Random Hearts

by Warren Adler

  Farnsworth sighed.

  "Nasty business," he said. "Are you sure?"

  "In my gut," McCarthy admitted. "Now comes the worst part. The telling."

  "Damn," Farnsworth said, growing more ashen. "Complications. My job is to tie up all loose ends as fast as possible." He lifted sad eyes that locked into McCarthy's. "Does the media have to know—I mean, if there's no foul play, no real negligence, nothing relevant? Death is final. Scandal goes on."

  "You're right there," McCarthy said, showing Farnsworth a policeman's hearty distaste for the media.

  "Besides, there might not be a connection after all. Why make assumptions without absolute proof?"

  McCarthy snickered. He liked the young man.

  "Not absolute," he said.

  "And we still have nothing definite on the cause of the crash."

  "So why sprinkle skunk juice on the roses?"

  "Right."

  It was then that the keys he had been twirling gave him an idea, and he opened the man's leather key case and compared keys.

  "Bingo," he said, holding up two Yale keys. Pressed together, they were perfectly matched.

  "You're a helluva detective," Farnsworth said. "I wish you weren't." Again he looked directly into McCarthy's eyes. "Do we have to tell them that?"

  "I hope not."

  "Why hope? Let's just not do it."

  McCarthy thought about it for a moment. If there had been no foul play, it might not be relevant, but if there had, the dead couple could be exhibit A. On the other hand, if human error was deduced as a cause of the crash, the dead couple would only serve to impress the story further in the public mind. It was little bits of dirt like this that people remembered.

  "Why bring their families more misery?" Farnsworth pressed. "Why inflict more pain? I've seen enough of it since Monday to last me a lifetime."

  "You're young yet."

  "Can it wait until tomorrow?" McCarthy looked at his watch. "Just a few more hours," Farnsworth implored.

  There was no escaping what they both knew had to be done. All next of kin had to be notified in person by a policeman and a representative of the airline. Those were the rules they had set. Most of the relatives who had stayed at the Marriott had been notified in that fashion.

  "I suppose." McCarthy shrugged. It was nearly 2:00 A.M. He wondered which would be more cruel, a few hours' delay or bringing bad news in the middle of the night. McCarthy relented. "Just until the sun comes up," he agreed.

  "Thanks. Maybe I'll get lucky and not live through the night," Farnsworth replied.

  13

  They knocked on Edward Davis's door first. It was seven o'clock in the morning. The day had broken bright with sun, and the air was crisp with a cool, clean bite.

  The man who opened the door showed the effects of his ordeal. He looked as if he had slept in his clothes, and his eyes were red and puffy. Sprouts of beard were coming out of his facial skin in uneven tufts. God, will this hurt, McCarthy thought. Poor bastard.

  "Are you Edward Davis?" he asked politely, flashing his badge.

  The man nodded, and McCarthy could tell from his eyes that he already knew what was coming. Davis backed away, leaving the door open for them to come in. He collapsed heavily on the couch. Farnsworth and McCarthy sat opposite on upholstered chairs.

  "It's about Lily?" the man asked lamely. He looked weak. Panic and anxiety had already beaten him. "She's been gone since Thursday," the man said. "I was about to call."

  "Sure," McCarthy whispered. He glanced at Farnsworth, whose hands clutched his thighs, knuckles white.

  "I'm sorry to inform you that your wife Lily went down with Southair flight ninety."

  "Flight ninety?" the man repeated, not comprehending.

  "The plane that went down last week in the Potomac," McCarthy said.

  Davis's face seemed to cave in upon his skull.

  "That's crazy!" he cried. "It's a mistake. Why would she be on that plane? It was going to Florida. For a minute there you had me really frightened. She went to L.A. I think you've got something confused. Maybe the computers..."

  He would have gone on had McCarthy not interrupted him.

  "We have her handbag, her possessions and, I'm afraid, her body."

  "That is absolutely impossible."

  "I hope you're right, Mr. Davis," Mr. Farnsworth intruded sympathetically. He was obviously suffering through it. "You're going to have to come down to the Medical Examiner's office and identify the body. There's a cruiser outside waiting to take you there."

