ing on him? Not on your life! Not after you went hotfooting it down there and got him to attack you in front of a build
ing full of witnesses.’’
(I like that; I got him to attack me.) ‘‘Look, I—’’
‘‘Why’d you have to go running over there, anyway?
Even if Bromley had come back a day earlier, what was so urgent you couldn’t have held out until tomorrow?’’
‘‘It’s just that I—’’
‘‘You can bet the son of a bitch is on his way to God knows where right this minute, thanks to you!’’
‘‘But he turned in his passport,’’ I protested, finally man
aging to break in.
‘‘You ever heard of California? Or New Jersey?’’
With those words, our conversation was abruptly
concluded.
A moment later, the doctor returned to the living room.
‘‘I just put up a pot of coffee. How about it?’’ he offered. Which is when—now that I was feeling a little more like myself again—I took note for the first time of how pleasantlooking he was.
‘‘Thanks, but I really have to be getting home. You’ve been very nice.’’ Very, very nice. I sneaked a glance at that crucial finger on his left hand. No ring! ‘‘I wouldn’t object to a glass of water, though,’’ I told him.
I insisted on accompanying him to the kitchen, which was
absolutely spotless. Either the doctor here was a real Mr.
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Clean or nobody ever cooked in this place. And he didn’t look like an obsessive to me. Then, when he opened the refrigerator for the ice water, I took a quick peek inside. A carton of milk, a couple of cans of Coke, a six-pack of beer, a plate of fruit, and, next to it, something that was probably a wedge of cheese. And that was about all. Not a single container of yogurt or cottage cheese. There was no cohabitating in this refrigerator, I decided happily. What I had standing in front of me at that very moment was one of the rarest creatures not yet in captivity: a young, single male who was considerate, attractive, and a doctor, to boot!
My sister-in-law, Margot, was going to bless me for this—
maybe even if he didn’t turn out to be Jewish.
A few minutes later, the doctor and I were standing out
side the building. He’d offered to see me home, and when I convinced him it wasn’t necessary, he insisted on putting me in a taxi. I extended my hand. ‘‘I want to thank you for everything, Dr. . . . ?’’
‘‘Lynton, Mike Lynton,’’ he said, taking the hand. ‘‘I’m sorry; I should have introduced myself before. But you were out cold when we first met,’’ he reminded me with a grin. ‘‘And then I seem to have forgotten about it.’’
‘‘Is that L-i-n-t-o-n?’’
‘‘L- y-n-t-o-n,’’ he corrected.
‘‘Are you in the phone book?’’
He misunderstood the reason for the question. ‘‘Yes, but
I’m not in private practice yet; I have another year of residency.’’
‘‘That’s okay; I already have a pretty good doctor.’’
Just then, a taxi came barreling around the corner, screeching to a stop in front of us.
Mike Lynton helped me inside. As the cab shot away from the curb, I realized I’d forgotten the same thing he had. I stuck my head out of the open window and yelled,
‘‘Mine’s Desiree Shapiro!’’
Chapter 37
The aftershock occurred when I was sitting in that taxi. All of a sudden, I began to tremble. And by the time I got out of the cab, I was shaking so hard my legs almost gave out before I reached the elevator.
That night, I went to bed without even taking off my makeup, which is something I never— ever—do, no matter how tired I am. (What’s more, I didn’t even give a thought to how the stuff was clogging my pores.) I was so exhausted that I expected to fall right to sleep, but I lay there for hours, too keyed up to close my eyes. When I finally did drop off, sometime in the not-so-early morning, I had this awful nightmare. . . .
I was a little red fox, and I was playing all alone in this beautiful, tranquil meadow. And then, off in the distance, I saw a man. He was handsomely decked out in a red riding coat, black jodhpurs, and black riding boots, a black bowler sitting on top of his head. He began walking toward me, and when he drew near, I saw that the man was Eric Foster. Something in his slow, purposeful approach made me afraid, and I started to run through the grass. But he began running, too. And no matter how fast I went, he kept get
ting closer and closer.
