Compromising Positions (33 page)

“Let me think. One was a doctor or a dentist. He had on a white coat.”

“Young? Old? Middle-aged?” I interjected.

“Middle-aged, I think. Kind of hefty. Gray hair. Oh, yes, he had on wire-rimmed glasses.”

“Sounds like Goldberg,” Sharpe said to me. “Now,” he said to Marilyn, “try to think back to the moment you left the office. You had felt uncomfortable being alone with Dr. Fleckstein. It was late. You were in a hurry to get to the supermarket and get home. You opened the door and what did you see? Picture it in your mind.” His voice was tender, monotonous—almost hypnotic.

“I see,” Marilyn answered hesitantly, “I see a woman at the end of the hall and...”

“What does she look like?” I demanded.

“Shh,” said Sharpe.

“I also see a man down the hall the other way, to the left, taking a drink from the water fountain.”

“Good,” said Sharpe. “Excellent. Now, describe the woman for me.”

“Let’s see. Older. Sixty or sixty-five. Carrying a shopping bag, I think. I really can’t remember. It’s kind of vague.”

“That’s understandable,” he said. “It’s just an ordinary scene, an event that’s totally unremarkable. Actually, you’ve got an exceptional memory. Very visual. Now, the man. He’s leaning over the water fountain. Is it a high fountain or a low one?”

“High. One of those where you press a pedal with your foot to get the water.”

“Good. How high would you say the fountain is?”

“Oh, about four feet.”

“Fine. Now, is this man really stooping over the fountain? Or is he bending his head to get a drink? Let’s try to figure out how tall he is.”

“He was bending over, but not too much. I think he must have been of medium height.”

“All right. Now, this thirsty man, was he wearing a coat?”

“Yes. An overcoat.”

“Do you remember the color?”

“No.”

“Okay. So if he was wearing an overcoat, it would indicate he was either coming in or going out. Was he carrying anything?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. I’m sorry.”

“You’re doing beautifully, Mrs. Tuccio. Now, could you get a feeling about his age?”

“Not really. His back was toward me. But it wasn’t a kid. I mean, teen-agers don’t wear overcoats these days.”

“Right. Now, was there anything distinctive about this man? What struck you when you saw him?”

Marilyn rubbed her forehead. “This may sound strange,” she began.

“Tell me,” Sharpe said.

“I remember seeing him and thinking about St. Paul.”

“St. Paul?” I repeated.

“Why did I think that?” Marilyn asked herself. “Oh, I’ve got it! There was a light reflecting off his head, like a halo.”

“You mean he was bald?” Sharpe asked gently.

“Yes, that’s it! He had no hair. He was completely bald. I remember now. His head was very, very shiny, and the light gave him a kind of saintly aura.”

“Sounds like our friend,” I said to Sharpe.

“Sounds like you’re right,” he grinned at me. “Good work, Mrs. Tuccio.”

Marilyn inched forward on the couch. “Is there anything else?” she asked Sharpe.

“No, I think that about does it for now,” he responded. “I appreciate your help—especially since you must be soured on the police.” He said this in a sad, restrained tone, as though the mere thought of her distress was deeply disheartening to him.

She smiled at him, tacitly assuring him that she bore no grudges. “I’m just glad it’s over,” she said. “Would you mind if I dashed out? Today’s my bread day, and I have some dough I have to punch down.”

“Of course not,” Sharpe said. “Good meeting you.”

“Nice meeting you,” she answered. I walked her to the door. “Judith,” she whispered in the hallway, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done.”

“Really, Marilyn...”

“Now don’t be modest,” she said. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

“How about a loaf of bread?”

“I’ll send one over later,” she said. I handed her her coat and she sped out the door.

Sharpe and I collided as I ran back into the living room. “Congratulations,” he said solemnly, and shook my hand.

“But it’s not over yet,” I protested. “We don’t know for sure. What if it isn’t him? What if we can’t tie it to him?”

“Don’t worry.”

“What do you mean ‘don’t worry’?” I spoke with my teeth nearly clenched together, my hands curled into tight fists by my sides.

“Judith, what’s wrong with you? I said not to worry. I’ll get a search warrant and check things out. We’ll get him. Relax.”

“But what if you don’t?”

