Shadow Dancers

by Herbert Lieberman

  “What time of the evening was it, Hector?” Mooney asked.

  “Right after supper. Seven o’clock, or so.”

  “How much light was there in the street?” Pickering asked.

  “It was summer,” Mooney reminded him. “Early June. At that hour there must’ve still been light.”

  The nodding of Berrida’s head was in direct ratio to his degree of agitation. “Sure — there was plenty of light. I could see him. No trouble, man. No sweat.”

  “Clear?”

  “Clear. Like you and me, now.”

  “Okay.” Mooney patted the young man’s shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t look at me. Look at those guys out there.” Mooney flung an arm out at the window.

  Berrida’s frightened eyes returned to the glass, swarming across it right to left and back again. Painfully conscious of all the uniformed personnel about him, the stenographer taking down his every word, he felt a pressing need to come up with some kind of a response. “That guy. Over there on the right. Maybe …”

  “Which one? The far right?”

  “No. Not him. Next to him.”

  “The dude in the chino vest?” Pickering asked.

  “Yeah. That could be something like him.”

  “Something like him.” Pickering bristled with scorn. Ferris Koops was positioned about seven men down, a good way over on the other side.

  Mooney was aware of time running out, as well as of the costly talent of expensive law firms at that very moment drafting scorching depositions against the city. He sighed. “Look again. Once more, Hector. Just to be sure.”

  Berrida could see something in the detective’s eyes that told him he’d failed. Beneath the beehive Afro cut, sweat glistened on his brow. Sitting cross-legged, his sharply pointed patent-leather shoe elevated as the toe pumped up and down like a piston. The hurt, anxious gaze still swept back and forth across the glass at the lineup of faces — all different but somehow exasperatingly alike. The context in which they appeared made them all very similar. The framing of the picture provided by the window gave it the posed, static look of a class graduation photograph.

  “Maybe that other guy.” Berrida’s gaze seized on a darkish, Hispanic-looking young man whose features wore the expression of sullen boredom typical of the street-hardened, socially disenfranchised.

  “Which other guy, Hector?”

  “The Spanish guy,” Berrida said, with a note of regret. He felt like a traitor, but he was certain that particular response would get him out of there faster.

  Mooney sighed and snapped his file folder shut. “Okay, Hector. You can go now.”

  Berrida looked wary. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it, Hector. We’ll be in touch if we need you again.”

  The young man looked back and forth at each of them distrustfully. He was certain there was more to come. He sat there for a moment, waiting for it. When nothing happened, he rose, or rather bounced, to his feet, shifting there hesitantly. “Okay?”

  “Okay, Hector.” Mooney nodded slowly. “Right through that door there at the rear. The sergeant’ll show you out.”

  When the young man had gone, Pickering flicked a switch and spoke into a microphone with speakers on the other side of the glass. “Okay. That’s it. Sweep ‘em out.” In the next moment, a burly sergeant appeared. They could hear the loud clap of his hands on the other side of the glass and watched the line face left and straggle off.

  Mooney and Pickering sat unspeaking in the darkened little room, their feet propped up on the ledge projecting out from beneath the glass.

  Pickering cleared his throat uneasily. “Well, what now?”

  “You got me those mug shots?”

  “Out there on your desk. Looks like Koops is in the clear.”

  “Who says?”

  Pickering’s troubled gaze searched the older man’s face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Means that Koops is not the dark, romantic-looking one. But he sure as hell could be the pale blond wispy one the Bailey kid described, as well as the guy the doorman up at Eight Sixty Fifth Avenue described in the Bender job.” Mooney stared gloomily out at the vacant lineup room where the indirect fluorescent lighting cast a harsh, ghostly blue sheen over the emptiness. “I haven’t given up on Koops yet. I still can’t figure what the hell he was doing out in front of fourteen Bridge Street three nights in a row — the same address as the one on the registration for our missing Mercedes. Too much of a coincidence.”

