Sometimes I nearly forgot all about what Wellington had done to me. The scratch had scabbed over and healed somewhat, but was still fresh enough to be noticed.
“You wouldn’t believe it.” I smiled. “The corner of my car door attacked me when I wasn’t watching.”
Caught off guard, it was the best horse manure I could serve up on the spot.
“Wow—those car doors can be seriously nasty, can’t they?”
Why the hell had I thrown in this embellishment about the car? Now I had two different fairy tales to maintain, one for Monica, one for Carole. In the future I had to make sure to keep my stories straight. Somewhere down the line I didn’t want anyone recalling any discrepancies in what I said. In my situation, the fine details were all-important . . .
Something else that had completely slipped my mind was that Monica had penciled us in for a cocktail party that evening at the home of one of her arts council peers in the mansion district of Montclair. The event was in honor of another board member who was retiring due to old age. Despite the high-end hors d’oeuvres and champagne, it was a deadly dull affair, all blue hairs and conservative Republican bureaucrats who thought they had exclusive insight into who did and didn’t possess artistic talent. And there I was, elbow to elbow with them, swilling their booze. There weren’t even any half-attractive women to look at. Hanging out with Monica’s peers always brought home to me how old she really was. It was enough to make me start thinking of running another ad.
Instead, I circulated through the rooms, sloshing down drink after drink, exchanging bland pleasantries, struggling to keep my eyes open . . . and gleefully wondering what these holier-than-thou types would do if they knew that a murderer walked in their midst, at the same time as I patted their backs, shook their hands, and kissed their cheeks . . .
“It’s so good to see you again, Mrs. Worthington. Such a wonderful time—thanks for having us . . .”
Pulling the wool over their eyes was sweet, especially since they were all so taken with our lifestyle and the fact that we were such easy touches when it came time to subsidize a worthy community cause.
But maybe I should run that ad, after all. Richard Marzten was off the hook, wasn’t he? Hell, he’d never been on it! They had the murderer of Norman Wellington locked safely behind bars, and poor George Addington was sitting on a Newark side street waiting to go for a joyride with his “killer” or into a chop shop. At this point, no one knew that Richard Marzten even existed.
Saturday passed like any Saturday—uneventfully. Falling back into my everyday routine, I actually grew a little bored. The idea of dropping another ad grew more and more attractive.
Over dinner that night at our favorite Kashmiri restaurant in West Caldwell, Monica, Diane, and I talked about vacationing someplace we’d never been before—the US Virgin Islands, maybe, or Belize—over the Christmas holidays.
Diane was at that rotten age where she rolled her eyes at my unhipness and stupidity. She zoned out when we were all together and it irked the shit out of me, but I didn’t call her on it because at bottom I suppose I didn’t give a damn. There we were, giving her everything she could possibly want without having to work for it, and she acted as if it were her birthright.
People said that she was highly intelligent just because she appeared to sit in silent judgment of everyone, taking it all in and not saying much of anything—to believe my wife, Diane was the second coming of Marie Curie—but looking into her brown eyes, I saw nothing much of anything there. My theory was that she was actually vacuous, a cipher. And yet she’d end up squeezing into one of the prestige institutions—Wellesley, or Cornell, or the University of Pennsylvania—on account of our money. To boot, she was an insufferable snob. Whenever her spoiled friends came around, she sucked in all their compliments about our spread on Rensselaer Road like a giant sponge. All along Monica enabled her behavior—the two of them were cut from the same mold. Maybe that’s why I did what I did—I think about that sometimes, too.
When I popped my head outside that Sunday morning, it was unnaturally mild for the time of year. All things considered I was feeling pretty damned fine. I felt like I had my future back. I had no plans for the day. Maybe I’d even get around to picking up the novel I’d let slide months ago. Before doing that, though, I decided to take a nice, long jog through the sleepy neighborhood.
Monica was still dozing in bed when I got into my sweats and running shoes. I was doing a hamstring stretch against the front steps when a blue-and-white patrol car nosed its way between the stone pillars of the front gate, which was always left open except for when we were away for an extended period.
Son of a bitch, I thought. They got me. Something must have gone wrong.
I couldn’t bolt because no doubt whoever was in that vehicle saw me. The driver’s door opened, and a black guy in a navy windbreaker slowly climbed out. If I was any judge of age, he was forty, forty-five.
He looked around at the property and blinked, as if he wasn’t quite sure he was in the right place. Then he walked toward me, an affable smile on his face.
“You wouldn’t happen to be Richard Marzten, by any chance?”
“Hi,” I said, my gut sinking into my sneakers. “And who are you . . . ?”
“Detective Hackett, Roseland Police.” He flashed a badge.
At the word “Roseland” I thought immediately of George. George Addington of course had been a resident of Roseland before he ceased to exist. Roseland is the ritzy little suburb that lies adjacent to Essex Fells.
“Yeah, I’m Rich Marzten,” I said, extending my hand for him to shake. Then I smiled. “I didn’t realize Roseland had a detective bureau.” Or a black detective—but I didn’t say that.
