by Barbara Paul
As she drove she felt the familiar heavy weight of depression. What had happened to make Page change his mind? Last night he’d seemed so relaxed, as if he didn’t have a thing to worry about. But then overnight he’d switched from his plan to incriminate Jason O’Neill and was now throwing Edgar Quinn to the wolves. For Page to pull such an about-face, something had to have happened.
Holland. Holland happened.
If there was a way for Page to know that Holland had found the money trail between Christopher and O’Neill but had not reported it … oh Jesus. He’d know that Holland had figured it out. Whatever Page and Quinn had once planned for the laser handgun was lost and all of Page’s efforts would now be directed toward saving himself. Quinn was missing, maybe dead. And Holland? Holland’s life wasn’t worth the proverbial plugged nickel.
Praying that he hadn’t left her apartment and gone where Page could find him—home, wherever home was, or the FBI building at Federal Plaza, Marian honked her horn anxiously at the car in front of her. When that didn’t help, she reached the police light up to the roof of her car, getting her arm tangled in the connecting wire in her haste, and turned on the siren. The traffic ahead of her grudgingly edged over to the right.
No parking space in her block, of course; she pulled up next to a fire hydrant. The elevator took forever. Just as the doors opened at her floor, Marian looked down the hallway and saw Holland coming out of her apartment. “Stop!” she called. She ran down the hall, pushed Holland back inside, and shot all four bolts on the door.
He raised one eyebrow. “If you really want me to stay that badly—”
“Shut up and listen. When you went hunting for the money connection between Evan Christopher and Jason O’Neill, did you leave any kind of computer trail someone else could follow?”
“I left tracks, yes. It takes a lot of time to cover them up, and there was no need.”
“Does Page know enough about computers to follow those tracks?”
Holland’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, he does. It’s not too difficult.”
“He knows. He knows you found the trail he left, and you didn’t say anything to him about finding it.”
“Then he knows I’m on to him. Damnation! We’ve lost the advantage of surprise.”
“It gets worse.” She told him about Page and DiFalco’s joint press conference, about how Page was sacrificing Quinn to save his own neck, and how the new scenario called for Quinn and Evan Christopher to be partners in whatever scheme Quinn and Page had had going.
Holland listened carefully, absorbing it all quickly. “And DiFalco wouldn’t listen when you told him? I’m not surprised. He’s cast his lot with Page now—he’d lose face if he backed out. I’ve got to keep out of sight. It didn’t look as if you were coming back so I was going home to get some sleep, but now I don’t dare.”
“No, you’ll have to stay here. It should be safe—Page wouldn’t think of looking for you at my place. There’s something else. The hush-hush project that Universal’s been working on?”
“The laser handgun, yes.”
Marian clamped her lips together so her mouth wouldn’t drop open. “How’d you know?”
“It seems a number of people in Washington know about that. Let me tell you what I found out. Could we sit down? Not the sofa—I’d fall asleep.”
They went back to the kitchen and sat at the table again; Marian tossed her raincoat over the chair back. Holland looked desperately tired, his face gray and bleak. One of the members of Universal Laser’s liaison team, he said, had had a conscience. One of them, Webb or O’Neill or Vickers or Bigelow, was disturbed by this new weapon that could kill without leaving any trace except for a hole burned in some hapless victim’s body—disturbed to the point where he was trying to do something about it. He’d informed three congressmen and two senators of what Universal Laser was working on and pointed out the need for legislation to suppress the futuristic weapon before it was ready for manufacture.
“But he informed them all anonymously,” Holland said, “in statements written out on Universal Laser letterhead stationery. He’d managed to leave the letters where the lawmakers themselves were bound to find them, instead of some member of their staffs. And all five lawmakers were on the liaison team’s itinerary during their penultimate trip to Washington. That’s how Quinn knew the leak came from one of the four men who made up the liaison group.”
“Uh, how?” Marian asked. “How’d we get from Senator Whosit to Edgar Quinn?”
