Levine was affiliated with New York Hospital, but had a small, private office in a townhouse on East 66th Street. Samantha had the taxi drop her at the end of the block. She still had an uneasy feeling about psychiatrists—her parents had never approved of them—and even felt a bit embarrassed. Slipping on a pair of dark glasses, she climbed the white steps to Levine's office.
Up close, Levine seemed older than Samantha had remembered him. He was in his late fifties, with totally gray hair and deep-set eyes. He looked like a psychiatrist, Samantha thought, which partially accounted for the faith patients had in him. His office was done in reddish wood paneling, with indirect lighting. It was easy on the eyes, designed to make anxious people relax. Levine sat in an oversized orthopedic chair behind his cluttered desk as he discussed Marty's case with Samantha.
"I don't understand it," Samantha told him. "Marty's an honest man. People in business respect him. But so many things he told me turned out not to be true. And yet he wants to make that trip."
"Does he have a tendency to exaggerate?" Levine asked.
"No."
"But he's in public relations. Exaggeration is part of his job."
"Oh, sure. But he doesn't take it home."
"Does he seem to feel the need to impress you?"
"No more than anyone else. He doesn't brag. He doesn't claim abilities he doesn't have."
"I see." Levine made notes on a yellow pad as he went along. "Have you noticed any lapses of memory?"
Samantha thought for a moment. "Marty can be forgetful," she conceded.
"How forgetful?"
"I don't understand."
"Does he forget obvious things, like the names of relatives?"
"Oh, no. He'll just forget to pay a bill or buy batteries for his Walkman."
"Has he changed since you married him?"
"Not really."
"Any medical problems?"
"No."
"Brushes with the law?"
"What?"
"It's important that I know," Levine explained.
"None that he's told me about," Samantha answered. Then she laughed ironically. "Of course, what does that prove?"
"Does Marty see a psychiatrist?"
"No, unless he's hiding it."
"What I'm trying to get at," Levine said, "is anything that might be disturbing Marty, something that may be warping his judgment. Sometimes people lie—about their past, for example—out of desperation. They may need to invent a second identity."
"I understand," Samantha replied. "But I can't think of anything that could be disturbing him. He seems quite content."
"And it's always been this way?"
"For as long as I've known him."
"This may be a difficult question, Mrs. Shaw, but does he ever use expressions like, 'I'd like to kill myself?"
"No. Never."
"Good. By the way, have you discussed the fake diploma with him?"
"No."
"Well don't. Men can react to a challenge like that in very strange ways."
The discussion lasted almost two hours. At the end, Samantha was exhausted and Levine had filled forty-two pages with notes. He reviewed some of them before passing judgment. "Mrs. Shaw," he said, "you've described a perfectly normal man…except for his false past and this odd redecorating of the room. I told you earlier that it might be impossible for me to assess this without seeing Marty. All you've said reinforces that. I'd have to talk with him to be of any help."
"But Doctor Levine, you asked me not to challenge him."
Levine sighed. "That's right. You couldn't confront him with your real concerns. We'd have to find a way to get him in here."
"Like what?"
"Well, you could suggest to him that he seems under stress …from work, I mean. You could urge him to see a doctor for your sake."
Samantha weighed the idea, then shook her head negatively. "He wouldn't buy it," she said. "Marty's one of those professional I-can-handle-it types."
"All right. Well, Mrs. Shaw, the bottom line is, no Marty, no answers."
It was another dead end. Samantha couldn't devise a way to get Marty to a psychiatrist, and she now wondered whether Levine could actually help. What if Marty were just a deceitful man with no mental problems? What could Levine do with that?
