by Art Bourgeau
"Please, this is important . . ."
She could see he was telling the truth. He did need her. Worse, when she looked at him she knew the way he was seeing her now . . . the unfaithful one, he had caught her with another man. Seeing them like that was to him like seeing her in bed with someone . . . the physical act was not what hurt so much as the shared intimacies, and the idea that Loring, her patient, could see her in that way hurt her more than it should have. It was hard to do the right thing, but she had no choice. He needed her too much. She had to be strong . . . even if it meant hurting him.
"You cannot come here on a whim. I have other patients, Mr. Weatherby." It was like a slap when she didn't call him Loring. Had he done something that wrong. . . He hardly heard her when she said, "If you feel you need to see me more often we’ll talk about it tomorrow. Perhaps we can arrange something, but you may not just break in on me whenever you feel like it. Do you understand?"
Only too well. His mother had said it that night. Yes, he understood. Why didn’t she? Didn't his needs count? He felt something building in him that he'd never felt before. Because of its unfamiliarity he couldn’t put a name to it. It was rage. It filled his chest, expanded it until he felt it would burst. His heart was beating with the strength of someone pounding on a door.
"Now you really must go," he heard her say. "I'll see you tomorrow at our regular time . . ."
What she saw on his face made her reach out and touch his arm to reassure him. It was the first time she had ever touched him, and it calmed him. What was she saying to him? What did she want from him? Did she really want him to go, or did she want him to protect her? To drive the man on the couch away and take his place at her side. All she had to do was to say it and he would move mountains for her.
They walked to the door and she turned, leaving him alone in the hall. As she crossed the office she felt his eyes on her, and she wanted to tum and look at him but she didn’t . . .she didn’t know if she could handle the look on his face. She would make it up to him, give him extra time and attention . . .
He heard more than saw the door close, and knew she was gone from him, back to the man on the couch. He crept back into the office. There had to be something here to help sort out the confusion. A sign. Something to begin again with. He saw the closet. He opened the door. Inside was her coat and scarf. He touched the scarf. It had her scent. A lady's token,like Lancelot and Queen "G." He took it and left.
CHAPTER 10
MERCANTO WOKE up to find himself in strange surroundings. He was groggy and in bed, that much he knew. The room was bright, and he could hear noises in the background, but he didn’t know where he was or how he got there. All he knew was he felt like he'd been on a long drunk. When he tried to move a sharp pain in his chest stopped him. He raised his hand to his face and found a small tube taped to his cheek and running under his nose. Air from it was blowing up his nostrils.
He wanted to say, "Where am I?" but the words came out, "What day is it" and he heard someone laugh.
He raised his head painfully. At the foot of the bed were four people . . . a nurse, Captain Zinkowsky, Sloan and Catherine Poydras. All except the nurse had worried looks on their faces.
"You’re awake, good," said the nurse. She took his pulse in a businesslike manner. Satisfied with the results, she turned to the others. "You can talk to him now, but because of the anaesthetic he probably won't make much sense."
The nurse left, and the captain and Sloan came and stood beside him. Catherine Poydras hung back.
"You were shot . . . Catherine found you," the captain said. Mercanto raised his hand. Catherine, a petite woman in her forties with hennaed hair, came forward and took it. "Thanks," he said.
"When I closed the restaurant, I saw you in the parking lot. Mon dieu, I thought you were dead."
He managed a laugh, and the physical act of it sent spasms of pain through the chest. "That would never do. It would be bad for business. Two in such a short time," he said, trying to make her smile.
His little joke made an angry look cross her face. She pulled away from his hand. "Men," she said, but she looked more like her old self as she said it.
"Can you tell me what happened?" Sloan asked.
Mercanto tried to sort out his thoughts. "I went to the park . . . while I was sitting there a kid came up to the car . . . tried to rob me." Mercanto raised his head, trying to get his eyes to focus. "Did he get my wallet and gun . . . ?"
