A Night at the Operation (30 page)

I looked mostly at the desk and the area around it. “Has anyone looked at his computer?” I noticed it was turned off.

“Cops took the hard drive,” Wally answered. He wasn’t looking at me, just the door. Either he was waiting for someone—probably Lillian—to show up and give him his instructions for the day, or that was one hell of a fascinating door.

I walked behind the desk. There was indeed a dark stain, although not a large one, on the carpet, near the right-hand corner of the desk as Chapman would have been sitting at it, if he were facing the computer screen. I looked for the other spot Kowalski had mentioned on the desk, but it wasn’t there.

“The police said there was more blood on the desk,” I said, not really to Wally.

“I dunno,” he answered. A wellspring of knowledge, that man. It was amazing he’d found the office on the first try.

The carpet, where Kowalski had said there were drag marks, must have been vacuumed, because the marks were gone. Apparently
someone
had been in this room after the police had cleared it.

I sat down behind the desk. So this was what it felt like to have forty-seven million dollars. Well, not really: This was what it felt like to sit behind the desk of a guy who had forty-seven million dollars.

There was no rush of megalomania or a sudden urge to mess with the lives of ordinary people. There was no assumption that all my needs and wants would immediately be satisfied. In fact, the chair’s wheels squeaked a little when I moved around. I didn’t immediately feel the need to get a white cat to stroke as it sat on my lap, nor to shave my head and start wearing a monocle.

It was, however, a vast improvement on the shoebox I called an office back at Comedy Tonight. I had to admit that.

I turned my attention to the desk, which was large, possibly antique, made of dark wood, maybe mahogany (what did I know about wood?). The middle drawer, where a man keeps all the things he might need immediately, formed a picture of a terribly well-organized mind. Everything was neat, ergonomically situated, and absolutely typical. Paper clips in a box. Business cards in a folder (the one facing front was from Comedy Tonight, which I’d given him in his guise as Tovarich). Pens. Pencils. Erasers.

It looked like a sample desk drawer, furnished jointly by Staples and Mrs. Muransky, my second-grade teacher. “Everything in its place, Elliot.” Freak.

But enough of this rose-colored nostalgia; there was work to be done. I turned my attention to the two larger drawers on the right side of the desk. One held hanging folders, presumably with investments, portfolios, and other words that financially astute people would understand. For me, they might as well have been in Swahili.

The upper drawer, however, seemed like the place where Chapman had kept his more personal belongings, or at least, the ones he’d have in an office drawer. These were more idiosyncratic, and therefore telling. Here, he had a compass (I guess to figure out which direction he was sitting in), a crossword puzzle dictionary (a man after Meg Vidal’s own heart, no doubt), a pair of binoculars (no comment), a pocket watch, a small copper replica of the Liberty Bell, a harmonica (and a really good one, from what I could tell), and a baseball—not a special baseball, not autographed or anything, just a baseball.

There was also an object I could not identify. It was about the size of a pair of salad tongs, but narrower. The thing appeared to be homemade, with pieces taken from various objects: It looked like it had the handle of a delicate pair of scissors, but could not be made to open wide because of a strong band of black rubber, used as a restraining piece around the center that limited its range of motion. Its two arms extended out, but only for a few inches, and their tips were coated in a dull gray metal. They were extremely sharp, as if they’d been made out of the best steak knives available, but narrower. The arms holding them were extremely narrow and rounded. One of them had a red LED readout soldered onto it, for reasons that weren’t at all obvious. The readout wasn’t activated, and had a tape over it marked PTYPE.

I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what that thing might have been, or what it might be used for.

“What do you suppose this is?” I asked Wally.

There was no answer. I picked my head up from the drawer and looked. Wally was nowhere to be seen.

I got up with the bizarre artifact in my hand and walked to the center of the room, in an insane attempt to see if there were some alcove, some hidden corner in the perfectly open space, where a man might hide and then leap out at you when you weren’t paying attention. There was none.

Enough of this: I headed for the office door and reached for the doorknob.

It didn’t turn. While I was exalting in my mental superiority over Wally Mayer, he had simply walked out of the room.

