Just a short time ago he’d thought he had it made. Not only was he doing work he enjoyed, but he’d reached a pinnacle that made his success official. He was the chief of police in Braddock, New York, an important figure in the community, responsible for the protection of its citizens and highly respected.
So why did he suddenly feel this gnawing discontent?
It was because he’d been given a glimpse of the future and what he saw was not the idyllic path he thought lay there but something else entirely.
For one thing, he couldn’t imagine Sally settling down after this, going back to writing about gatherings of the Garden Society and then later on dividing her time between that and raising a family. Sooner or later she’d feel an emptiness that would make her not only unhappy but bitter.
Even worse was the thought of his own prospects. Was he really prepared to live the rest of his life being servile to people like Sam Melcher and Swanson and the others—eventually spending his winters the way old Chief Stark did, with nothing to look forward to but the arrival of trout season?
Or had he come to understand that what he’d thought of as reaching the peak of a career was in fact bumping his head against a ceiling, and a low one at that?
The more he struggled with the questions, the more troubled he was by the answers.
Sally nudged him. “Not going to sleep on me, are you?”
He chuckled. “You know me better than that.”
She stroked him lightly and he felt himself respond. “That’s better,” she said.
He turned to her and kissed her long and deeply, and in some ways what happened then was even more satisfying than the first time, because there was less urgency now, and he felt it could last forever.
Afterward he slept. And dreamt that a man dressed all in black was standing beside the bed, raising an ax high above his head. He awoke with a start and saw that the clock on the bedside table read 2:40.
Sally was in deep sleep. He slipped out of bed, taking care not to disturb her, and dressed quietly. In the dim light he could see her dark hair streaming out on the pillow.
He carried his shoes into the living room and put them on. Then he stuffed his tie into a pocket of his coat and left the apartment.
3
Karen Wilson stopped in at the luncheonette as she did every morning, ordering a black coffee and a muffin to go. She was in a hurry to get to her office, not knowing quite what she’d find in the pages of that morning’s edition of the Express.
The reporter who’d interviewed her yesterday had been persistent, but also friendly and pleasant. Maybe she’d taken Karen at her word and hadn’t blown the story out of proportion. Or better still, maybe the paper had decided against running it. Karen certainly hoped so. She paid for her breakfast, and carrying the brown paper sack walked quickly up the street to Boggs Ford.
As usual she was the first to arrive, and the newspaper was in front of the office entrance, where it was every morning. She picked up the paper and unlocked the door, then stepped inside and turned off the alarm. After hanging up her coat she sat down at her desk and opened the sack. She removed the top from the container of coffee and sipped some of its contents, then bit into the muffin. As anxious as she was to see what might be in the newspaper, she realized she was putting off looking at it.
Go on, you jerk—open it.
She unfolded the newspaper and scanned the front page. There were two stories with big black headlines—one about a trucker’s strike, and the other about a fight over nuclear power stations that was developing in the state legislature.
But there was nothing about her role in helping the police locate little Michael Mariski’s body. Karen felt a surge of relief and turned the page.
And there it was.
PSYCHIC LED SEARCHERS TO BOY’S CORPSE
With a picture of Karen and one of the Mariski boy. She felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach.
The story carried Sally Benson’s byline and ran a column and a half. Karen read through it rapidly, flinching at some of the lurid phraseology. It said she had “strange powers,” and that she was unable to account for them. And that she had received information on the location of the body as if in a dream. The piece also quoted Mrs. Mariski, who said she and her husband had been struck by the peculiar way the young woman had suddenly appeared at their home “like she came from another world.”
When Karen finished reading she was conscious of heat in her face. Her pulse was racing and she was slightly nauseous. It was the nightmare she’d always dreaded, and it had been laid out for the whole town of Braddock to see and shake their heads over. She was a freak, all right, and now it would be public knowledge. She read through the story again, slowly this time, and it didn’t get any better. She wished she could go off somewhere and crawl into a hole.
Her picture—where had that come from? She didn’t remember it, and yet it seemed vaguely familiar. The photograph was grainy and not quite sharp. As she studied it she realized it was from a group shot of the Boggs Ford staff that had been taken a few months back. The paper obviously had cropped it and blown it up, but how had they gotten it in the first place? Not that it mattered much now.
The phone on her desk rang and she jumped at the sound. She answered it: “Boggs Ford.”
A male voice said, “Is Karen Wilson there, please?”
“This is Karen.”
“Good morning. This is Jud MacElroy, chief of police.”
“Yes?”
“Have you seen the story in this morning’s newspaper?”
“I just read it.”
“I’m sure you’re upset by it.”
“I—yes, I am.”
“Karen, I just wanted to say I’m sorry the paper got hold of it, and I hope you won’t let it bother you too much.”
