Free Director's Cut by Alton Gansky Page A

around a little lost while you were gone.”
    â€œThat’s our Floyd, but he’s not a boy, Fritzy. He’s a college grad.”
    â€œFrom where I stand, anyone his age is a boy.” She hesitated. I had a feeling I knew what was coming next. “I heard about what happened yesterday. It’s horrible. And what you did. You amaze me.”
    â€œWell, when you don’t bother to think, you can do those things.”
    â€œA murder at your cousin’s house. Horrible. Just horrible.”
    â€œIt’s in the hands of the police now,” I said and opened the Register .
    â€œWhat’s she like?”
    â€œWho?” I looked up again.
    â€œYou know who. Catherine Anderson.”
    I got it. “She’s . . . Catherine. A little older, just as pretty, smart, and talented. I left her sleeping in the guest room.”
    â€œI loved her movie.”
    â€œIt was a big hit,” I admitted.
    â€œI saw it twice.”
    â€œI take it you want to meet her,” I said.
    â€œThat’d be wonderful.” Fritzy’s smile broadened. Something I didn’t think was possible.
    â€œI can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can get you a ticket to opening night or something. No promises though. Remember, I’m only the mayor.”
    â€œThat would be great,” Fritzy said. “I mean, if it’s not too much trouble.”
    â€œI’ll ask her later this morning. I plan to pick her up a little before ten and drive her to rehearsal. We’ll see what she has . . . to . . . say.”
    A small article just below the fold on the front page of the Register kidnapped my attention: “Man Slain at Star’s Home.” I had expected the article. The murder was news after all. What surprised me was the byline: Vincent Branch. Branch was the Register ’s editor. Why wasn’t Doug Turner’s name there? He had made the initial calls and when I spoke to Branch the previous evening, he acted like the story was Doug’s.
    Thinking he might have been pulled off for another story, I rifled through the newspaper. No articles by Doug. That wasn’t conclusive of anything. When I spoke to Branch it was early evening. He would have to put the paper to bed soon so it would be on doorsteps this morning. If Doug had been reassigned, his new article might not be out until tomorrow or even later. It was odd but not bizarre. The news business was volatile and could change in minutes; breaking news often upstages political news conferences, at least at the city level.
    I shook off the distraction and read the article. It was brief, succinct, and offered few facts. I could see Branch typing like crazy to get something about the murder in the paper. Unlike its large cousins, the Register operates with a small staff, small enough that Branch had to occasionally pick up the slack. I decided I’d have to ask Doug what happened the next time I spoke to him.
    â€œI’m here.” Floyd walked into the room. “Can I get you a cup of—? Oh.” He looked at the mug on my desk.
    â€œFritzy beat you to it.”
    Floyd just stood there. I stared at him. He stared at me. I love Floyd dearly, but at times he seems to orbit a different planet than the rest of us. Fritzy excused herself.
    â€œYes?” I prompted.
    â€œOh. I was just wondering if there was anything special today.”
    â€œSpecial? No, nothing special. I plan to review files and get caught up on messages until ten, then I need to pick up Catherine and take her to the Curtain Call for rehearsal. After that I have a luncheon with the chamber of commerce. At two I meet with the Community Development Department and at three, I brief the council about my meeting in Sacramento.”
    â€œIt sounds like a full day,” Floyd said. “Do you want me to pick up Catherine for you? I could take her to rehearsal.”
    So that was it. “What would