by Con Lehane
Adele spoke sharply, surprising him. “Why would you do that? McNulty wanted you to find those men.”
“Mike can do a better job. He may not be as sure as we are that McNulty’s innocent, but he’s not convinced the other way yet.”
Adele looked at him curiously. “Are you sure you’re convinced McNulty is innocent?” Her tone wasn’t critical. But Ambler felt criticized anyway.
She was right to question him, Convinced wasn’t the right word. He believed in McNulty. That was different. He couldn’t say for sure circumstances might not arise that could drive anyone to murder. He wanted to say he knew no such circumstances existed for McNulty. If he tried to, Adele would see through him to the truth, so he met her accusing gaze and didn’t answer her question. Instead, he told her Simon Dean had positively identified his wife’s body the morning after the murder.
He handed Adele the journal pages rather than tell her what was in them. After she skimmed through them for a few minutes, she said, “That poor woman. Imagine how it must feel when you realize you’ve gotten involved in something you didn’t mean to get involved in and don’t know how to get out of. And those men … they didn’t care about her. I bet they only pretended they did.”
“I don’t think I understand. She sought out—”
“That’s right! You don’t understand.” Adele’s outburst was like a sob. She buried her face in her hands. When she raised her head, her eyes had reddened. “It’s so hard to explain and so hard for you to understand, it might not be worth the effort.” Her tone softened. “Women—at least most women, most of the time—want something different from an encounter than most men, most of the time, want. Shannon needed something, comfort, understanding, caring; I don’t know exactly what. She was vulnerable and trusting. But she was pretty, too, alluring. Vulnerability in a woman is erotic, seductive.…” Adele shook her head and lowered her eyes. “I don’t want to try to explain anymore. It’s too difficult.”
Ambler had missed something; he hadn’t gotten out of those journal entries what he should have; he didn’t understand Shannon after all. But he didn’t know what he missed. And he didn’t understand what Adele was getting at either. “Shannon was attractive. It was easy for her to pick up men. Some women like to have sexual adventures. Yet Shannon was angry at herself for her adventures. So why did she have them?”
There was an edge to Adele’s tone. “I’m sure you don’t mean what you say the way it sounds. You’re blaming her again.”
“I am?”
“Men believe they’re superior to women. Some men cover it better than others. But it’s built into our culture.” Adele’s eyebrows went up, just the tiniest flicker. Did she mean him? “It’s built into women, too, so we can get taken advantage of. It might be Shannon was easily taken advantage of.”
Ambler didn’t follow Adele’s thinking but decided not to tell her. He’d believed pretty women had an advantage with men because they had so many men desiring them; they could take their pick. Now Adele was saying something different, so he’d need to think about that. Part of figuring out who killed Shannon—or Sandra Dean—was determining what there was about the connection between her and her killer that led to her murder. This meant finding out as much as you could about her, as well as finding out about the people in her life—a lot of men, including McNulty.
Adele had meanwhile moved on. She stood and waved the pages of Sandra Dean’s journal at him. “You can’t for a moment think McNulty murdered her. But you do, don’t you? You think it’s possible.”
Ambler took refuge in one of his Sherlock Holmes maxims. “What I think doesn’t change anything. ‘Data! Data! Data! I can’t make bricks without clay.’”
Adele paced the marble floor of the crime fiction reading room waving the journal pages. “The men in this journal, one of them killed her. That’s why McNulty gave the list to you, right?” There wasn’t much floor space in the small reading room, so Adele would walk five or six steps one way toward a wall of books and then five or six steps back the other way to another wall of books on the other side of the room. She wore a dark blue dress that hugged her body and brown boots that reached almost to her knees.
Ambler watched the hem of her skirt play against the white skin of her knees above the boots for a moment before he said, “One man listed in Shannon’s—we should call her Sandra—journal is Dillard Wainwright. He’s the man Sandra’s mother abandoned Sandra for. It’s surprising her mother’s ex-husband would be among the men she wrote about in the journal. Beyond that, there are notes on all of the men in her journal except him. I wish McNulty had given me the whole journal.”
