"Thanks," Samantha replied. "Too bad it's all going to waste." Cross-Wade thought she looked remarkably calm considering the circumstances. She was dressed in a pink silk housecoat and her hair was perfectly combed back. She was determined to do the whole thing in style, no matter what the horror that absorbed her mind.
"Let's hope something good comes of it," Cross-Wade said, "if only bringing one man to justice."
Samantha lowered her eyes. Why did "one man" have to be Marty?
"I wanted to talk with you a few minutes," Cross-Wade explained. "There are some last-minute instructions."
"Go ahead."
"You've been told where all the microphones are?"
"Yes."
"We'll also have video people in a Fifth Avenue apartment across the park. It's a long distance and their image might be clouded. Make sure your curtains stay open."
"They'll be open," Samantha assured him. "Everyone likes the view."
"Good. The video people are in instant communication with our men here. We're covered both ways. If we hear or see something, we can act."
"That's very reassuring," Samantha said. She was trying her best to accommodate Cross-Wade, but she felt numb. All this was just washing past her, part of the bad dream she wished would go away, the bad dream she still thought might, by some miracle, be untrue.
"Who locks up at night?" Cross-Wade asked.
"Usually me."
"Good. After the party, leave the lock open, but pretend to close it. Do you follow my logic?"
"I think so," Samantha replied. "You don't want Marty to suspect that I'm doing anything unusual."
"Precisely."
"Now," Cross-Wade continued, "please listen. As I said, we can hear what's going on, and, if you're near a window, we can see. But if you're in this bedroom after the party, the curtains would logically be closed."
"Yes."
"And your husband might be very silent about his actions."
"In what way?"
"He'll have a hammer and chain. They may not make noise when he takes them out."
A shiver raced up Samantha's spine. "Then what can you do?" she asked nervously.
"We'll depend on you. As soon as you see the first sign of a weapon, even a suspicious gesture on Marty's part, I want you to say the words, 'I think I'm getting a headache.' Of course, if he actually has the weapon in his hand, grab something in the room. It'll take us a few seconds to get in. We'll shout, 'Police! Freeze!' That'll stop him. He'll turn his attention on us."
"I sure hope so," Samantha said.
"Madam, I assure you," Cross-Wade told her, "if I thought were were any real risk, I wouldn't let you do this. But to increase your safety even further, I've brought something." Cross-Wade reached into his pocket and took out a slim, palm-sized cylinder with a small red valve on top. "This is Mace. I'm sure you've heard of it."
"I remember the name," Samantha replied.
"It has the combined effect of a tear gas and nerve gas," Cross-Wade explained. "I will ask you to clip it inside your clothing. If a desperate moment should occur, simply spray it in your husband's face. It will stop him, believe me."
"I believe you," Samantha replied, horrified that she might have to use such a weapon.
"Also," Cross-Wade continued, "you must observe your husband at all times. Am I clear?"
"Yes. Very clear."
"And I will tell you this: If we must rush in, please dive to the floor. I know that's unladylike, but it's for your own safety."
If she weren't so appalled at the situation, Samantha would have been amused at Cross-Wade's elegance.
"If an arrest is made," Cross-Wade continued, "there will be procedures that have to be followed. Please watch as best you can. You would be a witness."
Samantha shook her head, utterly dismayed. "I still can't believe this is happening," she said. "I feel like a robot, with other people controlling me."
"I'm sorry," Cross-Wade replied, "If I seem manipulative…"
"Oh no. I didn't mean that. I appreciate everything you're doing—you and Detective Loggins and Sergeant Yang. If it weren't for you…"
She stopped. Contemplating her own murder was not easy.
"Tomorrow at this time," Cross-Wade said, "I trust you'll be free. And madam, I wish you a happy life after that."
"Thank you," Samantha replied.
And then Cross-Wade kissed her hand.
They started to leave the bedroom, Cross-Wade still amazed at Samantha's stamina. But then, as if it were inevitable, he saw her hands turning white and her body starting to tremble. The numbness she'd felt gave way to the starkness of her predicament. Cross-Wade took her arm gently. "I know," he said softly, no other words being necessary.