  The door behind them opened suddenly, spotlighting them in a shaft of mote-filled light from the outer room. “Phone call out here for you, lieutenant,” a desk sergeant barked at them.

  “Who is it?” Mooney barked back.

  “Guy called Drummond.”

  “Jesus,” Mooney moaned. “The Wells, Gray piranha. Tell him I’m out.”

  “Where are you?” the sergeant inquired.

  “I’m in Rockaway. On a job. Not expected back for the rest of the day.”

  The door closed with an emphatic click and once again the two detectives were alone in the gray darkness behind the glass.

  “You going out to see the Pell dame?” Pickering asked.

  “You betcha.”

  “What about that snotty doctor?”

  “What about him?”

  “Hasn’t he put the kibosh on all interviews?”

  “I don’t recall his saying that.” Mooney’s smile was slightly askew as he started out.

  “Want some company?” Pickering called after him.

  “This one I think I better do myself.”

  “What about Drummond?”

  “Tell him there’s a hitch in the paperwork. It’s just a formality. Don’t release Koops till you hear from me.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  YES, SHE WAS LOOKING SO MUCH BETTER, HE heard himself say. A vast improvement since the last time. And the new apartment was a fine idea. Spectacular view out over Jamaica Bay on one side to the spangled waters of the Bockaway inlet on the other.

  His mind obsessed with Koops and his ferocious attorneys, Mooney fidgeted in his chair, desperate to get beyond the chatty amenities.

  Claire Pell, on the other hand, was not. She knew the purpose of his visit, and, firmly but graciously, she dug herself in to forestall anything substantive in the way of talk. She had made progress toward a modest recovery over the past several months since the “incident,” as it was now referred to. Her move to the bright new high-rise condominium, not far from the old house, but seemingly universes away, had been felicitous. Once again she was sleeping through the night and could hold down food. Her physicians were not yet ready to risk a relapse by exposing her to interrogation by the police.

  Mooney knew he was there against the wishes of her doctor and without authorization from the department. The breach of regulations in this instance seemed justified. If Ferris Koops was in any way implicated in the Dancer killings, Mooney was not yet ready to set him free. True, he had no trump cards in his hand with which to make a strong case for holding him. But the outcome of his meeting with Claire Pell could very well change all that.

  “How do you spend your time?” he asked, full of bogus concern while watching for the propitious moment in which to spring.

  She smiled wearily, miles ahead of him, knowing precisely where he was attempting to lead her.

  “I read a lot. Do crossword puzzles. The television. I keep busy.”

  “Beautiful place you’ve got here,” Mooney went on with desperate cheer. “I like the way you’ve fixed it up.”

  “My daughter helped. She’s a designer, you know. Actually, she’s a housewife, but she does a bit of designing on the side. She’s got a real flair.”

  “Great to have a talent like that,” Mooney replied with feeble enthusiasm.

  They lapsed into another silence. Mooney ransacked his brain for some conversational key with which to adroitly unlock the gates barring the way to discussion. Curiously enough, it was she who fin
ally gave it to him. “I couldn’t very well go back to the old house.”

  “Of course not,” he agreed.

  “To have to sleep in that room again.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  Mooney watched her rise and stroll toward the large picture windows fronting the bay. He rose and followed her. Together they stood staring out over the flat brown swampland that crept out in tufts and hummocks toward the choppy waters of the inlet. “Beautiful view,” he rattled on breezily. “You’ll enjoy that terrace in the summer.”

  It was then she turned and gazed at him ruefully. “You know, lieutenant, I’m not supposed to talk with you. My doctor said …”

  “Yes,” he murmured. “I know what he said. If I were him, I’d say the same. He’s doing his job. He’s looking out for you.”

  “And you?” She stared at him pointedly. “Who are you looking out for?”

  With all of the evasions and circumlocutions that had preceded the moment, the directness of her question took his breath away. Before he could reply, she’d answered it for him. “For yourself, of course.”