Tears welled in her eyes and her voice trembled. “Won’t let it bother me too much? With what it says about my strange powers, and how it’s like I came from another world? You’re telling me you hope I won’t let it bother me?”
“It’ll blow over, Karen. In a day or so it’ll be forgotten. That’s the way those things are. In the meantime, just shrug it off. If anybody asks, tell them it was only a hunch and that the paper blew it out of proportion.”
“I—I’ll try.”
“Good. I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you, and I realize how tough this is for you. If there’s anything I can do to help you, just let me know.”
“Thank you. And thanks for calling.” She hung up.
She went back to the newspaper, trying to read the rest of it but not succeeding as her eyes blurred and her thoughts kept going back to that hateful story. Breakfast was also a bust. The coffee tasted acidic and the muffin was like sawdust. She put the top back on the container and dropped the whole mess into her wastebasket.
Twenty minutes later Ed McCarthy walked into the showroom with a copy of the Express under his arm and a big smile on his face. His voice was cheerful. “Hey, Karen—how’s the celebrity?”
For the second time that morning her face flamed. “I’m no celebrity.”
He came over to her desk. “That’s what you think. When people read that piece in the paper you’ll be famous. You know, that’s amazing, what you did. I never knew you could do stuff like that. Hey, tell the truth—is that really how it happened? You saw the kid in your head and you knew where he was?”
“No. It was just a hunch.”
“Yeah?” He gestured toward the copy of the Express that lay on her desk. “Don’t tell anybody—the paper’s version is a hell of a lot more exciting. Next thing that happens is you get another story on you, this time in People magazine. Then Carson has you on as a guest. After that somebody writes a book about you.”
Karen shook her head. Ed was like a great big overgrown kid.
He went to the rack and hung up his coat, then returned to where she was sitting. “Tell you what. You hire me as your agent, and we’ll both make a bundle. After Car
son, we put you on the lecture circuit.”
“I don’t think so. Like I said, it was just a fluke. A one-shot. So my career has already ended.”
“Think I’m kidding, don’t you? I’m telling you, a thing like this could be worth a lot of money.”
She folded the newspaper and put it aside. “Sorry, Ed. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
That brought her five minutes of peace, which was the last she’d get that day. The telephone rang again, and this time it was the radio station, WBDK. Braddock wasn’t big enough for its own TV outlet; the only broadcast operation was this one, an affiliate of WCBS–FM. A young man identified himself as a news reporter and asked if she’d care to add to the story in that morning’s Express. The station wanted to run a feature on her, he said. They’d record her in an interview to be broadcast later in the day.
Karen told him to forget it and hung up.
A few minutes after that Jack Morrow and Fred Guzik came in. Whenever Karen saw them, she thought of Frick and Frack. But this morning they were no joke. Both of them began teasing her about the piece in the paper, making idiotic remarks and then guffawing at each other’s cleverness. Joe asked if Karen would help Fred locate his pliers, which he’d mislaid someplace in his garage. Or could she tell Joe which horse to bet in the fifth race at Hialeah? Would she like to go to Vegas with them for the weekend? They could make a killing. No? Then how about Atlantic City?
They kept it up until Boggs arrived, only then backing off and going to their own desks in an effort to convey to the boss that they were working hard.
Boggs had a strange expression on his face as he passed Karen and said good morning. She mumbled a reply and then he told her to come into his office—he wanted to talk with her. He went on in and closed the door.
For a minute or so she simply sat still. Again she wished she could just get up and put on her coat and walk out of Boggs Ford and never come back again. But that wouldn’t really solve anything. As she had so many times, she reminded herself that the job paid well, and she needed every cent she could make. Finally she stood up, and squaring her shoulders walked to his office. She knocked, opened the door and stepped inside.
For once she was glad to close the door behind her before approaching his desk. She certainly didn’t want any of the others to overhear whatever it was he had to say.
He looked up at her, the peculiar, wide-eyed expression again on his face. “Sit down, Karen.” He indicated a chair.
She sank down onto it, holding her breath.
“That story in the paper,” he said. “That true?”
She took her time before answering, telling herself to follow the police chief’s advice. “It was way overplayed. I just had a feeling something like that might have happened. You know how kids take chances fooling around on ice. So I suggested the police look in the pond.”
“And that’s all?”
“That’s all there was to it.”
“So the reporter just blew it up into a big deal.”
“Pretty much.”
“You know what I think went through some people’s minds when they read that story?”
She kept her gaze steady, her face expressionless. “No, I don’t.”
“You can bet they thought of the headsman. They said to themselves, if she could find the answer to one mystery, maybe she could solve another.”
Which is what went through your mind, Mr. Boggs, she thought. “That’s a farfetched idea.”
“Yeah, well. You know how people are. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if the cops started asking for your help. Soon as they read the story. That reporter who wrote it—you know who she is, don’t you?”
“Her name is Sally Benson.”
