Mirror Maze j-4

by William Bayer

  Whenever she entered the Great Hall, she expected no mercy. Here the only available images were of herself. Unless she closed her eyes, she could not escape these luminous self-portraits, finding relief only in the distorting mirrors, which, although they presented her with reflections, at least provided variations on the identical likenesses to be seen in the mirrors that reflected true. But these "mirrors of deception" also cut at her eyes. The flawed doubles they offered her were parodies. It seemed to her that by their mockery, they made comment upon her character. They told her that the face she showed the world was fake, that the self she presented was a counterfeit.

  Losing herself in here, yielding to the pitiless judgment of the glass, she found herself besieged by visions from her past. They did not come to her whole, but in flashes, splinters, shards. She saw quick reflections of herself at an earlier age, little pieces of her dream-sister: a flare of flesh, a flicker of an eye, a mouth tormented in a silent scream. And there were pieces of her father, too-his flesh, eyes, mouth. But between these tiny slivers of the two of them, she saw flashes of someone or something else.

  She turned and looked for whatever it was. She wanted most desperately to see it. She wondered if it was the Leering Man of her dreams. Her father had called it "the creature," sometimes "the Minotaur." It was here, hiding in the maze, visible only for instants when she moved. And so, to induce it to come out, she began to turn in the center of the Great Hall-around, around and around again, twirling, whirling, reveling at being at the hub of a great kaleidoscope, seeking a glimpse of the monster, no matter how quick or brief.

  She whirled so hard, so many times, she became lost in dizziness. But as hard as she strove to see the Minotaur clearly, she caught only tiny glimpses before she collapsed in fatigue upon the floor.

  Peering around, staring at each image of herself in turn, she wondered if this mirror-madness would one day cease to be ecstatic, whether one day it would make her so crazy that she would be imprisoned forever in the glass.

  Oh, Doc, wherever you are-help me. Help me! Please!

  The Hunt.

  Dr. Isaac Feldstein was not inclined to cooperate. He made that clear by staring severely at Aaron, then at Janek, while sitting very straight behind his orderly and too-large mahogany desk.

  Janek stared back, blank-faced, as the doctor told them he did not believe he had a patient whose first name was Diana. In fact, the doctor said, he doubted he even knew a woman with that particular first name.

  As for triazolam, yes, he did prescribe it for some of his patients. He also prescribed Valium, Ativan, Dalmane and a good half dozen other sedatives of the benzodiazepine class. Under no circumstances would he reveal his patients' names or the nature of their prescriptions. If the detectives did not understand why he held to this position, they were welcome to discuss the matter with his attorney.

  Feldstein, wearing an immaculate white jacket, smiled scornfully as he said all this. Then, as if to reassure himself, he gazed around at the fine appointments in his Park Avenue consulting room.

  He was a short, dapper man with an oversized head, thick gray hair and a sharp, jutting chin. As he talked he angled his head back to emphasize his confidence. He was selfimportant, feisty, arrogant-all traits that Janek despised. Watching him, Janek wondered how he managed to keep his patients. But then he remembered that there were people who preferred a cold, imperious doctor. Better to leave everything to the despotic judgment of an all-knowing Great Physician than to acknowledge there were mysteries within the body as yet not understood.

  "So, if that's all you gentlemen-"

  "What's his name?" Janek asked.

  Feldstein blinked. He didn't like being interrupted. "Excuse me?"

  "Your attorney-what's his name?"

  "Well, I don't really see-"

  "Gilford Thatcher, right?"

  "Well, yes. But-" "Yeah, I thought so." Janek shook his head with disgust.

  Feldstein screwed up his features. "Sorry, Lieutenant, I don't get what you're driving at."

  Janek leaned forward. "I've worked a lot of cases like this. Sooner or later we find the person we're looking for. Then, sooner or later, he or she makes a deal. What I'm driving at, Dr. Feldstein, is that when we find this woman, whom you claim you don't know, and she tells us how you prescribed triazolam, knowing exactly what she was going to do with it, I'll make it my personal mission in life to see your license revoked."

  He glanced at Aaron. They stood up. They didn't bother to say good-bye.

