“And that’s Westcoast Starlight Productions?”
He nodded. “Out of L.A.”
“We found one of the stagehands,” I told him quietly. “About dawn this morning, down by the Burlington Northern Tunnel.”
“Dead?” Dan Osgood asked, paling visibly.
I nodded.
“You don’t think it had anything to do with the theater, do you?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. This guy was from a union local here in Seattle. We found his union card. He had a paycheck from Westcoast Starlight Productions in his pocket, and someone at his house told us he was supposed to work here the night before he died. Who would he have been working with?”
“On the load-in? Probably the head carpenter.”
“Is he from around here?”
“No. He’s with the road crew.” Osgood pawed through a stack of papers on his desk, extracted a piece of yellow legal paper, and ran his finger down the sheet.
“The head carpenter’s name is Alan Dale.”
“Any idea where I could find him?”
Dan Osgood glanced at a clock on the wall. “He’s probably backstage now. The tech crew is having some trouble.”
“Can you take me to him?”
Osgood half rose, then sat back down, eyeing me warily. “Is this going to be in the papers or the news?” he asked.
“Not until after we notify the next of kin,” I answered. “That’ll probably happen sometime this afternoon.”
“You mean the murder will be on the news. I know that, but do you have to mention the Fifth Avenue—by name, I mean?”
“I’m a cop,” I reminded him. “I don’t write the news. I’ve got no control over how reporters do their job.”
Osgood shook his head. “They’ll have a fit, you know.” He groaned. “The shit’s really going to hit the fan on this one.”
“Who’ll have a fit?” I asked.
“The board of directors. They’re a real conservative bunch, you know. They don’t like anything out of line, anything controversial. They were reluctant to book this show in the first place, but I convinced them to go ahead.”
“What do you mean, reluctant?”
“They were worried about Jasmine’s…You know…” He paused and looked at me as though expecting me to read his mind.
I shook my head. “Her what?” I asked.
“About her reputation,” he added.
“What about it?”
“She used to be a rock star, you know, several years back.”
Dan Osgood used “you know” the way some people use “ah.” Actually, I didn’t know at all, but I nodded, pretending I did.
“About a year or so ago now, she hooked up with one of the surviving big bands. It’s taken a while, but she’s gradually making the switch to pop, singing a lot of old-time songs from the thirties, forties, and fifties, cashing in on the baby-boomer nostalgia trip.”
“And she’s doing all right at it?”
Osgood shrugged, a noncommittal gesture that didn’t quite measure up to his public-relations position. I rephrased the question.
“How are ticket sales?” I asked.
“So-so,” he replied glumly.
“Not that great?”
He nodded. “I told ’em they’d be better off doing one show on Friday night, but nobody ever listens to me. They insisted on two shows or nothing.” He looked at me and brightened. “I could give you a couple of comps,” he added. “Great seats. Front row center.”
Osgood took two tickets out of his top drawer and pushed them across the desk toward me. I looked at them without picking them up.
“This couldn’t possibly be construed as a bribe, could it, Mr. Osgood?”
His jaw dropped. “Detective Beaumont, of course not! My job is public relations. I mean, you’re going to be there, aren’t you, talking to people?”
“I suppose so.”
“I just thought it would be easier if you had tickets. That way, you could come and go as you pleased.”
“You mean without having to show my badge.”
He shrugged. “Well, actually, that’s right. It would create less of a disturbance.”
I couldn’t argue with his premise. Having Homicide cops wandering in and out of any event does tend to put a damper on people having fun. I picked up the tickets and shoved them into my jacket pocket.
“All right,” I said.
“But you’ll keep a low profile during the performance, won’t you?” Osgood insisted. “You know, we’ve got another show tomorrow night, and if there’s any trouble…”