As always, Canelli was unable to decide on a reply to one of Friedman’s sallies. He simply ducked his head, shrugged, said something inarticulate, and quickly left the office.
“What I always like about Februaries,” Friedman observed as he sank into Hastings’s visitor chair, “is the low homicide rate. Have you noticed?” As he spoke, he took a cigar from his vest pocket, unwrapped it, lit it, and—according to tradition—sailed the still-smoking match into Hastings’s wastebasket. Also according to tradition, Hastings stared pointedly at the wastebasket as Friedman withdrew a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses from his pocket. “Well?” Friedman asked, waving the glasses. “Are you going to join the club?”
Resigned, Hastings nodded. “Afraid so.”
“Are you going to get bifocals?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You should. It’s a pain in the ass, taking them on and off. If you get bifocals, I will, too. The hell with vanity.”
“You make it sound like we’re kids, for God’s sake. ‘If you jump off the high board, I will, too.’”
“I observe,” Friedman said, “that you’re in a sour mood. That’s understandable. Nobody enjoys the prospect of his body beginning to run down.”
“Who said anything about my body running down?”
Friedman waved the cigar airily. “Okay, forget it. Anything happening?”
“Canelli’s apparently lost some stuff he needs for the Forster hearing tomorrow.”
“It’s my experience,” Friedman observed, “that providence protects types like Canelli. And a special providence protects Canelli. That’s an established fact.”
Not replying, Hastings turned to the window. Rain was spattering against the glass: large, gust-driven raindrops. The heavily overcast sky was almost totally dark. From the west, out over the Pacific, a storm was bearing down on northern California.
“I understand,” Friedman was saying, “that you had lunch with a very beautiful lady.”
Out of long habit, Hastings declined to give Friedman the satisfaction of asking him how he’d gotten his information. The answer was obvious. An officer had seen him at the restaurant and mentioned it to someone, who mentioned it to someone else, who mentioned it to Friedman. In the police department, there were few secrets.
“You’re not talking, eh?” Friedman observed.
Because the conversation with Meredith had been reverberating in his thoughts, Hastings decided to satisfy Friedman’s chronic curiosity. As the story unfolded, Friedman’s interest plainly quickened. Just as plainly, his outrage mounted.
“I don’t know about you,” Friedman said finally, “but I’ve dealt with several women who were abused by their fathers when they were young. Or, usually, their stepfathers. And I can tell you, absolutely, that they’re—they’re—” Uncharacteristically, Friedman broke off, searching for the phrase. “They’re ruined,” he finally finished. “They’re absolutely ruined. They have this overwhelming sense of guilt. And they’re absolutely terrified that people will find out what they’ve done. They feel—you know—naked. Exposed. Completely vulnerable. But most of all, they hate themselves. So they go through life punishing themselves for what their goddamn degenerate fathers did to them. It’s—” Friedman shook his head angrily. “It’s one of the most unfair things in the world. Incest—” He sighed heavily. “It’s terrible. Just terrible. You always hear that it’s a crime against nature, all that biblical stuff. And, God, it’s true. They’re marked, these women. For life. Christ, I remember interrogating a woman in her fifties, with a totally fucked-up life behind her. And it was all because she was abused. She just couldn’t get over it, ever. For fifty years, she was afraid her sister and brother would find out that her father had screwed her.”
“What were you interrogating her for?”
“Homicide.” Friedman flicked cigar ashes in Hastings’s waste-basket. “She killed them, to keep them from ever finding out.”
“Killed who?”
“The sister and the brother, of course.” Friedman drew deeply on the cigar, sending three workmanlike smoke rings floating gently across the desk. Ritual required that Hastings flap the rings away irritably, just as ritual required that he stare pointedly at his wastebasket after Friedman flicked his cigar ashes in the basket. To Hastings, the motivation behind Friedman’s cigar-smoking antics was clear. Friedman was a gadfly, a squad-room Socrates, a psychological tinkerer. Whether he was interrogating murder suspects or supervising subordinates or bantering with friends, Friedman kept them guessing, kept them a little off balance as he constantly probed and poked. Constitutionally, Friedman felt more secure when he had the advantage, however slight. Therefore, knowing that Hastings disliked cigar smoke and disapproved of cigar ashes flipped into his wastebasket, it was Friedman’s nature to test Hastings’s responses—just as it was Hastings’s nature to suffer in silence, secretly hoping the wastebasket would someday catch fire.