“Yeah, and she’s also the chief of police’s girlfriend.”
Karen was stunned. She stared at him, trying to wrap her mind around what he’d said.
Boggs didn’t notice her reaction. “I’m surprised she didn’t tip him to the idea. That you could help with the Dickens case, I mean. With the cops coming up with nothing, I’d expect him to jump on it.”
He went on talking, but Karen didn’t hear him. She felt dazed, sitting in the chair with her stomach dropping out of her.
Sally Benson is Jud MacElroy’s girlfriend.
So he’d lied to her. Completely deceived her. Let her go on and on with the assurance that anything she told him was in confidence. And then he’d tipped off his sweetie the hotshot reporter that there was a hell of a story to be had. He’d even had the gall to call her this morning and tell her not to let the story bother her.
The rotten bastard.
She got to her feet and Boggs halted whatever he was saying in mid-sentence. “Karen—are you all right?”
“I’m—no, I’m not.”
“What is it?”
She shook her head. “All of a sudden I just don’t feel well.”
“You want some water or something? Want to lie down?”
“No, no. Really.”
“Listen, if you’re sick, maybe you ought to go home.”
“I think I’ll do that.” She got up from the chair and waved him away when he rose and moved toward her. “Please, I’ll be okay.” She left his office.
When she put on her coat and walked out the front door she was aware that people in the outer office and the showroom were staring at her.
Eleven
FROM OUT OF THE PAST
1
JUD WAS AT the desk talking to Brusson when the call came in. Brusson said Chief Broadhurst was on the line from Binghamton, and Jud told him he’d take it in his office.
He went in and shut the door behind him, then sat down at his desk and picked up the phone. “Hey, Chief—how are you?”
“Good, Jud. I think maybe we got something more for you on the family you asked about. The Donovans?”
Jud leaned forward. “What is it?”
“One of our guys here remembered hearing the daughter went up from New York on armed robbery. I made a couple calls to the city and found out the case was handled by the Seventeenth Precinct. I talked to a lieutenant there, and I just heard back from him. He said Joan Donovan had a long sheet for prostitution and then after that she was arrested twice in jewelry store holdups. First time she did a year and two months in Westchester, second time she got five to ten.”
“She out now?”
“No, still in Westchester. The superintendent’s name is Fred Wallace. You want the number?”
“Sure.” Jud took it down and said, “Thanks, Chief, you’ve been a lot of help. I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime, Jud. Glad we could come up with it.”
Jud hung up and thought about what he’d learned. Then he called the number Broadhurst had given him for the Westchester Correctional Facility and asked for the superintendent.
When Wallace came on, Jud told him who he was and said he was calling about an inmate, Joan Donovan. The superintendent said he’d had another call on her from the chief of police in Binghamton and asked if this was in connection with the same case. Jud said it was, that it was a homicide investigation and he wanted to interview Donovan. He made an appointment for the next day and hung up.
Next he called Sally Benson at the Express.
When she answered he could hear the excitement in her voice. “Did you see my story this morning on that Wilson woman and the Mariski boy?”
“Yeah, you did quite a job.”
“I told you it was a good piece. I’ve already had a bunch of calls complimenting me on it. Even Maxwell said he thought it was first-rate. And getting praise from him is really something.”
“I’ll bet it is.”
“And you know what some people have said?”
It wasn’t hard to guess. “What have they said?”
“That maybe Wilson could help with the Dickens murder. Maybe she could tell where Buddy Harper is. So now you don’t have to get mad at me over the idea—it’s occurred to
others as well.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well—are you going to follow up on it?”
“No. What’s more, I expressly forbid you to quote me or to write anything that suggests I’m even considering such an idea. You got that?”
“Oh, Jud. You can be a real ballbuster at times, you know that?”
“Answer the question. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, I got the message.”
To take some of the sting out of it he said, “You may not think so, but I appreciate hearing some of the things you come up with. It’s just that I can’t have anybody saying I’m feeding stuff to a reporter or cooperating with her because she’s a friend of mine. You know that—we’ve been over it a hundred times.”
“Haven’t we, though.”
“And now I have a favor to ask.”
“A favor? Now you want me to do you a favor?”
“Will you help me?”
“Do I get something I can use?”
“Maybe later on, if it turns out to be valuable. How about it?”
“I guess so. What is it?”
“You said you have a morgue in that place, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s not great. I told you, I had to do a lot of digging just to find the pieces on the Donovan murder.”
“Is there a photo file?”
“Yes. Also hit or miss.”
“Okay, here’s what I want. Go back to the period around the middle nineteen sixties and see if you can find pictures of men who were living in Braddock and who are still living here now.”
“Wait a minute. You want pictures that were taken then, so you can see what they looked like at the time?”
“That’s it.”
There was a pause. “Hey, this sounds exciting. You’ve got an angle on the Donovan case, right?”
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