by Noel Hynd
"They have an outside back entrance."
"And?"
"And she looked around when she got down. I was about a hundred feet from her. She turned and saw me standing there and quickly turned and started the other way."
"Were you wearing a sign?" asked Shassad.
"One that said,
"I am a cop'?"
Blocker looked at his feet, as if waiting for permission to continue.
"Yeah? Then what?"
"I tried to follow her, but there was a fence in the way. She picked me up right away. Saw me trying to get past that fence immediately.
That's when she really started to move."
"Yeah? So? Where'd she move to?"
"I don't know. She might have disappeared into a store and waited for me to disappear. For a second I thought she'd slipped into this blue car."
"Get the plate number?"
"Out of state. That's all I know."
"Marvelous," sighed Shassad.
"Tell me, why do you come to work without your dog and your cane?"
"An expert," offered Grimaldi.
"Had to have been an expert the way she got loose."
"I ran to the end of that block and I looked in every direction.
Gone. Not a sign of her. No one had seen her. I circled back to the car where Jack was'" he nodded to Grimaldi, 'and she hadn't gone past him" it." Shassad listened bitterly.
"You were right," he uttered.
"You blew "Must have been an expert," Grimaldi suggested.
"Had different escapes all planned."
"The trouble is'" retorted Shassad, 'you gentlemen are supposed to be experts, too."
Shassad looked imploringly to Hearn, employing his best how did-they-let-them-get-out-of-the-police-academy expression. Hearn brought Shassad up to date on the subsequent developments.
Grimaldi and Blocker, Hearn explained, had then spent the rest of the day on their stakeout." But toward darkness, in the early evening, Jacobus had failed to show for his twelve-hour night shift.
The day manager of the office building had telephoned him. No answer.
Eventually, the owner of jacobus's home, the man who lived downstairs, was telephoned. The landlord agreed to go upstairs and ring the front bell. No answer to the bell. But when the owner glanced inside, the light in the front hall was still on. And the body of jacobus was plainly visible, even the details, like the pool of blood he lay in.
"Ta-rif-fic Shassad grumbled. He had a terrible headache. He had counted on Jacobus to help put together the pieces of the Ryder Daniels case for him. So much for that.
He glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes past six.
"Know what we do now?" he asked Hearn.
"Daniels, of course ' "Damn straight," said Shassad with disgust.
"The girl's our suspect, he knows where the girl is. At least he's got to know who the God-damn girl is. Material witness. We pick him up."
Grimaldi looked at his superior.
"Do you want us-?"
"You two head back to the One Nine," he said.
"We'll find Daniels."
"If we can'" added Hearn. Shassad looked at his partner as if to ask what that meant.
"I doubt that he'll be home" suggested Hearn.
Thirty-five minutes later, Shassad and Hearn knocked on the door to Thomas Daniels's apartment. Predictably, there was no response from within.
For Thomas Daniels, there had only been one decision. Whether it was insanity, risk, bad judgment, or simply a lethal brand of curiosity, he planned to meet Leslie McAdam. He was too deeply involved in the case, emotionally and professionally, to sidestep her.
Facts, simple facts, were what he wanted. Positive identifications of the players and their rightful teams, that was what he needed what he had to have -more than anything. There was only one way: maneuver Leslie face to face with Whiteside. Force them to identify each other … or call each other's bluff. It was the most fascinating case of his life, coupled with the most intriguing woman he'd ever met. Stay away? He couldn't. Trust her one final time? He'd have to.
Accept her warning and stay away from his apartment indefinitely?
Well, yes. He'd do that, too.
Following her agitated telephone call, he quickly packed a small bag with a few changes of clothing. He set it by his door. Then, pondering his venture into Central Park eighteen hours hence, he considered his own safety. He was not trained in any form of self defense And unlike other attorneys he knew, he owned no handgun.
