"His left eye," Kathleen replied. There was a silence. She finally caught on. "Hey, lady, are we talking about the same guy?"
Samantha didn't immediately reply. This was impossible. It couldn't happen. Again she looked at the pictures. That was Marty. It was Marty. Was it Marty? Maybe this Kathleen was making something up. "There was nothing in your husband's file about a glass eye," she said, her voice cutting.
"I know," Kathleen said. "I didn't tell the cops."
"You didn't? Why?"
"I thought if Kenny came back he'd be steamed. He talked about the eye, but he got crazy if I did. Look, I'll give you his doctor's name. He'll tell you, Miss."
She was telling the truth. In her gut, Samantha knew that. The pictures weren't Marty. It was a mistake, a terrible, wrenching mistake. The camera had lied. Or her eyes had lied. Or maybe something inside her had been wishing too hard.
"The doctor won't be necessary," Samantha said. "I'm not married to your husband. It was my mistake. I'm sorry if I upset you."
"Upset me? I'm beyond upset," Kathleen said. "I get calls like this every couple years. It's life."
"Thank you. I wish you luck."
"Yeah," Kathleen replied. "You back."
They both hung up. "I'm sorry," Samantha said to Yang. "I thought it was him." The tears came again.
"Don't apologize," Yang told her. "It happens all the time. I'm sorry we put you through this."
"I'd better be going," Samantha said. She was humbled.
Yang felt for her, but understood her need to be alone with her own feelings. "All right," he replied. "You need some rest now anyway. But I want to stay in touch. Okay?"
"Okay." Finally Samantha smiled. It was a weak smile, not deeply felt, filtered through the torture she had just endured. But she knew she had a friend. "I wonder what'll become of her?" she asked, gesturing toward the phone.
Yang couldn't possibly answer. He saw so many tragedies, and the problems of a single woman in Green Bay seemed remote by comparison. He helped Samantha up and held on to her as they walked slowly back to the hallway. "I'm okay," she said to him. "I really am."
As a gesture of confidence, Yang let go of her. She walked alone, more quickly and evenly, as if her old defense mechanism had taken over. But Yang was still concerned. "I can have a squad car take you home," he told her.
"Oh no," Samantha insisted. "I'd be mortified if someone saw. I mean, nothing against the police."
Yang laughed. "I understand. I guess I wouldn't want to be seen in a squad car myself. Can I at least get you a cab?"
"Sure. Thanks."
They walked down the hall and rounded a corner. Samantha accidentally brushed against a man walking in the other direction. "Sorry," she said.
"Perfectly all right," Spencer Cross-Wade replied, and continued on.
Samantha returned home exhausted. She told Lynne she'd simply been shopping—looking at baby things—and had overdone it. She lay down and slept, knowing she had, in a sense, come to the end of her rope. Going to the police was the ultimate act. Yes, she could hire a private investigator, but she'd decided that the risk of Marty's finding out was too great. Besides, he was probably expert enough to cover his tracks thoroughly, leaving nothing for an investigator to investigate. No, the trip to Yang had been the final action. If he could come up with nothing, she might live the rest of her days married to a mystery, living in dread fear, wondering what horrid surprise could be next. She recalled an Alfred Hitchcock film, The Wrong Man, in which Henry Fonda was imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit. It was almost the same thing, Samantha mused—she too was suffering a kind of imprisonment, although she'd done nothing wrong. She too had lost control of her own fate. She too lived in fear that things could stay the same, or even get worse.
She cried herself to sleep that afternoon. And, as she did, she occasionally broke out in a nervous, spontaneous laugh. It was sick, nightmarish, weird. That night she would have to make love to this man. And tomorrow she would resume planning his party. It was as if Henry Fonda were getting ready to celebrate his prosecutor's birthday.
"It has to be a Model thirty," Marty snapped into the phone in the sweaty booth under Rockefeller Center. It was the kind of call he'd never make from his office—not when a secretary could be listening in. "I'm not interested in a substitute."
He surprised himself. He was rarely this short-tempered. He knew the tension was getting to him. Control it, he told himself. It's less than two weeks away. Just last until then. Don't fail Dad now. He never failed you.
