Exceptional Clearance

by William Caunitz

  Bode went on in a sad tone, “A virginal beauty and a virginal beast meet and fall in love. Their first encounters were casual. They continued running into each other in the library, and they were drawn closer and closer together. Loneliness does that. You desperately grasp at any signs of love or friendship. Valarie was going through a trying period in her life. She’d not taken her final vows and wasn’t sure she wanted to. And before either of them realized what was happening, they were in love.”

  He gulped the rest of the wine in his glass, poured more, and angrily jammed the bottle back into the ice bucket. “Their love ended as all respectable Greek dramas do, in inexorable, gut-wrenching tragedy.”

  “Did you hear from Frank after his wife died?”

  “Nothing for a while. Then, seven months after Valarie’s death, he telephoned asking to borrow ten thousand dollars. I lent him the money and he repaid it within eighteen months. I never heard from him again.”

  “Seven months after her death would make it January of ’80, and repayment eighteen months later would make it July ’81.”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “Did he tell you why he needed the money?”

  “No.”

  “How did you two communicate after he left school?”

  “We exchanged letters.”

  Vinda reached out and picked up his glass. “Do you still have those letters?”

  “No. I threw them away.”

  Vinda knew somehow that Bode was lying. “Why do you think Otto Holman took Frank under his wing?”

  “Holman was also an abused child. He was scared and mistrustful, and tried to hide it behind his bravado. People like that only let the less fortunate get close to them. And Frank’s ugliness put him on the bottom of the heap.”

  “Do you think Frank was capable of taking his own life?”

  Bode looked at Vinda contemptuously. “We’re all capable of taking our own lives, Lieutenant. All that it requires is the right set of circumstances occurring at precisely the right moment. Death for Frank would have meant release from torment, and the beginning of a great adventure.”

  “Who is Dinny’O?”

  Bode sank into a sullen silence and yanked the bottle out of the ice bucket. “Dinny’O was Frank’s childish version of a myth out of ancient Irish folklore. A Robin Hood–type hero who came out of the mountains to smite evildoers. Whenever Frank did something reprehensible, he would try to avoid responsibility for his act by slipping into his Dinny’O act.”

  He shoved the bottle back into the ice, and, holding the glass by its stem, recited:

  “From thunderous fire Dinny’O did rise

  with ancient fury in his eyes.

  Through the darkness he did soar

  to fight the demons of the moor.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  During the flight back to Manhattan, Vinda reflected on the differences between the homespun wisdom of the rural cop and the wisecracking cynicism of the urban cop, and decided that there wasn’t that much difference, for it was, after all, the same job.

  Bode had reminded him of the dreadful child-abuse problem in our society. He felt sorry for the Griffins, Bodes, and Holmans of the world, but he had a job to do and he intended to do it. In the final analysis, he was a cop, the only advocate most murder victims had.

  The helicopter reared up and then set down on the pad at the East Side heliport on Sixty-third Street. Vinda reached across the cockpit and shook the pilot’s hand. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Any time, Lou.”

  Vinda climbed down and walked toward the trailer that served as the heliport’s office, painfully aware of his aching limbs and the grungy feeling of sweaty wool clothes. Trudging around snow-covered mountains had given him the unpleasant opportunity to smell his own stink. He needed to go home for a shower and a change of clothes. He had radioed ahead and told Moose to have one of the team meet him; he had also instructed him to ascertain the whereabouts of the theatrical agent Morty Hymowitz.

  Walking up to the office-trailer, he saw Agueda, and waved to her. “How’d it go, Lou?” she asked.

  “Okay, any messages?”

  “Mr. FBI left this for you,” she said, handing him an envelope.

  Walking to the department car, he read the social-security employment histories of Merrill, Holman, and Griffin, noting that Griffin’s account had been inactive ever since his wife was killed. He put the histories back into the envelope, and slid into the passenger seat. “What happened with those canvasses of Worthington’s neighborhood?”