  He took the Lexington Avenue subway downtown, got off at Canal Street, walked three blocks east, then climbed the four long flights to the former karate studio that housed the law offices of Rampersad amp; Rudnick.

  This time Netti's young secretary opened the door.

  "Hello, Lieutenant." Doe Landestoy beamed.

  Janek peered around. Rudnick was nowhere in sight, but Netti was on the exercise platform working out with a pair of chromed barbells.

  "Hi!" she yelled. "Be right with you-soon as I finish the set."

  Janek watched as she completed her routine. She looked limber and strong. He noticed she was wearing the same ensemble as on his previous visit, except that this time her sweatpants were navy and her white tanktop bore a black German military insignia.

  When she was finished, she mopped her face with a towel, slung it over the back of her neck, grabbed both ends with her hands and approached.

  As before, her forehead, neck and upper torso were slick with sweat.

  Janek looked her over. "Every time I drop in here I catch you working out."

  Her eyes glowed. "I like pumping iron. Sometimes I practice a little law."

  He noticed several delightful clusters of freckles on her glossy chest.

  Don't start thinking about her body, he warned himself.

  "Glad to hear that. I need a good lawyer. I'm here today on my own account."

  She raised her eyebrows, beckoned him to her work area, gestured him into her client's chair, sat behind her desk, mopped her face again and settled back.

  "Okay," she said nicely, in the manner of a well practiced attorney,

  "let's hear your story."

  She listened carefully as he spoke, taking occasional notes on a yellow legal pad, nodding at strategic points to show she followed what he was saying. As he recounted his saga-exploitative ex-wife, crushing alimony, ex-wife's live-in lover, imbalance in their incomes-he found, to his surprise, that he was enjoying himself Netti was a good listener; she inspired coherent narrative. And his depiction of Sarah, which always emerged with a bitter edge when he discussed her with Aaron, was coming out now in a far more attractive form.

  "Well, it ain't criminal defense," Netti said when he finished. "But it could be fun, specially if I can do it quick." She paused. "What's your bottom line?":, Reduce the alimony, I guess."

  "Reduce it? Why not eliminate it?"

  "Think you can do that?"

  "I'll give it my best shot."

  Suddenly he was worried: What if Netti came on too strong, antagonized Sarah, then lost the case? Might that inspire Sarah to seek even more alimony than he was paying?

  "Is it smart to demand so much?"

  Netti patted his hand. "Only way to go. In a case like this you've gotta break their balls."

  He arrived back at Special Squad to take a call from Joe Deforest.

  "Free this evening?" Deforest asked.

  "What's up?"

  "That attorney you're interested in, Gil Thatcher-he just phoned. He wants to take us to dinner."

  "Right," Janek said, smiling to himself. "I've been expecting something like this."

  He took off an hour, went over to Twelfth Avenue and walked through several new-car dealer showrooms. Everything he touched had a plastic, tinny feel to it. He was angry about the loss of his Saab and hoped Stoney would find the guy who blew it up.

  He decided two things: He wouldn't buy a car, and, as soon as he was finished with the Dietz ca
se, he would call Stoney and offer to collaborate.

  La Palombe was not the kind of restaurant Janek liked. It was, first of all, very expensive, a fact made clear by its marble-lined foyer, haughty hat-check girl, hovering tuxedoed waiters, lavish floral bouquets and opulent main room where elegantly framed watercolors hung on red damask covered walls.

  The pretentious mocitre d' didn't appeal to Janek either; nor, apparently, did Janek do much for him. Must be in – V shoes, Janek thought, but he didn't care. He knew about the supercilious Europeans who guarded the portals of Manhattan's fancier establishments. They were the kind who, if you came in and asked politely to use the men's room, would recoil in disgust.

  He didn't like Gilford Thatcher, but he hadn't expected to, so that came as no surprise. Thatcher wasn't up-front arrogant like Feldstein.

  Rather, he was oily and affable with the kind of perfect tan you get only if you spend a lot of time on a yacht. He was a ban some man wit a leonine face and carefully cut soft black hair. He had a low-key confidential way of speaking that forced listeners to lean forward, and a smug, sometimes ironic smile.

