Random Hearts (10 page)

"Thanks. Maybe I'll get lucky and not live through the
night," Farnsworth replied.

They knocked on Edward Davis's door first. It was seven
o'clock in the morning. The day had broken bright with sun, and the air was
crisp with a cool, clean bite.

The man who opened the door showed the effects of his
ordeal. He looked as if he had slept in his clothes, and his eyes were red and
puffy. Sprouts of beard were coming out of his facial skin in uneven tufts.
God, will this hurt, McCarthy thought. Poor bastard.

"Are you Edward Davis?" he asked politely,
flashing his badge.

The man nodded, and McCarthy could tell from his eyes that
he already knew what was coming. Davis backed away, leaving the door open for
them to come in. He collapsed heavily on the couch. Farnsworth and McCarthy sat
opposite on upholstered chairs.

"It's about Lily?" the man asked lamely. He
looked weak. Panic and anxiety had already beaten him. "She's been gone
since Thursday," the man said. "I was about to call."

"Sure," McCarthy whispered. He glanced at
Farnsworth, whose hands clutched his thighs, knuckles white.

"I'm sorry to inform you that your wife Lily went down
with Southair flight ninety."

"Flight ninety?" the man repeated, not
comprehending.

"The plane that went down last week in the Potomac," McCarthy said.

Davis's face seemed to cave in upon
his skull.

"That's crazy!" he cried. "It's a mistake.
Why would she be on that plane? It was going to Florida. For a minute there you
had me really frightened. She went to L.A. I think you've got something
confused. Maybe the computers..."

He would have gone on had McCarthy not interrupted him.

"We have her handbag, her possessions and, I'm afraid,
her body."

"That is absolutely impossible."

"I hope you're right, Mr. Davis," Mr. Farnsworth
intruded sympathetically. He was obviously suffering through it. "You're
going to have to come down to the Medical Examiner's office and identify the
body. There's a cruiser outside waiting to take you there."

"I'm telling you it's a waste of time."

His lips were trembling, and his chest began to heave as he
gasped for breath.

"You can't just leave her there, Mr. Davis,"
Farnsworth said gently. For a moment McCarthy thought he, too, might be
breaking down.

"Leave her where?" Davis said. He was completely
disoriented.

"Downtown. At the Medical Examiner's office."

"Oh, God." Reality began to seep into his
consciousness. He rose and put on his coat, which had been thrown clumsily over
the dining room table. He didn't bother to put on a jacket underneath it.

"All right," he said. "Just to convince you
how wrong you must be."

They let him walk out first.

McCarthy hadn't expected Mrs. Simpson to be so attractive.
She was wearing a turtleneck sweater and beige slacks that showed off the
rounded firmness of her figure. She wore no makeup, but her skin was clear and
pale, and her chestnut hair, although cut short, fell neatly in soft waves. To
McCarthy, the woman had an air of cleanliness about her, a kind of brightness
that even this terrible predicament could not quite obliterate. But the
puffiness beneath her brown eyes and the frown etched on her forehead betrayed
sleeplessness and anxiety.

A little boy of five, whom McCarthy had recognized
instantly from the picture in the dead man's wallet, leaned against his
mother's thigh as she stroked his hair. As they followed her into the house,
Farnsworth glanced at him, then looked up at the ceiling, hiding moist eyes. It
was the child, McCarthy knew. He complicated everything, melted their resolve.
They would have to dig deeper into themselves to find a second line of
emotional defense.

She led the boy into another room and turned on the
television set, then returned. She was desperately trying to regain her
composure.

They were exceedingly gentle, although McCarthy's stumbling
hesitance seemed to acknowledge her comprehension even before he stated the raw
and disastrous fact. When he did, finally, she did not deny the possibility but
sat, stunned.

"It can't be," she whispered.

McCarthy noted the odd similarity of her reaction to that
of the Davis man, deliberately suspending his judgment. He was relieved that
she had weathered the first shock wave without collapsing. Her demeanor was
more of disorientation. The problem here, McCarthy knew, was acceptance. It had
to sink in at its own pace, nor could he deny her the futile hope that would
soften the shock.

