The Sentinel (15 page)

"Which apartment?" asked Michael.

"Four A. Ever been in there?"

"No."

Michael looked at the floor, Apartment 4 A. The one Allison had complained about. A shiver ran down his spine.

"Not only that, but we found no evidence to indicate any kind of struggle."

"In the apartment?"

"In the entire building!"

"Did you talk to the old priest?"

"The old coot's deaf and blind and useless."

"And Chazen? And the other tenants?"

"Who?"

"The other tenants in the building! Charles Chazen, Mrs. Clark, a pair of fat sisters-I forget their name-and a few others."

"I'm warning you, Farmer. No games."

"Now you wait a minute, mister. I'm trying to find out what happened to my girl friend, and I don't think it's being too demanding to assume that the police-especially a detective as diligent as yourself-would have talked to the other neighbors who just might have seen or heard something relevant."

Gatz sucked in his stomach and whipped the cigar up and down angrily.

Michael looked at the detective, puzzled.

"I've been through every apartment in that building in the last six hours," said Gatz, "and there's no evidence that anyone's been living in any of the apartments in years except Miss Parker and the priest!"

"What?" Michael cried, having received his second major surprise. "That's impossible! Allison met them all. Spoke to them. Spent some time with them in their apartments."

"Did you?" asked the unimpressed detective.

"No."

"Did anybody else you know?"

"No!"

"That's interesting."

Gatz pivoted away, removed the cigar from his mouth and spat a wad of tobacco into his ashtray. Jennifer cringed; Michael stared at the detective's back, awaiting his next pronouncement. Gatz stood relatively still, thinking, and then turned to the silent detective who stood patiently to his right.

"Tell Rizzo to get a rundown on Charles Chazen and that Mrs. Clark." He looked at Michael for help.

"The sisters-Klotkin, that's it-and there are a pair of lesbians-I don't remember their names."

The assistant hesitated. "No one could have been living in those places."

"I know, but we'll check on these people anyway. They might not live there but, for some reason or other, hang out in the building."

Richardson nodded.

"What is the landlord's name again?" asked Gatz.

"Caruso. David Caruso," replied Richardson.

"Have Rizzo try these people on him."

"Yes, sir," he said as he went out, leaving the three alone.

Gatz adjusted the position of his fedora and began to pace the room once again.

"When can I see Allison?" Michael asked.

"The nurses will let us know. Until then we'll continue our chat, just like in the old days."

Michael restrained himself. "You said that there's no evidence anything occurred there, right?"

"I did?" Gatz smiled sadistically and turned toward Jennifer. "How long did you say you know Miss Parker?" Two years.

"Have you ever seen her hysterical like this before?"

"No. Allison is a very rational and controlled person."

"Is she?" Gatz asked skeptically, his tone suggesting that he knew otherwise.

"She's been under a great deal of strain lately," said Michael.

"What kind of strain?"

"Her father. The illness dragged on for almost four months. Since his death she's been tense and unsettled. She's been eating and sleeping badly. She had a couple of nightmares. And then she fainted at a fashion show two days ago."

"I see. That might explain it. A nightmare. Hallucination. Whatever." There was a long pause. "But then again it might not."

"You might try finding a corpse."

"If there's one to find-and I think there is-we'll find it. And when I do, I'm going to see to it that it's pinned around someone's neck. And I'm not going to miss a second time."

Michael remained unmoved.

"Where were you last night from three to five in the morning?"

"Home." He flushed with rage.

"I'm not so sure," said Gatz vindictively.

Michael exploded. "Now wait a minute! I don't like the tone-"

"No, you wait a minute! A woman is brought in claiming she murdered her father, hacked him to death with a knife. The facts, I like facts, say that that's impossible. But maybe she killed someone who she thought was her father. That seems a little more probable. Or maybe she has a screw loose and belongs in a funny farm. But something keeps telling me that the limburger sitting in the mousetrap is smelling and might catch a big fat rat. Now wouldn't you ask a few questions if you were me? Especially if the parties had been involved in a suspected homicide once before. And especially if the rat might be the famous Michael Farmer."

