“We've been talking about how to advance her career,” he said. “Maybe she and I can do some research together.”
Is that what they call it nowadays? I wanted to slug him, but instead sank back in my seat. He might be an idiot, but Paula wasn’t. Which meant that she was playing him. Still, it was a hard scene for me to watch.
A commotion in the lobby interrupted us, our heads turning in that direction. Mitchell Singer, Lieutenant Albert Hansen, and two uniformed police officers entered the party area. They weren't wet. The rain must have stopped.
“Attention, everyone.” Mitchell's voice boomed, but also quavered. “Lieutenant Hansen here will be poking around for a few minutes. Please give him your full cooperation.” He looked around, mouth moving, as if uncertain what else to say. “As you were.”
Hansen and one officer disappeared. One remained with us. Mitchell stood in the center of the room. His frozen stance bespoke a vulnerability I hadn't ever witnessed in him. I realized that my grievance with Paula/Rafy didn't amount to a hill of beans--at least not until later.
I exchanged a glance with Paula, then went to Mitchell and pulled him to Paula's and Rafy's table. “Sit down, Mitchell,” I said. I guided him into my seat, while I remained standing.
“What's going on?” Paula asked.
“He's conducting a search,” Mitchell replied.
“What are they looking for?” I asked.
“My father's diary. He got a tip that it's in the house somewhere.”
“Do you know where it is?” Paula asked.
“No idea. I've heard about it, but he's never shown it to me. In fact, I kind of wondered if he was keeping it up, bad eyesight and all.”
Paula and I knew, from Stephanie, that he was indeed still writing in his diary. But there was no reason for us to volunteer the information. Rafy shifted in his seat, and looked away for a moment. Paula broke the brief silence.
“Did Lieutenant Hansen have a search warrant?”
“No,” Mitchell said. “He said he didn't need it because Stephanie gave him permission.”
Now that was interesting. But on second thought, not so much. What reason did she have to refuse the search? If she were innocent, none at all. And if she were guilty it would have been simple for her to move the diary to wherever she wanted, before the search. Another silence served to remind me that I was standing, which served to remind me that I was hungry.
“Paula,” I said. “Take care of Mitchell. I'm going to get some food.”
She nodded, tacitly agreeing that we’d talk to each other in private later. Rafy excused himself and left. Mitchell was upset, but that was evidently not Rafy's concern. What a selfish bastard. On the other hand, his departure was my gain.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Much food had already been consumed, but there was still plenty left on the buffet tables. What was my fancy? A hand grabbed my arm from behind.
“I'm not going to let you escape this time,” Andrea Peterson said. “Let's go outside, get to know each other.” She pulled on me until we were facing each other, her mouth close enough for me to taste her Cosmopolitan. “You're not afraid of li'l ol' me, are you?”
I wanted to push her hand away, and I wanted to push her away, but I didn't know how to do either without seeming rude. Maybe I could even take advantage of the situation to question her while she was in a more unguarded frame of mind.
Wait a minute. Should I fear for my life, going outside alone with her? Wasn't everyone a suspect? No, it was too public a setting for murderous activities. And I didn't take Andrea seriously...as a suspect. She wasn't enough of an insider to fit my theories. But she was enough of an insider to know people, and to know things about those people. I tore my eyes away from the food.
“I'm at your service,” I said.
“Great. We'll go out to the terrace and talk. Without...interruption.” She pushed me outside, through the glass doors, where she proceeded to lean much of her weight on my left arm. “It's dark out here, and my balance isn't so good right now.”
Her physical pressure on my arm was uncomfortable and embarrassing, but I saw no graceful way out. Surely this arrangement would only last until we reached wherever she had in mind. As my eyes adapted to the relative darkness on the terrace I saw the boat we'd been on Sunday night bobbing in the water, faint lights glinting off the boat's metal seams.
