“I love you, too, but don’t be dramatic. I’m not in any danger. It’s Wally and Lil, the Bonnie and Clyde of the IQ-under-fifty set.”
“One of them probably killed Mr. Chapman, Elliot.”
“You had to remind me of that? Call the cops.”
“I will. And Elliot? I’ve been watching Lennon, and you’re right—he’s acting strange.”
“Strange how?”
“Mostly he’s testy, but I heard him on the phone, and I think there are money problems. I’ll tell you later. I have to call the police.”
She hung up.
I went back to the desk and sat down. The left-hand drawers didn’t hold anything of interest, as far as I could tell. Much of what was in there consisted of ledger books that had nothing unusual in them—but I’m not an auditor. If I understood numbers, I wouldn’t be in the theatre business.
Eventually I put everything back in the desk, careful to replace it where it had been before; that seemed only fair to Chapman, who had seemed like a good enough guy. Then I sat back and considered that a while had gone by, and I hadn’t heard any sirens yet.
Odd.
I got up and walked to the balcony doors. It was gray outside, cold and windy, and from where I stood, I could see the tops of trees farther down the hill, and part of the road leading up to Chapman’s home. No police cars. That couldn’t be good.
Was it possible Sharon hadn’t gotten through to Dutton or Meg? Would she have waited to call Kowalski, or forgotten his name? Could the cops have been talked out of the whole thing by the wily Chapmans? I hadn’t heard the phone ring, and I hadn’t heard sirens. I looked at my watch.
Three minutes had gone by since I’d gotten off the phone with Sharon. Maybe I was just a little more nervous than I’d thought I was.
So I watched the second hand on my watch for a while. That didn’t seem to help, either.
Standing by the balcony doors, I considered trying to escape. But there were a number of flaws with that plan: there was nothing to use as a rope—no sheets to tie together, no fire hose (for you, My Favorite Year fans), no emergency ladder under the desk or in the closet. Besides, my being out of the room when the cops got here was exactly the opposite of what I needed. If I escaped and went to the police, it would be my word against Wally’s. If they came and saw me locked in Chapman’s study, that would be a different story.
Besides, I’m afraid of heights.
There was one truly demented moment when I looked outside and considered the tiny ledge, maybe about ten inches deep, that ran around the outside of the house. Hey, it worked for Cary Grant in North by Northwest. I have seen far too many movies, in case it hasn’t become evident yet.
Just as I was contemplating my predicament, there registered from the corner of my eye a red light. Of the flashing variety.
Sure enough, two police cars were driving up the road toward the house. I didn’t hear sirens, but it was possible they weren’t using sirens; cops don’t do that unless they need them, and there was no one else on the road.
I’ll admit to a certain amount of satisfaction as I watched them drive up to the house. This would do it.
But before the cruisers reached the front door, the lock on Chapman’s study turned, and the door opened. Wally Mayer walked back in.
“So, did you find everything you needed?” he asked, casual as a worn T-shirt.
“Are you serious?” I asked him. “You’re just going to walk in here and pretend you weren’t holding me against my will?”
The man had enough nerve to chuckle. “Against your will?” Wally said. “That’s funny, Freed. Why would we hold you against your will?”
The doorbell rang. I could hear some activity downstairs.
“To get my ex-wife to come here. She’s not coming,” I responded.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lied through his teeth.
“Okay then, why did you sneak out of here and lock the door? How was I supposed to get out, by flapping my arms and flying off the balcony? Why did you call Sharon and tell her you were holding me here until she showed up?”
“Believe what you want,” Wally told me. I heard footsteps on their way up the stairs. “Say what you want. They’ll think you’re crazy.”
And that’s when two uniformed East Brunswick officers appeared at the office door. “Are you Mr. Freed?” he asked Wally.
“I’ve never been so insulted in my life,” I said.
The other officer, tall and Hispanic, fixed his gaze on me. “So then you’re Mr. Freed?”
