Transgressions

by Ed McBain

  “Who was paying her bills?”

  “I only know that they went to an address in New York, and checks were remitted promptly.”

  “How many times has Valerie been here?”

  “The last was her fourth visit.”

  Peter was aware of a young woman slipping up on them from behind. She gave Peter a glance, put a finger to her lips, then pointed at Gosden and smiled mischievously. Mittens attached to the cuffs of her parka dangled. She had a superb small face and jug-handle ears. In spite of the smile he saw in her eyes the blankness of a saintly disorder.

  “And you don’t think much of her chances of surviving on the outside,” Peter said to the psychiatrist, who grimaced slightly.

  “I couldn’t discuss that with you, Detective.”

  “Do you know where I can find Valerie?”

  Gosden brushed bread crumbs from his lap and drank some consommé from his lunchbox thermos. “Well, again. That’s highly confidential without, of course, a court order.”

  When he put the thermos down the young woman, probably still a teenager, Peter thought, put her chilly hands over Gosden’s eyes. He flinched, then forced a smile.

  “I wonder who this could be? I know! Britney Spears.”

  The girl took her hands away. “Ta-da!” She pirouetted for them, mittens flopping, and looked speculatively at Peter.

  “How about that?” Gosden said. “It’s Sydney Nova!” He glanced at his watch and said with a show of dismay, “Sydney, wouldn’t you know it, I’m running late. ‘Fraid I don’t have time for a song today.” He closed his lunchbox and got up from the bench, glancing at Peter. “If you’ll excuse me, I do have a seminar with our psych-tech trainees. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  “Thanks for your time, doctor.”

  Sydney Nova leaned on the back of the bench as Gosden walked away, giving her hair a couple of tosses like a frisky colt.

  “You don’t have to run off, do you?” she said to Peter. “I heard what, I mean who, you and Goz were talking about.”

  “Did you know Valerie Angelus?”

  Sydney held up two joined fingers, indicating the closeness of their relationship. “When she’s around, I mean. Do you have a cigarette I can bum?”

  “Don’t smoke.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Peter.”

  “Cop, huh? You’re yummy for a cop, Pete.”

  “Thanks. I guess.”

  Sydney had a way of whistling softly as a space filler. She continued to look Peter over.

  “Yeah, Val and I talk a lot when she’s here. She trusts me. We tell each other our dirty little secrets. Did you know she was a famous model before she threw a wheel the first time?”

  “Yeah. I knew that.”

  “Say, dude. Do you like your father?”

  “Sure. I like him a lot.”

  Sydney whistled again a little mournfully. She cocked her head this way and that, as if she were watching rats racing around her mental attic.

  “Magazine covers when she was sixteen. Totally demento at eighteen. I guess fame isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.” Sydney cocked her head again, making a wry mouth. “But nothing beats it for bringing in the money.” Whistling. “I haven’t had my fifteen minutes yet. But I will. Keep getting sidetracked.” She looked around the Knowles-Rembar campus, tight-lipped.

  “Tell me more about Valerie.”

  “More? Well, she got like resurrected by that artist guy, spent a whole year with him on some island. Talk about head cases.”

  “You mean John Ransome?”

  “You got it, delicious dude.”

  “What did he do to Valerie?”

  “Some secrets you don’t tell! I’ll eat rat poison first. Oh, I forgot. Been there, done that. Hey, do you like The Sound of Music? I know all the songs.”

  As if she’d been asked to audition, Sydney stood on the bench with her little hands spread wide and sang some of “Climb Ev’ry Mountain.” Peter smiled admiringly. Sydney did have a good voice. She basked in his attention, muffed a lyric, and stopped singing. She looked down at him.

  “I bet I know where Val is. Most of the time.”

  “You do?”

  “Help me down, Pete?”

  He put his hands on her small waist. She contrived to collapse into his arms. In spite of the bulky parka and her boots she seemed to weigh next to nothing. Her parted lips were an inch from his.

  “Val has a thing for cemeteries,” Sydney said. “She can spend the whole day—you know, like it’s Disneyland for dead people.”

