by Susan Isaacs
“Don’t worry.”
“What do you mean ‘don’t worry’?” I spoke with my teeth nearly clenched together, my hands curled into tight fists by my sides.
“Judith, what’s wrong with you? I said not to worry. I’ll get a search warrant and check things out. We’ll get him. Relax.”
“But what if you don’t?”
“Come upstairs with me,” he said, taking my hand. “First I’ll help you to relax and then I’ll explain things.”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“No,” I said. “My son’s due home from school in a half hour.”
“So I’ll work fast. I can relax you in a half hour.”
“No, Nelson. Not here.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I am not being ridiculous. I’m not going to fool around in my own house and that’s that.”
“You’re tense.”
“Of course, I’m tense,” I said angrily. “Here we are, about to catch a murderer, and you want to screw.”
“We don’t have to screw, you know. We can...”
“Nelson, can’t we just sit and talk? I’ve had one hell of a morning. What do you expect me to do, get all cute and snuggly?”
“Fine. I’ll be glad to talk,” he said slowly.
“And don’t treat me like some goddamn loony, with that soft, sweetie-pie voice of yours.”
He grabbed my arms. “Look, will you lay off? This morning hasn’t been a goddamn motherfucking bed of roses for me either. You’re upset. I’m upset. Okay, let’s just sit down and talk.”
“Good,” I snapped. “Fine.”
We sat next to each other on the couch, neither touching nor exchanging glances. Finally I turned to him. “Okay. Let’s be friends,” I said and kissed his ear.
“Okay,” he said quietly, taking care not to break the spirit of the truce. “Would you like to know what I’m going to do?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I’m going to leave here in a little while and apply for a search warrant. I’ll get a night warrant so I can go to his printing plant when he’s at home.”
“Can you do that?”
“Of course, I can do it. Look, you can justify a night warrant on several grounds, but I’m going to say that he might become violent. I don’t want to set him off. He’s dangerous.”
“How will you get in when he’s not there?” I asked.
“If necessary, we can break in. Then I’ll have a look around. I especially want to check his safe—if he has one—and file cabinets.”
I leaned toward him so that our shoulders touched. “You think you’ll find anything there?”
“I hope so,” he said, taking my hand and rubbing it between his. “Dunck’s a squirrel, a saver. Remember, he held on to that awl until he decided to dump it at Marilyn Tuccio’s house. And if he saved the awl, he may very well have saved the photographs.”
“I think you’re right,” I agreed. “He knew the power those pictures gave Bruce. He probably thought it would pass to him. And if you can believe Brenda, and he hasn’t said anything to her, he may want to hold them, to use them against her someday.” Sharpe nodded. “But how can you get into a safe?” I asked.
“Break in.”
“Really?”
“Sure. As long as we have the right warrant.”
“When will you be going there?”
“I don’t know. Probably about nine or ten. Maybe later.”
“Can I go? Please?”
“No.” I pulled my hand from his and glared at him. “I’m sorry, Judith. I know how much this means to you, but there’s no way.”
“Of course, there’s a way. You’re in charge of the investigation.”
“Yes, but that means I have to do things the right way, and there could be all sorts of complications if you came along. Look, I’ll call you as soon as it’s over.”
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know. It depends on whether we find enough evidence to arrest him.”
“So it might not be for a while, maybe not even until tomorrow.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
Sharpe glanced at me suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘okay’?”
“Okay,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“You’re planning something, Judith. What is it?”
“Would it be so terrible if I just parked my car across from the plant and waited?”
“Yes, it would. Look, do you want to put the entire investigation in jeopardy?”
“If it weren’t for me, you know damn well you wouldn’t have come near Dunck or his lousy, rotten printing plant.”
“I know, Judith,” he said quietly. “But you’re not a cop. You can’t be there. No way.”
It was Sharpe’s “no way” that incensed me. “Get out of this house,” I hissed. “Get out and don’t ever come back.”
