"That's the Murph Man over there," Joey said, pointing. "Captain Paul Murphy. Retiring next week. Sitting next to him is his son-in-law, Harry Maitland, and next to him is Murph's son, Billy. Been on the job two years." There was another man also at the bar, bent over a glass of Jack Daniels. "Oh, and that there is Snoop. He's the best darn dick in the country. They ain't no crime too tough for old Snoop to solve."
Toy's eyes fell to the table. "I probably shouldn't have come. I'm on a downer right now."
"Me, too," Joey said, his face shifting into a strained expression. "My mom died on this day last year."
"Oh," Toy said, "I'm sorry. You must have loved her very much."
"Yeah," he said, dwelling a moment on his grief, peering down into his coffee mug. Then he lifted it and took another sip, setting it back down on the table. "My girl dumped me last month, too. That can make a guy feel pretty rotten."
Toy felt obligated to drink her coffee, even though she was fearful that the caffeine would keep her from sleeping. "Why did she dump you?"
"You know, the job. Not around enough evenings. She liked to go out all the time. Besides, she thinks I don't manage my money."
■I'm married," Toy blurted out.
"Married, huh?" Joey said. "Right. Yeah, I remember now. But your husband don't treat you right. Don't know what he has, does he?"
'Actually, we're separated," Toy said. As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She didn't want to give him the wrong impression, make
him think she was interested in him romantically. But Joey Kramer had a way about him. He was good-looking in a working class way: dark hair, nice eyes, long lashes, good clear skin, a mustache that tickled his upper lip. Even though he wasn't a gladiator, he had as yet to develop a potbelly, and he had the face of men who always appeared when you need them: plumbers, electricians, paramedics, firemen.
"Where's your old man now?" he asked Toy.
"He went back to Los Angeles, but I think he's coming back to get me."
"How long you staying?"
"I don't know," Toy said. "I may have to have an operation. If I decide to let them do it, I'll probably have it done in Los Angeles."
Joey arched his eyebrows. "What kind of operation?"
"No big deal," Toy said, shoving her hair out of her face and taking another sip of her coffee. "Where do you live?"
"Brooklyn. Ever been to Brooklyn?"
"No."
"Ain't missed anything. Tell me about this operation."
"I'd rather not," Toy said. "Like I said, it's not serious."
Joey's face became animated. It was the first time she had seen him grimace. Now she saw the potential for anger. It was sparking all around him. His shoulder twitched as he spoke. "Oh, no, well that's what they told my mom. Just a little operation. Come in that morning, we put you to sleep, go home that afternoon. No big deal, right? Know what my mom died from? A lousy cataract operation." Joey paused and shook his head. "They put her to sleep, all right. They put her to sleep permanently."
Toy was staring at him, but she couldn't see his face. All she could see was a gaping mouth, rows of not so straight teeth, the back of his throat, his pink tongue moving in and out of his mouth as he spoke. Would they put her to sleep permanently? "What happened? Did she have a negative reaction to the anesthesia?"
"I guess you could call it that. She died." Now Joey's other shoulder started twitching. "When I think about what happened to my mother, I get a little crazy."
Toy felt a sense of camaraderie now. "Believe me, I don't want to have this operation, Joey, but they're telling me I'm going to die if I don't. So I'll probably end up giving in."
Joey hunkered down at the table, moving his elbows out and shoving his chest forward. "You look okay to me," he said. "Don't let
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them make you do something if you don't want to do it. Just 'cause they're a doctor don't mean they always know what they're doing. Believe me, if someone puts a bullet in old Joey, I'll just get a pair of tweezers and pull the sucker out myself. Ain't getting me in no hospital."
Toy finished the last of her coffee, never taking her eyes off Joey Kramer. Then she gave him a big lopsided smile. "I like your attitude," she told him. "I like it a lot."
"Oh, yeah?" he said, smiling. "Anyone ever tell you how cute that dimple is in your chin?"
