“Hey, does this have anything to do with the murders? Mark's chick, I mean."
"No. Do you remember when this was, Mike?"
"A couple of years ago, I told you."
"Since he lived out here?"
"No, before, when they were living in Philly."
With Colin refusing to tell Mike why he cared who Mark was having an affair with a few years ago, the rest of the conversation deteriorated quickly and they'd hung up on a somewhat sour note.
Learning about Grace further convinced Colin that he really didn't know Mark at all. Adultery and murder were two very different things, but it was Mark's deceit that was so cunning, making Colin feel that anything was possible.
After Colin had come back from the library he'd spent the day lying on his bed, looking through old magazines, smoking. It was seven o'clock when he faced the fact that he wasn't going to Annie's and he wasn't going to call. He couldn't drag her into this. If he called she'd say she wanted to see him. She was that kind of woman. It was best to do nothing, let her off the hook. So when there was a knock on his door at eight he thought it was Mark again. Still, he was cautious and asked who it was.
"Annie," she said.
He was in an old sweat suit and socks that had holes.
"Colin? Are you there?"
There was no choice. He opened the door. "What're you doing here?"
"Say, that's a terrific opening gambit!"
He laughed, "I'm sorry."
"Are you going to let me in?"
"Of course." He locked the door behind her. "You shouldn't be here."
"Why not?"
"Aren't you the one who told me people talk, know where everybody is at any given moment?"
"It's only five after eight."
"It's not the hour I'm worried about. It's you being here at all, with me." He ran a hand through his black hair trying to finger- comb it. "Sorry I'm such a mess."
Annie said softly, "You look good to me, Colin."
He felt it in his gut. Their eyes met, held. He wondered if it was possible that she hadn't seen the article. "Annie, you know about me, don't you?"
"You mean the story in Newsline? Yes, I know."
He put his hands on her shoulders. "And you came here anyway."
"I've missed you," she said.
He smiled. "I've missed you, too." He moved nearer and wrapped her in his arms. "You're lovely," he whispered.
"So are you."
"Especially tonight," he quipped.
"Especially." She smiled.
He brushed her eyelids with his lips, then took a step back, held her hands. "It's no good for you to be here, Annie."
"Isn't that for me to decide?"
"I don't know. I'm not sure. Maybe you think you ought to be here, the proper minister doing good works."
"I thought of that."
"And?"
"I rejected it as a motive."
"Then why?"
"I wanted to see you. I understood why you didn't show up, didn't call." She touched his cheek. "I'm so sorry about your family, Colin."
He caught her hand near his chin, kissed the fingertips. "I couldn't tell you."
"I understand. And I know you had nothing to do with it." She brought his hand to her mouth, kissed his palm.
He felt it to his toes.
She said, "I'm here because I want to be here—with you."
He placed his hands on either side of her face, met her lips with his. And then he felt her leaning into him. His hands fell away from her face as they embraced, mouths searching, exploring. When they finally broke the kiss, Colin said, "Will you come upstairs with me?"
"Yes," she said.
He led her slowly up the stairs to his room. She faced him, her back to the bed as he began to undo the buttons of her blouse. When they were both naked he gently eased her down on the bed, lay next to her, one leg across hers, his fingers tracing her nipples.
"You're beautiful," he said. "I knew you would be."
Trembling, she slid an arm around his neck.
"Are you afraid?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Listen," he said, "we don't have to."
She said, "Oh, yes, we do," and pulled him to her.
----
Hallock was furious. He couldn't get Colin on the phone and he couldn't get a plane out of Miami Beach. The weather, since the morning, had turned bad and planes weren't taking off. They were calling this one David. Hallock decided he liked it better when hurricanes had girls' names. He thought of Julia Dorman and laughed. That would have pissed her off. Good. Maybe he'd write her a letter to that effect, say girls too, not women.
The trip had been a bust. The meeting with the Conways had failed to turn up anything useful. And now he was going to have to spend another night in the motel. He couldn't really afford it. But what the hell, one more night wasn't going to make or break him.
He'd seen a McDonald's a few blocks away and thought he'd give it a whirl. Before he left the room he tried Maguire again. No dice. Then he found himself punching out his own number, listening to it ring.
Fran said, "Hello."
He hung up not knowing what to say. He felt like hell.
----
Annie lay in the crook of Colin's arm, facing him. She ran a finger down his nose, across his mustache.
"Tell me about when you lived here as a child," he said, gently biting the tip of her finger.
"What do you want to know?"
"How you happened to come here, why you left."
"My father's a musician; he plays the trumpet. He was with the Dorsey band for awhile."
"No kidding."
"Not for long. Dad had some personality problems. Still does. He has trouble with authority. Big bands didn't have to put up with that."
He kissed her earlobe. "So he played with little bands?"
"Tickles," she said, squirming, grinning at him.
"You don't like it?"
"I didn't say that." She kissed his lips.
"Go on with your story."
