"What happened to the pictures?" Mace asks.
"Max burned them, negatives, too. He was scared. I think he thought maybe Walt or I offed those people. I know he and Walt never worked together again."
"Will Maritz confirm your story?"
O'Neill shrugs. "It's true even if he doesn't."
"No special shadings or extra touches, Jerry, to make you look better than you were?"
"I don't think I look good at all in what I told you."
"Unless you or Maritz killed them."
Jerry shakes his head. He's tired now, out of juice. "Why the hell would we do that, Inspector? Mrs. Fulraine was going to be our meal ticket. If I'd seen this guy go in there with a gun, I'd have shot him myself to protect, you know, our investment."
"So what'd he look like, Jerry?" I ask.
"Just some guy. I barely caught a glimpse of him."
"How long a glimpse?" I glance over at Mace. He nods, sits back, his signal it's my turn to grill O'Neill.
"How long? How the hell should I know? Ten, fifteen seconds."
"That's a pretty long glimpse."
"What're you driving at?"
"You're going to describe him and I'm going to draw him. That's how the inspector's going to know whether you're telling the truth."
O'Neill laughs. "You gotta be kidding. This was twenty-six years ago. I can barely remember stuff from yesterday."
"That's what you think now," I tell him in as warm a tone as I can summon. "I'm going to help you remember. You're going to be surprised at how much comes back."
I start in on him, helpful, empathetic, treating him as if he's a totally reliable witness. I get him to tell me what it felt like sitting in his car through that thunderstorm. Also what it felt like to spy on people then try to scare them into submission by acting tough with them on the phone. I get him talking about his smoking, how he always lit up when he felt stressed, and the stress he felt that afternoon, and the guilt and remorse and second thoughts too, what it felt like trying to be a blackmailer when blackmailing wasn't really his gig. How he was a cop at heart, a hunter-tracker, master of the urban forest, and now Walt Maritz had dragged him into this squalid Peeping-Tom blackmailer role that hurt him in his pride.
He remembers more: the stink of the inside of his car from all the packs of Pall Malls he'd smoked in it through the years. Also the smell of old pizza boxes that littered the floor in back. The way the rain puddled on the tar surface of the motel lot and the red VACANCY / NO VACANCY sign on the Flamingo roof going all purple and weird when the sky darkened during the storm.
Memories flood in: the jolts he felt as the sounds of the shots reached him inside his car and the thoughts that went racing through his brain. The way he leaned forward as he raised his binoculars to his eyes just in time to make out the shooter rushing out of room 201. At first he thought it was the teach, but a second later knew it wasn't. The teach was tall, moved like an athlete; this man was smaller and thin. Both his hat and raincoat were dark gray or black, and he had his hat pulled down to just the level of his eyes.
He looked kinda funny too, absurd almost, like a figure in an old-fashioned gangster film, one of those furtive Peter Lorre or Elisha Cook, Jr. types acting as though if they slink around no one'll notice or remember them.
What does he remember about the guy? The posture first, the stiffback way he held himself. He picked up on that even before the guy crossed the street. Then the way he hesitated a second on the motel side. Then the way he ran — no, not ran but loped across and into the parking lot.
He remembers the feel of the vinyl seat against his sweaty back as he slipped down a little so as not to be seen. He remembers how he worried the guy might spot him. He remembers noticing a vertical bulge in the guy's raincoat as if he were hiding a gun there, not a sidearm but a shotgun maybe, because that's what the shots sounded like they were from.
There was a moment when the guy stopped cold in the lot, actually froze for a second between a Chevy and a Buick, and Jerry wondered which car he'd get into. That's when he saw the guy's eyes. They weren't the eyes of a pro killer or the cool eyes of a veteran who'd seen combat in Korea or ‘Nam, rather they were wild, frightened, the eyes of an amateur, a guy who'd never shot anyone before, and now he'd done it and now the only thing on his mind was to get away, hide, not get caught.
Jerry approves of the set of eyes I've drawn. He recognizes them, he says. Now, he says, all we gotta do is fill in the rest of the face.