  “A big zip, Lou. Nobody knows Mrs. Worthington. He does all the food shopping, even shops for her too. Some of the people we talked to seem to think she’s sick at home, others believe she goes to business.”

  “Either of which could be true.” He glanced at her, and for one strange minute experienced the uncomfortable emotion of having been unfaithful. “Have you located Hymowitz?”

  “Yes,” she said, starting the car. “He’s at a meeting on the West Side, but has a one-thirty lunch reservation at the Four Seasons.”

  Vinda checked the time. “We have an hour to spare. Would you mind driving me home? I need a fast shower and a change of clothes.”

  She parked near the corner and tossed the vehicle identification plate on the dashboard.

  He turned in his seat to look at her, and said, “You can wait here, or, if you like, come upstairs and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  She dropped the car keys into her pocketbook and said, “That is the best offer I’ve had in a long time.”

  They rode the elevator in silence. He opened the door and let her pass him and walk into his apartment. Going into the kitchen, he put out a plate of cookies, set down two cups with teabags, put a kettle of water on to boil, and said, “I’ll be back,” and went into the bedroom and closed the door.

  Alone, Adriene waited until she heard the shower running and then, overwhelmed with curiosity about how her former lover lived, got up and wandered about the apartment, peeking into closets and drawers. She saw many female touches, nice window treatments, the eclectic way the apartment was furnished; she also saw the accumulating mess of a man living alone.

  The shower stopped. She went back into the kitchen and sat. He returned a few minutes later wearing gray trousers and a white shirt outside his pants, no socks or shoes. He turned off the kettle and poured the boiling water into their cups. They sat across from each other, silently dunking their teabags, their thoughts directed at things other than the steeping tea.

  She looked up at him and asked, “How have you been managing?”

  He sighed. “Okay, I guess. Time is the great healer.” He picked up his bag and squeezed it over the cup.

  She reached across the table and put her hand on his. “You must get on with your life.”

  He took hold of her hand, and looked into her eyes; he could remember the smell of her, the silken softness of her thighs, the feeling of her body moving with erotic energy. He felt his skin flush with excitement, and said abruptly, “I have to get dressed.”

  Watching him walking away, she also felt a rush of warmth surge through her body. Agueda looked down at her tea, took a sip, got up and followed him into the bedroom.

  Rummaging through his sock drawer, he glanced up and saw her reflection in the mirror. She was standing in the doorway, her penetrating look fixed on his eyes. His heart raced. He turned to face her, holding two pairs of balled socks.

  They stood in place, staring at each other, not saying anything, their faces glowing with shared desire. He watched her breasts rise and fall, and felt the pounding of his own heart inside his chest. As though on cue, they walked toward each other, stopping when they were toe to toe. He felt the wall of heat between them. Leaning forward, he caressed her cheek with his, slowly moving his lips around to meet her open mouth, taking small, gentle bites of her lower lip, as his arms enveloped her, pressing her close.

  Their tongues prowled deep into ea
ch other’s mouths as they tugged and pulled their clothes off and rolled onto the bed, unleashing long-suppressed passions, kissing, groping, probing, and rubbing. He took her breast into his mouth, and she pushed his head away, begging, “Pound me. I want you to pound me.” She took hold of his erection and thrust him inside her body, clamping her legs around him. It was as if they had come together for the first time, each exploring the other’s body, impatient and tender, one moment urgent, the next languorous, deliberately prolonging the mounting tension until both were carried away by the insistence of passion.

  “John!” She thrust her face against his shoulder, muting her scream as orgasm racked her body.

  “Adriene! Ahhhhhh.” He fell on top of her, panting. “It’s been so long.”

  “I know,” she said, putting her hands on his shoulders, and wiggling out from under him, scrambling up to the head of the bed, taking hold of his head and guiding it between her legs. He complied willingly, moving close to her wet body, and was about to take her into his mouth when an anguished thought pierced his mind: This is Jean’s bed, in Jean’s house.

