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even spelled his name correctly, something his own bank couldn’t seem to manage.
    “It’s not so bad,” said Cape, absently turning the front page. “You came across exactly as you should—a colleague of the victim who wants to help the police in their investigation.”
    “Will there be an investigation?”
    “They said they’d look into it.”
    “That’s it?” asked Grace. “There’s nothing else you can do?”
    “There’s plenty I could do,” said Cape calmly. “But it would be a waste of time.”
    “Why?”
    “The police are better at this than I am,” he said simply. “They have more resources and more legal means of finding out what your friend Tom was up to—warrants, badges, that sort of thing.”
    “Then why am I still paying you?”
    “I bet you’re a good producer.”
    “Nothing personal—just curious.”
    “The studio should have put you in charge of the budget instead of Tom.”
    “Well, now they don’t have any choice,” said Grace. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
    “Fair enough,” replied Cape. “The cops in question are doing this as a favor, but they’ll give it maybe twenty-four to forty-eight hours, tops. If it still looks like a suicide, they’ll close the file.”
    “And then?”
    “I’ll be there to open it up again.”
    “Okay,” said Grace cautiously.
    “Besides, I don’t think we’ll have to wait forty-eight hours.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because the police will either find something right away, or nothing at all. Either way we’ll learn something.”
    “What do we do in the meantime?”
    “You should go back to work,” replied Cape. “When do you start shooting again?”
    “The end of the week, but there’s a lot to do before then. Not the least of which is to reassure the neurotic director that his movie is still on track.”
    “What’s the director like?”
    “Michael?” Grace grimaced. “I worked with him on his first film, when he was an up-and-coming talent.”
    “And?”
    “He was great, but the last movie made a ton of money, so now he’s an auteur, which translates from Hollywood-ese to royal pain in the ass.”
    “Sounds as charming as your head of operations—Angelo?”
    “Asshole.”
    “How’d he like the article?”
    Grace laughed, a sound like wind chimes laced with nicotine. “He threatened to fire me.”
    “Can he do that?”
    “Not a chance. Only Harry and Adam Berman can do that. Angelo’s just their resident bully. Besides, if they fire me in the middle of this picture, they are fucked beyond recognition.”
    Cape raised his eyebrows. “Nice turn of phrase.”
    Grace laughed again.
    “It’s a tough business, especially if you’re a woman.”
    “You’ve been doing this a long time.”
    “Was that a statement or a question?”
    “A statement, unless you tell me otherwise.”
    “You must be a detective,” said Grace. “I started as a PA right out of college.”
    “PA?”
    “Acronym foul,” said Grace, holding up her hands. “I should have said ‘production assistant.’”
    “Tell me about the movie you’re producing. I’d like to understand what you and Tom were doing before he—” Cape stopped himself just before saying “jumped,” adding, “died” halfheartedly before Grace noticed the slip.
    She leaned back and looked at the ceiling while she talked.
    “It’s a forty-five day shoot, three locations, lots of green screen, thousands of extras.” She moved her hands as if counting them off on her fingers. “From a production standpoint, it’s a big film.”
    “Should I have said “film” instead of “movie”?” asked Cape. “Or don’t distinctions like that matter?”
    Grace laughed again. Cape had to admit he liked the sound.
    “Actually they matter quite a bit. Most producers would claim that film is the celluloid equivalent of literature. It makes you think differently about the world, maybe changes some preconceived notion you had. A film stays with you long after