“So your wife was with you from six o’clock on?”
“Yeah. We ate dinner, we watched TV for a while. She went to bed around ten, to do some reading.”
“What did you do?”
“Watched some more TV.”
“What time did you go to bed?”
“Around eleven.”
“You sure it wasn’t later than that? After you got back from across the street?”
Singer looked startled, and then frightened. “Jesus, you don’t think I killed Cindy, do you? That’s crazy. Why would I do a thing like that?”
“Maybe you had an argument with her. Maybe she wanted to break off the affair—”
“No! She didn’t want to break it off; she wanted me to leave Marian and marry her. She loved me …”
“But you didn’t love her, right?”
“What difference does that make?”
“Maybe it was you who wanted to break things off, and she wouldn’t let go. Threatened to tell your wife, expose the whole business.”
“That wasn’t the way it was! Officer, please, you’ve got to believe me. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t kill her!”
Singer was twitching and jerking so badly now that it almost looked as if he were dancing. He was fascinating to watch because he was such a perfect stereotype; Tobin felt like pulling a few more of his strings just to see what else he would do. But he didn’t see much point in it beyond his own amusement. He didn’t like Singer worth a damn and he wished Singer was the perp because nothing would have given him more pleasure than to nail such a classic white nigger—but this boy wasn’t the one they were after. A whiny little coward, yeah, but not a killer and not a psycho. Tobin could feel that deep down in his gut, what the media liked to call a “policeman’s sixth sense.”
Another goddamn dead end.
11:45 A.M. — E.L. OXMAN
Oxman found Vernon Wilson painting the outer rear wall of his modest apartment building in the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn. Wilson worked steadily, in blind mechanical strokes, like a automaton. He didn’t seem to want to stop working even when Oxman introduced himself and flashed the shield.
“I’m here about your ex-wife,” Oxman told him gently. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Figured somebody would be around sooner or later,” Wilson said. He was a big man, not tall but paunchy and barrel-chested, with muscle-corded forearms. The forearms bulged as he began again to stroke the paintbrush over the rough clapboard wall. “Ask what you want.”
Oxman went through the routine questions, using them to size up Wilson’s reactions as well as his answers. The big man’s eyes were red-rimmed and his voice was the dull monotone of sadness and shock. Oxman had seen plenty of grieving people in his career and he could recognize genuine grief when he saw it. Vernon Wilson’s grief was genuine.
And he had a good alibi for last night. He’d been at a special Teamsters Union meeting to discuss the pension fund, then had stopped at a bar on the lower West Side of Manhattan with half a dozen friends from Dillard Trucking, where he worked; Wilson and his buddies had knocked down beers until well past midnight. The friends would swear to his presence, he said, as would the bartender, who had argued baseball with Wilson. Oxman made a note of the friends’ names, the location of the bar. The union meeting didn’t figure into it, having been adjourned before ten P.M.
By the time Oxman was finished with Vernon Wilson, and left him to his grief-induced painting, it was almost noon. Jack Kennebank’s death was on his mind as he drove back across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. A kind of heavy pall had settled in Manders’s office, in the squadroom, in the rest of the precinct house as the news circulated. Oxman had felt it before, been a part of it before. What it was was a hundred men, a hundred cops, thinking the same dark thoughts: It could have been me. Next time it might be me.
It was some job, being a cop, Oxman thought. At least Beth was right about that, even if she didn’t understand what held men to the job. And when something like this happened, when one of your own was killed, it made you think about how short life was, and about how it could be cut even shorter unexpectedly. Time on this earth was something not to be wasted. The more of it you’d spent, the less there was left of it to be squandered.
He took the FDR Drive along the East River to Fifty-ninth Street, and then switched on his turn blinker and listened to it tick away seconds as he exited. He drove straight to Central Park, left his car not far from the Tavern on the Green.