I like the sound of that. Jerry thinks he's the one making the drawing and I'm just there to lend a trained artistic hand. In fact he's right, my drawing hand's now connected to his brain. The planchette effect has taken hold. With each stroke of my pencil, the shooter's face comes more clearly into view.
Jerry remembers how the guy's eyebrows were arched, that his eyelashes were long, that his chin and lips were delicately modeled. Yeah, there was something sensitive and boyish, even pretty about the guy... if you can use a word like that. Kinda funny, since, as it turned out, he'd just blasted two people, spattered their brains and guts all over the motel room walls.
Jerry remembers more: The guy had a narrow nose. You couldn't see the top of his eyebrows on account of his hat, couldn't see the tops of his ears either. The ear bottoms were small, evenly rounded. But the eyes and chin are what stick most in Jerry's mind. And the mouth — yeah, that's coming more clearly now. A longer mouth than most peoples', and the lips thin and delicate. And when the guy opened his mouth — ‘cause he was breathing hard, breathing from his mouth when he paused there between the cars like a scared deer looking for a place to hide — you could see his teeth weren't in good shape. Surprising for a guy that young. Yeah, he was young, twenty-five, twenty-six at most. The skin under his eyes was smooth like a kid's.
I draw, refine, fill in. Jerry watches amazed as a face slowly comes clear on the paper the way a photographic image will slowly emerge in a tray of developer.
"Yeah!" he says when I set down my pencil. "Yeah, that's him! I can't believe it! That's the guy I saw!"
"Do you know him?"
Jerry shakes his head. "I don't think I've seen him in all the years since. But he's the shooter, I'm sure of it."
Mace comes over, stands behind me.
"Interesting... I think I may have seen this man."
"We've all seen him," I tell him. "He was young back then. He's changed a lot since. Back then he was lean, wiry, had a full head of hair — not that Jerry could see his hair what with that stupid, slouchy hat he wore. There was a hunger in his eyes back then, a wildness like Jerry says. But I don't think it was fear, more like a lust for power and success. He looks different now, but if you look carefully, you can see the underlying structure, the set of the bones beneath the flab. Now he's sleek, bald, middle-aged, plump, content. But every once in a while, his eyes flash and you can see that old hunger in them still."
Mace is getting annoyed. "Quit stalling, David. What's his name?"
"You know him, Mace. You too, Jerry. Everyone in Calista knows who he is. He's Waldo Channing's old flunky... toady... lap dog... lickspittle. His name's Spencer Deval, and this is how he looked twenty-six years ago."
17
"He must have done it for Waldo," I tell Mace. "You read Barbara's diary. That's the only explanation."
We're heading back downtown. The sun beats harshly on the streets. A group of children, clustered around an open fire hydrant, play in the stream of water. Mace, driving, stares straight ahead. After a burst of exuberance back at O'Neill's, he's gone morose and silent.
"I know what you're thinking," I tell him. "A sketch based on a fifteen-second glimpse recollected after twenty-six years — any defense attorney could tear that to shreds. And even if Kate Evans looks at my sketch and says, ‘Yeah, that's the guy!’ it won't do you any good. She already worked with me, so she's contaminated."
Mace grins. "So what am I left with, David? An uncorroborated ID by a sleazy ex-cop who only happened to be there
because he was trying to blackmail one of the victims. Two unrelated crimes taking place at the same time. Three if you count what Cody did to the Steadmans. Not to mention that Jessup and Barbara were up to their ears in that, too. I tell you, I could really puke. But I'd still like to nail Deval."
He takes me to a dark, working-class pub in Irontown that smells strongly of ale. A Forgers-White Sox game is playing on the TV. A small group of out-of-work laborers sit in gloom at the bar gazing up at the screen. We order beers, carry them to a booth, then stare past one another trying to figure out what to do.
I'm the one who breaks the silence.
"Waldo must have thought he was in an impossible position — his threat to expose Barbara's new affair to Andrew balanced by her threat to expose his blackmail schemes. A stalemate based on the prospect of mutually assured destruction. But a stalemate wasn't good enough for Waldo."