He rose and turned to me. “I’ll call you the second I can.”
“Don’t bother,” I said, marching to the door and holding it open for him. “It’s your ballgame now. You’re the cop. And I’ve served my purpose.” Sharpe sighed wearily and walked off.
A gray, icy rain began falling, coating the street with slush. Every now and then a car would drive by leaving its tread marks, which were soon obscured by another layer of freezing rain. Later, the children, home from school, tailed me, whining for snacks, whimpering that they had nothing to do. I banished them to their rooms, with two fig newtons each for sustenance, warning them not to come down until four-thirty, when Sesame Street would begin.
“But that’s a baby program,” Kate protested.
“You’re mean, Mommy,” said Joey.
This was it, I mused, planting myself on Sharpe’s seat on the couch. Goodbye homicide, hello New Deal. Nice knowing you, Nelson; Bob, can you ever forgive me? The telephone rang. Maybe it was Nancy. I could get a baby sitter for Wednesday; if she was finished with her article, we could go to the city and take in a matinee. Something light. A musical maybe. Or a frothy comedy about adultery.
“Hello,” I said, my voice leaden.
“Hi,” replied a man’s voice. “How’re ya doing?”
“Fine,” I said, feeling perkier. I prayed it wasn’t a salesman hawking perpetual light bulbs to benefit the blind or offering home delivery on Sunday’s Newsday at a shockingly reduced rate. “Who is this, please?”
“Dicky Dunck.”
All the cliches about panic—heart palpitations, perspiration, violent intestinal contractions—proved valid. “Oh, hi,” I said, my tongue heavy with an invisible coating of fear. “How are you?”
“Fine. Superbimento, in fact. Listen, I was wondering, sweetheart. Could I drop by? I came up with a couple of ideas about your doctorate and I’d like to tell you them.”
“Gosh,” I answered, and that was probably the first time in my life I had said gosh, “I have a houseful of kids and I’m entertaining their mommies.” That sounded warm and homey. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, because I just passed by, and I didn’t see any cars in your driveway.”
“It’s a few of the women on the block.”
“Oh. Well, how about later?” he asked, sounding quite casual.
Several options tore through my mind. I could tell him sorry, but I had plans for the next few months. I could arrange to meet him and find out what he wanted. Surely, if Brenda had told him about our meeting, she would have mentioned that I had a contact on the police force; he wouldn’t dare to hurt me. Or... “Look,” I began, “why don’t I meet you tonight? After dinner, okay?”
“Sure. How does eight o’clock hit you?”
“Well, that’s a bit early. What time do you get home from work?”
“Five-thirty. Six.”
“I see. Well, my husband doesn’t get home until about seven-thirty or eight, and I won’t be finished with the dishes until nine. Would that be all right? S
hould I come to your house?”
“No,” he said, without hesitation. “My wife’s going to be doing something to her hair, so she doesn’t want company, if you get me. How about a drinkie-poo somewhere?”
“Fine.” Could he really think I was so dumb? Didn’t he care? Could he be that dumb? Could he be that smart?
“Good. You know that French place? La Crevette?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you at nine in their parking lot. The one on a hill in the back, okay?”
“Great,” I replied. “See you at nine.”
I finally decided; he was dumb. But he was also desperate, and like a worm that tries to burrow underground when it senses the earth about it moving, Dicky had an instinct to survive. Primitive, but very real. But what would he do? Take out another awl and kill me in the parking lot? He’d certainly realize that that would finish him. I could meet him, talk to him, kid him along, and then report everything to Sharpe. But if I met Dicky and he rammed the awl into the base of my skull before we had a chance to chat, how could I manipulate him into a confession? I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Lieutenant Sharpe, please.”
“He’s out. Can I help?”
“Look,” I said, “this is important. Would you tell him that Judith Singer called and that I just spoke with Dicky Dunck and he wants to meet me. It’s about the Fleckstein case,” I explained.
