Never Fear by Scott Frost Page B

director were standing at the front of the stage, looking at me.
    â€œWhat is it exactly you want to know?” the director asked. His name was Moore. He looked to be nearing sixty and holding on for everything he was worth to his youthful looks.
    I let my hand linger on the cool wood for another moment, then stood up.
    â€œYou were interviewed by the police eighteen years ago about an actor named Thomas Manning.”
    â€œI remember it very clearly.”
    â€œWhy is that?”
    â€œBecause it was the last day I ever saw Tom. He vanished after that. I had to take over the acting class he was teaching.”
    I had never heard my father referred to as Tom; I couldn’t even remember my mother ever using the name.
    â€œHe was accused of molesting several actresses?”
    Moore nodded. “I didn’t learn about those things until he vanished.”
    â€œDid you believe them?”
    The director paused dramatically, as if it were written in stage directions and we were working on a scene.
    â€œI believe Tom was capable of anything, including greatness.”
    â€œYou liked him?”
    He shook his head. “Envied his talent. The rest of him . . .”
    â€œWhat?”
    Moore looked over the stage as if replaying a moment in time. “With a look he could make you feel as if you were nothing.”
    â€œAccording to the arrest report, you were the last person who could corroborate his whereabouts on the night of the murder.”
    Moore shook his head. “No, he left the theater after class with one of his students, an actress.”
    Harrison looked over the notes he had taken from Hazzard’s files, then shook his head. “There’s no mention of that.”
    â€œI told the detective.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œYes. I don’t know if they went any farther together than the parking lot, but they walked out of here together.”
    â€œDo you know her name?” I asked
    He thought for a moment, shook his head.
    â€œI’ll have to make some calls, see if anyone remembers.”
    Moore disappeared into an office and returned ten minutes later. “I think this is her, but no guarantees.” He handed me a piece of paper with a name and address.
    â€œHas anyone else talked to you about this recently?”
    â€œNo.”
    I handed Moore my card as we left, the picture of my father gaining more, if not better, detail.
    â€œDoesn’t make sense that Hazzard would have missed a detail like that,” Harrison said.
    â€œMoore could be right—maybe they didn’t get any farther than the parking lot.”
    â€œYou want to talk to Hazzard?”
    â€œNot yet. If he left something out, let’s find out if there was a reason.”
    I handed Harrison the paper with the name and address. “Let’s talk to her first.”
    I glanced back toward Pasadena. The smoke from the fire that was threatening my house now completely obscured the mountains to the east.
    â€œWhat time was it my father left here?”
    Harrison checked his notes. “Shortly after seven.”
    â€œAbout the same time Victoria Fisher was starting dinner at the restaurant on Melrose.”
    â€œTwo miles from here.”
    The address was a small bungalow in Eagle Rock just west of Pasadena. A boy of about ten was rushing down the steps of the house carrying a backpack to a sedan parked out front. As the car drove away his mother appeared at the front door, waved, then glanced in our direction before stepping back inside. Candice Fleming was or had been her name on the day she walked out of the theater with my father eighteen years before.
    â€œDid you see that?” Harrison said.
    I nodded; it was a look familiar to any cop, but not in this kind of a neighborhood, or from a woman in a robe sending a son on a sleepover.
    â€œIt looked like she made us,” Harrison said.
    I opened the door and stepped out. “She did make us, but