"He played with combos, mostly. Anyway, one time when he was out of work and things were tight for us, he heard about this club out here. Musicians are very tight—they have an old boy network all their own. This combo needed a trumpet player so Dad auditioned, got the job, and we moved out to Seaville for the summer."
"And you loved it."
"I did." She took a beat, then said silkily. "I really loved it."
They were looking into each other's eyes.
Colin said, "Did you?"
"Yes. I loved it," she whispered.
He pulled her to him and began to make love to her again, knowing this time would be different from the first. they were too hungry then to go slow, explore each other inch by inch. But this time they would take it easy, make it last.
----
Hallock had picked up a paperback at an all night drugstore. Lying on the motel bed he opened the book. It was one of Ed McBain's 87th Precinct stories. He loved them. McBain knew his stuff, he thought. This one was called Heat. Fitting. Except that since the rain started it had cooled off some. It was still sticky, though.
When he turned the page he realized he hadn't absorbed a word. His mind was with Fran. It was ten-thirty. He laid the book on his belly, reached for the phone, and punched out the number. This time when she answered he said hello right away so he wouldn't hang up again.
"Where are you, Waldo?" She sounded angry.
"Florida."
"Florida? Aren't they having hurricanes and whatnot down there?"
"That's why I'm still here."
"What are you doing there in the first place?"
"I'm working on something. How are you, Fran?"
"What are you working on?"
"Can't go into it on the phone. You okay?"
"I'm okay but I'm damn mad."
"Why's that?"
"Because I didn't know how to find you. And Liz Wood didn't know where you were either.'
"How'd you know I was staying at Woods'? She call you?"
"No, she didn't call me."
"So how'd you know?"
"Oh, Waldo, don't be dumb. Everybody on the Fork knows where everybody is every minute. You ought to know that better than anyone."
"What'd you want to find me for?"
"Your child got hit in the face with a baseball and needed ten stitches."
"John?"
"Cynthia."
"Cynthia? What was she doing playing baseball? I thought she hated sports."
"She does, but her boyfriend plays. She was watching a game when she got hit."
"Boyfriend? What boyfriend?"
"Oh, Waldo," she said, exasperated.
"She's only a little girl, what's she doing with a boyfriend?"
"She's fifteen and she's doing what everybody else is doing.Having fun. Something you never even heard of."
He ignored her remark. "Is Cyn okay now?"
"She's fine. A little pain, that's all."
"Can I talk to her?"
"She's sleeping."
"Oh."
They were silent for a few moments.
Fran said, "You're not going to get into any trouble, are you? I mean, being in Florida?"
"No. No trouble."
"When are you coming home?"
"Soon as I can get a plane out."
"Where are you staying, in case I need you?"
He told her. He thought of saying he wished she were with him
but didn't. "Everything okay in Seaville?" he asked timidly.
"If you mean has there been another murder, the answer's no. But a story broke in Newsline today about your friend down at the paper, Colin Maguire."
"What story?"
"I've got it here." She read it to him.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he said. "Poor bastard. No wonder I couldn't get him on the phone."
Fran said, "I never did like that Babe Parkinson."
"Yeah. Fran, you think you could go over to Colin's, ask him to
call me?"
"Tonight?"
"Well..."
"Why should I do your dirty work? You walked out, so take the consequences."
He couldn't see what his walking out had to do with this. "It's not dirty work, Fran."
"Why'd you call, Waldo?"
There it was. Why had he called? Because he missed her. He couldn't say so. "I just thought I'd check in."
"Thanks a bunch."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. Nothing's wrong with it, Waldo, that's not the point."
"What d'you mean?"
He heard a sigh. "If you don't know then I'm not going to tell you."
"Well, I don't know."
"That's a pity," she said.
He couldn't think of anything to say.
"So long, Waldo."
"Fran?" He put the phone back in the cradle, laid his head on the skimpy pillow and closed his eyes. She must be really mad at him to do that, he thought. In all their years of marriage she'd never hung up on him. He toyed with the idea of calling her back, knew it would be useless. She was too mad. He'd wait until she cooled off some. And then something she'd said made him open his eyes as if he'd been stuck with a needle.
On the Fork everybody knows where everybody is every minute. Sure they did. So why didn't anybody know where the murderer was at any given time, like right before he struck? Because maybe he was a fixture and people were used to seeing him any old place at any old time. It had to be somebody who wouldn't stick out if a person happened to see him early in the morning near Carroll's Funeral Home. Or in Bay view in the middle of a Sunday. Or at the band concert. Just there. Just there, like he always is. And so damn respectable that nobody'd think twice about him.
Hallock grabbed the phone. Maguire's number was still busy. He slammed it down. He hadn't wanted to say anything to Maguire until he was sure. But now, he thought, he should be warned. It was important he know that Mark Griffing might kill him.
----
Colin and Annie sat at the kitchen table. She was wearing his blue terrycloth robe. He was in a clean set of sweats. They were eating scrambled eggs and bacon Colin had made for them. Neither one had eaten dinner.
"Funny," she said. "I feel like I'm eating breakfast, but it's dark out."
