by Ed McBain
“Who is it, darling?” Sarah called.
“Nobody there,” Michael said.
She knew at once that the call was from Andrew. He was back.
She kept reading. The words made no sense to her. They swarmed over the page. She had to get out of here, had to get to a telephone. But not too soon after the call. Give it time, she thought, and read again the same paragraph for the third time. At twenty past nine, she said, “Do you feel like some frozen yogurt?”
“Not really,” Michael said.
“I think I’ll go down for some, would you mind?”
“I think there’s some in the freezer.”
“I want the soft kind,” she said, and got up and marked her place in the book, taking plenty of time, closing the book, setting it down on the coffee table, all of this feeling like slow motion to her, wanting to race out of the apartment, find the nearest phone booth, walking to the entry hall to the same slow-motion beat, “Can I bring one back for you?”
“No, thanks, hon.”
Hoping he wouldn’t suddenly change his mind and tell her he’d like to come along, picking up her bag from the hall table, opening it in slow motion, and then opening her purse to make sure she had quarters because otherwise she’d have to go to the laundry jar in the kitchen cabinet and steal some quarters, but there were three quarters in the purse, together with a handful of nickels and dimes, she was all right. She snapped the purse closed with a click that sounded like a cannon shot, and put it back in her bag, and slung the bag on her shoulder, and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Maybe I …”
No, please, she thought, don’t!
“. . . will have one,” he said. “The no-fat Dutch chocolate, on a sugar cone. If they have it. Otherwise whatever they’ve got.”
“In no-fat, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. See you in a bit.”
Casually. No further talk. Just get out of here. Reaching for the doorknob. Opening the door. Stepping out into the hall. Pulling the door shut behind her. The click of the lock. Forcing herself to walk slowly, slowly, slowly down the hall to the elevator, and pressing the button for the elevator, and hearing it clattering up the shaft, the door sliding open, stepping into the car, pushing the black button with, the white L stamped onto it, the door sliding shut again, and the elevator starting its descent.
She did not feel safe until she reached the coffee shop on Seventy-Eighth and Lex.
“Hi,” she said, “it’s me.”
“Sarah! God, I missed you!”
“You’re back.”
“I’m back. You knew it was me calling …”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“Downstairs. I made an excuse to get out.”
“Are we okay for tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Billy’ll be there. Same time.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Neither can I. I wish I were there with you right this minute.”
“So do I.”
“I love you, Andrew,”
“I love you, too, Sarah.”
“Tomorrow,” she said.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
There was a click on the line.
The pen register recorded the duration of the conversation as twenty-three seconds. Sitting the wire in the apartment on Grand Street, Detective/First Grade Jerry Mandel picked up the clipboard with the line sheets on it and recorded the caller’s name as Sarah.
At that very moment, a block away, Detective/First Grade Freddie Coulter, wearing Con Ed coveralls and a Con Ed hard hat, was unscrewing the plate from the street pole on the corner of Mott and Broome. He had installed a video camera with a pinhole lens in the hot dog cart that would be in place on the corner tomorrow. Now he needed his power source.
Power was always the main consideration. You either supplied your own power or you stole your power. In this instance, either a boat battery or a car battery inside the cart would have been sufficient, but sooner or later it would have needed replacement. He preferred stealing his power from Con Ed. He tapped into the pole now, fitted his cable with a male plug that would fit into the female outlet he’d already installed in the cart, and then screwed back onto the base a new panel notched to accommodate the cable running from inside the pole.
Hiding the cable with a tented wedge of wood painted in yellow and black stripes to look official, Coulter packed his tools and walked away from his handiwork, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow morning at ten, the hot dog cart would be here on the corner, ready to take pictures of anyone who went through that blue door across the street.
By four-thirty p.m. that Wednesday, the fifth day of May, Detective/Third Grade Gregory Annunziato of the District Attorney’s Office Squad was beginning to think the plant was a lousy idea. He’d sold a lot of hot dogs since ten this morning, true enough, but selling hot dogs wasn’t taking pictures of wiseguys.
Annunziato was wearing a plaid sports shirt and corduroy trousers and a white, mustard-smeared apron that effectively hid the .38 Detectives Special in a clamshell holster on his belt. He had curly black hair and dark brown eyes and a lot of his customers asked him if he was Italian. When he said he was—although he’d been born in Brooklyn—they invariably broke into Italian, which he spoke only sparingly, telling him how good his hot dogs and knishes were and expressing gratitude for the presence of the cart on this otherwise dismal corner. Annunziato kept his eye on the blue door across the street.
