by Barbara Paul
He almost made it. Just before he reached the bench, four boys suddenly stepped out of nowhere to block his path. “Hoo-ee, looka the basketball player!” one of them hooted.
“I’m not a basketball player,” King said and tried to pass.
The boys closed ranks. “Where you think you goin’, Shorty?”
King looked at them more carefully. They were Hispanic kids, the youngest not much older than the boy Ricky, fourteen or fifteen at the most. All four were dressed in jeans and sneakers and identical green windbreakers. King felt a little flutter in his stomach as he said, “I’m going to that bench. I’m tired and my feet hurt and I want to sit down.” Mistake! his mind shrieked as soon as he’d said it. Don’t show them your weak spots!
The one who seemed to be the leader laughed unpleasantly. “But that’s our bench. Dincha know that was our bench? And nobody sits on our bench without payin’ for the pri-vi-lege.” He stretched the last word out insolently. “No-bod-y. Got that, Shorty? Ya wanna sit, ya gotta pay.”
If King hadn’t been so tired, he would have turned and walked away right then. As it was, he thought it better just to pay up and be done with this nonsense. “How much?”
“A thousssand dollars an hour,” the leader hissed.
“A thousand—” King broke off his protest when he saw the boys circling him. How could young boys be so menacing? Without saying a word they backed him up toward the bench. A knife had appeared in the leader’s hand, and one of the others was swinging a sock filled with … coins? Lead pellets? “But it’s still daylight!” King cried out stupidly, outraged by this breach of mugging decorum.
Suddenly his legs buckled; one of the boys had kicked him behind the knees. As his head bobbed down to their level, he saw the weighed sock swinging toward his face. Too late, he tried to throw up his arms to protect himself. Pain like he’d never felt before shot through his cheek, his eye, his upper lip—and down he went, striking his head against the iron armrest of the park bench as he fell.
And King Sarcowicz felt nothing more at all for a long, long time.
6
The next time King opened his eyes, it was to see a Hispanic face peering closely at him. But this one was a woman’s face, middle-aged; and it looked concerned. She was a nurse, and King was in a hospital.
“Ah, you’re coming round,” the nurse said in a tone of satisfaction. “Can you talk? How do you feel?”
“Lousy,” King said through a mouth that felt stuffed full of cotton. “Uh can’t talk.”
She nodded. “You have a mild concussion, and,” she made a face, “you’re going to have one hell of a shiner. Here—take some ice water. It’ll clear out your mouth.
King sucked greedily at the tube in the glass she held out to him. It did make his mouth feel better. Carefully, he eased himself up to a sitting position. “Whoo. I don’t remember coming here.”
“You were still unconscious when you were brought in. Whatever hit you, it loosened a couple of your teeth—you’ll have to see a dentist after you’re discharged. But Dr. Fabrizio will explain all that to you. He’ll be in later.”
He reached up and touched a bandage on his left cheek.
“Minor lacerations,” the nurse explained. “No stitches were required. And no bones were broken—you were lucky.”
Oh, really? “Why don’t I feel lucky?” King grumbled.
“It could have been a lot worse,” she said briskly. “How’s your memory? Do you know who you are?”
He blinked at her. “Of course I know who I am.”
“Good. A lot of concussed patients experience confusion and disorientation when they first regain consciousness. See, I told you you were lucky! Now, I need your name and address for our records. You didn’t have any identification on you.”
King told her his name and where he was staying in New York. “No billfold?”
She shook her head. “The mugger must have taken it.”
“More than one. Four of them.”
“Four! No wonder you didn’t have a chance. Mr. Sarcowicz, a couple of police officers are waiting to talk to you. Are you up to seeing them?”
Police! God, there was no running and hiding now. But surely they were here about the mugging? “I’ll see them.”
The nurse was almost out the door when he called out, “Oh—excuse me? I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“I’m Mrs. Sanchez.”
“Mrs. Sanchez, would you make a telephone call for me? Please call Warren Osterman at MechoTech Corporation. The number is …” King waved a hand vaguely. “His card’s in my billfold.”
Her eyebrow went up a fraction. “Your billfold was stolen,” she reminded him gently.
“Oh.” He wasn’t as clear-headed as he’d thought. “Well, the number’s in the book, under MechoTech. Tell him … tell him I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
King barked a short laugh, sending a new pain shooting through his head. “Tell him I’m sorry I missed the meeting.”
“Oh, I think he’ll understand,” she smiled. “But you can call him yourself if you’re feeling up to it.” She pointed to the telephone on the stand between King’s bed and the one next to it. “There’s a directory in the drawer. Do you still want me to make the call?”
“Ah—no, no thank you. I didn’t see the phone.”
Mrs. Sanchez nodded and left. King looked around him. There were ten beds in the hospital room, all occupied; King’s was next to the wall by the door, farthest from the room’s one window. In the bed next to his lay a man in his sixties, his eyes closed and a tube running up his nose.
Mrs. Sanchez was back, followed by two uniformed police officers. One of the policemen was big and black, and the other was small and Oriental—stereotypes on parade, King thought. They introduced themselves as Officers Jones and O’Leary; O’Leary was the Oriental. Jones did most of the talking. He wanted King’s name and address and then a quick summary of what had happened.