“Come upstairs with me,” he said, taking my hand. “First I’ll help you to relax and then I’ll explain things.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No,” I said. “My son’s due home from school in a half hour.”

“So I’ll work fast. I can relax you in a half hour.”

“No, Nelson. Not here.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I am not being ridiculous. I’m not going to fool around in my own house and that’s that.”

“You’re tense.”

“Of course, I’m tense,” I said angrily. “Here we are, about to catch a murderer, and you want to screw.”

“We don’t have to screw, you know. We can...”

“Nelson, can’t we just sit and talk? I’ve had one hell of a morning. What do you expect me to do, get all cute and snuggly?”

“Fine. I’ll be glad to talk,” he said slowly.

“And don’t treat me like some goddamn loony, with that soft, sweetie-pie voice of yours.”

He grabbed my arms. “Look, will you lay off? This morning hasn’t been a goddamn motherfucking bed of roses for me either. You’re upset. I’m upset. Okay, let’s just sit down and talk.”

“Good,” I snapped. “Fine.”

We sat next to each other on the couch, neither touching nor exchanging glances. Finally I turned to him. “Okay. Let’s be friends,” I said and kissed his ear.

“Okay,” he said quietly, taking care not to break the spirit of the truce. “Would you like to know what I’m going to do?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I’m going to leave here in a little while and apply for a search warrant. I’ll get a night warrant so I can go to his printing plant when he’s at home.”

“Can you do that?”

“Of course, I can do it. Look, you can justify a night warrant on several grounds, but I’m going to say that he might become violent. I don’t want to set him off. He’s dangerous.”

“How will you get in when he’s not there?” I asked.

“If necessary, we can break in. Then I’ll have a look around. I especially want to check his safe—if he has one—and file cabinets.”

I leaned toward him so that our shoulders touched. “You think you’ll find anything there?”

“I hope so,” he said, taking my hand and rubbing it between his. “Dunck’s a squirrel, a saver. Remember, he held on to that awl until he decided to dump it at Marilyn Tuccio’s house. And if he saved the awl, he may very well have saved the photographs.”

“I think you’re right,” I agreed. “He knew the power those pictures gave Bruce. He probably thought it would pass to him. And if you can believe Brenda, and he hasn’t said anything to her, he may want to hold them, to use them against
her
someday.” Sharpe nodded. “But how can you get into a safe?” I asked.

“Break in.”

“Really?”

“Sure. As long as we have the right warrant.”

“When will you be going there?”

“I don’t know. Probably about nine or ten. Maybe later.”

“Can I go? Please?”

“No.” I pulled my hand from his and glared at him. “I’m sorry, Judith. I know how much this means to you, but there’s no way.”

“Of course, there’s a way. You’re in charge of the investigation.”

“Yes, but that means I have to do things the right way, and there could be all sorts of complications if you came along. Look, I’ll call you as soon as it’s over.”

“When will that be?”

“I don’t know. It depends on whether we find enough evidence to arrest him.”

“So it might not be for a while, maybe not even until tomorrow.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

Sharpe glanced at me suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘okay’?”

“Okay,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“You’re planning something, Judith. What is it?”

“Would it be so terrible if I just parked my car across from the plant and waited?”

“Yes, it would. Look, do you want to put the entire investigation in jeopardy?”

“If it weren’t for me, you know damn well you wouldn’t have come near Dunck or his lousy, rotten printing plant.”

“I know, Judith,” he said quietly. “But you’re not a cop. You can’t be there. No way.”

It was Sharpe’s “no way” that incensed me. “Get out of this house,” I hissed. “Get out and don’t ever come back.”

He rose and turned to me. “I’ll call you the second I can.”

“Don’t bother,” I said, marching to the door and holding it open for him. “It’s your ballgame now. You’re the cop. And I’ve served my purpose.” Sharpe sighed wearily and walked off.

A gray, icy rain began falling, coating the street with slush. Every now and then a car would drive by leaving its tread marks, which were soon obscured by another layer of freezing rain. Later, the children, home from school, tailed me, whining for snacks, whimpering that they had nothing to do. I banished them to their rooms, with two fig newtons each for sustenance, warning them not to come down until four-thirty, when
Sesame Street
would begin.

“But that’s a baby program,” Kate protested.