“I know, I know,” the detective said excitedly. “You’re the lady who recognized the picture of his wife. He called you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, now listen to me. You sit right where you are. Keep all your doors locked and don’t open them for anyone.”
“I’m not meeting him until nine tonight.”
“You’re meeting him?” he asked incredulously. “Look, lady, just sit tight. I’m going to run over to the courthouse to get Sharpe. He’s over there getting a warrant. Now don’t do anything. I’ll get him to call you.”
“Okay.”
“Now give me your address and phone number.”
“He already has them.”
“Lady, please.”
I gave him the information and we said goodbye. I walked through the house, checking the front door, back door, and garage entrance. Everything was securely locked.
Moments later, as if by a signal, the children emerged from their rooms. I walked to the den with them, and we sat on the floor, singing.
“I’ve been working on the railroad,” crooned Joey. I started biting my nails, beginning with my right index finger. In the background, I vaguely heard Kate’s “Free to be, you and me” crescendo. Still no call from Sharpe.
“How about ‘Old MacDonald’?” I suggested.
“Too babyish,” sighed Kate.
“Too dumb,” Joey said.
We launched into a series of folk songs and began a Sesame Street medley. In the middle of “Rubber Duckie,” the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” the children shouted, stumbling over each other.
“I will get it,” I announced. “Stay down here. Or else.”
Or else, I thought, you might be hit by a stray bullet. I edged along the hall and, nearing the door, flattened my body against the wall. “Who’s there?” I said, louder than I expected.
“It’s me. Nelson Sharpe.” Why would he give his last name?
“What’s your middle name?” I demanded.
“For Christ’s sake,” said the muffled voice. “Would you open up?” It had to be Dicky, I thought. But how would he know about Sharpe? Had Sharpe originally interviewed him? Had he been following us? Or had I been wrong all along? Could it be someone else? Someone I hadn’t seriously suspected. “Okay. My middle name is Lawrence. I have a B.A. in European history and...” I opened the door, Sharpe was standing there looking serious. Behind him was a policewoman, a few inches taller than he, with broad shoulders and a massive, perfectly coiffed Afro. A gun rested on her slim right hip. If I were planning anything illegal and spotted her, I would instantaneously change my plans and spend the rest of my life in a cloistered order, doing only good works. She looked tough.
“Mrs. Singer, this is Officer Jackson.” That’s why he had used his last name. “Can we come in?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, opening the door. The squad car was pulling away. “Hi,” I said to Officer Jackson.
“Hi,” she said, in a surprisingly small voice for such a formidable-looking woman. “They asked me to keep you company for a while.” She sounded like Jacqueline Kennedy. We smiled. “Can I look around?”
“Sure,” I said. Her head swiveled right and left, as though she was tuning her radar to the air currents of my house. “Oh, I didn’t have time to make my bed this morning,” I added.
“Neither did I,” she replied, although I’m sure that was simply politeness; an unmade bed in Jackson’s house would have sense enough to make itself. “Now, you have two children, right? Where are they?”
I walked to the stairs and peered into the den. Kate and Joey were hovering at the foot of the steps, staring back at me. I motioned them to come up and introduced them to Sharpe and Jackson. Kate gaped at Jackson, alternating her glance between the badge and the black holster. Joey looked at Sharpe and asked: “You again?”
“Yes. Your mother is helping the police.”
“Big deal,” Joey responded. Before I could cringe, Jackson asked the children to take her around the house. Kate led her, gazing back occasionally with awe and adoration. Joey tagged behind, making loud, flatulent noises between pursed lips. He was not immune, I knew, to preschool obnoxiousness, but something about Sharpe seemed to bring out the worst in him. Did he have some sort of Oedipal sixth sense, some finely attuned perspicacity, that told him that Sharpe was a threat? Or was it merely four-year-old bravado before a cop?
