by Shirley Lord
“You can’t let another day pass, Ginny, you know that”
She covered her face with her hands, her thin shoulders shaking in the old-fashioned nightshirt. She looked so helpless, so fragile. Despite himself his anger and suspicion began to evaporate. It was replaced by tenderness and remorse, for not looking after her, for not protecting her from nightmares like Stern and Svank.
He let the silence settle in. He longed to dry her tears, to gather her up and hold her close for the rest of his life, but he did nothing. He was scared at the depth of his feelings. He wanted to think it through.
They were so alike, hiding their vulnerability beneath such tough “in your face” exteriors; both leading such unreal lives, he either the guest in other people’s palaces, or the host with an expense account; she pinning her hopes and talent on bluffing her way into a society that measured merit on the amount of media coverage.
“Johnny…” There was the sweetest, most beseeching look he’d ever seen on a woman’s face. It said everything he wanted to hear. She loved him; she needed him; she trusted him. He was in love with her; he didn’t want to be, but he had to acknowledge it to himself, if not to her.
He switched off the light, threw off the blanket and his clothes. “Ginny, I believe you,” he whispered. As their bodies made contact, they began to make love. It was impossible to stop.
Later, much later, neither thought they would be able to sleep; yet they were both sleeping deeply when the phone rang just before dawn.
“Hello?”
“Who’s sleeping in my bed?” There was a high, maniacal laugh.
Ginny was so sleepy she didn’t know if she was dreaming. “What did you say?” There was a click. Johnny groaned in his sleep. It must have been a bad dream. She snuggled up against his back and didn’t wake up until his hands and mouth began to caress her once again.
It was eight o’clock. A cool light emphasized some of the shabbiness in the loft. Where was Johnny? She could hear him moving around the place, getting dressed. She hoped he didn’t notice the peeling paint, the threadbare spot in the Indian carpet.
She stared at a damp patch on the ceiling. Did he love her? She longed to ask him… longed even more for him to ask her to be… well, the impossible… a proposal, a formal, legal, “Will you be my wedded wife?” She was crazy. Instead, Johnny called out from the kitchen to ask if she had any cereal.
She did. Somewhere. Thanks to Esme’s good advice.
She showered while he made breakfast. It was Mr. and Mrs. Average America getting ready to face a working day until Johnny, facing her over the kitchen table, cupped her face in his hands and said, “Ginny, you’ve got to go to the police today. You can’t put it off any longer. Stern’s a nightmare, but you can’t live with the knowledge you’re letting an innocent man take the rap for somebody else.”
She nodded, trying to stop the tears from falling again.
“I’ve got to check into the office, but I’ll come back in an hour or so to take you to the precinct. We’ll face this together. Okay?”
She nodded again, too full of remorse and fear to speak.
Johnny was getting ready to go. She couldn’t bear it
At the door he said, “Don’t worry. I’ll have a lawyer on hand to call, in case you need one, but I don’t think you will. You can’t be prosecuted at this stage for withholding evidence, but you must tell them everything, just as you told me. And Ginny, look your best, wear your latest design. You have to be prepared for a lot of press. You have nothing to worry about. You’re an innocent party, so take what you can from this ugly episode and learn from it.” He shook his head angrily. “I should never have encouraged you in your crashing. I must have been out of my mind…”
She tried to kiss him, but he moved his head away. “The whole thing’s disgraceful. It’s going to be hard for anyone to understand how a sweet young thing like you could go off with a guy like Stern, but I understand… at least I think I do. I’m ashamed of you for doing it, but I have to say this could be the opportunity you’ve wanted for years. Now you can take credit for that wretched cloak that you say is the talk of the town.”
“Have you forgiven me?”
“I think so.” He tugged at her braids. “I will if you get rid of these.”
“Do you-”
“Do I what?” He was smiling now in the usual, crinkly-eyed Johnny way as if things were normal and she wasn’t about to be sent to jail.