“I remember Meredith’s father,” Hastings mused. “I’m sure he did it, sure he abused her. I can just see him coming home on Saturday nights and knocking his wife around, and then getting into bed with Meredith.” Balefully he shook his head. “Christ!”
“Well,” Friedman said airily, “look at the bright side. Without guys like him, society wouldn’t need so many guys like us.”
Hastings fixed the other man with a long, hard look.
“Bad joke, huh?”
Hastings nodded grimly. “Bad joke.”
“Sorry.”
As he nodded grudging acceptance, Hastings tried to think whether he’d ever heard Friedman apologize.
5:10 P.M. In response to the blare of the buzzer, he pressed a switch.
“Yes?”
“It’s Charles.”
“Yes. I’ll be down.” As he released the switch, he glanced at his watch. Ten minutes past five. Cocktail time.
Play time.
Show-and-tell time.
Was this the beginning of something big, the reason Charles had been gone so long, without contact? Or was it merely the nature of the game they played, master and slave, tag you’re it? Games for children. Life-or-death games, transmuted.
All fall down.
Had he ever played the games children played?
Reclining, aware that his body had unconsciously struck a particular pose, as if the camera were rolling, he glanced again at his watch. Time, twelve minutes after five. He would allow eighteen minutes to elapse before he descended, made his entrance. Charles would have time to reflect, in eighteen minutes.
But he must reflect, too, a quid pro quo. Like it or not, he must reflect. The mind was like the heart, always pulsating. If life persisted, then so did consciousness. Even in dreams there was no escape. Because dreams became nightmares.
For as long as he could remember, the nightmares had stalked him, impaled him, left him trembling, pajamas soaking, a scream congealed in his throat, like caked blood.
If she’d bitten through her tongue as she struggled, then she would have choked on her own blood.
Had she choked on her own blood? It was important, suddenly, that he know. Yet he couldn’t ask. Not directly. Not ever directly. Because then the master would be the slave.
He could only probe. But carefully—cautiously.
Because the nightmares awaited.
Or was it the nightmare, really only one?
Would he ever really know?
Time: twenty-nine minutes after five. Allowing him sixty seconds to rise from the carved baroque chair and let his eyes linger successively on the elements: the bed, the statue, the draperies, the half circle of candles. Yes, everything was in perfect order. And the mirrored wall confirmed it: himself reflecting himself, smaller and smaller, regressing to infinity.
5:35 P.M. Of course, Charles had stage-managed the scene. At the bar, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, sipping white wine from a crystal goblet, Charles was seated with his back to the room. But he was facing the back-b
ar mirror, which revealed everything.
Mirrors, mirrors …
For the mirrors, they all played games.
All fall down.
Upon entering the room, he went to the damask sofa. Compelling Charles to turn on the bar stool, finally facing him.
So the game could begin.
“Were you—” He hesitated, selecting the word he wanted. “Were you with her all day?”
Predictably, Charles first sipped the wine, a permissible liberty, subtly calculated. Charles was, of course, transparently expecting instructions to pour a glass of wine, place the glass on the small table beside the sofa. Meaning that the request should be delayed, a question of timing, master and slave.
All fall down.
“From eleven o’clock until about two” came the answer.
“And?” He was satisfied with the inflection: cool but not calculated.
But, even before Charles spoke, he realized that, tilt, something had gone wrong. He could see it in the other man’s eyes: that small gleam of pleasure, derived from inflicting even the slightest discomfort.
And, of course, the smallest barbs would come first, their little game, the slave diddling the master.
