Surprise Party

by Katz, William

  "God, it's so close," Samantha moaned.

  "Yes, a bit more than a week. We'll have men in the building that day and night to insure your safety. There'll be listening devices here. Are there empty apartments on this floor?"

  "No, but someone down the hall is away for a month."

  "That's all we need. We'll contact the building manager. We'll be able to hear everything going on between you and your husband. If anything unusual occurs, we'd be on the scene in seconds."

  Then Cross-Wade did something no other detective on the New York force did, or would do. He took Samantha's hand and kissed it. "You are a lady," he said. "It pains me to see this happening to you."

  "Thank you," Samantha replied. "Thank you so much." She was genuinely touched.

  "Help us so we can help you," Cross-Wade concluded. It was his standard exit line, spoken in perfect cadence, perfected over the years.

  And he was gone. With one visit to Sergeant Yang, Samantha Shaw had stepped to the center of an intense, massive, criminal investigation. A mistake could destroy her life. A victory would destroy her marriage.

  12

  "I don't believe it," Samantha said.

  "Isn't it beautiful?"

  "Well…it's nice. But what goes, Martin Everett Shaw? You becoming an antiques dealer?"

  "Say again?"

  "First the old electric trains, then this old TV. You didn't ask me first. Well, okay. You've got your hobbies. But I don't understand."

  They stood in the living room, the old Model 30 on the carpet, its brown wood cabinet gleaming with a new coat of polish, its ten-inch screen yellowed with age, the ancient tubes still visible through the air holes in its dust-encrusted back.

  "It's a collector's item," Marty explained. "This was one of the very first commercial sets in regular use. It practically built the TV industry."

  "Bully for it."

  "This was the set Uncle Milty was on."

  "I'm moved," Samantha. In ordinary times she would have burst out laughing at Marty's sales pitch, his boyish enthusiasm for an old black-and-white set that probably didn't even work. But these weren't ordinary times, and her first thought was reporting the purchase to Cross-Wade. Like the trains, this was something from the fifties.

  "It works," Marty assured her. "I tested it myself."

  "Wonderful."

  She delivered her lines, but she was far away. Jesus, she thought, I love him, but he may be planning to kill me. Kill me! "What are you going to do with it?" she asked.

  "Set it up. Look, it cost fifty bucks. It's a conversation piece. People will be interested. You'll see at the party."

  The word "party" sent an electric jolt through Samantha, and suddenly she felt the heat of fear. Afraid of him? Of Marty? Yes, she was afraid of him, and she hadn't fully realized it until this moment. That flaming reality was punching through the emotional barrier that was still strung up inside her. She could never have dreamed that this moment would come. Afraid of Marty. Afraid of a date on the calendar. Afraid, yet not really accepting that this hunk of enthusiasm with an old TV set could really do what Cross-Wade thought he could do.

  "I like it," she finally told him, hoping to close the subject. "It's…quaint. Put it anywhere you want."

  He smiled. Phony, as always.

  They made love that night, and in its physical aspects nothing had changed. For Samantha, though, all the emotion and heat had been drained. Suddenly Marty felt like some crawling, panting creature, some intruder preying on her like a lusting animal. Cross-Wade's revelations would not leave her, even for an intimate instant. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she thought, as she played along, which is precisely what Cross-Wade would have wanted her to do.

  The next morning Samantha called Cross-Wade to report the television set. Cross-Wade called back a short time later.His report: an RCA Model 30 had been found in the Nelson home after the murder.

  Another link.

  Another blow for Samantha.

  But another word of caution from Cross-Wade: The Model 30 had been common. It had been in millions of homes. A coincidence maybe. Some cases had many coincidences.

  Cross-Wade also reported to Samantha that Loggins had checked the used-train stores around New York. Marty had indeed bought his set recently. "The salesman remembered him," Cross-Wade said. "He described him exactly. But again, we must be cautious about drawing conclusions."

