The Cold Blue Blood (26 page)

He sipped his wine. “What was it you wanted to tell me, Mandy?”

Mandy stared at him, dazed and dumbfounded. “Don’t believe in wasting time with small talk, do you, Mitch?”

“It’s been kind of a long day.”

“Well, then have a seat,” she commanded, waving him over toward the sofa. “Relax.”

He sat on the sofa, but he did not relax. She turned off the music and curled up next to him, one bare leg folded underneath her.

“It’s about the night of Dolly’s cocktail party,” Mandy began. She suddenly seemed edgy and distracted, as if she were trying to listen to a radio broadcast in the other room. Only no radio was playing. “The night when the Weems man was murdered, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, Bud did not come to bed that night,” she revealed. “Truth of the matter is, he was not even home.”

“Where was he?”

Mandy took a sip of her wine. “With her,” she said to him over the rim of her glass.

“Dolly?”

She nodded her head, slowly and gravely.

“What are you saying exactly?”

“I’m saying that he and that bitch are still sleeping together,” Mandy replied, her voice now low and menacing.

“How do you know this?”

“I
know
because he slips out in the night on me all the time. I’ve followed him to her place. I’ve
seen
him.”

She wasn’t necessarily telling Mitch anything he didn’t already know. He knew that Bud kept an eye on Dolly in the night. He’d run smack into the lawyer in her kitchen. “Go on,” he urged.

“He didn’t come home that night until almost five in the morning. And when he did he was wet—and I mean
soaking
wet. Not from running next door in the rain. But from being out in it for a long, long time.”

“I see …” Mitch considered this for a moment, wondering where else Bud had been on that stormy night. Where had he gone
after
Mitch was safely back in his own bed? For that matter, where else had Dolly gone? Mitch had no idea. And his mind was racing now. Because the two of them could have killed Weems together. “Did you tell Lieutenant Mitry this?”

Mandy lowered her eyes and gave a brief shake of her head.

“Why not?”

She didn’t respond, other than to shake her head again.

“Why are you telling me?”

Now her blue eyes met his. And she did not seem the least bit drunk. She seemed cold sober, her gaze piercing, her body tensed. “Because I want there to be trust between us.”

“Well, sure. Trust is important between friends.”

“Is that what we are … friends?” she asked him imploringly. “People who can say anything to each other? No shame? No fear?”

“Absolutely, Mandy. We’re friends.”

She untensed now, smiling at him. “Good, I’m
so
glad. Because there
is
a favor I wanted to ask of you. It’s kind of a humongous one …”

Mitch sipped his wine. “Name it.”

“Do you remember me mentioning how much I want to start a family?”

“Two or three little Havenhursts, as I recall.”

“Well, Bud can’t anymore,” she said matter-of-factly. “His sperm count’s too low or something. Actually, I’m not sure what it is, since he refuses to go see a fertility specialist. In fact, he’s dead set against the whole idea of starting a new family with me. And so what I thought was …” She trailed off, swallowing. “He’ll
believe
it’s his baby, Mitch. And he’d never find out the truth. I swear I’d—”

“Whoa, freeze frame!” Mitch broke in sharply. “What are you saying—that you want to have my test tube baby?”

Mandy frowned at him prettily. “Why, no, Mitch. I’m saying I want to go to bed with you.”

“Whew,” he gasped, fanning himself. “Is it getting weird in here or is it just me?”

“I’m perfectly serious, Mitch.”

“You
can’t
be serious!”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“Well, no, but …”

“Save my marriage, Mitch,” she pleaded. “Save me. Make love to me.” Her voice was a soft purr now. And she had moved very close to him on the sofa, her hand caressing his chest. “I am
way
serious.” She took his hand and guided it along her bare leg, her skin like electric velvet to his touch. “And
way
good.” Now she moved his hand under her shift … up, up, up …
there
. “And
way
ready,” she whispered. Which she most definitely was.

Briefly, Mitch could not believe this was happening to him. Utterly amazing. Also utterly out of the question. He snatched his hand away from hers and got up and crossed the room toward the faux fireplace, Mandy’s eyes following him.

“You barely know me,” he said hoarsely.

