If I Should Die Before I Die (13 page)

I stood up.

“Come on,” I said, “let's get out of here.”

She reached up, and I pulled her to her feet. Her body swayed, and I sensed her trembling.

“How did you come across the first one?” I asked.

“It was already in the machine,” she said. “I just happened to turn it on.”

I found the tape in question and stuck it in the VCR. Otherwise, I didn't think we'd disturbed enough in the mess that anybody would notice we'd been there.

I'd had it set up with Bobby Derr that if he thought someone was heading back to the apartment, he'd call, allow three rings, then hang up. But the phone hadn't rung, and when we got down to the lobby, the night super was nowhere in sight.

We walked a while. I think we went south on Park Avenue, but it could have been north. Or maybe it was Lexington. If somebody was tailing us then, in the dark, I sure didn't spot him.

I told her I didn't want her to be alone for the next while, particularly alone in her office.

She said she could arrange that. There was Bill for one, Dr. Biegler. But she asked me why I said it.

I admitted that the tapes had freaked me out too.

Beyond that, neither of us said anything much.

I remember her putting her hand in mine, that it was trembling and that I held it till the trembling stopped. I remember we were both wearing raincoats and it wasn't raining. I remember thinking that she'd just dropped the proverbial shoe and where was the other one?

Then she turned to me in the street, put her arms around my neck and kissed me, hard. Then her mouth relaxed, opened, and I kissed her back.

The other shoe.

“Phil,” she said directly, “I want you to make love to me tonight.”

I guess I thought a mishmash of thoughts, all in simulcast. That she shouldn't be alone. That maybe the timing was good for what she wanted and I was certainly available on that score. Or that she was scared and ditto. Also that she needed a protector and there I was, Midnight Rider, one if by land and two if by sea.

Also, and you didn't have to be a genius to figure it out, that I'd had a semisecret hankering for Nora Saroff for a long time.

But also, finally, that for Christ's sake Nora Saroff
was
the Counselor's Wife.

Put it another way: maybe I wasn't ready for my own midlife crisis.

Yeah, and maybe someday, on some shrink's couch, I'll figure out why I did what I did.

“There's nothing I'd like better,” I said to her, “but I think the timing's wrong. I …”

“How could the timing be better? I know I appeal to you. It's not some misbegotten sense of
loyalty
, is it?”

“No. Look, Nora, I'll be glad to take you wherever you want to go, to stay with you tonight, but …”

“Never mind. You're right, it was a stupid idea.”

“I didn't say that. Let me take you home. I want …”

“Never mind,” pulling angrily away from me, “I'm okay, I'm fine. Let me go now.”

She ran out into the street, waving at taxis, and I remember shouting at her back, and, yes, it was Park Avenue because a cabbie on the far side of the island did a swerving U-turn at the intersection to beat the competition.

“Please, Nora …”

“Not to worry. I'm fine. I won't be alone.”

“But I …”

Then, with one foot in the taxi and her hand on the door, and in one of those quicksilver mood shifts of which I knew she was capable, she turned back to me. Her hair was swirling across her eyes and she was grinning at me.

“Not to worry, Phil. Besides, this only makes us even. Remember?”

And was gone.

I didn't get it at first: her limo pulling away from me on the West Side, that night after her show. About all I could think of right then, at the risk of repeating myself, was that it sure was a week for watching women ride off in taxis.

CHAPTER

7

“You got no call to be mad, Philly,” said Bobby Derr. “I mean, like look at it from my point of view. You work for Camelot and you don't moonlight on the side. How was I supposed to know this
wasn't
a Camelot job?”

“Because we use Fincher when it's Mr. Camelot's business, and you know it.”

“Yeah? And how was I to know you hadn't decided to dump Fincher?”

“Why would we do a thing like that?”

“I don't know,” Bobby said, shrugging. “Maybe you finally woke up to the fact that Bud's a horse's ass. Besides, you said it was an undercover job, that I was to get in with McCloy and his buddies. Could you see Fincher doing that?”