Holland rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, I’m not thinking in sequence. Senators Wagner and Newbury as well as Congressmen Rock and Kincaid all had their staffs check out the story with Universal Laser. Congressman Torelli called Edgar Quinn direct. Denials all around, of course. But the informant had thoughtfully supplied each of the lawmakers with the names of the other four he’d notified, so the five of them got together and decided they were on to something. They called in the FBI.”
“I was wondering how they got involved,” Marian said. “Page wouldn’t have notified them.”
By now too many people knew the secret for it to remain a secret much longer; even the Universal Laser employees who weren’t working on the laser handgun had an inkling of what was going on, thus propelling Quinn and Page into a monstrous act in a desperate but doomed attempt to plug up the holes. Holland said he thought Quinn must have called in the four members of the liaison team and accused them as a group. That in turn led to their Saturday afternoon meeting at Jason O’Neill’s place.
Holland put his hands on his hips and stretched his back without getting up. “It’s entirely possible that they did figure out which of them ‘betrayed’ the company. Then the other three would have called Edgar Quinn and arranged a meeting at Universal Laser. Quinn would have put them off for a few hours, until he had time to contact Page and they could decide what they wanted to do. So at six o’clock three of the team forced the informant to accompany them to meet Quinn … and found Trevor Page with him, armed with handcuffs and a thirty-eight.”
“And the other three were shot gratuitously, as an object lesson?” Marian shook her head. “I don’t think so. Edgar Quinn was genuinely fond of Conrad Webb. He wouldn’t have taken part in Webb’s murder unless he was convinced it was essential to his own survival. No, it’s more likely the liaison team did not discover who’d leaked the secret, and they just wanted to meet again with Quinn in one last attempt to clear themselves. The informant would have no choice but to go along. Then when Page and Quinn couldn’t identify him, they killed them all. I wonder …” she trailed off.
“What?”
“When the four men were handcuffed together and the first man had been shot through the eye—I wonder if the informant spoke up then and identified himself. He knew he was going to die, but he wouldn’t want the others to die because of him.”
“Unless the informant was the first one shot.”
“Ah.” Marian was silent a moment, feeling dejected. “Which one do you suppose it was?”
“Which one do you think?”
“Well, it wasn’t Conrad Webb. Webb would cut out his tongue before he’d do anything to harm Universal Laser. Jason O’Neill was too dedicated to climbing the corporate ladder to knock it out from under himself. And I can’t see Herb Vickers getting his act together enough to develop a social conscience overnight. That leaves Sherman Bigelow. He was a pretty stand-up type anyway—just the sort to be bothered by the development of an untraceable weapon.”
“I would have said Webb.”
“Webb? Why?”
“Primarily because he’d been with Universal Laser since the day it was born. For Webb it would be like watching a child growing up straight and strong and then inexplicably turning twisted. Going to Washington with the story would simply be a way of seeking help.” Holland’s words were becoming slurred.
It was a mystery doomed to stay a mystery. Marian and Holland both realized they’d never know which of the men had tried to stop
the development of the laser handgun and whose good intentions had gotten all four members of the liaison team killed. “What were Page and Quinn planning to do with the damned handgun anyway?” Marian asked irritably.
Holland tried to stifle a yawn and failed. “Oh, Page undoubtedly has little groups of people picked out all over the world that he wants to arm with superior weapons. Guerrilla groups, infiltrators. Good guys who’ll fight against whatever force Page thinks is threatening the security of the land of the free and the home of the brave—said force subject to lightning-swift change, of course. Page is really a CIA man at heart.”
That made Marian feel more discouraged than ever. “I can’t think what to do next.”
“Nor I. Sergeant, I’m going to have to borrow your sofa for a few hours. I haven’t had any sleep since Thursday night, and I’ll not be of any help until I’ve done some catching up.” He looked ready to collapse right there on the kitchen table.
“Use the bedroom,” Marian said, putting her raincoat back on. “I’m going out for a couple of hours anyway.”
“Now? Where are you going?”
“Personal matter,” she said, and left.
20
Kelly Ingram hadn’t been up very long and her eyes were still sleepy. “Marian!” she cried. “Did you see the reviews? They loved us! Every single one of them loved us! Well, almost every single one. Come in, come in!”
