Dead Heat Read Free Page B

Arden, culminating in his miraculous, plot-saving conversion to sudden goodness. Instead, Spraggue pondered the shooting at the reservoir.
    The cops now had the names of some twenty runners who’d witnessed the brouhaha, complete with addresses, phone numbers, and a few addled, unmatching descriptions of the supposed perpetrator. The young woman who had brought up the stocking-mask possibility seemed the most reliable of a bad lot. The old man with the twisted ankle had offered twenty-two different conspiracy theories, the mildest being a plot by the sponsors of the New York Marathon to scuttle the Boston race. He also thought the sniping might be a diabolically clever ploy by the mob to get the cops out of the way while crooks reprised the Brink’s heist.
    Spraggue thumbed brown shadow across his eyelids. What bothered him was the reporters. Channel 4’s news team had been on the scene like flies on honey even before the cops had finished flashing their badges. Asked better questions, too. Could they have been tipped off slightly in advance? Was the whole episode some cockeyed publicity stunt? Donagher was up for reelection in November and many were the pundits who claimed his return to marathon running was a cheap way of garnering momentum for his campaign start-up. Instead of shelling out hard won campaign contributions for newspaper ads, would some flunky in Donagher’s organization point proudly to tomorrow’s front page coverage in the Globe and the Herald and chalk up the cash savings for his committee? Spraggue decided that he’d investigate that angle long before he checked out any anonymous crank letters. He wondered what Pete Collatos would do. If Collatos kept his job. Spraggue hoped his friend hadn’t gotten fired for his dereliction of duty.
    Deftly, he hollowed out the area under his right cheekbone with dark shadow, edged it with white.
    Any flunky responsible for the prank would have wept at Donagher’s low-key reaction. The candidate had resisted every attempt by the cops to single him out as the target. A “random sniping incident” at the reservoir, that’s what Donagher had called it. When pressed for motive, he’d discoursed on random violence in today’s society. Hadn’t mentioned any threatening letters. Out of twenty-five observers of Donagher’s chat with the cops, Spraggue supposed the senator hadn’t won more than twenty-five votes. Getting shot at all across the city seemed an uncertain way to win an election.
    He peered up at the ceiling, cheated down into the mirror to line under his eyes. His Oliver makeup was a straight job in contrast to the character makeup he did for the rustic lord. No fancy tricks on this one, no putty noses or bushy eyebrows. Spraggue just reinforced the features he already had, evening out the faint asymmetricality that made his mobile face perfect for double casting.
    Right now, Spraggue thought, he could play any age, from twenty to death, but his days as youthful Romeo were fast drawing to a close. On the street, his face never drew a second look. Makeup made a difference. The Globe ’s reviewer had called his Oliver a handsome rogue , two words no one would have used to describe Spraggue. Normal was a more oft used term. Average, except for those amber cat’s eyes.
    Hurriedly buttoning up his deep red tunic, Spraggue reread the note he’d found tacked to his dressing-room door. “Michael,” it said, “must see you. Finances. Real estate. Tonight. No excuses.” The assistant stage manager had written down his aunt’s peremptory message in appropriate red. He doubted his aunt had been quite so succinct; Mary had a reputation for volubility.
    Tonight … Whether or not he made the appointment would depend on the mood of one Kathleen Farrell, the actress who played his beloved Celia. An after-theater snack might be in order: He’d missed dinner due to the cops’