A discouraged Samantha left Levine's office. She didn't take a cab home, preferring to walk through Central Park in the chill breeze, trying to collect her thoughts, to figure a way out of her dilemma. The park was empty, almost desolate, and it made Samantha feel even more alone. She'd tried Tom Edwards and Kenneth Levine. She'd even tried Marty with her amateurish probes. She'd seen no progress. Now she almost wished she'd never thought of the party or of finding people from Marty's past. Ignorance is sometimes bliss, she thought to herself. What would have been wrong with not knowing that Marty's past was a fake? She would have had a happy marriage, a peaceful existence. Now what did she have? "Little Miss Curiosity," she mumbled, almost with contempt. She was, in a way, blaming herself. It was natural.
A few days later Samantha spoke with a psychologist, then, the next day, with another psychiatrist. Both echoed what Levine had said—that without Marty's presence, they could offer no help. Samantha gave up on shrinks.
But there was one question Levine had asked that kept going through her mind. It frightened her, but it wouldn't go away. He'd asked whether Marty had had brushes with the law. It was a possibility, Samantha knew, one that could explain why he'd falsified his past.
She decided to see a lawyer.
But which one? She would never go to the family attorney, for that would be too embarrassing. Besides, he was really Marty's lawyer from the time before their marriage. She needed a criminal lawyer, someone who might have handled problems like the one she now faced. So Samantha Shaw left her apartment one Thursday, in the middle of a November snowfall, and took a cab to the Newspaper Division of the New York Public Library. There she went through back issues of newspapers seeking the name of a lawyer with a winning record. For if Marty were in trouble, she'd want him to win. No matter what he'd done, no matter what he'd told her, she'd still want him to win. What she needed was a modern Clarence Darrow. And she thought she'd found him in the person of L. Douglas Grimes.
Grimes had two offices, an opulent set-up on Wall Street and a stylishly shabby affair in a West Manhattan brownstone. Samantha, the lady with a personal problem, was seen in the brownstone. The office was tiny, with white Kentile floor and chipped wooden desk, a perfect setting for the downtrodden, and those who imagined they were. But behind the desk were sixteen awards from civic groups, citing Grimes as certifiably wonderful. That was clout.
He was average looking and slightly paunchy, but his common looks, rolled-up sleeves, mussed hair, worn shoes, creased and wide-suspendered pants all worked to his advantage with the "underprivileged" side of his practice. He was one of "us" rather than one of "them."
He listened to what Samantha said, those practiced eyes staring her down, and she did spill out everything. When she finished he waited a full minute before commenting. He removed his rimless glasses, leaned back, and placed his hands flatly on his head, signaling that he was thinking carefully. Then, looking her over once more, he tried to detect, from his twenty years' experience, whether she was lying. He guessed she wasn't.
"You have one of the most difficult problems I've ever encountered," he said. "I don't know how you take it."
"I love him," Samantha replied. "That's how."
Grimes laughed nervously. "You'd make a good defense witness. Very sympathetic. But I'm amazed you haven't confronted him."
"I can't. What if he has good reasons for all this? Sometimes I think I'd be better off if I'd never known."
"I understand." Grimes eased out of his rolling chair and anchored himself to the edge of the desk. "But you don't mean that. You want the truth precisely because you love him. You sense he may be in danger. After all, you did come to me."
Sam
antha conceded that Grimes was right. She was prepared to forgive almost anything, including a past littered with shame, but she had to know. "Do you think he may have a legal problem?" she asked.
"Impossible to say," Grimes replied. "You'd need a private investigator to follow Marty and trace his roots. That's expensive and he might come up empty-handed. And Marty might catch on. Some of these private eyes are no geniuses."
"Have you seen other cases like this?"
Grimes laughed the laugh of experience. "Oh, many, many, many. Hiding the past to cover something is common. Ex-cons do it all the time. So do bankrupts. And, you know, you've got the draft dodgers, tax evaders, the alcoholics, guys who skip out on child support…"
Samantha winced. Grimes caught it. "I knew you'd pop at that last one," he said. "Women do."
Samantha shook her head in an exaggerated no. "Marty wouldn't do that. He…"
"It's something you may have to face," Grimes countered.