"And it has to work?" asked the voice on the other end.
"Yes. I only buy sets that work," Marty replied. It was a fairly obvious comment, but not so obvious in these circumstances, for Marty was trying to buy a thirty-four-year-old, ten-inch RCA Model 30 television set, one of the first classics of the television age. It was the set he'd been watching the night of December 5, 1952. You didn't buy this kind of thing from a TV shop, or even an antiques store. You went to a collector. They were dotted around the United States, placing their little three-line ads in hobby magazines, offering to trade an RCA this for an Admiral that, or bidding large dollars for the old Philco console radios that symbolized the era of sound-only.
Marty waited impatiently, tapping the glass of the booth, throwing in another dime to be sure he wasn't cut off. The guy on the other end sounded like a nut. A lot of them were nuts—the kind who could tell you every tube used in the Model 30, and its function.
"All right," the guy said, "I can locate one. I know somebody. But it'll cost you."
"How much?"
"I gotta see three thou."
"Jesus. Three thousand dollars."
"Two grand if it's unrepairable. Look, fella, you're talkin' Model thirty, not crap. You're talkin' classic."
"I know, I know," Marty shot back, resenting a lecture from a New Jersey crackpot. "How soon can you get it?"
"How soon you got three thou?"
"Tonight, in cash."
"Then you got it. My friend is right here in town. You want delivery?"
"No, I'll pick it up."
"How do I know you'll show?"
"I'll send you a deposit by messenger within an hour." Marty didn't realize it, but he was breathing heavily—a combination of the stuffy booth and the excitement of the buy. My God, it was coming together.
"Sold," the guy said. They exchanged names…except Marty gave an alias. Then they hung up.
Marty already had the videotape machine.
And he already had the tape—made up by a company doing a history of television for home tape libraries: Douglas Edwards with the news, sponsored by Oldsmobile. That's what they'd been watching the night of December 5, 1952.
Dad had always liked Doug Edwards. "Frankie, this is about winter in Korea," he'd said that night as Edwards came on. "You ought to watch it."
Frankie watched, and now would watch again.
11
"Frankie Nelson," Cross-Wade said, speaking on his office phone. "That was his name, although we assume he's changed it. We've checked every Frank Nelson in the United States, without result. The incident occurred just outside Omaha, Nebraska, on December fifth, 1952."
He waited for the party on the other end to ask a question.
"There are no available, legible pictures," Cross-Wade replied, "even as a child. Don't ask me why. What I'm simply going on is a hunch—that my target may live outside the United States part of the time. You see, in the Yard this is a common problem because there are so many countries in the Commonwealth. I thought that if the Passport Office could keep watch, we might come up with something." He paused again. "Thanks."
The conversation ended. Of all the shots in the dark, this was the darkest. The Passport Office of the U.S. State Department was hardly a criminal investigation agency, but everything had to be tried.
Cross-Wade knew that thousands of interviews over a period of months, or years, would probably lead to some useful clues. But he di
dn't have months, or years, or even weeks. He had days.
And then another day passed. Another day without progress.
He checked off the date on his calendar. Murder minus nine.
A batch of memos appeared on his desk. Routinely, Cross-Wade went through missing-persons reports, not in search of the calendar schizophrenic, but in search of his victim—some woman with auburn hair who might be missing, lured by her potential murderer. He'd checked out a small number of missing auburn-haired women without result. Most had shown up, had sent goodbye notes, or had been found dead far from home, usually the victims of alcohol or drugs.
He went through the reports quickly, yet thoroughly, a dogged believer in detail. It was just after 3 P.M. on a sunny, unusually warm autumn day, with the heat at headquarters naturally turned up much too high. Cross-Wade felt a bead of perspiration on his brow, and the increasing dampness of his wilting collar.
And then…
He almost went past it. It was a memo, impeccably written by Sergeant Yang, whom he knew and respected. The subject: one Samantha Shaw. It wasn't the physical description of Samantha that grabbed Cross-Wade. In fact, her hair color wasn't even mentioned. It was something else, something far more intriguing. He reached for his phone and was connected to Yang.
"Yang, this is Cross-Wade."
