Murder Off the Page

by Con Lehane

  Not a big man, he was fit, athletic, and handsome, with a kind of easy assuredness that showed his awareness of being all of those things; he was in his forties, maybe a little older, maybe a littler younger. Ambler wasn’t good at guessing ages. Dean dressed neatly in what Ambler thought of as a kind of uniform of the affluent suburbs: khaki pants, button-down Oxford shirt, hair short and neatly trimmed. He didn’t show much interest in Ambler, willing to wait for the conversation to come to him.

  “I was hoping to speak with your wife, actually” Ambler said. “I’m the curator of Jayne Galloway’s papers at the Forty-second Street Library. I came across some things in Mrs. Galloway’s journal and wanted to meet Dr. Dean and ask her some questions about her mother. An informal meeting often works well for that. I took a chance coming here. I should have called.”

  “We can go into my office,” Simon Dean said. “Carolyn, go do your homework.”

  “I was practicing hitting.”

  “You answered the door? I didn’t hear the doorbell.”

  “I was practicing hitting. I was outside.” By a quick change of expression, a frown, she let her father know she’d already said that.

  “You’re not allowed to answer the door by yourself.”

  “I didn’t answer the door.” She shook herself with indignation, glancing at Ambler, rolling her eyes, before picking up her bat and heading out the door.

  Simon Dean’s office was high-ceilinged with large windows; a drafting table sat prominently in the middle of the room; another leaned against a wall; there was a desk against one of the windows. On all of the surfaces, drafting paper, blueprints, and plans were rolled out, some with lamps or a tape dispenser holding down the corners. Other blueprints and plans were rolled up and leaning against the wall.

  “You’re an architect?”

  “At the moment, I’m doing costs and estimates. Have you ever seen a $30 million house renovation?” He grabbed one of the rolled up plans or blueprints and laid it out across a drawing table. Pointing to different sections of the plan, he showed Ambler a giant master suite with a marble bathroom, what he called a madam’s suite with its own marble bathroom and a dressing room stretching the length of a hallway. Ambler couldn’t really understand the plans, so he just looked at them. “They’re adding a third floor with a weight room and an indoor tennis court.” He met Ambler’s gaze triumphantly.

  Ambler wasn’t sure if the look of triumph was because Dean was impressed by the accomplishments of wealth or shared Ambler’s astonishment that such a house existed. “My goodness,” Ambler said, hoping to sound agreeable to whatever Simon Dean thought about his work.

  Dean rolled up his plans and returned to Ambler’s question. “My wife and her mother have been estranged since Sandra was a child. I doubt Sandra would be interested in talking with you about her.”

  “Her mother said they’d had a reunion of sorts not long ago.”

  Dean glanced at him sharply. “Hardly a reunion, it was a brief and awkward encounter that accomplished nothing. My God, the woman deserted her daughter, a child.” His icy glare suggested Ambler was an accomplice.

  Jayne Galloway said her son-in-law didn’t like her, Ambler recalled. Dean’s reaction certainly reinforced that. “I see. Did your wife mention an interest in her mother’s papers after that?”

  Dean narrowed his eyes, something like his daughter did. “Papers?”

  “Her mother’s papers, the collection in the library.”

  “No. Sandra wouldn’t be interested.” Dean was deliberate in what he said. It could be he was a cautious person by nature. It could be something else. “Why do you ask?”

  “Do you know anyone who’d have an interest in Jayne Galloway’s papers?”

  “I don’t know or care anything about Sandra’s mother. Neither does Sandra. No one we know would be interested in her papers.”

  “Does your wife work in the area?”

  He seemed to relax. “She’s part of a plastic surgery practice in Greenwich. Her patients are the women who live in multimillion-dollar houses. They require a lot of upkeep.”

  Ambler began to like the man he was talking to. More to the point, he liked his daughter and felt protective of her; his wish was for Simon Dean to be honest and forthcoming, to have nothing to hide, for her sake. His more fervent wish was that Dr. Sandra Dean be easily accounted for and have no connection to Shannon Darling whatsoever. This was one of the times he hoped he wouldn’t discover what he was afraid he would discover. “Is Dr. Dean at work now?”