  Cross-Wade told Samantha that he was showing pictures of Marty to friends and relatives of the calendar murderer's other victims. It turned Samantha's stomach. Her husband's picture, like some common mug shot, would be circulated among those who lived in grief. How low things had sunk. How disgusting all this was. She had to remember it was only an inquiry. She had to try to stay calm. But how much restraint was any human being supposed to handle?

  Samantha took Cross-Wade's advice and plunged once more into the party planning. But from now on, she knew, it was simply going through the motions. A job. An assignment. A show. Cross-Wade had thrown the thunderbolt. So she was making a party for a man she loved and feared at the same time, and the ambivalence was tearing at her like a ragged blade. It seemed so strange to prepare a gala that could turn into a night of terror. She felt unique. Surely no wife had ever been put in this position before, at least none whom she'd ever read about or heard of. It was unfair, so horribly unfair, and yet she felt suddenly juvenile for letting a minor word like "unfair" cross her mind. "Catastrophic" would have been better.

  Tom Edwards volunteered to help. He had some vacation days, with nothing special to do, so he came over. He'd been upset since their lunch, he told Samantha, but could think of no real way to help her uncover Marty's past. At least he could help with the party.

  Samantha appreciated that. Tom knew Marty's business friends better than she did, and was a godsend in working out table arrangements and avoiding awkward combinations. While he concentrated on strategy, Samantha made final choices of menus and trimmings. Inevitably, though, the talk got around to "the problem," as Samantha preferred to call it.

  "Anything, uh, turn up?" Tom delicately asked in that naive manner that Samantha found so affecting.

  "Nothing," Samantha replied. "I'm sweeping it under the rug."

  "Wise move."

  "Knew you'd say that."

  "Well, Sam, it's like I told you. Either forget it or confront the man. You didn't confront him, did you?"

  "No."

  "I didn't think so. I'm glad you didn't. You've got a great marriage. Don't ruin it. The man's past is his own. Make up a fantasy. Say he was a spy on a critical mission that saved his country. You might just be right."

  "I've thought of that, believe me. You think chocolate chip ice cream is good enough for dessert?"

  Tom thought for a moment, raising his eyes from the stack of place cards he was arranging. "Yes, that's great, but only if the chips are big. You know, monsters. But have an alternative. If it's a cold, wet night, no one goes for ice cream."

  "Chocolate mousse?"

  "Overdone, my dear Samantha."

  "Yeah, overdone. You're right. Too fancy." Samantha crossed the choice off. "Hey, I need a request list for that little band I'm having—you know, the three players."

  "Show tunes. Always safe," Tom said. "And that's what Marty likes. Just stay away from rock, and, God, no country. Show tunes. You can throw in the Beatles. I went to a great party a few weeks ago and they really did the music right. I'll get the song list."

  "Would you?"

  "Sure."

  "You're a doll. And such taste."

  Samantha was right. Tom, gentler and more sensitive than Marty, did have exquisite taste in virtually everything. And he never had to hire anyone to help him—not with his apartment or with his little country house in Connecticut. Some described him as "artistic," but "sensitive" was probably the best word. The fact that he wasn't married gave "sensitive" a delicate meaning, and even as close a friend as Samantha wasn't sure precisely what his procliv
ities were. He seemed "okay," but never talked about women, and when she'd hinted that he might consider marrying, he'd always changed the subject. In a way, she was attracted to him, the more so since her marriage to Marty had turned so bizarre. But she was of no mind to do anything about it, so his orientation was hardly a pressing matter.

  "When are you and Marty going on your Midwestern trip?" he asked.

  "I'm not sure of the dates," she replied. "You think it's a good idea?"

  "Oh sure. A great idea. It could straighten things out. He might tip you on a couple of secrets."

  "You think so?"

  "I'm guessing."

  Samantha felt the urge to reveal the baby. After all, she'd told the New York Police Department. Why not Tom? But she still planned, despite all that had happened, to make the announcement at the bash, and couldn't bring herself to tell Tom before Marty. What she couldn't resist, though, was a little gentle probing, another subtle attempt to make something of Marty's past.

  "Tom," she asked, after a long period of silence, "were you surprised when Marty married me?"