Then she drew close to him and he could hear the soft sobbing. "Sit down," he told her. "Don't go out there like this."
She sat down on the bed, trying to stop the sobs, trying to restrain the anger. "Why?" she asked, almost in a whisper. "Why me?"
Cross-Wade sighed. "Why anyone?" he replied. "Why anyone?"
17
Marty came home at 6:30.
Samantha had pulled herself together and regained her strength in time to greet him at the door. She was a vision—long blue velvet gown, a magnificent contrast to her equally magnificent auburn hair, the pendant Marty had given her glistening around her neck. She had never looked better. Yes, this was a performance—a superb, spirited performance that she would give once in her life, and would give for keeps.
"You're gorgeous," Marty said, standing in the door.
Samantha just smiled. She stepped aside so Marty could see how his apartment had been transformed into a magical arena for the great affair that had been weeks in the planning. She glanced down at a section of bunched fabric on her gown. The Mace was behind it
"Hey," Marty said, not yet stepping in. "I'm in some wonderland. Oh…" He rushed forward to embrace Samantha as he had never done before. Anyone watching would have thought this was a true love couple, unencumbered by doubts, by fears, by any serious problems. But for Marty this, too, was a performance, and he was every bit the actor Samantha was.
"I'm glad you're happy," Samantha said.
"There's not a word in the language to describe it," Marty answered. Samantha suspected nothing, he assured himself. "I've got something for you," he said.
Samantha looked surprised. "For me? On your birthday?" She gazed down at the pendant. "Again?"
"It's not exactly from me," Marty explained. He stepped back outside the apartment, where he had leaned the portrait, now rewrapped, against a wall. He brought it inside. "The crew at the office threw me a surprise party this morning. They gave me this." He retrieved his attaché case from outside, closed the door, and started unwrapping the portrait, as he had done that morning. The wrappings fell away quickly.
Samantha gazed excitedly at the portrait. "Marty, they gave you that?"
"Sure did."
"Does it look like me?"
"Exactly. It's a wonderful job. Do you like it?"
"Of course I do! Isn't that nice of them. Where do we put it?"
"In my office. I just wanted it home tonight so you and all the others could see it. But tomorrow morning it goes up behind my desk."
Was she hearing it right? Were Cross-Wade, Loggins, and the others down the hall hearing it right? Did Marty really say that he was bringing the portrait back to his office the next morning? Samantha felt nauseated. The man was totally gone. What was this, a form of sadism? Of self-gratification?
"Will it look all right behind your desk?" Samantha asked.
"I tried it out," Marty replied. "It was splendid." What a piece of cake, he thought. A little joke before death.
"Let's put it over there, in the corner, so people can see it," Samantha suggested. "I want everyone to know it came from the staff."
"Great." Marty put it exactly where Samantha wanted it. Then he went back for his attaché case and picked it up, ready to take it to
the bedroom. Samantha watched him, just as Cross-Wade had asked her to. She saw how tightly he grasped the case. Of course, she thought. That's why Cross-Wade hadn't been able to find the murder weapons anywhere in the apartment. They were with Marty, in the case. They had to be. She stared at the case, then snapped her eyes away, fearful that Marty would notice.
"Want me to take your case for you?" she asked, hoping Cross-Wade, listening, would catch on.
"Hey, what are you, my valet?" Marty asked. "Of course not."
"Just trying to help the birthday boy. That case looks heavy."
"Just business papers, Sam." Before going into the bedroom Marty stopped to look around once more. He turned to Samantha. "I can't wait. Can you?"
"No," she giggled.
"Let me wash up and change." Marty took the case into the bedroom and closed the door.
Samantha studied the portrait. It was a good likeness. If the marriage hadn't been destroyed it would have looked good behind Marty's desk. It would have been so romantic, so perfect. Marty would've talked about it to visitors. It would've become a conversation piece and a family heirloom. Now it would probably wind up in the police property office, part of the evidence of Marty's last day.
