The Sentinel (27 page)

"No," said Gatz, his eyes glistening. "You can be sure of that. But you're going to listen to me and answer questions and then you can call anyone you want, even the President of the United States, but after I'm done."

Michael gritted his teeth as Gatz went on.

"I couldn't put this case together until I got a call from an informer we use. I had asked him to do some quiet investigating into Brenner's past. He went back into the muck and came out with exactly what I needed. Mr. Brenner, along about February 1969, accepted a contract to do in a broad. Was paid a lot of money. Wasn't that about the time Mrs. Farmer killed herself?"

"Fuck off, flatfoot. You know better than to get started on that. You'll wind up back in Brooklyn chasing bums off park benches."

Gatz smiled, undeterred. "It seems my party couldn't find out who was to be killed or who took out the contract. But I know!"

"You know nothing."

Gatz placed the trap back in his pocket. "Oh, but I do. My informer also learned that Brenner was hired recently by the same person who took out the original contract to do some additional 'detective work.' I asked him what kind and he said he didn't know but that he was trying to find out. You know guys like Brenner always leave some information about what they're working on in case there's a double-cross. It just takes time to find the right dupe to spill the beans."

"I'm not interested in a course in criminology."

"Very bright lawyer."

"And I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think I've made myself clear."

"I'm afraid your deductive reasoning so dazzled me that I failed to grasp the substantive accusations."

Gatz nearly blew through the roof of the elevator. He whipped the cigar stub from his mouth and threw it into the corner.

"I'm gonna lay it on you straight. You killed your wife. You hired Brenner to do it. Which accounts for those beautiful alibis that had you elsewhere. But I saw through your scheme then and I certainly see through it now, only a little clearer."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know any Brenner and I never have known a Brenner."

"Shut up, I'm not finished. You got rid of your wife, because not only wouldn't she give you a divorce, but she promised to tell the police about the extensive bribes you were taking-if you left her. Then you found your girl friend Allison Parker's old man was rich. You also found out he was going to leave her almost every cent he had because he couldn't stand his old lady. And greedy men never change. You dreamed up a way to get at the money. You needed someone you could trust; you went back to Brenner."

"Are you through?" asked Michael.

"Not yet! Brenner appeared in the house looking like the dead father, and Miss Parker, who we know has a shaky mental history, stabbed him to death. Apparently she wasn't as defenseless as you thought. Then, when she ran off into the rain, you sneaked in, cleaned away all the blood, hid the body, and appeared the next day like a dutiful boy friend, hoping that the unexpected turn of events would not destroy you. And it probably wouldn't have, except for one thing."

"What?"

"Me. You never thought that I'd be involved."

"I think you're out of your mind," said Michael. "You've been watching too much television."

"Don't knock it. You can learn a great deal from television." Gatz smiled. He was satisfied that he had Farmer pinned against the wall.

"Let me ask you a question, Mr. Gatz," said Michael. "You know darn well that the information supplied by your informer couldn't be used in a court of law, so it comes down to the fact that you have no proof of anything. Just an overblown theory packed with nonsense. A fantasy dreamed up by that ridiculous ego of yours that can never admit to being wrong. You'd be out of your mind to make formal charges, and you know it."

"But I'm gonna find acceptable evidence and I'm gonna pin it around your neck until it chokes you. I want you to know that for the record."

"I assume that you're through now," said Michael.

"Yes."

Michael leaned toward the doors and pressed the "open" button. "Don't work too hard," he cautioned.

Gatz stepped from the elevator, leaving Michael to pace the rising cabin until it stopped on the tenth floor. He reached his apartment, threw open the door and shouted, "I told you not to let that cop in here! Don't you listen to a goddamn word I say?"

Allison jumped from the couch, trembled, and shook her head. Noticing how pale she was, he lowered his voice. Funny, she had seemed better the last few days. But now? A total relapse?

"How do you feel?" he asked as he placed his hand on her shoulder. The question was unnecessary; he knew the answer already.