And locked me in.

 

 

 

 

IT
didn’t make sense. There was no upside to locking me in Russell Chapman’s study. What did they (I assumed Lillian had to be pulling Wally’s leash) think they could accomplish with this little ploy? Surely they weren’t going to hold me prisoner and try to beat the information out of me. There was no information. There had to be some other benefit to them in my staying in one place.

Of course.

I walked back to the desk and picked up the telephone. There was a dial tone; my “captors” weren’t terribly good at this game. I dialed Sharon’s cell phone. She answered on the first ring, which isn’t at all like her.

“Who is this?” she said. That replaced “hello,” and seemed strange.

“Sharon, it’s me.” I hate to belabor the same point, but is there a sentence that exists with
less
information in it?

“Elliot!” she exploded. “Where are you?”

“I’m at Chapman’s house,” I told her. “I’m fine. Did they call you?”

“Yes, I’m in my car on the way there.”

That’s what I’d figured. Lillian and Wally weren’t interested in taking out revenge on me; they wanted Sharon. That’s why Wally had let me up into Chapman’s study so easily. He figured that as soon as Lillian showed up, he could ask her for permission to incarcerate me there, then call Sharon, tell her I was being held against my will, and lure her to the house to torture her in some twisted way. It was a stupid plan, but then, it was Wally and Lillian. What should one expect?

“Turn around,” I said. “Go back to your practice.”

“But Elliot, they said if I didn’t come . . .”

“Trust me, Shar. I’ll be fine. They want you. Don’t give them what they want. Call Dutton.”

“They told me if I called the police . . .”

“You’re listening to them now? Call Dutton or Meg. I don’t know how long it’ll be before they turn off the phone. Tell them to get in touch with Kowalski. This is how we get them, Sharon. The cops come and arrest them for holding me against my will. I’m going to make myself cozy in Chapman’s office and wait for it to happen. But call now, and go back to the office.”

Sharon thought about it, and I never interrupt when she’s thinking. “Okay,” she said.

“Good. I’ll call you as soon as I get out of here.”

Another long pause. “I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too, but don’t be dramatic. I’m not in any danger. It’s Wally and Lil, the Bonnie and Clyde of the IQ-under-fifty set.”

“One of them probably killed Mr. Chapman, Elliot.”

“You had to remind me of that? Call the cops.”

“I will. And Elliot? I’ve been watching Lennon, and you’re right—he’s acting strange.”

“Strange how?”

“Mostly he’s testy, but I heard him on the phone, and I think there are money problems. I’ll tell you later. I have to call the police.”

She hung up.

I went back to the desk and sat down. The left-hand drawers didn’t hold anything of interest, as far as I could tell. Much of what was in there consisted of ledger books that had nothing unusual in them—but I’m not an auditor. If I understood numbers, I wouldn’t be in the theatre business.

Eventually I put everything back in the desk, careful to replace it where it had been before; that seemed only fair to Chapman, who had seemed like a good enough guy. Then I sat back and considered that a while had gone by, and I hadn’t heard any sirens yet.

Odd.

I got up and walked to the balcony doors. It was gray outside, cold and windy, and from where I stood, I could see the tops of trees farther down the hill, and part of the road leading up to Chapman’s home. No police cars. That couldn’t be good.

Was it possible Sharon hadn’t gotten through to Dutton or Meg? Would she have waited to call Kowalski, or forgotten his name? Could the cops have been talked out of the whole thing by the wily Chapmans? I hadn’t heard the phone ring, and I hadn’t heard sirens. I looked at my watch.

Three minutes had gone by since I’d gotten off the phone with Sharon. Maybe I was just a little more nervous than I’d thought I was.

So I watched the second hand on my watch for a while. That didn’t seem to help, either.

Standing by the balcony doors, I considered trying to escape. But there were a number of flaws with that plan: there was nothing to use as a rope—no sheets to tie together, no fire hose (for you,
My Favorite Year
fans), no emergency ladder under the desk or in the closet. Besides, my being out of the room when the cops got here was exactly the opposite of what I needed. If I escaped and went to the police, it would be my word against Wally’s. If they came and saw me locked in Chapman’s study, that would be a different story.

