Switch

by William Bayer

  Janek read Aaron's notes on Lane:

  ...won't go on talk shows. Rarely gives interviews. Conceals background by putting out contradictory stories on his past. At various times has claimed he was brought up: in Midwest; on Indian reservation; in rural community in California; that his father (named Jack Lane, Joe Lane, Harold Lane, etc.) was: barber (cf. Hairdresser), veterinarian, police officer (!), parole officer, and, alternatively, that subject doesn't know parents' names since he was orphan and brought up in foster home.... As far as can be determined subject has never mentioned mother or siblings.... Subject claims to have attended Princeton but name does not appear in college records. Claims that he studied filmmaking in Germany and worked as assistant to Munich-based director, Schoendorfer, check out....

  Aaron managed to learn that neither the Defense Department, the Drug Administration nor the FBI had any knowledge of Peter Lane—a feat he accomplished informally on the phone by working through his network of law-enforcement friends. Old favors were reciprocated and new debts incurred, but answers to the most basic questions (names of parents, date and place of birth) eluded him. He could have obtained them if he'd been able to look at Lane's passport application, but that was protected by the Privacy Act of 1974. Lane had not been indicted for any crime, nor was he the subject yet of an officially sanctioned criminal investigation. And so, for all his brilliant telephone technique, his contacts, his coaxing and sweet talk, Aaron Rosenthal, to his immense surprise, could not manage to break through this single block.

  One night on the bridge Janek thought about phoning Carmichael. And then he thought, No. Not yet.

  He was worried. He sometimes got his cases confused. His mind would flash back and forth between them the way it had weeks before when he'd practiced switching people's heads.

  Every case, he knew, had its solution. Switched Heads had a solution, and Wallace/ DiMona had one, too. The trick was to find it, to look for it within the case, in the characters of the players, their weaknesses and strengths.

  He thought, There has to be a way to get to Hart, not to fight him on his terms but to make him fight on mine.

  Aaron summarized his Peter Lane material in a thickening loose-leaf book he kept locked up with an extra yarmulke in the center drawer of his desk:

  Subject has had numerous "girlfriends" but no long-term intimate relationships. Several informants speak openly of subject's detachment during, and quick loss of interest after, what they describe as "perfunctory" or "technical" sex....

  Subject has no known close male friends....

  Subject's reputation among technicians: businesslike and relentless. Among actors: "exploitive," "brilliant," "unscrupulous." Considered by those who have financed productions as extremely mercurial—"friendly and seductive" when backing to be gained but "indifferent and unreachable" once films completed and released....

  On numerous occasions subject has expressed following view: "The test of the ultimate murder film would be its power to inspire an actual murder."

  Cinema critic and psychoanalyst Dr. David Lee writes: "[subject's] films seem driven by obsessions derived from undefined, heavily masked psychological conflicts in [subject's] past: an overpowering matricidal rage in which all women are equated with prostitutes, and an unresolved early conflict with paternal authority symbolically represented by police."

  "'Heavily masked psychological conflicts'?" Aaron gripped the phone. "What exactly did you mean by that?"

  "Before I answer I'd like to know—"

  "Listen, Dr. Lee—" Aaron met Janek's eyes and winked—"this man's been quoted as saying he'd like to see his films inspire homicides."

  "But surely, you understand, he meant that in a certain spirit."

  "Like how?"

  "Well, you know that several times when The Deer Hunter was broadcast some people got hurt playing Russian roulette."

  "Didn't know that."

  "Yes. I believe a couple of people were actually killed."

  "You're saying—"

  "And there's the case of Mr. Hinckley and Taxi Driver."

  "We know about that."

  "Well, then you know that's what he means." Aaron held out the phone and rolled his eyes. "In a certain competitive spirit vis-à-vis other young film directors. And I don't believe you law-enforcement people should take such statements literally. Especially considering what I hear about the public-safety situation in New York City. I don't mean to tell you how to do your job, Sergeant. But, really, I find this dialogue rather..."