“I was mugged in the park,” King said helplessly. “What else can I tell you? They took my billfold.” He glanced at his naked left wrist. “And my watch.”
“How much cash?” Jones asked.
“Two hundred in new twenties. I’d just been to a bank machine.”
“Credit cards?”
“Seven or eight. Seven.”
“American Express? Visa?”
“Both.” King went on to name the rest.
“You have the account numbers written down somewhere?”
“My partner does. He takes care of that sort of thing.” Then King realized what he’d just said. Oh, Dennis.
“You all right?”
“Uh—yes, I’m all right.”
“You turned pale there for a second.”
“I’m all right,” King repeated. “Officer Jones, how did I get here? The last thing I remember was one of them swinging a sock full of something heavy at my face.”
“They whacked you from the back too,” Jones said, “Or else you hit your head on something when you fell. They must have thought they’d killed you, ’cause they dragged you behind some shrubbery. A woman came along later and saw one of your feet sticking out and called us. You could have been there for hours.”
For hours? Something clicked in King’s traumatized brain. Were those kid hoodlums going to give him an alibi? “What time is it?”
The Oriental named O’Leary looked at his wrist. “Five to ten. We got the call at seven-fifteen. What time were you attacked, Mr. Sarcowicz?”
King swallowed. “I … I’m not sure.”
Jones said, “Mr. Sarcowicz, I know you’re feeling rotten but anything you can remember might help. What time did you go into the park?”
“I really don’t know, Officer. I’d been wandering around the streets and my feet were starting to hurt. I just wanted to sit down for a while.” That much was true.
“When was this? Before lunch? After?”
King swallowed and decided
to take the plunge. “Before. I had a meeting at two—which I didn’t make.”
“Before,” Jones repeated. “How much before? Were you getting hungry?”
“Yes,” King said eagerly, grabbing at the lifeline. “I was beginning to get hungry.”
“Around noon, then?”
“That sounds about right.” King swallowed, scared to death they’d see through the lie.
O’Leary spoke up. “How many of them were there, Mr. Sarcowicz?”
“Four.”
“Can you describe them?”
“They were kids! All four of them! I was mugged by a bunch of schoolboys.”
Jones’s face crinkled into a sad smile. “I doubt if those boys spent much time in school. Were they black? Hispanic?”
King was about to say Hispanic when he shot a glance at Mrs. Sanchez, doing something for the patient in the next bed. Then he looked back at Jones’s black face and O’Leary’s Oriental one. “White,” he said. “They were white.”
O’Leary pressed for specifics, so King made up two descriptions and said he didn’t remember the other two very well. King watched O’Leary writing in a notebook and thought about his junior muggers; they were welcome to the cash and the watch and the credit cards if those four were going to keep him out of prison—he hoped the police never caught them. Jones told him they’d want him to come in and look at mug shots when he was feeling better.
There was no way King was going to identify four kids who could give it away that he’d been lying about the time he was mugged, but he told the policemen he’d be in. “What are the chances of catching them, Officer?”
“If you can pick their pictures out of the book, the chances are pretty good. But that two hundred bucks has already been spent—make up your mind to that. And get your partner to report the stolen credit cards right away. Don’t wait.”
“I’ll do it tonight.”
The two police officers left. They believed me! God Almighty, they believed me! King covered his face with his hands to hide his exhilaration.
“Are you all right, Mr. Sarcowicz?”
King lowered his hands. “I’m just fine, Mrs. Sanchez.” She went about her business while King lay there enjoying the first real feeling of relief he’d had all day.
That lasted about five minutes. Then it gradually sank in on him that all he’d done was provide himself with an alibi from noon on. The medical examination would show Dennis and Gregory had died several hours before that, wouldn’t it?
God in heaven, what was the matter with him? Why hadn’t he said he was mugged at nine or ten in the morning? The police wouldn’t know any different, since the four thuglings had so considerately hidden him in the bushes. But perhaps the medical evidence wouldn’t be able to pinpoint the time of death that exactly—was that possible? If it couldn’t, then he still had a chance of getting out of this.
A chance. It was still unsettled, still up in the air. He’d had the opportunity to clear himself once and for all—and he blew it. Naturally.
That one last bit of evidence of his own ineptitude proved to be the final straw. All the traumas of the day ganged up on King and knocked him out. He fell into a deep, dream-filled sleep that lasted for eleven hours.
Wednesday he’d arrived in New York and had the design job of his life land in his lap. Thursday he’d accidentally killed two colleagues, spent the day eating, and gotten mugged. Friday the doctor told him he could probably go home later in the day—if he stayed in bed most of the time, rested, took it easy, and came back for a check-up on Monday. King promised to do all those things.
Now he lay in the hospital bed with the phone directory open to MechoTech. He couldn’t put off calling Warren Osterman any longer, but he was having trouble cranking himself up for the task. King was going to have to play the injured innocent, the brutally beaten victim of a vicious gang of hardened criminals—flat on his back, helpless, and with no idea that Dennis Cox and Gregory Dillard were dead. That was a hell of a lot to bring off.