  His smile grew a bit more strained. “I have my job to do, too.”

  “Of course,” she replied and turned back to the vast prospect of sky and water beyond the glass. They both grew quiet again, absorbed in the stubborn progress of a small trawler bouncing its way over the choppy waters heading out to sea.

  “What exactly is it you want of me?” she asked. There was nothing of ill will in her tone, but it did suggest she wished to terminate their meeting as quickly as possible. She turned and moved a trifle unsteadily back to her chair.

  He followed her there and sank into a soft, infinitely yielding divan beside her. “I’d like to show you a picture.”

  Her back stiffened and her eyes shifted sidewards, as if she were regarding him from beneath her lashes. “What sort of picture?”

  “It’s a photograph. A young man. All I want you to do is tell me whether or not you’ve ever seen him before.” He watched her, her gaze riveted to the floor, deeply aware of some sort of struggle going on behind the pale, waxen oval of her face. An audible acceleration in her breathing was the prologue to her reply. “I don’t want to see any pictures, lieutenant.”

  “I can appreciate that. All the same —”

  “My doctors have said —”

  “I understand. Believe me, I wouldn’t have bothered you today if I didn’t feel this was absolutely crucial.”

  “And is this picture … this man … is he supposed to be the one …”

  “Possibly.”

  “I don’t want to see that man again.” Her voice suddenly rose. “I never want to ever—”

  “I understand,” he said softly, using his voice to assuage her. “I have this man in custody now. Based on what you might possibly tell me here today, I must either release him or hold him, pending further investigation. So this is quite important.”

  “Why do you believe this is the man?” Her manner had grown a trifle waspish and peremptory.

  “For a variety of reasons that may sound vague to you and possibly just coincidental. I’ve been close to this case for over a year now, and, quite honestly, I still can’t answer these questions to my own satisfaction.”

  In the next moment, he withdrew an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. He watched her eyes follow his hand to the point where it stopped and held the envelope dangling between two fingers.

  She stared at it, slowly shaking her head back and forth. “I can’t.”

  “It would make all the difference.”

  “I’m sorry.” She suddenly rose. “I really can’t.”

  He watched her move off again, aware of some quiet struggle raging within the taut, narrow frame.

  “My husband’s been gone four months now,” she suddenly announced. “There isn’t a day goes by I don’t think of him.”

  “I can appreciate that,” Mooney replied. He couldn’t think of much more to say.

  “I want to go away from here,” she chattered on, almost irrelevantly, struggling to regain equanimity through her voice alone. “I don’t care for this apartment. I hate this apartment. I want to go away. Someplace warm. Maybe South Carolina. I have family there. Would you like some coffee?” she asked suddenly, bolting for the kitchen. “I have some fresh.”

  “No, thank you.”

  She looked distraught. “Neither do 1.1 drink too much coffee.”

  “I can’t handle the caffeine,” Mooney offered sympathetically.

  “It’s not the caffeine with me. It’s the acid.” She patted the area just below her breastbone. Her eyes strayed back warily to the envelope dangling from Mooney’s hand.

  “My husband was a very fine man,” Claire Pell went on, visibly subduing the demons leaping inside her. “A gentleman of the old school. People adored him. He built up a very successful printing business before he retired. He was also quite an accomplished musician. A violinist. I don’t suppose you knew that?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Mooney murmured, at a loss.

  Her eyes glistened vividly out of the chalky pallor of her face, her gaze transfixed on the small white paper rectangle. “I suppose I owe this to Martin.” Her searching, frantic eyes looked up at him for confirmation.

  “And to eighteen others as well,” Mooney wanted to add, but resisted the impulse. He held his breath, watching her with the same morbid fixity with which one watches a high-wire act that’s about to get into trouble. From the appearance of self-possession he encountered on first entering the room, what confronted him now appeared unstable and unpredictable. Oh, God, he thought to himself, don’t let her pop now. Not now.

