by Warren Adler
In cases of murder he rarely dwelled on thoughts about man's inhumanity to man. His job was to observe death, identify its victim, define its real cause and, when the means of death went beyond the bounds of legality, to pursue and bring the perpetrator to justice.
He did not speculate on the philosophical aspects of death, especially when it occurred randomly, like the plane crash. Long ago, when he was first exposed to violent death, he had formed his opinions about life and death. People were part good and part evil, part lucky and part unlucky. The poor bastards who were killed crossing the bridge at the exact moment of the crash were unlucky, as were the passengers who went down with the plane. The four survivors were lucky, very lucky. He never called it fate. Just luck. In his life he hadn't had much of that.
As the day wore on, he found himself speculating more and more on Jane Doe's identity. It was a loose end, and loose ends offered challenges. He viewed the remains again with one of the assistant medical examiners, and went over his report.
"From all physical indications, a healthy specimen. Not a scar on her body. A couple of larger birthmarks, one under the left breast and one on a shoulder blade."
He looked at the body, ignoring the smashed face. In contrast with other ways of death, the body flesh looked pink and healthy, an aberration caused by immersion in water of icy temperatures.
The assistant medical examiner, who was very close to the age of the victim, clicked his tongue.
"Can't imagine that a specimen like that wouldn't have people who really cared about her."
"How do you know she didn't?" McCarthy asked.
The assistant medical examiner flicked the tag attached to the body's toe. It read Jane Doe in magic marker.
"Then where the hell are they?" He shrugged.
6
It was not until the middle of the night of the second day after Lily had gone on her trip that Edward Davis began to feel the full impact of the void created by her absence. Cold had replaced snow as the inhibitor of work. Things around the office had become frenetic. Speeches, press releases, new bills, and the usual avalanche of constituent cases were accelerating. Also accelerating were absences and excuses: cars that needed jumps, icy streets, burst pipes, the flu.
Congressman Holmes was a driven man. It was the one quality that had attracted Edward to work for him in the first place. No sense working for a politician who did not want the brass ring. As the Congressman's A.A., it was Edward's job to help create high visibility for the Congressman and manufacture the correct perception of him in the minds of his constituents. It was less a question of merit than manipulation. Edward knew it was a game of mirrors, and although it offended his Iowan instinct for candor and forthrightness, he quickly learned that that was the least effective policy for political success. In politics, appearances were everything. Thank goodness he had his own personal oasis for such deceptions, his Lily.
Without Lily, Edward believed he would have lost all contact with reality. Politics was not reality. Lily was the voice of reason, the therapeutic salve to his sometimes badly bruised moral sensitivity.
"I'm just not used to portraying something that I know is a lie, just for political expediency." If she was sympathetic when he raised this recurrent theme, she would stroke him like a hurt child.
"Sometimes the truth will hurt."
"Hurt whom?"
"Holmes—his chances, his ambitions, his objectives, his votes. What else is a politician after?"
"That sounds cynical," he would protest.
"Honest."
When she was too self-absorbed to be sympathetic, she would say, "Then quit."
"I would, but he's finally getting into a position of power. The timing would be wrong."
"When will it be right?"
"Never, I suppose."
"See. Always tell yourself the truth."
"I try."
"Not hard enough," she would admonish kindly.
"Besides, I have to scramble like hell to keep up. He's got his eye on that Senate seat, and he's got a damned good chance ... if he doesn't kill me first."
"You'll survive."
"As long as I have you beside me."
"You do. You know that."
"I couldn't face it if I didn't have you to come home to."
Occasionally it was his turn to be supportive, which he was, of course.
"Me and you against the world," he would say. He liked that concept. Everybody needed someone.
That day the Congressman had been irritable. Nothing had suited him, and he had been unusually testy, pressing Edward with impossible deadlines for draft bills, releases, position papers, and correspondence.
That night he felt the need for an injection of wifely support. Picking up the phone, he called a number of hotels in Los Angeles, whose names he knew. It was by then 2:00 A.M., but only 11:00 in L.A. Too late to call Woodies or any of her co-workers. He wasn't exactly sure where they lived anyway.
"Just a wee crisis of confidence," he assured himself after he had given up trying to find her. He took half a sleeping pill instead, and by the next morning he was swept into the affairs of the day, which went surprisingly well. People were getting used to the cold and ice, and the Congressman's testy mood had dissipated. He forgot about his anxieties and, therefore, his reasons for wanting to contact Lily.
He went out for a working dinner with the Congressman and got home too late to call Woodies to check on the hotel where Lily was staying. The fact was that he was so tired by then, he simply fell into bed. He didn't need much help getting to sleep.
In the morning he thought of her, of course, with great anticipation. She would be home that night, although he wasn't sure of the time, and they would have the weekend together. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would interfere with their weekend, he vowed. He was vaguely disappointed that she had not called, but now that the mild ordeal was over, he forgave her. He had, after all, survived.
He spent a couple of hours in the morning cleaning up the house. As always when he was left alone, he had been a slob: Clothes were strewn everywhere, and an empty pizza box lay on the kitchen table along with the remains of a bucket of Southern-fried chicken. Disregarding her admonitions, he had eaten all the wrong foods.
