by Barbara Paul
What is the matter with me? she thought with a start. Sitting on the kitchen floor thinking about dikes and deluges! Have I gone completely daft?
She got to her feet, swallowed the chicken salad she’d been holding in her mouth all that time, and ate some more. She put the perishables away in the refrigerator, took a long drink of tonic water, stumbled in to the sofa, and collapsed.
The phone ringing woke her up.
“Don’t answer.” Holland was standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a plate of deli meats and pasta salad. They listened to the message.
It was Page. “Marian, this is Trevor—where are you? I’ve been trying to find you all day. Why did you run out this morning? I have much to tell you, starting with one Captain DiFalco and his grandstand play. That circus this morning wasn’t my idea—I was under orders to go along with him.” There was a pause. “This thing isn’t over yet, in spite of what the good captain may think. Marian, I do need to talk to you. Something’s happened. Holland has dropped out of sight, and I think he may be the key to the whole mess. I need your help.” Another pause, and Page’s voice changed, softened. “I want to see you, Marian. We can’t let DiFalco’s jumping the gun spoil last night for us. Call me.”
Holland put down his plate of food and turned on her in a movement that made her wince. His expression was glacial. “Last … night.”
Marian flapped a hand at him. “Relax, you haven’t delivered yourself into the enemy camp.” When he continued to look icebergs at her, she said, “We went to a play, that’s all. Don’t create problems where there are none.”
“You went to a play. I didn’t know you were even that chummy.”
Marian didn’t like the implications of that. “And if you had known?”
“I wouldn’t have come to you for help,” he said bluntly. “How can I count on you to hunt down a man you’ve been he-ing and she-ing with?” Holland looked as if he wanted to strangle her. “I was a fool to come here,” he muttered.
“No, you weren’t,” Marian said hotly, “but you’re being a fool now. Goddammit, Holland, who the hell are you to tell me I won’t do my job? I’m the professional here, not you. You’re just a lawbreaker who got blackmailed into working for an organization you don’t give a hoot about. I’m a hell of a lot more worthy of trust than you are. Now you get off my back—do you understand?”
He held his glacial look a few seconds longer and then eased into the sardonic, arrogant smile that Marian hated. “A very impassioned speech,” he said with a faint sneer. “Almost convincing, in fact. Especially that part about trustworthiness. However, I’m sure you’ll understand if I do not immediately fall to my knees in abject apology.”
They glared at each other for a moment. Then Marian said, as calmly as she could, “Look, if I can adjust to the idea that you are the good guy, you can live with the fact that I went to a play with Trevor Page. It didn’t contaminate me, you know.”
For some reason, that got through to him. He even laughed, or came close to it. He shook his head and said, “We shouldn’t be wasting our time fighting. Very well, I am the categorical good guy and you are unequivocally free of contamination. Pristine in your trustworthiness. Play back Page’s message—there’s one part I want to hear again.”
She rewound the tape and pressed the START button. “… Something’s happened. Holland has dropped out of sight, and I think he may be the key to the whole mess. I need your help …”
“That’s the part,” Holland said. “He’s going to implicate me in his scheme to distribute illegal weapons, perhaps make me the mastermind. I would say that means Edgar Quinn is dead, and Page is setting the stage for killing me in a shoot-out. That must be what he wants from you. He needs a police witness to sanction the shooting.”
“Then he must feel pretty confident he’s going to find you.”
“By now he has the entire FBI looking for me. That can do wonders for one’s confidence.”
Marian picked up the phone and tapped out the number of the Ninth Precinct. She spoke briefly to the desk sergeant and then hung up. “No sign of Quinn. Either he’s evaded the dragnet or he is dead. Unless Page has some reason to keep him alive?”
“I can’t think of any.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Marian said, frowning. “There’s a time problem here. When did you figure out Page had laid a false money trail for you to find?”
Holland shrugged. “I finished up around ten last night. Why?”
“At ten o’clock last night Page was in the Broadhurst Theatre watching the premiere performance of The Apostrophe Thief. In fact, we didn’t part company until three this morning. That means that since three A.M., he found out that you had found out, killed Quinn to cover his tracks, convinced DiFalco the case was closed, got the FBI to start looking for you, got the NYPD to start looking for Quinn—all before the ten A.M. press conference? No way he could have done all that in seven hours. Even if he’d run straight to Federal Plaza after dropping me off.”
“That part’s not out of character,” Holland told her. “Page was in the habit of going in at all hours. But you’re right about the time—he couldn’t have done all that overnight. Maybe Quinn is still alive after all. You say you left Page at three?” His face tightened. “I must have just missed him. When I left the FBI Building at ten, I went out for something to eat and then just walked the streets for a while, thinking. At midnight I went back to the computer and retraced my steps to be sure I hadn’t made a mistake. That took me about three hours.”
“Then you did just miss him,” Marian said. “If he went straight there. What’s your procedure—would he have expected you to call him the minute you found the money trail?”
“No, I would have left him a message on the computer.”