“She kept the appointment. Same place, same time. But then—” A delicately calculated pause, a small sip of wine. Over the rim of the glass, Charles’s dark eyes were utterly still. As always, Charles was impeccably dressed in a dark formal suit, white shirt, gleaming black shoes, conservative tie. “Funereal” was the operative word. The suit, the pale face with its dark, large, lusterless eyes, the dark, curiously heavy head of hair, equally lusterless, the slim, lounge-lizard body that was always so self-consciously posed—this was the image Charles had created, constantly fine-tuned, a creation in search of itself.
“‘But then …’?”
“Then she had lunch with a man.”
Yes, there it was: the barb, deftly lodged.
But there was more. This, in the lexicon of jazz, was only the intro.
“A man …” He nodded. Then: “I’d like some wine now, please. Whatever you’re drinking.”
Yes, the timing had been optimum, an interruption of Charles’s own timing. Which was, after all, the essence of his timing, its ultimate purpose. If the cobra weaved, the mongoose bobbed. Bob and weave, bob and weave.
All fall down.
Accepting the glass, he was able to nod simply. Sipping the wine, he need only wait.
Forcing Charles to continue.
“They ate at Le Central. That has plate-glass windows, you know. So I could see them.”
Once more he nodded. He could feel it now. The tension was building palpably. Delicately. Decisively. Deliciously.
“They knew each other,” Charles was saying. “It was obvious that they knew each other.”
The wineglass was empty, a surprise. Choosing his time, bob and weave, he would ask for a refill.
“They finished lunch about one-thirty,” the other man was saying. “I followed him. He’s a perfectly ordinary-looking man. He drives a perfectly ordinary car. Except that—” Charles paused, drained his own glass, placed it on the bar. As the light caught the crystal, he realized that his own glass was plain, not crystal. Nothing, it seemed, had been left to chance.
“Except that”—repeated, the words were magnified—“when I followed him, he drove to the Hall of Justice. That’s on Bryant Street, near Sixth.”
“Yes—” This time, he couldn’t calculate his cadence. Therefore, momentarily, he was rendered helpless.
As, inexorably, the words continued: “He drove to the Hall of Justice,” Charles repeated. A pause. Then, very softly: “And he drove into the underground parking garage. The sign said ‘Official Vehicles Only.’”
“Official vehicles …?”
“The police.” The words fell softly, as snowflakes fall, on a grave. “Or maybe the district attorney.” A final, definitive pause. Then, speaking more rapidly, technique abandoned now, scorekeeping forgotten, involuntarily lapsing into the vernacular of the streets, his native dialect, after all, the other man was saying “Either she’s got something going with this guy, or else she’s talking to him because he’s a cop. That’s the way it seems to me. And if I had to guess, I’d say she was talking to him because he was a cop. I mean, I didn’t see any hanky-panky, no kissing, holding hands. Nothing.”
“We have to be sure, of course. We can’t just assume—” Suddenly his throat closed. Forcing him to swallow, begin again. “We can’t assume the worst, not automatically.”
“Except that if she knows about—the other thing, then there could be trouble. The psychiatrist, that was bad enough. People tell things to psychiatrists. But the police—if she’s talking to the police—” Charles shook his head.
He realized that his eyes had fallen. This was the critical moment. Lapsing into the vernacular, Charles had revealed weakness, a flaw. Resulting, bob and weave, in this small opening, this fleeting moment of opportunity.
But how to exploit it, translate perception into reality? If he could do it, all fall down, then this was the moment.
And the moment was the motivation.
As, yes, the means materialized: the empty wineglass, on the table beside him. Delicately he grasped the glass, lifted it. His voice, he knew, would not betray him as he said, “I think I’ll have a refill, Charles.”
10:15 P.M. Meredith took the remote control from the table, touched the power button, and watched the TV anchorman fade away.
For three Tuesdays now it had been the same: this overpowering malaise, this bone-deep weariness of the limbs, this terrible lethargy of the spirit. The meeting with Frank, pure serendipity, a balm, a benign narcotic, had momentarily masked the pain. But, like all narcotics, the effect soon began to dissipate.
