Immoral Certainty (30 page)

Dear Marlene:

I am going back home I am so misable here. You have been good to me but not others. And I miss my kin. My cousin Louise wrote me they are hiring at towle plant for good pay I will try and get work there. I didnt tell you I was so shamed but Carol Anne said nothing bad happened at that place like I told you that time. She said she made up scare storys with the other little ons for play. And you went to all that troubel. I am sorry you was put out any I give her a good whiping for it. You are a fine woman and care about folks. Well thats all Im going now. Lord bless you and keep you.

Your Freind, Dana P. Woodley

Marlene read this twice with mounting irritation, cursed sharply, and stamped her foot. Connie Trask looked up at her curiously. “Anything wrong?”

“No,” Marlene replied bitterly, “I’m just a fine woman who cares about folks and the prize asshole of the Western World.”

She called Raney first, and then Balducci, but both of them were out. She then called Judge Rice’s chambers. The Judge was in and would see her in half an hour.

Marlene felt sweaty and faint. She went to the rest room, washed her face, reapplied make-up and sat down on the worn blue vinyl couch. She lit a cigarette, took two drags and crushed it out. Her hand was trembling.
I’m too nervous to smoke,
she thought—
that’s a laugh.
The outer door opened and Marlene got up to go, but stopped when she saw who it was.

“Hi, Suzie.”

Suzie Loser smiled at Marlene and then did a little double-take, peering intently over pink, sparkly cat’s-eye glasses.

“Well, hello you,” she said. “What’s the matter?”

“With me? Nothing, just a little tired is all.”

“Darling, don’t tell Suzie nothing. You look like
dreck.
You’re eating? You’re killing yourself with some crazy diet?”

Marlene forced a weak smile. “I wish. I’ve been nauseous for a month. I can’t keep anything down.”

Suzie nodded and sat down on the couch next to Marlene. “You seen a doctor yet?”

“Yeah, today. He said it was nervous exhaustion. He gave me tranks.”

“Which doctor, might I ask?”

“Myers, over on Pearl.”

The social worker made a disgusted sound deep in her throat. “Him? They should have pulled his ticket twenty years ago. A pill hustler, you’re lucky he noticed you’re a girl.” She looked narrowly at Marlene and asked, “He do a pelvic on you?”

Marlene caught the look. “No, he didn’t. Why should he? I’m not pregnant. It’s just some damn bug that won’t go away.”

Suzie raised an eyebrow. “You got your period?”

“Yes, I did! I mean, as sick as I am it’s bound to be off. It’s happened before. I missed whole months in school. I got a coil in, Suzie. I’m not pregnant.”

“Darling,” said Suzie gently, patting Marlene on the arm, “listen to me—see a real doctor. Come by later, I’ll give you some names. And we’ll talk.”

Marlene was not willing for this conversation to continue to what she knew would be its natural conclusion—her blubbering her guts out on the most sympathetic shoulder in the Greater Metropolitan Area. She shot to her feet, glanced at her watch, took her leave, and trudged grimly toward Judge Rice’s chambers, like a convict to the gallows. I’m going to have to resign, she thought, and the notion increased in attractiveness the nearer she got to Rice’s door. The embarrassment of what she had been caught up in for the last five months made her stomach churn even more than usual.

Her stomach!
Oh, God,
she wailed inwardly,
I’m
ruined! I get some kind of fucking psychosomatic nervous stomach and I holler witchcraft! What a nincompoop. I’ll never be able to look V.T. in the face again,
not to mention . .
. but she couldn’t bear to even think about Butch, the contempt he must feel. The wedding was definitely off, until she could get her head back on an even keel and put her life in order again.

With these thoughts rattling through her brain she entered Rice’s chambers and was gratified to find that his secretary had stepped out. She walked to the closed door to the inner office and listened. Hearing nothing, she knocked, heard a muffled response, and walked in.

Rice was behind his big walnut desk in shirt sleeves. He smiled when he saw her.

“Marlene! Come in! We’ve been talking about you.”

“You have?” she said, startled, then thought “we?” and looked, and saw that in one of the two leather wing chairs before Rice’s desk there sat a thin, distinguished man in black clerical garb.

“Yes, about this unfortunate business at St. Michael’s you turned up,” Rice went on. “Ah, I see you haven’t met. Marlene Ciampi, Reverend Andrew Pinder, Pastor of St. Michael Archangel.”