“And when you didn’t …”
“And when I didn’t, he knew he was in danger of being exposed. He must have spent the rest of the night making up a phony connection between Quinn and that hapless arms dealer who fell down and broke his neck. He put it all into the computer and printed out a copy to show DiFalco. I think it’s safe to assume that I am also electronically linked to the arms dealer … or to Quinn.”
Marian was thinking. “I want you to tell me something. Just exactly how much authority does Page have in the FBI?”
“As absurd as it sounds, I don’t know. He reports to a man named Starbuck, but at times I’ve suspected Page has some inner-circle connection. Need-to-know is stringently observed within the Bureau, and as my immediate superior it was always Page who decided what I needed to know. He did have the clout to get himself assigned to the East River Park case.”
“But Page might not be acting on his own?”
“It’s possible, I suppose. He could just be carrying out orders.”
Marian found that hard to swallow. “That would mean the FBI itself is behind this plan to distribute laser handguns! Come on, Holland! Do you know how paranoid that sounds?”
He sighed. “Yes, unfortunately. But whether Page is acting autonomously or not, he’s still the one we have to get. All we have to do is find Edgar Quinn if he’s still alive, convince DiFalco he and Page together killed the four men in East River Park, come up with some proof of what they were planning to do with Universal Laser’s new handguns, and keep ourselves alive in the process.”
“Oh, is that all?” Marian smiled wryly. “Then we’d better get started, hadn’t we?”
21
Trevor Page folded his arms and leaned against his desk. “You still don’t look as if you’re feeling a hundred percent.”
Marian smiled wanly. She’d claimed an upset stomach to explain her unavailability during the day, blaming the perfectly good deli food the two of them had shared … only the night before? “I’m all right. Just don’t feel like climbing any mountains. So what’s this hot new development you’ve got?”
“We found Edgar Quinn.”
Marian’s eyebrows rose; she’d been half sure the
man was dead by now. “Where’d you pick him up?”
“JFK. With a ticket bought in a false name. He was heading for San Diego, then Mexico.”
“When you say ‘we’ found him …?”
“The FBI. And no, we haven’t notified Captain DiFalco.”
“Trevor, he’s my superior! I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. DiFalco left this afternoon for a little rest and rehabilitation in the health spas of Atlantic City and won’t be back until tomorrow. He failed to notify you, didn’t he? The man wants to be incommunicado. As far as he’s concerned, this business is over. But with him gone, you’re next in chain of command.”
“Only because the lieutenant is on vacation. And he gets back Monday.”
“That’s enough time.” Page stood up away from the desk he’d been leaning against. “Do you want another circus like the one DiFalco staged this morning? Your captain can’t keep his mouth shut.”
“You backed him up.”
“I was ordered to back him up. You have to understand, Marian. Something happens in the FBI when one of our agents goes sour. The Bureau is totally unforgiving. Totally. Right now nailing Curt Holland is more important than all the laser weapons in the world. Going along with DiFalco this morning—well, that was a temporizing move. Buying time.”
Ostensibly Page was talking about Holland, Marian thought, but every word he uttered could be applied to himself. The Bureau was unforgiving, he’d said. All of Page’s great plans for illegally arming the friendlies of the world had come crashing down around his ears, and now his only concern was how to save his neck. Marian was uneasy; she had a role to play and she would play it, conning the conner. But some residue of the attraction she’d felt to the man still remained, a complication she’d never had to face before. She looked straight into his strong face, his intelligent eyes. And saw a murderer.
They were alone in Page’s office at Federal Plaza; on an early Saturday evening most of the other offices were empty. It was possible that Page was indeed following orders from someone higher up the FBI ladder, but Marian didn’t believe it. And whatever he was leading up to, it wouldn’t do for her to give in too readily. “Look, I don’t trust DiFalco’s discretion any more than you do,” she said, “but I have to get word to him that you have Quinn in custody. Where is Quinn, by the way?”
“In a safe house. We can use him to get to Holland. What would you say if I turned the collar over to you? Wouldn’t that square you with DiFalco? You get Quinn, we get Holland.”
Marian pretended to hesitate. She murmured some further demurral, making it as unconvincing as she could, and in another minute she’d let him talk her into it. From Page’s point of view, she supposed, step one in his scheme was a success: he’d won a police accomplice to whatever bit of nastiness he had planned. For now she’d play a passive role, listening and nodding.
Page brought them each a cup of coffee. “Quinn is willing to testify against Holland in exchange for a reduced sentence. He claims the laser-smuggling plan was Holland’s, and I’m inclined to believe him. I’ll tell you why. We found a computer trail linking Holland to Evan Christopher, our dead arms dealer.”
Marian forced a look of astonishment. Holland had guessed right. “That should seem to clinch it. How is Quinn going to draw him out of hiding?”
“We’ll save Quinn as a back-up. But first we get a message to Holland, offering immunity from prosecution in exchange for information about his network of insurgents he wanted to arm.”
Marian shook her head. “He’ll never go for it.”
“He went for a similar deal once before. And to sweeten the pot, we’ll offer him his long-desired release from the FBI. If that sounds too generous, we’ll make it a condition of the deal that he’s to leave the country permanently.”
“Get out of town by sundown?”
“Something like that. But if he doesn’t go for it, then we’ll let him find Quinn. And we’ll be waiting for him when he does.”