  He pushed himself up into a sitting position. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “But …”

  “I’m sorry. This is Jean’s bed.”

  Her eyes welling up with tears, Adriene slid off the bed and began to gather up her clothes.

  Morty Hymowitz, otherwise known as Marshall Hawthorn, was sitting at his favorite table in the Grill Room when Vinda arrived. Walking through the passageway into the spacious room, approaching the agent, Vinda made a quick evaluation of the man: manicured nails, monogrammed shirt, heavy gold bracelet. The street-smart conclusion: a man who was fundamentally insecure and trying to impress people in a world where he didn’t really fit in.

  “Mr. Hawthorn?”

  “Yes,” he said, motioning the lieutenant into the chair across the table from him. “What can I do for you? My guest is arriving any minute, so make it quick.”

  “As I told you on the telephone, I’m working on the homicide that occurred in Rue St. Jacques, and would like to discuss a few things with you. I understand you represent Jessica Merrill and Michael Worthington.”

  “So?” Hawthorn asked uneasily.

  Go easy with this guy, Vinda told himself, you’re talking about his meal tickets. “I guess it’s difficult getting into show business without an agent.”

  “Almost impossible. We weed out the talentless and the lazy.”

  “Worthington was sure lucky to break into the business so late in life. I understand he had no formal training.”

  “Michael is very talented, and besides, Jessica pushed him along. She brought him to me.”

  “So they were friends before his acting career.”

  Vinda looked at him with open suspicion. “Why you interested in them?”

  “Routine, no big deal. We’re supposed to find out all we can about potential witnesses in a homicide case.”

  Toying with his glass of white wine, Vinny said bluntly, “Anything you want to know about any of my clients, ask my lawyers.”

  Vinda looked him straight in the eye. “It’s nice to be nice, especially to the police.”

  “You know who I am?”

  Here comes the tough-guy routine, Vinda told himself, waiting for the performance to begin.

  Vinny delicately picked up his glass by the stem and looked over the rim at the detective. “Tony Fortuno is a personal friend.”

  “I’m impressed, Vinny. ‘Tony No Chin’ runs one of the largest crews in the city.”

  “Yes, he does,” Vinny said, passing the glass under his nose.

  Vinda looked at him in silence for a minute and then said, “I’m going to teach you how to put a little gratitude in your attitude.” He got up and hurried down the marble staircase into the foyer, where he asked the attendant in the coatroom where a pay phone was to be found. He dialed the number Malcolm Webster had given him.

  “Yeah?” a harsh male voice answered.

  “My name is Vinda.”

  “I’ve been expecting your call. What can I do for you?”

  “I need a creative choreographer.”

  “Tell me when and where.”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  Seventeen minutes later, Vinda made his way along the warren of glass cubicles connecting the various SID units and went directly to the temporary office of Inspector Paul Acevedo.

  “I want a shadow on this guy,” Vinda said, writing down Morty Hymowitz’s pedigree.

  “I’ll put a couple of Safe and Loft’s people on him,” Acevedo said. “Anything else?”

  “I’m going to need a couple of guys from the Pizza Squad.”

  Acevedo aimed a mischievous finger at the lieutenant, and said, “You going trick-or-treating again?”

  “Inspector, whaddaya tryna do, gimme a bad rep with the ACLU?” Vinda left the office with a smile on his face.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Fire trucks fought to get through Chambers Street’s choking traffic.

  On the eleventh floor of police headquarters, Vinda leaned back in his seat and replayed this afternoon’s bedroom scene with Adriene. On one level he was glad that it had happened; on another he was overwhelmed with guilt. He did not want to hurt that woman again. Margareth Loopo had been just a case of horniness on both sides. Adriene Agueda was quite another matter.

  He picked up the pad of Post-its and jotted himself a reminder: Contact Webster’s “choreographer,” get Pizza Squad detective for Vinny. Lifting up the desk blotter, he attached the little yellow note on the front of the squeal envelope.

