by Shirley Lord
Inside were the pictures Oz had taken of her in her renovated blush bridesmaid dress, the pictures she’d posed for at the library, surrounded by other guests.
Clipped to them was a note from Oz and the newspaper story with the headline, “Who Wore This Cloak at the Murder Scene?”
“Time to talk, Ginny,” he’d written. “Time to get together real soon.”
CHAPTER TEN
935 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE N.W., WASHINGTON, D.C.
On his way out of the Hoover Building, the ugly sprawling home of the Federal Bureau of Investigation on Pennsylvania Avenue, Johnny realized he hadn’t checked his answering machine at the office in more than twenty-four hours.
There was one unoccupied phone booth in the lobby and he grabbed it. He’d already dealt with the first two messages from a Next! copy editor; accounting was querying something on his Puerto Rico expense account; a Sister Cochrane had called for the second time, “some news about the homeless woman you wrote so inspiringly about.” He scribbled down her number on the back of the pass he was supposed to give up when he left the building.
The last message came from an unfamiliar, high-pitched female voice, on behalf of a once very familiar name.
“Hello, Dr. David Sorenson is trying to reach you. Will you please return Dr. Sorenson’s call before one o’clock today, Monday, May eighth, when he can be reached in his office, 212-555-0008, or this evening, after seven, at his New York apartment, 212-555-8543.”
Two years ago Johnny had known all Sorenson’s numbers by heart, including his number on Long Island, his car, and his beeper. Not anymore. Now, because the secretary rattled them off so quickly, he had to redial to hear the message again.
It was nearly noon. Johnny dialed the office number and was put through immediately. “Hello, Doc, long time no speak.”
“Hello” Johnny. It’s good of you to call back so quickly. I really appreciate it. Well, young fellah, it certainly has been too long, much too long. You have no idea how often I’ve thought of looking you up, but there it is, that’s New York life for you. I read you though, from time to time. Sounds like life’s pretty good. Enjoying yourself? You ought to be.” David Sorenson’s warm, confident voice, which gave away his Canadian upbringing only in the way he pronounced his o’s sent an unexpected shiver down Johnny’s spine.
It was unfair, but just hearing Sorenson took him right back to the long, last weeks of his mother’s life, triggering memories he’d thought he’d laid to rest. They were painful memories-of trying to track his father down somewhere halfway round the world, and then having to persuade him that he wasn’t crying wolf as had happened once before, that his mother really was dying this time.
At first it had only been embarrassing to have to admit to Sorenson that his father didn’t believe him, that Johnny needed him as the physician on the case to back him up and spell out how critical Catherine Peet’s condition was.
He wondered briefly whether the doctor still remembered the phone calls during the last touch-and-go weekend, when, after finally reaching Quentin Peet, Sorenson had handed him the phone with a sad shake of his head, in order for him to hear for himself his intoxicated father dismissing Sorenson’s warnings as “the exaggerated posturing of a publicity-seeking quack.”
As usual his father had still arrived with impeccable timing-two days before the final goodbye-but his continued, inexplicably arrogant behavior during those dark hours had helped consolidate the warm, trusting relationship that had developed between doctor and son during Catherine Peet’s long illness. It was only later that Johnny understood Soren-son had assumed a kind of surrogate father role, one he hadn’t known how much he needed. Lonely and frightened, Johnny had been the only family member to witness his mother’s life slipping away.
It was a relationship he’d hoped-and expected-would grow into an enduring friendship, but after his mother’s death neither had sought out the other. A pity. God knew he had far too few real friends he could count on and trust, but the doctor was right. New York wasn’t a place to nurture friendship. Few allowed themselves any time for that old-fashioned past-time; few allowed themselves time for anything except work-and sex.
One thing was sure. Sorenson wasn’t calling him belatedly now to develop their friendship. “What’s up, doc? What can I do for you?”
“I’d prefer not to discuss it over the phone, Johnny. Could we meet later today, say a drink about five-thirty, six?”