  Janek stayed silent while Thatcher and Deforest made small talk. He listened politely as Thatcher recommended various dishes and then entered into a tedious discussion with the wine steward. When, toward the middle of the meal, he noticed Thatcher studying him, he looked the attorney in the eye.

  "You've been quiet, Lieutenant," Thatcher observed.

  Janek shrugged. "I like to get to the point."

  "Fine." Thatcher grinned. "Let's get to it. You've been asking around about one of my clients. I'd like to know why. "

  "I'm looking for a young woman. I think your client knows where she lives."

  "Who exactly are we talking about?"

  "What exactly is your client's name?" Thatcher smiled again. "Her first name's Diana."

  "The first name of the woman I'm looking for is Gelsey. " . "Well, now that we've got that straight… " Thatcher winked at Deforest. "My client is a public-spirited individual. I'm sure she'd like to help. But if she talks to you, she could implicate herself.

  Obviously, that's something I can't permit.

  "What do you suggest?" Deforest asked.

  "That she come forward on a background-only basis."

  "What does that mean?"

  "No sworn testimony. Any '' referred to are off the record. She will never be called as a witness. She helps you once and that's it… forever." "You're talking about full immunity," Deforest said. Thatcher nodded.

  "I'll need your assurance on that." Janek didn't like it. "Your client's running a dope ' and rob ' ring."

  Thatcher smiled. "If you're sure about that, Lieutenant, I'd advise you to take your evidence to the D. A."

  "Look, we're not interested in Diana," Deforest said.

  "Glad to hear it. But my job is to protect. my client. Full immunity's the only way." Thatcher gave a short nod. Then he stood.

  "Excuse me. I'll call her now, see how she feels about it. Meantime, you gentlemen talk it over. I'd like to settle this tonight."

  As soon as he was gone, Janek looked at Deforest. "It stinks. "

  "Sure, it does," Deforest agreed. "But you still need to talk to the lady."

  "Who's to say she'll tell me anything? Meantime, she gets immunized."

  "Maybe she'll help you, Frank, maybe she won't. That's the chance you take. If after you meet her you think she bullshitted you, investigate her all you want. Just wait till the Dietz case is wrapped, then go in and develop your evidence. The only stuff you won't be able to use is stuff she tells you. Otherwise she's fair game."

  "If she's smart she'll tell me everything."

  "Don't let her. Go in wired. The moment she strays from the topic, cut her off." Janek thought about it, then nodded. "It's the right decision, Frank," Deforest assured him.

  When Thatcher returned, he ordered coffee for three, then turned to Janek. "Assuming you guys agree to my terms, Diana will meet you tonight."

  "Where?"

  "One A.M. Corner of Washington and Gansevoort."

  The meat market-how convenient."

  Thatcher raised an eyebrow to show he didn't know the neighborhood.

  "She'll drive by and pick you up."

  "What's her last name?" Thatcher smiled. "I don't think you need to know that."

  Deforest glanced at Janek. Janek shrugged; he understood he had no choice.

  "Okay," Deforest said, "we agree-nothing she tells Janek can be used against her. He'll record the conversation. I assume she'll do the same." Thatcher nodded. "You want this in writing?" "Your word's fine.

  Anyway"-Thatcher smiled as he looked toward Janek-"I have an excellent witness here."

  When Deforest got up to visit the men's room, he looked like he was going to puke. Thatcher and Janek sat facing each other. Thatcher broke the silence.

  "You don't like me very much, do you?"

  Janek shrugged. "What difference does it make?"

  "I know what you're thinking."

  "What's that?"

  "Because I represent people you consider scum, that makes me scum, too."

  Janek shook his head. "I understand the advocacy system."

  Thatcher grinned. "You're pretty advanced. A lot of you guys can't differentiate." He paused. "So, what is it about me you don't like?"

  "You got it all wrong, Counselor. I don't dislike you. I'm amused by you, that's all."

  Thatcher's eyes showed puzzlement. "Amused?"

  Janek nodded. "You're the kind of slick lawyer gets a kick out of making a hardball deal like tonight. But the day you want something from me you'll come on obsequious." Janek smiled. "I find that pretty funny."