Ambler’s desk phone rang. He answered, said yes, and after a moment’s hesitation turned to Adele. “Simon Dean is on his way up.”
“Oh my God!” Adele began brushing at her dress with her hands and then brushing back her hair. She walked back and forth faster, shooting glances at Ambler that implied he’d done something unforgivable. “Why on earth is he here?”
Dean appeared in the doorway, standing for a moment looking dazed; his face was deadly white except for his bloodshot eyes.
“Come in,” Ambler said. “Sit down, please. I’m so sorry about the loss of your wife.” His words sounded empty and he felt extremely uncomfortable.
“I’m so sorry,” Adele said, holding out her hand. “I knew your wife only slightly. She—”
Dean ignored Adele’s hand. Ambler didn’t know if, still in shock, he didn’t notice her gesture or it was meant as a slight. She pulled back her hand.
“You.” He trained his glittering eyes on Ambler. “Have you told the police what you told me about the man, the bartender, who was with her? Did you tell them she’d been abducted?”
Ambler came around the library table and pulled out a chair. “Please sit down.”
Dean sat as if compelled, like a man in custody might follow an order from the cop who’d arrested him. Dean looked at Adele as if he saw her for the first time but spoke to Ambler. “Sandra was as sensitive as a child. Why was she with a man like that?” His tone grew harsh. “She wouldn’t be. He abducted her. And killed her.”
“I’m sorry,” Ambler said. “I can’t imagine the depth of your loss. I wish—”
The expression in Dean’s eyes was ghastly, burning out of his face, filled with rage and pain. “You know the man who killed her. I didn’t think to tell the police about you. I was in shock. I couldn’t believe Sandra was dead. Dead in a seedy hotel room.” He turned to Adele. “There’d been another murder at another hotel a few days ago. She’d been—” He turned back to Ambler. “You’ve got to go to the police.”
Ambler spoke softly. “I’ve told the police everything I know.”
“That bartender. Your friend. You told me he was with Sandra. You knew.”
“The police know he was with her.” Ambler didn’t want to argue with a distraught man.
Dean glared at Ambler and then at Adele, daring a response. “I’m not stupid.” Spittle flew from his mouth as he talked. “Do the police know you were trying to find that bartender and my wife?” He laughed, a mocking, choked sound. “You didn’t tell them, did you? You tried to find the bartender because you knew something dreadful would happen if you didn’t. You wanted to find him before it was too late. You knew he’d kill her if you didn’t find them.” Dean’s body went rigid, his eyes for the moment clear, pain and bewilderment replaced by accusation. “Why didn’t you tell me she was in danger? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
Adele approached the man. “You’re under terrible pressure.” Her tone was gentle. “After such a loss, it’s—”
He turned on her and snarled. “I don’t want your sympathy. I want my wife’s murderer. No excuses. No apologies.”
Ambler moved carefully. He’d let the man berate him. He’d do that until—Ambler’s cell phone rang. He answered hoping the interruption might slow things down, give Dean time to collect himself. The voice at the other end startl
ed him. For a second, he couldn’t place it, before he realized it was Jayne Galloway.
“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Can you come here to Long Island now?”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said. She had to have learned of her daughter’s death and he was sure this was the reason for the call. Yet speaking with her was awkward. The last time he’d spoken to her she’d denied recognizing a photo of her daughter. He didn’t want to go into that with Simon listening, so he said, “I’m here with her husband at the moment. I’m—”
A gasp. “Oh.… I don’t want to intrude. I’m sorry. I’ll call back.”
Dean’s expression was one of disgust. “Her mother? Why would she call you?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t want to interrupt us. I told you I’d spoken with her before I spoke with you a few days ago.”
In a moment, the rigidness left Dean’s body; he moved backward a couple of steps to sit down in the chair he’d been sitting in a few minutes before and pressed his hand against his forehead. “What can I tell Carolyn? She’s with my sister. I can’t bring myself to go get her.”