"Terrible," she said. Her entire body registered visible evidence of the fact.

"What's the matter?"

"I don't know."

"The headache is back again?"

"Yes, and the dizziness and nausea. I feel like I'm losing control of my reflexes." She shook her head. "I feel I'm losing control of everything."

He tensed. Was it starting already? "Did you feel this in the morning?"

"No."

"When?"

"This afternoon." She hesitated, as if she wanted to say something, couldn't, and was searching for the strength. "I fainted while you were gone."

"What?" he cried.

"I fainted," she repeated.

"How long were you out?"

"An hour."

"Did you call the doctor?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I was scared." She sat down on the couch. "I'm too scared to do anything but die." She started to shake. "It's funny, but I'm not afraid of that."

He put his arms around her, hiding his anger. "Everything is going to be all right." He held her close for several minutes, then walked to the bar, poured a small jigger of Scotch and downed it.

She looked up beseechingly, half for pity, half for understanding. "While I was unconscious I dreamed of an old man sitting in a window."

"Father Halliran?"

She nodded. "Don't yell at me! I know you don't want me to think about the priest and the house, but-"

"I won't yell at you. If you saw the priest, you saw the priest and that's all there is to it." He poured a second jigger of Scotch. "I don't like the way you look." He walked to her again, kneeled down and kissed her gently on the forehead. He raised his hand and touched her lids and upper cheeks with his fingers. "Does that hurt?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And that?"

"Yes."

"Do your eyes still burn?"

"Yes."

He re-examined her face. The dry, lifeless texture that had gripped her eyes for the past two days had now spread to the bridge of her nose and her upper cheeks. The lines were very delicate-almost unnoticeable unless one looked very closely-but they seemed to be expanding over her face, eating away at the skin. It was terrible. He knew that the battle was on and that it would have to be joined by him. There was no one else.

She reached out and put her arms around him. "I love you," she whispered painfully.

Should he tell her? No! Let her be ignorant as long as possible. Keep her from looking closely in a mirror.

"Michael, help me!"

"That you can be sure of. I have no intention of letting this go on any longer."

She tightened her grasp.

"I'm taking you to Jennifer's tonight. You're going to stay there and sleep there also. She's having a party tonight. You'll enjoy it."

"Why can't I be with you?"

"Because I have to do something tonight."

"What?"

"Some investigative work."

She began to tremble more violently. "Michael," she said in a low, tremulous voice. "In the house?"

"No. I have to see some people."

"Michael, my head hurts."

"I'll get you some aspirin. That will help. But I want you to listen to me and do as I say. No questions."

She nodded.

"I'm going to give Jennifer the address and number of Dr. Steinberger, just in case. But while I'm gone I want you to see if you can mix in the party and keep your mind busy and clear of all your problems. Promise me you'll try. It's very important!"

"I promise." Once again she was like a helpless child, dependent on him for her strength and perhaps even for her life.

"Why don't you try and get some sleep for an hour or two. Then we can get dressed."

She silently got to her feet and walked unsurely out of the living room toward the bedroom.

He poured another glass of Scotch and held it to his lips. Then he squeezed the glass, harder and harder, until it shattered in his hand. He looked at the large sliver of glass that was buried in the skin below his thumb. He was so angry that he felt no pain. He grabbed the end of the sliver and pulled it out. Blood ran down his palm. He wrapped his handkerchief around the wound, poured another glass of Scotch, downed it in some gulp and followed Allison to the bedroom.

Chapter XXV

"Hello," Michael said.

"You're late."

"It was my fault," Allison said lifelessly. "I took a long time getting dressed."

"Don't worry. No one's started eating yet," said Jennifer.

Michael smiled wanly.

"Come in. The party's in here, not in the hall." Jennifer closed the door. "Let me take your coats."

"It's cold out there. It Could snow." Michael waited for Allison. "Here, let me help you." He pulled the jacket off her back. She had been floundering, unable to summon sufficient coordination to take it off herself.