Samantha sighed, then took a deep breath. Stay calm, she told herself. Don't hate Grimes because he's saying hateful things. He's trying to help.
"What are the chances of the…child support thing?" she asked.
Grimes shrugged. "Again, impossible to say. Look, don't jump to conclusions. There are plenty of other possibilities. I mean, Marty might have done something heroic."
Samantha warmed. "Like?"
"He could've caught a criminal." Now Grimes started to pace, lawyerlike, creating a theory that he knew would please his client. "Maybe he's afraid of retaliation and had to establish a new identity for self-protection. The government has a program that does that, you know."
"Could I find out?"
"Probably not. Clearly, he's not using his real name. Who would we ask? What could they go on?"
"What if I went to the police?"
Grimes chewed on that one, strolling briefly over to straighten an award from the Citizens Union. Any answer he gave could be trouble. "It depends on the real truth about Marty," he replied. "You could send him to jail if he's running and the cops find out. If he has a mental problem, amnesia or something, you could be helping him. Chances are, going to the cops wouldn't have any effect. They've got hotter cases to worry about."
Samantha knew she was batting zero. Theories, more theories, still more theories, all billable to her. She felt herself coming to an obvious conclusion—one she would fight—that Marty had to be confronted directly.
"Do you have any legal advice?" she finally asked Grimes.
"Sure. If your husband does anything suspicious, don't get involved. You could be charged as an accomplice, even if you claimed you didn't know. If he does something odd, call me."
"What's 'odd'?"
"Anything that smacks of sudden material gain. If he wants a vacation that he can't afford, don't go. He may be using dirty money. If he brings you a gift that busts the budget, tell him you'd be embarrassed to accept it, and buzz me." Grimes approached Samantha, gazing directly into her fearful eyes. "If you discover a weapon in the house, call me instantly. Unexplained phone charges…I want to know. You'll sense if something's wrong. Wives always do. You're the best private eyes."
On that note, they parted. Samantha returned by cab to the apartment building. She had no idea what to do next.
When she arrived she said her usual, friendly hello to Al, the ancient doorman, who'd been there thirty-five years and held the door with the style of a man who took pride in his work. "Oh, oh, Mrs. Shaw," he called as Samantha was halfway to the elevator, "there's a package."
"For me?"
"I think it's for Mr. Shaw."
Al took Samantha to the package room and gave her a small parcel wrapped in plain brown paper. It was clearly addressed to Marty, but had no return address. Samantha stared at it, felt around it, and suddenly she was scared. But why be scared? It was only a package. She knew why. A plain parcel, no return address, and Grimes warning about weapons and odd things. "Thanks, Al," she said mechanically, then rushed to the elevator.
When she got to her apartment, Samantha placed the package on a kitchen table. She stood and looked at it, perhaps for two minutes. She'd never opened Marty's mail before. Her father had said that mail, even after decades of marriage, was personal. She thought of spy movies, where they open packages, then reseal them so no one would know. Could she do that? No, it wasn't in her nature. Yes, she had to. Suspicion, worry, fright, were gripping her. Her normal instincts fell away.
She carefully opened the package.
There was a box inside. It, too, was plain. As Samantha placed her fingers on it, ready to remove the lid, she hesitated. What was in there? A gun? A pack of money? Explosives?
She lifted the lid.
She looked down.
She felt nothing, for there was nothing to feel. Inside the box was a book, with a note. It was an early birthday present from one of Marty's friends, someone who couldn't make the party. The book: A History of the American Press, by a professor at Medill. Irony, Samantha thought. Just irony.
She rewrapped the package. It was better than new. Minutes later the phone rang. It was Grimes. Samantha's heart raced. Had he come up with something? Had he made calls and gotten some information? It had to be progress. Why else would he call?
"I was thinking about your case," Grimes said. For Samantha, instant disappointment. "You know," Grimes continued, "you may get nowhere no matter what you do."
"I realize that," Samantha said.
