Free 13 - Knock'em Dead by Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain Page A

minute?”
    “Sure.”
    “Cup of coffee?”
    “Tea is appealing.”
    “There’s a coffee shop a few doors away.”
    I slipped into my coat and came around the table to join him.
    “You’ve ripped your coat,” he said.
    I looked down. “I forgot. I can’t imagine how it happened.”
    He lifted the hem and examined the tear.
    “It’s been cut.”
    “That’s what Priscilla said. She’s the publicist for the play.”
    “When did it happen?”
    “I don’t know. I wasn’t aware of it until I arrived here an hour ago. Priscilla pointed it out to me.”
    “A dean cut. Must have been a very sharp object.”
    “I don’t recall catching it on anything.”
    “A knife.”
    “A knife?”
    “I’d say so. Has it been in anyone’s possession other than yours?”
    “No. I wore it from the hotel, went to a coffee shop, took in a movie, then came straight here.”
    He bit his lip and grunted.
    “You don’t think someone did it deliberately—do you?”
    He shrugged.
    “Someone bumped into me outside the theater.”
    “Really?”
    “A man.”
    “Did he bump into you on the side where your coat is torn?”
    I thought a moment and said, “Yes.”
    “What did he look like?”
    “Oh, young, I think, but I can’t be sure, wearing a gray overcoat and a black knit cap. The cap was pulled down low so I didn’t see much of his face.”
    Hayes led me to a secluded comer of the lobby. “Let me show you something, Mrs. Fletcher.”
    He pulled an envelope from the small briefcase he carried, removed a paper from it, and handed it to me. It was a police artist’s sketch of a man wearing a black knit cap pulled down over his forehead.
    “Recognize him?”
    “No.”
    “Doesn’t bear any resemblance to the man who bumped into you outside?”
    “It’s impossible to tell,” I said. “It could be the same person, but that’s only because the cap is the same. As I told you, I didn’t see his face clearly.”
    “But you saw it clearly enough to know it was a man, not a woman.”
    “I can’t even claim that,” I said. “I assume it was a man because of the clothing. He bumped me and was gone. It could have been a woman wearing a man’s overcoat. A knit hat is unisex, I suppose.”
    He said nothing as he slipped the sketch back into the envelope and returned it to his briefcase.
    “Is that a sketch of the Broadway serial killer?” I asked, not sure it was appropriate.
    “We’re not certain. A witness said he saw someone who looked like this coming out of the alley between this theater and the Von Feurston next door, right after the murder of a producer there. Probably means nothing, but we’re following up every lead, no matter how insignificant.”
    “Of course. Mr. Hayes—Detective Hayes, is it?”
    “Detective. Lieutenant. Henry.”
    “Why are you here today? You didn’t know about my torn coat and the episode on the street until just now.”
    “just following a pattern.”
    “What sort of pattern?”
    “A pattern of where the killer has struck. We’ve laid out a grid, and there seems to be a design of sorts. His first two killings—and we’re operating under the assumption that the killer is male—the first two killings occurred in theaters that were side by side. The third occurred four blocks from the original two. Now this one at the Von Feurston.”
    “Which breaks the pattern.”
    “Yes, unless he now intends to repeat the first two, strike at theaters next to each other.”
    “Any reason you think that’s what he’s doing?”
    “Just a hunch. The fact that this theater is next door to the Von Feurston, and your play is a murder mystery—well, maybe it’s my imagination, but the Drummond would seem to be an attractive target for him.”
    “Maybe an attractive target for the killer, but not an attractive contemplation for anyone involved with Knock ’Em Dead.”
    “No, it certainly isn’t. Where was this young man coming from? The guy who bumped into you.”
    “I don’t know.