Obsessed

by Rick R. Reed

  Pat disappeared into the small entranceway that curved off the main room. She was gone longer than he would have imagined it would take. Finally Joe shrugged and decided it took a crippled person longer to hang something. Why not?

  When Pat returned, she was still grinning.

  Joe could stand it no longer. "Please," his voice came out an octave higher, agonized, "what do you want from me?"

  Pat took a breath. "Why, I only want justice for that poor girl's life you took."

  Get it over with, Joe. "Are you going to turn me in? It's a mistake, all a big mistake. But if you want to turn me in, why not just do it and get it over with?" Joe crossed the room and picked up the telephone, holding it out to her.

  She waved him away. "Put that down. I told you, I don't want to report you. What good would that do? The crazy legal system would have you out on the streets again in no time. You'd probably write a best seller on your experiences in prison to boot. No, all I want is a little insurance that sweet girls like me aren't following in Maggie Mazursky's footsteps."

  "What kind of insurance?" Joe felt himself calming. He was beginning to think of ways to cope with the situation.

  Pat rubbed her fingers together in the classic gesture for money.

  Joe laughed.

  Pat's calm expression turned to one of wariness. And Joe's nervous expression turned to a big smile.

  "What?" Pat blurted, suddenly afraid.

  "You dumb bitch." Joe took three steps to the wheelchair and tipped her out of it. She hit the floor with a thud, barely having time to break her fall with outstretched arms.

  Before she even heard the slam of the apartment door, she knew he was gone.

  Pat groped her way back to the chair and hoisted herself into it.

  She was smiling.

  As he ran down the street Joe wriggled into his jacket. Five o'clock and darkness was complete. How in God's name would he ever explain his absence to Anne? He was certain by now she would have called his clients at Nature Snack, would have called The Everleigh Club, the bar he liked to go to occasionally, would have called his old friend Ted Mateer, who used to work with him at Ogilvy and Mather.

  His trip had been a disaster. A total failure all around. As Joe hurried north to Roosevelt Road he wondered if perhaps just this once he had slipped too far, if perhaps just this once he would be caught.

  Anne had never looked more beautiful. She wore a jade green satin dress with a small grape-leaf pattern and mandarin collar. Her black hair lay in striking contrast to the green of her dress.

  She stood, leaning against a mirrored art deco breakfront in the dining room.

  Before her, spread on a Venetian lace tablecloth, was the dinner. It included two Cornish game hens, their orange glaze gone dull and cold in the candlelight, a Caesar salad on warm plates that had once been chilled, and an uncorked bottle of Moet et Chandon, gone flat in a sterling silver bucket now filled with tepid water.

  Anne had tried to remain composed when Joe finally showed up at half past eight, wanting her anger to be cool-edged, hard: an ice-cold razor. But even before she had gotten out "where have you been all day?" the tears had begun.

  Joe had been unable to reply. He had hurried into the powder room, slamming the door behind him. So now Anne stood, frozen, tears ruining a makeup job that had taken her well over an hour.

  Dejected, she seated herself at the perfectly laid table and waited for the ferret to come out of its hole. Dimly, she heard rushing water, the creak of the powder room door as Joe opened it.

  She looked up at him. His face was still ruddy with cold, his mustache a little wet from the frost melting. She bit her lower lip, certain he had been unfaithful. Certain that what she had feared through all the years of her marriage had finally come true; dim recollections of her mother's warning when it looked as if she and Joe were getting serious: "Find someone else, honey; with looks like his he'll never be yours alone. Ones like that, even if they do have will power, break down eventually because someone's always after them. Take my advice, honey, marry someone rich." She had laughed then and her mother laughed with her, but she knew her mother well enough to know she wasn't kidding.

  "Well, where?" she looked up at him, eyes appealing, screaming, Lie to me.

  Joe started to speak, but Anne cut him off. "And don't tell me you were with Nature Snack. I already talked to Arnie Brickman. He told me you hadn't been in and weren't due to see him until Friday. So forget that excuse."

  She watched Joe mentally shift gears. The pain cut into her; she wanted to vomit.