Marian followed her friend into her kitchen, saying nothing but listening closely to Kelly’s cheerful morning-after-the-debut chatter. Selfishly, that’s what she’d come for; maybe she could absorb some of Kelly’s upbeat energy and fight off the glooms. She accepted a cup of coffee but said no to a muffin.
“I was just starting to listen to my phone messages,” Kelly was saying. “I had to turn the bell off, or I wouldn’t have gotten any sleep at all! I must have a zillion messages—I didn’t know I’d given my phone number to that many people. Oh, Marian, it’s all worked out better than I ever hoped. Did you read any of the reviews?”
“I read every one I could get my hands on,” Marian said. “In fact I read them twice. They all had such respectful things to say about you—”
“Yes! That’s just it! They treated me with respect, even the one or two critics who were lukewarm about the play. Not one of them so much as mentioned all those tootsie roles I used to play on television. They treated me as if I have a right to be here!”
That brought a faint smile. “Is there any doubt? You do belong on the stage.”
“Oh, I know that, but I just wasn’t sure the rest of New York knew it. But now they do, snicker snicker, and ah ain’t a-never gunna let ’em fergit it. Oh, god, Marian, I feel so good! Did you know David Lynch was there last night?”
Marian listened quietly as she tried to let herself be drawn into Kelly’s world. She wanted to will away all thoughts of laser guns and treacherous FBI agents, of police captains blinded by personal ambition, of the man asleep in her apartment whom even now she had trouble trusting. She tried not to think of the manhunt then in progress, with Edgar Quinn running for his life. And in trying not to think of those things, of course she ended up thinking of nothing else. She brought herself up short and forced herself to listen to what Kelly was saying. Only Kelly wasn’t saying anything.
Instead, her friend was looking at her worriedly. “Marian? What is it? What’s the matter?”
Marian was feeling too sluggish to pretend to be cheerful but she did manage to say, “Just not enough sleep, Kel, that’s all. Listen, I meant to ask you, who hosted the party we went to last night? I never did meet him, or her, or them.”
But Kelly just shook her head. “Won’t do, Marian. Don’t try to change the subject. Something has got you down—I know the signs too well. Come on, tell me. What’s eating at you?”
Marian was silent for a long moment, and then for the first time she put into words what had been on her mind for some time. “I’m thinking of resigning from the police force.”
Kelly was shocked. She grabbed Marian’s hand and started squeezing it, for Marian’s comfort or her own neither one of them could say. When Kelly finally got her voice back, she said, “But, but you love police work!”
“I used to,” Marian said. “It was the only career I ever considered. But the job has changed, or I’ve changed, or both. I don’t like what I’m doing anymore. I don’t like the place I work or the people I work with.”
“Well, sure, criminals and murderers and—”
“I don’t mean them,” Marian said with a groan. “I mean the so-called good guys, the cops. The FBI. I don’t like any of them, and most of all I don’t like seeing them in my profession.”
Kelly’s eyes widened. “FBI? You mean Trevor?”
“Yeah, Trevor too. I’ve been building up to this for a couple of months, and Trevor Page is just the icing on the cake. Oh, it’s all very involved, and all I want is to turn my back on it and walk away. There’s another FBI agent, a man I don’t completely trust—but I’m going to have to trust him, and I don’t like that either. Oh, lord. When you’re this miserable about your work, aren’t you supposed to do something about it?”
“Like quit?” Kelly asked indignantly. “Is that the only solution you can come up with?”
“Frankly, yes.” She thought a minute. “When you’re a cop, you know you can never put an end to crime. But you do have a realistic hope of containing it, of limiting the harm it can do. Kelly, I no longer have that hope. Everything’s out of control. I’m a cop, and I can’t count on the cops anymore.”
“You mean they’re crooked? On the take?”