  Peter set her down on the brick walk. “Cemeteries. For instance?”

  “Oh, like that big one in Watertown? Mount Auburn, I think it is. Okay, your turn.”

  “For what, Sydney?”

  “Whatever Gosden said about voluntary, it’s total bullshit. I’m in here like forever. But I could go with you. In the trunk of your car? Get me out of this place and I’ll be real sweet to you.”

  “Sorry, Sydney.”

  She looked at him awhile longer, working on her lower lip with little fox teeth. Her gaze earthbound. She began to whistle plaintively.

  “Thanks, Sydney. You were a big help.”

  She didn’t look up as he walked away on the path.

  “I put my father’s eyes out,” Peter heard her say. “So he couldn’t find me in the dark any more.”

  Peter spent a half hour in Mount Auburn cemetery, driving slowly in his rental car between groupings of very old mausoleums resembling grim little villages, before he came to a station wagon parked alongside the drive, its tailgate down. A woman in a dark veil was lifting an armload of flowers from the back of the wagon. He couldn’t tell much about her by winter light, but the veil was an unfortunate clue. He parked twenty feet away and got out. She glanced his way. He didn’t approach her.

  “Valerie? Valerie Angelus?”

  “What is it? I still have sites to visit, and I’m late today.”

  There were more floral tributes in the station wagon. But even from where he was the flowers didn’t appear to be fresh; some were obviously withered.

  “My name is Peter O’Neill. Okay if I talk to you, Valerie?”

  “Could we just skip that, I’m very busy.”

  “I could help you while we talk.”

  She had started uphill in a swirl of large snowflakes toward a mausoleum of rust-red marble with a Greek porch. She paused and shifted the brass container of wilted sprays of flowers that she held in both arms and looked around.

  “Oh. That would be very nice of you. What is the nature of your business?”

  “I’m a New York City detective.” He walked past the station wagon. She was waiting for him. “Are you in the floral business, Valerie?”

  “No.” She turned again to the mausoleum on the knoll. Peter caught up to her as she was laying the memorial flowers at the vault’s entrance.

  “Is this your family—”

  “No,” she said, kneeling to position the brass pot just so in front of barred doors, fussing with the floral arrangement. She stepped back for a critical look at her work, then glanced at the inscription tablet above the doors. The letters and numerals were worn, nearly unreadable. “I don’t know who they were,” she said. “It’s a very old mausoleum, as you can see. I suppose there aren’t many descendants who remember, or care.” She exhaled, the mourning veil fluttering. The veil did a decent job of disguising the fact that her facial features were distorted. If the veil had been any darker or more closely woven, probably she wouldn’t be able to see where she was going. “But we’ll all want to be remembered, won’t we?”

  “That’s why you’re doing this?”

  “Yes.” She turned and walked past him down the knoll, boots crunching through snow crust. “You’re a detective? I thought you might be another insurance investigator.” The cold wind teased her veil. “Well, come on. We’re doing that one next.” She pointed to another vault across the drive from where she’d
left her station wagon.

  Peter helped her pull a white fan-shaped latticework filled with hothouse flowers onto the tailgate. The weather was too brutal for her not to be wearing gloves, but with her arm extended an inch or so of wrist was exposed. The multiple scars there were reminders of more than one suicide attempt.

  They carried the lattice to the next mausoleum, large enough to enclose a family tree of Biblical proportions. A squirrel nickered at them from a pediment.

  “They wouldn’t pay, you know,” Valerie said. “They claimed that because of my . . . history, I disabled my own car. Now that’s just silly. I don’t know anything about cars. How the brakes are supposed to work.”

  “Your brakes failed?”

  “We’ll put it here,” Valerie said, sweeping away leaves collected in a niche. When she was satisfied that the tribute was properly displayed she looked uneasily around. “Next we’re going to that sort of ugly one with the little fountain. But we need to hurry. They make me leave, you know, they’re very strict about that. I can’t come back until seven-thirty in the morning. So I . . . must spend the night by myself. That’s always the hard part, isn’t it? Getting through the night.”