“You’re mean, Mommy,” said Joey.

This was it, I mused, planting myself on Sharpe’s seat on the couch. Goodbye homicide, hello New Deal. Nice knowing you, Nelson; Bob, can you ever forgive me? The telephone rang. Maybe it was Nancy. I could get a baby sitter for Wednesday; if she was finished with her article, we could go to the city and take in a matinee. Something light. A musical maybe. Or a frothy comedy about adultery.

“Hello,” I said, my voice leaden.

“Hi,” replied a man’s voice. “How’re ya doing?”

“Fine,” I said, feeling perkier. I prayed it wasn’t a salesman hawking perpetual light bulbs to benefit the blind or offering home delivery on Sunday’s
Newsday
at a shockingly reduced rate. “Who is this, please?”

“Dicky Dunck.”

All the cliches about panic—heart palpitations, perspiration, violent intestinal contractions—proved valid. “Oh, hi,” I said, my tongue heavy with an invisible coating of fear. “How are you?”

“Fine. Superbimento, in fact. Listen, I was wondering, sweetheart. Could I drop by? I came up with a couple of ideas about your doctorate and I’d like to tell you them.”

“Gosh,” I answered, and that was probably the first time in my life I had said gosh, “I have a houseful of kids and I’m entertaining their mommies.” That sounded warm and homey. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, because I just passed by, and I didn’t see any cars in your driveway.”

“It’s a few of the women on the block.”

“Oh. Well, how about later?” he asked, sounding quite casual.

Several options tore through my mind. I could tell him sorry, but I had plans for the next few months. I could arrange to meet him and find out what he wanted. Surely, if Brenda had told him about our meeting, she would have mentioned that I had a contact on the police force; he wouldn’t dare to hurt me. Or... “Look,” I began, “why don’t I meet you tonight? After dinner, okay?”

“Sure. How does eight o’clock hit you?”

“Well, that’s a bit early. What time do you get home from work?”

“Five-thirty. Six.”

“I see. Well, my husband doesn’t get home until about seven-thirty or eight, and I won’t be finished with the dishes until nine. Would that be all right? Should I come to your house?”

“No,” he said, without hesitation. “My wife’s going to be doing something to her hair, so she doesn’t want company, if you get me. How about a drinkie-poo somewhere?”

“Fine.” Could he really think I was so dumb? Didn’t he care? Could he be that dumb? Could he be that smart?

“Good. You know that French place? La Crevette?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll meet you at nine in their parking lot. The one on a hill in the back, okay?”

“Great,” I replied. “See you at nine.”

I finally decided; he was dumb. But he was also desperate, and like a worm that tries to burrow underground when it senses the earth about it moving, Dicky had an instinct to survive. Primitive, but very real. But what would he do? Take out another awl and kill me in the parking lot? He’d certainly realize that that would finish him. I could meet him, talk to him, kid him along, and then report everything to Sharpe. But if I met Dicky and he rammed the awl into the base of my skull before we had a chance to chat, how could I manipulate him into a confession? I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Lieutenant Sharpe, please.”

“He’s out. Can I help?”

“Look,” I said, “this is important. Would you tell him that Judith Singer called and that I just spoke with Dicky Dunck and he wants to meet me. It’s about the Fleckstein case,” I explained.

“I know, I know,” the detective said excitedly. “You’re the lady who recognized the picture of his wife. He called you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, now listen to me. You sit right where you are. Keep all your doors locked and don’t open them for anyone.”

“I’m not meeting him until nine tonight.”

“You’re meeting him?” he asked incredulously. “Look, lady, just sit tight. I’m going to run over to the courthouse to get Sharpe. He’s over there getting a warrant. Now don’t do anything. I’ll get him to call you.”

“Okay.”

“Now give me your address and phone number.”

“He already has them.”

“Lady, please.”

I gave him the information and we said goodbye. I walked through the house, checking the front door, back door, and garage entrance. Everything was securely locked.

Moments later, as if by a signal, the children emerged from their rooms. I walked to the den with them, and we sat on the floor, singing.

“I’ve been working on the railroad,” crooned Joey. I started biting my nails, beginning with my right index finger. In the background, I vaguely heard Kate’s “Free to be, you and me” crescendo. Still no call from Sharpe.