Abruptly, everything changed, and I was in New York City. I can’t tell you why I was so sure it was New York, because it was a strange, desolate place. There wasn’t an
other soul around except for me (the little red fox) and—
so far away I could barely make him out—Eric Foster. Now Foster was chasing me up and down the deserted city streets. And before long he was gaining on me. I was terrified! My little paws began to sweat, and my heart was thumping like crazy. And then I felt an icy breath on the back of my neck, and I knew that I couldn’t escape. Suddenly a drainpipe materialized in front of me, and I
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scurried inside. At last I was safe! But a moment later I heard this loud, rushing sound. I looked up in horror as an avalanche of water came pouring down the drainpipe, car
rying me right along with it into the street and the clutches of my pursuer—who now wore the face of Tim Fielding!
Fielding’s hands went around my throat, his strong fin
gers constricting my windpipe. I opened my mouth, gasping for breath. . . .
The jangling of the telephone released me from my mis
ery. But I was having so much difficulty breathing, I could barely get out the hello.
‘‘Desiree?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ I wheezed.
‘‘What’s wrong?’’ Jackie asked sharply.
‘‘Wrong?’’ I repeated densely. Then I realized where—
and who—I was. I turned my head to look at the clock. It was almost ten-thirty. ‘‘I’m sorry, Jackie,’’ I said, regaining my voice. ‘‘I had a pretty close call last night, and I didn’t bother setting the alarm.’’
‘‘What happened? Are you all right?’’ she demanded.
‘‘I’m still a little shaky, that’s all. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. I don’t think I can make it in today.’’
‘‘Are you positive you’re all right?’’
I had to assure her three times that I was not at death’s door before she finally let me off the phone.
I got out of bed then, too fearful of winding up in the same dream again to consider going back to sleep. I was completely drenched and desperately in need of a shower. And I could use a couple of Tylenols, too; my head was even more achy now than it had been the night before. As soon as I’d attended to these minor matters, I called Peter. ‘‘I have some news for you,’’ I told his machine.
‘‘Call me as soon as you can.’’
It took two cups of coffee and a toasted English before I was ready to even think about facing Tim Fielding. And I only hoped he didn’t shoot me on sight.
When I arrived at the precinct, Walter Corcoran was sit
ting on the edge of Fielding’s desk, talking softly. He heard the click of my heels and looked up. ‘‘Well, well,’’ he sneered, ‘‘if it isn’t mother’s little helper.’’
I pretended he was invisible. ‘‘Can I talk to you privately for a few minutes, Tim?’’ I asked.
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Fielding lifted his head from the folder he’d started to busy himself with the moment Corcoran ‘‘greeted’’ me. His expression was so forbidding, I got this immediate mental replay of him choking the life out of the poor little red fox.
‘‘It’s important,’’ I put in quickly.
He gestured to the chair alongside his desk, then turned to his partner. ‘‘See you later, okay, Walt?’’ he said pointedly.
Corcoran shrugged. As he was walking away, he mum
bled something (no doubt obscene) under his breath, which I was fortunate enough not to hear.
Fielding closed the folder. ‘‘Okay, what’s on your mind?’’ He was scowling, and this little blue vein at his temple was jumping up and down. Now, although he had
blown up at me once or twice before, it takes a lot to make Fielding genuinely angry. (I don’t count that busi
ness with Peter, which was really an aberration.) But, anyway, I could see that right then he was livid. And I couldn’t blame him.
‘‘Anything happen with Foster?’’ I asked. A big mistake.
‘‘I thought you were here to tell me something,’’ he snapped, and the blue vein started jumping in double time.
‘‘Right. I am,’’ I assured him hastily. ‘‘I wanted you to—’’
‘‘Do you know where we caught up with that S.O.B.? At
J.F.K.! With a ticket to Salt Lake City in his hand! Seven minutes more, and we would have been too late.’’
