Ed McBain - Downtown (8 page)

Together they went through the desk drawers. The red silk panties sat like a fallen poinsettia leaf not a foot from where they worked. He noticed that Connie smelled of oolong tea and soap, and he wondered if she knew she smelled so exotically seductive.

"I think we should take that picture with us," she said. "In case we need it later. Whoever he is. Because sailors who measure the tide sail with the wisdom of seers, you know." He looked at her. "Have you ever stuffed fortune cookies?" he said. "No. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondered. You smell of oolong tea and soap, did you know that?" "Did you know that the word `oolong` is from _wu' _lung, which means black dragon in Mandarin Chinese?"

"No, I didn't know that," Michael said.

"Yes," she said. "Because oolong tea is so dark." "I see." "Yes."

He was getting dizzy on the scent of her. "Here's his appointment calendar," Connie said, taking it from the top drawer of Crandall's desk. "Do you think it's safe to turn on this lamp?" Michael asked, and snapped on the gooseneck desk lamp. Connie sat in the swivel chair behind the desk, and he dragged over another chair and sat beside her. Their knees touched. The calendar was of the Day At-A Glance type. She flipped it open to the page for Tuesday, December 24, and then automatically looked at her watch. "_Still the twenty-fourth," she said. "Ten minutes to midnight," he said. "Ten minutes to Christmas," she said.

There were several handwritten reminders on the

page:

107

Call Mama "Dutiful son," Michael said.

Send roses to Albetha "Who's Albetha?" he asked. "Who knows?" Connie said.

Mama at Benny's

8:00 PM "Mama again," Michael said. "But who's Benny?" "Who knows?" Connie said, and flipped the calendar back to the page for Monday, December 23. There were three entries for that date:

Bank at 2:30

"Deposit?" Connie asked. "Withdrawal?"

Charlie at 3:30 "Another Charlie," Michael said. "Huh?" Connie said.

"There are a lot of Charlies in this city."

"Yes," Connie said. "Now that you mention it."

"But not too many Albethas, I'll bet."

Christmas party

4:00-7:00 PM

"Let's find out why he went to the bank," Connie said. "How?" "His checkbook. If we can find it."

They began searching through the desk drawers again. In the bottom drawer, Michael found two large, ledger-type checkbooks, one with a blue cover, the other with a black one. The blue checkbook had yellow checks in it. Each check was headed with the names ALBETHA AND ARTHUR CRANDALL and an address on West Tenth Street. "There's Albetha," Connie said.

"His wife."

109 "The roses." "Nice." "Yes." "I wonder if she knows he's dead."

The black checkbook had pink checks in it. Each check was headed with the name CRANDALL PRODUCTIONS, LTD. and the address here on Bowery. Michael flipped through the business checkbook and found the stubs for the last several checks written, all dated December 23. There was a check to Sylvia Horowitz for a $200 Christmas bonus ... "His secretary?" Connie asked. "Could be." And a check to Celebrity Catering for $1,217.21 ... "The party, must be," Michael said. "Some party," Connie said. And a check to Mission Liquors for $314.78. "More party," Connie said. "Some party," Michael said.

No checks beyond the twenty-third. They leafed backward through the stubs. The last payroll checks had been made out on December 20, the ones before that on December 6. The firm paid its employees--apparently only Crandall and the woman named Sylvia Horowitz--on a biweekly basis. "Let's try the personal checkbook," Connie said.

In the personal book, they found only one stub for a check written on Monday, December 23. It was made out to cash. For $9,000. They both fell silent.

Outside, there was only the keening of the wind. Snow broke off from the telephone wires, fell soundlessly to the backyards below. "It's almost Christmas, you know," Connie whispered. Michael looked at his watch. "Two minutes to Christmas," Connie whispered. His digital watch blinked away time, tossed time into the past. "I want to give you a present," she whispered.

It was one minute and twenty-two

111 seconds to Christmas.

"Because you really do have a very nice face," she whispered. "And also, I like kissing you." She cupped his face in her hands. "You don't have anything communicable, do you?" she asked. "No, I ..." "I don't mean like a common cold," she said. "I mean like anything dread." "Nothing dread at all," he said. "Good," she said.

He told himself that when this was all over and done with, if ever it was over and done with, he would remember this last minute before Christmas more than anything that could possibly happen afterward. Because in that slow-motion moment, Connie kissed him and murmured, "Merry Christmas, Michael," and moved in so close to him that he could feel her heart beating, or at least his own, and then he heard bells going off and he thought he'd died and gone to heaven until he realized it was only the telephone.

