ted The Diary of Anne Frank. Uh-uh, too sad. Gallipoli. I read the blurb on the cover; sounded grim. Laura. One of my favorites, but why not try something I hadn’t already seen a hundred times? Raging Bull. I’d seen that one be
fore, too—only once, but, if I remembered right, I hadn’t been all that crazy about it. The Elephant Man. Another tearjerker. I’d probably be better off in that section with the new releases. . . .
Oh, the hell with it. The rain had let up by now, so I should be getting back, anyway.
Maybe I’d stop somewhere after work and pick up a pocket book—a murder mystery. Just what I needed, right?
Chapter 31
I was anxious to know how things had gone on Peter’s first day back at the hospital. So as soon as I finished dinner Tuesday night, I called and left a message on his machine. Then I decided to dig out my notes on the case. Whatever
it was I was looking for was in there somewhere; I’d swear to it. And, no doubt inspired by the little talk I’d had with my
self that morning, I somehow got the idea in my head that tonight I would find it. But even after going over every page three or four times, I didn’t know any more when I closed the folder than I did when I’d opened it.
I had really built up my expectations, too. (And you’d think I’d have known better than to trust me, wouldn’t you?) In fact, I’d managed to make myself so manic that I just couldn’t seem to wind down after that.
I started reading the new Mary Higgins Clark paperback
I’d picked up in Woolworth’s on the way home, but I didn’t make it any further than the third paragraph. So I put it away and rifled through the newspaper; I couldn’t concen
trate long enough to take in more than two or three senten
ces. Then I checked the TV Guide on the coffee table; there was nothing on television I was even remotely interested in seeing. I really should have rented one of those videos. If I’d loved Laura the first hundred times, why wouldn’t I have loved it the hundred and first? Or maybe I should have tried Raging Bull again. I might have enjoyed it more this time, now that I was no longer of such tender years. (All right, so they weren’t so tender even then.) It was about that fighter . . . what was his name? Rocky Marciano, I think. No, Jake LaMotta. That was it. There was some
thing I remembered hearing about that movie, too. Now, what was it? Something to do with . . .
I slapped myself on the forehead—a lot harder than I meant to. But it was okay; I deserved it. Robert De Niro!
Of course! How could I have been so dense?
Chapter 32
Hallelujah!
It was three in the morning. I’d just finished checking my notes again and again and then again, and at last it had all come together! The only problem was what to do with the truth now that I’d discovered it. But a couple of hours later, my perseverance—along with the thousands of crappy movies I’d been watching all my life—finally produced an absolutely foolproof scheme for trapping the killer. I might have gotten a few minutes of sleep after that; I’m not really sure. All I know is that I was out of bed at six, wide awake and waiting impatiently for seven—the very earliest I dared call Fielding. I only managed to hold out until six-thirty.
‘‘Christ,’’ he groused, his voice thick with sleep, ‘‘I was better off acting like a bastard.’’
‘‘I would have called you anyhow. I think you’ll be glad I did, too.’’ I allowed for a brief, suspenseful interval. And then, straining to get the pitch of my voice down to ground level and slowly enunciating every word, I announced dra
matically, ‘‘I . . . know . . . who . . . did . . . it.’’
The significance of this revelation was totally lost on Fiel
ding, who yawned, ‘‘You know who did what?’’
Talk about a letdown! ‘‘I know who shot the twins!’’
He still wasn’t impressed. ‘‘You woulda known who did it an hour from now, too,’’ he remarked grumpily.
‘‘Listen, I have to talk to you. Can you meet me for breakfast?’’
‘‘Uh-uh. The lieutenant wants to see me at nine.’’
‘‘All right, how about ten?’’
‘‘Better make it ten-thirty.’’
I settled.
*
*
*
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We met at this luncheonette near the precinct. I was already in the booth, having coffee, when Fielding showed up, about fifteen minutes late.