  Joe sat down at the table with her. He took one of her sweat-stained palms in his. Looking deep in her blue eyes, he began: "Honey, I didn't want to have to admit this to you."

  Anne sighed. The churning in her stomach increased. She didn't want to hear what she was sure was coming.

  "I guess the best way to tell you is just come right out and say it." Joe took a breath. "I lost the lighter you gave me for Christmas."

  Anne laughed. She laughed on and on, clutching the Venetian lace tablecloth in a ball. She doubled over in her seat, tears streaming.

  Joe had a worried smile on his face. "What? What's so funny?"

  Anne reined in her laughter. "Nothing, Joe. I'm sorry."

  Anne smiled, on the edge of hysteria as Joe explained how he had been at the Nature Snack offices, but had talked only to Priscilla, the receptionist. She hadn't seen his lighter, and a further check through their offices had turned up nothing.

  Anne's tension began to dissolve.

  "And then the car got towed . . ."

  Joe's voice became a drone. Tell me anything, sweet baby, Anne thought, anything at all. Just don't tell me you were sleeping with somebody else. There's nothing worse you could ever do.

  To stop his talking, she covered his mouth with hers, exploring it with her tongue.

  Joe awakened, sweating. The image of small eyes and a long, sharp" nose swam before him: Pat Young. She had been with two policemen. Anne was crying. The dream had been vivid.

  Joe got out of bed. Beside him Anne slept soundly, as she always did after they made love. He slipped his robe on and went into his office.

  Outside the window the sky was beginning to lighten, a band of opalescent white over Lake Michigan.

  The dream had brought on a decision. Joe would have to return once more to Berwyn. He would have to kill one more time. This one, he promised himself, would be his last.

  Pat Young also stared out of a window, waiting for the sun to rise, the parade of soap operas and game shows to commence.

  How long? she asked herself, how long till he returns? Pat smiled. She knew he would be back.

  And wouldn't that be sweet? Because now she knew his name, his address, driver's license number, social security number, height, weight, and the color of his eyes. Although she didn't need the driver's license in her hand to tell her the color of those brown eyes; she had taken them in right away. They had been the sexiest eyes she had ever seen.

  She glanced down at the driver's license she had stolen from his wallet when she hung up his coat. It had been too easy. Even his telephone number was listed right in her Chicago directory.

  The ruse of a letter with a friend to be opened in the event of her death was cliche, she knew. Even beneath her modest standards. But she knew it would work.

  The stakes were too high for Joe MacAree to call her bluff.

  6

  The neon black and green of the video terminal hurt Milo Schwartz's eyes. Ever since they had started making him use a word processor here at the Chicago Sun Times, Milo had hated the damned things. The screen hurt his eyes and he felt a lack of connection with the machine; somehow, he just didn't feel like he was a real reporter unless he was banging out a story on a battered manual.

  Using the word processor was cheating.

  Milo was sixty-one years old, and had been in the newspaper business since he graduated from St. George High School. Things were different th
en. Chicago was different. Oh, sure, over the years it had known its share of crime and corruption, maybe even more than some of the other big towns, but Chicago always seemed to deal with its own. Nobody got away with anything. At least not for long.

  Not like now. Milo began to punch the story into the word processor. It would appear in that day's final edition.

  Randy Mazursky waited at the newsstand while the truck delivered the final edition of the Sun Times. He was aware of how he was following his life's routines without much thought. Like buying a paper: Since Maggie was killed, Randy didn't really care much about what went on in the world. But since he had always bought a paper after he finished his shift at Whipped Dream, he bought one now, even though he knew his parents would have the Sun Times there when he got home. Forces of habit: It was the small things that kept him from collapsing, the small things leading each minute into the next until the day was done.

  "Hey, Bill, how's the news business?" Randy smiled for the old guy who ran the newsstand. From the first day Randy stopped there, Bill always had a joke for him. What made Randy like Bill even more was that the jokes hadn't stopped after Maggie's death. How much easier things would be if people weren't always reminding him by tiptoing around, hushing their voices whenever he came near.

