The Fourth Wall (34 page)

“I do,” I said. “John Reddick never held a grudge in his life, and you both know it. So overnight he turns into a vengeance-obsessed maniac? Bull.”

The men allowed as how that did seem a trifle far-fetched.

Then late one night Leo brought up the one subject we'd all been avoiding. “Suppose it does turn out to be Odell,” he said. “Then what? What's our next step?”

Ian made a vague gesture. “Police?”

Leo laughed derisively. “Why bother? They charge him, take him to trial, he pleads insanity. He's out again in five or six years, depending on where they send him. The police aren't the answer.”

Ian nodded; he'd more or less reached the same conclusion himself.

Leo turned to me. “Abby, when will you feel safe again? How do things have to be before you know
beyond a shadow of a doubt
that this madman will never hurt you or any one of us ever again? When will you feel safe?”

So I was to be the first to say it. “When he's dead.”

“Exactly,” Leo nodded.

“Odd,” said Ian dreamily. “For the first time I'm beginning to understand what motivates the killer. What satisfaction there must be in watching your enemy suffer. I'm not sure I want him dead. I think I want him alive and suffering the same way he's made us suffer. Only worse—much worse.”

“We'll talk about it tomorrow,” I said tiredly.

The phone rang at seven the next morning.

I fumbled for the extension beside the bed. “Is it important?” I said sleepily.

“I don't know,” answered a strange voice. “This is Donaldson, L. A.
Times
. Vivian Frank asked me to call you the minute I had news.”

I was instantly awake. “Yes, Mr. Donaldson, what is it?”

“Loren Keith's house in Encino,” he said. “Burned to the ground tonight. Police are saying arson.”

Ian was awake now and listening. “What time did the fire start?” I asked.

I could hear papers shuffling on the other end of the line. “Firefighters were called shortly after one
A.M.
, our time.” About three hours ago. “Nobody hurt, the house seemed to be empty. Neighbors say they haven't seen the Keiths for some time now. Nobody knows where they are.”

“Thank you, Mr. Donaldson, I'm in your debt. If ever there's anything—”

Mr. Donaldson was quick to collect a debt. I promised to arrange a phone interview with Ian for him and hung up.

“I'll get Leo,” said Ian.

I looked up Hugh's number and dialed. I was talking to his answering service when Ian came back with Leo.

“Answering service?” said Leo. “That means he's out of town.”

“Not necessarily,” Ian said. “I subscribed to a twenty-four-hour service and left it on all night most of the time. He could be in his apartment right now, sound asleep.”

“Then we'd better go see,” I said. “Let's get dressed.”

It was nearly eight before we got to Hugh's apartment on East Thirty-seventh. The doorman was puffy-eyed and cantankerous and refused to ring Hugh's apartment for us. “Never before eleven, he told me. He don't like to be disturbed in the morning.”

“Are you sure he's up there?” Ian asked.

“How would I know? I'm not the night man, I'm the day man. I don't see 'em come in.”

Ian pulled out his billfold. “This is an emergency,” he said as he passed over a folded bill.

The doorman rang Hugh's apartment. No answer.

“Now what?” I asked.

“We need reinforcements,” said Ian, looking around. “Where's a phone?”

We couldn't see a phone booth, but at an angle across the street was a small restaurant. It was packed with people grabbing a quick bite before going to work. Leo and I stood inside the door while Ian called the detective agency he had consulted once before. We waited until a window booth became vacant where we could keep an eye on the entrance to Hugh's apartment building.

“Order big breakfasts,” Ian said as we sat down, “and eat slowly. I said we'd need two men, but they can't get here for a couple of hours.”

“Why two?” Leo wanted to know.

“One to follow Hugh and one to check at the airport. We can't do that ourselves. It would mean tracking down flight attendants and showing them Hugh's picture—
picture
!”

“Gene Ramsay's office will have one,” I said.

“I wonder,” said Leo. “Did he go to California to burn down Loren Keith's house or to kill Dorothy? Maybe the arson was second choice.”

“Maybe he didn't go at all,” I said, trying hard not to jump to conclusions.