"Yes, sir," Yang responded in a clipped, military style. He was in awe of the living legend.
"Yang, my dear boy," the legend asked, "do you recall a Samantha Shaw?"
"Do I?" Yang replied. "One of my toughest, sir."
"Ah, so she's in your memory. A question: This December fifth reference, did she elaborate?"
"No, sir. Just what's in the report."
"Ah. Tell me, Yang, do you recall her hair color?"
Yang thought for a moment. "Uh, no Mr. Cross-Wade. She wore one of those babushka-type objects. We're kind of more interested in the missing person's description."
"Of course," Cross-Wade commented. "Did the lady feel she was in any danger?"
"No, not directly. She was just concerned about her husband's past."
"Yes. A fine report. Look, I'm working on a case where this date is significant. I may ask the lady a few questions."
"Sure," Yang said. "But could I request that you go easy, sir? There's a lot of pain there."
"Gentleness is my middle name," Cross-Wade answered. He hung up and flipped on his intercom. "Fetch Loggins, please!"
Minutes later Arthur Loggins waddled in. "You called, sir?"
"Yes. A chair, Arthur. Be quick."
Loggins could see the glint in Cross-Wade's eye. Something had happened. Loggins assessed the glint—it was medium, somewhere between "big event" and "possibly significant." Assessing glints was a Loggins specialty. You learn in homicide to figure the story behind the expression.
"Something new, sir?" Loggins asked, knowing the answer.
"Possibly, Arthur, and possibly important." Right again, Loggins thought, with pride. "A missing-persons dispatch," Cross-Wade continued.
"Oh?"
"A woman came in several days ago with a curious complaint. She was scheduling a party for her husband—fortieth birthday, the usual. She wanted to find friends and teachers from his past."
"A lovely gesture, sir."
"But she couldn't. The gentleman's past simply didn't exist. None of the things he'd told her checked out."
"Interesting, sir. But…"
"How does it apply to us?"
"Yes, sir."
"The husband's birthday is December fifth."
"Wow, sir."
"Yes…wow. We know our killer's birthday is December fifth."
"Could be a coincidence, sir."
"I'm aware of that, Arthur It probably is. But it's the only strand I have—a man with the right birthday, with no detectable past, about the right age."
"Any physical description, sir?"
"Yes. He's a large man. In general, he meets the descriptions we have. But so would many men."
"Anything about auburn hair with the gent?"
"I don't know yet. Look, Arthur, be a sport for me. Go visit this lady, this Mrs. Shaw, and ask her the usual questions."
"I will, sir."
"Today, Arthur."
Loggins left and Cross-Wade was once again alone with his thoughts. The new thread was so tenuous, the lead so vague, and yet he felt a certain excitement. He knew the danger of deluding himself, convincing himself he had something, just to create the satisfaction of movement. Instinctively, he braced for disappointment. He had once calculated that only one out of twenty-two leads actually turned out to be significant in most investigations. No matter how much he wished, he didn't expect much from Samantha Shaw.
Loggins took the subway to 72nd Street and Central Park West, stopping at one of the transfer points to pick up a copy of the New York Post and a package of Bazooka bubble gum, to which he was mildly addicted. The Post headline, KILLS TWO, RAPES ONE, was pretty standard for the paper.
Loggins skipped to the sports pages. He knew Samantha's neighborhood. He'd worked in the 20th Precinct as a homicide detective ten years before, when the area wasn't as pricey and the population was somewhat younger. He hadn't been there in three years, and was amazed at the changes. Lots of gold chains, babies with nurses, boutiques all over the place, people rushing around with the vacant look of those afraid of losing their first million. The middle West Side had once been artists, the retired, young folks, and just plain "guys," with a rich strip along the park. Now the money was spreading out, and Loggins didn't feel much at home on his old beat.
He'd called ahead to make sure Samantha was in the apartment and Marty wasn't, and was directed by a doorman to Samantha's floor. He rang her buzzer. Just then Lynne Gould came out of her apartment down the hall, heading for the elevator. Loggins smiled at her with his round, bland face, and Lynne shot back an awkward, curious nod. Must be a tradesman or a repairman, or maybe someone selling something for the party, Lynne thought as she stepped past him and took the elevator down.