“Oh, nothing.”
“Do I love you?’
He held her so close, she could feel his body stirring. In a second they’d be back in bed. She hoped so, but no, it wasn’t going to happen this morning. Too much had to be cleared up first.
“How deep is the ocean, how high is the sky? D’you know that song, Ginny?”
“I know it”
“Then you know the answer to your question.”
He ran down the stairs whistling. He felt like a different man from the suspicious, angry one who’d arrived the night before. He’d forgotten his suspicions. He had every reason to whistle. Once his frightened, foolish young Ginny told the police the truth, they could concentrate on finding the real killer; and he, John Q. Peet, was sure it would turn out to be someone in Svank’s own hierarchy.
As Johnny opened the heavy downstairs door, someone was watching, waiting across the street. It was Oz, huddled in a doorway, way down after a drug high and consumed with rage and jealousy.
So he’d been right all along. Ginny Walker was the two timing bitch he’d always suspected. She’d given him the slip the night before, as she always had; not because she was the Miss Goody Two-shoes she pretended to be, but because she knew she had this second-rate hack waiting upstairs to fuck her all night.
It was time for revenge. The whore was about to learn what happened when you mess with Oz Tabori.
Johnny had been gone about ninety minutes when the intercom buzzed. “Ms. Ginny Walker?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Petersh and Detective Reever, we have reason to believe you have information pertaining to-” She held the phone away from her ear. The loft swung crazily from side to side. She held on to the kitchen cabinet. Johnny had betrayed her? Johnny had gone straight to the police? If she had to spend the rest of her life in jail, what did it matter? All her hopes and dreams were smashed.
“Are you there? Can we come in?”
“Yes, yes. Please come up. Top floor.”
She wasn’t wearing any makeup, but she’d brushed out her braids and was already dressed in the copper-colored velvet tunic she’d been able to squeeze out from the leftover cloak material, by cutting it on the bias à la Milan’s Alberta Ferretti.
Johnny had told her to wear her latest design, she thought bitterly. Until today, she’d never been able to wear it. It had been hidden at the back of the cupboard. When Johnny told her to be prepared for the press after she made her full confession, she’d decided that wearing the copper velvet tunic was one way to prove she was the designer of the celebrated copper-colored cloak.
She was surprised by her composure, offering the detectives coffee (they declined), anxious to get the horror over with.
Tm sorry you had to come here. I was on my way to see you this morning.”
Although it was the truth, she knew how feeble and far fetched it sounded. Without much prompting she told the detectives in a low monotone the entire story of her decision to crash the event, making the special cloak for the occasion, arriving at the library at the wrong entrance, meeting Oz and being escorted by him to the right one. She even told them about picking up a card from the W section and not realizing until much later that she’d picked up Barbara Walters’s seating assignment
She didn’t spare herself, knowing how cheap and calculating her whole modus operandi of crashing sounded. The detectives were expressionless, and she showed no emotion until she began to describe what happened when Stern and she arrived on the upper floor.
She bit her lip, aware she was g
oing to break down.
“Was this the first New York party you crashed?” It was Reever, the older detective, asking a question for the first time. He smiled as he spoke; he looked kinder than Petersh.
“No, sir.”
“Are you usually so successful?”
An ashamed, affirmative nod.
“Was there a specific reason for you wanting to crash this particular event?” Petersh’s voice was much sharper, more suggestive of major wrongdoing. She could sense he despised her. She didn’t blame him.
There was nothing to be gained by mentioning Johnny’s name or, certainly, that of Quentin Peet.
“No. I’ve always crashed because I…” She couldn’t think of how to put it into words. Her voice broke as it came out, “… because I want to get publicity for my clothes… to be photographed… to find a backer.”
The detectives exchanged glances.
“But you went to such elaborate lengths for this occasion… the expensive cloak…” Petersh looked disdainfully around the loft. He didn’t need to add, Why spend the money on that when there’s so much to do here? “Did you go in the hopes of meeting Mr. Svank?” His tone was cutting.