He had me there. The truth was: I was madder at myself than at him. I'd let him think what he wanted to think at the beginning, and if he'd decided he was really working for the Counselor, I had nobody but myself to thank for it.

“Anyway, Philly, not to worry. I've got it all figured out.”

“You've got what all figured out?”

“It's Nora Saroff, babe. She's Camelot's wife and McCloy's shrink, right? It took me a while to put that one together, why the hell didn't you tell me up front? But once I got it, things fell into place, no problem.”

“Is she still his shrink?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. Does he talk about her like she's still his shrink?”

“You gotta be kidding! Has he got some case for her. Did you find those tapes in the apartment? He watches them all the time. I guess it happens that way, huh? That people fall in love with their shrinks? ‘specially a piece like Nora. The way I figure it, young Cloy got too hot for her to handle, maybe started working on her after hours, and she told her old man about it, and Camelot told you to fix it, and you hired me. Right?”

Doodling with my second mug of coffee, I pretended to think about it. We were sitting at the Roosevelt; it was around eleven in the morning. Bobby Derr had looked pretty green around the gills when he showed, but by now, after working his way through three eggs scrambled, with fried ham, hashed browns and a double order of toast, he'd pretty well caught up with the day.

As for me, I'd called in sick at the office. Another first. And had learned from Ms. Shapiro that the Counselor had arranged for me to call on Sally Magister. I told her I'd be there, sick or not, and at the office for another appointment that afternoon.

“Only it won't wash, huh, Philly?” Bobby asked, grinning at me.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the way I figure it, if all Camelot wanted was to scare McCloy off his wife, you could've done that yourself, in ten minutes. Or I could've done it for you. No problem. But if that's all you wanted, why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff? I mean, I'm not complaining. I'm getting paid and I'm getting my rocks off, it doesn't always happen that way. But suppose McCloy
is
balling her and Camelot found out about it? Or even suspected it? I mean, it stands to reason, doesn't it? How old is he anyway, late fifties? Sixty? Maybe he can't get it up enough for a hot piece like Nora. I mean, what would he do about it if he didn't want anybody to know? He'd hire somebody to glue himself to McCloy and eventually it would come out, one way or the other. Well, you can tell …”

“That's bull!” I said, and I guess I must have said it loud. The Roosevelt is mostly deserted that time of day except for some old-timers they let hang around in the off-hours, as long as they keep a mug in front of them. But I was aware of heads turning toward me.

I lowered my voice.

“She thinks he may be the Pillow Killer, goddamn it!”

Bobby Derr gaped at me.

“What did you say?”

“I said she thinks McCloy may be the Pillow Killer.”

“Well, that's paranoid,” he said.

We stared at each other. I watched him reach for a cigarette, watched him light one, felt the old nicotine yearning start nagging at my nerve ends.

I watched him think about it.

“I don't buy it, Philly,” he said finally, shaking his head. “I mean, maybe he likes to beat up on women—they all do—and maybe he's messed up inside. But that doesn't make him a killer, does it? I mean, he's a silver-spoon kid. Silver-spoon kids don't go around killing people.”

“It's been known to happen,” I said.

“Serial killers?”

I couldn't think of an actual case. At the same time, though, I didn't see that rich or poor had much to do with whether somebody committed multiple mayhem.

“Besides,” Bobby said, “he's such a wimp.” I watched him run his tongue around the inside of his mouth, like he was cleaning house. “Take last night. We were at Melchiorre's, just hanging out, and some of the guys really got on his case.”

“What about?”

“I don't know how it got started. You know how guys are. There's been a lot of tension there. Some of them even want to get rid of him, like he kind of cramps their style. I don't get it altogether. Anyway, Stark starts riding him—that's the one they call Shrimp, the little guy? He asks Cloy about his sex life. Then they all jump in. Then somebody asks him about his shrink, about Nora, you know? Asks him has he done it yet? When was he going to do it? Or did he get enough kicks out of the tapes? Stuff like that. It got pretty personal, pretty ugly. And you could see it get to Cloy. He stiffened up. I mean, his knuckles went white, like he was about to coldcock somebody. But then you know what happened? Damned if he didn't start to cry! He hadn't even had that much to drink. And then out the door he goes!”