“That’s right. And this man is holding me here against my will.”
Wally did his best to look surprised. I saw Lillian Chapman Mayer hovering behind the two officers in the doorway. They walked into the office; she stayed in the doorway. “I have no idea what this man is talking about, Officers,” Wally said.
“We got a call that Mr. Freed was being held here,” the Hispanic cop said. “Are you saying he’s not?”
“Of course not,” Wally said, checking with Lillian at the door. She had the good sense not to nod, but her eyes said something to her husband. “Elliot came because he wanted to see my father-in-law’s study, and I said it would be all right, since you fellers”—honest to god, he said “fellers”—“removed the crime scene tape.”
The first cop, a sandy-haired white guy in his forties, looked me up and down. “Was he violent?” he asked me, indicating Wally.
“No,” I said, feeling my blood pressure rise. “He wasn’t violent. He locked me in this room when I was distracted, and called my ex-wife to say that he and his wife would do me harm if she didn’t come to get me.”
Wally’s eyes widened, and he actually laughed. “Why would I do something like that?”
“Because you think my ex had something to do with your father-in-law’s death, which she didn’t, and you want to exact revenge.” Even to me, it sounded stupid.
“Oh, seriously,” Lillian said from the doorway.
“Officers,” I said. “I know how this sounds. But the fact is, Mr. Mayer here locked me into this room, and didn’t open the door again until he saw you guys coming. My ex did in fact receive a call saying I was here and that she had to come, or I’d be harmed. You can call her.”
“I’m sure she’ll back him up,” Lillian offered. “The woman is capable of anything.”
“You see?” I asked the cops.
“Okay,” the older cop said. “Let’s get Mr. Freed out of here.” He indicated the door. Lillian vacated her spot to let us pass, and while she did not flash Wally a triumphant grin, she made a point of avoiding eye contact with him, no doubt in fear of something stupid he might do.
I followed the officer, protesting all the way. I said I wanted to file charges against the Chapmans, kidnapping, imprisonment, and I think I might have mentioned assault with a grocery cart. Lillian mentioned a libel suit, which I felt obligated to point out would apply only to printed or otherwise disseminated material. The cops said nothing.
When they escorted me out of the house, still screaming that I demanded my right to press charges, the cops actually tipped their caps to the Chapmans and led me away. But they didn’t take me to Moe’s car, nor to the cruiser they had obviously brought here.
They led me to the second police car, in which Detective Eugene Kowalski was sitting in the passenger seat.
“Weren’t you supposed to have these people under surveillance?” I asked.
“Not constant,” he answered. “Besides, you went in and stayed less than an hour. Hardly seems ominous.”
“Not out here,” I said. “In there, it was pretty ominous.”
“You never get tired of screwing up my investigation, do you, Freed?” he asked.
“Those people . . .” I started, gesturing toward the house.
“We know,” Kowalski cut me off. “They held you against your will.”
“Well, it happened.”
“I know,” Kowalski said. “Did
n’t you hear me say that?”
“So why aren’t you doing anything about it?” I asked.
“Because this is a murder investigation, and your little stunt would only get in the way. We’re very close to making an arrest.” Kowalski looked quite satisfied, pleased with himself.
“Who?” I croaked out.
“Why should I tell you?”
“I can’t think of one good reason,” I told him honestly.
Kowalski nodded. “Wally Mayer,” he said.
“Much as it pains me to say it, you’d be wrong,” I said. “Let’s talk.”
36
“YOU can’t hold her here against her will,” Ilsa Beringer said. “It’s kidnapping.”
Kowalski had let me out of the cruiser (where I’d taken refuge from the cold) about fifteen minutes after I left the Chapman house. I got into Moe’s Gallant and drove to East Brunswick police headquarters for about twenty minutes, then directly to Comedy Tonight. I’d set up the meeting with Sophie’s parents for just after three, and with all the errands I’d been running, it had taken me that long just to get back to the theatre. Being abducted takes up a lot of your day, I’d found.