Jennifer lowered her eyes. Michael winced.

"Do you really think it will snow?" asked Jennifer, searching for something to say.

"You can almost smell it in the air." Michael looked through the foyer toward the living room and the guests. When they had entered, the noise had been raucous and intense. But now the crowded room had grown strangely quiet; there was still a rustling of voices and laughter, but the sounds were strained.

"Give me. I'll put them away," said Jennifer. She grabbed the coats, hung them in the hall closet, turned and stared silently at them.

"Could you put my briefcase in the closet also?" Michael asked.

Jennifer glanced at the black case. "Oh, yes, of course."

He passed it over and she put it on the shelf, hesitated for a moment, then turned and stared at them again.

The noise from the living room remained muted.

Jennifer fidgeted. "Allison," she asked incredulously, "do you feel okay?" She had expected Allison to look weak and drawn. But like this? Drained! Colorless! Worse-infinitely worse-than when she had last seen her in Michael's apartment. Never!

"She feels all right," declared Michael. "A little headache and nausea, that's all."

"Yes," agreed Allison hollowly as her eyes wandered aimlessly.

"Michael, I . . ." murmured Jennifer, still shocked.

"Shut up!" he whispered hastily. He raised his voice. "The party looks fantastic."

"Yes," said Allison unsurely.

He frowned, touched her arm and led her out of the foyer into the living room. "Come, I'll get you a drink," he said as he pulled her through the crowd to the bar. He poured her a glass of ginger ale, dropped some ice into a glass of Scotch for himself, helped her to the sofa and left her with a group of friends. Dangerous, but he had to force her to try to act naturally. He mumbled angrily as he saw Jack Tucci cross the room and join her. The last person he wanted to see near her was that meddlesome fop. But there was nothing he could do.

He turned away, glass in hand, and walked unobtrusively to a corner where he could remain vigilant and undisturbed. He thought briefly about what lay ahead, then smiled as he watched Jennifer scurry about the room, bobbing from one guest to another.

He finished his drink, looked disgustedly at the empty glass and walked back past the buffet to the bar. "Could you pass me a Scotch?" he asked.

A partially filled bottle was pushed in his direction. He grabbed it, poured half a glass, added water, some ice, and placed the bottle back on the table.

"Excuse me," he said as he angled toward the window and opened it slightly. Then he turned his attention back to Allison. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but he could see that she was having difficulty moving her lips.

"Can I speak to you a moment?" asked Jack Tucci. He carried a glass in one hand and a hand-carved pipe that reeked of cherry-flavored tobacco in the other. His expression was very agitated.

"How've you been?" asked Michael coldly.

"Fine." He paused, then added, "And you?"

"Couldn't be better."

"Could you say the same for Allison?" Jack asked dryly.

"Why not?" Michael said with a pretense of ignorance that could have fooled no one.

"I called your office several times this week. Why didn't you return my calls?"

"I didn't get the messages. No, really," he added as Jack narrowed his eyes. "My secretary is very inadequate."

"This is me you're talking to, Michael, not some bloody moron. If you're avoiding me, which you are, please give me credit for sufficient intelligence to realize it. That way neither of us need blither on like the Mad Hatter." He took Michael's arm and pulled him into a corner. "What's the matter with Allison?"

"She's sick."

"With what?"

"A kidney ailment."

"What kind?"

"Jack, if you want a detailed medical analysis, call her doctor."

"I just talked to her and she looked right through me, almost as if she were in a trance. That's not the result of a kidney ailment."

"What do you want me to say?"

"The truth. Something's wrong with her, but it's not physical. It's mental, and I'd like to know so that I can help."

Michael eyed Tucci impassively. "Like I've told you, Jack, she has a kidney ailment."

"You must take me for a fool!"

"If you insist."

Jack grabbed Michael's arm. "I don't-"

Michael shook off the hand. "Let me be as blunt as I can. Whatever is wrong with her is none of your business. Capisce?"

"It's only yours?"

"Right." '