A setback for Cross-Wade. Grasping at anything, he had sent the one grainy newspaper photo of the two young Nelson boys at their father's funeral to a high-tech lab in New Jersey that specialized in a technique developed by Minolta of Japan. By using old photographs the lab could "project" images years into the future and show how people would look as they matured. But it could do nothing for Cross-Wade. The old picture he'd sent was too blurry, too washed out, the faces too vague.
November thirtieth.
Loggins came into Cross-Wade's office at midday. "Surveillance report," he told the boss. Loggins himself had tailed Marty during the morning shift, relieved by another sergeant for the afternoon and evening.
"Anything?" Cross-Wade asked.
"No, sir. He's a regular person."
"A regular person," Cross-Wade echoed. He reveled in the Loggins eloquence.
"Yes, Mr. Cross-Wade. This subject…"
"Man, Arthur. Man. Let's try to be civilized around headquarters."
"I apologize, sir. Anyway, this particular man gets up at a normal hour and proceeds to his office in midtown, the address known to you. He sometimes proceeds by taxi, but sometimes walks. Depends on the weather."
"Does he ever go with anyone?"
"No, sir. We haven't observed that. He arrives in his office and usually works until twelve-thirty, when he proceeds to lunch."
"Usually?"
"Sometimes he proceeds to business appointments. We check out where he's going. They're corporations where his company has work. When he has lunch, it's alone or with other business personnel. A very normal pattern, sir. Of course, he sometimes goes into stores, but no place that would concern us."
"And our night reports show the same, I believe."
"He returns home. That's usually it."
"So far, we haven't advanced beyond the interview with Mrs. Shaw," Cross-Wade said.
"I regret that, sir."
"And there's something else, Arthur. People like this, with mental compulsions, usually have definite rituals. Isn't it so?"
"I suppose so, sir."
"This killer has murdered women he hardly knew, or didn't know at all, and just left them. Now we theorize that his new target is his wife. This is entirely out of character. It doesn't fit. For the first time he'd be focusing attention on himself. He'd have to flee, but we would have his name. Why would he do that?"
Loggins just shrugged. The question couldn't be answered.
"You know, Arthur," Cross-Wade continued, "I think we might have here a major set of coincidences. Shaw may not be our target. Lord God knows, it's happened before—which is why we sometimes lock up the wrong man. But I've never seen anything quite like this. The trains. The December fifth date. The auburn-haired wife. Might all be coincidence, Arthur.
"You know, this is a shrewd killer. Look at the way he manages to remove his fingerprints from every murder scene. An intelligent man. Thoughtful. He might be schizoid, but only on that one calendar day. He may just be too good for us."
"Too good for you, sir?" Loggins asked.
Cross-Wade needed that compliment. "We'll see," he replied. "We have five days to go. Five days to save a life."
13
Cross-Wade was depressed on December first.
"It's the date," he told Loggins. "We're into December. I feel," he said, with his devilish little laugh, "like a calendar schizophrenic. The date is affecting me." The laugh faded. His face became grim. "Depression, you know, is the most common symptom of the malady."
His staff continued the investigation, and Cross-Wade himself spoke again, by phone, to several relatives of the victims, trying any possible angle. Surveillance reports on Marty came in every two hours, but always showed the activity of a typical businessman.
It was that afternoon, though—December first—that the investigation took a new turn, one that Cross-Wade had feared, one he loathed, yet one that finally answered the fundamental question that had haunted him since he spoke with Samantha: What was the truth about Martin Shaw?
As he'd told Samantha, he'd assumed that little Frankie Nelson's medical records had been lost forever. But he'd also asked the Omaha police to keep checking, on an urgent basis, and not to give up. On December first a large brown envelope arrived at police headquarters by express mail. An accompanying letter explained that Frankie Nelson's medical records had been found. They'd been misfiled, kept in the storage room of the criminal court.
They were enclosed.
Rapidly, police experts compared them with records obtained from Marty's doctor. They compared eye color, skin markings and surgical scars.