Michael sat, silenced. Gatz was right, at least as to the investigation. Any cop would do the same. But Michael knew what really was on the detective's mind. No matter how fair and honest Gatz tried to appear, no matter how impartial, Michael knew.

"As soon as I'm able to, I'm going to get some information out of Miss Parker so that this thing will start to make some sense."

Gatz chewed another piece of tobacco off the stunted cigar; he was satisfied. Until he could find a body and until the woman in room 211 was lucid enough to make some sense, there was little else he could do. But it was also possible that there would be no body and no evidence of a crime. Then Farmer would walk away from him again. And his chance to get something on the lawyer after his previous failure would be gone. No, it couldn't be. No matter how senseless this whole incident seemed, it certainly made more sense than assuming that one man could be involved in two suspicious homicides and have nothing to hide. Gatz's years of experience told him that. And so did the sharp, stabbing pain in his gut. No, Farmer had murdered his wife and now he was up to something else. He would play it smart this time-out of necessity. He would go slow and steady; and when he got the facts he needed, he would pounce like a leopard. He smiled.

The wall phone rang. Gatz pulled the receiver off its cradle. "Yah, Gatz." He listened intently and returned the receiver to its place.

"She's awake," he announced. He sat back and examined his notes. "You can go see her now."

"Is she all right?" asked Jennifer, who had watched the exchange between Michael and Gatz with fascination.

"Ask the doctor," Gatz said curtly. "She's in two eleven. Go down the hall and take the first left. And after you're done, we'll continue with our little discussion."

"I can't wait," said Michael as he stood up.

"I'm flattered," replied Gatz.

Michael turned and walked Jennifer through the door.

"What was that all about?" she began as they started down the hall.

"Nothing."

"I'm not so sure; he obviously has something against you."

"I'm telling you, it's nothing. And it's too far in the past to be worried about."

"How far?"

"Before you, came to New York."

"How long before?"

They walked several steps silently.

"Long enough," he said after a pause. He was getting irritated. Jennifer shut her mouth and quietly followed him into the side corridor.

Unlike the main hallways, it was practically empty. A large desk stood at the entrance. A policewoman sat behind it.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Michael. "Room two eleven."

"Your names?"

"Michael Farmer and Jennifer Learson."

Her expression remained neutral. But she said, pointing, "Go down to where the policeman is sitting. That's two eleven."

Michael grabbed Jennifer's hand and led her down the hall. The woman turned and waved to the seated cop who had looked up to her for instructions. He stood and opened the door behind him.

A nurse stepped into the doorway.

"How is she?" asked Michael.

"She's heavily drugged, so she's very groggy. But other than that, I think she's doing fine."

"Can she be taken home?"

"Not yet."

"Could you be more specific?"

"You'll have to speak to the doctor. He can tell you more than I." She paused, then smiled reassuringly, suggesting that she could supply some additional information. "I'm sure she'll have to stay here at least two or three days until the effects of the shock and the exposure wear off. She has a severe sore throat. The infection is not that serious, but we do want to prevent unnecessary complications. I'm sure you understand."

"Yes."

"You can only have five minutes. The doctor wants her to get as much rest as possible."

"Thank you," said Michael.

"If you'll excuse me," said the nurse, smiling. Michael nodded and stepped into the room; Jennifer followed, closing the door. Inside, they stood in stunned silence, staring at the hospital bed.

Allison lay under a blanket. Her face was colorless. Her lips were swollen and her eyes unresponsive. Her body was extended, rigid and motionless. She seemed more frail than he had ever seen her. Almost lifeless.

They approached the bed on different sides.

Michael reached down and took Allison's wrist. She did not react.

"Allison," he whispered.

Her eyes continued to stare at the ceiling. He called to her again, louder, but she remained unresponsive.

"Allison, it's Michael and Jennifer," said Jennifer leaning over.