  She didn’t talk much while they finished unloading the flowers and dressing up the neglected mausoleums. Once she appeared to be pleased with her afternoon’s work and at peace with herself, Peter asked, as if all along they’d been having a conversation about Ransome, “Did John come to see you after your accident?”

  Valerie paused to run a gloved hand over a damaged marble plinth.

  “Seventeen sixty-two. Wasn’t that a long time ago.”

  “Valerie—”

  “I don’t know why you’re asking me questions,” she said crossly. “I’m cold. I want to go to my car.” She began walking away, then hesitated. “John is . . . all right, isn’t he?”

  “Was the last time I saw him. By the way, he sends his warmest regards.”

  “Ohhh. Well, there’s good news. I mean that he’s all right. And still painting?” Peter nodded. “He’s a genius, you know.”

  “I’m not one to judge.”

  Her tone changed as they walked on. “Let’s just skip it. Talking about John. I can’t get Silkie to shut up about him. He was always so generous to me. I don’t know why Silkie is afraid of him. John wouldn’t hurt her.”

  “Who’s Silkie?”

  “My friend. I mean she comes around. Says she’s my friend.”

  “What does she say about John?”

  Valerie closed the tailgate of her wagon. She crossed her arms, shuddering in spite of the fur-lined greatcoat she wore.

  “That John wanted to—destroy all of us. So that only his paintings live. How ridiculous. The one thing I was always sure of was John’s love for me. And I loved him. I’m able to say it now. Loved him. I was going to have his baby.”

  Peter took a few unhappy moments to absorb that. “Did he know?”

  “Uh-uh. I found out after I left the island. I tried and tried to get in touch with John, but—they wouldn’t let me. So I—”

  Valerie faced Peter. In the twilight he could see her staring at him through the mesh over her face. She drew a horizontal line with a finger where her abdomen would be beneath the greatcoat.

  “—Did this. And then I—” She held up an arm, exposing another scarred wrist above the fur cuff of the coat sleeve. “—did this. I was so . . . angry.” She let her arm drop. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. But Dr. Gosden says ‘Don’t keep the bad things hidden, Valerie.’ And you are a friend of John’s. I would never want him to think poorly of me, as my mother used to say. Skip my mother. I never talk about her. Would you let John know I’m okay now? The anger is gone. I’ll be just fine, no matter what Goz thinks.” She lifted her face to the darkened sky, snowflakes spangling her veil. She swallowed nervously. “Do you have the time, Peter?”

  “Ten to five.” He stamped his feet; his toes were freezing.

  “Gates close at five in winter. We’d better go.”

  “Valerie, when did Silkie pose for Ransome?”

  “Oh, that was over with a year ago. I’ve never been jealous of her.”

  “Has Silkie had any accidents you know of?”

  “No,” Valerie said, sounding mildly perplexed. “But I told you, obsessing about John John John all the time has her in a state. What I think, she’s just having a hard time getting over him, so she makes up stuff about how he wants to hurt her. When it’s the other way around. Goz would say she’s having neurotic displacements. Anyway, she uses different names and doesn’t have a home of her own. Picks up guys and stays with them a couple of nights, week at the most, then moves on.”

  “Then you don’t know how I can get hold of her.”

  “Well—she left me a phone number. If I ever needed her, she said.” Valerie turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled. She looked back at Peter. “I can try to find the humber for you, later.” Her usually somber tone had lightened. “Why don’t you come by, say, nine o’clock?”

  “Where?”

  “Four-fifteen West Churchill. I’m in six-A. I know I must seem old to you, Peter. Sometimes I feel—ancient. Like I’m living a whole lot of lives at the same time. Skip that. Truth is I’m only twenty-seven! You probably wouldn’t have guessed. I’m not coming on to you or anything, but I could make dinner for us. Would you like that?”

  “Very much. Thank you, Valerie.”

  “Call me Val, why don’t you?” she said, and drove off.