“The first way’s less dangerous,” Marian stated, and took a slow drink of coffee. “But how do we get in touch with Holland?”
Page smiled. “Easy. We leave a message on the FBI computer. He’ll find it. If I know Holland, he’s probably plugged in right now, trying to discover how much we know.” Page pulled a legal pad and a pen out of one of the desk drawers. “Now, how should we word it?”
They worked together on the message, which they agreed should be kept brief. Marian made a couple of suggestions. Page listened with the same courteous attentiveness he always showed, seeming to approve of her recommendations but at the same time bringing the wording back to what he wanted in the first place while crediting Marian with having thought of it. The master manipulator at work, she mused wryly. She watched quietly as Page fed the message into the computer.
“There, that’s done.” He looked at his watch. “Nothing’s going to happen right away—we’ll have time for a bite to eat.”
Marian shook her head. “Not for me, thanks. I’m still a bit queasy—I think I’ll go home and lie down for a while. You’ll call me the minute you hear something?”
He gave her his most charming smile. “Oh, yes. I will call you.”
I’m sure you will, she thought dispiritedly.
She took her time driving home, not wanting to face Holland just yet. She felt sick about Trevor Page. Playing God, that’s what he was doing, setting himself up to decide who lived and who died. Arming political groups to eradicate other political groups. Executing four employees of Universal Laser because one of them had had the effrontery to get in his way. Condemning Holland to death as casually as stepping on an insect. Page was hiding behind a badge to enforce his own personal law. And she’d thought Holland was the arrogant one.
Dominance, Holland had said that first day in Captain DiFalco’s office. Everything is always about dominance. He’d been referring to Page’s hold over him, Marian now understood, but she suspected he was right nonetheless. She thought back; it was true of the Downtown Queens when they imposed the death penalty on Mrs. Alvarez, promoting themselves to the status of godettes, perhaps. And Brian’s deliberate humiliating of her at the art gallery … that was nothing more than a demonstration of which of them had the upper hand—I dropped her, she didn’t drop me.
Once Marian had come across a bag lady who’d sold her “route” to another bag lady. Each old woman thought she’d put something over on the other; that’s what the deal had really been about, outdoing the other. And Foley’s ongoing refusal to accept Marian’s authority—that wasn’t about dominance? DiFalco’s political game-playing wasn’t much more sophisticated, one-upmanship hand-tailored to fit New York’s police hierarchy. Who’s on top, who’s underneath. Every crime that had ever been committed was about mastery in some form—domestic violence, or robbery, or a kid defacing a building as a way of thumbing his nose at authority, or Son of Sam arbitrarily choosing total strangers to murder.
She stopped for a red light. Son of Sam. Sam’s son. Samson. The strong man, with the power of life and death over others.
The light changed. If Page was telling the truth about Quinn’s still being alive, his evidence would be enough to charge Page with at least one of the crimes he’d committed. Marian wished now she’d pushed him for the address of the safe house where he said Quinn was being held, but at the time it hadn’t seemed like a smart thing to do.
Marian parked in the delivery zone of a printing company closed for the weekend. They had to find out first if Quinn was alive; then if he was, where he was. That was all. Piece of cake.
Upstairs she found Holland sitting at the small table that held her telephone, to which he’d hooked up a laptop computer. With part of her mind Marian noted his hair was wet and that he’d shaved and changed his clothing. “Where’d the computer come from?” she asked suspiciously.
“I went out and bought it.”
“Out? You went out? Oh, Holland! Of all the harebrained—”
“Before you burst a blood vessel, just listen a moment,” he interrupted. “No one followed me—I made sure of that. You should be pleased to know this place is not being watched. And no sharp-eyed fed picked me out of the crowds. But I needed some things, not only the computer but clothing and a razor and the like. I’d been wearing the same clothes for two days.”
He had on khaki pants and a black crew neck sweater—casual, off-the-rack garb that he managed to wear with a certain elegance. No slave to fashion, Marian nevertheless harbored ambivalent feelings toward men who wore clothes better than she did. “How’d you get back in? I didn’t give you a key.”
The sardonic smile. “I didn’t need a key.”
“Huh.” And so pleased with yourself because you didn’t. “I still think it was a dumb thing to do,” she muttered. “You could have told me what you needed.”
Holland disagreed. “You don’t pick out a computer the way you buy a tube of toothpaste—I had to go myself. Now, are we going to go on arguing about whether I should have gone out or not, or are you going to tell me what Page had to say?”
Marian plopped down on the sofa and kicked off her shoes. She recounted in detail her talk with the other FBI man, repeating Page’s words verbatim as often as she could. “So he has two plans to lure you out of hiding—the amnesty offer and Edgar Quinn. He figures if you don’t go for the first, you’ll go for the second.”
“He figures right. You should have gotten the address of the safe house.”
“What if he’d refused to say? That would have made it harder for me to pretend to go along.”
“Possibly. It would have been better if we could’ve gotten a jump on Page—go for plan number two while he’s still thinking plan number one. But he’ll find a way to leak the address to us when he’s ready. Right now I want to see that message you and he left for me.”