Bleeding Hearts (17 page)

“It’ll be all right,” Gregor told Bob when Bob arrived at his apartment at six-thirty on Friday, “because she doesn’t have the faintest idea who you are. Does Paul Hazzard?”

“He might know I’m an assistant commissioner of police,” Bob said, “but he wouldn’t know I’ve got any interest in the case. Why should he?”

“He probably won’t even know you’re an assistant commissioner of police.” Bennis came into the living room from Gregor’s kitchen, nibbling on a
dolma
she had found in his refrigerator. Bennis was wearing what Gregor thought of as “one of her Bennis outfits.” It was a long, straight dark dress with a plain neckline and close-fitting sleeves, sewn all over with tiny black and silver beads. Bennis looked wonderful, very twenties-glamorous and exotic, but Gregor had the uneasy feeling that she was wearing more on her back than it had taken Donna Moradanyan to buy her last car. Bennis finished the
dolma
and licked her fingers.

“There really isn’t any reason he should recognize an assistant commissioner of police,” she said reasonably. “It’s not like Mr. Cheswicki is the commissioner himself. The commissioner is always on television and being interviewed in the newspaper and whatever. Assistant commissioners are… anonymous.”

“It’s still a good thing we’re not lying about his identity,” Gregor said. “Just in case.”

Bob looked bemused. “I wish you were clearer about what it is you wanted me to do at this thing. I’m sure it will be a nice party and the food will be wonderful, but—”

“Aren’t you happy to finally get a chance to meet Paul Hazzard in person? After all these years of hearing about him?”

“Well, I am,” Bob said. “It will be interesting.”

“Maybe it will also be helpful,” Gregor told him. “I don’t know. I suppose I’m not sure what I’m looking for either. I just want someone else there whose impressions I can trust. Just in case.”

“That’s twice you’ve said that.” Bennis took her pack of cigarettes out of her evening bag. “Just in case of what?”

“Just in case Paul Hazzard really is the murderer,” Bob said cheerfully. “Gregor’s been going crazy with the material I gave him last week. I think he’s almost as interested in it as he would have been in a fresh case. We’ve started a pool down at the department about how long it’s going to take him to come up with a theory.”

“I’ve got six theories already. Don’t you think it’s time to go?”

Bennis shot a look at Gregor’s little table clock and sighed. “We’re going to be early as hell, but we always are, and if we don’t go, you’ll make me crazy pacing around worrying we’ll be late. Do you know what it is you’re trying to do here tonight?”

“I think so,” Gregor said.

“He usually does,” Bob Cheswicki pointed out.

Bennis had a big cashmere shawl to wear outside instead of a coat. She picked it up off the back of Gregor’s couch and wrapped it around herself.

“If we’re going to go, we ought to go,” she said. “Maybe Paul Hazzard will be there too, getting ready to help Hannah greet the guests. Then you two can have him all to yourselves for fifteen minutes.”

Gregor Demarkian was almost always the first person to arrive at any party. He was so distressed at the idea of being even a minute or two late, he sometimes arrived at his dental appointments a good fifteen or twenty minutes early. Tonight, however, he wasn’t going to be close to being the first on the scene—and it bothered him to realize he should have anticipated that. Old George Tekemanian was waiting impatiently for them in the hall when they came downstairs. They had agreed to walk old George over, and old George had been ready to go by quarter after six. So, apparently, had the rest of Cavanaugh Street. Gregor held the door open for old George while Bennis and Bob Cheswicki went down the steps to the street. When Gregor emerged into the night air, he suddenly saw what looked like a slow start to a Mardi Gras. Everybody seemed to be out. Everybody seemed to be dressed up. The neighborhood looked as wild as it did when Donna Moradanyan was really in the mood to decorate. Gregor saw Sheila Kashinian—in four-inch heels, too much makeup, and her best blond mink—hanging off Howard Kashinian’s arm. He saw Mary Ohanian, and Linda Melajian’s mother, Sarah, gotten up in “party dresses” of the kind that used to be popular for “semiformals” in the early sixties. He saw Linda Melajian herself, in silver studs and leather, looking as if she were about to be married to a punk rock guru. The only people on the street who looked the least bit normal, or even sane, were Lida Arkmanian and Bennis Hannaford’s brother, Christopher. Lida was wearing a dress. Christopher was wearing a suit that didn’t look like it belonged to him. They were standing at the bottom of the steps to Lida’s town house, talking.

