by Art Bourgeau
As they moved to the bar it pleased her to think how good she and Felix must look together. No question, he cut quite a figure in his tuxedo. All he needed was a touch more gray in his hair and beard and he'd be just right. That would come in time, she reminded herself. Time they would be spending together. Before going to their seats they met several dowager types who seemed to know Felix, even though he was a relatively new arrival in town. They made flattering comments on his good works, converting dilapidated warehouses into decent housing, and reserved their most perfunctory smiles for Missy Wakefield. Moving on, Missy was fuming at the snubs, but took comfort in the fact that Felix, the new boy in town, was clearly well liked and respected. All of which reinforced her growing conviction that he was the man for her.
At the bar, as they sipped their drinks—hers vodka-rocks, his Jack Daniels neat—she noted the abrupt tightness in his face and turned to see what was causing it. Coming toward them was a prim-looking brunette in her early thirties, shoulder-length hair parted down the middle and pulled back. Missy identified her flowered dress as a Ralph Lauren, but with its scoop neckline that accentuated her slender neck and collar-bones rather than her breasts it might as well have been a mail-order from Talbots.
"Hello, Cyn, how are you?" Felix was saying.
"Fine, Felix," she said, "just fine."
"Missy, I don't know if you two know each other—everyone else in Philadelphia seems to know each other. This is my my"—he hesitated for a second—"former wife, Cynthia . . ."
And suddenly Missy was back at Lagniappe on the night she had first met Felix; a series of still images clicked in her brain, images of personal humiliation as she apparently had lost Carl to that bitch reporter Laura Ramsey, the one writing the articles about the South Philly girl, and over it all she could hear Lois Fortier's voice saying that rumor had it Felix Ducroit was in town to get back together with his ex-wife . . . Well, it wasn't going to happen. She had the inside track, and this prim little person could eat her dust.
Ignoring Missy, Cynthia fixed her attention on Felix. "I'd heard you were in town . . ." letting it hang there, as if to say, and I've been waiting for your call.
The unspoken was picked up by Felix. "Yes, I've been meaning to get in touch, been pretty busy."
At which point Missy smiled sweetly, to make clear just how Felix had been keeping busy.
Cynthia pretended not to notice. "You're the talk of the town, you know, what with the real estate project you're doing and all. In fact, I got a call from a reporter at the Globe to interview me for an article about you."
Felix clearly didn't welcome the news, tried to toss it off with "I hope you'll be able to say nice things . . ."
"You know I will," she said, and for a moment the primness was gone. "Well, it's almost curtain time. I'd better get to my seat." As she turned to go she looked back at him, a smile in place. "If you want to know how the interview went, give me a call."
Felix did not reply, but Missy stood there feeling a tingling at the back of her neck. Ex's, all ex's, wives, lovers or whatevers always meant trouble . . . "Your ex-wife is very charming," she said in a tone one might use in referring to a middle-aged woman, a small house or a gay man who could dance well.
"Yes, I suppose she is," he said.
"Were you two close . . . I meant when you were married?"
"In the beginning," he said, taking a sip of his drink.
"I don't mean to be nosy, but what happened?"
"l guess it's more what didn't happen. Children . . ."
"She wanted them and you didn't?"
"No, the other way around."
"Oh. Well, that's sort of unusual."
"I suppose . . ." He seemed to want to explain. "When we met in New Orleans a couple of deals had gone sour and I was flat broke. She didn't seem to care, and even when we moved in together she was the one paying the bills. She had some family money and she had a job managing one of those little hotels in the French Quarter. And she was damn good at it. I really admire her business skills . . . Anyway, I finally put a couple of deals together and they got us out of the woods completely, so it seemed a good time for her to stop working and have a family . . ."
"And she wouldn't hear of it?"
"That's right. I just didn't understand how much her career meant to her, or maybe how uneasy she was about mine. Whatever, I handled it all wrong, pushing so hard for children, and that was that."
Missy, saying nothing, took his arm, squeezed it gently and led him in to their seats. What he had just said told her something about him that pleased her. For all his obvious strengths—financial success, good looks, social presence—Felix was also a man who, thanks to his sensitivity, could be manipulated. And thinking this, she remembered what someone had scribbled on the ladies room wall at Lagniappe: "Sensitivity is when a man does what you want." Amen.
As the curtain went up and the audience applauded the set depicting the small town of Nagasaki, Missy paid little attention. Her thoughts were on the man next to her. She'd never had a man affect her quite the way he did. Most seemed fairly shallow creatures, useful to service her and be discarded at whim. Felix was different, more, as she'd felt from the beginning, in her father's mold. The good side of her father . . .
He was the right man for her, no doubt about it. He was handsome and intelligent, rich and well connected. Sophisticated and yet down to earth. And somewhat remote, with a little mystery to him. She liked the challenge of that, though she had little doubt she would more than meet that challenge.