Allison's lips parted. A tiny bubble of saliva emerged, hung over her lower lip for several seconds and then burst. Her jaw moved slightly downward; she was trying to speak. Her eyes moved slowly to Michael and widened with recognition. The pupils reflected the pain; they told nothing about what had happened.

Jennifer pushed herself farther over the bed, her mouth near to Allison's ear. "Can you hear and understand me? Can you?"

Allison moved her hand. Again she tried to open her lips without success. No words were formed, just another bubble which soon burst silently like its predecessor.

Michael glanced at Jennifer. "It's senseless to ask her questions," he said. "She can't respond."

Jennifer didn't agree. "Allison," she called, "I want you to answer me." Allison's focus withdrew from Michael and moved to Jennifer. "Allison, what happened last night?"

Her eyes widened in terror; a gurgling moan surged up from deep in her throat and the colorless lips parted, futilely trying to form the proper words.

Michael tried to imagine what had happened.

The door opened and Detective Gatz stepped inside. He shut it and leaned against the wall.

Michael flinched uncomfortably.

"A rather sorry-looking sight," commented the policeman. "Even worse than when she took all those pills." He looked at Michael severely. "Remember that? The loving wife 'committed suicide' by slicing her wrists; then, soon after, the mistress tried to drown her guilt with pills. Messy stuff."

"Can't we be alone?" asked Michael, scowling.

The detective shook his head. "I suddenly became curious. You don't mind if I listen and perhaps offer some expert medical advice."

"There's nothing to listen to," said Jennifer contemptuously. "She can't speak yet."

Gatz shrugged. If that was the case, that was the case. But he would remain just to make sure. Patients like this were more likely to speak to someone with whom they were familiar. It was a fact. And there was nothing he liked more in the entire world than facts.

"You know," said Gatz, "Miss Parker looks a little like your former wife. Yes, Parker really reminds me of her. Fortunately, there's a difference. Miss Parker didn't die when she tried to kill herself. And she isn't going to die now." He looked at Michael. "Did Karen Farmer commit suicide? Some said yes. Nice neat letter saying goodbye to everyone. It was rather sad. I said no. Everything told me different. It was no suicide."

"Are you through?" asked Michael, restraining his fury.

"You don't like my story?"

"I'm warning you, Mr. Detective. The past is dead and buried, and if you try to resurrect it, I'll see to it that you get thrown off the force."

"How violent," said the cop benevolently. He pulled the cigar from his mouth, studied the chewed end and returned it to its spot between his teeth. He had said enough; he could only push Farmer so far, because Farmer was right. He could pull strings and could get him booted in the ass. He had done it before. If he was going to sniff back into the Karen Farmer suicide, he would have to do it through the present investigation. And do it very quietly.

The door opened once again and the nurse re-entered.

"Five minutes are up and Dr. Bleifer is strict with his rules. Miss Parker needs as much rest as possible."

"Where can I find the doctor?"

"He should be in the hospital in fifteen minutes."

"We can continue our little chat while you wait for him," said the detective.

"Must we?" asked Jennifer, already annoyed with Gatz's persistence.

The man smiled stolidly.

The nurse walked to the bed and felt Allison's head. Then she measured Allison's blood pressure and took her pulse while Michael and Gatz exchanged antagonistic glances.

"Let me take you all to the waiting room," declared the nurse. "When the doctor arrives, I'll ask him to come down."

The nurse lifted the chart off the end of the bed and recorded the readings. After replacing it, she walked to the door and motioned the visitors outside. Michael and Jennifer were the first two out. Gatz stopped a moment to look at Allison, shook his head, then followed the nurse as she moved down the corridor.

As they turned the corner into the main hall, a sound crept through the door of room 211. Nearly inaudible, it was the sound of someone weeping.

Twenty minutes later Michael and Jennifer exited the main elevator with Gatz on their heels. They walked past the reception desk and into the outer hall of the hospital.

"Remember, don't leave town without letting me know."

Michael didn't bother to turn. Instead, he locked his arm through Jennifer's and stepped outside.