"No."
"Good," he said, and let his head sink back on the pillow.
"You should have given them to him," Sloan said.
Mercanto smiled. "And have you ream me out?"
"The doctor fished the slug out. It hit a rib, broke it. If it wasn’t from a .22, like the one that killed Hightower, you'd be dead. Looks like you found our man," Sloan said. Mercanto thought back to the parking lot. He shook his head. The movement sent the pain through him again. "It was an old Western Colt he had. I thought it was a .45."
"They make them in .22, too," Sloan said.
"Thank God," Mercanto said, and meant it.
"Can you describe him?" said the captain.
Mercanto stared at the ceiling for a minute. "A teen-ager . . about sixteen. White, six feet, dark hair and clothes . . . on a bike."
"From the neighborhood," said Sloan. "What'd he say to you?"
"He said I had a flat . . . like a damn fool I got out to see . . He pulled the gun . . . I tried to talk him out of it."
"Why didn’t you shoot?" asked the captain.
"Rudy Gunther. . ."
"This time you should have," Sloan said.
"Maybe next time I’ll get it right," Mercanto said.
The captain said, "You’re tired. Time to talk later. We'll send someone around for the details when you've had some sleep. You’ll be on leave, six weeks convalescence."
An alarm bell went off in his mind. "My brother . . . you didn’t tell him about this, did you? He’s sick. It would only worry him."
The captain said, "No, we didn’t notify him. We were waiting to see if you were okay."
"Don’t . .
"Whatever you say."
As they turned to go, he said, "What about the case . . . ?"
"We'll take it from here. Don’t worry," said Sloan.
The next morning he was released. An officer from the district drove him home in a blue-and-white. They’d already brought his car, it was parked in front of his building.
The stairs to his apartment seemed to take forever. His chest was taped tight, each breath sent a sharp pain from the broken rib. He downed two of the painkillers they'd given him and sank into bed.
His sleep was of drugged dreams of the shooting. First he was himself, then he was Hightower, staring at the teen-ager. The muzzle of the gun looked like a cannon, and each time he saw the shot fired it was trailed by flames like a rocket. He woke drenched in sweat, again not knowing where he was. The day had passed, the room was dark. In his confusion he wondered what woke him, then he heard the sound. Someone was knocking on the door. He struggled to his feet and made his way to the living room.
"Just a minute." His voice was hoarse. His head was pounding.
He fumbled with the door, then realized he hadn’t locked it when he came in. "Some cop you are . . ." he said. He opened it and saw Sloan standing there.
"How are you feeling?"
"Like hell."
Sloan followed him in and turned on the lights. "I was shot once."
Mercanto lowered himself into a chair while Sloan stood watching. Sloan opened a bag and pulled out two Budweisers. He popped the top on one and handed it to him. Mercanto took a sip while Sloan took off his coat. The cold bitterness helped, and his head began to ease. They sat quietly. Midway through the second beer Sloan said, "Feel like talking?"
"Not much to tell. I said it all in the hospital."
"I'm not talking about that. When a guy gets shot it does things to him."
"It hurts
. Period."
Sloan accepted it. "What were you doing there, anyway?"
"I couldn’t sleep. The case was on my mind so I went out there to see if I could piece anything together. I spent the day talking to Hightower’s employees, especially a woman he saw on the side. She said he’d been distant, gloomy for the past few months."
"What do you make of it?"
"The more I think about it, the more I think drugs. The cash withdrawals, and you know how coke changes a person. That would explain his moods, coming down after a big night."
"I agree. If he was dealing that would explain how he and the kid were in the park at the same time." Sloan took a sip of his beer. "We've got everybody out looking for the kid. When we find him we should be close to solving the case."
He stood up to go. "Meanwhile, enjoy your vacation."
"One thing. . . what’s going to happen to me? I mean, I don't want to go back into uniform again."
Sloan pulled on his coat. "We’ll discuss it later."