  "Same as usual. Say, Randy, know how proctologists examine their patients?"

  Randy rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure I wanna know."

  "With rearview mirrors." His deadpan delivery made Randy laugh in spite of himself.

  Randy shook his finger at the man. "Someday you're gonna get in trouble."

  "Sure, sure." Bill turned to hand a woman a Cosmopolitan.

  Randy unfolded the paper as he headed toward the car. On page three, a headline midway down the page caught his eye. Randy unlocked the door to his Chevette and sat down inside the car to read the story.

  The case had been sensational. The press had given it prominent coverage because of the appeal it had to people like Randy's mother, who would shake her head, cluck her tongue, and observe, "He should burn in hell for what he done to that baby." Now as "Randy read the story he, too, shook his head. Adrienne Murphy, a Chicago trial lawyer, had charged her live-in lover with first-degree murder in the death of her son, Matthew. The boy had been beaten, the fatal blow administered by his head being slammed into a toilet bowl. Child abuse cases often didn't merit such attention, but the lawyer's prominence had forced the case into Chicago's news-hungry eyes.

  Now Randy stared down at the photo of the couple, Adrienne and Caleb Rice, leaving the courtroom, hand in hand, smiling. Mr. Rice had been acquitted when Adrienne Murphy had reconsidered, saying that "in her grief Murphy had misinterpreted Rice's actions." The story went on to tell how she had dropped all charges against her lover, finally coming to the understanding that the boy's death had been an accident.

  An accident? Scores of bruises and lacerations an accident? A little boy fell with such force against a toilet as to split his head open? Randy closed his eyes. How could the legal system let such a monster get away?

  It happens all the time, Randy thought. Technicalities. People are always getting off on technicalities.

  And what of Maggie's killer? There were no witnesses, as far as Randy knew, no fingerprints. If and when they apprehended her killer, would he, too, walk the streets free because of "insufficient evidence," because he hadn't been properly advised of his rights?

  Randy started the car. He remembered the photo of the bruises the little boy had suffered before he died. Horrible things. He had thought then that some people didn't deserve children. And he had thought then of his own child, now buried, dead inside its mother.

  As he steered the car off toward Berwyn he remembered the brief call he had made to the police station that morning. He had wanted to talk to Tom Grimes, the detective handling his case.

  The voice on the phone had been sleepy, male.

  "Yeah?"

  Randy was sure he had the wrong number and had gotten some poor guy out of bed. He asked anyway: "Uh . . . this isn't the police department, is it?"

  "Yeah." There was an edge of annoyance to the voice.

  Randy waited for the man to say something else. The line was silent. With elaborate effort the man finally asked, "Can I help you with something?" "Well, I'd like to talk to Detective Grimes . . . please."

  "He ain't in."

  Randy waited for the man to ask if he could take a message. No request was forthcoming. Finally Randy said, "You wouldn't know when he'd be in?"

  "No."

  "Would you happen to be able to put me in touch with someone who knows something about the Mazursky case?"

  "Who?"

  Randy felt his anger growing. He thought he'd shame the guy. "Maggie Mazursky, the woman who was murdered "a few days ago." Randy paused for effect. "This is her husband."

  "Hold on." Randy was thrust into the white-noise world of hold. At least, he thought, maybe now I'll get some satisfaction.

  After waiting for almost five minutes Randy heard the man come back on the line.

  "Hello?"

  "Yes, this is Randy Mazursky."

  "Yeah?"

  "I thought you were seeing if you could get someone to help me. My wife was murdered, don't you understand?" Be calm, he told himself, be calm.

  "Oh." There was a pause. "I don't think there's anyone here right now knows anything about that."

  "Well," Randy sighed loudly, "could you give Detective Grimes a message for me?"

  "I guess."

  'Tell him I think I might have something useful to the case." Randy glanced down at the silver lighter in his hand. "So could you have him call me just as soon as you can?"

  "Sure." The line went dead.