“Yes, he did,” said Leo, without emphasis.

“How can you be so sure?”

He just shrugged.

We managed to stretch our breakfast out almost an hour, and then ordered a second one. We were about to order a third when the two detectives showed up. We got into a taxi and sat there with the meter running while Ian explained to the detectives what they were to do.

Then we went home to wait.

Before the day was over the detectives had turned up two items of interest.

First, that morning Hugh Odell had taken American Airlines Flight Number 2 out of Los Angeles at eight-thirty, arriving at Kennedy at four thirty-seven
P.M.
He had traveled under the name William H. MacNeal. The detective investigating didn't have much luck at first. Then one of the stewardesses mentioned that the man in the photograph bore a slight resemblance to one of the passengers on Flight 2 who had a mustache and wore glasses. Once the detective had pencil-sketched in the glasses and mustache, he got positive identifications from both stewardesses.

Second, Hugh Odell had been keeping a young man in an apartment on West End Avenue for the past two months.

The young man's name was Tony Fisher, and he had no idea who Hugh Odell was. He thought his lover was an insurance adjuster named Bill MacNeal; the detective was discreet enough not to enlighten him. Tony Fisher never went to the theater, never read the newspapers, never did much of anything except smoke pot and keep the stereo blaring day and night. There was no TV in the apartment—“Bill doesn't like it.” The detective had described the young man as being “totally out of it.” Tony Fisher had no skills, no ambitions, no desire for anything in life except to be admired and waited on by his lover.

“A male Rosemary Odell,” I said. “Good Lord.”

“Opportunity,
yes,
” said Ian, “and he has a male lover. That does it, as far as I'm concerned. Hugh Odell was Michael Crown's lover.”

“Why were our detectives able to find all this when the police don't seem to know?” Leo asked. “Odell hasn't been arrested or even picked up for questioning, has he?”

“They probably had no reason to check,” I said. “I doubt if the New York police know Loren's house has been burned. They didn't know anything about his blinding, not until I told that first investigator we had, what's his name, Piperson. The only way they'll find out is if someone in Los Angeles remembers getting a query about Loren earlier and takes it on himself to notify New York.”

Or unless we tell them
. But neither Ian or Leo suggested it, and I certainly wasn't going to.

“Yeah,” mused Leo, “and they wouldn't know about this Fisher guy. Not if Odell's been keeping him just a couple of months. He must be feeling safe, to set him up like that.”

“I could kill,” said Ian quietly. “I'm sure I could. Hugh Odell I could kill with my bare hands.” His voice was calm and his face expressionless, betraying none of the agitation he must have been feeling. “But I'm not going to do it. I want that bastard to suffer. I want him to understand what it feels like, knowing someone is out to get you. I want him to feel fear, and pain, and loss. I want to strip him of everything.
Everything
.”

“You know what you're saying?” Leo asked. “You're saying you're going to kill this Tony Fisher.”

Ian scowled. “No, that would make me no different from Odell. I don't want to hurt anyone
but
Odell. Him, I want to hurt. God, I want to hurt him!”

“We all do,” muttered Leo.

The same thought struck both men at the same time, and they looked quickly at me. I nodded. “I'm in. If.”

“If what?”

“If we're
absolutely sure
. I'm ninety-nine per cent convinced Hugh is the killer. But I don't want to take any chance at all that we're condemning the wrong man. I want to be sure.”

“What more proof is there?” asked Ian. “He was in California when Keith's house was burned—”

“So were a lot of other people. Hugh could have had a legitimate reason for being there.”

“In disguise? And with his asthma?” Ian shook his head. “Come on, Abby. Why would Hugh Odell be making a quick trip to California?”

“Ask him,” said Leo.

Ian and I looked at each other, and then Ian reached for the phone.