"Without a visual identification, I could be
wrong," he said. He wondered if his face reflected his professionalism.
The boy came back into the room and scrambled onto his mother's lap. Making no
move to return him to the other room, she hugged him and rhythmically rocked
her body from side to side. McCarthy exchanged glances with Farnsworth, who
flicked away an errant tear. It surprised McCarthy that after all the man had
been through in the past week, he still had the capacity for tears.

"It can't be," the woman said. "He went to Paris."

"He didn't, Mrs. Simpson," McCarthy said,
admonishing himself. The contradiction was uncalled-for. She would learn the
truth soon enough.

"It's been awful," she whispered, continuing to
hug the boy, who looked at them curiously.

"You know my daddy?" the boy asked suddenly.

McCarthy smiled and tousled the boy's hair.

"My housekeeper is not here yet." She put the boy
aside and stood up, her hands fluttering to her hair. "But I thought he
was in Paris." She seemed to have trouble deciding what to do next.

"Have you someone to leave the boy with?"
Farnsworth asked.

"The boy?" She was trying desperately to anchor herself
in reality. McCarthy was thankful she had not collapsed. Women like that were a
slow burn, their reaction delayed. He would have to watch her closely. As she
moved around the room of the well-kept, luxurious house, he could not help
comparing her with the dead girl. They were both about the same age and both
attractive, although the condition of the victim's face did not suggest that
image. What did this man Simpson want? He thought of his wife, and the old acid
burn came back. What had Billie wanted?

"May I call my husband's partner?" she asked,
child-like, as if she were begging permission.

"Of course."

She went out of the room, but the boy stayed. Taking
McCarthy's hand, he pulled him toward the window.

"See my snowman?"

"What's his name?" McCarthy asked, thinking of
his own children and all that he had missed.

"He looks like Daddy," the boy said.

When the woman came back into the room, her eyes were
glistening.

"He wants to speak with you." She hesitated, not
having remembered his name. He did not remind her. It didn't matter.

"Sergeant McCarthy, MPD Homicide," he announced
into the phone.

"Are you certain?" a man's voice said.

"Yes. But we need the visual identification to wrap it
up."

"My God."

"Tough break," McCarthy said. He heard the man's
breathing.

"I'll meet you. My wife will take the boy."

McCarthy came back into the room. The woman was staring out
the window, holding the boy's hand, looking at the snowman. Her back was
straight and stiff, and he knew she was making a valiant effort to hold herself
together.

"I'll dress Ben," she whispered. She took the boy
out of the room.

"Nothing satisfies people," McCarthy said when
she left the room. "The son of a bitch had everything." Again he
thought of Billie.

"Some people are hogs." Farnsworth said.
"They never have enough."

"Poor lady."

"Poor kid."

They remained silent, ignoring each other until she came
back into the room.

"Where are we going, Mommy?" the boy asked when
she began to put on his outer clothing.

"For a ride."

"Will we see Daddy?"

The woman turned and looked helplessly at them both, her
lips quivering. A sob rattled in her throat, and her eyes filled with tears.
Hiding her grief, she busied herself, buckling her quilted coat.

"Are you all right?" McCarthy asked.

After a few moments she nodded, took the boy's hand, and
went outside. They opened the rear car door, and the woman and the boy got in.

The traffic was fairly heavy, and the bright sun made the
city's white monuments sparkle in the dazzling light. Considering their
mission, McCarthy thought, the weather was a cruel irony.

The woman did not speak. She clutched a handkerchief and
from time to time blotted her eyes. She made a great effort to hide her grief
from the boy, who chattered away. Farnsworth kept up a patter to deflect the
boy's interest and keep his mind on other things.

"I've got a little boy," Farnsworth said.
"One year old."

"That's not a boy. That's a baby."