I shivered in the cool and damp, but Andrea seemed comfortable despite her bare shoulders. The rock music from indoors was muffled but loud. I inhaled with pleasure the salty smell of the sandy beach, hoping that Andrea knew the setting well enough, even in the dark, not to lead us into the water. We reached a wooden bench, where we split up to approach it from opposite sides. Good. That embarrassing situation was over.
But when we sat on the bench I received three surprises. First, the bench swung. Second, the bench, and now my shirt and pants, were all wet. I hated that. I'd forgotten that it had rained.
And third, as soon as we were seated, Andrea snuggled up to me. “I'm cold, David. Can you put your arm around me to keep me warm?”
She reached for my arm, but this time I used it to fend her off. “I'm sorry, Andrea. I'm just not comfortable with that.”
“Oh, come off it, Mr. Hypocrite. I've seen you checking me out.”
“That's not true.” And it wasn't. But since I probably couldn't win this kind of argument, I decided to try a drastic change in topic. “So tell me, how long have you been involved with the Singer Institute?”
“What? Oh, about a year. It takes a long time to organize a major conference.”
Good. Distraction was working. “So you must have gotten to know the Institute people pretty well.”
She laughed. “Too well.”
“Can you tell me about them?”
“What'll you give me to tell you, lover boy?”
Although my eyes had adapted to the dark we were facing away from the house, so I couldn't make out Andrea's facial expression in detail. But I could tell that she'd moved her face much closer to mine. I slid away, re-soaking my pants with the residual rain, and bumping into the end of the bench. “Andrea.”
“You want me to go first? Is that it? Well, I don't mind talking about them. At least to you. As long as you don't steal my ideas before my book comes out.”
“I promise.”
“Don't take me so seriously. Say, you know what's missing out here? There's no bar, and I'm thirsty. No, don't move. I'll talk. My main impression of the almighty Singer Institute is that they're all Jekylls and Hydes. Great therapists, great researchers. They help people one-on-one, and their research helps the world. So why aren't they saints? Because behind closed doors, watch out. One's more nuts than the next.”
She stopped, so I prodded. “Tell me.”
“Jonathan Singer's the most obvious one. He's a lech, but everyone knows it. Makes it hard for any woman to work for him.”
“He gets away with acting like that even in the 1990s?”
“Don't get me wrong. It's not like I'm planning to sue him for harassment or anything. But everyone around him assumes that if you're a woman and you're anywhere near him, that you're sleeping with him.”
Which was my presumption, too. “What an impossible position for you to be in.”
She'd been looking out to the water. I saw her turn to face me. “You can say that again. In some ways Jonathan's just a little boy.” Shades of Judith's assessment! “He likes presents. Little ones and big ones, trinkets and...say, d'you want a present?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Switch the subject time. “How about Mitchell?” I asked Andrea.
“Mitchell? He likes women, too, but he's trickier...Did you know about his background with drugs?”
“What?”
She laughed. “Not like he's a drug addict or something. What I mean is that before he joined the Institute he did research in Mexico on mind-altering drugs. Mescaline, peyote, whatever. Or at least research is what he called it. I sometime
s wonder if he still conducts his so-called experiments here, spiking people's drinks.”
Was that her excuse for her behavior tonight? I wanted to return inside, to Paula, to Lieutenant Hansen, and to the food--but was finding Andrea's thumbnail sketches helpful. As long as I stayed out of her clutches. “Tracey Shanley?”
“Saint Tracey, you mean? She's got layers. Does all the work, gets very little credit. But I see through her. She manipulates everyone to get what she wants. At least she's not trying to get into my pants...or maybe she is!”
“Judith-”
“Klansky? Be careful. Don't say her name too loudly. She's the scariest one of all. Sneaking around everywhere. Knows everything about everything and everyone. Hides behind Jonathan...Aren't you getting bored yet? I like talking to you, but still...”
“Just one more. Raf-” I felt her hand on my inner thigh. “Hey!” I pushed her hand away.
“What's the matter, David? It's not like your girlfriend is so exclusive.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” I felt my fists clench. Rock music blared, then ebbed.