No answering service this time; Hugh took the call. “Odell? This is Ian Cavanaugh. Where have you been? I tried to get you all day yesterday … Oh. I thought you might be out of town … I see. Well, I hope you're feeling better … The reason I called, I'm making a TV movie in August, and there's a part in it that's just right for you … Yes, California, but it'll be shot indoors … Not even with air conditioning? You wouldn't be outside at all … Hell, Hugh, that's too bad. It's not a bad part at all … Oh, you're welcome. Sorry we couldn't work it out … Sure, I'll tell her. Right.” He hung up. “Says he hasn't been in California for twenty years and he's not going now.”

Leo looked at me quizzically.

“He could still have another reason for lying,” I objected stubbornly. “I just don't want us to make that mindless leap from injury to revenge the same way Hugh—the killer did.”

“Hugh says tell you hello,” Ian said absently.

“Okay, Abby,” said Leo, “what'll it take to convince you?”

“A confrontation.”

The two men looked at me as if I'd suddenly lost my marbles. They both started protesting loudly; Ian's stronger voice won out. “Abby, do you think he's going to admit doing all these things just because we ask him nicely? He'll never confess. Never.”

“Confession is just a form of bragging,” I said, “and he must be feeling pretty pleased with himself by now. He's feeling secure enough to keep a male lover, isn't he? If we stage it right—”

“It'll never work,” Leo interrupted. “Three people pointing accusing fingers—”

“Not three. Just one.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ian. “And which one of us will it be, said the straight man.”

“Me.”

Both Ian and Leo smiled. My suggestion was so ridiculous it wasn't worth discussing.

But I wasn't ready to give up. “Think about it before you say no. If either of you husky men confronts Hugh, he's not going to admit a thing. He'll lie, and protest his innocence, keep up the act. He's not going to want a showdown with either of you. But he wouldn't be afraid of me. I'm no threat. With me, he'd be in control of the situation. It seems to me anyone who could take another person's life must be arrogant beyond measure. I'm betting he's ready to do a little bragging—especially if he's convinced I already know the truth. He'll want to show off a little. And I'd make a dandy audience.”

“Abby, love,” said Ian, “if Hugh does admit anything, your life wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel. Or hadn't you thought of that?”

“Oh, I've thought of it all right! I have no intention of playing sacrificial lamb. I'm not going into any meeting with Hugh Odell unless you two are close by.”

“And how do we arrange that?”

I waved my arms in exasperation. “I don't know how we arrange it! I just now thought of it, for Pete's sake. It'll take planning, careful preparation.”

“No,” said Ian firmly. “It's too dangerous. I won't permit it.”

“You won't
permit
it?” I said, irritated. “Where did that proprietary tone come from? I need your co-operation the same way I need Leo's—but what I don't need is your
permission
.”

“Aw, c'mon, folks,” said Leo. “Don't squabble now.”

Ian turned to him. “Ten minutes to make up?” Leo nodded and left the room.

“It'll take you at least fifteen,” I said.

But it didn't. Leo came back in and sat down like a man ready to do business.

“All right,” he said. “How do we get him?”

6

He was late.

I was standing in one of the parking lots at Shea Stadium; Leo had suggested the place. The Mets were on the road and the place was virtually deserted. It was getting on toward eight o'clock and the grounds keepers and office staff had long since gone home. A half dozen cars were still scattered through the huge lot; one of them, a Chrysler, was rented. Inside the Chrysler Ian and Leo crouched down over a receiver set tuned to pick up anything spoken into the microphone I wore under the lapel of my jacket. Ian's detectives had fixed us up without batting an eye. I would have felt ridiculous if I hadn't been so scared.

We needed a place where Hugh Odell would feel free to talk. My place was out, as were public bars and restaurants. There'd be no way to protect me in Hugh's own apartment. We wanted a place where Hugh could be reasonably sure no one would overhear, no one would interrupt. And where
we
could be reasonably sure no one would interrupt
us
. Because if Hugh said what we thought he was going to say, we were going to make sure he knew first-hand the hell he'd put other people through.

There was perhaps half an hour of daylight left. I was beginning to think Hugh wasn't going to show when a cab roared into sight. It stopped near me and Hugh opened the door, motioned me to get in. I shook my head, no. Hugh paid off the driver and watched the cab leave.