‘‘Uh, did he confess?’’ I found the courage to ask.
‘‘Oh, sure, the nice man told us everything,’’ he re
sponded in this soft, pleasant voice. Then, almost shouting:
‘‘Listen, the only thing that slimeball had to say when we collared him was five words: ‘‘I want to call my lawyer.’’ I didn’t dare point out that that was six words.
‘‘There’s a real good possibility we can’t even tie in what happened last night with the attack on his sisters,’’ he ranted on. ‘‘Chances are, all we can hang on him is this thing with you. Did anyone actually see him holding the gun on you?’’
‘‘I don’t think so. The —’’
‘‘So when it comes right down to it, we may not be able to get him on anything more than simple assault!’’ Fielding shook his head in disgust before spitting out his conclusion.
‘‘And all because you couldn’t wait a few lousy hours to find out what that Bromley woman had to say!’’
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‘‘I’m sorry, Tim. It’s just that—’’
‘‘I suppose you thought you’d do a better job of ques
tioning her than we would.’’
‘‘It’s not that; it’s just—’’
‘‘Well, from here on in, don’t expect any help on your lousy cases from this department.’’ He wasn’t through yet.
‘‘I don’t get you; you know that? Your plan was in the works, and we had a good shot—a damned good shot—at catching that rotten scumbag red-handed. Now we may never be able to nail him for what he did to those poor women.’’
He seemed to have wound down, so I opened my hand
bag. ‘‘I think maybe you can,’’ I said, removing a handker
chief-wrapped item and placing it reverently on the desk. Fielding let out a long, low whistle. ‘‘I’ll be damned,’’ he murmured, flipping back a corner of the handkerchief with a pencil and staring down at my peace offering.
‘‘In all the excitement last night, Foster had to leave this behind. You hung up before I had a chance to tell you about it. Do you think it’s the same gun he used on his sisters?’’
Sticking the pencil in the trigger guard of the revolver, Fielding lifted the weapon carefully, peering at it as though hypnotized. ‘‘I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,’’ he said softly.
‘‘But we’ll soon find out for sure.’’
I started to get up then, but he put out his arm to restrain me. ‘‘Look, Dez, I’m sorry I blew up at you today. I over
reacted, I know. It’s just that I can’t stand the thought of that S.O.B. getting away with it.’’ He favored me with a faint smile. ‘‘Now I owe you two lunches.’’
‘‘You can leave it at one,’’ I told him magnanimously.
‘‘This time, I deserved it.’’
‘‘Yeah, you did—you do,’’ he agreed, breaking into a full-fledged grin. But if this is the same gun, all is forgiven.’’
‘‘Uh, Tim?’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Speaking of Bromley—’’
‘‘That was ten minutes ago. But, all right, what about Bromley?’’
‘‘Have you been able to reach her yet?’’
‘‘Jee- sus! You don’t let up for a second!’’ he yelled, but this time it was in that mock-angry tone he’d been using with me ever since we first met. I felt comfortable then.
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‘‘Well . . . uh . . . have you?’’ I persisted—but cautiously.
‘‘As a matter of fact, we’ve been trying her all morning and getting the same old taped message on the answering machine.’’
‘‘Tim? One more thing . . .’’
‘‘ Now what?’’
‘‘You’ll call as soon as the ballistics report comes in, won’t you?’’
‘‘I guess I owe you that, ’’ my once again very good friend conceded.
Chapter 38
My four absolutely gorgeous veal chops remained in the freezer; I really wasn’t up to preparing anything. Tonight, it would have to be dinner a` la Ellen. In other words, Chi
nese takeout.
Since Ellen was coming over so late, I decided to order ahead of time, which I could do with no hesitation. The one thing in life I know with absolute certainty is my niece’s favorite Chinese dishes.