"Who is it?" Samantha asked automatically, although she already knew.
"Detective Loggins, ma'am." He pulled out his identification, ready to flash it. He saw the eyehole open and an eyeball look through, sizing him up carefully. Then, a sliding chain, a clicking lock. The door opened slightly. Loggins thrust the ID through. The door opened wider. And then Arthur Loggins saw.
"Jesus Christ."
"What?" Samantha asked.
Loggins quickly regained his official poise. "Uh, sorry, ma'am. I was just thinkin' of something. May I come in, ma'am?"
"Yes, of course."
Loggins stepped in, but couldn't take his eyes off Samantha's long auburn hair. He walked awkwardly, realizing that any questions he might ask were probably unnecessary. The auburn hair—that was the whole thing, the complete pizza as he liked to say. It changed everything, made everything possible, created a link where none had existed before.
"Please sit down," Samantha said.
"Thank you, Mrs. Shaw."
"Some coffee?"
"Oh, no thank you, ma'am. I just had my break." Loggins glanced around. To him this was great wealth—his attached house was on Staten Island and not in a glittering neighborhood. He looked into the dining room. There were little scraps of paper on the table, arranged in short rows. Samantha saw that they attracted his attention.
"I'm planning a party," she said. "That's a possible seating plan. Maybe Sergeant Yang told you."
"I read the report, ma'am," Loggins said. "I'm awfully sorry to be subjecting you to questions."
"You're not doing it," Samantha assured him. "He is." She gestured toward a picture of Marty on a glass table. Samantha was remarkably composed, emotionally recovered from her ordeal with Yang, plunging back into planning the party, ever toying—in her own stressed mind—with that recurring fantasy that all would be resolved happily.
"Ma'am, I came over to clear up a few things," Loggins said. "But�
��well, I wonder if I could make a phone call. Privately, ma'am."
Samantha was baffled. Loggins still stared at her hair. "About me?" she asked.
"Official business, Mrs. Shaw."
"Yes, of course," Samantha told him. "There's a phone in the kitchen. I'll go in the bedroom."
"Sorry to inconvenience you."
"It's all right."
What could Samantha do? The man wanted to make a call, and you don't say no to a cop. She feared him. Even after feeling the warmth of Sergeant Yang, she couldn't get over that fear of police. She walked quickly to the bedroom and closed the door behind her.
Loggins went into the kitchen. For a moment, he forgot Cross-Wade's direct number and had to look it up in his crammed, dog-eared little address book. Then, quickly, he dialed. The man himself answered.
"Mr. Cross-Wade here."
"Sir, Loggins."
"Yes, Arthur?"
"Sir, you won't believe."
"What won't I believe?"
"This lady I went to—she's got long, auburn hair."
There was a silence on the line. Cross-Wade sat up, as if he had received divine revelation: an auburn haired woman married to a man with no past whose birthday was December fifth.
"Arthur, we might be onto something. I want you to wait there. I want to handle this personally—I'll be there as soon as possible."
"That's what I'd hoped, sir."
They both hung up. Cross-Wade restrained his emotions as he sped toward Central Park West in a commandeered squad car. Was her hair auburn or red? Loggins might have made a mistake. The two are similar and men weren't that perceptive about subtle differences in hair color. And did it really matter? The color might simply be a coincidence—a remarkable one, but a coincidence just the same. Some women had auburn hair, and a certain percentage, maybe one out of a few thousand, would have husbands born on December fifth. And maybe all the business about the man's having no past just reflected his wife's ineptitude in checking things. Maybe she was reckless and sloppy, someone whose probes into her husband's past went awry because of her own mistakes. Anything could be possible, Cross-Wade knew, and it would be foolish to get his hopes up.
He arrived at the building and rode up by elevator. Instinctively, he made a visual sweep of the hallway outside Samantha's apartment. There was an umbrella rack, with a black umbrella in it. Were there any reports of umbrellas used by the calendar schizophrenic? He didn't think so, but made a note to check. There was nothing else of interest. He rang the doorbell.
Surprise Party Page 12