  After Aaron delivered himself of the courtesies and hung up, he turned to Janek and slowly shook his head. "I don't seem to do so great with the academics."

  "But your question was very good."

  "I forget my question."

  "About 'heavily masked psychological'..."

  "Yeah. But he's masking the whole thing, Frank. I mean screw the 'conflicts.' Who the fuck is this guy?"

  Aaron was happy. "We got pay dirt. And these guys are terrific."

  He was speaking of Stanger and Howell, who had developed, contrary to everyone's expectations, into a first-rate prostitute-interviewing team. They were sitting in the squad room now looking a little smug as Aaron read aloud from their report:

  "'According to informant, subject did nothing perverse. Informant describes subject as "a perfect gentleman." Subject made no particular demands upon informant other than requiring her to perform fellatio upon him while postured on her knees. After which, according to informant, subject added a modest tip to informant's professional fee."

  Stanger and Howell's language was grotesque, but Janek knew what it meant: the discovery of a prostitute who recognized Lane from photographs was the first slim piece of evidence to support his theory of the switch.

  "You got to hand it to these guys, Frank."

  Janek nodded. "I love them. So keep at it, guys. Get me more.

  Sal was hollow-eyed. It was seven in the morning; Janek had driven uptown to meet him in Amanda's apartment. Sal had stationed himself there on the premise that if Lane had spied on Mandy from his bedroom window, then he could spy on Lane through the same two panes of glass.

  The air in the room was close. There were dirty coffee cups in the sink and crumbled potato chip bags on the counter. A big glass ashtray was overflowing. The room stank of a tired cop.

  "Have to be careful, Frank. Move around too much and he knows I'm here. Never turn on the lights. Just sit in the easy chair and watch. Getting so I can find my way around in here with my eyes shut. Know every inch of the place. Including the can. Just love the can, Frank. I mean, it doesn't weird me out to go in there anymore. Course I don't leave the shower curtain shut. Not the way she did. Matter of fact, I took it down. I mean, who needs it? I take my showers at home.

  Sal raised his eyebrows then in a particularly emphatic way to show Janek he was talking about a lot more than personal hygiene.

  "What's your feeling?"

  "I've kept a log of everything—"

  "Sal—" Janek placed his arms on the younger man's shoulders. "I know what you've reported. What's your feeling about the guy?"

  "He knows I'm on him," Sal muttered softly.

  "What makes you feel that way? Does he look back a lot?"

  Sal shook his head. "It's not like that. It's hard to explain." He paused. "He moves. He moves like he's conscious of me. But he never looks back. Never. And that spooks me, Frank. He's so controlled, you see. So incredibly controlled. And then the other night he did something and I could swear...”

  "What did he do?"

  "Well, I was in here watching. He couldn't have seen me. The window was closed. Christ, it was so bitching hot I could hardly breathe. And I was still. Like a fucking stiff, Frank. I swear I was sitting in that chair like a fucking stiff. And the lights were on in his bedroom. He leaves them on a lot. Sometimes I got to wait hours before I see him come in there, but the lights are always on. Okay, he comes in, not self-conscious at all, and he starts to get undr
essed. He pulls off his shirt. He likes those asshole shirts with the alligators over the nipple. So, okay, now he's stripped. He comes over to the window and I think, hey, this may be it, he's going to do something for a change, he's going to make a move. So I'm very alert and very still too. Just watching. And I can see he's doing this kind of deep breathing. You know, inhaling, exhaling, tightening up the stomach muscles, that whole trip. He's not a big guy, he's no body builder, but he's strong. Okay, then he tenses up and holds the pose, his eyes fastened on the window over here. I actually felt he was looking in. Knew he couldn't see me, but it felt like he could. So then he breathes out, relaxes, you know. And then he—you won't believe this, Frank. The guy throws me a kiss."

  A kiss. "Show me how he did it."

  Sal demonstrated: he placed his hands on his hips, pursed his lips and kissed the air and at the same time thrust out the lower half of his face.

  "Was it hostile?"