“Everybody wants to see what Hannah’s gentleman caller is like,” Bennis said. “I should have known.”

“We won’t be the first ones there,” Bob Cheswicki agreed.

“If Paul Hazzard did murder his wife,” Bennis said, “this will be practically as good as an execution. Can you just imagine it, he shows up a fashionable twenty minutes after the hour, and forty people leap out at him and yell ‘surprise!’ ”

“Nobody’s going to yell ‘surprise,’ ” Gregor said.

“They ought to.”

Gregor knew what Bennis meant. He turned toward Hannah’s apartment and began to march briskly down the street. Old George kept pace in that springy, self-satisfied way that meant he was thoroughly enjoying himself. It wasn’t a very long walk. Gregor passed the Ararat Restaurant, which seemed to be closed. That made sense to an extent. Certainly none of their usual customers from the neighborhood was going to show up tonight. It didn’t make sense in another way, because a lot of the business the Ararat did these days was with tourists. The
Inquirer
and the
Star
had both given the place wonderful reviews, and now a steady stream of people trekked out here from the other neighborhoods of Philadelphia and the towns of the Main Line to eat
yoprak sarma
and
lahmajoon.
With any luck, these people called before they came. Gregor passed Ohanian’s Middle Eastern Food Store and saw that that was closed too. One of Donna Moradanyan’s red-and-silver hearts dangled in the larger of the two front windows. Under it was a huge plate of
mamoul
cookies made in heart shapes and covered with
naatiffe
frosting and the sign
GIVE YOUR SWEETHEART A TRADITIONAL ARMENIAN VALENTINE’S DAY!

Oh, well, Gregor thought. Around here, people took what holidays they wanted and adopted them. Gregor was waiting for Donna Moradanyan to get really interested in Hanukkah or Rosh Hashanah.

Hannah Krekorian’s building was very close to Ohanian’s, almost directly across the street. Gregor went purposely to the corner and pressed the button for the walk light, in spite of the fact that both Bennis and old George Tekemanian were jaywalking. Nobody on Cavanaugh Street had the least realistic sense of how dangerous the world was, or what it took to protect yourself from the terrible things it could do to you. Gregor got his walk light and walked, catching up to Bennis, old George, and (traitor) Bob Cheswicki on the other side. They had waited for him.

“We all want you to go first,” Bennis said. “This is going to be a nuthouse.”

“Don’t look at me,” Bob Cheswicki said. “I don’t know what’s going on around here.”

Sheila and Howard Kashinian waved to Gregor and Bennis and old George Tekemanian. Sheila gave Bob Cheswicki a sharp, appraising look. They went upstairs and through the doors. They were followed by all six of the Devorkian girls, three sets of twins between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. The Devorkian girls weren’t paying attention to anybody.

“Let’s go,” Gregor said with a sigh. “If we don’t do it now, it’s only going to get harder.”

Whether or not it would have gotten harder was moot. Whether or not it was a nuthouse was not. Bennis’s instincts had been deadly accurate. The stairway that led up to the landing that Hannah’s apartment opened onto was jammed—in spite of the fact that it was still a good six minutes before the official starting time of this party. Gregor, Bennis, old George, and Bob found themselves sandwiched among the Devorkian girls—who were impossible—and six old ladies known to the street only as Mrs. Manoukian, Mrs. Karidian, Mrs. Vartenian, Mrs. Baressian, Mrs. Astokian, and Mrs. Erijian. They were all over ninety. They were all dressed in black. They were each and every one of them as formidable as Cerberus. They were a group of people that anyone on Cavanaugh Street who was giving a major party had to invite, because not to would be grossly impolite, but who could safely be anticipated to not show up. This time they had shown up. Gossip, Gregor thought, was a wonderful thing.

Hannah was standing just inside her own front door, greeting people in a flurried way that made Gregor think she hadn’t intended to greet them formally. In spite of the stiff invitation, she had been thinking of this as just an extended version of “having people in.” Standing next to her was a very tall, very thin man in his mid-sixties. He had a full head of silky gray hair and a very square jaw. Gregor looked at Bob Cheswicki and Bob Cheswicki nodded. Gregor looked back and decided that, to him, Paul Hazzard was an unpleasant-looking man. Women, it seemed, positively adored him.