Foolishly perhaps, but-swept away somewhat by his predicament, he opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a steak knife. Feeling over dramatic and even a bit silly, he wrapped the knife in a thin cloth and taped it to his left calf. Then he left his apartment.
Killing a day in Manhattan, when one is ill prepared for it, is not the easiest of tasks, particularly when cold blustery weather hampers any enjoyment of the outdoors.
He checked his valise at Grand Central Station. Then he considered his alternatives. Kill the day, but go nowhere near where anyone would expect to find him. Go nowhere where he'd ever been before.
It's your life I'm talking about, she'd said. Trust me.
He considered the reading room of the Public Library. Worth hours anytime. But he'd been there before, scores of times. A library. He went to a branch library on the Lower East Side. There he killed the morning. At lunch he ate in a nearby dairy bar.
In the afternoon, he considered a movie. But not necessarily one he'd wanted to see. He went to a second-run house on the Upper West Side, then, tiring from the vacant hours he was seeking to fill, went to another second-run house a few.plocks away. He nearly dozed off. He fought to stay awake.
Then evening. An hour walking around the city. Then dinner at a Broadway cafeteria. Another movie.
Tired, anxious, and beginning to question the necessity of what he was doing, Thomas found himself in the East Forties at nine thirty. What was he hiding from? Whom was he avoiding? He wondered. More than six more hours to kill. He was sleepy and getting sleepier.
He decided. He would go back uptown to his home block. He would cautiously try to reenter his apartment. He would then nap with the light off and go to the park at the prearranged time.
He took the subway to Seventy-seventh and Lexington. Then he walked on Seventy-seventh Street all the way to First Avenue. Then he approached his own block from the east, rather than from the west, the route he normally traveled. All this, he thought as he walked, as an outgrowth of his father's wartime business. He was marching around on a cold Manhattan night thanks to events of twenty to thirty-five years ago.
He stopped short before coming to Second Avenue. On the avenue, parked by a fire hydrant, was a car occupied by two men. They were sitting, waiting and watching. Staring toward the entrance to his building.
One of them began to turn his way. Thomas whirled quickly. He fought back his instinct to run. He resisted looking back.
Instead he walked briskly, turning again as soon as he reached First Avenue. But he knew that if he'd been spotted -by whoever it was he was avoiding -the area would be alive with people looking for him.
He hailed a taxi. He gave an address in the East Fifties. Andrea Parker's block. Why not? He had to be off the streets. He watched in the rear window of the taxi but was unable to recognize any specific car following. He had the strong sense of being pursued but his pursuers were faceless.
Arthur Sandler? How could anyone be afraid of a septuagenarian who was legally dead?
The taxi dropped him on the corner of Fifty-first and Second.
Andrea lived nearby, on the twelfth floor of a new white high rise.
Thomas hurried into a telephone booth and dialed her number. She answered.
"I have to come up," he said.
"Tom?" she whispered.
"Yes, it's me" he said almost breathlessly.
"I'm on your block. I have to come up and see you. Now."
She laughed
coyly and calmly, as if to convey a message.
"Oh, no," she said, without calling him by name.
"Not now."
"Andrea, please. I'm begging you."
"It's awfully late," she hinted.
He glanced around and saw no one he recognized. He spent another plaintive minute, arguing with her. Begging. She refused.
"Look," he finally said, 'you don't understand. It's crucial. There are people after me. I've got to get off the street. I just want a place where I can curl up in a corner for two hours and then go back out."
He could hear her putting her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, speaking to someone with her.
"Thomas'" she began.
"Please understand.
"You I 're 'entertaining" aren't you?"
"Yes "I don't care" he said.
"My other guest does," she said.
"My aging nemesis Augie, right?" he asked.
"It's immaterial," she said. It was Augie, that proved it.
"The best development of the whole Sandler case," he said, throwing it out as bait.
"Happening right here, right now. You either let me come up or so help me you'll never hear a word of it."
She was slow to respond. She was thinking it over.