Marlene said, “Christ!” and then threw her hand up to her lips, as a ferocious blush rose to her cheeks.

“No,” said Pinder, “but I do try.” He stood and held out his hand, a good-natured smile appearing on his boyish face. He was about forty, slim, with thick sandy hair in a stylish cut and intelligent dark blue eyes.

She made herself join their laughter at this sally, and sat in the other chair when Rice invited her to. Rice said casually, “I’ve been wanting to get you two together for some time. This is a dreadful thing for the center—”

“That’s what I came to talk to you about,” Marlene broke in. “It’s really embarrassing … but I think it all may be about nothing.” She fingered Dana’s note while the two men stared at her in surprise. “That woman I told you about, Judge. Woodley? She just quit her job—went back home and left me this note. It seems her kid made it all up. Or so she says.” Marlene met their eyes with effort and swallowed hard. “I’m just incredibly sorry—I don’t know what else to say.”

The two men exchanged a quick glance and Marlene prepared herself for a tirade; instead, Rice said, “But there
was
something going on, Marlene. That’s what we were just talking about. Both Andrew here and Mrs. Dean are terribly upset.”

It was Marlene’s turn to stare. “What do you mean?” she said, her mouth drying.

Pinder cleared his throat. “Mrs. Dean called me this morning. She said she had found evidence that suggested that one of the janitors had been abusive with some of the children on late care.”

“Who is he and what’s the evidence?”

“That she didn’t say. She was very disturbed, as Herb said. But she did mention your name as somebody who … knew about the case. I thought she was rather mortified at having rejected your accusation out of hand, but you have to understand—for something like this to happen at St. Michael’s—it’s like finding a cockroach in your soup at Lutece.”

Marlene sighed and said, “I wouldn’t know, Mr. Pinder, I usually eat in the office. I guess I’m getting tired of hearing how impeccable St. Michael’s is and how we have to protect its rep.”

Judge Rice said reasonably, “I can see how you might feel that way, Marlene. This has put you through some kind of hell. But the thing is now to act professionally and continue the investigation. What we want is to stop this man, whoever he is, from harming more children, without destroying the best day-care center in the city and, incidentally, dragging those poor children through the courts.”

“You want me to cover St. Michael’s?”

Rice smiled sadly and spread his hands open on his desk.

“Just be careful, Marlene. And clever. I don’t want to see you hurt either.”

Was that a veiled threat? Marlene looked closely at Rice, and then over at Pinder. Their faces showed genuine concern, although whether for her personally or their own reputations she couldn’t tell. She stood up, and realized she was still holding Dana Woodley’s note. “What about this?” she asked, waving it. “It seems to say the opposite of what you’ve just found out.”

Pinder shook his head sadly. “It’s quite common, I’m afraid. Abused children often go into deep denial. If we could get her into some good therapy …”

“It’s probably too late for that,” Marlene said. “They’ve apparently gone back to the hills. Anyway—I guess the next step is to contact Mrs. Dean and get her evidence, get a line on this guy, maybe, and take it from there. That sound right?”

They both beamed. Rice said, “That sounds perfect. In fact, I know Mrs. Dean is waiting for your call.” He wrote briefly on a scratch pad and handed Marlene an address and a telephone number. “You can get back to her here. It’s not the Center—best to keep this whole thing isolated from there until we know more.”

Marlene took the paper and after some desultory conversation, left the chambers. Returning to her own office, she called the number Rice had given her. Mrs. Dean answered herself on the second ring. She sounded anxious and made a nice apology to Marlene and hoped that she hadn’t gotten in trouble. Marlene said it was all right.

Mrs. Dean asked if Marlene could come by that afternoon to the address Judge Rice had supplied. They wanted to keep this very confidential, and since she was known as an Assistant D.A. at the center…. Marlene resisted the temptation to say that she was coming to the Center door in a blue-and-white with sirens and a paddy wagon, said that was all right, too. End of conversation.

Marlene felt at this point that she was no longer in control of events, and was more than willing to be carried along by the preferences of others, anything to bring this miserable affair to a close. She felt almost giddy with relief and, as she gathered up her tattered brown legal envelopes and went out, she realized that for the first time in almost two months she was not nauseous. In fact, she was ravenously hungry.