The records didn't match.
That was it.
Proof positive.
For Cross-Wade, the question had been answered. His investigation collapsed. He fought being overcome by despair. With the discipline of a good soldier, he reached for the phone and dialed Samantha Shaw.
Samantha was asleep when the call came, feeling the fatigue of pregnancy, of a party, of a marriage in crisis. She reached over to the night table to grab the Trimline phone, accidentally pushing it off the receiver and hearing it bounce on the table. She lifted her head, tried again, and grasped it firmly, bringing it to her ear.
"Hello?"
Cross-Wade sensed her grogginess. "Mrs. Shaw?"
His voice did not immediately register. "Yes?"
"Mr. Cross-Wade here."
Samantha sat up sharply. "Yes."
"Mrs. Shaw, I have some news for you."
Samantha's face froze with tension. It was about Marty, it was bad, it was the final word that would seal the fate of her trembling marriage. "Please tell me," she said, putting up the brave front.
"Mr. Martin Shaw is not the man."
It was a thunderbolt, totally unexpected.
Samantha winced, then stared straight ahead, then looked into the phone, as if for confirmation of the strange words she had just heard. "He's not…please say that again."
"I say, Mrs. Shaw, your husband is not the man. We have absolute proof. There's been some coincidence here, but there's nothing to worry about."
A sea of relief washed over Samantha for the moment. She literally felt a burden lifted. Marty wasn't a killer. He wasn't a mass murderer. He wasn't the object of a police manhunt. God, that was good news, news that permitted some hope that she could see the marriage through, restore it to its unsullied glory. But another truth prevented the moment from erupting into joy. All right, he wasn't that horrible thing Cross-Wade was searching for. But then, who was he? That question hadn't been touched. Who was he?
"I'm a little relieved," Samantha said to Cross-Wade. "But, now could you tell me a little about my husband? I mean, you must've learned about him to come to your answer."
"I'm afraid not," Cross-Wade replied. "We learned who he wasn't by medical records that finally turned up. We actually have nothing new on him. From your point of view, you're back to square one."
"Yes, I guess I am," Samantha agreed.
"But Mrs. Shaw, think of it this way. At least you are safe. I feel for your other problem. But your safety is of paramount importance."
"Yes."
"I am at your disposal, madam. If there is anything I can do to help, please call me. Even though I'm in homicide, I might have suggestions."
"I appreciate that," Samantha told him. "I really do. You know, in a strange way I'd almost hoped you'd tell me Marty was the man, and that you'd learned all about his past."
"That's a natural feeling," Cross-Wade replied. "We all want news. Uncertainty is awful."
"Yes, it is."
"Good luck, Mrs. Shaw. I hope you find your answers soon."
"Thank you for your help," Samantha responded.
They hung up. Samantha had actually wanted to talk more, to go over her problem once again with Cross-Wade, but sensed it was the wrong time. The man still had a killer to catch. She stayed up, and did a few things for the party. Cross-Wade was right. She may have been back
to square one, but at least she didn't have to worry about her husband's killing her.
Cross-Wade sealed the investigation of Martin Everett Shaw. He canceled the surveillance and started looking for another suspect. He all but wrote off the chance for success.
Marty still worried about those calls Samantha had made. Was she still making them? Was she still probing? He'd know with the next phone bill, but that wouldn't come until after December fifth. He could call the phone company and check the records, but that might arouse suspicion. So he simply was left wondering.
But, since it was already December first, the questions were rapidly becoming academic. Hold out, he kept telling himself. This is for Dad. You can hold out for Dad, can't you, Frankie? You'd do anything for Dad.
He walked into a jewelry store near Rockefeller Center. A tiny lady, a Russian immigrant with a thick yet charming accent, stood behind a counter dressed in a simple gray dress. Her cold, watchful eyes followed Marty as he walked to a display case where the gold necklaces were laid out, each one snaking itself over the blue velvet under it. He looked at each necklace intently. The lady knew this was a gift, and an important one. She knew the moves men made at display cases the way Arthur Loggins knew the moves they made in murder cases. Yes, this was a major gift. Anniversary. Birthday. Birth of baby day. The man would spend for the right piece. She slid toward Marty slowly, but deliberately. Don't rush him, but help out.