“No, no, of course not. I already knew Svank… at least…” She felt she’d made a mistake. “I’ve designed, made clothes for a friend of his, Poppy Gan.”
“How well did you know the deceased?”
“I shouldn’t have said I knew him. I mean over the years I saw a lot of him…” Ginny waved her hands about helplessly. “Whenever I was with Poppy… he didn’t really know me.
Her head ached as they grilled her for what seemed like hours. They wanted dates, times, and places where she’d actually seen Svank; they wanted to know who was with him and what had been said. They asked her the same questions over and over again, particularly about Stern and what she saw on the third floor.
“Let’s go through it one more time, Ms. Walker. You saw two men apparently fighting at the end of the hall. Neither of them was Mr. Stern? You did not witness Mr. Stern fighting with anyone?”
“No, I’ve already told you, Stern was with me. If it hadn’t been for the gunshot he would have raped me-”
Petersh cut across harshly. “You saw the victim pushed over the balcony; you saw a tall shadowy figure running away. What else can you remember about this tall shadowy figurer
“I told you. It was too dark and after the… the accident, the murder, he disappeared-”
“Down the hidden stairwell, you say? The same fire escape exit you say you used to get away?”
She sighed. How many more times did she have to repeat the story of her own escape? Neither detective looked as if they believed her.
“Why did you follow this tall shadowy figure? Did you recognize him, know him?”
“Of course not, of course I didn’t know him,” she said hastily. “I was scared… terrified… I didn’t know what to do, but I guess I had to be more scared of Stern, of what he would do to me if I didn’t get away.”
They were asking her to describe once again the tall shadowy figure when, to her horror, she heard the intercom buzz.
Alex. “I’ll call you Wednesday to see what suits you best,” he’d said. It was Wednesday. Oh, God, please don’t let it be Alex. The detectives saw her tense up.
“That’s your intercom,” said Reever.
“Yes, I know.” She sat, frozen, unable to move.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?”
On leaden legs she went into the little kitchen.
“Ginny.”
Johnny. How could he have the gall? “The detectives are here already,” she said icily. “You could have spared yourself a trip. They came as soon as you called them.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Let me in at once.”
“No.”
“I’ll just keep my finger on the buzzer until you do. You silly woman, you don’t think I went to the police without you, do you?”
By the time Johnny climbed the last flight of stairs, the detectives were standing up, looking as if they were ready to go.
“We’d like you to come with us to tell your story to the district attorney.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Nope…” Ginny could have sworn Petersh mouthed, “not yet.” He looked angry, hot, and bothered.
The atmosphere changed for the better when Johnny came in, smiling, shaking hands. “I’m John Q. Peet, Next! magazine, a friend of Ms. Walker’s.” Although Ginny glared at him, he came over to her and put his arm casually around her waist. “She was coming to see you officers this morning. You beat her to it. I only heard last night about the whole sorry mess she got herself into. I’ve been in Washington on a story. She wanted to go to the police, but was too afraid…” He grimaced in his most charming, self-deprecating way. “I’m afraid I was the reason she crashed the library dinner the other night… it was an innocent adventure which ended very badly, nothing more than that”
“I’m sure it can all be cleared up, Mr. Peet. We’d like Ms. Walker to make a statement now to the D.A.’s office.” “Does this mean the case against Stern will be dismissed?’ “I can’t make any predictions, Mr. Peet. I’m sure you realize that.” Petersh looked coldly at Ginny. “Shall we be going?”
“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it? How about a celebration feast in Chinatown?” Johnny was smiling at her in the way her mother used to, after a visit to the dentist.
“Sure, I’d love to. Where d’you suggest? I’m so confused, I’ve lost my bearings. Where exactly are we?”
“At the tip of Manhattan, just below Chinatown. Not that far from Little Italy. Okay, ten-dollar spring rolls or a dollar-and-a-half spaghetti. You choose.”
