“What did she say when she regained consciousness?”
“She still claims that at one point, it wasn’t John Milton cross-examining her. It was her husband.”
“Maybe it was.”
“What?”
Blake stared at her or, rather, right through her.
“Is this one of those out-of-thin-air things?”
“No, not exactly.”
“This isn’t going to be about that comment you and my aunt have both made, is it? Something bigger is going on here? You won’t believe the things she told me in the hallway afterward.”
He seemed to return to earth and forced a smile. “What did she tell you?”
“Something about John Milton becoming a large, dark shadow.”
“About the time Mrs. Strumfield claims he turned into her husband?”
She drank and thought and then nodded. “I guess.” She squinted. “You think that means something, something beyond reality?” She hummed the famous Jaws theme music. He could probably see that she was feeling her drink quickly; she had begun drinking it with such anxiety and frustration. She had downed it quickly and signaled for another.
“Well?” she demanded. “Are you going to start seeing things no one else can see?”
“Maybe,” he said. “I have to check on some ashes.”
“Ashes?”
“Forget it.”
She was given her new drink and began to sip it immediately.
“So what are you going to do? Ask for a postponement because of Mrs. Strumfield?”
“Postponement? No. I suspect I wouldn’t get it, anyway. The jury is not going to believe anything she says, and Milton could have it all repeated. I’d rather the jury forget she was even on the stand. Of course, that weakens my motive and presence-at-the-scene arguments. You’re sure the doorman at the apartment house didn’t see him, right?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Remember, it was raining. He wasn’t hanging out outside and was talking too much to the receptionist. I don’t blame him. She was quite attractive.”
“Wonderful. More gets past men because of their roving eyes.” She took another long sip of her drink. “I have no second witness to corroborate her sighting of Heckett.”
“No one else has come forward. You’re not the only one with some regrets. I should have moved a little faster linking things up. Maybe I would have gotten to the hired killer in time to make a difference.”
“I’m not going to use you or anyone in the police department as a scapegoat. Don’t try to fall on a sword for me, Lieutenant. You’re not to blame. I’m the one prosecuting the case. I chose to go forward with what I had. The buck stops here,” she said, pressing her right hand against her breast.
“Not a bad place to stop,” he remarked.
Her eyes widened. “Why, Lieutenant. Are you hitting on me?”
“Would you like me to?”
His comeback was so fast she lost her breath for a moment. “Ask me again when I’m not drinking and feeling sorry for myself,” she replied. “Right now, I’m too vulnerable.”
“Duly noted,” he said, and then perked up with a new thought. “How about we go get something to eat at a nice restaurant? Sober you up a little. You’ll feel better, and then I can ask you again.”
She thought a moment. “No, I think I’m going home. My aunt will have something emotionally and psychologically soothing for me to eat, even though I told her not to bother.”
“Emotionally and psychologically soothing food? What’s that?”
“Something made with a magic potion, I’m sure.” She finished her second drink. He had yet to finish his first.
“Something the Shirley MacLaine of SoHo does often?”
She laughed and nodded.
“She became like this after she and her husband had that terrible car accident? She was in a coma.”
“Yes. How do you know that?”
“I took some time to learn about you.”
“For professional reasons?”
“No,” he said.
She stared at him a moment and then smiled. “I never suspected. You have always been very . . . professional.”
“I’m just out of training.”
“Remnants of pursuing the priesthood?”
“No, just bashful.”
She laughed and then instantly changed to a serious expression. “It’s true. Nothing is what it looks like. All of a sudden, I feel like I’ve entered another world, and I don’t mean because I’ve come to New York. There are so many more mysteries in my life now. I’m getting so I don’t know what to believe is real and what not to believe. Maybe my aunt isn’t as off-the-wall as I think.”
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” Blake recited.
“First Nietzsche and now Shakespeare. I won’t lack for education working with you, Lieutenant.” She thought a moment. “Hamlet was talking about the ghost of his father at that point in the play, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think Cisley Strumfield saw her husband’s ghost in the courtroom?”
He thought a moment and shook his head. “Might have been something more.”
She nodded, a slight smirk on her face. “Might have been something more? Okay, Lieutenant. I changed my mind. I will have something to eat with you.”
“You will?”
“Yes. You’ll take me home and eat whatever my aunt serves. You might need it more than I do,” she said, and Blake laughed harder and longer than she had seen him laugh before.
Maybe it was the martinis, or maybe it was just Blake’s company, but the sheet of dread that had fallen over her was lifted away. She didn’t think she would be laughing this soon after the day’s courtroom disaster, but here she was feeling young and carefree, her arm in his as they left the tavern and started toward his car.
He opened the door for her, and she got in. As he was coming around to get in on his side, he stopped. He seemed to freeze for a moment. She looked in the direction he was looking. There was the usual traffic and pedestrians. Nothing was happening across the way that she could see, but she could tell that he was intrigued about something. He moved slowly to the driver’s side, looking back as he opened the door.
“What’s wrong? You look like you just saw one of America’s most wanted.”