“Sorry, I’m in Washington right now. Shall I give you a ring when I’m back in town?”
“Yes, yes, that would be fine.”
“Can you give me a clue what it’s about?”
He remembered Sorenson never liked to procrastinate. “I’m Muriel Stern’s cardiologist. The family’s getting a bad rap over this terrible Svank business. I’m sure you’ve read all about it?”
Johnny blew out a silent whistle. Hallelujah. Sorenson was Muriel Stern’s doctor. It was too good to be true. He was about to hit pay dirt. “Yes, of course, I’ve read about it. How can I help?”
“Well, that’s what I’d like to discuss with you. Muriel—Mrs. Stern-feels the right sort of article in the press could be valuable at this moment.” Sorenson hesitated. “Shall I say, could possibly defuse the volatile situation, which is definitely deleterious to her health. She’s naturally sought my advice about this. I told her I knew you. Well, the rest I would prefer to talk to you about when we meet. Unfortunately her husband has gotten himself involved in a very sony state of affairs.”
That was the understatement of the year, but Johnny also then remembered how Sorenson was often given to British understatement. He made up his mind. This was an opportunity too good to miss. He would leave Washington a day earlier than he’d planned.
“I understand. Let’s tentatively say a drink around six-thirty tomorrow. I should be back by then. Your place?” Sorenson kept a small pied-à-terre near New York Hospital, getting back to his main home on the North Shore of Long Island only a couple of times a week, if then.
“Wonderful, Johnny. My place, you remember it.” Soren-son’s voice showed obvious relief. “Don’t call, unless you have to cancel. Just come.”
When Johnny put the phone down he was jubilant. What an incredible piece of luck-or as his father would probably put it, providence. If he was going to be able to place the Sterns anywhere in the byzantine world ruled over by Svank, he had to get to know them. Sorenson was going to open the door.
From what Johnny had ferreted out for his Next! column, byzantine was the perfect word to describe the structure, spirit, complexity and deviousness of Svank’s empire; and from what he’d read during the past week it appeared there was already considerable evidence to pinpoint Svank as the mastermind behind a worldwide network of criminal activities.
Both Jim Hoagland of the Washington Post and Bill Safire in the New York Times had devoted their columns to “Svank, the mystery man,” both men attempting to strip away the mystery.
According to Safire, “The colossus was killed just in time to avoid prosecution.” Using his justified reputation of hotshot wordsmith, Safire had gone on to stipulate that for that piece of information he could, “in all fairness,” use “hypostasis” as opposed to “hypothesis.” All the same, Johnny hadn’t been able to get anyone at the Hoover Building or at the CIA to go on record to confirm it
He’d begun to develop a good relationship with Trager, and later that Monday they met for a drink at the Willard, one of the oldest and most elegant hotels in the capital, only a stone’s throw from the White House.
Trager didn’t say a word as Johnny began to spell out some of the accusations in Safire’s column. “Money laundering, international thefts, major drug operations, Svank was involved in all of it, right?”
When Trager didn’t answer, Johnny went on unperturbed. “It appears to me all his underworld stuff was so intertwined with legitimate businesses, held under a multitude of names, it will take months, if not years to untan
gle, right?”
“Same again, Johnny?” was all Trager would say as he beckoned the bartender, but then he winked and nodded.
The next morning Johnny woke up with a startling realization: He no longer wanted to be the one to do the untangling, didn’t want to spend what could easily be the best years of his life in the bloody playground reserved for drug traffickers, swindlers, and murderers.
He’d spent the last few days locked in with the files of big-time fugitives, looking for links to Svank.
He’d listed their crimes-all so similar-fraud, conspiracy, racketeering, and again and again murder and torture.
He’d left the Hoover Building feeling dirty; he didn’t want to crawl back into the dirt again.
Johnny stretched. For the first time in his life, for a reason he couldn’t yet fathom, he was one hundred percent sure he was over trying to earn his father’s approval. It was a giddy, even frightening sensation.