Ambler thought to put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. It seemed like what you’d do, the physical human contact a grieving person needs. Yet, something forbidding, some coldness, stopped him as he moved toward the man. He felt Dean didn’t like him, didn’t want him to come near, so he stopped mid-stride. “You’ll find a way,” he said.
Agony distorted Dean’s face; no longer anger in his expression but fear.
“You might wait a day or so,” Adele said softly. “See a doctor now, get a sedative. You’ve endured more than anyone should have to.”
Dean sat in silence for a few moments. “I keep thinking that person couldn’t be my wife. The woman the police told me about can’t be Sandra. There’s a mistake.” He glared at Ambler. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He stood uncertainly. “A doctor is right. I’ll call the doctor. I’ll go home.” He shuffled toward the door and stopped in the threshold. “Strange isn’t it? I’ll call a doctor. Sandra was a doctor.… And something else, a slut … a whore.” His face took on a grotesque expression.
When he was gone, Adele collapsed into the chair in front of her; Ambler sat down in his own chair. Each watched the space Simon Dean had vacated.
Adele broke the silence. “That was awful. I don’t think I could stand being him.”
Ambler felt a wave of weariness, despair. “Mr. Dean is convinced McNulty killed his wife and that arresting McNulty and punishing him or better yet the police shooting the poor bastard will make everything better. It won’t.”
“Of course, he thinks McNulty killed her. He’s overcome with grief, so he’s not thinking straight.” Adele stood and glared at Ambler. “What’s your excuse?” She stomped out.
Chapter 11
After Mike Cosgrove read over the pages from the murdered woman’s journal a couple of times, he talked to the captain about his case. He’d sent the pages to the Stamford detectives and kept a copy for himself. He hoped they might have picked up the journal itself in the victim’s hotel room. But they didn’t have it.
The captain’s thinking was for Mike to give what evidence he had to the detectives in Stamford who were investigating Sandra Dean’s murder. If they brought in their suspect, the bartender, and that solved the Stamford case, it would likely solve Cosgrove’s case as well.
With some effort, Cosgrove persuaded the captain it was worth the time to interview the men named in the murdered woman’s journal, arguing that despite everything pointing to McNulty as the killer, the evidence wasn’t conclusive. The captain was skeptical, as brass in the NYPD tended to be, but he trusted Cosgrove’s hunches, so he said okay.
Cosgrove started his rounds with the first name that came up in the journal. Arthur Manning, referred to in the journal by his initials A. M., was an executive at one of city’s few remaining publishing companies. The company headquarters was on Sixth Avenue in one of the Rockefeller Center Buildings. A. M. didn’t keep Cosgrove waiting, having him ushered into his corner office on the building’s top floor as soon as he arrived. The man, polite, cautious, and nervous, waited for Cosgrove to begin the conversation. What Cosgrove knew about the man was he’d been divorced twice and had no police record.
“I’m going to ask you some questions about something you’d probably rather not talk about,” Cosgrove said as he settled into a leather chair with his back to a window; another window was behind Manning.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“You’d know better than I would,” Cosgrove said. “I don’t know what you’ve been up to.” It was a joke, but also not. He didn’t know what the guy had been up to. You never knew what you might stumble across.
“What are you going to ask me about?”
“Your name came up in the journal of a woman who was murdered.”
The man froze. No part of his body moved, not even his eyes, and the expression in them went vacant. He sat like that for a moment and then began to move—or appeared to move though he didn’t go anywhere. It was like watching his brain work through his eyes. “Go on.”
“You’d have known her by the name Shannon Darling.”
“I don’t recognize the name.”
“The woman’s journal didn’t have dates, so I don’t know how long ago it was.” Cosgrove believed the man did remember her name; he denied knowing it hoping to find out what Cosgrove knew, hoping to not admit to anything unnecessarily. Reasonable enough. “You met her in a hotel bar … and went to her room with her.”