Thomas she then began, speaking with a deliberate but negative tone.
"Look," he said.
"We'll compromise. I'll come to the doorman downstairs. He'll ring you. You tell him to send me up. I won't go to your apartment. I'll go to the roof gardens for two hours. I want to be off the street."
There was silence on the other end. Then the recording in the telephone began.
"Please!" he begged.
"I don't have another coin. Decide!"
"All right," she gave in.
"But if you come near my door, I'll call the police ' The police, he thought. Lovely.
"Agreed," he said.
He hung up and turned He jolted to a halt. Two men were completely blocking his way out of the booth. He thought his heart would leap out of his chest. Or stop.
How could he have been so careless? How had he let them close in on him?
"Who were you talking to, Mr. Daniels?" the larger one with the Irish face asked.
"A lady, maybe?" asked the smaller, darker one.
Hearn and Shassad, respectively.
"If you'll excuse me" said Thomas, trying to push his way past.
Hearn's arm was up quickly and blocked Thomas's route, keeping his back to the telephone booth.
"I'm afraid we can't excuse you," said Shassad.
"We'd like to talk with you."
"How about tomorrow?"
"How about now?"
Thomas grimaced at Shassad.
"You're forgetting" he said.
"I'm an attorney. I know my rights. Unless you have a specific-"
"Your janitor friend Jacobus was murdered this morning" said Hearn, "in case you didn't know." Thomas's eyes were riveted 'on the wiry man with the gaunt, sad face.
"Your girl friend, the one who's the hockey fan, was seen leaving jacobus home. You know who she is. You may even know where she is.
That makes you a material witness. If not an accomplice."
Thomas searched their faces, recalling Leslie's words not to talk to anyone familiar, not to trust a soul. just trust her, just once more.
"I don't believe you," he said.
"Want to see a body? Jacobus should be at the Medical Examiner's right now. We'll take you' "Sorry," he said.
"I'm not going.
Shassad grinned.
"Yes, you are. Unless that was your girl friend you were just talking to. If you'd like to take us to see her, we'd appreciate that, too' '
Thomas looked at both men again.
"All right" he said to settle them. They relaxed slightly and Thomas bolted."
It was hardly a race, Thomas had traveled no more than fifteen feet when Shassad grabbed the back of his jacket, slowing him enough for Hearn to grab him by the arm. Hearn chicken-winged Thomas's left arm and shoved him against the side of the building. Before Thomas knew what was happening, he was being frisked. They found the knife.
"What the hell are we carrying this for?" demanded Shassad, as Hearn pulled out the knife and handed it to his partner.
"In case a steak floats by?-.
"It's a dangerous city," said Thomas. He was permitted to turn and face the detectives.
Shassad's face began to break into a sly smile.
"Some attorney you must be," he said.
"A second ago you were a mere witness. Now you're under arrest.
Concealed weapon " He gave a low whistle of satisfaction.
"That's serious stuff, Daniels. You know that?"
"I'm an attorney," Thomas said sourly.
"You don't have to remind me" "Seems I heard a saying once," said Hearn.
"The lawyer who pleads his own case has a fool for a client' The son of William Ward Daniels resisted a response. He was taken to the Nineteenth Precinct, pondering whether his client, the woman who'd be waiting in vain for him in Central Park, had a fool for a lawyer. It was ten fifteen.
Thomas Daniels sat with his arms folded in front of him. The lighting was abrasive in the stuffy small room with grim avocado walls. Patrick Hearn sat at one end of the table, Daniels at the other.
Shassad was more prone to being on his feet. As Daniels listened to him, circling back over the same subject matter an uncountable number of times, Shassad was also more prone to anger.
Thomas looked at his watch. It was one thirty in the morning.
"All right," said Shassad, "we'll start again from the top. Where were you at eight o'clock this morning?"
"I've already told you. Home in bed. The answer hasn't changed" "No witnesses?"