"Yeah," Toy said, tossing her head and laughing. "Anyone ever tell you that you're a pretty swell fellow?"
"All the time," he said. "Hey, Murph," he yelled out. "Tell my angel I'm a great guy. She ain't sure yet."
"Shut up, Kramer," the other man said jokingly. "Always picking up those bums on the street. Man, you're gonna catch a disease someday. Got some kind of screw loose in that pointy little head. You're a crazy do-gooder is what you are."
"I can live with that," Toy said quickly. Then she added, "By the way, I wanted to ask you something. What exactly do you do for the homeless people? At Wolfe's they told me you give out cards to local businesses, offering to come in and handle the situation if a homeless person or derelict wanders in off the street."
"Oh, that," Joey said. "Ain't nothing. All I do is get them a room, give them some money for food and things, a little extra maybe to hold them over until they can get themselves together." He stopped speaking and stared in Toy's eyes. "Have you ever seen a person with frostbite?"
"No," she said, "I don't believe so."
"Well, you come down in the tunnels with me when it gets cold and you'll see plenty. Don't look so bad at first. Whatever it touches, though, they got to chop off. I pulled this guy out one night, carried him to the hospital, and next time I see him, both his legs are gone."
"How do you afford it?" Toy asked, thinking of her own problems in trying to assist needy families. Then she remembered that Joey Kramer wasn't married, which made things a lot easier.
He was flushing and fidgeting. "I don't need much, see," he finally said. "I don't keep my own place. I sleep on the sofa at my uncle's house. Pay them a little money every month." The shoulder started twitching again. "Way I see it, somebody's got to do it. Can't let people starve and freeze out there."
"Sounds like we have a lot in common," Toy said. "I try to do what I can. It isn't much, but it makes me feel good."
"Homeless?" Joey asked. "You better be careful," he cautioned. "It's not the thing for a lady like you to be messing with. See, some of these people ain't right in the head, and they can get kinda nasty. Other night, well, an old fart kicked me in the gut. Didn't mean nuthin', though. Just crazy."
"Oh, I don't work with the homeless," she told him. "I just try to help some of the needy families and kids at the school where I teach."
"That's better," he said with relief. "So, you work with kids? Bet you're really something." He thought for a few moments and then continued. "Yeah, I can see it, you know. Can't imagine a kid wouldn't take a shine to you. Not with those eyes you got, and that pretty red hair."
Toy gazed at him warmly. They were alike, she thought. Two kindred souls trying to swim upstream in a river of despair. But her new friend was right. Working with kids was her forte. It took a man like Joey to deal with the problems of the mentally ill and the homeless, particularly in a city as tough as New York.
"Let's get outta here," Joey said finally, tossing some bills down on the table. On the way out, he stopped in front of the bar and pointed at Toy's chest. "See that right there on her shirt?"
"Yeah, I see it," the detective they called Snoop said, his shoulders slumped forward over the bar, so intoxicated that he could barely keep his eyes open. "What about it?"
"This ain't just any angel, Snoop. She's my California Angel. Wanna make sure you get it right."
As Toy and Joey made their way out of the bar, Snoop snorted, "Well, whadya know, Kramer found himself an angel. Think I'm gonna go out and find me an angel, too." Then he pushed himself to his feet and staggered out of the bar.
Jeff McDonald stepped up to the
counter at the Montrose Hotel and asked for Toy Johnson's room number. "Mrs. Johnson isn't in now," the clerk said. "Would you like to leave a message?"
"No," McDonald said. "Do you have any idea when she'll be back?"
The man narrowed his eyes at the reporter. "We don't keep track of our guests."
"Oh, yeah," McDonald said, reaching in his jacket for his press
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pass. "I'm with CNN, Cable Network News. Can you describe Mrs. Johnson? It's urgent."