  “If it were the other way around, I’m sure Martin would never have expected this of me,” she continued, while backing away from him. “He would not have wanted to put me through this.”

  “Probably not,” Mooney readily conceded. Inside, he was crumbling, the specter of Sylvestri panting down his back.

  “I don’t think so, either, lieutenant.” Her back stiffened. “I’m sorry. I just can’t, and let’s leave it at that.”

  She wheeled off again toward the windows, then just as abruptly turned back. “If I were to look at that face again …” Something caught in her throat.

  “It’s okay. I understand.”

  He had the impression she’d been disappointed by his patience and sympathy. It was as though she’d wanted him to quarrel more about it, to press the point. To get away from him, she started for the front door. He shuffled after her like a large, docile bear.

  “Well, wherever you go,” Mooney said as they stood in embarrassment at the open door, “I wish you the best of luck.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “That’s very kind of you.”

  Her hand rose to take his. It was his right hand, the one still holding the envelope. He made to shift it to his left but before he could, she snatched it, tore the envelope open, turned half away, and plucked the mug shot out. Mooney lurched for the empty envelope fluttering downward to the carpet. From a point beneath her waist, he had a sharp prospect of Claire Pell glaring down at the photo. There was something hard and unrelenting in her eyes. For what seemed an agonizingly long time, he held his breath. In the next moment, she laughed aloud, relief and color suffusing her features. “I’ve never seen this man before in my life.”

  He called the office from a public phone booth in a small stationery store downstairs. Pickering’s voice snarled with exasperation. “That prick Drummond’s been on the phone every half hour since you left. They’re pressing charges of illegal detention.”

  “Tell Drummond to hold his water. We’re releasing Koops. We don’t have a thing we can hold him on, but let’s keep a tail on him all the same.”

  Driving up West Side Drive that evening, Warren had become increasingly uneasy. He was certain he was being followed. The garage attendant had been too friendly. Why had he told him so much? The panic he felt in his haste to get away from th
e city had unnerved him. The thought of the police coming to Bridge Street, the awful certainty that they’d traced him there through his car, and, most unsettling of all, this Koops person who went about imitating him represented something potentially disastrous. Though he’d steered clear of Bridge Street for several days, sleeping in a succession of seedy transient hotels, the knowledge that he should have been far from the city by this time wore heavily on him. To delay any longer was reckless.

  Though it was cool, even cold, in the car, Warren could feel sweat trickling beneath his clothing. He switched on the radio, playing it very loud to drive the demon thoughts out of his head. But then Suki came crowding in, muscling aside the shattering decibels. It was she, he was suddenly convinced, not the auto body shop, who had betrayed him to the police.

  The flat, dark sheet of river, sliding past on his left, flashed and shimmered with lights from large housing complexes across the water on the Jersey shore. Farther north, up around the Cloisters, a sky bathed orange in the haze of incinerator smoke and neon lights heightened his sense of flight from some approaching cataclysm.

  All the way up from lower Manhattan a part of his mind — that part not preoccupied with his own swirling terrors — had been watching license plates, tallying up their numbers, studying the frequency of their patterns for some hint of what augured for his future. At the beginning of his flight, when he’d first rolled up the ramp at 49th Street onto the West Side Drive, the pattern that had asserted itself was distinctly bad. By and large there was a preponderance of three-digit numbers all adding up to the inauspicious twelves or sevens, or, worse yet, the doomed sixteens that he feared so much. Between 49th Street and Riverdale he had added up so many license plates that the act itself had become compulsive to the point of involuntary reflex. He could no lunger stop himself. Numbers racketed about in his head at a fearful speed. At a certain point, as he struggled to add every set of figures that came within his gaze, he had the sensation that he was watching a Ping-Pong ball bouncing back and forth over a net at ever-increasing speeds. At last the ball had become a white blur. It was an image from which he could no longer avert his gaze.