  "I'm telling you it's a waste of time."

  His lips were trembling, and his chest began to heave as he gasped for breath.

  "You can't just leave her there, Mr. Davis," Farnsworth said gently. For a moment McCarthy thought he, too, might be breaking down.

  "Leave her where?" Davis said. He was completely disoriented.

  "Downtown. At the Medical Examiner's office."

  "Oh, God." Reality began to seep into his consciousness. He rose and put on his coat, which had been thrown clumsily over the dining room table. He didn't bother to put on a jacket underneath it.

  "All right," he said. "Just to convince you how wrong you must be."

  They let him walk out first.

  McCarthy hadn't expected Mrs. Simpson to be so attractive. She was wearing a turtleneck sweater and beige slacks that showed off the rounded firmness of her figure. She wore no makeup, but her skin was clear and pale, and her chestnut hair, although cut short, fell neatly in soft waves. To McCarthy, the woman had an air of cleanliness about her, a kind of brightness that even this terrible predicament could not quite obliterate. But the puffiness beneath her brown eyes and the frown etched on her forehead betrayed sleeplessness and anxiety.

  A little boy of five, whom McCarthy had recognized instantly from the picture in the dead man's wallet, leaned against his mother's thigh as she stroked his hair. As they followed her into the house, Farnsworth glanced at him, then looked up at the ceiling, hiding moist eyes. It was the child, McCarthy knew. He complicated everything, melted their resolve. They would have to dig deeper into themselves to find a second line of emotional defense.

  She led the boy into another room and turned on the television set, then returned. She was desperately trying to regain her composure.

  They were exceedingly gentle, although McCarthy's stumbling hesitance seemed to acknowledge her comprehension even before he stated the raw and disastrous fact. When he did, finally, she did not deny the possibility but sat, stunned.

  "It can't be," she whispered.

  McCarthy noted the odd similarity of her reaction to that of the Davis man, deliberately suspending his judgment. He was relieved that she had weathered the first shock wave without collapsing. Her demeanor was more of disorientation. The problem here, McCarthy knew, was acceptance. It had to sink in at its own pace, nor could he deny her the futile hope that would soften the shock.

  "Without a visual identification, I could be wrong," he said. He wondered if his face reflected his professionalism. The boy came back into the room and scrambled onto his mother's lap. Making no move to return him to the other room, she hugged him and rhythmically rocked her body from side to side. McCarthy exchanged glances with Farnsworth, who flicked away an errant tear. It surprised McCarthy that after all the man had been through in the past week, he still had the capacity for tears.

  "It can't be," the woman said. "He went to Paris."

  "He didn't, Mrs. Simpson," McCarthy said, admonishing himself. The contradiction was uncalled-for. She would learn the truth soon enough.

  "It's been awful," she whispered, continuing to hug the boy, who looked at them curiously.

  "You know my daddy?" the boy asked suddenly.

  McCarthy smiled and tousled the boy's hair.

  "My housekeeper is not here yet." She put the boy aside and stood up, her hands fluttering to her hair. "But I thought he was in Paris." She seemed to have trouble deciding what to do next.
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br />   "Have you someone to leave the boy with?" Farnsworth asked.

  "The boy?" She was trying desperately to anchor herself in reality. McCarthy was thankful she had not collapsed. Women like that were a slow burn, their reaction delayed. He would have to watch her closely. As she moved around the room of the well-kept, luxurious house, he could not help comparing her with the dead girl. They were both about the same age and both attractive, although the condition of the victim's face did not suggest that image. What did this man Simpson want? He thought of his wife, and the old acid burn came back. What had Billie wanted?

  "May I call my husband's partner?" she asked, child-like, as if she were begging permission.

  "Of course."

  She went out of the room, but the boy stayed. Taking McCarthy's hand, he pulled him toward the window.

  "See my snowman?"

  "What's his name?" McCarthy asked, thinking of his own children and all that he had missed.

  "He looks like Daddy," the boy said.

  When the woman came back into the room, her eyes were glistening.