“Believe me,” I told Ilsa, “I’m familiar with the concept.”
She and her husband had been waiting at the front door of Comedy Tonight when I’d arrived. I’d apologized for running late, but of course, standing in a subzero breeze tends to erode one’s stockpiles of patience, and Ilsa didn’t have much to begin with.
“I’ll bet you are,” she said. I have no idea what that meant, and decided not to pursue it.
The thing about this meeting was, I’d been planning on working up a strategy on my way back from Chapman’s house. I know; it was pushing things to the last minute, but I hadn’t been able to think of a strong argument to counter the Beringers’ demand that their daughter quit her job except that we all really liked Sophie and wanted her to stay.
Somehow, I didn’t think that would work.
Now, with my eventful morning having pretty much wiped out any cogent brain cells left in my head, I was ad-libbing until such time as a brilliant idea decided to drop in from the stratosphere, an event I was counting on occurring in the next ten minutes or so.
“I’m not holding Sophie against her will,” I said. “I’m requiring that she fulfill the terms of her contract.” I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded good.
Ron Beringer’s eyes hardened. “She doesn’t have a contract with you,” he said. “She’s a part-time employee, and she’s underage. You never gave her a contract to sign, and if you had, it would be superseded by us, since Sophie is a minor.”
I’d forgotten he was an attorney. Probably a labor attorney, with my luck.
“Okay, so maybe I didn’t mean ‘contract,’ ” I said, smiling. “But I can’t simply replace Sophie immediately, and I’m asking her, as a courtesy, to stay at her job until I find a suitable employee to take over her job. Now, is that unreasonable?”
Ilsa screwed up her face like I’d just shoved half a lemon into her mouth. “Yes, it’s unreasonable,” she said. “You could take as long as you like to find this replacement, and Sophie would be, by your logic, required to stay here for an indefinite period of time. It’s not only unreasonable, it’s unacceptable.”
Maybe I could distract them. “Well, why is it necessary for Sophie to quit her job?” I asked. “Is she unhappy here? Is the workload too strenuous, or taxing?”
“Sophie’s not unhappy,” Ron said, drawing a glare from his wife, which made him flinch. “But the time she’s putting in at your . . . theatre . . . is cutting into the time she’d otherwise have to better her position for acceptance at an Ivy League school. She needs to demonstrate some community service, for example. Now, surely you can understand that.”
“No, I can’t, and don’t call me Shirley,” I tried. Airplane! is a little recent for Comedy Tonight, but I couldn’t resist the reference.
“I said suuuurely,” Ron reiterated. So much for lightening the mood.
“Look,” I said. “Sophie has been spending all her free time while she’s here studying and doing college preparation. She’s been talking about nothing other than college, and how she’s working to get in just to make you two happy, for a week now. I can see to it that she has more free time while she’s here to do those things. But I’m asking you, on Sophie’s behalf as well as my own, not to insist that she give up her job. I think that holding a paying position while maintaining the exemplary grade-point average Sophie has should be impressive to any admissions board. I don’t think you’d want her to end that employment just as she’s trying to stand out to them, do you? And if you like, I could write a very strong letter of recommendation for her. So please, just let her keep the job, okay?”
“No,” Ilsa Beringer said.
“We all really like Sophie and want her to stay,” I blurted out.
“Oh, seriously.” Ilsa rolled her eyes. “Mr. Freed, Sophie will not be coming back to work. You need not worry about any salary you owe her. But don’t expect to see her in this theatre again. Is that understood?”
“No!” The shout came from just outside the office door. Sophie and Jonathan, he possibly looking even more aghast than she did, stood there, mouths wide open. I was seated in the office chair, so I would have had a straight look at them, but Ilsa and Ron, who had to turn to see their daughter and her boyfriend, had blocked me out. So we were all surprised.
“Sophie,” Ron said. “What are you doing here?”
“You can’t do this!” his daughter wailed. “I’m already working my ass off . . .”