  Suddenly Vinda realized that he hadn’t eaten since morning. He telephoned out for a chicken salad on rye, sour pickle, and skim milk. As he was hanging up, he noticed a manila folder with a note from David Pollack attached to the flap: “Thought you might need these at some point.”

  He opened the folder and saw a stack of publicity photos of Jessica Merrill and Michael Worthington. He studied them for a few seconds and put them away. Taking out the social-security work histories that Agueda had given him at the heliport, he saw that Merrill, Griffin, and Holman had worked together on more than one movie.

  After he had left Inspector Acevedo’s office earlier, he had gone to the criminal records division and gotten a copy of Morty Hymowitz’s yellow sheet. The theatrical agent had taken a fall in ’78 for violation of Section 263.05 of the Penal Law as a C Felony, Use of a Child in a Sexual Performance, and had pleaded guilty to a reduced charge and done twenty-one months in Green Haven Prison.

  Vinda was perplexed by how Hymowitz, even after his transformation into Hawthorn, had managed to become the agent for a major star like Jessica Merrill. It just didn’t add up, he was thinking, when the phone rang and the message came that his lunch was waiting downstairs at the security booth.

  He retrieved his lunch and started eating, his eyes fixed on the blackboard. On it he had written:

  Valarie Griffin DOA by Lucas and Johnston

  Lucas’s daughter Mary—homicide victim

  Johnston’s daughter Thelma—homicide victim

  Webster’s daughter Adelaide—homicide victim

  Below this he wrote:

  Linda Camatro—no known connection?

  Nuns? No connection

  He and his team now knew that this was no random series of killings. There was a clear pattern of relationships—except for Camatro, the nun, and the terrible bombing. It all had to connect, but how? He was chewing on a sour pickle when Moose burst into his office.

  “Shit’s hit the fan, Lou. I went over to see Lucy Seaver yesterday, but she was having more surgery on her knee. She got out of the recovery room just a little while ago. Now, she was still kind of groggy, but she thought there was a strong resemblance.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Vinda asked in bewilderment.

  “Worthington, damnit. You told me to show her Worthington’s picture. She thinks he’s our perp,
not the guy in that bullshit composite.”

  Vinda felt almost sick to his stomach. How could this make any sense? Frank Griffin didn’t look anything like Worthington. But Griffin didn’t look anything like the composite sketch either.

  Now thoroughly confused, Vinda looked back at his chalked notes on the blackboard. “Jesus, yes,” he said. “He kills their daughters.”

  He almost knocked the console off the desk as he lunged for the phone.

  The dried stalks of dead plants in the flower beds set against old hedges cast shadows across the path of snow leading up to the backyard’s wooden staircase. A large window to the right of the glassed-in porch revealed a woman moving about the kitchen with a telephone glued to her ear.

  Worthington climbed over the adjoining yard’s fence and squatted beside a large bush. Opening his knapsack, he took out the polystyrene box that contained his fangs. Clamping them over his teeth, he looked out at the woman, trembling with anger. Reaching back into his knapsack, he took out the upper half of his “clean suit,” and slipped it over his head. That done, he tugged on his modified hood with the cutout in its face plate. He took a pair of glass cutters from a side compartment of the knapsack and pulled on his gloves.

  Still squatting, he carefully reconnoitered the area. The house to the right was in total darkness while the one on the left had some lights on in front. Standing, he moved furtively toward the porch, his booted feet almost noiseless in the snow. Climbing the staircase and finding the door locked, he used his glass cutters to etch a circle alongside the handle. Pulling out the glass cutout, he tossed it into the mound of soft snow on the side of the stairs. Worthington wiggled his fingers inside and slid back the lock button. Opening the door, he quickly stepped inside. Then he crept up to the inside door that led into the house, where he took hold of the knob and began turning.

  Suddenly the unnerving sounds of approaching sirens caused him to jerk his hand back. The wailing was coming closer and closer. He heard a squeal of tires, and the screech of brakes, followed closely by the hurried movements of rushing men. He bolted from the porch.