  "He wants to speak with you." She hesitated, not having remembered his name. He did not remind her. It didn't matter.

  "Sergeant McCarthy, MPD Homicide," he announced into the phone.

  "Are you certain?" a man's voice said.

  "Yes. But we need the visual identification to wrap it up."

  "My God."

  "Tough break," McCarthy said. He heard the man's breathing.

  "I'll meet you. My wife will take the boy."

  McCarthy came back into the room. The woman was staring out the window, holding the boy's hand, looking at the snowman. Her back was straight and stiff, and he knew she was making a valiant effort to hold herself together.

  "I'll dress Ben," she whispered. She took the boy out of the room.

  "Nothing satisfies people," McCarthy said when she left the room. "The son of a bitch had everything." Again he thought of Billie.

  "Some people are hogs." Farnsworth said. "They never have enough."

  "Poor lady."

  "Poor kid."

  They remained silent, ignoring each other until she came back into the room.

  "Where are we going, Mommy?" the boy asked when she began to put on his outer clothing.

  "For a ride."

  "Will we see Daddy?"

  The woman turned and looked helplessly at them both, her lips quivering. A sob rattled in her throat, and her eyes filled with tears. Hiding her grief, she busied herself, buckling her quilted coat.

  "Are you all right?" McCarthy asked.

  After a few moments she nodded, took the boy's hand, and went outside. They opened the rear car door, and the woman and the boy got in.

  The traffic was fairly heavy, and the bright sun made the city's white monuments sparkle in the dazzling light. Considering their mission, McCarthy thought, the weather was a cruel irony.

  The woman did not speak. She clutched a handkerchief and from time to time blotted her eyes. She made a great effort to hide her grief from the boy, who chattered away. Farnsworth kept up a patter to deflect the boy's interest and keep his mind on other things.

  "I've got a little boy," Farnsworth said. "One year old."

  "That's not a boy. That's a baby."

  At the entrance to the Medical Examiner's office, a couple was waiting. The man gathered Mrs. Simpson in his arms and patted her back. Still she held herself tightly, unwilling to give in to her grief.

  "I don't understand," was all she could say.

  The man introduced himself to the detectives as Mr. Dale Martin, Mr. Simpson's law partner. He exchanged intense glances with Farnsworth, and after the boy had gone off with Mrs. Martin, he led them through the door of the office.

  "Can you do it?" Martin asked. One of his arms was wrapped around Vivien's shoulder.

  "I'm not sure," she replied. "I'm not sure about anything."

  McCarthy was surprised to find the Davis man still sitting there, listlessly, in a corner of the office. Beside him was a plastic bag, containing his dead wife's possessions. Forbes, sitting nearby, waved two fingers as an acknowledgment that Davis had identified his wife's body. Apparently his shock was so great that he had not found the energy to move. It was a common occurrence, and the police rarely forced people to leave immediately. Forbes was merely "baby-sitting."

  They followed one of the technicians into the refrigerator. McCarthy deliberately kept his eyes averted from Mrs. Simpson's face. How many times had he been through this ritual? He had no pity for the man on the tray. Yet he was not indifferent. He detested the man for creating this unnecessary horror.

  The group stopped midway in the refrigerator, and the technician opened a drawer. With fluttering lids, Mrs. Simpson forced her eyes downward, her body sagging as a sheet was peeled away from her husband's corpse. Martin caught her, preventing her from hitting the floor. Surprisingly, not a sound issued from her throat. She had not fainted. Recovering somewhat, she nodded recognition.

  "It's him," Martin muttered, flashing McCarthy an angry look. They led the woman back into the Medical Examiner's office where she collapsed into a chair. Farnsworth brought her a drink of water in a paper cup.

  "Don't think you won't hear from me on this," Martin said angrily.

  McCarthy looked at him, confused.

  "There will definitely be legal repercussions."

  "I'm sure of that," Farnsworth said.

  "Malfeasance. Inefficiency. Neglect. Police stupidity."

  McCarthy's eyes probed the man's face.

  "Police stupidity?"