5 The telephone kept ringing into the otherwise blinking stillness of the room. Michael picked up the receiver.

"Crandall Productions, Limited," he said. "Arthur?" a woman's voice said. "Who's this?" he said. "Is that you, Arthur?" the woman asked. "Yes," he said. "You sound funny," she said. "Who's this?" he said again. "This is Albetha," the woman said. "Uh-huh," he said. "Arthur?" "Uh-huh." "Arthur, your children are waiting for Santa Claus, what are you doing at the office? It's Christmas morning already, do you know that? It's already five minutes past Christmas, do you know that? Now when do you plan on coming home, Arthur?"

Michael gathered she did not know he was dead. "Did you get the roses?" he asked.

"Yes, I got the roses," she

113 said. "Thank you very much for the roses, Arthur, but I'm _still getting a divorce." "Now, now, Albetha," he said.

"Arthur, the only reason I want you to come home here tonight is because it's Christmas and the children expect you to be here, that's the only reason. Tomorrow I'll explain to them how their daddy is a no-good philanderer, but this is Christmas right now, and you'd better come home here and get in your Santa Claus suit and be Santa eating the cookies and drinking the milk for your goddamn children, do you hear me?" "I hear you," he said.

"Or is _she there with you?" Albetha asked. "Is who here?" he said. "Jessica," she said. "I don't know who that is," he said.

"Your blonde bimbo with her red panties," she said. "Oh, her," Michael said. "Come on home to your children, you _louse!" Albetha said, and hung up.

"Albetha?" he said. He jiggled the rest bar. "Albetha?" "His wife, huh?" Connie said. "Maybe I ought to call her back," Michael said. "No, I think we'd better get out of here," Connie said. "Because I think I heard a police siren." Michael listened. "I don't hear anything," he said.

"Not now," she said. "While we were kissing. I thought it was a siren, but maybe it was just a cat." They both listened. Nothing. "It was probably just a cat," she said.

"Let's see if he's got an address book," Michael said, and went to the desk and began rummaging through the drawers again. "I want to call her back."

"Although it sounded very much like a siren," Connie said. "Here we go. Do you think his home number might be in it?" "I don't know anyone who lists his own number in his address book. Did you just see a light in the backyard?"

"No."

115

"I thought I saw a light," Connie said, and went to the window. "Yep," she said, "there's a light moving around down there. You know what? I think that _was a siren I heard. Because those are two cops with a flashlight down there." Michael went to the window. "Shit," he said. "Yes," she said. "Heading for the fire escape."

"Let's get the hell out of here," he said.

"Don't forget Crandall's picture ..." "I've got it." "... and his address book," she said, "the tall one's starting up the ladder."

He pulled her away from the window and together they hurried to the front door. He turned the thumb knob on the lock, opened the door, and then followed her down the steep flight of steps to the street-level door. Through the thick plate-glass panel on the door, they could see a police car parked at the curb in front of the limousine, its dome lights flashing. Freddie was sitting on the limo's fender, looking innocent. The lock on the street-level door was a deadbolt. No way to unlock it on either side without a key. Michael backed off, raised his leg-- "Don't cut yourself!" Connie warned.

--and kicked out flat-footed at the glass panel. A shower of splinters and shards exploded onto the sidewalk. Freddie, startled, jumped off the fender of the car. From the office upstairs, one of the cops yelled, "Downstairs, Sam!"

Michael was busy kicking out loose shards. Cold air rushed through the open panel. He helped Connie climb through, her long legs flashing, green panties winking at him for only an instant as she jumped clear. He climbed through after her and began running toward the limo. Connie slapped a five-dollar bill into Freddie's hand, ran around the limo's nose, and began unlocking the door on the driver's side. Behind him, Michael heard one of the cops yell, "You! Hey, _you! Hold it right there!" The electric lock on his side of the car clicked open. He yanked open the door, climbed in, and slammed the door shut just as Connie stepped on the starter. There were gunshots

now. He pulled his head instinctively

117 into his shoulders, but the cops were only shooting at the deadbolt on the door to Crandall Productions, Ltd. The engine caught just as they kicked open the door and came running out of the building.

"Police!" one of them yelled. "Stop!" Connie rammed her foot down on the accelerator. The car's tires began spinning on ice, its rear end skidding toward the curb, and then the tires began smoking, and suddenly they grabbed bare asphalt, and the car lurched away squealing from the curb and into the night.