He’d just pulled the telephone over into his lap when the door opened and two women came in. One, a nurse, pointed to his bed and left. The other, a nondescript sort of person it would be easy to forget, came over to him and held up a gold shield.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Larch of the NYPD,” the woman said. “You are King Sarcowicz?”
A police detective? King swallowed and said, “I am. I told the two officers who were here last night all I could about the muggers.”
“That’s not what I’m here about, Mr. Sarcowicz. May I sit down?” Without waiting for an answer she pulled a chair up beside his bed. “You’re one of the owners of Keystone Robotics in Pittsburgh? In partnership with Dennis Cox?”
King’s heart pounded. “Yes.”
“Could you tell me when you last saw Mr. Cox?”
“Yesterday morning. Why?”
“What time was that?”
Careful. “Uh, I don’t know exactly. Fairly early.”
“You left the apartment early? How early?”
King’s skin began to itch. “I didn’t check the time, Sergeant. What’s this all about?”
“Before nine, after nine?”
“Around nine, I guess it was—maybe ten. Sergeant …?”
“Larch, Sergeant Marian Larch. Where was Mr. Cox when you left?”
“In the bathtub, soaking. He has a bad back.”
“And Gregory Dillard? Where was he?”
“Gregory? He was still in the apartment when I left.” King’s skin was itching furiously; the police suspected him! Already, they suspected him! Admit nothing. Volunteer nothing. “Sergeant Larch, why are you asking me these questions? What’s going on?”
Sergeant Larch took a deep breath and said, “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Mr. Sarcowicz. It’s about your partner.”
“Something’s happened to Dennis?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to tell you this, but he’s dead.”
King had no difficulty in looking shocked. Hearing the words spoken aloud by another person brought it all home again. He closed his eyes and saw again the little red TV set in the bathwater between Dennis’s legs. He saw Dennis’s perfectly still body, his open eyes. King opened his own eyes and looked at the police detective watching him sympathetically. What would she expect him to say? “How?” he croaked.
“He was electrocuted, in the bath. There was a small television set in the water with him.”
“Oh, no!” King gave a sincere-sounding groan. “I warned him about that! I told him it was dangerous to use small appliances where they could fall into the water! Oh, my god—Dennis!”
Sergeant Larch waited a moment and said, “I’m afraid there’s something more.” Then she told him about Gregory Dillard.
King threw both arms up over his face. He was going to have to do some acting now; he couldn’t get as worked up over Gregory as over Dennis. Still keeping his face covered, he cried out, “That goddam heavy window! It took two of us to lift it the day before! Why did he try it by himself?”
“Well, sir, we’re not sure he did. Look, I can see you’re upset—we’ll finish this later. Do you know when you’re getting out of the hospital?”
“Possibly later today—the doctor is waiting for some test results. What do you mean, you’re not sure Gregory tried to lift the window alone?”
She took a deep breath. “Mr. Sarcowicz, when three out of four people staying in the same apartment are all victims of violence on the same day, wouldn’t you wonder what was going on? Isn’t it possible that it might have been four out of four if Mimi Hargrove hadn’t spent the night somewhere else?”
“You think the mugging …?”
“May not have been a mugging. We’ve had an APB out on you for twenty-four hours, Mr. Sarcowicz—we didn’t know what had become of you. My partner just happened to see your name on a printout of crimes reported last night or else I wouldn’t be here now. Did you let anybody know what had happened?”
“Warren Osterman? Didn’t you try to call your partner?”
King’s mouth went dry. “It’s nearly eleven. I thought everybody’d be at MechoTech.”
Sergeant Marian Larch accepted that, and said she’d talk to him again later. She expressed her sympathy for his loss in a way that made him believe she meant it, and then she left.
King called Warren Osterman as fast as his finger could punch out the number.
It was four in the afternoon before King’s doctor told him he could go, repeating his warnings about bed rest and coming back for a check-up. In a way, King didn’t want to leave the hospital; he felt safe there. Outside, there would be questions.
Warren Osterman couldn’t come himself, so he sent Rae Borchard, she of the enigmatic persona. “There’s no question of your staying in that apartment now,” she said briskly. “Warren wants you moved to another apartment we maintain for out-of-town visitors. Mrs. Hargrove is there already.”
“I’ll need to pick up my things.”
“Yes. We’ll make it as fast as possible.”
King cleared his throat. “Do you know if the, uh, what I mean is …?”
“The bodies have been removed.”
MechoTech took care of the hospital bill. Rae Borchard drove a Mercedes 560 SL, the same model as Dennis’s. On the way to the first apartment, she did her best to assure King that he’d be safe in the new building. “Six security guards are on duty around the clock. In addition, there’s a state-of-the-art alarm system that’s connected to the police precinct house. There won’t be anyone slipping uninvited into that apartment.”
“You think Mimi and I are in danger?”
“Warren Osterman thinks so. There’s a lot of money riding on our project. Warren’s convinced some competitor is out to kill off the entire design team, to force MechoTech to default on the contract.”
Now there was a novel idea. “Warren’s convinced. You’re not?”