‘‘Sorry, the damn meeting was—’’
‘‘It’s okay.’’ Then, before he could even get out of his coat and sit down, I informed him solemnly, ‘‘I need your help, Tim.’’
‘‘Why aren’t I surprised?’’
‘‘Look, I have this plan to catch the killer that just can’t fail. But the thing is, I can’t pull it off alone.’’
‘‘As Yogi Berra would say, ‘It’s de´ja` vu all over again.’
Let’s start at the beginning, though, huh? What is it you think you know?’’ He slid into the booth. ‘‘And just to keep you from spinning your wheels,’’ he warned, not waiting for an answer, ‘‘if you think I’m going to participate in one of your little plots again without having the slightest idea who it is I’m supposed to be after, you can forget it.’’
He was, of course, referring to how I’d handled our pre
vious collaboration of this nature. But I’d already antici
pated his reaction and decided to remove the stumbling block. ‘‘Don’t be silly; I have no intention of keeping you in the dark,’’ I told him magnanimously.
The waitress came for our order then. I could barely wait for her to walk away so I could share my findings. I opened with: ‘‘Every person involved in this case lied at some point or other in the investigation.’’ I offered up my own client as proof. ‘‘Even Peter had a phony alibi,’’ I said, quickly adding, ‘‘but, of course, he had a good reason.’’
‘‘Yeah, I’m sure,’’ Fielding put in snidely. ‘‘Your kid’s a regular Saint Francis of Assisi.’’
I was so anxious to get on with things, I was barely aware of the interruption. ‘‘But anyway,’’ I continued, ‘‘one lie was a little different from the others because of its implica
tion. Well, once I realized that, I immediately took another look at the case. Only this time I was a lot more focused, because I had a definite suspect in mind. And that’s when I spotted it—a fact that just hadn’t sunk in before. And when I analyzed this fact, I realized that only the person who had told me that lie—the one with the implication—
had a motive that fit all the circumstances of the crime!’’
‘‘I hope I’m not supposed to understand what the hell you’re talking about,’’ Fielding muttered.
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I had no idea that things would come out in such a jum
ble. ‘‘No, no,’’ I assured him quickly, ‘‘let me explain.’’ And then I proceeded to take him step by step through the process that had led me to the killer.
When I was through, he was thoughtful for a few mo
ments, and this feeling of dread swept over me. What if I’d missed something? Or what if Tim knew something I didn’t?
And then he conceded softly, ‘‘Damned if that doesn’t actually make some sense to me. You know, Dez, you’re not such a piss-poor detective, after all.’’ He caught himself in midgrin. ‘‘Wait a minute, lady,’’ he said. ‘‘Whatever hap
pened to that pooling of information you’re always yapping about? It seems to me you’ve been flying solo here. That is, you and that associate of yours, the Macy’s Flash.’’
I could feel my cheeks burn. ‘‘Honestly, Tim, for a while I didn’t know what was important and what wasn’t, and then I—’’
‘‘Never mind, we’ll talk about that another time,’’ Fiel
ding informed me. ‘‘You know, of course,’
’ he pointed out then, ‘‘that what you’ve given me isn’t exactly evidence. Which, I realize, is why I’m getting this free breakfast or brunch or whatever you want to call it.’’ He looked down at the plate of bacon and eggs the waitress had just set before him. ‘‘You wanna tell me what I have to do for this?’’
So I outlined my plan to supply the killer with some bogus information that was certain to provoke another at
tempt on the victim’s life.
Fielding anticipated the rest. ‘‘And you want us to get her moved into another room and have a policewoman take
her place, is that it?’’
‘‘It doesn’t have to be a policewoman. It could be a dummy instead. Or just a bunch of pillows covered up to look like there’s really a person under the blankets. But anyway, you’ve got the idea.’’
‘‘It wasn’t that tough. I own a television, too, you know.’’
‘‘Hey, I’m not saying I came up with an original plot here, but it should still work.’’