He found Jennifer Crane easily enough. She was sitting cross-legged on the grass in the sun, sketching the restaurant from an oblique angle. Oxman said hello to her, and she glanced up from the sketchpad on her knees and smiled briefly before she went on working. More an artist’s preoccupation than unfriendliness, he judged.
Oxman walked around behind her and looked over her shoulder. She was working deftly and neatly in charcoal. The elegant glass-enclosed restaurant on the edge of the park had never looked so good.
“Very nice,” he said.
“Thank you, E.L.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d be here, after what happened last night.”
“I always keep my promises,” she said. “Besides, it’s much more pleasant here than cooped up inside my apartment.”
He watched her silently for a time, mesmerized by the darting, economical movements of her hand that were transformed into imagery.
“Have you had lunch?” he asked her.
“No.” She extended her right elbow, and the hand holding the charcoal made a series of delicate upward sweeps. “Is that an invitation?”
“It is.”
She motioned with her head toward the Tavern on the Green. “In there?”
“No, that’s too expensive for a policeman’s wallet.”
“An illustrator’s too.” Jennifer flipped the cover on her sketchpad and looked up at him. The grass was still slightly damp from a recent watering and had left faint damp spots on her skirt. Her long auburn hair glowed with deep, rich highlights in the sun; her cool green eyes were flecked with brown. Oxman let himself acknowledge the fact that she was beautiful. If she was ice, she was also fire.
“I know a pretty good place over on Fifty-fourth that’s open Sundays,” he said.
“Fine.” She stood up, brushed off her skirt, and tucked her sketchpad and an artist’s portfolio beneath her arm. “Is this going to be an official interrogation?”
Oxman could feel the direction of his life subtly changing. Let it change, he thought; he was like a ship that had been too long becalmed, ready to go wherever a cool, fresh wind might carry him.
He took Jennifer’s free arm and they began to walk. “Not an interrogation,” he said, “and as far from official as you can imagine.”
He thought of Kennebank. He thought of Beth. Then he became aware of the sun touching the right side of his neck and face with life and warmth and promise.
And he thought only of Jennifer Crane.
12:15 P.M. — RICHARD CORALES
Corales spent all morning avoiding the police. He knew about the new murder last night, some woman across the street; he’d heard all the racket after midnight and he’d heard Mrs. Muñoz and Mrs. Hayfield talking about it in the hallway this morning. So he knew the police would come around again, hassling him, asking questions he couldn’t answer, and he just didn’t want to deal with them anymore. What did he have to do with shootings and crazy people? Nothing. Nothing at all.
Besides, he had other things on his mind. Like his winning streak at gin rummy. Thirty-seven straight hands now—thirty-seven! That was incredible; that was something for the Guinness Book of World Records, all right. It made him tingle all over every time he thought about it.
How much longer would the streak last? Could he make forty, forty-five straight? Even fifty? Fifty straight had to be some kind of world record; if he could get to fifty, he’d ask Willie to help make out an application to the Guinness Book. He’d be some
body then. And he’d be able to prove it, too. He’d carry a copy of the Guinness Book with him everywhere he went, and when somebody he’d never met before asked what he did, he wouldn’t say “I’m a maintenance superintendent” like he had to now; he’d say “I hold the Guinness record for the longest gin rummy winning streak.”
Playing gin with Willie, establishing his world record—that was how he’d wanted to spend this Sunday. He’d felt lucky when he got up this morning, real lucky. He’d just been itching to get started. But no, there was that new murder, and the police all around, and then Willie had called up and said he couldn’t come by after all, like they’d planned, because he had some other things to do. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.
Right after Willie’s call, Corales had taken his toolbox and his passkey up to the Royces’ apartment on the fourth floor and locked himself inside. The Royces were out on Long Island for the weekend, and they’d been after him for days to fix their toilet because it didn’t flush right and their kitchen faucet because it leaked. The doorbell rang once, but he hadn’t answered it. He’d fixed the toilet and the kitchen faucet, then turned on the TV for a while, keeping the sound real low, to watch the Giants and Eagles game. His own TV was black-and-white; the Royces’ was color. Football was always better in color.