“I know plenty,” she countered. “I know you’ve got brains. You scored at least fourteen hundred on your SAT exams, am I right?”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t necessarily equate with—”

“You’re smart. I want someone with smarts. I’m a big, healthy girl, a good athlete, pretty. Between us, we’ve got all the bases covered. Our kid would be great, Mitch. Pure dynamite.”

Mitch cleared his throat, swallowing. “Look, I’m very flattered. And I think you’re incredibly attractive. But there’s something you have to understand about me …”

“What is it?” Mandy wondered anxiously.

“I haven’t slept with anyone since my wife passed away. And when I do—if I do—I want it to be someone who I’m seriously involved with. I want it to be special. Can you understand that?”

She let out a sad laugh and got up and came over to him. “Of course, I do. You’re a romantic. I think that’s wonderful. Quaint and sweet and wonderful. I really do. Only answer me this …” She set her wineglass down on the mantle, then whirled and slapped Mitch across the face as hard as she could, an open-handed blow that stung like fire. “What am I, a goddamned bag lady?! Do you
know
how gorgeous I am? Do you
know
, how many men want me? How dare you say no to me?! What are you, some kind of fag?” Now she hurled herself at him, pummeling his chest and shoulders with her fists, kicking him, kneeing him.

The woman was out of control. The woman was totally mad.

Mitch tried to subdue her. He grabbed her by her bare arms, gripping her tightly. They wrestled. They grappled. They fell to the floor with a loud thud, her nails raking his face, an animal snarl coming from deep down in her throat. She was coiled and strong, but he was stronger. And he did outweigh her. And now he had her pinned to the carpet with his body. And as the fight slowly began to seep out of her, her eyes grew softer and her body began to shift and writhe and undulate beneath his, her lips pulling back from her teeth, her breathing becoming shallow and swift. She was, Mitch realized much to his horror, intensely aroused by this. She wanted this.

“God, give it to me right now, Mitch,” she moaned, her arms and legs entwining around him now, clutching him to her. One bare, perfect breast was fully exposed, her breath was hot on his face, her tongue in his ear. “Give it to me!”

Recoiling from her as though she was toxic to the touch, Mitch scrambled to his feet and fled out the door, Mandy screaming curses after him at the top of her lungs. He caught a cab home. His driver didn’t seem to notice—or care—that he was bleeding from his face, neck and hands. His lip was swollen and numb. His shirt was torn. He felt as if he had just been mauled by a tiger. He
had
. She
was
a tiger. Also a card-carrying lunatic. And the knife cut both ways—if Bud wasn’t home in bed the night Weems was murdered, then she had no one to vouch for her own whereabouts either. What if
she
and Niles Seymour had been an item? What if Niles had tried to break it off with her after he took up with Torry? What if Mandy had murdered them both? She did not exactly cope well with rejection, Mitch now felt safe in saying. And she was certainly capable of it. What if Weems found out and had to be done in, too? Mitch could believe it. He could believe all of it.

Mitch took the longest, hottest shower of his entire life when he got home. But he still did not feel clean. He applied antibiotic ointment to his scratches, an ice pack to his lip. He helped himself to a pint of Häagen-Dazs chocolate-chocolate chip. Popped
Angels with Dirty
Faces into his VCR. Turned off all of the lights in the apartment and sat there in the darkness, watching Cagney trade spunky, crackling barbs with Ann Sheridan.

And, slowly, life began to make sense again. And it was fair and it was just and it was fun. And, for the umpteen-millionth time in his thirty-two-year life, Mitch Berger remembered why they made films and why he loved films and why it was that they purposely had nothing whatsoever to do with real life.

After a while he dug out Lieutenant Mitry’s business card and called her pager number. She got back to him in exactly two minutes, her voice alert and anxious.

“I’m sorry if I woke you up,” Mitch apologized, it being 1:30 in the morning. “But I thought I ought to check in.”

“Not a problem, that’s why I gave you my number,” she responded, her voice partially drowned out by an entire choir of cats meowing in the background. “Sporty, you behave now, girl. No!”

“Just exactly how many cats do you own?” Mitch asked, his words somewhat slurred by his fat lip.

“Not a one. They own me. And if you’re wondering about Clemmie …”

“I’m not. But seeing as how you mention her …”

“When I stopped by this afternoon I found her curled up downstairs in your easy chair. The girl’s just moved right on in. Pretty soon she’ll be making microwave pizza, talking to her girlfriends on the phone … Now what have you got for me? And please, God, make it good.”