She got to the apartment at a little after nine. ‘‘Some
thing’s wrong,’’ she said as soon as she walked in. Now, for the life of me, I still can’t figure out how she arrived at that conclusion. I mean, all I did was open the damned door, for God’s sake. And I’d seen to it that my hair was combed and then spritzed with its customary ton and a half of hair spray, and I’d spent at least fifteen mi
nutes applying makeup. (After all, Ellen is a very sensitive person, and I didn’t want to put her into trauma.) ‘‘What makes you say that?’’ I asked.
‘‘I’m not exactly sure. You’ve got a kind of funny expres
sion. Anyhow, I’m right, aren’t I?’’
‘‘Well, I had some trouble last night, but I’m okay now.’’
Just thinking about it made me queasy.
Ellen’s skin immediately seemed to lose some of its pig
ment. ‘‘Tell me what happened,’’ she demanded nervously.
‘‘After we eat; otherwise I won’t be able to swallow a bite. I’m really fine now,’’ I assured her again.
She opened her mouth to protest, then changed her mind. And by the time she was out of her coat, the doorbell rang. Dinner was about to be served.
I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed everything that night. The Peking spare ribs were almost burned to a cinder—
just the way I like them. The egg rolls were crisp and greaseless. The fried rice was wonderfully tasty. The scal
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lops in black bean sauce were . . . well, ‘‘divine’’ might not do them justice. And is there any higher praise I can give the lemon chicken than to say it was the best I’d ever eaten?
Ellen didn’t seem quite as enamored of Ping Chow’s fare
as I was. But it didn’t even cross my mind at the time that my perception of things might be directly related to my recent near-fatal encounter. It stands to reason, though, that food would taste a whole lot better if you’d just come close to not being around to enjoy it ever again. Anyway, once we’d finished our coffee and the Italian pastries Ellen had brought (there’s no law that says you can’t have coffee and Italian pastries with Chinese food, you know), we went into the living room. And when we were comfortably settled at either end of my newly reup
holstered sofa, Ellen insisted on her explanation.
‘‘I’ll tell you
about last night later; I have something else to tell you first,’’ I said almost offhandedly.
She looked at me questioningly.
‘‘Eric Foster shot his sisters.’’
I’m never disappointed in Ellen’s reaction to things; she always gives you one hundred percent. ‘‘Nooo!’’ she shrieked. ‘‘See? I knew you’d do it! How did you find out?’’
‘‘Well,’’ I began, ‘‘let me preface everything by saying that all along I was aware—just as you were, as I recall—
that the key to the crime was the bizarre way those poor girls were shot. And I kept going through all these mental gymnastics to try and make some sense out of it—including coming up with the theory that Mary Ann played a prank on the killer and pretended to be Meredith, which is the kind of stuff the two of them used to pull as kids. Of course, that was not only a real stretch but, from what I know of the adult Mary Ann, not her at all. In other words, I had my usual quota of dumb ideas.’’
‘‘You always do that to yourself! Isn’t it enough that you came up with the truth now—before anyone else did?’’ my loyal niece demanded hotly. Then, experiencing a brief mo
ment of doubt, she said hesitantly, ‘‘You were the one to solve it, weren’t you?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘I don’t know why I asked that. Of course you were; you had to be.’’
I forced myself to refrain from basking in the glow of
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Ellen’s admiration—at least for the time being. ‘‘At any rate,’’ I went on, ‘‘the real reason for the disfigurement was a whole lot simpler. It was absolutely essential to Foster’s motive. But, of course, I would never have pieced the whole thing together if I hadn’t gone to the video store.’’
Ellen, as you can appreciate, looked hopelessly lost.
‘‘Let me explain.’’ I told her. . . .
‘‘There wasn’t anyone involved with this case who didn’t
lie to me for one reason or another,’’ I said, approaching things more or less as I had with Fielding, but this time actually taking the pains to make sense. ‘‘Larry Shields lied about arguing with Meredith. And Lucille Collins lied to back him up. And Roger Hyer lied when he denied know
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