“Sophie!” Ilsa admonished.
“What else do you want from me?”
“We’re just looking out for your best interests, baby,” Ron said. “We just want you to be happy.”
“Well, I’m not happy,” Sophie countered. “You’re making me give up something I really like doing, with people I really like seeing, and it’s all for things that couldn’t possibly make less of a difference.”
Ilsa’s eyes had hardened, and she’d looked directly at Jonathan when Sophie had mentioned “people I really like seeing.” So that was what this was about.
“Couldn’t make less of a difference!” Ilsa echoed. “It’s your future we’re talking about, Sophie. This is one of the biggest decisions you’ll ever make. Don’t you think that’s a little more important than this part-time job you have?”
“No, I . . .” Sophie began.
“Besides,” Ilsa continued, “we’ve already explained that since we’re paying for all your college expenses, we really believe it’s our right to advise you on how you’re spending your time. Don’t you agree?”
Sophie’s eyes darkened and dimmed, and her head bowed a little. I knew the financial issue was one she had no defense for; she’d always been one of those kids who felt guilty about taking her parents’ money. It was one of the reasons she’d applied for the job at Comedy Tonight to begin with, so she could have a modicum of financial independence.
“I dunno . . .” she mumbled. “I guess so.”
Jonathan’s head swiveled from Ilsa to Sophie, and back again in the time it takes a dog to not do anything. His face took on an expression I’d never seen on it before, so it took me a moment to recognize it: outrage.
“No!” he yelled. “You can’t do that.” Jonathan pushed his way into the room and stood towering over Ilsa, staring directly into her eyes. “You can’t do that. It’s not fair.”
“I’m sorry if Sophie won’t be able to see you as often, Jon,” Ilsa said in her best corporate-executive voice. “But she has more important things on her agenda right now, and you have to understand that.” Jonathan hates being called “Jon.” He also, as it turns out, isn’t crazy about having someone condescend to him.
“This isn’t about whether I get to see Sophie,” he said, his eyes afire and his mouth pretty much belching smoke. “This is about what Sophie wants, and not what
you want, and not what I want. Sophie isn’t your employee; she’s your daughter. You should want her to have what she wants, not what you’ve decided she should want. There’s no reason you want her to quit her job, except that you don’t like her working here, and you don’t like her seeing me. I don’t know why you don’t like those things, but you don’t. And what you really hate is that Sophie doesn’t just do what you tell her to because you tell her to.”
I thought that had been all the words he had allotted for the month, but Jonathan went on: “You decide what Sophie should want because of who you want her to be. The job here is something that helps make Sophie the way Sophie is, and if you take that away, you’ll be taking part of her with it. Is that what you want?”
Ilsa had shrunk a little, to some extent because it was a very small room and she had to bend back to look up into Jonathan’s eyes. “I . . .” Ilsa’s mouth opened and closed once or twice, but that was all that came out. Ron, however, was staring at Jonathan, his face registering the last thing I would have expected:
Admiration.
“If you want to know what Sophie wants and why she wants it, ask Sophie,” Jonathan said. “She’s smart; she can answer you really well. But don’t just decide that because she was your baby a bunch of years ago that she still is, because now she’s Sophie. And that’s a pretty wonderful thing for her to be. You should be proud.”
Sophie stared at Jonathan, amazed, and reached out an arm, and he walked to her. She put her arm around him, still gaping up at his face. She’d probably never heard him speak that much before, and certainly hadn’t heard anyone say anything like that to her mother before. “Wow,” she said quietly.
There was a long silence. A very long silence. And then the plan that I’d been searching for since yesterday suggested itself to me.
“Besides, I can’t afford to lose Sophie now that I’ve promoted her,” I said.
All four heads turned to me at once. “Promoted?” Ron asked.
“Didn’t she tell you?” I asked him, innocent as O. J. Simpson. “Sophie is now the manager of Comedy Tonight.”
A Night at the Operation Page 24