The next morning Mercanto forced himself out of bed. In the mirror his swarthy looks were sallow, his eyes sunken and bright, but he managed to shower and dress. Something in the night made him decide not to give up on the case. As he tossed and turned, replaying the shooting in his mind, he remembered what the captain had said . . . The kid did not take his wallet. That meant he panicked and ran, not exactly the killer who had coolly shot Hightower and mutilated the body afterward . . .
He made coffee and sat down at the table. The bottle of painkillers was in front of him, he thought about taking some but didn't. The pain was less sharp. If it got worse he could take them later. Right now he needed a clear head.
The window at Interiors was filled with a small sofa and two end tables, the bases of which were china elephants. Looked expensive.
Inside he was greeted by a man in his forties, dressed in a crew neck sweater and chinos. Mercanto showed him his badge and said that he was looking for John and Elizabeth Cohen. The man led him to an office in the rear where a woman with a mane of blonde hair was working at a drafting table.
"Now, what can we do for you?" the man asked. The woman came over to join them. When he said he was investigating the Hightower murder they looked real sad.
"We had dinner with him the night it happened," the man said. "At Lagniappe . . ." the woman added. "We were so shocked to hear what had happened. Stanley was one of our best friends. He and John have known each other for over twenty years."
"That's why I’m here, I’m trying to reconstruct what happened that night."
"We always had dinner once a week, sometimes twice. Usually it would be the four of us . . . Dominique, when they were married, and Cheryl Goldman, since the divorce," Elizabeth said. "That night, for some reason, it was just three of us. Lagniappe was Stanley’s idea. It was his favorite restaurant."
"Why just the three of you?"
"I guess that’s how he wanted it," John said.
"What was his mood like?"
They looked at each other. Elizabeth said, "He wasn't himself. You’d have to know Stanley to understand it. The evening started okay. He was lively. We had a couple of bottles of champagne, but I noticed there was an edge to him, like he was forcing himself to have a good time. Almost manic. When the conversation would let up a look would come over him like he was ready to . . . to cry or something."
"What do you think was behind it?"
"I don't know. Once, when John was in the men's room I asked what was wrong. He said nothing, but he squeezed my hand and held it like he didn’t want to let go."
"Like she said, you had to know Stanley," added John. "That was unusual. He wasn't the type to start touching."
"How had his mood been over, say, the last three or four months?"
"Odd you should ask, because we talked about it afterward. We'd both noticed a big mood change in him lately. He'd been distant, sad, but he’d never confided in us why," John said. "To be truthful, his mood started to change around the time of the divorce," Elizabeth said. "When he said they were splitting up, we were shocked. Oh, Dominique could be difficult, but that was her way, and they had always seemed so happy together. Then one day, out of the blue . . . After that he seemed like a kid again, he was so happy. I told John he's got a girlfriend. Probably a young one . . ."
"Cheryl Goldman, the girl from his office?"
"At first we thought so," Elizabeth said. "The way he started bringing her to dinner almost immediately, but then I decided not. It was the way he treated her, like a friend, not a lover."
"Do you know who it was?"
"No. We teased him about it but he never said. Then when his mood changed for the worse three or four months ago we assumed it was over."
"Did he try for a reconciliation?"
John shook his head.
Mercanto’s chest was hurting with each breath. He wished now that he'd taken the painkillers.
"Going through his papers we found he'd been making large cash withdrawals from his checking account for the past few months. They total almost fifty thousand dollars. Do you have any idea what they might be for?"
The Cohens looked at each other. "No," John said. "We don't."
"We also found drugs. Cocaine and prescription drugs . . ."
"You think drugs might be tied in to his murder," Elizabeth said. Mercanto noticed that there was no surprise in her voice.
"It's possible."
"Nonsense," said John. "Stanley liked to do a line or two . . .I guess we all do, but he wasn’t that deep into them."