“You learn something new every day, don’t you.” He grinned back.
Maybe he thought I’d insulted him. I hoped not.
“What can I do for you, Detective? No rabid foxes running around the neighborhood again, I hope?”
“No, nothing like that. I was just wondering whether you had any idea of the whereabouts of George Addington.”
I blanched, and hoped to Christ that Hackett didn’t notice.
“George? What do you mean, his ‘whereabouts’?”
“We got a call from his ex-girlfriend, Adele Stievers, that she hasn’t heard from him in a couple of days. She thought it was a bit unusual since they were supposed to have lunch on Friday. When he didn’t show up at the restaurant, she stopped by his place and noticed that his car was gone. And that it was still gone yesterday, too. And that he hasn’t returned repeated telephone calls.”
I shook my head. “Wow. I’d have no idea where he cou—”
“Adele said you were a close friend of his—his closest. She figured if anybody had an idea where he might be, it would be you.”
“I wonder why she didn’t just call me herself?” I said, more than a little perturbed that she’d gotten me involved.
“She claims that she and George Addington had a romantic relationship over the past few months and that it broke up just recently.”
“Right.”
“That’s your understanding?”
I nodded. “That’s my understanding.”
I looked closely at Hackett. Where was he going with this? Was he trying to somehow trip me up? But why? Sure, I had every justification for being on guard, but he’d have no reason to think for even a second that I could be involved in George’s disappearance.
“And that it was a little embarrassing for the parties involved,” he went on. “She didn’t want to call you in the event George was deliberately avoiding her. Once she noticed that his car was missing, though, she thought it was best to contact the police.”
I shook my head as if I were completely clueless. “Uh-huh . . .”
It was probably just my paranoia, but Hackett seemed to be studying me, waiting
for a reaction.
“Gee, I don’t know what to tell you,” I said with all the false sincerity I could muster.
“So you haven’t heard from George Addington, then?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Me?”
This is where it suddenly got tricky. I decided to play dumb. Playing dumb couldn’t hurt me. Friends couldn’t always be expected to know exactly when they saw each other, could they?
“Jeez, now I’d have to think about that . . .”
It dawned on me then that if Hackett looked straight over my shoulder he’d see the exact spot—the carriage house—where George Addington had drawn his last breath.
“Take your time,” said Hackett, folding his arms. Maybe it was just because it was Sunday morning and the rest of the world was still asleep, but he looked like a man who had all the time in the world.
“Well, I guess it must have been the last time we played golf. That’s what—three, four weeks ago? To be one hundred percent on that, I’d have to check my calendar.”
Hackett pursed his lips and nodded. “So it wasn’t any more recently—like the past two, three days.”
I’d already lied to the detective. I was going to have to stick with it.
“Nah.”
“I see. Can you remember the last time you talked to him, then?”
I shook my head. “Again, sometime in the last few weeks. Exactly when, I’m not quite sure. Let me ask you this, Detective: how are you so sure that George is missing?”
“Oh, I didn’t say I was. We always assume that an adult drops out of sight of his own volition, but in this case it’s a little different.”
“How’s that?”
“Just a hunch . . . From what I gathered talking to Adele Stievers, George Addington had a lot to walk away from—as I’m sure you know if you’re his friend.”
“Sure. That’s definitely true,” I added lamely, still trying to figure out the best tack to take. Because I realized right then and there that when you killed someone, you could never know what tack to take.
“Where I come from most people don’t voluntarily take a hike from a comfy life and a million bucks in their savings account. And that’s what piques my interest. In fact, after I talked to Adele Stievers, I took a spin past George Addington’s home over on Winderstone Road. That’s some spread he’s got over there. Whoo-ee.”
I thought he was about to add “but it can’t hold a candle to this place,” but he didn’t.
“So what makes you think he might have walked away from it?”
Hackett scrunched his lips. “The hunch I mentioned. Something about the whole thing smells rotten. I don’t operate on my hunches all that much, but this one is talking to me. Here’s a single guy who has business responsibilities, who didn’t make a meeting with his ex, and he mentions nothing to you. And you’re his best friend, right?”
“Right . . .”
I didn’t like the way this thing was going, even if Hackett wasn’t inferring anything regarding my involvement in George’s disappearance. But the guy was picking up a scent, and that disturbed me.
“And as far as I can tell, there’s not a single other living person who’s heard from George Addington over the past coupla days. So you can see why my antenna is up, right?”
I pretended to jump on the bandwagon. “Absolutely, yes.”
“So . . . if you don’t know where he is, you got any ideas where George Addington might go—if he took off of his own free will?”
Hackett reached into the pocket of his windbreaker and took out a box of American Spirit lights. He plucked one and stuck it between his lips. I had the urge to ask if he minded if I joined him.
“Gotta quit these damned things.” He set fire to the cigarette with a transparent plastic lighter.
“None whatsoever,” I said, responding to his question.
