Woman in the Window (17 page)

“Oh, you certainly can, Mrs. Rader. My mistake, you should get a refund.” He grinned, chewed away at the gum, and began fumbling for his wallet. The coat creaked. He found it, a black leather folder, dropped it on the carpet, leaned down to get it, his face reddening.

“That’s all right,” she said. “You look like—”

“A cop,” he said, sitting back up. “I know.” He flipped open the wallet and looked at the badge. “Gotta pencil? Take down my number. It’s 7614. Write that down.” He looked at her.

“I’ll remember,” she said, smiling.

He repeated the number. “Adds up to ninety, okay?”

“Fine. Now what can I do for Internal Conduct Services?”

“Right. I’m sure you’re busy, let’s get right to it. Sergeant MacPherson.” He sighed. His face was troubled and he rubbed his chin with thick, black-haired fingers. “First-rate man, don’t misunderstand anything I have to say here. First-rate, no question about that. The thing is—listen, you realize that I’m dealing in strictest confidence here—the thing is, we’ve had a few complaints about Sergeant MacPherson’s personal conduct in the course of his investigations. Groundless, I’m sure, but we have to check them out. Innocent till proven guilty, of course. But we gotta check—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, the complaints have all come from ladies. Get it?”

“No, I don’t get it.”

“Ah, well, you know what I mean, you’re a woman of the world, out there in the business world—”

She laughed uneasily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t make it any clearer than that.”

“Overly familiar. Familiarity. Unwarranted.”

“With the ladies?” she prompted. “You’re joking.”

“As I say, we’ve had complaints from some women he’s met during the course of investigations. No proof, mind you. Just allegations. Calling them up for dates during an investigation, insisting on maintaining contact with them once an investigation is concluded, pursuing them too energetically. Now me, I figure a lot of these women give a guy encouragement whether they know it or not, he’s a good-looking guy, likes the ladies—what else is new, right?” He shrugged, opened his hands in a gesture of resignation. “I’m just here to ask you if you’ve had any experience with Sergeant MacPherson you would characterize as overly familiar or suggestive?” He looked embarrassed. “What can I say? It’s a dirty job but somebody’s got to do it.”

“I’m amazed,” she said.

“Try to think of it as consumer relations, Mrs. Rader. Like we just want to know if you’re satisfied with the NYPD product—”

“Yes, I’m perfectly satisfied. Is that clear enough? MacPherson has turned out to be sensitive to my situation, very involved in handling it effectively—I think I’ve irritated him by my reticence to rely on him … but he has certainly behaved in a professional manner at all times. I can’t imagine what else I could say.”

“Well, remember, his performance of his duty is not in question. However, we’ve got a report he’s seeing you socially during the course of an investigation. Now say he tried to cop a quick feel—” He raised a palm, shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Say he tried to make an improper advance of some kind—you’d tell me, right?”

“Whatever you call it in the police manual, he hasn’t done it. Get it? Zip, zero, he gets my vote for Cop of the Year. Now, if that’s it, I’ve got to get going, Captain—”

“Listen, that’s just great, Mrs. Rader. You’ve been a big help. Believe me.” He put down his coffee and stood up, buttoning his coat. “I’m sorry I had to barge in here and subject you to this. And,” he winked, “pardon my French there a second ago. It’s funny, though. A guy gets a rep like MacPherson’s and it follows him around. With some guys it’s brutality—they look at some punk sideways and suddenly it’s brutality. Years ago, when I was in narcotics, I used to have these little conversations with dealers down on the East Side, take ’em aside into an alley and leave ’em standing there spitting out Chiclets, but I never got a rep for brutality. I know lots of cops, screwing their way through the precinct—half the burglary calls they get are phony, just babes wantin’ a cop for their dance cards—and nobody ever reports them. Then a guy like MacPherson—whammo, and it follows him. You never know. You can’t trust anyone, Mrs. Rader. Like the business with my shield—now you got the number, y’know.”

He stood by the door tucking his scarf into the leather coat. She could smell his spearmint gum. She watched him swagger out, a funny little cop. Familiar. It had to be because he was so much like a TV character. Somebody not real.

So concerned about his shield, making sure she had the number. Not very efficient.

She never had seen the shield.

And who had been watching her with MacPherson? Who had reported them to Internal Conduct?