Mace scratches his goatee. "So he turns to his flunky, Deval, gets him to be his triggerman. How? What did he have to offer Deval to get him to do a thing like that?"
"Only Deval knows and he won't be telling." I try to cheer Mace up. "The way I feel about it, even if there's never an indictment, there're other ways to bring a guy like that down. Like a wrongful death suit by the Fulraine boys. Rumors, disgrace, all the stuff Waldo was afraid of."
"Yeah, that'd be nice, I guess... but me, I'd prefer an indictment."
When he goes to the bar to fetch us two more beers, I turn toward the window. The strong light outside is nearly blinding. Suddenly I flash on a possible motive. When Mace comes back, I try it out on him:
"According to the rumors, when Waldo met Deval he was a hustler on DaVinci. Waldo cleaned him up, then sent him to England for a year to learn how to talk. They lived together, Deval acting as Waldo's errand boy. Then there came a time when Deval started getting co-writer credit on Waldo's column. In smaller letters, of course, but still a byline. So I'm wondering — could that be what Waldo had to offer?"
"Kill two people for a byline?"
"Not a bad deal if you're hungry enough. Think about it: Tough Street Kid gets his hooks into Toney Society Columnist. Columnist picks up tab while Kid learns social graces. Then when Columnist feels threatened, Kid exacts his price: He'll do dirty job Columnist doesn't have the stomach for, in exchange for an assured future. He'll receive co-byline on future columns, inherit column when Columnist retires, plus house and fortune when Columnist dies. That's a deal a guy without too many scruples could go for."
Mace nods. "I'll check when Deval started getting the byline. But even if it was right after the Flamingo, it won't make for any kind of evidence." He stares at the TV above the bar. "Still, it's nice finally to know, I guess."
* * * * *
To finally know may be nice for him, but it's far from enough for me. I want Deval to know I know, want nothing less than to see him wriggle and flinch.
I drop into Waldo's at 4:00 p.m.. No sign of him, but Tony assures me he'll be in soon.
"He stops by every afternoon to drink and finish up his column." Tony sniffs. "Just like Waldo always did."
I hang around the bar working on sketches for Sylvie's book. At 4:30 Deval shows up — slack mouth, shiny pâté, crested navy blazer, yellow polka-dot silk ascot draped around his neck.
I watch him as he makes his way across the room, stopping at various tables to pat an important back or whisper into a receptive ear. Finally, with territorial confidence, he sits down at the table beneath Waldo's portrait, orders a drink, places a black leatherbound notebook on the table, whips out his cell phone, leans back, and starts making calls.
I turn on my bar stool to face him, expose a fresh page, and begin to draw.
It doesn't take long for him to notice me. When he figures out what I'm doing, he reacts with a mild look of surprise. Then he summons the waiter, whispers something, and the waiter approaches me.
"Mr. Deval asks if you'd like to join him?" I look at Deval, shrug, pick up my drink, and move to his table.
"If you must draw me, old boy, at least do it up close," he says, showing me his best ironic eyebrow-twitching grim. "To what nefarious purpose do I owe this exquisite honor? For, to be frank, old boy, I've had the impression you've been studiously avoiding me."
I hide my revulsion at the highfalutin way he talks.
"Why Spencer! How could you think such a thing when all this time I've been in awe?"
He grins a little more to show me he's amused.
"What fascinates me is your role as arbiter here," I continue, wanting to puff him up with flattery so he'll be all ripe and juicy for a fall.
"But why draw me, old boy? What're you up to?"
Continuing to sketch, I tell him I'm doing drawings for Sylvie's book, and that he, being the local media guru, will be among the more prominently featured personalities.
A skeptical smile curls his lip.
"You wouldn't be intending to do me in, would you? Making me out to be the barroom buffoon?"
Since that's precisely what I'm intending, I show him my sketch. "See for yourself."
"Pretty mean," he says, studying my cartoon. "Got a real chip on your shoulder, don't you, old boy? Truly I don't mind being caricatured, but you needn't deny me my good looks." He grins again.
This is the moment.
"You were a lot prettier in the old days," I say, laying down the sketch I made with Jerry O'Neill.