Getting clean sheets and pillowcases, he made the bed, not without difficulty and with mediocre results. But at least Lily would see his valiant effort, and she would remake it anyhow. Then he vacuumed the carpets, tidied up the bathroom, and piled all the rubbish into a plastic bag and put it into the hallway for collection. Making a mental note to buy a good bottle of wine and some pâté for a nice welcome-home gesture, he rushed off to the office. The anticipation of her return made a considerable impact on his attitude. He felt good. Damned good.
The weather had turned a bit warmer, although the forecast called for strong winds and possible snow again by morning. Because he wanted to be home when she arrived, he checked the schedule of the incoming planes from L.A., assuming she would take the one that arrived by 10:00 P.M.—the only sensible one if she was to spend any time at all in L.A. It didn't seem logical that she would take the "red eye." She had never been able to sleep on an airplane.
The day was an extremely busy one. The Congressman wanted changes in a speech he was to deliver on the floor the next day. Edward had to write the speech himself, while Harvey Mills worked on a press release, all of which had to be run off and be ready first thing in the morning.
It was nearly eleven o'clock in the evening when his mind was finally able to focus on anything else.
"Damn."
"What's wrong?" Harvey Mills asked.
"Lily!" He felt awful. How could he have forgotten?
Quickly, he called home and let the phone ring until he was sure no one was there. Then he called the airport and found that the plane from L.A. had arrived on time. If he left now, he might make it home before her. It was then that he discovered he had forgotten all about buying the wine and the pâté. She sure is right
about me, he thought, rushing to his car and speeding homeward, feeling waves of guilt and sentiment. He felt unworthy of her.
There were no lights in the windows, which disappointed him. He half expected her to be home, irritable and tired, waiting to rebuke him. Well, he deserved it. Returning home after a long journey to an empty house was always awful. When he confirmed that she wasn't home, he felt a deep sense of disappointment. He missed her then, really missed her. Scrounging in the kitchen, he found a bottle of white wine, put it in the freezer, made some cheese and crackers, and arranged them in a circular design on a plate. At least he would make it warm and cozy for her arrival, he thought.
When she did not come by midnight, he called the airport again and got the same story that the plane from L.A. had already arrived. It occurred to him that she may have taken the "red eye" after all, but since she had not called the office to tell him that, he partially rejected the idea. Then he had second thoughts. She might have called, but someone could have neglected to give him the message. The office was not exactly a model of efficiency. He had often encountered that problem.
He called Jan Peters at home. Her voice was hoarse with sleep, her mind foggy. Ignoring her irritated reaction, he identified himself.
"Well, well..." she cracked in a hoarse voice. "Sooner or later they respond..."
"Nothing like that, Jan."
"At this hour, what then? My bed is cozy, my instincts sound."
He ignored the coy enticement.
"Did I get any messages from Lily today?"
"Lily!" The enthusiasm went out of her voice. "I didn't see any. Maybe Mairy took one." She was referring to the office receptionist.
"She's flaky most of the time."
"That's unkind."
"Forgetting to give me personal messages." He felt a growing sense of unreasonable anger, knowing he was reacting badly.
"I'll check and call you back," Jan said coldly.
Having already assumed irrationally that someone at the office had forgotten to give him Lily's message, he felt his frustration accelerate and started to nibble on the crackers. Most of all he hated uncertainty, and his anger began to focus on Lily. She had been thoughtless not to call, selfish. She probably got so involved she simply forgot. The idea placated him somewhat. He, too, was often forgetful. Still, even if he forgave her, which he would, of course, the matter would have to be aired. In the future they could not leave each other hanging like this. It was too worrisome, and it was not fair. She had no right to destroy his peace of mind. One thing was certain—he would be spending a long anxious night.
He flicked on the television set with his remote gadget, changing stations until he found some news. A commentator was talking about the plane crash that had taken place four days ago. It was no longer the top of the news, although they were still getting bodies out of the river. Old hat now. He had hardly thought about it since that first day. He listened vaguely. Yet, in his present state, the idea triggered his anxiety. Perhaps she had been in a crash? But there were no reports of other plane crashes. Maybe a car crash on the Coast? She would be in some hospital, or worse. He dismissed such thoughts, although he considered them natural. Where the hell was Lily?
Again, his anger focused on Lily, then on himself. They were too independent of each other, too work-oriented. Their priorities were wrong. They would have to make some changes in their lifestyle. The telephone rang again. He picked it up quickly. It was Jan Peters.
"Sorry, Edward. No messages from Lily."
"You're certain?"
"As much as I can be."
"So there is the possibility that she did call?" He was grasping at straws.
"I doubt it."
"Why should you doubt it?"
"Because..." He sensed the hesitation. "Because if it was so important, she would have called back."
He mulled it over.
Then Jan said, "Wouldn't she?"
"I suppose," he said lamely, less angry than frightened. It was damned important, he thought. She could at least have spared him a night like this.
"Is there anything I can do, Edward?" Jan asked.
"Nothing," he said abruptly, hanging up.
