"Where the hell you been, Frannie? Your old girlfriend comes by here all the time. I was afraid to ask her what happened to you."
"She wouldn't care. Albert, this is my friend Sam Bayer. He's a famous writer."
"Nice to meet you. You here for lunch? Sit down. What do you want to eat?"
I wanted to see the menu, but Frannie rattled off a stream of things he'd obviously memorized. Albert was smiling after the third or fourth item.
"You gonna eat all that, or you just want to remember what it looked like?"
After taking the order, Albert sat down with us. He and Frannie talked things over awhile, and then the big man turned to me. "This man saved my life once. Did he tell you 'bout that?"
I looked at Frannie. "No."
"Well he did and that's all that's important."
McCabe said nothing more about it. A medic in Vietnam, a life-saver, but from my childhood memories of him, ferocious as a badger when he didn't like someone. I honestly didn't know how to feel about my old friend and it was getting more confusing as time went on.
The food came and was sensational. We went through it as if our tape was on fast-forward. Dessert was "Sock It to Me" cake, but I was already down for the count. Frannie wasn't and ate two pieces.
As we were leaving, Albert gave us each a green-and-diamonds cap like his own. Frannie wore it the whole time we were in Los Angeles.
Hi Point Street was directly across from the restaurant. It was a black middle-class neighborhood where people showed their pride by keeping their houses and lawns in perfect condition. The front yards were mostly small while above them loomed huge palm trees. Expensive cars were parked in many of the short driveways next to the houses.
The Cadmus place was near the corner where Hi Point and Pickford Streets intersected. Probably the largest house on the street, it was a twenties Spanish-style beauty with a front porch flanked by two palms. A metallic blue Toyota Corolla was parked in the driveway. Frannie stopped to look at it. "That's funny. All these other showboat cars on the street, but the big movie producer owns a Toyota."
"Owned."
"Yeah, right, past tense. Interesting that a white guy with some money would choose to live in an all-black neighborhood."
"I'd live here too if I could have this house. What a great place."
We walked up the path to the front door. Frannie went first and rang the bell. When no one answered, he took a key out of his pocket and opened the door.
Off the entrance hall was a large, nicely furnished living room with two Mission-style chairs, a black leather couch and festively colored rug. Windows on three sides filled the room with dappled light. A large fireplace was against one wall. On the shelf above it were several knickknacks. I walked over to look at them. There was a polished wooden ball perched on a metal stand, a primitively carved dark wooden pig, and a photograph of David Cadmus and his father.
"Look at this."
Frannie picked up the picture and grunted. "The family that lies together, dies together. Come on, let's look around."
Bedrooms flanked either side of the hallway. One was quite dark although painted a bright salmon color. There was a desk with lots of scattered papers, a computer and printer on it. Frannie said he'd check them out and told me to go to the next room.
Whatever money Cadmus had, he certainly hadn't invested it in goodies for his home. His bedroom was a bed and a night table. On the table was a portable telephone and a gay porno magazine. I picked up the mag, took a look at one page and closed it.
The bedroom opened onto a wooden deck overlooking a well-trimmed backyard. Two black director's chairs and a table were out there. I sat down on one of them. McCabe walked out of the house wearing a gray wool baseball cap with the word Filson in a corner.
"Cool hat, huh? I love Filson stuff. You think Dave'd mind if I took it?"
"Don't do that, Frannie. For God's sake!"
"Why not? Your friend won't be wearing it anymore. You see his reading material in there? Deep in the Heart of'Tex's Ass. huh? I didn't know he was gay. There's enough costumes in his closet to outfit the Village People. You find anything?"
"No, but I didn't look very hard. I feel weird doing it. Like I'm grave robbing."
"Not me. It's all possibilities, man. I'm going to look around some more." He walked back into the house.
I sat and watched airplanes take off from LAX a few miles away. The day was dying and the sky was turning that strange L.A. copper color. Next door someone began playing the organ and they were very good. The smell of barbecued beef was in the air, along with that of flowers and gasoline. I thought of Cadmus sitting out here alone or with a lover at night, content that the day was over. Later he got into his car to drive to the market for some milk and ended up with a hole in his chest for no reason at all.
"You fucking dilettante!" Chief McCabe was glaring at me from the doorway. "You write those novels full of crime and murders and clever whodunits. But when you're down here at mud level with a real murder, you don't want to get involved. Fuck you, Sam! Get back in here and help me look around this dead man's house. Idiot!"
The truth didn't set me free but did send me back into the house. We spent a good hour going through each of the rooms top to bottom, opening drawers, snooping in closets . . .
The papers on his desk were all work-related. Frannie sat at the computer and brought up as many files as possible. Some were protected but he figured out many of the passwords. There was not much left in Cadmus's life in that house we didn't know, or have at our disposal, by the time we were finished.
"He hung out at a place called the Emerald City, wrote love letters to a guy named Craig, most of his money was with Fidelity Investments. I can't find anything interesting about him."
"What did you expect?"
"I was hoping for something that might link him to his daddy. You know, secret funds or something. Something nice and ugly. I'm going to check out Craig but I'm sure nothing's there."
