Papa Jack Chapter 67

"Richard, you know I'm always delighted to talk to you," Martha says, letting him into her dressing room, "but I have a last-minute understudy playing opposite me tonight, and we'll need a chance to get our rhythms in sync before the curtain goes up. I don't have much time."

"Then can we talk after the show?" Richard asks. "It's important, Martha."

The diva spreads her arms. "All right, very well. Will you be in the audience?"

"You're sold out, and I don't have time to hunt down a scalper."

Martha waves dismissively. "No matter. I'll get you a backstage pass good during the performance. You can watch from the wings. And meet me back here after the curtain calls."

"Thanks, Martha. I appreciate it."

"Don't appreciate it too much. You're buying dinner."

Esposito knocks several times before, breathing hard, Lorna Charles answers the door. He and Ryan hold up their badges. Lorna gazes at the IDs. "I didn't mean to keep the police waiting. I was in the middle of some very time-sensitive trades. But the only crimes I've witnessed are in the financial markets. What can I do for the NYPD?"

"Ms. Charles?" Ryan inquires.

"Yes."

"This is also about something sensitive. Can we come in?" Esposito asks.

Lorna shrugs. "All right, but I can't imagine how I can help you."

"Do you know Eric Donnelly?" Ryan asks as Lorna seats them around a worktable.

"Yes, I know Eric. I just saw him this morning. We went running together in the park. What about him?"

"He's dead," Esposito declares.

"That's terrible!" Lorna exclaims. The world's lost a terrific writer. Did he get into an accident or something?"

"He was murdered," Esposito responds.

Lorna's mouth gapes."Murdered? Surely, you don't think I had anything to do with it."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Ryan questions.

"As I said, we went running this morning. Eric said he was going home to grab a shower before he started on his writing for the day. The park's not far from his apartment, so he jogged off in that direction. I got in my car and came home to catch up on the markets. My car was in the lot at the park. The cameras there make it safe to park that early in the morning. My car's probably on them, arriving and leaving. You can check."

"We will," Esposito says.

"When you were running with Eric, did he seem worried about anything?" Ryan asks.

"You mean like someone was about to murder him? No. But he was trying to work out a plotline. Eric did that a lot when he was running. He said the motion upped the blood flow to his brain."

"Do you know what kind of a plotline?" Ryan presses.

"Something about knives. Right! It was about counterfeiting knives."

"How do you counterfeit knives?" Esposito asks.

"I have no idea," Lorna responds. "But Eric said he was looking into it."

"So, Richard," Martha asks, picking up a stuffed mushroom from her appetizer plate, "what is so urgent? Did a big donor pull out of the fundraiser?"

Richard fingers his water goblet. "No, nothing like that. Everything for the fundraiser seems to be going fine." He pulls the increasingly wrinkled newspaper out of his jacket pocket and taps his forefinger on Ms. Dish's column. "I want to talk to you about this."

A deep, husky laugh rises from Martha's throat. "That? My dear boy, you're worrying about nothing. I've had articles like that written about me for years. The minute the flavor of the month gets arrested or files for divorce, the gossipmongers move on to the younger, fresher blood. In a day or two, no one will even remember this nonsense."

"Maybe," Richard allows, "but I'm not worried about whatever dance the public thinks we might be doing between the sheets. I'm more concerned that some overanxious reporter out there will dig deeper."

"Did deeper into what, Richard? You don't have my lookalike chained up in a cellar somewhere, do you?"

"No cellar. No chains, although sometimes Kate's handcuffs … never mind. I'm talking about digging into the past, specifically what happened on April 1, 1969."

"April 1, 1969? Omigod!" Martha covers her face with her hands. "That's the day I had to…."

"Give up your son," Richard interjects.

"That's when I was a starving actor myself. I never could have kept him. Over the years, I tried to find him to tell him, to explain what happened. But I've never been able to."

"Yes, you have. Wow! I'm not even sure what to call you now, Martha or Mother. That baby was me. Your lover, Jack, is my father. He couldn't stand the idea that I'd go into the system, so he left the job that took him away from you and raised me. Until pretty recently, I didn't know about any of that."

"Richard, are you sure?"

"I lifted some of your DNA and had it checked against mine. I'm sure. And the truth is out there. Some enterprising sleuth looking for a connection between you and me might stumble upon it. The question is, what do you want to do about it?"

Martha gazes numbly at the table. "I need a drink."

Richard signals their server. "That makes two of us."

The efficient server quickly delivers their additional beverages. As her son throws back a scotch, Martha gulps from a glass of red wine. "Richard, just how discrete were you in getting our DNA run?"

"Very discrete. The lab does everything by code number, not name, and guarantees total privacy. But those sorts of precautions have never stopped a determined newshound before."

"And, uh, your father, does he know you were planning to tell me?"

"He knows I was thinking about it. He told me to do what I had to. But he's a translator for a fairly staid publishing company. He has been, almost since I was born. He doesn't have much of a public profile. I don't think the press would bother him much. All the cell phones would be clicking at us. So, do you want to hope the Dishy attention on us dies down or beat the curious minds to the punch by releasing the story ourselves?"

Martha takes another gulp of her wine. "I don't think we should say anything – at least until after the fundraiser. If we do, that will make the story about us instead of the actors and writers who need support. That's not a story that will open checkbooks. But we can't let Ms. Dish and her spies keep digging, either. The actress' eyes light with an almost Castle-like expression. I'll offer the busybodies a distraction, maybe two. I know some older gay actors who managed to survive the HIV blight that savaged Broadway. They're old school – still in the closet. So they always appreciate a good beard. I can hang on their arms for a while until the Dishers move on. That should take care of matters – at least until the fundraiser. If the story gets out after that, I can handle it. Um, Richard, I- I don't suppose your father would want to talk to me."

"He's asked about you a couple of times but never said anything about wanting to renew acquaintances."

Martha nods. "Ah, well, I can understand that."

"He may, however," Richard adds, "be at the fundraiser."