‘‘Why not?’’ He commented dryly. ‘‘It worked on every cop show that’s ever been on TV.’’
‘‘Well, it was the best idea I could come up with. So?
What do you think?’’ I demanded anxiously.
‘‘I think it’s worth a shot. But it’s not up to me; it has to be the captain’s decision.’’
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207
‘‘Uh, the sooner we do it, the better, too; don’t you agree? I was kind of hoping we could set it up for Monday.’’
‘‘Believe me, Dez, nobody wants to wrap this thing up more than I do. But like I said, it’s not my decision. I’ll call you one way or the other the minute I know something.’’
When the phone rang at around nine o’clock that eve
ning, my mouth suddenly went so dry I could barely croak out a ‘‘Hello.’’
But it was Peter, and he sounded exhilarated. ‘‘I really think Mary Ann missed me,’’ he enthused. ‘‘You know, when I couldn’t get up to see her all those days, one of her doctors told her I was home sick, and then when I walked in yesterday she asked how I was feeling, and her eyes seemed to light up.’’
Considering how much he could see of the girl’s eyes, I had to wonder if that might not be wishful thinking, but I said, ‘‘That’s just great, Peter.’’
‘‘I think so, too,’’ he responded, almost blissfully. Right then, I was tempted to tell him I knew the identity of the killer and fill him in on my plan. But I quickly vetoed the idea. Peter had enough to think about right now with
out that; better to just wait until the whole thing was over. He made the decision easy for me, too, hanging up without even asking how the investigation was coming. I think he’d given up on that weeks ago.
After Peter’s call, I occupied myself with rehearsing, once again, what I’d say to the perp to set things in motion. As soon as I got the green light from Tim, I’d phone on some pretext or other—there were a couple of options I was considering. Then I’d let it drop that pretty soon (Mon
day, if I had my way) the victim would no longer be getting round-the-clock protection; there’d just be someone sta
tioned in the room from ten p.m. until six a.m., I’d say. Right after that, I’d go into this whole thing about how the precinct captain was claiming they couldn’t afford to have someone guarding her all the time anymore and that he felt she’d be safe enough during the day anyway, with all those people running around the place.
According to my script, the murderer would respond with
something like: ‘‘Isn’t that kind of risky?’’
‘‘It sure is,’’ I’d answer, ‘‘and Sergeant Fielding is as mad
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as hell about it, but there’s nothing he can do. The captain’s carrying on that it could be years before she regains her memory—if she ever does—and that they don’t have the budget or the manpower to keep three shifts on
indefinitely.’’
Then I’d slip in the coup de graˆce.
‘‘That’s pretty ironic, too,’’ I’d remark.
‘‘What do you mean?’’ the murderer would, of course, want to know.
‘‘Oh, I thought you might have heard about it,’’ I’d reply.
‘‘The other day, she seemed to remember something. I don’t know just what it was. It wasn’t much, I understand; nothing to do with the shootings, anyway. The captain wasn’t impressed enough to change his mind, but the doc
tors feel she could really be on her way.’’
Now, with the victim possibly on the brink of regaining her memory, the perp would have to make a move—and right away. Monday, I’d bet. I had the time nailed down, too—sort of. Even with the victim unprotected, the killer wouldn’t be rash enough to try anything during the day. So the attack would probably occur at night between eightthirty, when visiting hours were over, and ten, when there would supposedly be a man coming on duty. There was, though, an outside chance it would take place early Mon
day or Tuesday morning, right after the guard presumably ended his shift. But I considered that less likely. With the hospital staff busy with the morning routine, there’d be a lot more activity at that hour.
Of course, I cautioned myself, I’d have to make sure that all this garbage I’d be spewing seemed to come out natu
rally, in conversation, so the perp would have no inkling this was a setup.