At four forty-three p.m., a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up on the same side of the street as the cart, some fifteen, twenty feet ahead of it, and a good-looking blond woman wearing a gray suit and carrying an attaché case and a gray leather shoulder bag got out of the car, leaned back in to say something to the driver, and then closed the door behind her. As she began walking diagonally across the street toward the blue door, Annunziato hit the remote button that started his video camera.
Her back to the camera, the woman went to the shadowed door and rang the bell.
She leaned in close to the speaker to say something.
Annunziato heard a buzzer sound across the street, unlatching the door.
As the woman went in and closed the door behind her, the tape digitally recorded the time and date as MAY 05-16:43:57.
She didn’t get to read him the poem she’d composed until that afternoon. She took it out of her handbag, and sitting naked in the center of the bed, feeling very much like a child reciting for an expectant parent, she began.
“Andy, and Dandy, and Tandy and Drew.
Which is my love, and is my love true?
Farrell the Valiant or Farrar the Iron,
Which is my hero, and which one is mine?
Carter and Goldsmith, now who might they be?
Nothing on AMEX or NYSE.
Phantom investors, they …”
“What does that mean?” he asked sharply.
“Well, we couldn’t find …”
“Couldn’t find?”
“Yes, we …”
“We?”
“My accountant. I asked him …”
“You what?”
“I asked him to run a check on Carter-Goldsmith. So I could use the information in the poem. But there wasn’t anything, so I …”
“Why’d you do that?”
“For the poem.”
“Asked someone to check CGI?”
“Yes, but …”
“And he found nothing, huh?”
“It’s not listed on any of the ex—”
“That’s because it’s privately owned. You shouldn’t have checked on me.”
“I wasn’t. I …”
“Never mind. Let me hear the rest of
the poem.”
“No.”
“Let me hear it.”
“I don’t want to now.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” she said.
She sat stunned by his outburst, trying to understand what had provoked it, suddenly sensitive to her own nakedness, feeling exposed and vulnerable, somehow betrayed, utterly bewildered, and hurt, and close to tears. They were silent for what seemed a very long time. Then, wishing to retaliate, hoping to cause in him the same hurt twisting inside her, she said, “I’m going away this summer.”
His scowl changed at once to the familiar hurt and petulant little-boy look. Good, she thought.
“When?” he asked at once.
“I think he said August.”
Enjoying his discomfort. He would miss her. His face said he would miss her. But the scowl returned almost at once.
“You think who said? Your accountant?”
“My husband. That’s when he usually takes his vacation.
“For how long?”
“Three weeks.”
“What am I supposed to do during that time?”
The petulant look again. His changing emotions immediately flashing on his face.
“You can always call one of your teenagers,” she said, and shrugged. Sitting upright. Arms at her sides supporting her, elbows locked.
“You’re my teenager,” he said.
“Oh sure.”
“I hate these rich lawyers who can pick up and go at the drop of a hat.”
“He’s not a rich lawyer.”
“No? All of my lawyers are rich.”
“All of them? How many do you have?”
“Three.”
“Well, my husband earns eighty-five thousand a year.”
Deliberately using the word “husband.” Still wanting revenge for the way he’d pounced on her over a silly damn …
“Good reason to leave him.”
“What makes you think I’d ever do that?”
“Well …” he said, and shrugged.
Still sulking. Good, she thought. Lying naked on the bed beside her, looking limp and forlorn and gorgeous and utterly adorable. Casually, with the edge of her right hand, she brushed at an imaginary something on her left breast.
“What if I told you I may be able to get away for a few days?” she asked. Brows slightly raised.
“What do you mean?”
“With you.”
Turning to face him.
“You’re kidding. When?”
His expression changing again at once. The eyes brightening with expectation.
“It would have to be in July sometime. During the middle of the week sometime. A Tuesday … Wednesday …”
“You’re kidding!”
“I’ve already asked him.”
Lowering her eyes like a nun. Breasts beckoning, eyes averted.
“And he said okay?”
“Well … reluctantly.”
“But no fuss?”
“A slight fuss.”
“If you were married to me …”
“But I’m not.”
“. . . and you told me you were going away for a few days …”
“I’m not saying he liked the idea.”
“But he agreed to let you go.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t ever try that with me.”
“Oh? No? What would you do?”
“I’d kill him.”
“Oh sure.”
“I’d find out his name, and I’d kill him.”
“Sure.”
“Try me. Do you know how much I make in a year?”
“I don’t care how much you make.”
Still annoyed that she’d brought up her husband again. Good. Stay annoyed, she thought.
“I never heard of a lawyer who makes only eighty-five a year,” he said.
“He works for the city. That’s what they pay.”
“Eighty-five a year.”
“Yes. Well, actually a bit more.”
“How much more?”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Why would someone go to law school for however many years, pass the bar exam, go to all that trouble, and then settle for a job that pays so little?”