Daniels stared at him cynically,
"Unfortunately no' "When did you hear form your'client'last?"
"This morning at nine. She telephoned me, he repeated grudgingly.
"Why did she call you?"
"To discuss her case. I filed motions for her yesterday."
"Where is she?"
"Damn it, Shassad," retorted Daniels, "the answers aren't going to change no matter how many times you ask. I've told you everything I know."
Shassad turned quickly and angrily, leaning forward on the table, pushing his contorted face to within inches of Daniels's.
"Damn it!" he roared. "What's her name?"
Daniels was silent, Shassad's eyes fiery and inches away from his own.
"Where's she live?"
Silence again.
"Where is she?"
More silence.
"God damn you!" he roared. He turned over two chairs beside the table and sent them crashing against a wall and a filing cabinet.
"Son of a bitch! Trying to be the hotshot like the old man, huh? Fuck the cops, huh? All right! You wanted it!"
Shassad burst from the room and was gone for less than ten seconds. He returned with the steak knife taken from Daniels earlier.
The knife, tagged as evidence and now shielded in a plastic bag, was flung down on the table in front of Daniels.
"See that?" roared Shassad.
"See it? That's something your old man was never dumb enough to do!
Concealed weapon. You won't cooperate with me, I don't cooperate with you. How'd you like to go out to the desk sergeant and be booked for that? Huh? That can mean jail, you know. You want that?" Shassad was leaning forward on the table again, above the knife, shouting.
"Lawyer-client relations are confidential," said Daniels placidly.
"I don't expect you to understand a tricky philosophical concept like that" He glanced at his watch.
"That's why you're a cop" Shassad moved back slightly, changing his tone of voice.
"What's the matter. You catching a train or something?"
"What?"
"Nothing" said Shassad.
"If you want to book me on a weapons charge, go
ahead" said Daniels.
'I'll have bail posted before you can get back to your car."
Shassad grabbed the knife angrily.
"Fuck it!" he spat violently. He stormed out of the room and didn't return.
Hearn was expressionless as he sat in silence across the table. He made a final attempt at his role of arbitrator.
"Hey, look:'he said at length, 'why won't you cooperate with us? My partner there's under a lot of stress. Can't you give us a break?"
"How can I?"
"You must know where she is. How about if you bring her in, let her talk to us. You can be here. If she's innocent, if she was in trouble, well listen. She must have had a reason to have been there' "
"I don't know a damned thing about it" said Thomas.
"What else can I say? That's the gospel " "I'm sure," intoned Hearn blankly.
Thomas looked at the detective, a man who was as tired and disgusted with his job as Daniels was. He felt a strange affinity toward the man, then wondered absently how many hundreds of times his father had been in similar situations, hauled into police stations to spend the night lying to the local constabularies. Thomas felt diminished in his own opinion of himself. He'd never been in this situation before. Yet having arrived, he found it easy to… well, to lie.
He glanced at his watch. Two ten. Hearn was watching him.
Shassad reappeared, nasty as ever.
"Go home," said the detective.
Thomas looked at him.
"What?"
"You don't understand English now? I said go home. Patty," he said, turning to Hearn, 'tell him in Gaelic or something. Tell him to get his ass out of here. It's my good deed for the day. Plus I don't want to go to night court' Thomas looked with puzzlement and a touch of suspicion to Hearn. Hearn shrugged as Shassad departed.
"The knife, we keep" said Hearn.
"You can go, but you'll have to stick to soft foods for a while."
"I own another knife," Thomas offered.
"Try leaving it in your kitchen," suggested Hearn.
"Go on. Get out of here. You'll hear from us again" It was two thirty when Thomas walked out the doors of the precinct house. He was painfully tired and the first steps he took were in the direction of his apartment.
But then he stopped. Leslie's warning had been clear enough.
Were the police the people he was to have avoided? Or were there others? He glanced at his watch again and conceded that one more hour, killed at the end of a quiet bar, might not be so painful.