  Echo was rosy-fresh from a long hot soak, sitting at the foot of her bed with her hair bound up, frowning at the laptop computer she couldn’t get to work. She looked up at a knock on her door; she was clearing her throat to speak when the door opened and John Ransome looked in.

  “Oh, Mary Catherine. I’m sorry—”

  “No, it’s okay. I was about to get dressed. John, there’s something wrong with my laptop, it isn’t working at all.”

  He shook his head. “Wish I could help. I’m barely computer-literate; I’ve never even looked inside one of those things. There’s a computer in my office you’re welcome to use.”

  “Thank you.”

  He was closing the door when she said, “John?”

  “Yes?”

  It’s going well for you, isn’t it? Your painting. You know, you looked happy today—well, most of the time.”

  “Did I?” he smiled, almost reluctant to confirm this. “All I know is, the hours go by so quickly in good company. And the work—yes, I am pleased. I don’t feel tired tonight. How about you? Posing doesn’t seem to tire or bore you.”

  “Because I always have something interesting to think about or tell you. I try not to talk too much. I’m not tired either but I’m starving.”

  “Then I’ll see you downstairs.” But he didn’t leave or look away from her. He’d had his own bath. He wore corduroys and a thick sweater with a shawl collar. He had a glass of wine in his left hand. “Mary Catherine, I was thinking—but this really isn’t the time, I’m intruding.”

  “What is it, John? You can come in, it’s okay.”

  He smiled and opened the door wider. But he stayed in the doorway, drank some wine, looked fondly at her.

  “I’ve been thinking of trying something new, for me. Painting you contrapposto, nothing else on the canvas, no background.”

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  “Old dog, new tricks,” he said with a shrug, still smiling.

  “You’d want me to pose nude, then.”

  “Yes. Unless you have strong reservations. I’d understand. It’s just an idea.”

  “But I think it’s a good idea,” she said quickly. “You know I’m in favor of whatever makes the work go more easily, inspires you. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You don’t have to decide impetuously,” he cautioned. “There’s plenty of time—”

  Echo nodded again. “I’m fine with it, John. Believe me.”

  After a
few moments she rose slowly from the bed, her lips lightly compressed, with a certain inwardness that distanced her from Ransome. She slowly and with pleasure let down her hair, arms held high, glistening by lamplight. She gave her abundant dark mane a full shakeout, then stared at the floor for a few seconds longer before turning away from him as she undid the towel.

  Ransome’s face was impassive as he stared at Echo, his creative eye absorbing motion, light, shadow, coloring, contour. In that part of his mind removed from her subtle eroticism there was a great cold weight of ocean, the tolling waves.

  Having folded the towel and lain it on the counterpane, Echo was still, seeming not to breathe, a hand outstretched as if she were a nymph reaching toward her reflection on the surface of a pool.

  When at last she faced him she was easeful in her beauty, strong in her trust of herself, her purpose, her value. Proud of what they were creating together.

  “Will you excuse me now, John?” she said.

  TWELVE

  When Valerie finished dressing for her anticipated dinner date with Peter O’Neill, having selected a clingy rose cocktail dress she’d almost forgotten was in her closet and a veil from her drawerful of veils to match, she returned to the apartment kitchen to check on how dinner was coming along. They were having gingered braised pork with apple and winter squash kebobs. She’d marinated the pork and other ingredients for two hours. The skewers were ready to grill as soon as Peter arrived. There was a bowl of tossed salad in the refrigerator. For dessert—now what had she planned for dessert? Oh, yes. Lemon-mint frappes.

  But as soon as she walked into the small neat kitchen Valerie saw that the glass dish on the counter was empty and clean. No pork cubes marinating in garlic, orange juice, allspice and olive oil. The unused metal skewers were to the left of the dish. The recipe book lay open.

  She stared blankly at the untouched glass dish. Her scarred lips were pursed beneath her veil. She felt something let go in her mind and build momentum swiftly, like a roller-coaster on the downside of a bell curve with a 360-degree loop just ahead. She heard herself scream childishly on a distant day of fun and apprehension.