The only reason he left the apartment was because he was hungry and he didn’t want to sneak anything out of the Royces’ refrigerator. He wasn’t a thief. He thought he’d slip down to his own place, get some cold cuts and a loaf of bread and a couple of beers, and then come right back upstairs and watch the rest of the game.
But no sooner did he get down to the basement than here came Benny Hiller, from 3-B. Hiller hadn’t followed him down; he’d been in the basement, over by the garbage cans. He looked angry, too, like he wanted to hit somebody.
“You and me better talk, Corales,” he said.
“Sure, Mr. Hiller. What about?”
“That friend of yours, Lorsec. You let him in here again last night, after I called you?”
“Well, I guess I did,” Corales said sheepishly. “I didn’t see no harm in it, Mr. Hiller. Willie’s a good guy and he’s got to make a living same as the rest of us—”
“I told you I didn’t want him prowling around in here. He doesn’t live in this building. I don’t even know who the hell he is.”
“He’s a junk collector,” Corales said.
“Yeah? For all I know, he’s the bastard who’s been offing people on this block.”
“Willie wouldn’t hurt anybody. He’s my friend; we play gin rummy together. Did I tell you about my winning streak, Mr. Hiller?”
“I don’t give a shit about your winning streak,” Hiller said. “I told Lorsec and I told you that I don’t want him nosing around, and now I find out he’s been back at the trash again. That pisses me off, Corales. You piss me off.”
Corales frowned. He was starting to get a little pissed off himself. Hiller had yelled at him last night too, on the telephone; he didn’t like to be yelled at. He didn’t like people saying they didn’t give a shit about his winning streak, either. His winning streak was important. It was a lot more important than Willie poking around in the trash, looking for things to sell, and a lot more important than how upset Mr. Hiller was.
He said, “I don’t have to do what you tell me, Mr. Hiller. You don’t own this building.”
“That’s right, but I know who does. You want me to go to him, tell him you been letting strangers in without permission?”
“You wouldn’t do that,” Corales said, feeling a twinge of apprehension.
“The hell I wouldn’t. You let Lorsec in here again, let him steal something else, and I’ll see to it you’re out of a job.”
“Steal something? Willie didn’t steal nothing. I was with him the whole time.”
“He pawed through my garbage, took some things.”
“What things?”
“Never mind. Just things he had no right to take.”
“But you threw ’em away, Mr. Hiller. Otherwise they wouldn’t of been in your trash. It’s not stealing to take things a person has thrown away.”
“Quit arguing with me, dummy. I say he—”
“Don’t you ever call me dummy.”
Corales said it quiet, but his hands were bunched into fists now and Hiller could see how angry he was. Hiller backed up a step, like maybe he wasn’t so sure of himself after all, and said, “All right, forget I said that.”
“Don’t ever say it again.” Corales was satisfied, but still angry. “I’m not a dummy.”
“All right. But what I said before still stands. You let Lorsec in here again, I go to the building owner.”
Corales didn’t say anything. He’d have to think about what he was going to do; until he made a decision, he’d be better off to keep his mouth shut.
“One more thing,” Hiller said. “Where does he live?”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? Lorsec.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I want to talk to him.”
“What about?”
“About what he took from my garbage. He told me he lives on the next block. Which building?”
“I don’t know,” Corales said.
“Come on, Corales. Which building?”
“I don’t know. I got to go now, Mr. Hiller. I’ll remember what you said; I won’t forget none of it.”
He opened the door to his apartment and went inside. When he came out again five minutes later, loaded down with the bread and cold cuts and beer, Hiller was gone.
On the way back upstairs, Corales wondered what Willie had taken from Hiller’s trash. He hadn’t noticed anything in particular and Willie hadn’t offered to show him, as he sometimes did when he found an interesting item. What could it be that would get Hiller all stirred up like that? Trash was trash, wasn’t it?