To tell the truth, though, I really wasn’t too worried about that. While I wouldn’t say that Meryl or Glenn had cause for an anxiety attack, when it came right down to it, I wasn’t a bad little actress. I was in my high-school drama club, you know.
Besides, even if I didn’t come off as absolutely convinc
ing, if there was even the slightest possibility I was telling the truth, could the killer afford to let the surviving twin survive much longer?
Chapter 33
I can’t tell you how many times since my meeting with Fielding that I started to dial his number, only to force myself to put down the phone. When he finally called on Friday morning, I literally had one foot out of the door. I ran back and picked up just in time to beat out the answer
ing machine.
‘‘Sorry for the delay,’’ he said. ‘‘The lieutenant dragged his ass getting to the captain. Anyway, I got good news and bad news for you.’’
Uh-oh. ‘‘Give me the bad news first,’’ I instructed, my mouth instantly drying up on me again.
‘‘I can’t. It won’t work that way. The good news is the captain gave us the green light.’’
‘‘Terrific!’’ Then, apprehensively: ‘‘Okay, so what’s the bad news?’’
‘‘We’ll have to put the operation on hold for a little while, that’s all, mostly because we’re shorthanded down at the precinct right now. One guy’s on vacation, two others are out sick, and a policewoman went to the hospital yester
day with a fractured rib. Besides, everything will have to be coordinated with the hospital administration people and the DA’s office, and the captain wants to make sure every
one’ll be available so we can finalize things. Figure we’ll have the go-ahead by the middle of next week or the fol
lowing Monday, the latest.’’
‘‘Damn!’’
‘‘Look, hotshot, you wouldn’t want anything to go wrong
would you? It all has to be worked out so every contingen
cy’s covered.’’
‘‘Yes, but—’’
‘‘And anyway, I thought you only took this case to find out if your client’s fianceé was dead or alive. And there’s a good chance you’ll have your answer on Monday when
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that jewelry woman gets back from wherever the hell she’s been for so long. So concentrate on that in the meantime, why don’t you? I’ll talk to you as soon as I get the word. Okay?’’
I managed a gr
udging okay. What choice did I have?
Being one of the most impatient people I know, I did not take the postponement of my plan in particularly good grace. So I wasn’t exactly Little Mary Sunshine around the office that day. In fact, at eleven o’clock or so, Jackie sug
gested I shut my door so no one else would have to be subjected to me. I went along, since the only person who deserved to come within a hundred feet of me just then was Will Fitzgerald, and he was on vacation. (And speaking of Fitzgerald, did I mention that according to office dish he was definitely on his way out? Something to do with a cli
ent’s wife and an elevator, I heard. Which is another one of those good news/bad news things. I mean—like any true
Scorpio—I would have enjoyed his troubles a whole lot more if I could have contributed a little something to them.)
At any rate, by late afternoon, my mood had improved considerably. After all, it was just over a week, at the out
side, until we’d finally have our killer. Besides, as Fielding said, in three days Charlotte Bromley would be back. And I was feeling pretty optimistic about her ability to tell us who that ring belonged to.
Three more days and we’ll know, I kept repeating to my
self. Only three more days. . . . Chapter 34
I called Ellen late Friday night and somehow performed the almost impossible feat of keeping my mouth shut about solving the case. I was reserving that for when I saw her in person. And not only because I knew she’d be bombard
ing me with a million questions, either, but—and I admit this was the main reason—because, after all the grief, I felt entitled to do a little showing off at this point. Which, of course, is a lot more effective face-to-face—especially when you’ve got the world’s best audience.
‘‘There are four absolutely gorgeous veal chops in my freezer,’’ I said enticingly. ‘‘So if you don’t have anything better to do tomorrow night, how about coming over for dinner?’’
‘‘Oh, I wish I could, but I already made plans with Gin
ger—you know, in my building? I’m meeting her after work, and we’re going to grab some deli and take in a movie. Why don’t you join us?’’
Murder Can Ruin Your Looks Page 24