  Randy pulled into a parking space in front of his parents' house. He could see his mother peeking out from behind one of the living room curtains. Randy was afraid she'd never let him leave home again.

  Inside, his mother took his coat from him almost before he had slid out of it and hung it in the closet. She kissed his cheek. Randy smelled cabbage cooking. His father read the evening paper in a green La-Z-Boy recliner in the living room.

  Mrs. Mazursky reached into her apron pocket. "Before you do anything I want you to call Mr. Grimes, the detective. He called for you today. Do you think there's any news?"

  "No, Ma, he's just returning my call." Randy took the note from her and headed upstairs, where he had his own phone.

  Once away from the smell of cooking cabbage and his mother's intense stare, Randy relaxed on the bed. He looked at his mother's penciled scrawl of the detective's name and number and wondered if he should bother calling back. Downstairs, his father was probably reading about how that Rice guy got off scot-free after killing a baby. He remembered how he had been treated when he called the station that very morning.

  Opening the nightstand drawer, Randy removed the lighter. He stared at it for a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed the police station's number.

  A woman answered this time. "Berwyn police."

  "Detective Grimes, please."

  There was a click as he was transferred. He heard a phone ringing somewhere else. Randy pictured a scarred desk, disordered papers, a harsh light illuminating glass ashtrays filled to overflowing, paper cups with days-old coffee.

  "Grimes."

  "Mr. Grimes, this is Randy Mazursky."

  "Right. They said you had some information."

  "I feel ridiculous. I* was just calling to see if you'd made any headway. I was afraid you wouldn't call back if I just said that."

  "Mr. Mazursky, you shouldn't do things like that. It makes matters very confusing, not to mention frustrating. We are working on the case and you will be apprised of the facts as they make themselves available."

  Randy's thank you was cut off by the click of the detective's phone.

  "I don't know how, but I'll get you, you son of a bitch."

  Randy replaced the lighter in a drawer, covering
it with Kleenex.

  Joe watched Anne as she came out of the shower the next morning. She was wrapped in a pale blue towel and her wet black hair against her face looked provocative. Even from his position in bed, her skin looked soft, dewy from the shower's steam. She was always the most beautiful, Joe thought, when she thought no one was noticing.

  Joe watched his wife out of slit eyes. He didn't want her to know he was awake, waiting for her to leave. Anne had been chosen by Takimi, a Japanese designer of huge formless shirts and dresses, all in blacks and grays, made of jersey and leather. Joe thought the clothes unattractive, but Anne, with her dark hair and pale skin, brought an elegance to them. The stark black-and-white test shots Anne had brought home approached art. Joe was proud of Anne. Her photographs would appear in a Chicago magazine arti-

  cle exploring Chicago's growing place in high fashion.

  Anne sat down at her vanity table. She applied a small amount of moisturizer and pulled her wet hair into a chignon. She rose and pulled jeans, an emerald green sweater, and her black cowboy boots out of the closet. Anne never dressed up for modeling assignments; she didn't need to.

  Joe was relieved when he heard the front door close. He rolled over and stared toward the window. The sky outside looked gray. No sun. Just milky white covering the entire expanse of the sky. Joe hoped it wouldn't snow.

  Joe showered and dressed in the same outfit he had worn the other day: Ragg wool sweater, jeans, and hiking boots. Not bothering with breakfast (murder was better on an empty stomach), Joe put his jacket on and left the apartment quickly.

  He had a razor-sharp switchblade in his jacket pocket.

  Joe didn't take the precautions of public transportation this time. Just missing rush-hour traffic, Joe made his way swiftly down Lake Shore Drive, then to the Eisenhower. He parked his car on Roosevelt Road and walked to Pat Young's on Oak Park Avenue.

  Pat had been waiting for a week for the knock at her door. She had even seen Joe MacAree coming down the street. She looked around her. She was ready this time: She had spent all of yesterday cleaning the place up. It looked better than it had when she first moved in and everything was in place. She had bought fresh flowers and put them in jelly jars around the room; she had lemon-oiled all the wood-veneer furniture she owned, polishing the wood until there was a high gloss on every surface.