He got in. “There’s a familiar black limousine across the street,” he said, and started the engine.
“Oh? Whose?”
“I think it’s John Milton’s,” he said.
She felt a trickle of sweat down the back of her neck. It ran along her spine. She leaned over to look. There was a black limousine. It started away, moving in the opposite direction.
“It’s not an uncommon car, Lieutenant. Could you see the license plate?”
“No, I didn’t catch it,” he said.
“Why would he be following me?”
“More like he’s following me,” Blake said. “Or maybe now he’s following both of us,” he added, and pulled away from the curb.
19
“You know what I fear the most, Charon?” John Milton asked, as they headed uptown to the restaurant where he was to meet Alexander James for a previctory celebration. He had already arranged for it to be a wild night for the senior partner. Charon stared ahead, as if he knew that if he waited patiently, the answer would be told.
“What I fear most, Charon, is déjà vu. Can you even begin to imagine what that must be like for someone like me? This is why it is so important for me to recruit. I mean, he’s got thousands, tens of thousands, running around proselytizing and convincing all who walk this planet of his celestial existence, right? Once you’re convinced that he exists, you’re then worried that he might not approve of your behavior. That’s an unfair advantage,” John said, raising his voice.
“I’m not complaining, even though it sounds like it,” he added quickly. “I won’t succumb to sniveling and crawling. I’m
just pointing out facts. If anything, these facts mean I should be appreciated even more for my accomplishments. I will admit to being disappointed from time to time, but in my case, disappointment only leads to more determination. I do not get discouraged, Charon.” He paused and then said, “Drive a little slower. I want him to wait a bit. I never want any of them to think I need them, even for a moment.”
Charon eased his foot off the accelerator. For a moment, John was distracted by the sight of the city coming to nocturnal life, populated by those who enjoyed the darkness more than the light, those with faces full of expectations, fantasies, and, in so many cases, a desperate need for some form of sexual satisfaction. What would his world be like without sex? Greed, sloth, vanity, and all the rest would not be enough and even combined into one powerful force, would still not become a big enough key to open the vault of all the souls he needed to plunder. Talk about vampires and blood. Their hunger was nothing compared with his. How could an occasional feast on hemoglobin rival his thirst for the embodied spirits of God’s imperfect creations?
“Where was I?” he muttered. “Oh, yes, not discouraged. On the other hand, witness poor Michele Armstrong. By now, she’s full of self-doubt, wondering whether she had made a mistake choosing to do what she does and be what she is. Ordinarily, I would move on someone like that quickly, Charon, and take advantage of the moment. Disappointment and disillusion, especially with oneself, opens windows and doors. I can slither in so much more easily, but she is being buoyed up a bit by her clergyman policeman right now, the famous Saint Matthew, I’m sure.
“That’s all right. We’ll let that go forward, because when she loses faith in him, sees how inconsequential he really is, impotent, in fact, she’ll be like a babe in my arms. She will suckle on my sympathy and curl up comfortably against my chest, welcoming my kisses and caresses and begging me to accept her into my fold. Don’t you think?”
Silence thundered in his ears. He roared and pounded the seat so hard that the limousine lifted and fell the way it would if it had gone too quickly over a speed bump. Charon finally turned and glanced at him.
“Yes, yes, you can speak,” John told him.
“Your plan is wonderful,” Charon said in a deep, mechanical voice.
John shook his head. “I need to spend more time on you, Charon. I’m not saying I don’t want to hear compliments. I just want them to sound . . . more authentic. I’ll work on it. I know I have neglected you. I, too, get distracted sometimes. It’s my passion for the things I do, the things I enjoy. It overwhelms.”
Charon looked forward, reassuming his cement posture.
“Okay. You don’t have to drive so slowly anymore. Drive normally. We can get there now,” he said.
Ten minutes later, they pulled up in front of an East Eighties upscale restaurant called the Garden of Earthly Delights, a restaurant so special there were no prices on the menus and tables were reserved months in advance unless you had an in with the manager, which meant forking over a considerable bribe. At the end of the meal, the one paying for everyone’s dinner was given a bill, and if they didn’t like it, they didn’t have to come back. John loved the arrogance of the place, the indifference to anyone’s opinion about the cost of food and wine. You didn’t come here if you worried about fifty, even a hundred dollars, here and there. You came here to impress your guests and feel like royalty, for the service was impeccable, and the food, although costing two or three times what it should, was excellent. Two of the best chefs in New York, if not the country, prepared the meals.
When John’s limousine pulled to a stop, the rear left door of a black Town Car across the street opened, and a dazzling, five-foot-ten-inch New York escort with silky black hair floating over her shoulders stepped out and began to cross the street. Charon got out and opened the door for John. He sat there watching the woman walk as if she was parading down a fashion-show runway. Drivers of passing cars nearly lost control. Horns sounded. John laughed.
“I can see his bones turning gray and decomposing already,” he muttered to himself. “All in due time. No mistakes. No rushing. Not this time.”