  "Did I do it hostile? Didn't mean to, because it wasn't like that at all. It was almost—like, you know, he was wishing me good night. Sleep well. Happy dreams. Fuck you. Like that."

  Like that. The kiss bothered Janek. Like how? he wondered. "Let's go out and get some coffee."

  "He's there now. Sleeping. Don't want to lose him."

  "You need a break," Janek said. "Come on."

  "But—"

  "Sal,listen to me. I don't give a good goddamn about the stakeout. You're acting weird. Let's get out of here."

  They went to Aspen, the place with the copper pots and the waitresses with Finch accents where they'd met the night they'd done the walkthrough. Janek encouraged Sal to talk, about baseball, the coming hockey season, the stock market, anything that interested him. Several times he noticed the younger man glance nervously at his watch.

  "I'm thinking of pulling you off him," Janek said. "How would you feel about that?"

  "Won't lie to you, Frank. These haven't been the greatest two weeks of my life."

  "You've been very conscientious."

  "Trying to do the job."

  "Not easy. I know."

  "I've worked plenty of stakeouts—"

  "Alone's different."

  "Yeah. It is."

  "So, it didn't work. Looks like he may be onto you. And that's not your fault. So we throw it in on the surveillance for now."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Got any ideas?"

  Sal smiled. "There is something. But I know you'll never—"

  "What?"

  "Let me do a wiretap."

  Janek studied him. Sal was wearing the shrewd conspirator's grin. "No point," Janek said gently. "If he did this he did it alone, so there's no one he's going to talk it over with. No judge will grant us an order, and an illegal tap could backfire later on."

  "Still."

  "Forget it. That's one sure way to screw up the case." Sal lowered his eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just..."

  "Tell you what," said Janek. "You want to do something extracurricular, I got a job for you, very covert."

  Sal looked at him. "An investigation?"

  Janek nodded. "If you take this on it's between us. No one else must know, not even Aaron."

  "A job for my rabbi. You know I'll do it, Frank."

  "Anything, right, to get pulled off Lane? I'm pulling you off anyway. This other thing is optional. And no questions. That's the deal."

  Sal nodded. "What do you need?"

  Janek sucked in his breath. "A full financial background report on Chief of Detectives Hart. All assets. Real estate. Bank accounts. Stocks owned and traded. Going as far back as you can dig."

  "Chief Hart?" Sal's face was suddenly motionless.

  "And his wife, Karen. Particularly her. Because I think you'll find that most of what they've got is held in her name, not in his."

  Sal liked the project; Janek could tell. It appealed to the same part of him that wanted to put a wiretap on Lane. "How do we keep this from Aaron?"

  "You continue to file reports on Lane. You know the patterns, so you mix the stuff around a little bit."

  "And it comes out just the same." Sal grinned.

  Janek nodded and, for a moment, wondered if he was making a mistake. He had a major case, few resources, and now he was putting Sal on something else. Sal couldn't get hurt; Janek would protect him, absorb the blame, admit he'd given Sal an illegal order and take the consequences, the loss of his job and probably his pension too, if it came to that. He hesitated. Then he told himself he didn't have a choice. He smiled. This time he and Sal shared the shrewd-conspirator grin.

  It was at Caroline's door that he remembered the kiss. When he entered the loft he went straight to the bathroom, stood before the mirror, pursed his lips and threw a kiss at himself just the way Sal had described.

  "Good night. Sleep well. Happy dreams. Fuck you."

  Caroline was at the stove when he came out. They smiled at each other as he dialed the precinct from her desk. Howell answered—at least someone was working late. "In my desk. Lower left-hand drawer. Mandy's diary. Couple of pages marked with paper clips near the end."

  While he waited for Howell to find the entry he threw Caroline a couple of kisses.

  "Weird the way you're doing that."

  "Weird how?"

  "I don't know. Mean. Grudging, I guess."

  Howell found the passage. Janek listened as he read it over the phone: "'A kiss goodnight. A stingy, little kiss. If only it were real affection. Poor me here with Petti all alone..."

  He put down the phone. "Hey." She turned to him. He threw her three.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Being stingy."