“Don't act naïve,” Andrea said. “Weren't you starting to ask about Rafael Rincon? Jonathan Singer the Younger? What do you think he and Paula are up to?”
I was so angry that I made a kind of guttural sound, which Andrea apparently interpreted as a cry of pain. “Come to mama, David. I'll make it all better.”
I couldn't contain myself any longer, and stood up. I saw her reach out an arm to me.
“Please don't go.” She sniffled, and brushed her eyes. I reminded myself that as an amateur detective it was probably best for me to remain on speaking terms with all relevant parties. So I took a deep breath and sat down. “Thanks,” she said.
Maybe if I changed the subject I could end on a more friendly note, and escape. “I haven't noticed any African-Americans at the Singer Institute. What has it been like for you over there?”
“Black? Who's black?” She laughed when I started. “No, I'm not that drunk. It's been OK in that way. They treat everyone weirdly. But I did tell them that they need more diversity. Now I hope you won't discriminate against me.”
I don't know how it happened. Maybe it was because my mind wasn't focused, maybe it was a brief blare of rock music, or maybe it was because Andrea had mastered the stealth attack. But the next thing I knew she’d grabbed my face planted her lips on mine. And the next thing I heard was the last voice I wanted to hear at that moment.
“I-”
“Paula!” I said.
“-just brought you some food.”
I heard the rattle of a dish and silverware as Paula set it down on the terrace, after which she ran back inside. I raced in after her, not giving a damn about leaving Andrea Peterson alone on the bench. “Paula,” I shouted at her back. “It wasn't what it looked like.”
Everyone in the room, it seemed, turned to look at me. Paula went straight to an empty seat between Rafy and Tracey, and covered her face with her hands. I followed her and stood at her side. Tracey and Rafy looked at me. I couldn't read Tracey's expression, but Rafy's, to my disgust, featured a smirk. Anger rose again in me. What was happening to my usual placidity?
“Paula. Please.”
She placed her hands on her lap, and turned to look at me with exaggerated slowness. Her mouth was set and her eyelids were narrow, hazel eyes like poison-tipped arrows. “You don't have to explain, David. You're free to do whatever you want.” I thought I saw tears before she turned away.
A commotion on the other side of the room interrupted our contretemps. Albert Hansen entered, followed by Mitchell Singer. Singer was flanked by the two uniformed officers who'd accompanied Hansen. When the crowds parted I saw that the officers were holding Singer's arms.
Hansen walked up to our group. “Dr. Shanley, I've just arrested Dr. Mitchell Singer. And charged him with the attempted murder of his father.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
My mouth opened. I couldn’t believe that Lieutenant Hansen had just arrested Mitchell Singer for attempting to murder his father.
“Dr. Singer asked that you take over here,” Hansen said to Tracey Shanley. Mitchell looked dazed, eyes staring blankly ahead.
“Let’s go,” Hansen told Mitchell, and pulled him by the arm to the exit door. The other officers followed. I watched them leave, stunned.
“No!” Paula shouted, and ran after them.
I stood up and ran outside as well, catching up to them on the front lawn.
“Why are you doing this, Lieutenant?” Paula was asking. “Mitchell couldn't possibly...” She looked at and swept her arm toward Mitchell, as if her identification somehow proved his innocence.
“I'm sorry, Ms. Hirsch. But we have a strong case against him.”
“Did you find anything when you searched here?” I asked, after catching my breath. I noticed that the other party-goers had remained inside, with Tracey standing in the open doorway.
“Yes, I did find something,” Hansen said in a low voice. He paused and tilted his head, seeming to weigh the pros and cons of further disclosures. “We found Jonathan Singer's diary...in Mitchell's night-table.”
“That's just crazy,” Paula said, looking first at Hansen, then at me. I took her arm--which she allowed me to do.
“If you're arresting Mitchell,” I said to Hansen, “you must've found something in the diary.”
Hansen put on a grim, closed-mouth smile. “Well, not exactly.”
“Did you find evidence of who made the appointment with Jonathan Singer?”