"Are you looking for something in particular?" she asked.
For a moment, Marty didn't answer, so intently was he staring into the case. "Uh, yes," he finally said. "I need a thin gold chain with a pendant. A red stone with gold around it. You know."
"Of course," the lady said, rolling her "r" in the Slavic manner. "We have a very fine selection. This, naturally, is for a special person."
"Naturally."
"You will want something of quality. Let me, I will show you." She reached into a drawer under the case and slid out a tray with pendants attached to gold chains. Two or three fit Marty's general requirements. "Here are some fine pieces," she said. "Of course, everything we handle is guaranteed absolutely."
"Oh, I know," Marty said. "I've shopped here before."
He studied the selections carefully. His mind drifted back. Dad had saved so long to buy that pendant for Mother. She'd hardly said thank-you. Wasn't as big as her sister's, she'd muttered. But she'd worn it. She'd worn it that night, that December fifth. How it swung as she'd raised the hammer over her head. How it swung back and forth, wildly, on its thin chain.
Marty's eyes focused on one piece. "There's a nice one," he said. Ask the price, he reminded himself. Make it look like an ordinary purchase. "Uh, what is the price?"
The lady picked up the piece, slinking it over her chubby little hand. "This would be one hundred twenty-five dollars, plus tax." She smiled at Marty, as if signaling that she agreed with his selection. She always agreed with selections above a hundred dollars.
"That's fine," Marty said. He whipped out his American Express gold card and flipped it onto the counter. Be a sport. Charge it. The bill would never be paid anyway.
The necklace was carefully gift-wrapped in a white box and tied with a blue ribbon, at Marty's request. He'd give it to Samantha, and she'd wear it at the party. Everything was falling into place.
Marty returned to his office, and, as he had often done during this season of rituals, locked the door and ordered that all calls be held. Then he took out pen and paper and wrote still another letter to the only person who'd ever meant anything to him in his four decades of life, the person whose presence he still felt wherever he walked:
Dear Dad,
The day approaches. Isn't that wonderful? There's been some trouble with Sam, though. She may know that I've made up a lot of what I've told her, but she loves me. She's no real threat. I'm doing the best I can for you. Someday we'll be together.
Your loving son,
Frankie
P.S. I got the trains.
He placed the letter in his safe. Then he unlocked his door and buzzed the intercom four times. Moments later, Lois entered.
"Lo," Marty said, "I know you've got a big family, a lot of Christmas shopping. Look, you take two or three days off before the holidays. Whatever days you like."
Lois was genuinely touched by the thought. "Thank you," she said warmly. "Thank you so much."
Marty smiled, almost blushing. He really liked to do things like this. "It's okay," he answered. "And, something else. You've really helped me, and I know I can be demanding at times."
"Oh no, you're not at all."
"Sure I am." Marty reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill. "I don't know what to buy. Do something for yourself. Something you'd really like."
He handed Lois the bill.
It was a hundred dollars, and Marty felt great.
December first passed. So did December second.
As Spencer Cross-Wade agonized over his failing investigation, Martin Shaw prepared to carry out the last great ritual before the fateful day. First step: the phone call to Samantha from his office on the morning of December third. The urgent voice. The tinge of regret.
"Sam," Marty said, "guess what?"
Samantha was sitting amidst catering tables that had already arrived, their metal tops not yet covered with linens. She'd heard that tone in Marty's voice before. It portended bad news, disruption.
"What's wrong, Marty?" she asked.
"A little problem in St. Louis," Marty replied. He sat tensely at his desk, watching every word. "One of our clients out there got involved in a lawsuit, and it's a public-relations mess. I've got to go. Today."
"Marty!"
"Hey, don't worry about the party. I'll be back in twenty-four hours. No client could keep me from that."