  Dean’s discomfort returned, apparent in the stiffening of his stance, the tightening of the muscles of his face. “She’s traveling.” His glance evaded Ambler’s.

  Ambler waited. When someone expects a question they don’t want to answer, Mike had told him years ago, they sometimes answer the question even if you weren’t going to ask it, even if you didn’t know to ask it.

  “We’re busy people. Our work lives are separate. I don’t know where she is. A conference. She’s usually gone two or three days.”

  “She’s not in New York, by any chance?”

  Hesitation, more deliberation, weighing possibilities before he answered. “Not as far as I know. She hasn’t called.”

  “When did she leave?”

  He thought this over, too. “The day before yesterday? I don’t remember.”

  Dean didn’t object to the questions or ask why Ambler was asking about his wife’s whereabouts. Did he anticipate an interrogation? For the second time in as many days, Ambler felt the person he was speaking with knew something they wouldn’t divulge.

  The logical thing to do next was to show Dean the photo he had in his breast pocket. Yet Ambler held back. Suppose he showed him the photo of Shannon, and Dean recognized his wife. Then what? Ambler would explain what happened—a man was killed in this woman’s hotel room; and, from the look of things, she’d gone missing, taking another man with her. You had to think from how he acted Dean anticipated Ambler might tell him something about his wife he didn’t want to hear. But why? What might he suspect?

  Dean took the opportunity presented by Ambler’s hesitation to change the subject. “The library you work at, the one on Fifth Avenue? It’s a Carrére and Hastings Beaux-Arts building. New York has more Beaux-Arts than any city other than Paris; the library and Grand Central Terminal are two of the best. It’s functional, isn’t it, the library building? Majestic, and it gets the job done.”

  If Dean’s aim was to throw Ambler off-track, it worked. They began talking about an effort by the library’s Board of Trustees not long ago to dismantle the interior of the 42nd Street Library building, take out the seven floors of shelving beneath the reading room, and reshape the space into something like a mall. As they talked it was apparent that Dean had followed the battle between the developers and the scholars and preservationists over the redesign of the library and was passionate about the library’s preservation. Ambler liked that.

  Dean stood abruptly. “It’s past five o’clock. I’ve done enough for today. How about a drink?”

  Surprised, Ambler took a moment before he said yes.

  “Scotch okay?” He led Ambler to the living room, went to the kitchen for a bucket of ice cubes, and made the drinks, scotch on the rocks, atop a portable bar. Handing one to Ambler, he sat down across from him. “Are you married?” He took a sip of his drink.

  “I was.” Ambler sipped his drink. “Divorced.”

  Dean was more relaxed. Maybe it was the scotch. “What did Mrs. Galloway say about Sandra that you want to ask Sandra about?”

  “In general, I want to ask her what she thought about her mother.”

  Dean took a long drink of his scotch before he said, “Sandra’s mother deserted her. Her father ignored her. She had an unhappy childhood. You may know that, or have guessed it, if you’ve met Sandra’s mother.” He looked at Ambler significantly. When Ambler didn’t respond, he went on. “My wife didn’t want to have children. After the childh
ood she had, she wouldn’t consider it, wouldn’t talk about it for the first years of our marriage.”

  Dean went to the portable bar and poured himself another drink, gesturing with the bottle to Ambler who shook his head. “Her residency was grueling, long hours at the hospital, more hours reading and studying at home. Little time for anything else. She still works hard, long hours. She’s a good doctor. Her patients admire her.” He paused again to savor his scotch. “Yet there’s a side her patients don’t see. Sandra suffers deep depressions. She has a great deal of repressed anger.” He regarded his glass of scotch before taking another sip and spoke without looking at Ambler. “No one really knows what anyone else’s marriage requires.”

  Ambler sat back to try to catch up with what was happening. For all the connection Ambler had to him, Dean might be talking to himself. He hardly looked at Ambler. A couple of minutes ago, Dean had been engaging, enthusiastic about his work, about architecture, about preserving the 42nd Street Library. He’d also, without saying so, let on that he worried about his wife and was perhaps embarrassed that he didn’t know where she was, not so much covering for her as pretending to Ambler, and perhaps to himself, too, that everything was normal, life was as it should be. Now, his manner showed worry and concern, such that Ambler sympathized, felt embarrassed for him.