Hansen grimaced. “I'll say this,” he said. “Although we haven't yet read the diary letter by letter, the pages in question seem to have been torn out.”
“So you have no real evidence against Mitchell,” Paula said.
“Well, the diary was in his night-table. What was it doing there?”
“There are a million possible explanations,” Paula replied. “Mitchell could've put it there for safekeeping after his father was in the hospital.”
“And the pages torn out?”
“Coincidence. Jonathan could've done that himself. He could have changed his mind about something he wrote. With his bad eyesight, he could have scribbled something illegible and thrown it out.”
“Please.” Hansen turned to the officers holding Mitchell, and beckoned them to follow him. “Now-”
“The diary could've been planted. If Mitchell were guilty, why did he put it in his own night-table?”
Paula's points made sense to me, especially the last one. But Hansen shook his head. “I'm sorry, Ms. Hirsch, but we have lots of other evidence. We're going now. If you have more to say you can find me at the station some other time.”
Paula looked at me. “Do something, David!” her eyes pleaded. I shrugged, my quiver empty.
#
Hansen, Mitchell, and the uniformed officers left. Paula stared after them. I put my arm around her mid-back to support her. We walked back inside, passing Tracey, who murmured something I couldn’t make out. I led Paula to two chairs, keeping my arm around her as we sat.
The next thirty minutes were a blur. The other guests left and the servers cleared up, all under Tracey's direction. Paula stared at the floor while I watched and held her.
When the room was empty of other party guests Tracey pulled up a seat. She sat facing us, leaning forward, forearms on her thighs. “Are you all right, Paula?”
Paula raised her head, eyes red but dry. “Thanks, Tracey. I'm just in shock. The world is falling apart.” The depth of her affection for Mitchell surprised me. No, I was deluding myself. My scene with Andrea was the culprit.
“I know,” Tracey said. “What more could go wrong?”
No one spoke for a minute. “What're you going to do next?” Tracey asked, looking at each of us in turn.
I looked at Paula. “I don't know,” she said.
“I'm wondering,” Tracey continued. “I know, we all know, that Mitchell's innocent.” She looked at e
ach of us again, then settled on me. “But now that your father's in the clear, will you keep investigating?”
I didn't answer, but my indecision, or expression, or something, infuriated Paula. She jumped up. “We sure the hell are! At least I am.” She stormed toward the exit door.
“Paula!” I shouted, rising from my seat.
She turned back to me. “Leave me alone,” she said, and left.
Tracey's hand steadied me as I sank back into my seat.
WEDNESDAY
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
I don't remember Tracey Shanley driving me back to the hotel. I know I played my guitar in my room, but I don't remember which songs. I slept but awoke in a cold sweat. On the floor, rolled up in a sheet. Which meant that the loud thump I'd dreamed about had been me.
As I showered I thought about how to approach Paula. She was upset about my kiss with Andrea, but she’d misunderstood it. I had to convince her of that. She hadn’t really flirted with Rafy, and I certainly hadn’t flirted with Andrea. Whatever had happened had been for the investigation. We knew each other too well to think otherwise.
I shouldn't feel so down, I told myself. There was progress elsewhere. My father was out of jail and my mother was feeling better--although maybe she was playing the part of someone feeling better. Mitchell's arrest was a setback, but we were still investigating. I wasn't as emotionally invested in him as Paula was, but he’d be OK--besides stress and a jail stint--as long as we eventually cracked the case. Poor Jonathan Singer was in critical limbo, but that was entirely out of our hands.
Paula was also angry about my moment of indecision regarding pursuing the investigation. I couldn't deny that her perception was correct, but I had to re-convince her that my commitment to the investigation, to her, was absolute.
My analysis hadn't helped me to feel better. Too much doubt and negativity. But maybe it was also because I was starved. I'd never had dinner last night, and hadn't missed it, but now I did. As I dried myself off after the shower my mouth watered. And my palms moistened, thinking of facing Paula.
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