“Well, somebody in a green trenchcoat did try to push me onto the subway tracks today.”

She fell silent.

So silent that Mitch said, “Hello … ?”

“Where was this?”

“Times Square.”

“Did you report it to the transit police?”

“And say what?”

“What you just said to me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because whoever it was got away. And no one else saw anything. Who knows, it could have been a random act, some subterranean loon …”

“Uh-hunh,” she said doubtfully.

“Then again, I should also point out that Mandy Havenhurst and I had just parted company a few minutes earlier.”

“You’re saying it could have been her. She. Mandy.”

“Well, yeah,” Mitch acknowledged, fingering his fat lip.

“She was wearing a trenchcoat?”

“Well, no. But she was carrying a good-sized shoulder bag.”

“Um, okay, there’s one other possibility—Bud Havenhurst.”

“What about Bud?”

“He wasn’t around today.”

“She told me she spoke to him on the phone.”

“Maybe she did, but she didn’t speak to him at his office. Or at their house. Because he wasn’t at either one of those places all day. He wasn’t in town, near as I can tell.”

“You think he might have followed me in?”

“Her, more likely—if I know men.”

“Do you?”

“I can check with the conductors on the
Shoreliner
tomorrow,” she said, deftly slipping his jab.

“What if he drove in?”

“Then he’s very clever,” she admitted. “Are you all right?”

“Why, don’t I sound all right?”

“No, you sound like Elmer Fudd,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Have you been to the dentist or something?”

“No, I’ve just paid a round-trip visit to Mandy’s dark side. She came on to me this evening, big time.”

“And … ?” The lieutenant’s voice seemed a degree or two chillier now.

“And I told her I wasn’t interested, right?”

“How would I know? You’re the one telling the story.”

“Okay, I told her I wasn’t interested.”

“Fine. You told her you weren’t interested. And … ?”

“And she tried to claw my eyes out.”

“Well, that certainly fits with the girl’s history.”

“I did find out something interesting from her, though. While she was still in full cuddle mode, I mean.” Mitch filled the lieutenant in on what Mandy had said about Bud being elsewhere, and wet, the night Tuck Weems was murdered—taking care to point out how this meant Mandy had no one to vouch for her own whereabouts either.

“Interesting,” she concluded. “Sounds like you’ve had yourself quite a day.”

Mitch allowed as how he had. And then she was yawning again. And the cats were yowling. So he said, “I’ll let you get back to sleep. Sorry I woke you. What does it say anyway?”

“What does what say?”

“The T-shirt you’re wearing.”

“Man, how do you know I’m wearing a T-shirt?”

“I just do. Why, have you got a problem with it?”

“With what, the way you keep acting like you’re up inside my head?”

“I guess this means yes.”

“No … Just trying to understand you, that’s all.”

“Well, that’s it right there, Lieutenant. I’m trying to understand you, too.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Man, that’s a riddle, not an answer!”

“I don’t know why, okay? Only that nothing in my life makes any sense right now. And it seems important to understand something. Or someone.”

She was silent a long moment. “It doesn’t say anything.”

“What doesn’t?”

“My T-shirt. It’s blank. No message. None. Good night, Mitch.” She hung up the phone before he could get out one more word.

He threw the dead bolt on his front door and climbed into bed. It wasn’t until he’d turned off his bedside lamp, punched his pillow two times and closed his eyes that he realized she’d finally stopped calling him Mr. Berger.

CHAPTER 12

DES LAY THERE STARING at the ceiling while the four Spice Girls chased each other blissfully around the bed, scampering over her, rumbling, tumbling. Their energy was boundless. So was their ability to amuse themselves. Their whole universe was right here inside this house. And, within its carpeted confines, they were totally content.

Damn, she envied them sometimes.

She had not been asleep when Mitch Berger called, even though she’d been awake nearly forty-eight hours straight and her body was exhausted. But she could not shut down her mind. It had kept right on searching and rewinding. Sorting through Big Sister’s residents, one by one. Reviewing what she knew about them. Focusing on what she didn’t know. And now she had a new fact to throw into the mix: Someone had tried to take out Mitch Berger.