  After a pause, Dean leaned toward Ambler. “What did you come here to tell me about my wife?”

  So Dean did expect to be told something about his wife. Ambler was about to take the photo of the woman he knew as Shannon from his pocket when out of the corner of his eye he detected movement at the back of the staircase behind Dean. He paused. Almost as soon as he did, Dean noticed, following his gaze and springing out of his chair.

  “Carolyn!” he shouted.

  The movement near the stairs quickened, a flash of blonde hair, and the blue of blue jeans exploded into view, like a partridge being flushed out of the bushes. Ambler heard the front door slam.

  Dean turned back to Ambler. “She’s a strong-willed child. Too strong-willed. She’s not at the problem age yet, but I see it coming. Her mother doesn’t stand up to her.”

  Ambler took the photo from his pocket and handed it to Dean, who stared at it for what seemed like a long time.

  “Who is this?” He held the photo toward Ambler.

  “Is that your wife?”

  Dean pulled the photo back and stared at it again before looking up, his face wracked with anguish. “My wife? It couldn’t be. There’s a resemblance perhaps.” He turned the photo to look at it at different angles. “Sandra doesn’t dress like that. Where’s this from? It’s grainy and blurry. You couldn’t say for sure who it is.”

  “It’s from a hotel surveillance camera. The woman in the photo was with a man who was later found murdered in her hotel room.”

  His expression was incredulous. “And you think this is Sandra? That’s absurd. Why would she—is there a medical conference at this hotel? Medical equipment? Why would she be there?” He paused, gathering fury. “Who the hell are you? What are you talking about? Why are you talking about Jayne Galloway … and now this?”

  Ambler kept his voice calm. “The woman in the photo was doing research in the Jayne Galloway collection in the library.”

  “This woman?” Dean’s voice rose in indictment. “You can’t be sure with the quality of this photo who this woman is. You came here to make some crazy accusation? Some half-baked idea that this is my wife?” He stood, his hand clenched into a fist around the glass of scotch he was holding. “Get out!”

  “There’s more.” Ambler’s tone was firm but sympathetic.

  The expression on Dean’s face, frozen into a snarl, crumpled, as if he knew there would be more, knew his indignation was misplaced; he collapsed into the chair he’d been sitting in.

  Ambler told him about McNulty’s connection to the woman in the photo, downplaying her curious behavior with men in bars, but not her drinking.

  As if talking to himself, Dean said, “She shouldn’t drink. She becomes a different person when she drinks. Is she having an affair with the bartender? Who is he?”

  “His name is Brian McNulty. He works at a bar a lot of us from the library go to after work. He’s been there for years … or was. I don’t know that he’s with her. They disappeared at the same time.”

  “You don’t know this person is Sandra.” Dean tried once more but without the indignation, his tone regretful. “There’s a resemblance. This woman was doing research on Sandra’s mother? I told you Sandra didn’t care anything about her mother. It’s more likely a stranger would be interested in Sandra’s mother for some reason. Not Sandra. That’s all.”

  “Is your wife missing?”

  Simon Dean buried his face in his hands. He spoke without looking up. “I don’t know what to think. Sometimes, you suspect things; they’re like noises that wake you in the night you pretend to yourself you didn’t hear; you don’t want them to exist so you pretend they don’t.”

  When he looked up at Ambler, his eyes were bloodshot. “Sandra has a behavior disorder. Sometimes, she’ll leave like this. She’ll come back and she’ll be contrite. She’s been at a conference or needed time to herself, shopping in the city, or at a spa. I’ve learned to accept her. Despite those excursions, she’s devoted to me. I might have told her to go years ago, thrown her out. I can’t do it. She needs me too much, so I forgive her.”

  “This might be your wife?”

  Suspicion clouded Dean’s eyes. “If there’s reason to think this woman is my wife and was witness to a murder, why haven’t the police come looking for her?”

  “The police haven’t identified the woman in this photo. The connection to you, to your wife, is what I found in Jayne Galloway’s papers. I went to see Jayne Galloway. She told me enough for me to find my way here.”