“Spring rolls.”
Ginny looked back at the menacing, ugly building they’d just left, and shivered. Thank God, Johnny had convinced her he’d had nothing to do with the detectives’ arrival at the loft. Oz must have talked, for who else could it be? Thank God, too, that Johnny had insisted on going with her to the D.A.’s office at 100 Centre Street, where she’d never been more depressed in her life.
Nothing had prepared her for the sight of the D.A.’s office in the Criminal Court Building--ominous, vast, stretching for the length of several city blocks. Nothing had prepared her for its somber interior, either. As they’d followed the detectives along a maze of dreary narrow corridors, Johnny told her it housed in cramped and tiny cubbyholes thousands of toilers in the criminal justice system: judges, assistant district attorneys, legal-aid lawyers, and probation officers.
As long as Johnny was with her she’d managed to feel reasonably calm, but when he was asked to wait in another area and she was escorted to a waiting room with all the charm of a prison cell, panic had set in. She’d been sure she’d never get out; in some way she’d be implicated in the murder and incarcerated in the Tombs-the cells connected to the courthouse at its northern end by the “bridge of sighs.”
It hadn’t happened. She’d finally given her statement on tape to a bent-over, exhausted-looking assistant district attorney in the Homicide Division, who hadn’t hounded her like Petersh and Reever, but who, exceedingly carefully, line by line, had spent an interminable time reading the detectives’ lengthy notes.
“You were with Arthur Stern from 8:25 P.M. to approximately 8:45 RM. on the third floor of the New York Public Library on the night of May second when you both witnessed two men fighting?” He sounded as if he had a terrible cold.
“Yes.”
“You both witnessed one man push the other over the balcony, following a gunshot?”
“Yes.”
He read on, croaking and wheezing, asking her to repeat how she left the library, then called in a secretary to type up the statement.
When it came back, he switched on the tape again and asked her to swear to its accuracy and then sign it. He seemed so uninterested, she’d had the courage to ask him, “What’s going to happen to Mr. Stern now?”
&n
bsp; He wouldn’t give her an answer. “That decision isn’t mine to make,” he’d said pompously.
It all seemed perfectly straightforward to her. Her alibi would exonerate Stern and the police would begin their search again.
If Alex didn’t convince her when they met that he’d had nothing to do with Svank’s death, would she give him away?
The sun suddenly came out, warming her whole body. It seemed like a good omen. Like Scarlett O’Hara, she’d think about it tomorrow.
As she strolled with Johnny in the direction of Mott Street, she realized there hadn’t been any sign of the press after all. She wasn’t that sorry. She wasn’t sure she wanted her identity known, even in order to take credit for the cloak. If it hadn’t been Alex in the upper hall, the last thing she wanted was for the real killer to know who she was.
“What are you looking so worried about now?” Johnny seemed concerned, holding her tightly to his side.
An unusual, warm feeling of being safe and loved crept over her. Everything was going to be all right; her living nightmare was about to come to an end.
“Nothing, Johnny, really nothing. I haven’t felt so happy in ages.” And it was true.
She might not have felt that way if she could have seen the look on Matthew Mossop’s face as he finished reading her statement “What a bitch,” he said to nobody in particular.
The assistant district attorney pursed his lips, trying to look in full agreement, although he wasn’t sure whether his boss was alluding to the girl or the situation.
Matthew Mossop was chief of the Trial Division, in charge of the several hundred lawyers responsible for all the violent-crime prosecution in the office. He was also one of the few who reported directly to the big chief, the district attorney of New York County.
“I think the girl’s covering up something,” Petersh snarled.
Mossop looked at the detective as if he wished he’d drop dead. Petersh was his favorite detective in the Homicide Squad, generally as tenacious as a terrier with a bone, helping the prosecution pile up evidence against the accused; but this morning’s piece of work was a disastrous setback in their case against Stern, and Petersh knew it.