He reached over to phone Sorenson, to tell him he’d come by for a drink some other time because he didn’t think he could be of much help to the Sterns. The line was busy and by the time he’d finished shaving, fast, smooth, cut-free, he’d decided, what the hell. He’d listen to what Sorenson had to say and perhaps it would be something for his column. His new sense of himself didn’t mean giving up the column. Of course not, well, at least not yet.
In the early afternoon as he went to National Airport to catch the shuttle back to New York, he figured if he could get proof of the Sterns’ involvement with Svank’s dirty work, at least it would be a nice bone to throw to Steiner, but that was enough.
If he got another cover story out of it, that would be good, too, but he wasn’t thinking to use it as leverage to a better job anymore-on a magazine his father would respect, like Time, or a paper like the Wall Street Journal, or perhaps even in television. No way. He felt good about Next! In fact, he loved writing his Next! column. The call from Sister Cochrane came to mind. What was that all about? His most recent piece on the homeless woman and civil liberties, as practiced in Puerto Rico and New York? He’d call her as soon as he could.
Again, the realization swept over him with a euphoric flush. He wasn’t working to please or impress his father anymore. He was working to please himself. He’d crossed a personal Rubicon.
He called Ginny from the airport before he left. Her answering machine picked up, which was a bore. He left a message, telling her he was on his way back to the city and hoped to see her sometime soon. He didn’t want to be distracted until he knew what the Stern deal was all about, so he didn’t tell her about his meeting with Sorenson. He’d call her again when it was over.
It was cloudless all the way to New York. Cloudless, the way he hoped his life could be from now on. He started to hum “Blue Skies,” shutting his eyes, thinking about Ginny’s kooky smile.
He was still humming as the plane began to descend over New Jersey. One day in the not too distant future, surely even the great QP would have to slow down. Would he write his memoirs? Probably not yet. Green Ice had been such a success, he was probably even now getting fidgety, looking for another subject, another mountain to climb, a new adventure to get in and out of to write about in another best-selling book.
A wonderful, heady thought occurred to him. If through the Sterns he managed to get some new material, with leads on the Svank case that just asked to be followed up, what a great moment it would be for him to be able to hand everything over to his father. “Here, Dad. Here’s my file on the Svank case,” he would say. “It’s all yours to use as you see fit, no strings attached.”
It would be the perfect way to prove he was a free man at last.
The weekend had come and gone without Alex and without Johnny. Ginny’s emotions had been on a roller coaster, diving down to depression, soaring with indignation and red-hot anger, stalling with fear over Oz’s pictures.
On Saturday, waking up early, she’d gone back to the sewing machine to perfect her new arched dart. By ten o’clock, restless and nervous, she’d had to get out, and strolling aimlessly had lucked out at an arty bookstore, losing herself for an hour or two in a tome on the work of Mariano Fortuny, whose velvet cloaks and pleated Grecian gowns from the twenties, she knew, now fetched thousands of dollars at auction.
She’d spent so long making notes, learning about his secrets—“It is thought he used to cake cloth in clay and egg white and bake it to create some of his opulent fabric effects”—she’d begun to get dirty looks from the salesclerks. She hadn’t had enough money with her to buy the book. She hadn’t enough money, period. At two hundred dollars it would be a reckless extravagance at this perilous time in her life, but on the other hand, it could be looked upon as an investment. She’d left with a promise to return with her credit card, regretting it as soon as she got back to the loft to find no one had called, nothing had changed.
On Sunday, trying to bury her misery, she’d gone over to a new restaurant bar in the Bowery to meet up with the same crowd she’d met at Marilyn’s opening, including, it turned out, the Indian psychiatrist. He’d asked for her phone number and told her to call him what sounded like “Chili.” His soft, purrlike voice and gentle kindness were as soothing as a warm bath, particularly after drinking several glasses of California chardonnay. All the same she was relieved to discover she had a good excuse for refusing, when he wanted to take her home. His motorbike was outside, he’d said with a flash of white teeth in his dark, handsome face. “Sorry, not this time,” she’d said sweetly, pointing out she was wearing her inflexible “tweed” skirt. “And I can’t ride sidesaddle. I’ll get seasick.”