“He doesn’t consider it settling. He finds it challenging.”
“Oh, yes, it must be very challenging.”
“It is.”
“Bringing suit against landlords who don’t turn on the heat when they’re supposed to …”
“October fifteenth,” she said. “That’s the date you have to turn on the heat.”
“How do you know that?”
“When we were first married, we had an apartment that was freeeeeeezing cold. We called the Ombudsman’s Office …”
“How’d you know to do that?”
“My husband researched the law, found out the mandatory date for …”
“I hate it when you talk about him. All the things he does or doesn’t do in his crummy little job that pays …”
“Getting the heat turned on had nothing to do with his job.”
“Where will you be going?”
“France. St.-Jean-de-Luz.”
“Where’s that?”
“Near the Spanish border. We went there on our honeymoon.”
“Terrific.”
“Andrew, this won’t be any kind of romantic trip. Mollie’s going with us.”
He was silent for several moments.
Then he said, “I’ll miss you.”
“I’m not gone yet,” she said, and suddenly wanted to take him in her arms again, stroke him, pet him, adore him.
“How’s this thing doing?” she asked.
“There she goes again,” Regan said.
“Leave it on a few more seconds,” Lowndes said.
“Looks like it might need a little help,” she whispered.
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“Mmmmm,” she said.
“Gobbling it again,” Regan said.
Tomorrow was Mother’s Day, and—with the exception of Heather’s estranged husband—the family would be gathering to celebrate at the Fitch apartment on Seventieth and Park. Sarah’s parents had returned from St. Bart’s on the third. Tomorrow would be the ninth. She had spent a lazy Saturday with Michael and Mollie and now, at fifteen minutes before midnight, she was ready to read herself to sleep. But Michael was waiting for her when she came out of the bathroom in her nightgown.
“Something I want to talk to you about,” he said. “Come on down the hall.”
She followed him down the corridor, past Mollie’s room, her daughter already asleep. Silently, they went past the loudly ticking grandfather clock standing against the wall, a gift from Michael’s mother, and then into the den at the far end. The room was small, a sofa on one wall, a French lieutenant’s bed on another, an audio/video center on the third wall, and windows overlooking Eighty-First Street on the fourth wall. Michael closed the door behind him. The walls in the prewar apartment were thickly plastered, making each room virtually soundproof. She wondered why he was whispering.
“This case I’ve been on?” he said.
She nodded.
“I think I can tell you a little about it now.”
She wondered why he had chosen to tell her at just this moment, close to midnight, when she was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to lose herself in Vogue before she drifted off to sleep. Family gatherings at her parents’ apartment were never quite stress-free. She’d been looking forward to a good night’s sleep in preparation. But no, Michael was telling her how they’d been conducting this surveillance since the beginning of the year …
“The son of a Mafia b
oss the U.S. Attorney put away for good. We’re certain he’s running the mob now, we’ve just been waiting to get enough for an OCCA conviction. To do that, we’ve got to show a pattern of racketeering activity. Problem is we haven’t got anything concrete as yet. We know he’s linked to narcotics and loan-sharking, but we can’t prove it from what he or anyone else has said. We also think he may have ordered a hit or two, but again, no proof. The reason I’m telling you all this …” Michael said.
Yes, why are you telling me all this? she wondered.
“. . . is that I think we’ve found a way to get to him.”
“Well, good,” she said.
“I got hold of all this stuff on Thursday morning,” he said, and went to the tape deck in the cabinet on the wall. She noticed that the power was already on. “Here, listen,” he said, and hit the PLAY button.
At first she thought she was living a nightmare.
“October fifteenth,” a woman’s voice said. “That’s the date you have to turn on the heat.”
“How do you know that?”
A man’s voice.
“When we were first married, we had an apartment that was freeeeeeezing cold. We called the Ombudsman’s Office …”
“How’d you know to do that?”
“My husband researched the law,” the woman’s voice said.
Her voice said.
“. . . found out the mandatory date for …”
“I hate it when you talk about him,” the man’s voice said.
Andrew’s voice said.
She thought her heart would stop.
“All the things he does or doesn’t do in his crummy little job that pays …”
“Getting the heat turned on had nothing to do with his job.”
“Where will you be going?”
“France. St.-Jean-de-Luz.”
“Where’s that?”
“Near the Spanish border. We went there on our honeymoon.”
“Terrific.”
“Andrew, this won’t be any kind of romantic trip. Mollie’s going with us.”
There was a long silence.
“I’ll miss you.”
Andrew’s voice again.
“I’m not gone yet. How’s this thing doing?” Her voice changing to a whisper now. “Looks like it might need a little help.”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“Mmmmm.”
Another long silence.