The catering staff, the musicians, Auerbach the video man, and the bartender had been out on their own dinner break, but, as Marty was getting ready, they started filtering in. Guests were due at 7:45. Samantha rushed around seeing to last-minute preparations and replacing a few wilting flowers with an extra supply she'd kept in the kitchen. The food was already cooked and had only to be heated. Samantha had ordered Marty's mundane favorites—meat and potatoes, with green salad. Always safe.
The first real sign of action was the musicians' tuning up. Samantha felt a sudden thrill, as if this really was a celebration. She felt almost like dreaming, like pretending, like trying to make the reality as painless as possible. In the bedroom, she knew, was a mass murderer, and she was his victim, while out here was a feast.
But for a few remarkable seconds she visualized a very different party filled with very special guests—relatives of the women Marty had killed in his streak of psychotic revenge. Wouldn't that be grand? Wouldn't that be right? Wouldn't it be perfect if they could see Marty taken away?
A ringing doorbell brought Samantha back to reality. It was only 7:03. Was someone rude enough to come this early?
She walked to the door. The bell was the signal for the orchestra, which started up with "Gary, Indiana," from The Music Man. The bandleader thought it would be appropriate to have something from Marty's home state.
Samantha opened the door. There was Tom Edwards, with a beaming smile. "I thought I could help," he said.
The guy was terrific. If there was one person who was easing Samantha through this period, it was Tom and his almost naive, old-fashioned earnestness, his just being there.
"You're great," Samantha told him as she ushered him inside. "But I don't want you helping. You just relax."
"Me? Impossible." He was awed, as Marty had been, by the party set-up. "Hey, now we're talking class," he said. "When the Queen comes, nudge me, will you?"
"I'll do that," Samantha replied. "You'll know her by the little crown."
The band finished its first tune, then stopped. It had been a false alarm. One guest didn't require full music.
Despite Samantha's admonition, Tom walked around, straightening place settings and cards, arranging flowers and generally getting Samantha glanced at him from the kitchen, watching him work. She'd developed such a strong fondness for him.
Marty washed and shaved, filled with anticipation. He'd slipped the attaché case under the bed, assuming that Samantha would never notice. After combing his hair, he changed to a blue suit. It was his only real compromise of the evening. He'd wanted to wear khakis and a lumberjack shirt, as he had the other murder nights. It was the outfit Dad had worn on that night in 1952. But tonight, at the party, he'd never get away with it. It was out of the question.
He left the bedroom and saw Tom. "Hey," he shouted, "what are you doing here?"
"Just acting as advance man," Tom replied.
"Well stop it. Have a drink." Marty rushed over and slapped Tom on the back. "You think I'd let my best pal do the dusting?"
"Oh, just helping out."
Samantha came out of the kitchen. "He's been a gem," she said. "Without Thomas, I would've fallen apart."
"I'm getting jealous," Marty said. "I don't like all that good feeling."
Tom gestured to Samantha, with a wink. "I think he knows about us."
They all had a good laugh as the last of the catering staff began filing back in. Auerbach, without announcing a thing, started his JVC videotape system and did some closeups of Samantha and Marty preparing for the party.
7:28.
The phone rang. Samantha answered. "Oh, I'm sorry," she replied to the caller. "I know Marty will be very disappointed. But I hope he feels better." She hung up. It was the first and only cancellation, a newspaper editor from New Jersey, not one of Marty's greater friends.
"Probably a fake," Marty reacted. "He never goes to parties. I didn't really expect him."
A few guests arrived early, each with a reason. "I came direct from work," one said. “We couldn’t wait,” said another. "Why hang around downstairs?" was the most honest answer. The band swung into a medley from A Chorus Line, and the buzz level of the small crowd increased. Auerbach stuck his camera into everyone's face, prompting Samantha to think that she might have made a mistake in hiring him.