"Well, that's a relief. For a minute…"
"Sam, you before business." For an instant it was the old Marty, smooth and sentimental, affectionate and caring, the one Samantha wished would somehow re-emerge from the layers of mystery that had enveloped him.
"Where are you staying?" she asked, grabbing a pencil.
"Don't know yet. I may be out of touch most of today anyway. My client isn't taking calls at his office and has checked into a hotel to avoid the press. I'll have to be with him. I'll contact you as soon as I can."
"Sure. Okay."
"And, Sam…the staff here doesn't know the real reason I'm going out. We want to keep this under control. You know, people talk. I've told them just that I'm going for a fast confab. If you call the office, remember."
"I'll remember," Samantha said. "Sweet, I'm sorry you have to go like this, right before the party."
"Yeah, so am I. You know, I wanted to be home tonight to help out. I really looked forward to that. Godammit, those jerks out there…you'd think with all their lawyers they'd stay out of trouble."
He sounded so genuine, so filled with emotion, his voice trembling, his anger spilling out. "It's okay," Sam told him. "You'll be back tomorrow, love. I'll take care of everything. You know I will."
"That I know," Marty said. "Look, no strain. Hear me? It doesn't have to be the Inaugural Ball."
"No strain," Samantha agreed. "Not with the…"
She stopped. She'd almost tipped the baby.
"Not with what?" Marty asked.
"Not with a caterer doing all the real work." Great save, Samantha thought. Top save.
Marty blew a kiss into the phone. It's something he rarely did. It was affecting, moving, so right for the moment. Again Samantha's lingering optimism surfaced. Maybe his secrets were good secrets, for a good cause, something to be proud of. Maybe. It was always maybe. But Samantha blew a kiss back.
The United flight glided in over St. Louis in early afternoon, giving Marty a glistening view of the great arch that symbolized the city. He was on the ground a few minutes later. He entered the terminal, and waited. He did not go into town.
His secretary had booked the flight to St. Louis u
nder, of course, the name Martin Shaw. But when Marty had arrived at LaGuardia Airport he'd bought an additional ticket, paying in cash, under the name Frank Nelson. It was his tribute, his homage to his family name, his deference to Dad. The ticket he'd bought was for a flight from St. Louis to Omaha. Now, in St. Louis, he glanced at his watch, already set to Omaha time. It was 1:55 P.M. The flight to Omaha would leave at 2:30. He was Frank Nelson now. Frank Nelson again. It felt wonderful. Emotionally he was home, and soon he would be home physically as well. He checked to make sure his sunglasses were in his jacket pocket. He needed them for security. Someone on an Omaha flight might recognize his face, even though a generation had passed since he'd lived there.
He walked to the American Airlines terminal section and boarded the Boeing 727 for "home."
Marty felt his heart pound as the jet engines lifted the plane into the air, heading west to Omaha. He looked around him, peering over the seats at the other passengers. Could anyone guess? Could anyone know what was going through his mind? How would they react if they knew a mass murderer was on the plane? What would they say if they were told a ritual was being performed—a ritual that would end with the bludgeoning of an innocent woman in a New York apartment?
"Something to drink, sir?" the stewardess asked, as she rolled the serving cart down the aisle.
"No, thanks," Marty answered. He couldn't think about food.
He glanced out the window as the city gray turned into country green, miles of green, hundreds of miles of green, the green of the Midwest where he grew up, where he had been scarred for life.
"Live in Omaha?" the man next to him inquired. He was an old man, with a thick, gray mustache that needed combing. "Uh, no," Marty answered. "Visiting."
"Oh."
The Boeing took a sudden dip—an air pocket—and the old man gulped, ending, Marty thought, the brief conversation.
"Bad one," the man said, proving Marty wrong.
"Yeah."
"How long you live in Omaha?" the man asked.
Marty turned sharply towards him. "How did you know…?"
"Don't get all steamed. It's in your voice. I can tell even with a few words. You can't erase it completely. You probably live East."
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