Gingerly she tested her revived appetite. She thought of hot grease and spices, fried onions, pepperoni pizza, sour pickles, hot sausage sandwiches. Her stomach contracted at these imaginings, but not with revulsion. Clearing up her afternoon’s work with dispatch, she repaired to Sam’s Luncheonette, off Foley Square, where she ordered a double cheeseburger, fries, extra pickle, and a black-and-white ice cream soda. She ate slowly, savoring the simple, strong flavors, waiting to see if the dreaded heaves would appear.

But there was only the usual feeling of faintly guilty repletion one got after consuming a large meal of New York peasant fare. Marlene sat back in her leatherette booth and lit a cigarette and considered her most recent megrim. She seemed to be emerging from some kind of waking nightmare, in which she had believed herself to be the victim of witchcraft, a belief in which her body had concurred. There was nothing wrong with her physically, so she must have been crazy.

On the other hand, she had known something was going on at St. Michael’s and that was now confirmed. That wasn’t crazy, although, of course, no one had mentioned the tie-in with the trash-bag killings, and she had been too bowled over by Rice’s information to bring it up. She wished Raney was available.

Or Karp. Funny how she pulled back from him in her mind when she thought she was really going nuts. Karp and the Job: a connection, and a negative one. She could finally admit it: she couldn’t stand working for him. It screwed up both her love life and her work life without any compensating benefit. OK, that had to change. Transfer to another bureau or resign completely? Too big a decision to make just yet, and what would she do if she quit? Practice criminal law? It was to vomit.

She got up, paid her bill, and walked back to the Criminal Courts building. It was shaping up to be a fine autumn afternoon, the air miraculously clear and slightly damp, a reminder to the huddled masses that their grim city was still located by the sea. Marlene’s head was clearing up too. She skipped back to her office. She began to look for the files she had kept on the St. Michael’s and trash-bag killings case.

Filing was not Marlene’s major strength. Despite her lack of storage space, she could never bear to throw anything away. She had high ceilings, however, and had used this space to build a ziggurat of cardboard boxes on top of her sole bookcase. She put a straight chair on her desk, arranged several thick law books on its seat, and clambered up on this makeshift ladder.

As she rummaged through the papers in the cartons she became aware of another presence in the small room. Looking down, she saw Guma standing by her desk, positioned for the best view up her dress.

“Guma! What are you doing here?”

“Just passing through. The word is you don’t wear any pants on Tuesdays. I thought I’d check it out.”

“It’s Wednesdays,” said Marlene. “Here, you can help. Catch this!” She tossed a heavy carton down to him and then climbed down herself. She pawed through the papers in the box and pulled the one she wanted out with a yell of triumph.

“What’d you find?” asked Guma.

“The stuff on St. Michael’s and the trash-bag murders.”

“I thought that was dead.”

“Not any more it ain’t. The lady who runs the place has summoned the kid here for a discreet confession. Which I have a feeling is a prelude to a whitewash. The janitor, my ass!”

“What are you talking about, Champ?”

Marlene briefly explained the events of the last half hour and what she made of them.

Guma said, “So you still think they’re running a kiddy whorehouse?”

“I know it. Shit, I wish I could reach Raney—anyway, I got to go now. I’ll take this with me or it’ll get lost again. Wish me luck!”

“In bocca ’l lupo, paisan,”
said Guma cheerfully, at which, to his great surprise she grabbed his head, kissed him soundly on the mouth, and ran out.

“Hey, Marlene,” he called after her. “More tongue action next time.”

Her excitement building, Marlene ran to the Bureau office to look for Karp. She was seized by the need to talk to him, to get close to him again. But Karp was out, somewhere with the cops. Did she want to reach him? She declined—she didn’t want to talk to him by phone, or worse, over the police radio. She scribbled a note—“Off to St. Michael’s—don’t worry, all coming up roses. See you tonite.” She left it on his desk and departed for the appointment with Mrs. Dean.

I’ll cook a meal, she thought, as she rode uptown on the IRT. I haven’t cooked for us in months. I’ll make minestrone soup from scratch, and a big lasagna with four kinds of cheese and sweet sausages. And a good bottle of something. And I’ll stop off at Zabar’s while I’m uptown and get bagels and lox and smoked whitefish. We’ll have a balanced ethnic weekend, and talk about being married and what I’m going to do with my life. Our life. And then I’ll see if I can sweet-talk my way into getting laid.