The man shifted in his chair uncomfortably, his gaze traveling around the office as if he were a stranger in the place until it rested on Cosgrove where it seemed to ask for sympathy.
“What happened in the hotel room is now known only to you. In her journal, this woman described a conversation you had. Her thoughts and feelings were regret for what happened and anger at herself. She didn’t blame you.” Cosgrove tried to reflect sympathy when he met A. M.’s gaze. It probably didn’t work because he didn’t feel any sympathy.
“Nothing happened in the hotel room.”
Cosgrove nodded. “So you do remember being there.”
A look of crushing disappointment crossed the man’s face.
Cosgrove nodded a couple of times more and waited longer than usual before he spoke. “I’d like you to tell me what went on between you and her—conversationally, I don’t care about the gymnastics. There’s no evidence you murdered her. If you did kill her, you should call your lawyer.”
Manning spoke so softly Cosgrove could barely hear him. “This encounter happened a year or so ago, maybe longer. I never saw her again. When it was over … when I was leaving, I actually thought she might kill me.”
“Did she threaten to kill you?”
The question slowed him down. He answered carefully. “No. She acted strangely. She was angry. I didn’t know what she’d say or do next.” He took a moment, looking past Cosgrove to the window behind him. “I’d had dinner with an author staying at the hotel. After he went to his room, I had a drink at the bar before I left for home.” He leaned back in his chair more relaxed now that he’d decided to talk openly.
Cosgrove relaxed back into his chair himself. Truth, so much harder to come by, was easier once you got to it.
“She was charming, refreshing in a way, different than the sophisticated, worldly women I’m used to meeting. She was an innocent. She told me she was afraid of the city and didn’t usually come here by herself. She drank scotch on the rocks but said she didn’t usually drink. Earlier in the evening, she said, she’d been propositioned by two men. She was shocked that this could happen in a fashionable hotel.
“I spoke with her without expectation. She was charming, pretty. I liked the sound of her voice. In a way—as I said, she seemed innocent—in a way, she was girlish. She said something. I wasn’t quite sure what she’d said, so I asked her if she was married. She said she was but she tho
ught her husband was gay.
“This was part of her charm. She blurted things out. And I found that intriguing, the way she told me intimate things about herself. I was attracted to the sound of her voice. She brought up sex a couple of times. I thought this meant she wanted to have sex with me. It was around one. The bar was closing. She asked if I wanted to come to her room for a drink.
“Here she was inviting me to her room like there was nothing to it, like she was inviting me for a cup of tea.
“It’s not unusual for women to flirt with me.” He waved an arm about. “I’m in publishing. Some women with books they want to get published, they’re flirtatious, seductive. But they require courting. It’s a ritual. They don’t want to appear easy. They don’t jump off a barstool after sharing a drink and invite me to their room.
“Yet she was demure, ladylike, not vampish at all. As I said, I thought her innocent. I felt she really liked me, trusted me. I felt a special connection to her.” He met Cosgrove’s gaze. “We talked easily. She was smart and unusually honest. She read. She knew books. I thought she might be a writer. She told me her mother was a writer, but wouldn’t tell me her mother’s name.
“When we got to her room, she cried. For what seemed like hours, I held her and she cried and talked, mostly about what was wrong with her, things that happened when she was young. She didn’t tell me the particulars. I got the idea that she’d been raped when she was quite young—and almost murdered—in a situation similar to the situation she was in with me, except there were two men.
“I put my arms around her, at first to hold her when she cried. I thought the embrace would turn into something more passionate. When I kissed her, it was gentle. I thought her so vulnerable. She pulled away and began talking again. She was like what we used to call a speed freak. I tried to coax her into bed. She’d lost interest in sex, if this had ever been her interest. All she wanted to do was talk about her mother and her husband. There was a couch in her room and we sat on it talking … or her talking, me listening. We stood. I put my arms around her and tried to kiss her again, tried to move her toward the bed.