Besides, I’m afraid of heights.

There was one truly demented moment when I looked outside and considered the tiny ledge, maybe about ten inches deep, that ran around the outside of the house. Hey, it worked for Cary Grant in
North by Northwest
. I have seen far too many movies, in case it hasn’t become evident yet.

Just as I was contemplating my predicament, there registered from the corner of my eye a red light. Of the flashing variety.

Sure enough, two police cars were driving up the road toward the house. I didn’t hear sirens, but it was possible they weren’t using sirens; cops don’t do that unless they need them, and there was no one else on the road.

I’ll admit to a certain amount of satisfaction as I watched them drive up to the house. This would do it.

But before the cruisers reached the front door, the lock on Chapman’s study turned, and the door opened. Wally Mayer walked back in.

“So, did you find everything you needed?” he asked, casual as a worn T-shirt.

“Are you serious?” I asked him. “You’re just going to walk in here and pretend you weren’t holding me against my will?”

The man had enough nerve to chuckle. “Against your will?” Wally said. “That’s funny, Freed. Why would we hold you against your will?”

The doorbell rang. I could hear some activity downstairs.

“To get my ex-wife to come here. She’s not coming,” I responded.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lied through his teeth.

“Okay then, why did you sneak out of here and lock the door? How was I supposed to get out, by flapping my arms and flying off the balcony? Why did you call Sharon and tell her you were holding me here until she showed up?”

“Believe what you want,” Wally told me. I heard footsteps on their way up the stairs. “Say what you want. They’ll think you’re crazy.”

And that’s when two uniformed East Brunswick officers appeared at the office door. “Are you Mr. Freed?” he asked Wally.

“I’ve never been so insulted in my life,” I said.

The other officer, tall and Hispanic, fixed his gaze on me. “So then you’re Mr. Freed?”

“That’s right. And this man is holding me here against my will.”

Wally did his best to look surprised. I saw Lillian Chapman Mayer hovering behind the two officers in the doorway. They walked into the office; she stayed in the doorway. “I have no idea what this man is talking about, Officers,” Wally said.

“We got a call that Mr. Freed was being held here,” the Hispanic cop said. “Are you saying he’s not?”

“Of course not,” Wally said, checking with Lillian at the door. She had the good sense not to nod, but her eyes said something to her husband. “Elliot came because he wanted to see my father-in-law’s study, and I said it would be all right, since you fellers”—honest to god, he said “fellers”—“removed the crime scene tape.”

The first cop, a sandy-haired white guy in his forties, looked me up and down. “Was he violent?” he asked me, indicating Wally.

“No,” I said, feeling my blood pressure rise. “He wasn’t violent. He locked me in this room when I was distracted, and called my ex-wife to say that he and his wife would do me harm if she didn’t come to get me.”

Wally’s eyes widened, and he actually laughed. “Why would I do something like that?”

“Because you think my ex had something to do with your father-in-law’s death, which she didn’t, and you want to exact revenge.” Even to me, it sounded stupid.

“Oh, seriously,” Lillian said from the doorway.

“Officers,” I said. “I know how this sounds. But the fact is, Mr. Mayer here locked me into this room, and didn’t open the door again until he saw you guys coming. My ex did in fact receive a call saying I was here and that she had to come, or I’d be harmed. You can call her.”

“I’m sure she’ll back him up,” Lillian offered. “The woman is capable of anything.”

“You see?” I asked the cops.

“Okay,” the older cop said. “Let’s get Mr. Freed out of here.” He indicated the door. Lillian vacated her spot to let us pass, and while she did not flash Wally a triumphant grin, she made a point of avoiding eye contact with him, no doubt in fear of something stupid he might do.

I followed the officer, protesting all the way. I said I wanted to file charges against the Chapmans, kidnapping, imprisonment, and I think I might have mentioned assault with a grocery cart. Lillian mentioned a libel suit, which I felt obligated to point out would apply only to printed or otherwise disseminated material. The cops said nothing.