Behind them, Freddie said to the cops, "Clean your windshield, officers?" The house on West Tenth Street was a three-story brownstone just off Fifth Avenue. The address on the checks in Crandall's personal checkbook. Presumably the house he shared with Albetha and the kiddies.

"Every light in the house is burning," Connie said. "The lady's waiting up for you." "For Crandall." "Too bad he's dead," Connie said, and looked at her watch. "My twelve-thirty pickup is in the Village," she said. "Here's a China Doll card, call me when you're done here. If I'm free, I'll come get you. Otherwise, here's my home address. And here's twenty dollars."

"I don't want to take any money from you," he said.

"Then how are you going to get anyplace? If I can't come pick you up? Take it." "Really, Connie ..." "It's a loan," she said.

He nodded, accepted the card and the money, and put both in his wallet. He now owed Charlie Bonano ten bucks and Connie Kee twenty. He was running up a big debt in this city. "You sure you want to go see this lady?" Connie asked. "Might be cops in there, for all you know."

"I don't see any police cars, do you?"

"Detectives drive unmarked sedans." Michael shrugged.

"Pretty brave all of a sudden," Connie said. Michael was thinking that sometimes you could sense

things. You could smell the enemy. Sniff

119 the trail and you knew whether it was clear ahead or loaded. He did not think he would find any policemen in Crandall's house. If he was wrong-- He shrugged again. "I'll see you later," he said. "Yes," she said, and waited till he walked to the front stoop of the building and up the steps before she eased the limo away from the curb. He watched the tail lights disappearing up the street, the red staining the snow. There was a sudden hush on the night. He looked up at the sky, expecting to see a star in the east. Disappointed, he looked at his watch instead. Twenty minutes past twelve. He rang the doorbell. The woman who answered the door was perhaps thirty-four years old. She was almost as tall as Michael, her eyes brown, her mouth full, her hair done in the style Bo Derek had popularized in the movie _10, more beautiful and natural on this woman in that her skin was the color of bittersweet chocolate. "Yes?" she said.

"Is Mrs. Crandall home?" he asked. "I'm Mrs. Crandall," she said. "Oh," he said, and tried to hide his surprise. The newspaper photograph had shown Arthur Crandall as a white man. "Yes?" she said.

"Well ... we spoke on the phone a little while ago," he said. "You told me ..." "No, we didn't," she said, and started to close the door. "Mrs. Crandall," he said quickly, "you called your husband's office ..." She looked at him. "I answered the phone ..." Kept looking at him. "You told me your kids were waiting for Santa ..." "What were you doing in my husband's ..." "Long story," he said.

Behind her, a small, excited voice said, "Mommy, come quick! Daddy's on television!" "Who are you?" she asked Michael.

"My name is Michael Barnes," he said. "Mommy, hurry _up!"

Another voice. Two of them in the hallway now. And then a third voice from someplace else

in the house.

121 "Annie? Are you _getting her?"

Albetha Crandall looked him up and down. Sniffing the trail. Trying to catch the whiff of danger. She decided he was safe. "Come in," she said.

Two little girls in granny nightgowns were already running down the hall ahead of her. She let Michael into the house, closed and locked the door behind him, and then said, "You're not an ax murderer, are you?" and smiled in such marvelous contradiction that he was forced to give the only possible answer. "Yes, I am," he said. Albetha laughed.

"Mommmmmmmy! For Chriiiiiist's sake, come _on!"

He followed her down the hall. It occurred to him that the police were showing pictures of the dead man on television. Arthur Crandall. His daughters were watching photographs of their dead father. And soon Albetha would be seeing those same photos. And they would undoubtedly be followed in logical sequence by the driver's license picture of the man alleged to have killed him, Michael Barnes the notorious ax murderer. An eight-year-old girl in a granny nightgown sat on a couch facing the television set. The other two little girls--one of them six, the other four, Michael guessed--had just come into the room and were standing transfixed in the doorway, watching the screen. This was a newsbreak special. The words trailed incessantly across the bottom of the screen. NEWSBREAK SPECIAL NEWSBREAK SPECIAL NEWSBREAK SPECIAL. A very blond television newscaster was talking to the man whose picture had been hanging on the wall in Crandall's office. He was short and stout and almost bald, and he was wearing a three-piece suit with a Phi Beta Kappa key hanging on a gold chain across the vest. He looked very much alive.