Bennis leaned over. “I’ll tell you what happened,” she whispered in Gregor’s ear. “Paul Hazzard called Hannah this morning around ten and asked her if he could come over early and help out. Hannah said yes. Paul Hazzard showed up around five. About fifteen minutes ago Paul Hazzard finally figured out what he’d gotten himself into. I’ll bet he was appalled.”

It was Hannah Krekorian who was appalled. The Devorkian girls had said their hellos and gone charging across the living room to the table of food set up against the street-side window. They were well padded as it was, and determined to get more so. Hannah was staring over old George Tekemanian’s shoulder and looking shocked. Gregor thought she must just have seen the old ladies.

“Do you figure that bunch behind us are the Furies or the Fates?” Bennis was still whispering in his ear.

“Shhh,” Gregor said.

“They stare at me in church,” Bennis said. “In a group. In concert. They think I’m a scarlet woman. One of them stopped me on the street about six months ago and told me to be careful about you. Promising a man something you never get to the altar to deliver could unhinge his mind.”

“Good God,” Gregor murmured.

“Krekor!” Hannah Krekorian said, sounding worse than desperate. “How good of you to come. I would like to introduce you to a friend of mine. This is Paul Hazzard. Oh, and this is Bennis Hannaford. And George Tekemanian. And—and—” Hannah looked at Bob Cheswicki doubtfully.

Gregor said, “Robert Cheswicki. Bob. The friend I told you about.”

Hannah was so distracted by the old ladies, the information didn’t take. “Bob Cheswicki,” she repeated. Then she turned a little and said in the shrillest voice Gregor had ever heard her use, “Mrs. Manoukian! It’s such an honor! How delightful it is to see you!”

“I’ll bet,” Bennis said, whispering again.

Gregor poked her sharply in the ribs. Paul Hazzard had stepped back slightly and was looking them over. To be precise, he was looking at Gregor. It seemed Bennis had been right. Paul Hazzard hadn’t recognized Bob Cheswicki’s name. He hadn’t noticed much about Bennis Hannaford either, and that was unusual in Gregor’s experience. Old George Tekemanian might as well not have existed. Gregor didn’t think old George’s existence had even registered on Paul Hazzard’s brain. Nothing seemed to be registering on Paul Hazzard’s brain except what he was concentrating on, which was Gregor Demarkian. His concentration was making Gregor very uncomfortable.

“Maybe I should do something to break the spell,” Bennis said. Whispering again. “Maybe I should go up and ask him if he killed his wife.”

“Behave yourself,” Gregor told her.

“I’m going to do nothing of the kind.”

“Come with me,” old George Tekemanian urged her. “There is rum punch. I heard Linda Melajian tell Mary Ohanian this morning.”

Gregor thought Paul Hazzard looked as if he could use some rum punch. Paul had pulled very far back from his original place next to Hannah Krekorian. Somehow he had pulled them with him, so that they were now standing well away from the door and Hannah’s problems with the old ladies. It was a neat trick. Gregor wondered if Hazzard had done it on purpose. If he had, he was a force to be reckoned with.

“Gregor Demarkian.” Paul Hazzard had that odd sort of deliberately, inflected voice Gregor thought of as “TV anchorperson.” He cocked his head. “Gregor Demarkian,” he said again. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“If you read it in the paper,” Gregor told him, “it was probably inaccurate.”

“Very likely,” Paul agreed genially. “But you are something in the way of being a famous man. Especially in the Philadelphia area.”

“That’s interesting,” Gregor said. He meant that the tactic was interesting. He’d used it himself on one or two occasions, but always with psychopaths and street killers—the kind of people who were usually not well-educated enough to know what he was doing. He wondered how Paul Hazzard would go on with it. There should be an attempt to outline the purported difference, to make Gregor look local (and therefore bush league) while Paul himself was made to seem more cosmopolitan in scope. In Gregor’s case that was, of course, difficult to do if you stuck with the facts. The point of a manipulation like this is that facts had nothing to do with it. It was how you made your opponent feel that was the thing.

“I’m always very interested in anything that’s going on in Philadelphia,” Paul Hazzard said. “I’m afraid I don’t always manage it. I’m in New York so much, I find it very difficult to keep up with the news.”

“I never liked New York as a city,” Gregor replied. “Of course, I never liked Washington either, and I spent a great deal of my time there.”

“That’s right.” Paul Hazzard nodded his silky gray head. “You retired from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I could never retire. I could never stand the way it would limit my scope.”