He gapes at my drawing. "What the hell is that?"
"That's how you looked just after you killed the lovers at the Flamingo. That's the expression on your face when you paused like a frozen deer in the parking lot across the street."
He stares at me. I can see he's shaken. "You're even nuttier than I thought. What're you trying to pull, Weiss? Going to let me in on the game?"
"It's not a game," I assure him. "I have this from an eye witness. Barbara was going to spread it around you'd been a hustler, Waldo didn't want that, so he had you kill her."
He feigns amusement. "Go on with your fantasy. I'm dying to hear it all."
"You marched in there and shot them. You thought no one saw you, but someone did. What I'm wondering is what Waldo gave you in return. Was it the byline? Did he promise you his column?"
Now he glares at me, pure fury in his eyes. "Don't know what you're up to, old boy. But if it's nasty you want, nasty's what you'll get."
I laugh. "Oh, gosh — the wicked columnist! What are you going to do? Slay me with your pen? Maybe a threat like that worked back in Waldo's time, but no more, Deval. Now it just sounds silly."
"How ‘bout I sue you for every cent you've got?"
"I'd welcome a lawsuit. It'd be a pleasure to put you on the stand and watch you lie."
He snaps his cell phone shut, notebook too, sits back and studies me, weighing his options. Then, suddenly, he regains his composure. His fury abates, replaced by a crafty smile.
Watching the change, I find myself admiring his cool, wondering too what's going on in his mind. I see him clearly now. He's a totally self-invented creature who plays others as if they're instruments. When you don't respond to one tune, he adjusts, tries another.
"We have a lot to talk about," he says. "But this isn't the time or place. Suppose we get together later in the evening? Eight o'clock all right?"
"Sure."
"I'll pick you up in front of the hotel. Then we'll go someplace quiet and have it out."
"Should I bring a weapon?"
He smiles. "You’ve nothing to fear. But by all means bring one if it'll make you feel more comfortable, old boy."
* * * * *
Pam thinks I'm mad to go out alone with him.
"I know you think he's a coward," she says, "but if he killed those people he's dangerous."
"He did kill them. But he won't harm me. If he does you can tell Mace who did it."
"Is that supposed to comfort me?"
I pat her cheek. "Just think of yourself as my insurance policy. I promise I'll check in wi
th you when I get back."
* * * * *
Spencer pulls up on time in front of the Townsend in a big, black vintage Jag, the grand old kind with beautifully curved panels, finely restored chrome work, whitewall tires, and acres of nice-smelling interior wood and leather. The car, I think, perfectly suits his self-image — rich, luxurious, quintessentially British. A gentleman's car... except, of course, we both know Spencer's no kind of gentleman.
"Great Jag," I compliment him, strapping myself in.
"Isn't it? It was Waldo's. He used to call it ‘Black Beauty.’"
"Part of your inheritance?"
"You know a lot about me."
"I've been studying you for weeks."
"Well, I'm flattered, old boy. I truly am."
He grins, then pulls into traffic. We drive through Irontown, then he turns into an unlit alley and stops.
"Nothing to fear. I'm just going to pat you down. Must make sure you're not wired, you know."
He asks me to open my jacket. When I oblige, he pats me carefully, running his fingers down my chest, belly, then along my sides and back to make sure I don't have a transmitter taped to my body.
"So far so good," he says. "Now comes the unpleasant part. Or perhaps quite pleasant, depending on your point of view. Be so good as to loosen your belt and slip down your jeans."
I balk. "Are you out of your mind?"
"Up to you. I can drive you straight back to the hotel if you like."
Reluctantly I do as he says, trying not to flinch while he pats me down below. But when his hand grazes my balls, I can't help myself, I recoil.
He laughs. "I wonder — does the gentleman protest too much?" He pats me on the knee. "You're clean. Zipper up, old boy. And thanks much for assuaging my suspicions."
As we cross the Calista River via the Stanhope Bridge, I ask him why his vocabulary is so pretentious and his accent so transparently phony.
"People think I picked that up in England," he says, "that I'm some kind of Gatsby type. But truth be known, I'm, well — just a bit affected, old boy."
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