“I don't do casting. Give your resume to the —”

“I don't want to be an actress either.”

He blinked, then laughed. “Well, in that case you're the only woman under twenty-five in the whole city who doesn't.”

“I'm doing a film about an actress who auditioned for you. Shelly Lowe?”

Did his eyes flutter like a startled squirrel's? So maybe had he recognized her now?

He said, “I don't recall a Shelly Lowe.”

“You must. I heard you almost offered her a part in this play.”

He laughed, startled. “I must? Well, young lady, I don't.”

“She was going to be the lead.”

“There were hundreds of actresses who hoped to be the lead in this play. We finally selected one. It wasn't a Ms. Lowe. Now, if you'll —”

“She was killed.”

His attention wavered. He studied some of the construction. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

Which he wasn't, Rune could see. She remained silent, staring up at him.

Schmidt finally said, “And you're doing her life story?”

“Something like that. Here's her picture.” Rune handed him a publicity still that Nicole had given her. He studied it with the detached interest of a bored traffic cop reading a driver's license and handed it back to her. “Don't recall her. Why do you think she auditioned for us?”

“I heard she did.”

“Ah,” Schmidt said, smiling again. “Theatrical gossip. Never to be trusted.”

“Then maybe you can set the record straight. You really don't remember her?”

“Miss Rune, you've got to understand. First of all, I do none of the preliminary casting myself. We have a casting director for that —”

“What's his —”

“— who is no longer with the company, and I don't know where he is. Second, most of the people who say they interview or audition with Michael Schmidt do nothing more than have their agent send a head shot and a copy of their resume to us or stand in line for an EPA or EPI that lasts ten seconds. Did this Ms. Lowe ever really audition for us? I doubt it. Did she ever audition for me? No disrespect to the dead... but if your friend said she almost had the part” — he turned his palms upward —“she lied.”

There was a loud crash nearby. A stagehand had knocked over a huge stack of two-by-fours. Schmidt turned to him, the producer's face twisted in fury. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Mr. Schmidt. I —”

“We're behind schedule because cretins like you don't know what on earth you're doing. One more mistake and you're out of here.”

“I said I was sorry,” the beefy young man said. “It was an accident.”

Schmidt turned back to Rune. “Idiots all around me... Next time you want to talk to me, call my office. Make an appointment. Although” — he turned and walked toward the stairs — “I sincerely hope there won't be a next time.”