Once the evening of her quiet, lonely day had come, she was feeling as if she could deal with the sexual encounter of Saturday night. Beyond the sexual encounter, however, waters were murkier. She’d replayed the weekend again and again: the day with MacPherson and the story the anonymous man had told her about his “roommate.” She knew she should tell someone about the latter, but whom? She simply didn’t want to blurt out the sexual content, and the rest of the story struck her as sufficiently out of kilter to require some further reflection on her part. And the description of MacPherson she’d heard from D’Allessandro was festering in the back of her mind.

She was quite sure that the last person in the world she wanted to talk to that evening was MacPherson. Of course, at nine o’clock, he called to tell her he was back from Glen Cove and ask her how things were going. She searched his voice for the sound of the womanizer, the leer for the woman who was so lonely and frustrated she was falling for him … but she hated it, didn’t want to believe it—still she kept hearing D’Allessandro going on, the gross implications, the creak of his coat, the sound of his chewing gum cracking.

“I’m sitting looking at my beautiful Christmas tree. There’s one big log burning in the fireplace. I’m drinking a Scotch and water. I’m reading a manuscript—”

“What are you wearing?”

She recognized the question: from the past, from men who had cared for her, wanted to visualize her while they talked. But suddenly it seemed an invasion, full of innuendo. She shivered. “Nothing special.”

“I’m sure. Leather tunic, boots, and a whip?” He laughed softly.

“Not exactly. Scruffy old terry robe, with a coffee stain, a granny nightgown dating approximately from the time of my granny, and white gym socks.”

“Anything interesting befall you since yesterday afternoon?” He sounded almost as if he expected something, as if he knew. …

“No, nothing at all.”

“Good.” He paused, said, “Are you all right? You sound funny—is someone with you?”

“No. I’m fine. I told you what I’m doing. I’m going to bed very soon.” She knew he was right: she sounded so remote, even to herself. Damn D’Allessandro! “How was your day?” she added halfheartedly.

He yawned. “I’m bushed. Had to suffer through the Giants losing on a field goal with three seconds left—my mother nearly had a stroke. Then the drive back in the snow took forever plus fifteen minutes. You’re okay, though? Everything all right? No mysterious men following you around or showing up with guns?”

She tried to laugh it off.

He wasn’t entirely satisfied. “You really do sound just a little off, Natalie.”

“Oh, you’re just being a suspicious cop. Or you’re getting too close to me, know me too well. Maybe you’d better concentrate on some other ladies in peril who need Christmas trees.”

“What’s bothering you, Natalie? That doesn’t sound like—”

“Really, it’s nothing. Just drop it, okay? Got my period today and the cramps are sort of rotten, that’s all. Menopause, where are you when I need you?”

He laughed. “You’ll just have to wait another decade or so, I’m afraid. Look, I’ll give you a call tomorrow. And call me if you have anything that’s bothering you. And get a good night’s sleep.”

“All right.”

“We’re going to make some headway this week. Hang on. You got that?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll call if I need help. I promise.”

He told her to sleep tight, and she hung up the telephone with a weary sense of disappointment. Her head was suddenly splitting.

I
T WAS STILL DARK
when she awoke at six, but half an hour later, when she had left the bathroom and gotten dressed, made the coffee and seated herself by the window, the sky was gray with just a sliver of pink to the east where the sun was threatening to make an appearance. She turned on WNEW to hear Ted Brown, her own personal “morning man.” She smiled rather fixedly as she made a list for the day, which she was somewhat disconcerted to discover included a television appearance on one of the five afternoon chat shows—half-news and half-nonsense. On this program, she recognized, Natalie Rader fit firmly into the nonsense portion. She wished Jay hadn’t insisted that she accept the invitation to go on and be trendy, hot, and full of crap, which was of course precisely what they—the TV people—wanted. Still and all, she concluded her list with “TV at 5” and looked at the day from a fairly aggressive posture. Very determined to advance on the week with stately, controlled resolution.

Quite unexpectedly, as she was deciding to get to the office by seven-thirty for some peace and quiet before the telephones began their constant bitching, there was a knock at the door. She opened it to find Julie in her bathrobe, a Band-Air on her left cheekbone and looking generally as if she’d gone a brisk fifteen with Sugar Ray Leonard. One eye was well blackened, there was a bruise on her forehead, the Band-Aid on her cheek.

“What in the name of God happened to you?”

Julie charged into the room swearing under her breath and stomped down the stairs into the kitchen, where Natalie heard her banging a coffee cup. She reappeared, went to the table by the window, and stood staring at the Christmas tree.