"I think you're out of luck, Fran. Just like he was out of luck to be where he was the other night. But it sure is ironic, isn't it? How often do both a father and son get shot to death?"
We had one last look and then went to the door. Frannie turned and looked around. "It's a lovely house, you know? Simple, good taste. I don't know. Let's go."
He opened the door and gestured for me to go first. I took a couple of steps onto the front porch and kicked something. It skittered away across the red stone tiles, hit a large planter and bounced off, and skidded back almost to where it had been. It was a videotape. Stuck to it was a bright green Post-it note. Across it was written in thick black letters, "Hi, Sam!"
I reached down slowly and picked it up. Frannie snatched it away. "Motherfucker!" Without another word, he went back into the house. I followed, not knowing what to think.
He walked into the living room, turned on the television and video machine. Slotting the tape, he jabbed play and, crossing his arms, stood back to watch. I stayed in the doorway, not sure I wanted to be too near what we were about to see. I was right.
The tape started with the usual fuzz and jittery black/white lines. What came next took no more than two minutes. Whoever shot the film was sitting in a parked car, aiming the camera out the window. Across the street is a Von's supermarket. It's night and the large parking lot is brightly lit. Cars pull in and out, people come and go from the store. One of those people is David Cadmus. He's carrying a brown bag full of groceries. The camera follows him out of the parking lot. He crosses the street.
The picture blacks out, then comes on again a moment later. The car is now parked on a dark street. Walking down the sidewalk toward the camera is David Cadmus, still carrying his groceries. He gets closer. He's wearing a Walkman and is smiling. It is unbearable to watch.
When he is parallel to the car, the window on the passenger's side slides down. Whoever is filming must have said something to Cadmus because he stops and comes over, still smiling. A gun com
es up and shoots him two times point-blank in the throat and chest just as he is bending down to answer his killer's question.
The movie ends.
Two
How many people know you're writing this book?"
The stewardess bent toward us with a tray of drinks. Without taking his eyes from my face, McCabe told her in a growl to buzz off. Looking absolutely astonished, she buzzed off in a hurry.
"How many? Quite a few now. My agent, editor, some people in Crane's View. I don't know."
We were sitting in the rear section of the plane. The air around us was stale and stinky. Since he couldn't smoke, Frannie had been fiddling in his seat since we got on. "That doesn't make this any easier. If it was just a few . . . It doesn't matter. Whoever killed Cadmus knew about your book. That's why they wrote on the grave and put that Post-it note on the tape. They want us to know they know what you're doing."
"Obviously."
He shook his head. "Nothing's obvious, Sam. Everything that used to be obvious about this case isn't anymore. I was flat wrong for years. I can't tell you how that makes me feel. Whoever killed Pauline also killed the Cadmuses and God knows who else."
"Do you really believe that? I thought Gordon Cadmus was a mob hit."
"It once looked that way, but not anymore. I feel like Alice in fucking Wonderland. What is the motive? Okay, Gordon Cadmus and Pauline were lovers, that fits, but why thirty years later does mystery man kill the son for no reason at all?"
"Maybe there was no reason."
"Or else David knew something."
"But why would they film it, Frannie? What was the point of that? And then give me the film?"
He stared straight ahead and was silent so long that I finally poked him on the shoulder. "Huh?"
"Because you found Pauline's body. I hate to say it, but he may be thinking about doing you next. But I don't think so. Way down deep I got a feeling he said hi Sam because you're famous and writing about it. A book could make him famous. You've read about serial killers. They all got big egos. Think of this for a moment: What if you wrote your book about the death of Pauline Ostrova and came to the conclusion either Cadmus or Edward Durant killed her? Whoever really did it's left with nothing but a perfect crime. He got away with it. Nobody will ever know the truth. Maybe that's not what this killer wants now. Maybe after all these years, a little ego bird is beginning to fly around his head singing 'Me me me' and the song is driving him nuts.
"Remember Henry Lucas in Texas? The guy said he had killed over five hundred people, which would have made him the biggest serial killer since Dracula. But he was lying. Can you imagine lying about that? You know why it's dangerous for famous people to go to jail? Because some loser in the can thinks if I kill them, then I get to be famous too. And since I ain't never going to be famous for anything else, why not? That's why that fuckhead murdered Jeffrey Dahmer. And you know how worried they were about Mike Tyson getting hit when he was in? Some people get famous writing books. Those who aren't so creative get famous killing people."
"Then why was this killer silent so long?"
"Maybe he was content with what he did, but isn't anymore. For thirty years, no big bestselling author was ever interested in writing this story. I think you're safe so long as you're working on it. He wants the book finished so long as it tells the real story. He wants credit."
"But then he's cutting his own throat!"
"Maybe not. He's been damned clever so far. You know about female spiders? They can store sperm up to eighteen months, and they have this nice little tendency to eat the male after he's done his duty. What we have here just might be similar – someone's stored this up for thirty years, but now wants to make some babies with it."