"John, that’s not true. How many times did you tell me you were worried about how much he was doing . . . and his moods. That could have been caused by drugs."
John gave her a look. "It wasn’t that bad. What he's saying is that Stanley was in over his head. That wasn’t so."
Mercanto shifted, trying to ease the pain. John knew more than he was saying, at least that much was obvious.
"Look, sir, we need all the help we can get. I'm not a reporter, I'm a cop. I need the help. One of the things I haven't been able to find out is who he was buying drugs from . . ."
Silence for a few moments. Finally John spoke. "We don't know his name, but Stanley mentioned he'd been dealing with a Jamaican."
"Do you know where they met? Was it the park?" Mercanto asked.
John shook his head. "I don't know. It was something we really didn't want to know too much about, if you see what I'm saying."
"Let's get back to that night. What time was dinner over?"
"We finished around eleven but stayed on for a few drinks. I think we closed the place," John said.
Elizabeth added, "That’s because John's not sure. He had a few too many. We did close the place. After that we said goodnight and went home. That’s the last time we saw Stanley."
"Think back. Did anything unusual occur while you were having dinner?"
"No," John said.
Elizabeth looked thoughtful. "There was one thing. . . about, oh, one forty-five he got up and made a phone call. He was only gone a couple of minutes but that did seem odd. I mean, who do you call that late?"
Mercanto's heart picked up its beat. "Did he say who he was calling?"
"No. In fact, I think he said he was going to get cigarettes. The only reason I know he made a call was that from where I was sitting I could see him," she said.
"Nothing, not a clue . . . ?"
She shook her head, and Mercanto was, once again, stopped cold.
CHAPTER 11
MACES CROSSING was busy with late lunch customers when Margaret arrived. The Valium she had taken before leaving the office had calmed her, and she waved hello to Mace, who was at the bar talking with the Campbell brothers and John Sgarlat, businessmen she knew slightly from Racquet Club dinners with Adam. Mace waved back and pointed to a table near the window. Waiting for her there was Charles Foster, her own analyst, and friend.
Charles was a slight man in his mid-sixties, shrewd eyes and a fa
ce that radiated warmth and interest toward everything around him.
She tossed her coat on one of the extra chairs and sat down. While she fished her cigarettes from her purse, Keith, the bartender, brought her a glass of white wine. She and Charles had been meeting here for lunch for years. It was the personal touch that kept them coming back.
"I was pleased when you called," Charles said. "It does my image a world of good to be seen with a beautiful woman."
She was glad to see he wasn’t really angry with her. Since her father’s death years ago while she was in graduate school, Charles had been her mentor, her stability, and she didn't want anything to disturb that.
Through the years he had gone from being one of her professors to her personal and training analyst to her friend. They chitchatted for a few minutes, then Charles said, "Now, what’s on your mind . . . ?"
"What makes you think there's something on my mind? We're friends, can't we just have lunch together?"
"Your smoking. You don't normally chain-smoke unless something's bothering you."
She looked at her cigarette. He was so right. "Why's everyone suddenly picking on me about my smoking?" she said, remembering Loring’s words from one of their sessions. When he didn’t answer, she went on, "I don't now how to begin . . . God, I sound like one of my patients."
"Why don't you start by satisfying my curiosity. Who else has been commenting on your smoking?"
She took a sip of her wine. "Charles, you're good, do you know that? One of my patients said it. He said I was sensual when I smoked." She felt herself blush when she said it. Jesus, some analyst. Well, now she was the patient . . .
He noticed her reaction. "How did it make you feel?"
"Good and bad. I'm still a woman, and a woman likes compliments, but he said it in a transference situation — "
"Transference with whom? Another woman, I assume . . .his mother, his wife?"
"He's single. It was his mother . . . I guess I'd better start at the beginning"
She detailed her sessions with Loring, careful never to mention his name. She told of the episode in the fitting room, his conflicts, his statements, her theories.