It was nearly one o'clock by then, and he discovered that he had eaten all of the cheese and crackers. Often, when under stress because of some nagging problem, he would will himself into complete concentration on a single issue requiring resolution, isolating the problem from all others. He could not sit around inactive. His anxiety level was too high. He had to find out where Lily was.
Calling the airlines, he discovered that the "red eye" had not yet left. Then he called the agent at the Los Angeles airport, posing as the Congressman himself, which he had often done, especially when only intimidation would do the job. He literally ordered the clerk to tell him if a Lily Davis had made reservations.
"No Lily Davis, sir," the agent answered, thoroughly intimidated. He probably needn't have been so strong, but he was no longer concerned about other people's feelings.
"Are you sure?"
He had learned never to assume, always demanding certainty from an inquiry. It was too easy for a clerk to say no. Less of a hassle.
"It's a common name," he pressed. "Any Davises?"
"Sorry..." There was a pause, and his heart leaped when the agent's voice came on again. "There's a David. Samuel R. David."
"What about tomorrow's flight?"
Another silence. The clerk was obviously punching his computer.
"Sorry. No Davises. No Davids. Nothing even close."
Suddenly, he got an idea.
"Can you check her departure from Washington? She left Monday. It might indicate a return time and date. I might have gotten it confused." He felt himself trying to be ingratiating, as if a better attitude might get a better result. The possibility seemed encouraging. Lily always accused him of listening with half an ear. His anxiety receded. Probably his own fault. She would be coming home tomorrow. Maybe even Saturday. He had flogged himself for nothing.
The agent's voice came on again. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. No Davis on any flight all week."
"That's impossible," he exploded. "It's those damned computers. They drop stuff all the time. I know she was on a flight that left at noon from Dulles to L.A. on Monday."
"I can only relate what the computer tells me," the agent said apologetically. "Are you sure you have the right name?"
"The right name? She's my wife."
"I don't know what to say."
"Say? What's there to say? Your computers are all fucked up!" He slammed down the phone. He felt his throat constrict. Again the brunt of his anger focused on Lily. Why was she putting him through this? Getting up, he began to pace the apartment, trying to remember the names of her co-workers at Woodies. He looked through an index file of telephone numbers trying to recall a name. Halpern, Milly Halpern. He had met her on a number of occasions, a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair. For a moment he hesitated, looking at his watch. It was 1:30. How awful to do this to someone, he sighed, but it did not stop him from dialing her number.
A woman's voice, heavy with fear, croaked at the other end of the connection.
"I'm terribly sorry to call you at this hour, Mrs. Halpern." He tried to be soothing.
"Who is this?"
"Edward Davis, Lily Davis's husband..."
"You call me at this hour? Are you crazy?"
He let her agitation recede. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Halpern. Really I am. Scaring you like this."
"My God, it's one-thirty."
"I hadn't realized," he lied, pausing. In the silence she had obviously regained her composure.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," he said soothingly. "I seem to have forgotten what day Lily's slated to come home."
"Come home?" He caught a note of caution in the woman's tone.
"From L.A.," he added to prompt her.
"L.A.?"
"The L.A. fashion design festival. That's where
she went."
"The L.A. fashion festival?" The woman was exasperating him, answering a question with a question. There was a long pause.
"Please, Mrs. Halpern," he pressed into the silence.
"I didn't think they had that until March. But I could be wrong," she added quickly.
"Do you know who would know?"
"Maybe Mr. Parks?" she said.
That would be Howard Parks, the vice-president in charge of her division. He had another vague recollection. It amazed him how little he knew of her business life. Had she simply not told him, or had he not been listening?
"It must be me, Mrs. Halpern," he said apologetically, trying to appear calm, although his palm was sweaty holding the phone.
"I'm sure there's no problem, Mr. Davis. Lily is a very responsible woman. Perhaps she—"
"I'm sure," he interrupted, offering a quick, pleasant good-bye. He didn't, after all, want to subject Lily to questions about her crazy husband. Nor did he want to hear any of Mrs. Halpern's possible scenarios. He had concocted enough of his own by then.
He began to search for Howard Parks's name in the telephone directory. Finding it, he started to dial, then hung up the phone. He was sure to sound paranoid, maybe even hurt Lily's chances for future advancement. Besides, he might have gotten it all wrong. L.A., the fashion festival, the times and dates. He cursed his indifference and lack of attention. Maybe he was suffering from information overrun, when the mind can't take any more input.
Calm down, he told himself. She might have taken a plane to visit people in San Francisco. Perhaps she had mentioned it. He tried to remember. I'm being ridiculous, he decided. He went to the bedroom and lay down, still dressed in his clothes. His heart was pounding, and he felt his pulse throb in his head. Please, Lily, he begged in his heart, come home.
7
On Thursday, Vivien decided to have lunch with her friend Margo Teeters at the Windjammer Club on top of the Rosslyn Marriott. The main roads had been cleared, and the temperature had climbed. There were even patches of sun and blue sky, which was the reason for her choosing the Windjammer since it provided a spectacular view of the river and of Washington from the Virginia side.