"Nice change," he said. "You look great in that color."
She smiled.
He said, "Hey, you never finished telling me about living here when you were a kid."
"There's not much to tell. We were only here two months. We came in the middle of April and we left by mid-June."
"How come?"
"The club Dad was playing at burned down." She shook her head, looked pained. "It was awful. People panicked. Most everybody got out okay. But some were burned and twelve people died."
"Jesus. How long ago was this?"
"Let's see... twenty-five years ago. Right. Twenty-five years ago this month. Two of the people who died were the parents of Jamie Perkins, my first boyfriend. They were trampled to death. I wonder what ever happened to Jamie? He was an only child. There weren't any other relatives. I begged my parents to adopt him but of course they couldn't. It was hard enough keeping the three of us in shoes with Dad's career always so iffy. I mean, when we left Seaville and moved back to Brooklyn Heights, we had no idea where the next dollar was going to come from."
"Where did it come from?"
"Oh, Dad got a job right away. He was a damn good trumpet player. Still is. I don't worry about him. But my mother's a different story."
"You said she suffers from depression."
"Yes. And sometimes she takes too many pills."
"I'm sorry."
"Me, too." She looked at her food, pushed some egg around the plate, finally put down the fork.
Colin took her hand. She smiled. He leaned toward her and she met him halfway. They kissed gently.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.
"No. Not now."
"Okay." He looked at the Yale wall clock. "It's after midnight, you know."
"Do I look like I'm going to turn into a pumpkin or something?"
"Or something," he said. "Where'd you park your car?"
She looked at him quizzically. "In front."
"You're kidding?"
"No."
"Why'd you do that? You told me—"
"I know what I told you."
"Isn't it true?"
"Yes. I think it is."
"Well, then, hell, you've got to go home."
"I want to spend the night with you, Colin."
"Listen, I want to spend the night with you more than anything, but I don't think it's a smart move. I mean, people think I'm a murderer. It's riskier than ever for you to stay here."
"Why don't you come home with me? In my car."
He shook his head, looked embarrassed.
She said, "Colin, I know you have trouble riding with someone but maybe you could try it—just this once."
There was no way he would let her see him with a panic attack. "You don't understand."
"Then tell me."
"I... I can't."
"You can." She put her hand on his leg, squeezed. "You can try."
"Okay, I'll try."
Slowly he told her, describing what the attacks were like, and ended with his head in his hands.
"It's all right, Colin. It's really all right. I'll stay here."
"No," he said. "No, you can't. I won't let you. It's bad enough that you're here this late. Come on." He took her by the hand. "Let's get dressed."
"Colin, wait. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to walk. It's not that far to your place."
"Are you sure you want to?"
He nodded.
"What about the morning?"
"I'll leave early and walk back."
After they were dressed Annie left. He watched her drive away. There didn't seem to be anyone on the street, but
he couldn't be sure. He put out the porch light, closed the door, and locked it.
Inside he doused the lights one by one and made his way upstairs. In his bedroom he turned on a light. The blinds were drawn, but there was enough spill for anyone watching to see it. He waited three minutes, then turned off the light and went back down the stairs, hunkering down as he passed the living room windows. In the kitchen he carefully opened the back door and went out.
Keeping close to the hedges he made his way to the back of his yard, found an opening in the hedge, and crossed through to his neighbor's yard. Cautiously, he crept across the lawn and came out on Sixth Street. All was still. Not a light on. He began to jog, a slow, even rhythm, down the road and out onto Main Street. If anyone was watching his house they wouldn't know he'd left. At least, he hoped they wouldn't.
LOOKING BACK—75 YEARS AGO
Ground was broken Tuesday morning for the new Seaville Gazette building on Center Street, directly opposite the Auditorium and the Masonic Temple. The stone wall has been taken down in front of where the building will stand, and the land is being cut down to street level. The building will be of stucco with a two-story front and offices on the second floor. Everything will be up to date: plate glass front, electric lights, steam heat, hardwood floors, with a 50-foot basement.
THIRTY
Why did everyone think they could fool him? Play games. Tricks. He was the master, after all. Trickster. Trick or treat? I'll have a little trick, sir. You are a little trick, dearie!
Such a peaceful weekend we've had. This town's a loser and I'm here to win. Peace on earth, good will toward men. I know lots of good will. Good Will Oursler, Good Will Shakespeare, good Will James, good Will Bendix, on and on and on.
So four down, five to go. Got to make the next one a real goody. Got to top the last one. Hard to do. Can't let down on the perfection aspect, though. High-quality killings. Keep my standards high. Quality is important in everything we do. Why should it be any different in killing? I'm working on my moves... I'm making front page news. And then there's detail. Every last detail must be considered. I am a stickler for detail. But that must be evident. Surely if they thought about it they'd consider the detail, consider the inspiration behind the detail. But no one thinks anymore. No one knows how to put two and two together because they are too busy dividing four into two. But, oh, the detail. Detail, one, two, three, hup!
Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel) Page 23