, and the movie industry. She’d take the gift, but in the form she wanted. She’d pick his brain and then walk out the door. “My questions first. What’s this business about Lark and opiates?”
    Yarrow released the door, took three steps, and flopped into a dinette chair. “Anyone else, I’d tell she was crazy, but for you I’m searching my brain like a bum looking for butts in the gutter.”
    “How well did you know Lark?”
    “Met her once at a party.”
    “Once! That’s all?” Maybe Yarrow had too many cards facedown.
    “Look, O’Shaughnessy, Hollywood’s a small town, and the stunt world’s one little block in it. I don’t have to be in bed with the girl to know the word on her”—he paused, catching her eye—“but it’s a nice way to find out.”
    Or maybe it was too many face up. She ignored the comment.
    A woman not watching her opponent would have missed the slight tightening of shoulders, the quick sideward glance that preceded the steady gaze. “I could give you the rundown on anyone in the business. Just ask me—go ahead, ask me.”
    “Back to Lark. How come she trotted around to the media and hinted at more than the high fall? Was she a publicity slut?”
    “No. The opposite. That whole thing was bizarre. Stunt doubles try to stay out of the limelight, to protect the illusion that the star does everything. Lark.” He shook his head. “The studio was furious.”
    “What could she have told the press?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Not nothing. Think! Did she talk about Greg? About doing his Move?”
    “Not to me. But I did hear that she wanted the studio to acknowledge Greg in the trailers—the credits on the screen—and it was no go.”
    Kiernan nodded. Greg Gaige deserved that honor, small as it was. She liked Lark better for her asking. “Yarrow, tell me about Lark. What was she doing at the party?”
    “I don’t know why the hell—”
    “No, not why she was there. Tell me how she behaved there. Close your eyes, see the scene, describe it for me.”
    “Look, I’ll tell you what I know, but I’m not about to go weird to do it. Here’s what I know