  Tom seemed flustered by the question. "Why do you ask?"

  "I just want to know."

  He shrugged. "I don't remember. I wasn't collapsing on the floor in shock, old Sam. I mean, he had discussed you in rather favorable terms."

  "Yes, I can imagine."

  "And Marty wanted to settle down. Likes kids, you know."

  "I know." Don't let on about the baby, Samantha kept telling herself. Don't let on.

  "So, no, I guess I wasn't surprised. Were you surprised when he asked you?"

  "I felt it coming."

  "Yeah. Women always do."

  "Is he happy, Tom?"

  Tom turned fully to Samantha, a curious look on his face. "Hey," he said, "I thought we're putting all the agony to sleep."

  "Tom, this isn't agony. It's just a question. All wives want to know."

  "Doesn't he tell you?"

  "Sure. But maybe he has a concern, a worry, that he talks to you about. I mean, I don't want to probe…"

  "Sam, this Marty Shaw is a happy man. And you're making him even happier with the party. It's the only thing he talks about. I'm bored stiff with it. Get the damned thing over with, will you?" He laughed.

  So did she.

  There was no more agony talk.

  "Do you know this man?" Cross-Wade asked, sitting on a kitchen chair, with beef stew cooking in a pot no more than six feet away.

  Alice Carrione broke down in tears, looked away, and simply groaned "Maryanne."

  Cross-Wade waited. Never rush them. Not when they're like this. Put yourself in her position. A mother. Happy. A family type. And then, one night, a policeman arrives to say that your auburn-haired daughter, your only child, has been found dead in an empty lot in Queens. The grief never dies. It may even get worse as months pass. Any suggestion of the crime brings the tears. Give her a chance. Give her all the time she needs.

  "I sympathize," Cross-Wade said. "She was such a beautiful young woman. I share your rage. That's why I want to capture the animal that did this." He looked at Maryanne Carrione's mother She was only fifty-four, but looked ten years older—the effect of grief, of a life destroyed emotionally just as her child's had been destroyed physically. He sensed the emptiness in the little attached house in Brooklyn, on a block where everyone took care of everyone else, and crime was rare.

  Mrs. Carrione regained her composure and looked at the picture of Martin Everett Shaw that Cross-Wade had brought. "Let me ask you again," he said, "do you remember this man? Was he ever in your daughter's presence?"

  She took the picture and held it in her damp, trembling hands. "She had a lot of gentleman friends," she said, "if you know what I mean."

  "I do."

  "Very fine men. Always very fine."

  "Of course. She would."

  "This one I can't be sure of. You know, she didn't bring them all home. Sometimes she met them at work, especially during the week."

  "Do you remember discussing their backgrounds with Maryanne?"

  "Oh sure. Mother-daughter talk. What a man did for a living. What he had in his future."

  "Were any of them interested in public relations?"

  "I think a few. So many boys are."

  "Yes, What about trains?"

  "Trains?"

  "Some men like trains as a hobby."

  "This I don't remember."

  "Did Maryanne ever say that one of her friends went to journalism school? Or grew up in Indiana?"

  Mrs. Carrione thought for a few moments, then shrugged. "Most of these young men came from New York. You know, we're an Italian family. We don't like goin' too far from home."

  "Ah, Italia," Cross-Wade reacted. "How well I understand."

  "But some may have come from other places. I just don't remember."

  "Were any in the Army?"

  "Sure. Most."

  "Do you remember where, madam?"

  "No." Then Mrs. Carrione stared once again at the picture. "Do you think this man killed my girl?"

  "We don't know," Cross-Wade replied.

  "Let me look again."

  Cross-Wade knew it was fruitless. It was common for a witness to want a second look after learning that the subject of a picture was a suspect. People wanted to help. They wanted the psychological honor of putting a killer behind bars. But it was the first reaction to a photo that really told the story.

  "It's hard for me to say," Mrs. Carrione finally admitted.

  And Cross-Wade left.