"And this is tearing you apart. I was wondering whether you've considered eliminating the problem at its source."
Eliminating? Samantha sat down as nerves overcame her. Grimes's language was more suitable for an underworld hit than a family crisis. "What do you mean?" she asked quietly.
"Divorce."
"No."
"Well, all right. You're the client. But 'no' can't be forever. You've got to think about it. This can devour you."
Samantha wasn't really angry at Grimes's suggestion. Maybe she was even thankful. Yes, there could be a divorce if things got worse. Her heart might say no, but her mind could say maybe. Of course, she refused to take it that seriously. It would all work out. Even after Grimes's call she told herself that. The nightmare would end. Marty would come through.
But, maybe…
She was wracked with doubts. She had no plan. She was numb. She threw herself back into planning a party for a man she didn't know, if only to escape the darkness.
Four days after Samantha saw Grimes, Marty brought home the electric trains. Samantha was nonplussed. A grown man with choo-choo trains? In a city apartment? Without kids? But Marty explained it.
"I never had trains," he said boyishly. "They're great. A lot of men have them. Sam, there are clubs all over the world."
She wasn't convinced.
"Look, I'll build a small layout, the kind you can take apart and put in the closet. You'll love it."
What a temptation to tell Marty about the baby. But Samantha held it in. There were too many doubts. "I guess it'll be all right," she said.
"It's very relaxing for me," Marty went on, as if appealing to Samantha's devotion. Then he explained how he bought only used trains because he preferred the older models.
"You never buy anything used," Samantha protested.
"This is different. You have to understand the hobby. The old Lionel stuff—it's terrific."
It was odd, but not odd enough to trigger a phone call to L. Douglas Grimes. And Samantha saw nothing to link the trains to the mystery of Marty's past. Maybe he did just want a hobby. What was the big deal? Okay, no crisis. Peace. Let him have his toys if he needed them. Samantha was prepared to let the trains chug by as just the eccentricity of a hard-working man.
Tom Edwards came over and helped Marty set them up in the living room. They ran the trains for a time, then Tom went home, allowing Marty to run them alone. Samantha studied him from a hallway, watching the intensity in his face, the fascination in his eyes.
"
I've never seen you happier," she said, walking into the living room.
He didn't answer. He didn't even acknowledge her presence. All right, men got wrapped up in things. Football. The Series. It happened. She forced herself not to take offense.
"Can I run them?" she asked.
Marty looked up at her. It was such a lighthearted question, yet he looked so grim. "You sure you want to?"
"Yeah."
But Frankie wouldn't have allowed it, would he? Marty knew that Frankie wouldn't, but he also knew he had to avoid suspicion. "Sure," he said. "Run them. I'll make an engineer of you yet. But only do it a few minutes." He winked at her. "We kids gotta play before homework."
Samantha sat on the floor beside Marty. He gently placed her right hand on the throttle of the bulky Lionel transformer, the control center of the set. She felt ridiculous, and the whole set-up looked ridiculous as well. Marty asked her to press the button that sounded the diesel horn. She did. God, what if the neighbors heard? What if Lynne heard?
She was giving the long, black throttle back to Marty when she noticed that some locomotive grease had smeared on the white rug. It upset her. How could Marty have done it? He was always so careful about what he owned, about keeping everything in good order. What was so important about these trains that would allow him to sacrifice a good rug, without so much as a comment? Maybe the trains were more than a hobby. Maybe they meant something to Marty that he just didn't want to reveal. But Samantha had no way of finding out.
For the next few days she tried to organize some kind of strategy for dealing with the mystery of Marty. "Police" kept going through her mind. She recited all the arguments against going, but instinct told her that it might be her only way out. Who could tell? Who knew anything for sure? Samantha's life was becoming a series of guesses and hunches.
Lynne came over to help with invitations and arrangements. "Have you ever been to the Twentieth Precinct?" Samantha asked her.
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