“What the fuck is that?”

“It’s called a Christmas tree. What happened to your face?”

“When did you get it?”

“Saturday. It’s MacPherson’s doing. I told you … and I’m not going to ask again, Julie—”

“You’re right. MacPherson. God, I’m losing my memory! The romantic sergeant … honest to God!”

“Your face, Julie! It’s seven o’clock in the morning and I want to know about your face!”

“Oh, that old thing …” She sat down and began to cry, gritting her teeth and biting back the noise as tears coursed down her cheeks. Natalie went to her, knelt beside her, took her hand, murmured to her until the tears had subsided.

“Now let’s have it,” she said softly, patting the cold hand and giving her a handkerchief from her purse.

“An adventure. One of
my
adventures. Stupid, so stupid really. Christ, it was a hellish day, Nat, it really was a hellish day. Yesterday I met a guy at Scandals. Turned out to be the wrong man—stupid, so stupid. You’ve always warned me. Scoop—you were right. But, as you might guess, he seemed like such a nice guy. Quietly dressed, good taste, sort of preppie but about forty or forty-five. Nice conversation. I went back to his place with him. Very nice, good pictures, reassuring furniture, no glitz … but once home on his own ground he struck me as a little spooky. I don’t know why—I’ve tried and tried to think it through and I can’t sort it out. But I got to thinking no, I’m not going to bed with this guy. If he likes me, it won’t make any difference, and if all he wants is a fuck, then I’m not interested anyway—turning over a new leaf and all. But when we’d had a couple of drinks and listened to some music and chatted and I said I had an early day coming up and really should be going home—then he went sort of vaguely crazy. Well, not vaguely. I tried to leave and he turned out to be a tough guy. Thus, my kisser. I finally got him in the nuts with a paperweight.” She smiled and winced at the memory. “And away I went.” She dabbed at her nose with the handkerchief. “I got a cab, and the driver, he was a nice young guy, pointed out to me that I was bleeding, a bloody nose, and insisted on taking me to Lenox Hill Hospital.” She sighed at the absurdity of the situation, made fists. “Emergency room, yet. They huffed and puffed and fixed me up, I talked them out of an overnight stay and police reports, God knows what else, and the cabbie brought me home.” She sniffled. “God, it was all my fault, I suppose. …”

“It was what?”

“My fault. I’d had a lousy day, believe me, one bitch of a day and I probably was bugging the guy—”

“This is not a question of your fault,” Natalie said, managing to keep her temper. Only just. “It’s not a question of bringing something on yourself, not a question of bugging some idiot—it’s a question of assault and battery!”

Julie kept talking, alternately crying and laughing at what seemed to strike her as a bleakly, blackly comedic situation. “But listen, forget the punchout. That’s nothing, old stuff. I had some tests last week and … oh, shit!” She sniffed, wiped her eyes. “Yesterday morning, Sunday, I called my doctor in the morning—poor bastard—and made him raise hell with some people at a lab somewhere about some tests, but they weren’t biting. So I yelled and moaned at him to get some kind of an opinion and he finally told me yes, I’d say you’ve got it, Miss Conway, you have almost certainly got it!” She broke off, blew her nose, wiped at tears.

“What? Got what? Cancer? Oh, God, Jules, you haven’t got cancer—”

She began to laugh through the sobs. “Herpes! Not cancer,
herpes!
He said it was an epidemic, told me to find consolation in that. Me … herpes, for God’s sake. And here I was with this guy, he said he used to play with the New York Philharmonic. Under Bernstein … and there I was, worried that I might give this virtuoso herpes! I was probably acting nuts, I don’t know. And he beat me up. Oh, Natalie, what the hell’s going on?”

Natalie held her on the couch for an hour, comforted her as she would a child. Finally the crying was over.

“Look, the guy didn’t kill you, which he might well have done. And you had an angry doctor you were bugging on a Sunday morning make a guess at something only lab tests will show—you don’t know if you’ve got herpes! So just relax, calm down, and we’ll deal with it when we know. And if you don’t stop saying it was your own fault, I’ll personally kick you out in the snow. Look, let me call in to your office for you. You just sit here and recuperate and watch TV or whatever you like to do—take a day off, do Valium, do whatever you want. When I come back tonight I’ll bring cold lobster and we’ll talk it through. Okay, Jules?”