“Hmm. Odd, don’t you think? Is your friend in the habit of keeping things from you? I mean, I’m sure he doesn’t tell you every single thing he ever does, but . . .”
I shook my head. “Jesus, it’s hard to know, if you get what I mean.”
He cast a sidelong glance at me. “No, I don’t. Was he that kind of person—secretive?”
Again, I had to be careful to leave myself enough wiggle room. “I never thought so. But like I said, can you ever know something like that for sure?”
Hackett squinted, deep in thought, as he took another drag of his cigarette. I couldn’t get a fix on whether he was cool with what I was saying.
“Usually a guy’s best friend will get a feel for what’s going on, know what I mean? Did he ever talk to you about this girlfriend of his, Adele Stievers?”
“Oh, sure, all the time.”
At that moment, a light went off in my brain. Here was my opening. But I had to be careful how I worked my way in there.
“What about at the end, when he was splitting up with her?”
I pretended to hesitate.
“Well?” prodded Hackett. Just as I suspected, I had him nibbling at the bait.
I pretended to hesitate even more. “I mean, I don’t really want to get into this—it’s none of my business, but—it was a bit ugly, I’d have to say.”
Hackett looked around for someplace to deposit his smoked-down cigarette.
“You can just drop it.”
“Thanks.”
He let the still-smoking butt tumble from his fingers onto the gravel. Then he ground it out with the toe of his black loafer.
“Ugly . . . how ugly?”
“You know how it is when you’re breaking up with someone, right?”
“It’s been a while, but yeah, I know. George was the one who ended it?”
“That’s right. He thought that Adele was getting a little too demanding, too possessive. That wouldn’t work for George. He’s a guy who loves his freedom. I mean if you knew George’s . . . penchants, you’d understand.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Again I put on a show of being conflicted, looking at the ground, shaking my head, hemming and hawing.
“Anything you tell me I’ll keep on the Q.T.,” Hackett assured me.
After struggling, I managed to find my tongue.
“Let me put it this way, Detective. George not only loves his freedom, he makes use of it. He’s had lots of women. He’ll do pretty much anything to indulge himself. And I have the feeling he did. In his own way, he tried to remain faithful to Adele. I think he was trying to turn over a new leaf for a while there, but . . .”
“So how did Adele take being shown the door?”
It was my understanding from George that Adele had actually been relatively calm when he broke the news. But I was going to have to paint a slightly different picture of how things went down.
“Not all that great. They’d talked about marriage for a while, but then George came to his senses. And Adele isn’t making all that much money in her job, you know. Even if she wasn’t in love with George—and I never picked that up, quite the opposite in fact—then she must have seen her future go up in smoke before her very eyes when he bailed on her. George can show any woman the time of her life. When would she ever find that again? I mean, the guy’s well-fixed. Very well-fixed.”
Hackett’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “Something along those lines was exactly what I was thinking.”
I pretended to be totally mystified by what he was implying. “Along . . . what lines?”
The detective’s face was impassive. He had a theory in his brain, and he was going to hold on to it, test it out, before blurting it to the world.
“I’m sure you’re aware, Mr. Marzten, that when we come up against a missing person, whether or not there’s foul play involved—”
“Foul play? Whoa. What do you—”
Hackett raised his palm to stop me. “I’m not saying for sure there’s foul play involved here, with your friend George, but it’s my job to think of all the possibilities. And I’m thinking a little ahead here. No word from a wealthy man who gave no indication that he might skip town, who had no known enemies, who didn’t mention to his best friend that he was even thinking of taking off . . . It’s all a bit suspicious, don’t you think?”
I furrowed my brow, as if I was still baffled by where Hackett was going with this line of conjecture.
“Uh—I don’t know, I . . .”
“What I was about to say was that I’m sure you’re aware that the person closest to the missing subject automatically becomes what we call ‘a person of interest.’ ”
He isn’t thinking of me, is he? I mean, he had to be thinking of Adele . . . Who else could he possibly be thinking of?
“Okay . . .”
“And so we have to think—let’s say somewhere down the road, okay?—about Adele Stievers’s possible involvement in this situation. Get what I’m saying?”
Incredible. My luck was holding fast. At this rate, they’d never catch up with me.
I shook my head in mock dumb amazement. Yeah, I was lucky all right. The luckiest guy in the world. I felt so damned lucky, in fact, that I was going to up the ante, make sure Hackett bit and swallowed the hook.
“I don’t, honestly. You’re not saying that Adele—”
Hackett showed me his palm again. “I’m not saying anything. I’m here asking questions, that’s all. And what I want to know is, do you think Adele Stievers is capable of—”
I practically laughed in Hackett’s face. “No. No way. I mean, come on now. Why would she come to you and report George missing if . . .”
When I noticed that he was watching me with an omniscient expression, I decided to shift gears. “At least I wouldn’t think that she’d be capable of . . .”
Just as I hoped, Hackett completed my thought for me. “But you don’t know for sure. You don’t really know her that well, right?”
Reluctantly, I had to admit it was true. Hell, I conceded, she might be capable of anything when it came right down to it.
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