As if David Cadmus's killer and my problems with Veronica weren't enough, I had to give a speech. Months before, students at Rutgers University had organized an arts festival and invited me to speak on the future of the popular novel. I agreed to go because I didn't have anything else to do and the kids sounded so enthusiastic.
After returning from California, I glanced at my calendar and realized with horror that the thing was two days away. I whipped up some drivel in an afternoon, asked my neighbor to watch the dog, and drove south to New Jersey, cursing all the way down the turnpikes.
They put me up in a nice hotel and had me scheduled to do so many things I didn't have time to think about my problems. There were interviews, book signings, a visit to an advanced creative-writing class. Fine.
The night of my speech, I was sitting in the hotel room watching television. Suddenly I had such a panic attack that I ran out of the room, went downstairs and bought a pack of cigarettes to get me through the rest of the evening.
The problem was they had put me in a no-smoking room at the hotel and that was the only place I wanted to smoke. America has been so cowed by health Nazis in recent years that lighting up I felt as guilty as a fifteen-year-old. The guilt got so bad that I went to the window and tried to open it, thinking I'd stick my head out and blow the poisonous Winston into the already-ruined Jersey air. Unfortunately, the hotel was ultramodern and the room had all-but-sealed windows. The management thought it best to control your environment, whether you liked it or not. But I wanted real air. I managed to wrestle the window open enough inches to get my head and my hand out. Feeling quite accomplished, I smoked the cigarette down to the butt and flicked it, sparks flying, toward the parking lot. I slid my hand back into the room but not my head. It – I – was stuck. Tonight's feature speaker, full of wisdom and insight into the plight of the contemporary novel, was stuck halfway out a window on the fifth floor of the Raritan Towers Hotel.
In my terror, I kept thinking about all those people downstairs waiting. People who had come to listen and consider. If they only knew where the featured mouth for the evening was. Then I thought about someone coming up to get me and seeing me half-guillotined in that window . . .
The trapped rat inside took over and I battled until I was able to make it budge an extra few inches. When all of me was back in the room, I looked in a mirror and saw an angry red line down the side of my neck, the window's souvenir. Rubbing it hard, I tried to get some blood flowing there again, but then someone was knocking at the door and it was time to go.
The lecture hall was full – there must have been three hundred people there. Totally flustered by my war with the window and now all these attentive faces, I raced through the speech. There was a question-and-answer session afterward that I handled a little better. When it was over, what seemed like half the audience came up to get their books autographed. I left my notes on the podium and stood at the front of the stage, signing. It took about an hour.
When I was done, I went back to the podium to pick up the papers. Another green Post-it was stuck on top of them.
"Hi, Sam! What happened to your neck?"
The package arrived almost simultaneously with Ivan's next report. It was a small orange envelope addressed to me in Veronica's memorable handwriting. Inside was Stephen Mitchell's translation of The Book of Job. Nothing else.
It was the first time I had heard from her in days and I didn't know what to think. Life had been quiet since my return from Rutgers. I spent most of the time working on Pauline's book. Frannie and I spoke on the phone almost every day, but he hadn't been able to turn up anything of importance. The only fingerprints on the videotape were his and mine. The same with the Post-it notes. Because there were so few written words on them, clone in block letters, no graphologist could do an analysis. Frannie's friends with the Los Angeles police had canvassed Cadmus's neighborhood, but no one had seen a person on the front porch the day we were there.
When I told Frannie about what had happened after my speech, all he could say over and over was "Asshole!" Home seemed the best place to be, and other than a couple of visits from Cassandra and Ivan, I saw no one. Aurelio called once to ask how the book was going. The only thing I could think to say was, "It's movin' along." I wasn't a
bout to tell that loudmouth what had been happening. If McCabe was right, I was relatively safe so long as I continued writing. I assumed Mr. Post-it was aware of what I was doing. But did he peek in the window to keep tabs on me? Sneak into the house when I was out and read what I had written?
I read Veronica's book in one afternoon and was awed by the beauty of the language, Job's brilliance at verbalizing his fears and anger in front of the Almighty. But why had she sent it to me? What was she trying to say? Besides loving the story, I couldn't help thinking she was using it as some kind of Trojan horse to sneak up on me. I wasn't wrong. A few days after it arrived, I received a postcard from her. The only thing written on it was a quote from the text, which I remembered immediately.
Remember: you formed me from clay . . .
Yet this you bid in your heart,
this I know was your purpose:
to watch me, and if I ever sinned
to punish me for the rest of my days.
You lash me if I am guilty,
shame me if I am not.
You set me free, then trap me,
like a cat toying with a mouse.
Why did you let me be born?
Did she see herself as Job? And I as God? I couldn't even coax my dog off a chair! The thought made me pick up the phone. She wasn't home. I left a message, saying, please call because we have to talk. Nothing. I waited two days and called again. Instead of her voice, she sent another card with another quote:
Is it right for you to be vicious,
to spoil what your own hands made?
Are your eyes mere eyes of flesh?
Is your vision no keener than a man's
Is your mind like a human mind?
For you keep pursuing a sin,
trying to dig up a crime,
though you know that I am innocent
Kissing the Beehive Page 10