"Oh," he said, "Mrs. Johnson is quite pretty. She has long red hair. Her eyes are green, I think, and . . ." The clerk leaned over the counter. The reporter had suddenly sprinted toward the bank of pay phones on the wall on the other side of the lobby.
As soon as he heard red hair, McDonald knew. It all made sense. The call signs for a television station that didn't exist. The woman's burning desire to have the tape. Dropping some change in the pay phone, McDonald dialed information and then quickly hung up. A second later, he was speaking to the New York bureau of the FBI.
"You fellows are working with the state police on a case out of Kansas, a woman suspect in a school fire." McDonald stopped and looked behind him, then continued. "Well, if you can get some men over to the Montrose Hotel right away, I think you'll have your suspect in custody."
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"FBI," he said, flipping a badge in her face. "We have a warrant for your arrest."
His partner quickly reached out and grabbed Toy's hand, pulling it behind her back.
"What? What's going on?" Toy said frantically. Then she heard it. A sound like no other. The sound of stainless steel handcuffs snapping into place.
"No, God," she said, panicked now, "I didn't do anything. I swear." It must be bad checks, Toy tried to tell herself. Stephen had cleaned out the bank account and all her checks had bounced. But the FBI? And this quick?
Suddenly a flash of light exploded in her face. Toy was temporarily blinded by it, and then she heard the click, click, click of a camera shutter.
The FBI men were pulling Toy, trying to lead her away. She started kicking out and yelling, all while the camera lens continued to snap in her face. "What are the charges? Tell me the charges. This is insanity."
"You're under arrest for three counts of first-degree murder, as well as arson. You have the right to remain silent," the agent continued. "You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you don't have an attorney . . ."
Toy wasn't listening. She stared straight ahead while he continued reading her rights, while the camera's relentless clicking continued. She was completely paralyzed by fear. Murder, the man had said. Her heart was pounding out a staccato beat; she was certain she was going to faint and fall right on the ground.
She was walking now, her hands cuffed behind her back, her head down, still wearing the navy blue baseball shirt and her jeans. She felt fresh air on her face, saw the brown car at the curb, felt the coarse fabric of the agents' suits against her arms as they almost carried her along, her feet dragging on the ground.
"Toy," a voice called to her. "Look over here."
She looked up, thinking it was someone she knew, someone here to rescue her and explain what was happening, explain how she could be arrested for murder. But when she looked up, she just saw a man leaning on one knee with a camera, shooting away. "That's good. Stay right there," he said. "That's great."
Behind him was another man with an enormous camera strapped on his shoulders. Toy knew instantly it was a television camera. The
other man was directing him now, yelling at him. "Get her getting into the car. Make sure you get a close-up of her face."
Toy tried to bring her hands up to shield herself, but they were handcuffed behind her back. Instead she dropped her chin to her chest. Then the FBI agent opened the car door and pushed her head down, shoving her into the backseat.
As the car took off, Toy turned around and looked out at the people on the sidewalk, the reporters, photographers, onlookers. They had all come to see her. She had fantasized about this moment, the press all gathered around while she told her incredible tale, the oohs and ahs, the sensational headlines. In her fantasy she was a person sent here to provide people with hope, restore their belief in miracles. She had been behind the veil of death and discovered another world. Her dream, however, was a far cry from being arrested for murder.
Toy continued watching the people until they slowly receded and then disappeared.
"So what do you think?" Special Agent Reggie Briggs said, staring at the woman through the one-way glass.
"Guilty," Paul Davidson said.
Briggs rubbed his fingers back and forth over his chin, scratchy from day-old stubble. He and his partner had started their day at five in the morning, participating in a large narcotics raid. It was now after four, and they were both exhausted. "I don't know. It's all pretty far-fetched. She would have had to set the fire in Kansas, save the kid, and somehow catch a flight back to the city the same day. Then she had to select the kid she wanted to snatch here and hire some thugs to snatch her. Pretty wild, if you ask me, particularly when you look at how fast this all went down."