  "Mean," she said.

  "Stingy little kisses?"

  "Right."

  "Like 'Fuck you,' right?"

  "Right."

  He thanked her as he dialed Aaron.

  "...Here I am, Frank, just sitting down to dinner with my four beautiful daughters and my lovely wife, and you call me about a kiss."

  "That's it, Aaron. A stingy little fuck-you kind of kiss."

  "You crazy or something?"

  "I don't think so," Janek said.

  "Got to be him," Janek said. They were in bed. The fan was milling above their heads.

  "So what are you going to do now?"

  "See him," he said. "I think it's time."

  "How will you handle it?"

  "Oh—play it by ear."

  She took hold of his face, turned it so she could see his eyes. "Bullshit," she said. "You're going in there with a plan."

  He nodded. "I'll probably slap him around a little. The way you think cops like to do."

  "Janek." She punched his arm.

  "Okay, I'm going to pattycake him a few times, mentally, of course, in a couple of different places. The way I figure it he'll play it like a tar-baby, try and sucker me in, get me mad, try and tie me up. Then, depending on how I feel, I may haul back and clobber him one. Just to see how he takes it, to see if he's breakable or not."

  She shivered. "What if he isn't breakable?"

  "Then I'll know what I'm up against. And he'll know something, too. He'll know I know it's him."

  Criminal Conversation

  It's his eyes, Janek thought. Empty eyes, shiny and hard like wet gray stones. Unwavering eyes, utterly still. Eyes without affect.

  They sat facing one another on long black leather sofas, a large square glass coffee table in between. Nothing on the table. Nothing on the walls. The apartment cold, pristine, the floors painted a hard-gloss white, the young man sitting silent, still—watching, appraising, waiting for him to begin.

  Janek had puzzled over photographs before the meeting. Peter hadn't looked like the sort who would make the kind of films he did. No brooding countenance, no tormented brow. Rather a regular, bland unlined face, light brown hair cut short like a college boy's, the features empty, inexpressive, blank like a sentry's. Like a marine sentry, Janek thought, on duty, on guard.

  "Detective
Rosenthal tells me you're interested in the Ireland homicide." No reaction, no anxiety, just that blankness in the eyes. "The investigation's bogging down. Thought I'd drop by and pick your brains."

  Peter smiled, as if to say: "Okay, go ahead. Pick." The photographs, Janek realized, did not do justice to his eyes. Or to his stillness; the guy just sat there, didn't move.

  "Have any theories?"

  Peter cocked his head. Theories? Was Janek serious? "Told Rosenthal I saw the girl. Couldn't have missed her if I'd wanted to."

  Janek leaned forward. "Tell me," he said. "What did you see?"

  Peter stared straight ahead. Finally, he spoke. "She did these stretch deals, bare ass, around eleven every night. Wondered what she was up to. Whether she was asking for it. Or what."

  "Asking for what?" Janek asked. He shifted position. Lane had seated him so that a ray of the late afternoon sun was shining directly into his eyes.

  "That's what I wondered: 'Or what?' That's what I wondered about."

  Janek shook his head. "That's not what I meant."

  "What did you mean?"

  "What did you think she might be asking for?"

  "Oh, I see. Well, that's what I asked myself." He spoke in a maddeningly laconic tone of voice, then sat back. He smiled the small cool smile of a man who'd just delivered a message: Push and I'll concede you nothing; press and you'll find I'm made of stone.

  The shaft of light fell between them now, cutting across the room like a sword. Watching his suspect through the curtain of sparkling dust, Janek was struck again by Peter's stillness. No fluttering, no nervous energy, just an inappropriate tranquility. Janek had seen that same calm before in certain Vietnam vets he'd met. A quiet that screamed. A hush that roared. It was there in Peter's eyes.

  "You were fascinated by her?"

  "Interested. Thought it could make a brilliant scene. The girl so provocative, offering herself. But holding back too. She didn't wiggle her boobs."

  "What was she like?"

  Lane thought about it. "Hard to say."