7:45. The hour. Now the most insistent rhythm was the ringing of the doorbell. The party began to jump as Marty's friends started streaming in. He was beaming. Samantha was radiant. No one could have guessed what was going on in their minds. No one could have realized that every word was being recorded down the hall. No one could have known that each movement, each gesture, was being watched through long lenses across Central Park.
Three large tables were spread with food and wine, with waiters to dispense the delicacies. The small band hit a rapid beat, mixing show tunes with the Beatles, taking requests and giving the evening a thoroughly festive feeling. The presents started piling up in one corner of the living room, with Marty realizing he'd have to open more than thirty before the party was over. He made sure to take each guest to see the portrait of Samantha. One woman, the wife of one of Marty's biggest clients, was especially taken by the richness of Samantha's hair in the picture. "Lovely!" she exclaimed. "I didn't realize Samantha's hair was so, so reddish."
"Auburn," Marty replied. On this night, in particular, that had to be right.
"Yes, auburn," the lady said. "A very pretty shade."
8:36.
By now there were more than seventy people in the apartment, straining the air system. Marty went to open a window, letting out some smoke and stuffiness.
"Dinner is served," the captain announced, and people began sitting down, bringing their drinks, assessing the apartment with each other, mugging for Auerbach's ever-present video camera. It may have been a great party in Marty's honor, but to many in the living room it was a business event—a chance to rub shoulders with media people, public relations types, and others who might advance careers. Ordinarily Marty would have noticed, even studied, the political maneuverings, the attempts to get someone's ear, the backslapping and false compliments. But now he could only rehearse in his mind how he would attack Samantha. He would do it while she was in bed, he knew. That would be easiest, quickest, and least likely to make noise.
Marty suddenly felt a thud on his back. He spun around and looked into the smiling face of Leonard Ross. "Spectacular party," Ross said. "Utterly spectacular. And thanks for bringing the portrait home. Did Sam like it?"
"Loved it," Marty answered. "So did everyone else. It really made the day, Len."
Ross slapped Marty on the back again. He felt he had made the correct career move with the boss. Then he sat down at his table and Marty sat at the small dai
s at the front of the living room.
Samantha was seated beside Marty, and Tom Edwards beside Samantha. Lynne and her husband completed the dais. Samantha had insisted that Lynne share the honors, considering the work she'd put in.
After everyone was seated, Tom Edwards started clinking a spoon against his wine glass. "May I have your attention please?" he asked. For Marty, it was almost a replay of the surprise party that morning.
The room quieted. This was tradition. Even Auerbach tried to be discreet, standing off to the side while taping the dais.
Tom rose, then lifted his wine glass. "I'd like to propose a toast," he said. Everyone else stood up. "To Marty, on his fortieth birthday." He drank. Everyone drank. "And now," he went on, "to Samantha, without whom Marty would be just a guy."
Laughter. More drinking, then applause.
"May I respond?" Marty asked.
"No," someone shouted.
The banter had begun. Everyone sensed it would be a fun evening.
"I'm claiming squatter's rights," Marty announced. "I demand to be heard."
"Speech!" someone else shouted.
"That's more like it," Marty responded. "I, too, would like to propose a toast. To all of you, my good friends, who have made this night so wonderful."
He drank, then everyone followed, somewhat awkward about toasting themselves.
"And there's one more toast that I must make," Marty said.
The room fell silent as the smile melted from Marty's face. Everyone assumed he would say something serious, maybe about his parents, maybe about his hard beginnings, about some secret mentor. But, instead, he turned slowly toward Samantha and raised his glass. "Little more than a year ago there was an emptiness in my life," he said. "And then this lady came in and filled it. Without her, this fortieth birthday would be very lonely, completely meaningless. With her, I couldn't be happier. To you, Sam."
He raised his glass. There were misty eyes in the room, including Samantha's.
Down the hall, Spencer Cross-Wade, Arthur Loggins, Sergeant Yang, and two other officers listened, surrounded by the lavish and showy furnishings of the apartment they were using.
Surprise Party Page 19