On the coffee table beside the remote control and her empty brandy snifter, she saw the card Frank had given her. As if the touch of the card could somehow cure, she picked it up, held it between thumb and forefinger.
Lieutenant Frank Hastings
Homicide Bureau
Although they’d both been at pains to suppress it, they’d been attracted to each other. She’d felt the attraction, the story of her life. And if she’d felt it, then so had Frank felt it. If she’d learned only one lesson, that was it: the only lesson that was required for someone like her.
He’d said he had someone, a woman with two sons, a schoolteacher.
On Tuesdays, after seeing Dr. Price, it always seemed as if everyone else in the whole world had someone. The animals went two by two into the ark. It was nature’s way, nature’s universal design. A male and a female coupled, to create new life. And so the world could continue.
Only the human animal could change nature. A quick trip to the drugstore, a visit to the doctor, and the law was repealed. A pill or a piece of rubber, and singles’ bar love conquered all.
In another time, another place, she and Frank might have made something happen between them. Even with his commitment to another woman, it was possible that she could have made something happen. She’d done it before, effortlessly. She’d—
Beside the couch, the telephone warbled. The time was ten-thirty, late for him to call. At the thought, the realization that something could have changed, she felt herself wince. The last time he’d called, only a few days ago, she’d been on the phone, talking to Pat Bolton. And for that she’d had to pay.
“Hello …”
“Are you in bed?” he asked.
“No.”
“Getting ready for bed?”
“Almost, yes. Thinking about it.”
“Tell me about it—exactly what you’ll do. Be very detailed.”
For almost twenty minutes they talked about it, question and answer, master and slave. As the minutes passed, a cumulative weight, these minutes combining with all the other minutes, she felt shame compounding shame, an eternal progression, no way out.
Now, finally sated, his voice changed. She knew th
at voice-change, knew it could conceal his most calculated queries.
“What’d you do today, Meredith?
She’d had hours to prepare, and the answer came easily. Perhaps she should have been an actress.
“I took the car in for servicing. Then I shopped, had something to eat. I didn’t get home until almost three.”
“Where’d you eat?”
“There’s a new place in Nieman’s basement.”
“Yes …”
From his inflection, she knew he’d been expecting the answer—that answer, or one like it. A lie, not the truth.
Had he followed her, hired someone to follow her? At lunch, glancing out at the street, she’d seen someone who could have been Charles, just a glimpse, a face in the crowd.
She could hear him clear his throat. It was a mannerism that usually preceded the conclusion of a conversation. Therefore, for tonight, she might soon be set free.
“I’ll call a little earlier tomorrow,” he was saying. “We might be seeing each other tomorrow. I haven’t quite decided.”
“Yes …”
11:05 P.M. He returned the telephone to its cradle and sat motionless for a moment, staring reflectively at a small marble obelisk that shared a shelf with a dried sprig of nightshade. From the floor below, voices were raised: the pleasure seekers.
Should he ask them to leave? Tell them to leave? There were Nero clichés, Titanic clichés: fiddling while Rome burned, arranging the deck chairs. Trivialities, counterpointing cataclysms.
Servicing the car—lunch at Nieman Marcus—all of it an elaborate lie, with malice aforethought.
Liberating him, therefore, from the final restraints, however trivial. If fate was the croupier, then she was the mark. Sit long enough at the table, and everyone lost.
As he walked down the hallway and began mounting the stairs to the chamber, he was aware that, yes, calm was returning, a balm, a triumph of the will. Was that the title of an old movie? A German classic, pre-World War II?
The balm of calm …
It was a nonsense phrase, one of hundreds—thousands—random words and phrases, signifying nothing, yet entangled in his thoughts. All his life, records with needles stuck, words had echoed and reechoed. When he’d been small, they’d taken him into the judge’s chambers. He could remember the large leather armchair they’d given him. The chair had been brass studded, with wings. He’d felt lost in the chair, surrounded by shelves of law books. A nonsense phrase had gone round and round: soft maybe bunting. He’d never known what it meant.
A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 4