Corales couldn’t figure it out, so he quit thinking about it. There was no point in worrying about things you couldn’t figure out. The murders, that was another example. And the cops. No, it was better to think about things you understood, good things, things that made you happy. Like sandwiches and beer and football on Sunday afternoon. Like a thirty-seven hand winning streak at gin rummy that would maybe turn into a fifty-hand winning streak and put him in the Guinness Book of World Records.
He was smiling by the time he let himself back into the Royces’ apartment, feeling good again, feeling lucky again. Willie, he thought, I sure do wish you were here.
3:10 P.M. — JENNIFER CRANE
On the way back from lunch, sitting alongside E.L. Oxman in his car, Jennifer felt an odd mixture of exhilaration and unease. On the one hand he was an attractive man and the thought of going to bed with him, now or later, was tremendously exciting. But on the other hand, he stirred things inside her, resurrected feelings and emotions that she had long ago buried. She could care for him, and that frightened her. She had cared for no man, no other person, since Zach; she must never let herself care for anyone except herself.
So far in this budding relationship, she was in complete control. She had manipulated E.L., seduced him mentally as she would seduce him physically; it was a game she had played many times with many men and she was very good at it. But she sensed that the situation could turn around on her, so subtly perhaps that she wouldn’t even know it was happening until it was too late. He was a strong-willed man, intelligent, with a great deal of depth; he could be manipulated for a while, but he could not be controlled indefinitely. She had known men like him before, and always, always, she had broken off with them while she still held the upper hand. Yet she had felt little for any of them. They were just men, warm bodies on cold nights, hard hot flesh to fill the cavity of loneliness. It was different with E.L. Oxman. The seeds of caring had been sown inside her for the first time in nine years and it would not take much to make them sprout.
It amazed her that she could have nascent feelings like this aft
er so many years. After what Zach had done to her. She had told herself often enough that she hated men, and she still supposed that this was true. So how could something like this happen to her? She hadn’t let her guard down, hadn’t changed her outlook, hadn’t lost any of her bitterness or her resolve. How could it happen?
The murders, she thought, that’s how. The death of Martin Simmons had shaken her far more than she had let on to E.L., more than she had let on to herself at first. A man she hardly knew, a man like a hundred others she had picked up and brought home; but a man who had gone from her bed and her body to his death a few minutes later. It wasn’t her fault that he’d been killed. She had told E.L. that and she believed it. There was no way she could have known what would take place after she asked Marty to leave; she was innocent, she had done only what it was her custom to do. Nonetheless, his death had shaken her, opened her up inside, made her vulnerable again.
She glanced over at E.L. He was looking straight ahead, both hands on the wheel—a competent driver, with a hint of both power and aggression in his handling of the car. I should break it off with him right now, she thought. No sex, don’t even let it go that far. But just looking at him built up a prickling heat between her legs. God, she wanted to go to bed with him! It was an almost overpowering need, and the very intensity of it added to her sense of unease. It was dangerous to want a man that badly, because that was the way she had wanted Zach in the beginning.
Zach. Thinking of him again, in spite of herself. Big all over, thickly muscled, incredible in bed. Six times one night, orgasms by the bushel—incredible. Strong macho personality, easygoing most of the time but with a mean streak, a dark side she’d only been partly aware of before she got pregnant. Her fault, the pregnancy, because she’d forgotten to get her prescription for the Pill refilled. His rage when she told him, his rage when she said she wanted to have the baby. The fights. And then the beating, using his fists, hitting her over and over in the stomach until she began to hemorrhage, and then leaving her there on the floor, bleeding, to crawl to the phone and call an ambulance to come and take her to the hospital. She had never seen him again after that night. Which was a good thing, because if he had tried to come near her she would have killed him. She would have murdered him the way he had murdered her baby.…
The Eye: A Novel of Suspense Page 14