“No, not that. It’s as if they’ve all been sucked into an attitude toward their work I can’t live with … a way of doing things that pretty much neutralizes any good you might do. I have a captain who’s more interested in promoting himself out of the Ninth Precinct than he is in catching the right perpetrator. I have a partner who’s turned sour and who was never too bright to begin with. And the FBI … the FBI has been using the police for its own purposes. The end justifies the means, every time. No exceptions.”
“Well, now, you know that isn’t true,” Kelly said pragmatically. “And I’m sorry, Marian, but I just don’t believe there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re the most resourceful person I know, and I can see your situation must be pretty bad if you are thinking of giving up. I’d guess you’re just kind of overwhelmed right now … but that’s only right now. Don’t make any decisions while you’re feeling so down.”
“Oh, I know better than that,” Marian said with a faint smile.
“Good.” Kelly looked at her watch. “Come talk to me while I get dressed—I’m supposed to be at the theater at one. I want to know what Trevor Page’s part is in all this.”
Marian was appalled. “The theater? Oh my god, you have a matinee today! I forgot, I completely forgot. Oh, Kelly, I’m sorry—I would never have dumped this on you if I’d—”
“Marian,” Kelly said firmly. “Don’t be a twitterhead. I would have been hurt if you hadn’t come. But I don’t know any of the details. How much can you tell me about your case? Is Trevor—”
But Marian was on her feet and gathering up her things to go. “Kelly, you should be thinking about your performance this afternoon, not about my problems. Put me out of your mind and concentrate on Sheila and The Apostrophe Thief. We’ll talk later, I promise. I’ll tell you all about the case.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll even tell you what Trevor Page did.”
“Mar-ian!”
“’Bye, Kelly. Knock ’em dead.” She gave her a quick hug and left.
It had rained while she was in Kelly’s apartment, and the air was muggy and heavy. Marian stopped at a deli and loaded up on food, two bags full; there was no knowing how long Holland would have to stay at her place. And Marian needed to eat; she was getting a headache.
The rain started again as she ran from her car to the apartment building. Upstairs, she put the soggy bags down
and unlocked all four locks. From the doorway, she could see straight into the bedroom. And what she saw was Curt Holland, sitting up on the bed, his eyes glazed … aiming a gun directly at her.
“Holland,” she said softly. “It’s me.”
When he’d focused on who she was, he lowered his gun and fell back on the bed, asleep again in an instant. Marian’s hands were shaking as she turned the bolts in the door behind her.
In the kitchen she opened a carton of chicken salad and dipped in with one of the plastic spoons the deli had provided. But once she had the chicken salad in her mouth, her throat tightened up on her and she couldn’t swallow. The day had finally gotten to her, the betrayals and the double-crosses and the sure-fire knowledge of trouble still to come. Noiselessly she slid to the kitchen floor and sat there, her back against a cabinet door and both legs straight out in front of her.
Seeing a loaded gun pointed at her when she came in was the last straw. Marian didn’t blame Holland; he was only protecting himself. But getting shot as she entered her own home would have been a fitting climax to the day. The new alliance between DiFalco and Page was a dangerous one; DiFalco was willfully blind and Page was acting out of desperation. Of the two betrayals, Marian resented DiFalco’s the most. Even worse than his threats was the dirty trick he’d played, springing his “solution” to the case on her the way he did—in public, so she couldn’t stand up and say Hey, there, Captain—you got it wrong. She wondered about Edgar Quinn; it was hard to believe Page would let the one man who could incriminate him stay alive. Maybe Quinn was already dead.
If he wasn’t, Page would be looking for him, the way he was sure to be looking for Holland. And if he found out Holland had confided in her, she would be next on his list. Trevor Page, the new “interesting” man in her life, would kill her without hesitation if he thought she posed a threat to him. In spite of DiFalco’s self-congratulatory winding up of the case, it wasn’t over yet. But how to blow the whole thing open before Page did any more killing? And how to keep from getting caught in the fallout? She had no idea; she was tired of the case and tired of thinking about it. How she wanted to walk away! It was as if the little Dutch boy had pulled his thumb out of the hole in the dike and said, “To hell with this—I’m going home.” With her eyes closed, Marian could see the cracks spreading across the dike.