“I can’t leave you alone for a minute,” Sharpe said as soon as they were up the stairs.
“Nelson, please hold me,” I whispered. He led me into the kitchen, away from the staircase, and he put his arms around me. We stood, pressed tightly together, swaying slightly from side to side. “I’m okay now,” I said finally, and sat down at the table. He sat opposite me. “All right, let me tell you about the arrangements,” I said, sounding quite matter-of-fact.
He knew where La Crevette was, and said it would be no problem securing the area. “I can have a couple of men in parked cars, maybe one in a taxi, in the lot, and I’ll check out the building for a back entrance. Don’t worry, we’ll be right there.” He looked at me earnestly. “You want to go, don’t you?” I said nothing. “Okay, if you don’t, don’t worry about it. It’s no problem.”
“I want to go.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” I paused. “Oh, he’s leaving his plant about five-thirty or six. I asked him when he was going home for dinner.”
“Judith, you’re great,” he said, managing a small smile. We were nervous. I played with the saltshaker while he shoved the napkin holder back and forth between his hands. “I’m leaving Jackson to watch the house. She’s good. And she’s on the rape squad, so she’s used to dealing with kids.”
“With kids? On the rape squad?”
“Come on. Don’t get yourself upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“Yes, you are. Anyway, we’ll wire you again. But this time you’re going to wear a bulletproof vest, so wear a coat with pockets for the transmitter.”
“If you’re going to be so close, won’t he hear the transmission?”
“No, the equipment will be inside a car with the windows closed. Now, you stay in your car until he gets out. We want to see that he’s not carrying a weapon. If he is, although I doubt it, just fall to the floor of your car. We’ll take care of him.” He stopped his napkin holder game. “Are you listening to me, Judith?”
“Of course,” I shot back. “Now, look, how should I steer the conversation? I think...” We spoke for another half hour and then he
stood to leave, squeezing my hand.
“You’ll do fine,” he murmured. “You always do.”
When I opened the front door for Sharpe, I saw that the sleet had changed to snow. Not the big, puffy wet flakes that melt upon impact with concrete, but a deluge of stiff, granular snow that clung to the driveway. Sharpe stood on the front step, turning his head slowly, like a hunting dog trying to pick up a fading scent.
“It looks bad,” he observed, his eyes darting up to the luminous, low-hanging clouds. “Get your car into the garage.”
“What?” I asked, although I had heard him.
“Your car. Get it into the garage. You don’t want the windows iced up so badly that it will take a half hour to scrape them off, do you?” I sensed him looking at me and returned his glance. “Judith, are you sure...?”
“I’m sure. I was just thinking. I have to call my husband so he’ll be home in time to stay with the children. What if he’s working late? Nelson, wouldn’t it be awful if the whole investigation fell through because I couldn’t get a baby sitter?”
His hair and eyebrows were coated with snow. He looked like a kid who had applied cotton bunting for the Santa Claus role in the school’s Christmas pageant. His smooth, unlined skin and great brown eyes were those of an enchanting ten-year-old. “Fuck the baby sitter,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “Jackson will be here. Don’t get so hung up on logistics. Okay?”
“Okay,” I snapped, and took a deep breath of cold air. I stood at the doorway, feeling the warmth of the house on my back and the frigid, damp March air on my face. “Okay,” I said again, more calmly. “Now, what’s the schedule?”
“We have a man surveilling his plant and another at his house. As soon as he leaves, I’ll be notified, and once he’s home for a few minutes, we’ll get into the plant. Hopefully, we should finish there in an hour, an hour and a half at most. If there’s still time, I’ll call you or come over. Otherwise, I’ll be in the parking lot. But for Christ’s sake, don’t look around for me.”
“I know, I know,” I said absently, thinking how much I disliked driving in the snow.
“The only thing is,” he began, and took his index finger and wiped the snow off his eyebrows.
“The only thing is what?” I demanded.