  As he waited on the corner of Gansevoort and Washington, he found himself growing increasingly annoyed. He knew that in a few hours the Fourteenth Street meat market would come to life, crowded with delivery trucks and wholesale butchers pushing hooked carcasses around on the permanently installed tracks. But at one A.M. the place was deserted, except for an occasional car cruising for an occasional strolling transvestite prostitute. The street lamps were dim, the meat hooks were bare, he could hear rats moving in the sewers and the old cobblestones were hard on his feet. There was a slaughterhouse aroma, too; no matter how often the purveyors hosed down the area, they could never rid it of the stench.

  By one-thirty he considered going home. He knew that the delay was deliberate, that he was the object of a power play: Wear the jerk down by making him wait on the lonely street corner, then pull up, all smiles and apologies. He'd been through it many times; he guessed he'd employed it numerous times himself. But still he felt aggrieved. He thought:

  Maybe I'm getting too old for this.

  At 1:35 a long white Cadillac limousine appeared out of the gloom. It slipped around the corner of Washington and Jane, then headed slowly toward him.

  He'd heard about Diana's limo from Kirstin. Despite his irritation, he felt a small rush of excitement at the prospect of finally meeting the iron magnolia, as capable of taking her girls on cultural-improvement tours as she was adept at carving up their pretty cheeks.

  The long car glided to a halt. As Janek moved toward it, he could see images of himself reflected in its one-way glass. When he was just a few feet away, the driver's window descended, revealing a smooth-faced Asian girl. Must be Kim, he thought. She was dressed in a man's white shirt, solid black tie and traditional chauffeur's cap pulled tight over helmet-cut hair. She examined him severely.

  "You're the cop?"

  Janek nodded. Kim gestured toward the back of the car, then raised her window, causing her sullen features to be replaced by his own.

  The moment Janek opened the rear door, he was hit by a blast of cold air and the intense aroma of a dark, intensely cloying perfume. A handsome middle-aged woman with sleek platinum-dyed hair, wrapped in a gray fur coat, sat in the far corner of the seat. She was gazing at him, a feline smile on her lips.

  "Please get i
n," she said.

  Inside he was better able to make her out. She had gray eyes, extremely pale skin and fine, almost delicate facial bones. When she shifted slightly to adjust her fur, he was reminded of a pampered, silver-coated cat.

  "Diana Cassiday," she said, extending her hand.

  "Frank Janek," he said, extending his. After they shook, the car began to move. Janek caught a quick glimpse of Kim glaring at him in the rearview mirror.

  "I hope you don't mind if we drive around. I like to cruise the city at night." Diana turned to him. "I under- stand you're wired?" There was a slight Texas twang to her speech, but what struck Janek was its smoothness. Her voice reminded him of velvet.

  He shook his head. "No need." He showed her his tape recorder, flicked it on, then set it between them on the seat.

  "What about you?"

  "Built in." She reached toward a console, flicked a switch, then pushed a button. A glass partition rose to cut off the driver's compartment.

  "Privacy," she said, as if the act required an explanation.

  She snuggled farther down into her coat. The limo was so cold, Janek found himself squeezing his elbows to his sides. The solution, of course, was to turn down the air-conditioning, but the lady, it seemed, liked to wear her furs.

  "Your attorney wouldn't give us your last name."

  Diana smiled. "Gil can be silly sometimes. Especially as all you'd have to do is run a check on my license plate." She hummed to herself; it sounded like a purr. Then she looked at Janek curiously. "What did you say to him, anyway?"

  Janek shrugged. "Whatever it was, it surely did annoy him." "I pretty much told him what I thought."

  This time Diana's eyes were truly curious. "Why on earth did you do that?" When Janek shrugged again, Diana shook her head. The motion was kittenish. "You and I are different types, Lieutenant. I never tell anybody what I think."

  The limo cruised east on Fourteenth. They were leaving the meat market, a move Janek found encouraging. The car, he noticed, was soundproofed, isolating them from the noises of the city. Its one-way glass made the streets look dimmer than they were. Between the hush and the muted light, he felt like he was riding in a hearse.