  Martin's lips tightened. He moved away, motioning sharply with his head for the men to follow, obviously not wishing to be overheard by Mrs. Simpson.

  "Why did you put her through this? You knew he was down there. You had the passenger list. Why didn't you notify her immediately? She's been through two ... no, three days of hell. You haven't heard the end of this."

  McCarthy looked at Farnsworth, remembering their earlier discussion. See, he thought. Somebody is always fucking things up. Understanding, Farnsworth returned McCarthy's gaze with raised eyebrows.

  "I wouldn't make a big thing about it if I were you."

  "Why the hell not? You were cruel, heartless." He looked at Farnsworth. "Your company should be destroyed."

  "We didn't know," Farnsworth muttered. If he were more in control of himself, more rested, if he hadn't been through the last week, he might have said it differently. Apparently the ordeal had shortened his fuse.

  "How could you not know?" Martin asked. Under other circumstances he, too, might have acted differently.

  "Because," Farnsworth said, "he didn't give his right name."

  "He didn't? What name did he give?"

  "I think you'd better let me—" McCarthy said, not holding back now.

  "What's going on here?" Martin asked, looking at them with suspicion and with unmistakable superiority and contempt. McCarthy had seen it often: The Ivy League patrician lording it over the red-necked cop. Like the swelling of a pus-filled boil, he felt the pain of it, felt the absolute necessity of the psychic lancing that had to be done to make the pain go away. Ignoring Martin, he walked over to where Mrs. Simpson sat and put a hand on her shoulder.

  "How do you feel?" he whispered gently. When she did not respond, he said, "What I mean is are you able to hear the explanation? You'll be asking for it soon enough." She slowly lifted her head and nodded. He could see that it was already beginning to gnaw at her. Sometimes, he had learned, it was easier to lay on the pain all at once, instead of paying it out with agonizing slowness. Besides, even the most cursory investigation would establish the facts, especially with this son of a bitch Martin wanting to make a federal case out of it.

  Returning to Martin, he said politely, "Could you wait in the outer office please, Mr. Martin?"

  "I demand—" Martin began.

  "You'll have ample opportunity," McCarthy said. Martin fumed.

 
"I'm her lawyer."

  "Of course. That's her prerogative. After we talk to her, she can do what she wishes."

  Martin, confused, looked toward Mrs. Simpson.

  "It's all right, Dale."

  "Are you sure?"

  She nodded, and he walked, sulking, into the outer office.

  "It will only be a little while," McCarthy called after him with exaggerated politeness, often a weapon of intimidation.

  Across the room he could see Davis rising in his chair and lifting the plastic bag. He motioned toward Forbes.

  "Wally, please ask Mr. Davis to stay on for a moment," he said with formal seriousness.

  Davis turned, confused, frowning at McCarthy.

  "I hope you know what you're doing," Farnsworth said.

  "They have to be told. The rest is up to them."

  "Are you sure?" Farnsworth asked.

  "It's their lives. And it affects them both." He paused. "They have a right to know. But only them. What they do with the information is their business."

  Farnsworth nodded his consent.

  He led them into a small private office and closed the door, leaving Farnsworth to deal with the fuming Martin.

  To McCarthy, the man and the woman together looked like bewildered children. He introduced them to each other, and they nodded indifferently. From their reaction he was certain that neither of them had seen the other until that moment. Others might judge it differently, he thought. So much of police work was purely instinctive.

  Sliding behind a little metal desk, he directed them to two chairs placed in front of it. He did not like the configuration, but there was little choice. His eyes darted from face to face. Pain and shock had obliterated any signs of alertness. Both of them would have preferred to be alone, invisible.

  "Mr. Davis," McCarthy asked, his voice steady, businesslike, "is the name Orson Oscar Simpson familiar to you?"

  At the mention of her husband's name, the woman's jaw twitched. Am I really doing the right thing? McCarthy wondered. No, he decided. Only that which is necessary. He knew exactly the pain he was about to inflict.

  Davis frowned, looked at the woman, and shook his head negatively.

  "Mrs. Simpson, is the name Lily Corsini Davis familiar to you?"