She stole a glance at him. In profile he had an edge—a hard edge? She sensed that when he was ready he would be a demanding lover and shivered slightly in anticipation. His ex-wife, or the story of her breakup with him, had shown the way to what he wanted most—children.
Could she do it? She looked without seeing at the unfolding romantic conflicts of Butterfly and Pinkerton . . . Even the thought of getting pregnant again made her feel sick . . . Much as she resisted it, that one time came back now. It had happened that summer when she was sixteen, the summer when her father had watched Roy Curtis have her in the boathouse. Afterward at home she'd gone on a sexual rampage. She had slept with anyone who asked her, done anything anyone wanted. She hadn't done it out of some need for penance or self-punishment . . . she hadn't cared a damn about that . . . but she'd cared about her father, had been obsessed with getting him, somehow, no matter how, at least to pay attention to her, with breaking through the wall that had grown between them ever since Roy Curtis. It hadn't worked. She'd gotten pregnant. On stage Butterfly was singing the aria "Un Bel Di, vedremo" as she waited for Pinkerton to return from a long absence, and the music kept Missy's thoughts where she didn't want them . . . She didn't know who the father was, didn't care. Her mother had been in Europe that summer. Edgar had been on "vacation," probably with her. So she had been alone in the house with her father when she had told him she was pregnant. In the darkness she felt the scar on her abdomen begin to cause pain and to burn. As always. The scar was twelve years old, but every time she thought about her pregnancy it happened. Don't think about it, she ordered herself. Not now. It'll ruin the evening, eventually ruin your chances with Felix. The pain, the burning, only came when she tried to remember what had happened that night she'd told her father she was pregnant. She could remember standing at the door of her father's study, waiting to tell him, feeling terrified. He'd been behind his desk, his hawklike face lined by the light and shadows of a desk lamp. With his tufted brows he'd appeared Mephistophilean. He'd looked up from his papers—and then memory clicked off.
That was the way it always happened. She could remember everything up to that point. How she'd fretted, how she'd worn baggy clothes to hide her swelling stomach, how she'd prayed her period would start. But after that point, nothing. For twelve years her standing in the doorway waiting to tell him was as far as she could remember. And with each succeeding memory of that night, the pain built in intensity until at a point
it became white-hot, so awful it blocked out all further memory, perversely providing its own relief.
The music of the opera swelled around her as she surreptitiously put her hands on her stomach and tried to press the pain away. But it came over her in a wave so intense that it took away her sight and hearing . . . her world turned into a collage of colors, her heart began to race, panic took over. She pushed up from her seat, stumbled past Felix and the others in the row and nearly ran up the aisle to the lobby, where she proceeded immediately to the bar and ordered a double vodka.
While she waited for her drink she swallowed another ten-milligram Valium. Her hands were shaking. Years ago she had been sure she wanted to know what happened but couldn't recall. Now all she wanted was to forget, but she couldn't do that either.
By now Felix had caught up with her. "Are you all right?"
She looked at him, and for a moment she hated him. This was his fault. Everything would have been just fine if he hadn't started with this pregnancy business. That's what had touched off the pain and truncated memory.
"I'm fine," she said lightly, picking up her drink.
"You don't look so fine to me. What's wrong?"
"I'm fine," said through clenched teeth.
"You clearly aren't and you're going home. What you need is a good night's sleep."
She said nothing, just stood there while he took the drink from her hands and set it on the bar, laid a five dollar bill beside it, put his arm around her and started for the door.
Outside, Albert had the limousine parked up the street in front of the Bellview-Stratford. While they waited for him, Missy, fighting for control, told Felix she'd really prefer going home alone, that she was sorry she'd ruined the evening, and asked him to call her tomorrow. And before he could respond she was in the limo and telling Albert to drive off and be quick. As the limousine wheeled into traffic, Albert could have sworn he heard her muttering something like, "Damn you, daddy, damn you . . . I did my best but it wasn't enough, never enough . . ."
CHAPTER 11
DETECTIVE RAFFERTY earned himself no Brownie points, especially with Lieutenant Sloan, being late to the meeting of Seven Squad. Nor did his excuse cut much ice.
"Sorry to be late, lieutenant, just couldn't stand any more of the coffee around here so I stopped at Rindelaub's on Eighteenth, for all our own sakes. The traffic coming cross town was a bitch, you know how it is this time of day . . ."
Sloan nodded and ignored him. In fact, he was grateful to have Rafferty on the squad. Its oldest member, he hadn't lost a step with age, was still as much a handful as ten years ago. Maybe more, with the added smarts. The only reason he had been available when the squad was formed was the fall-out from a West Philly shoot-out that made him a temporary leper in the department. Not that he'd been wrong—no one thought that—but, as they said, publicity-wise it was a bummer. An ice cream parlor near the university, a hold-up in progress when he stopped in, a quick exchange of gunfire and the hold-up man was stone dead on the floor. All very fine, except that the "critter" had been the son of a West Philly ward leader. The department's loss had been Sloan's and Seven Squad's gain.