  “I don’t know what you are or why you’re doing this. You said you were a librarian.”

  “I am a librarian. For one thing, the bartender I mentioned is a friend of mine. For another, your wife, if this is your wife, was using the collection I’m responsible for. It’s possible the bartender and your wife are in danger from the killer of the man in the hotel. I guess I’m looking for an explanation that will bring my world back to some sort of normalcy.”

  Simon Dean’s expression was sad. “Are you going to tell the police about Sandra, about me?”

  Ambler didn’t answer. Soon he’d have to tell the police. Until now, he hadn’t known anything to conceal. Now, he had something he should tell Mike. He understood Dean’s desire to shield his wife. Wasn’t Ambler doing the same thing to protect McNulty?

  Later, as he waited in front of the house for the cab to take him back to the train station, Carolyn came up to him. He’d heard her thwacking the t-ball as he walked out and watched her take a couple of swings. She noticed him watching and took a hefty swing. Now she’d walked over to where he was standing.

  “You’re a t-ball player, I see.”

  She shook her head, her ponytail swaying from side to side. “Not t-ball. That’s for younger kids. I play softball. The tee is for practice. I want to play baseball.” She hefted the bat. “Do you like baseball?”

  “I do, since I was your age.”

  “I want to be a major leaguer.” She watched the cab pull up. “Or maybe a doctor.”

  “Maybe both,” Ambler said.

  She nodded vigorously. “That’s what my mom said.” Ambler watched Carolyn gather herself together for her next question. “Did you find out if you know my mom?”

  Once more, answering would be difficult. He hesitated.

  She went on without him. “You’d know if you knew her. She’s quite special. And she’s really smart. And beautiful.” Her attempt to muffle her enthusiasm with a matter-of-fact tone was charming. “And she’s very nice.” Carolyn beamed.

  “I think I do know her.” Ambler said. What else could he say? “And she is all those things. I hope she gets home soon.”

/>   “Me, too.” Carolyn’s blue eyes, almost as blue as Johnny’s, opened wider, filled with hope.

  Ambler tried for some hope himself. “Your dad’s nice, too. I just spoke with him.”

  Carolyn nodded. “He’s okay. Mom says he’s old fashioned.” She walked to the end of the driveway with him and watched the cab drive away from there. Ambler turned and watched her, too, until she was out of sight

  Chapter 7

  The day after Ambler’s visit to Simon Dean, Adele called him after work. He’d been home only a few minutes and had seen her less than an hour before at the library and told her about his visit to Simon Dean.

  Johnny’s after-school companion, Denise Cosgrove, was getting ready to leave when the phone rang. Adele asked Ambler to have Denise stay with Johnny a little longer. She needed to see him right away. She was fine, she said, but could he please not ask stupid questions and meet her at a pub called The River Lee on Third Avenue right away.

  When he got to the bar, about four blocks from his apartment, Adele was sitting in a booth across from the bar talking to a man who sat across from her, his back to the door. She was talking as she saw him. Her expression didn’t change and she didn’t stop talking. When Ambler got closer, he realized the man she was talking to was McNulty. There was no reason Ambler should know this, not from the slope of the man’s shoulders, the blue jacket stretched across his back, or the backward Yankee cap on his head. Yet he knew it was McNulty.

  He slid in alongside Adele. Greetings didn’t seem to be in order.

  “I don’t have much time,” McNulty said. “In this being-on-the-lam business, you don’t stay in one place too long, especially a public place.”

  “Will you stay long enough to tell us what’s going on?” Ambler said.

  “Not to answer questions. I’ve got a journal that belongs to Shannon. I’ve copied some pages that are about men she’s encountered. My belief is one of the names is that of the killer of the man who was with Shannon the other night.” He sipped from his beer. “She doesn’t know I have her journal or that I’ve made these copies I’m giving to you.” He stopped again as if he’d lost his train of thought or gone off on another train. “She’s a complicated woman. I won’t try to explain her to you, nor why I know she isn’t the killer, nor why she was with that man who was killed, nor what her relationship is or was to the men listed in her journal. The journal will tell you some of that.”