"Hey," Davidson said, "I didn't tell you I knew how she did it. I just think she's guilty."
"What did her husband say?"
"Righteous creep if you ask me. Said we were out of our minds. He's flying in tonight. Got some hot-shot attorney he says is going to represent her."
Briggs moved up close to the glass, his breath smoking a circle. Toy was sitting at a long table, staring out into space. She looked small, delicate, distraught. For a second Briggs felt a flurry of sympathy. She had the kind of face that pulled you in, disarmed you. He shrugged his shoulders. Why would an attractive woman like this
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one, married to a prominent doctor, want to commit such awful crimes? To get a child, of course, but it still defied description. Three schoolteachers had lost their lives in that fire, and that wasn't considering the ordeal Lucy Pendergrass had been through in Central Park.
Davidson came up beside him. "The attorney isn't here now, but hell be here tomorrow."
Briggs looked over at him. "Exactly my thoughts. Want to try and crack her?"
"You bet," Davidson said.
The door opened and two men entered the room, the same two FBI agents who had arrested her. Toy tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. What were they going to do to her now? she wondered. Lock her in solitary confinement? String her up from the rafters?
"Mrs. Johnson, I don't think we were formally introduced. This is Special Agent Davidson, and I'm Special Agent Briggs. Is there anything we can get you: a soda, cigarettes, something to eat?"
"Soda," Toy managed to say.
Briggs got up and left the room to get the soda. Davidson faced Toy with a pleasant, relaxed expression on his face that said we're just having a talk, you and me; it's nothing to get upset about. "Do you know what's going on? Do you understand the charges?"
"No," Toy said.
"Would you like me to tell you?"
"Yes."
"The warrant we arrested you on was issued by the Topeka County Superior Court. Does Topeka ring a bell?"
"Yes," Toy said. "The fire, right?"
Davidson felt his stomach do a little cartwheel. Admission number one was down. Now he had to move on to the good stuff. "You were there at that fire, weren't you?"
"Yes," Toy answered, never taking her eyes off the FBI agent.
"So," he said, taking it slow, not wanting to make mistakes, "you left your hotel here in Manhattan, flew to Kansas, and went to that schoolhouse. Right?"
"No."
Briggs was back and handed Toy the soda. "I hope Coke is all right?" he said politely.
In his late twenties, Reggie Briggs had a boyish, wet-behind-the-ears look. His hair was blond and neatly cut, his eyes a nondescript
gray, and he was a small, compact man. Davids
on, on the other hand, was over six foot five, an ex-lineman for Notre Dame, with hair almost the same shade as Toy's. Last week he had celebrated his fortieth birthday.
Toy lifted the can of soda and drank it almost in one swallow. Then she set it back down on the table.
Davidson continued, exchanging knowing glances with Briggs. "So you were in Kansas, but you didn't go to the school? Is that what you're saying?"
"No," Toy said. "I went to the school. You know that. I was the woman who saved the boy. It's on film. I saw it on television."
Briggs stepped into the conversation. "We don't want to have a misunderstanding here, Mrs. Johnson. As you can see, we're not recording this interview. So we want to get everything straight."
"Okay," Toy said. "So do I."
"You saved that little boy?"
"Yes."
Briggs had the ball now. Davidson sat back and let the younger man run with it.
"How did you get to Kansas?"
"I don't know."
Briggs was silent, just watching her face, her body language. She was perfectly still except for one corner of her mouth that was trembling.
Briggs continued, "Where were you before you went to Kansas? Here in New York, you said?"
"First, I was in the Gotham City Hotel with my friend, Sylvia Goldstein. I have her number if you want to verify it. Then I was taken to Roosevelt Hospital in an ambulance."
"The day of the fire, right? That was Friday morning, right?"
"Yes."
"Are you trying to say you have an alibi for the entire day?"
"Exactly," Toy said eagerly. "If you let me go back to the hotel, I've even got statements from several people who saw me."
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