Sloan called them to order. "Last night I got a call from Laura Ramsey. I'm sure you've all been reading her stuff on the case. It seems she's turned up a witness in the DiFranco killing. Terri DiFranco's best friend, Marie."
The room was suddenly quiet.
"This morning I went out and picked her up myself. Her identification is sketchy. It was night, but she did see him and she has confirmed his description—thin, dark hair and beard, tinted glasses. Right now she's inside looking at mug shots."
"A real break—"
"Which brings me to my next point, Spivak. Before you start clicking your heels in the air, tell me why we need the newspapers to show us how to do our job. This girl was Terri DiFranco's best friend. She's not from outer space. Okay, enough." He checked his notes. "Evans, where the hell is that report on the theatrical costumers? What gives?"
Evans looked like a chastened buddha. "We checked on them, lieutenant. We went back over two years in every costumers' records and pulled all the sales slips for beards or wigs. There's at least four or five hundred of them. Right now we're checking them against the known-sex-offender file to see if we can get a match. That's about all we can do . . . it'd take Rafferty and me a year to check them all out on foot."
Sloan calmed down some. They weren't goofing off; they were doing it by the numbers, only the leads were too damn few and far between. "You're right, I guess, especially since it's only speculation that our boy is in disguise. And if he is, he probably gave a phony name when he bought the beard. But follow up on any sex-offender matches. Who knows?"
Detective Kane stood up. ”Lieutenant . . ."
"Speak."
"I went back to Lagniappe again—"
"I thought I told you to give it a rest."
"You did, but you also told us to use our best judgment. So I went back, and I met an artist there, a Carl Laredo. Nice guy. We got to talking and he introduced me to the owner, Justin Fortier. You remember we had a prior complaint about him from one of his waitresses. I figure we ought to check it out further."
"Spivak, you heard her. Rafferty and Evans, get back to those costumer receipts. Kane, come with me. I need you with this Marie, Terri DiFranco's friend. She's still pretty scared, you can help calm her down."
They went to the interrogation room, where Marie was finished looking at mug shots and was now looking at photos of cars. A uniformed policewoman was helping her.
“Any luck in the mug books?" asked Sloan.
The policewoman shook her head. Marie looked up. "I . . . I didn't see him." She picked up a picture of a car. "I did find this, though. It looks like the car."
Sloan turned it over. On the back it said, "Datsun 300ZX." She had said it was a 300ZX before. "Kane," he said, "order a complete run from Motor Vehicles of all 300ZX's in the Philadelphia area. I don't care how many there are. We can't afford to pass up anything. Check the owners against the known-sex-offender file. Hell, see if Mr. Fortier happens to own one."
He turned to the uniformed policewoman. "While Detective Kane and I have a chat with Marie, bring in the police artist. Let's see if Rembrandt can draw us a suspect."
CHAPTER 12
LAURA, A few minutes early for her lunch with Cynthia Ducroit, pushed her way through the swinging doors on Arch Street and entered the Reading Terminal Market. Originally begun in the 1800s as a farmer's market but now expanded over a square block to include restaurants and ethnic food stalls, it was one of her very favorite places in Philadelphia. The smell of barbecued chicken from the Amish section was drawing throngs for lunch, and behind the counters the Amish people with their beards and hats or old-fashioned long dresses were I rushing about trying to take care of customers.
She watched for a moment, then strolled toward the center of the Market, stopping at a fish counter to see the catch of the day, stopping again to say hello to Harry Ochs, her favorite butcher. Past his stall, toward the Twelfth Street side, was Bassett's Ice Cream and the flower stall. She walked deeper into the center of the Market toward the Coastal Cave Trading Company, where she was to meet Cynthia.
As it turned out, Cynthia, too, was early and was already seated at the counter talking to Lobster Bob, the owner of The Coastal Cave Trading Company, which specialized in Maine lobster and other seafood delicacies. Laura joined her now at the counter, taking the stool beside her.
Over drinks and lobster salad Laura said, "Like I told you on the phone, I've been assigned to do a piece on Felix and I need your help for background. If there's anything you don't feel comfortable talking about, don't answer it. Okay?"
"Okay."
"What was it like being married to him?"
"You never knew what was going to happen. One day we'd be rich, rolling in money, the next day he'd sink it into another deal and lose it all. It was kind of like living with a compulsive g
ambler."
"And you wanted more security?"
Before Cynthia could answer they were interrupted by the appearance . . . that was the word for it . . . of Carl Laredo, wearing a light sportscoat, a black bandana tied around his neck and a dark green T-shirt advertising Rolling Rock beer. But there was something different about him. It took Laura a moment to realize what it was. Carl had shaved off his beard.
"Well, if it isn't my two favorite ladies. Mind if I join you?"
"Sure, join us," Cynthia said before Laura could demure, "Laura's interviewing me about Felix."
As Carl took the stool on the other side of her, Cynthia said what Laura was thinking, "Carl, what happened to your beard?"