Before “Chili” knew what he was up against, Lee, who never liked to see Ginny getting embroiled with a man, had whisked her away in her usual Big Apple sedan.
At last there had been a message from Alex on her machine. He’d called at 9:05. Not much of a message. “Really sorry we couldn’t get together this weekend. I’ve had a small problem to deal with…”
Black pearls, she’d thought bitterly, or diamond and sapphire earrings? Or would they be considered a big problem, as opposed to a small one?
“By Wednesday, I’ll call you by Wednesday to see what suits you best,” he’d said in a voice she hardly recognized, quiet, sad, lost.
She’d played the message back twice, each time hearing more suffering in his voice. Of course, he was suffering with his mother so ill, so far away. Why couldn’t he go to the West Coast to be with her? “I’m in hell,” he’d said the week before. More likely in hiding. From the police? From avengers of Svank’s death? Whoever he was hiding from must surely now know of their relationship? Otherwise he could hide out with her.
Ginny agonized over what she could do to save her cousin from more grief. He may have brought everything on himself, but she couldn’t let him down now.
The more she thought about it, the more she remembered the Alex of other years, always being there for her when she was growing up, coming to her rescue during childhood dramas, buoying up her hopes, teaching her how to live. Now he needed her. She couldn’t turn away, not with his mother, Aunt LU, at death’s door.
On Tuesday morning, as Johnny was waking up to his new vision of himself, Ginny found more pictures from Oz in her mailbox. This time he included a copy of her old contact sheet and shots Ginny had no idea he’d taken of her at Esme’s wedding in the blush bridesmaid dress, pre-renovation. Her heart beat fast; also in the envelope was a full-length shot of her in the cloak, looking forlorn as she used the wrong entrance and climbed the steps of the New York Public Library.
When the phone rang around ten, she knew it would be Oz.
“What do you want?” She tried to keep her voice calm, unthreatening, and unthreatened. “Why send me those pictures?”
“You’ve always liked being a woman of mystery, haven’t you, Ginny? When I came back to town over the weekend I wasn’t surprised to learn you were still playing games, but they’re quite serious games now, aren’t they? I
must say you fooled me, and I can’t understand what you’re playing at even now.”
When she remained silent he snapped, “You owe me and a lot of people some explanations, don’t you? Are you getting a kick, some kind of weirdo feeling of power outa all this mystery woman stuff?”
Her mind raced, trying to think of a way to placate him without seeing him, to end the conversation without his feeling snubbed or rejected. Even as she played for time, she knew she was doomed to failure.
“Come over to the studio, tonight, about seven. I’d like to try some new shots of you, mystery woman. Then we’ll go out and have dinner or something equally interesting.”
“I’m not sure I can, Oz. I’m-”
“You can darling, believe me you can. Be here, no later than seven.” He didn’t add “or else.” His tone of voice said it for him.
It was blackmail, but she had no alternative. If she didn’t see him, didn’t attempt to explain why she’d gone home without him that night, quite apart from explaining, as she had to Esme, why she hadn’t claimed the Napoleonic nothing-but-trouble cloak, who knew what he would do to ruin her? She had to make peace; she had to make nice; she had to act as if she was about to fall under his spell and be seduced without letting him lay a finger on her.
She was thankful she had such a busy, chaotic day ahead She wouldn’t have much time to think about her problems, finding props for Lee, who as usual was working on the November issue in May, having to shoot winter scenes, although the sun was beginning to put in an appearance outside.
Ginny wasn’t so thankful when she raced home to find she’d missed two important calls, one from Johnny at 2:15 from National Airport, on his way back to New York; one from Alex at 3:40 from-who knew where. Neither message gave her any pleasure. Johnny would see her sometime soon, thank you very much. Alex didn’t even deliver that much information. “Alex here. I’ll call back later.”