With a look of indifference, Charon, too, watched her approach the car.
“John,” she said. “I’m here.”
“So you are, my dear, so you are.”
He stepped out and held out his hand. She came to him obediently and took it.
“You feel . . . earthly,” he said.
She brightened. “I hope that’s a compliment.”
“Oh, you know it is, Magdalena. I want you in every way to be human, to be secular.”
“I know what you want, John.”
“Yes, you do. You always do. Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm.
She took it, glanced at Charon, and smiled, but he didn’t smile back. “Don’t ever give him a working prick. He’ll drill for oil,” she said.
John laughed all the way to the entrance, where the doorman, a tall, thin, light-skinned African American with a nearly luminous pair of ebony eyes, waited, those eyes so fixed on Magdalena it was as though he were committing every cell in her body to his memory.
“Good evening, sir,” he said. “Ma’am.”
“Bonsoir,” John said.
Magdalena left him with a caress on his hand and a movement in her lips that would take him to an orgasm in his fantasy this very evening. She looked back at him with that knowledge in her face. The doorman tried to swallow and then just turned away quickly and began counting passing cars to get his mind off her. It was futile.
The cozy restaurant had subdued lighting but reeked of elegance and savoir faire. The waiters and busboys looked as if they were tiptoeing around tables. There were four special booths at the far right, reserved for those who demanded total privacy. Three were filled with movie and sports celebrities. Alexander James sat alone in the last one, nervously drinking his vodka and soda, his eyes fixed on the entrance and then brightening with a wide smile the moment John and Magdalena entered.
He looks as anxious as a little boy on Christmas morning, John thought. Let’s bring him presents and promises.
All eyes were on them, as a matter of fact. Even the celebrities sitting with beautiful women themselves couldn’t keep from looking lustfully at Magdalena. She wore a tight black dress over her full round breasts, flat stomach, and perfectly proportioned hips, and her long legs flashed up to the insides of her thighs through the slit in the dress, which had an even greater impact on the men than full nudity would have had. Every inch of her was full of promise. Unwrap her and discover the phantom woman every male had chased since puberty. Lips moistened and dicks practically moaned in anticipation. Wives and girlfriends flung darts of envy. Some reflexively pulled their shoulders back and their breasts up. The ones caught in mid-sentence flashed crimson rage at their partners, who tried desperately to look as if nothing had happened to turn their libidos on full blast.
“Alex, please meet my friend Magdalena,” John said.
Alexander James was afraid he might have a heart attack when Magdalena extended her hand. It was thumping that hard under his breastbone. Although he felt as if he was imitating some courtesan in a royal court and therefore looked silly, he didn’t attempt to shake it. He brought his lips to her delicious fingers and held them there just a second too long. Magdalena smiled at John, who raised his eyebrows and then moved to sit beside James.
“How do you know so many extraordinarily beautiful women, John?” James asked, not taking his eyes off Magdalena.
“I see no reason to really get to know any others,” John said, and James laughed. John sat across from him.
“I heard every detail of the trial, blow by blow. Brilliant, John. You wiped them out so badly that they might just throw in the towel before the judge takes her seat tomorrow.”
“One must not count his chickens before he hacks off their heads,” John replied. It wouldn’t have mattered what he said. James could hear nothing but his own bubbling testosterone.
He realized, however, that John had said something.
“Bill sends his congratulations and his regrets. He had a pressing family matter to attend to,” James said, again looking mostly at Magdalena. He couldn’t take his eyes off her for long. She was as enticing as John’s private secretary, if not more so.
“Families can be oppressive at times,” John said. “Even a family of angels,” he added, and Magdalena laughed.
The waiter took their drink order.
“Yes, well, Bill’s also having a hard time with the O’Hara defense, speaking of families.”
“Killing your adulterous wife should be a recognized blood sport, not a crime,” John said. “Of course, there should be different rules for adulterous men. Men have always been more apt to wander from the loins of the ones they pledged to love and cherish until death do them part. Look the world over, and you’ll find married men with mistresses taken for granted. Puritanical America is just uncivilized when it comes to all that.”
“Hear, hear,” James said, raising his glass. “So tell me about yourself, Magdalena.”
“I’m here. What more is there to tell?” she replied in a voice so sultry it made James’s head spin for a second. He actually put his hand on the table to steady himself.
John saw it and smiled. “Easy, Alex. There’s a whole night ahead.”
“Well, I do have a trial tomorrow,” James said, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. “And so do you, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, you will do fine no matter what, and we already know I will. There are many ways to build your strength, you know, all sorts of nourishment men who have been married for a while often forget.”
“What? I’ve never heard it referred to as nourishment.” James looked from Magdalena to John. “You’re a rogue, John, an instigator of the first order.”
“Oh, I’ve been called many things, haven’t I, Magdalena?”
“Yes, he has, but never call him late for dinner,” she said, and John laughed. He laughed so hard that James found he had to join in.
Moments later, the waiter approached, looking apologetic for being there and having to interrupt them to take their dinner order.
Judgement Day Page 19