“What time was this?”

“I don't know. It was early. Must've been before midnight anyway.”

“And then what happened?”

“I don't know. I think Hal went after him. The rest of us more or less closed the joint. Nobody much felt …”

“But McCloy? Where did McCloy go?”

“How do I know? I guess he went home.”

“You
guess?
”

“That's right. At least that's where he was this morning. I spent the night there. He was still asleep when I …”

“For Christ's sake!” I interrupted. “I'm paying you to stay with McCloy, not to hang around in saloons!”

“Hey! Hey wait a minute, Philly, I …”

“Forget it,” I said, getting up in a hurry. “I've got to make a phone call.”

I'd had one of those sudden … well, all right, call it a premonition. I don't believe in sixth senses, but all I saw was Nora getting into the cab and how did I know where the hell she'd gone after that?

Irrational? Paranoid? Okay, but it caught me right in the gut.

I went to the phone box which hung on the wall between the cashier's desk and the street window. I dialed her office. No, Dr. Saroff wasn't in, the receptionist said. She recognized my voice. Where was she, I asked. The receptionist didn't know. Well, had she heard from her? Yes, the receptionist said. In fact Dr. Saroff had called in, she wasn't feeling well, she'd said to cancel all her appointments. Was she sure she'd called in that morning? Of course she was sure, was anything the matter? No, I said, but where had she called in from? The receptionist said she didn't know. Well, who would know? Maybe Dr. Biegler, she said. Well, could I talk to him? No, he wasn't there either, he had no morning appointments. Did I want to leave a message? No, I said, just say I'd called. Say I'd call again later.

I hung up, took a deep breath and blew it out. Bobby Derr was staring at me from across the cafeteria, and he eyed me all the way back to the table.

“Jesus, Philly,” he said, “what's got into you this morning?”

“I don't know,” I said. “You got a cigarette?”

“Sure,” he answered. “But I thought you'd quit smoking.”

I took a cigarette from his pack, lit it, took a deep drag, exhaled and felt myself go dizzy in the head.

“I have,” I said, stubbing the damn thing out in the ashtray.

“Look, Philly,” he began, but I cut him off.

“I know,” I said, “I told you to get in with McCloy and the others, not necessarily to glue yourself to him.”

“That's right. And what the hell was I supposed to do? Like I can't divide myself into pieces. Like last night …”

“Never mind, Bobby.”

“Shoot,” he said. “You never even told me you thought he was a murderer.”

“I'm not sure I do,” I said.

“But how come you even suspect him?”

I gave him what I had then, including the correlations the Counselor's Wife had worked out and the note that had been slipped under her door. Even as I laid it out, though, it sounded flimsy, circumstantial. In addition, the last Pillow murder had taken place before I'd hired Bobby, and the killer, whoever he was, had crawled back into his hole since, and as far as Carter McCloy was concerned, it had been pretty much party-party.

We kicked it back and forth, working over the times McCloy had been with the group and those he hadn't, and what the girls had said about him, including the Staten Island girls, and why the others seemed to want to get rid of him, and why McCloy let them ride him.

“Why don't they?” I asked Bobby.

“Why don't they what?”

“Get rid of him.”

He thought about it.

“Part of it,” he said, “is that some of them are old buddies. They go way back. Some of them went to the same school, some prep school. And maybe they need a butt, kind of. But also, in a funny way, McCloy pimps for them. I mean, the son of a gun draws women like a magnet. The bims go for him, they think he's handsome. I've watched him get them without half trying. It's amazing.”

I'd seen that too. What was it? The King of Pimps, the Pimp of Kings.

“Maybe it's the white scarf bit,” Bobby Derr said. “He always wears that white scarf. But your killer doesn't strangle, does he?”

“No, he doesn't. He uses pillows.”