  He had a list of appointments—more friends and relatives of victims. He'd also sent Marty's photo to police departments who'd been investigating victims of the calendar killer outside New York, but without result. He wondered whether the pictures had actually been shown around. He knew that many departments were lax in investigating crimes that were no longer on the front page. It was frustrating, but there was nothing Cross-Wade could do. Cooperation among departments depended entirely on how cooperative the cooperators were.

  He stopped at a Riverdale apartment, where the unemployed brother of one victim lived. She was the girl whose body had been discovered just off the Interstate in Greenwich, Connecticut. The brother, Steve Lewis, was twenty-two, thin, and cocky, and greeted Cross-Wade with a can of Miller's and not a stitch of clothing above the waist. He was not the kind of son Cross-Wade would have been proud of, but the seasoned detective didn't wince, didn't even frown, as he entered the messy apartment. Never show contempt for a witness, he knew. Never make him afraid, hostile, or suspicious. You didn't have to be an altar boy to testify at a trial.

  Cross-Wade and Lewis sat down. "Ever see this man?" Cross-Wade asked, handing the picture of Marty to Lewis, who continued drinking his beer.

  "Yeah," Lewis replied.

  "Where?"

  "Where?" Lewis repeated. "I dunno. I seen him."

  "I have to know where," Cross-Wade insisted.

  Lewis looked at the photo again. "Beer?" he asked.

  "No, thank you," Cross-Wade replied.

  "I can't place the guy," Lewis finally admitted.

  "Was he with your sister?"

  "Who the Christ knows? I didn't see much of my sister. Know what I mean?"

  "I think so."

  "She didn't like…approve of me. Know what I mean?"

  "I still think so."

  "She hung out with guys who went to school 'n stuff. When I was at my mom's I sometimes saw her."

  "Did she bring dates there?"

  "Oh yeah. My mom, she wanted to look 'em over. Old-timer, like you."

  "Yes," Cross-Wade said.

  "Yeah," Lewis said. He closed one eye to look again at the picture, his face taking on a contorted, weird expression. "Yeah," he said again, "I know him. My sister dated him."

  "You sure?" Cross-Wade remained calm and professional.

  "You asked me, didn't you?"

  "What was his name?"

  "Name?"

 
; "Yes. What we call people."

  "Uh, lemme see. Name. Arnie or somethin'. Yeah, Arnie."

  "Marty?"

  "That's it."

  "Last name?"

  "That I couldn't spot."

  "Shaw?"

  "Sounds right."

  So now Cross-Wade had a man who said he remembered Marty Shaw as having dated his sister. He asked a few more questions, then left the Riverdale apartment. While still in the hallway he crossed Steve Lewis off his list. He hadn't believed Lewis for a second. Lewis was one of "those." Show them any picture, and they know the guy. Tell them any name, and they remember it. A waste. A fraud. An irresponsible kid who'd say anything. Cross-Wade knew him from instinct, from a career devoted to separating the liars from the other ten percent. A lot of people came close to going to prison, and some did, Cross-Wade knew, because of the Steve Lewises of the world.

  It took another full day for Cross-Wade to interview the friends and relatives he wanted to cover, and he insisted on doing it himself. He needed to get the "feel" of their answers, their emotional reactions to Marty's picture—things he couldn't get from written reports. But he came up with nothing. Sure, some said Marty "looked familiar," but a lot of people look familiar. And some said the name "Marty Shaw" sounded familiar, but what did that mean? The calendar killer probably used false names. Indeed, Cross-Wade knew, the murderer might not have even known his victims. He might simply have followed them and trapped them on December fifth because of the color of their flowing hair.

  It was November twenty-eighth.

  Thanksgiving.

  Cross-Wade was so completely focused on the case that he hardly noticed. He still had nothing on Martin Shaw but suspicion and coincidence.

  It was Marty and Samantha's first Thanksgiving together, but, with Marty having no family at all and Samantha having no one close, it wasn't the same as in other households. They declined an invitation from Lynne and spent the holiday quietly, watching a bit of the Macy's parade as it passed along Central Park West, and having a modest turkey dinner. The peace inside their apartment was in stark contrast to the storms going on inside their minds.

  November twenty-ninth.