At the entrance to the Medical Examiner's office, a couple
was waiting. The man gathered Mrs. Simpson in his arms and patted her back.
Still she held herself tightly, unwilling to give in to her grief.

"I don't understand," was all she could say.

The man introduced himself to the detectives as Mr. Dale
Martin, Mr. Simpson's law partner. He exchanged intense glances with
Farnsworth, and after the boy had gone off with Mrs. Martin, he led them
through the door of the office.

"Can you do it?" Martin asked. One of his arms
was wrapped around Vivien's shoulder.

"I'm not sure," she replied. "I'm not sure
about anything."

McCarthy was surprised to find the Davis man still sitting
there, listlessly, in a corner of the office. Beside him was a plastic bag,
containing his dead wife's possessions. Forbes, sitting nearby, waved two
fingers as an acknowledgment that Davis had identified his wife's body.
Apparently his shock was so great that he had not found the energy to move. It
was a common occurrence, and the police rarely forced people to leave
immediately. Forbes was merely "baby-sitting."

They followed one of the technicians into the refrigerator.
McCarthy deliberately kept his eyes averted from Mrs. Simpson's face. How many
times had he been through this ritual? He had no pity for the man on the tray.
Yet he was not indifferent. He detested the man for creating this unnecessary
horror.

The group stopped midway in the refrigerator, and the
technician opened a drawer. With fluttering lids, Mrs. Simpson forced her eyes
downward, her body sagging as a sheet was peeled away from her husband's
corpse. Martin caught her, preventing her from hitting the floor. Surprisingly,
not a sound issued from her throat. She had not fainted. Recovering somewhat,
she nodded recognition.

"It's him," Martin muttered, flashing McCarthy an
angry look. They led the woman back into the Medical Examiner's office where
she collapsed into a chair. Farnsworth brought her a drink of water in a paper
cup.

"Don't think you won't hear from me on this,"
Martin said angrily.

McCarthy looked at him, confused.

"There will definitely be legal repercussions."

"I'm sure of that," Farnsworth said.

"Malfeasance. Inefficiency. Neglect. Police
stupidity."

McCarthy's eyes probed the man's face.

"Police stupidity?"

Martin's lips tightened. He moved away, motioning sharply
with his head for the men to follow, obviously not wishing to be overheard by
Mrs. Simpson.

"Why did you put her through this? You knew he was
down there. You had the passenger list. Why didn't you notify her immediately?
She's been through two ... no, three days of hell. You haven't heard the end of
this."

McCarthy looked at Farnsworth, remembering their earlier
discussion. See, he thought. Somebody is always fucking things up.
Understanding, Farnsworth returned McCarthy's gaze with raised eyebrows.

"I wouldn't make a big thing about it if I were
you."

"Why the hell not? You were cruel, heartless." He
looked at Farnsworth. "Your company should be destroyed."

"We didn't know," Farnsworth muttered. If he were
more in control of himself, more rested, if he hadn't been through the last
week, he might have said it differently. Apparently the ordeal had shortened
his fuse.

"How could you not know?" Martin asked. Under
other circumstances he, too, might have acted differently.

"Because," Farnsworth said, "he didn't give
his right name."

"He didn't? What name did he give?"

"I think you'd better let me—" McCarthy said, not
holding back now.

"What's going on here?" Martin asked, looking at
them with suspicion and with unmistakable superiority and contempt. McCarthy
had seen it often: The Ivy League patrician lording it over the red-necked cop.
Like the swelling of a pus-filled boil, he felt the pain of it, felt the
absolute necessity of the psychic lancing that had to be done to make the pain
go away. Ignoring Martin, he walked over to where Mrs. Simpson sat and put a hand
on her shoulder.

"How do you feel?" he whispered gently. When she
did not respond, he said, "What I mean is are you able to hear the
explanation? You'll be asking for it soon enough." She slowly lifted her
head and nodded. He could see that it was already beginning to gnaw at her.
Sometimes, he had learned, it was easier to lay on the pain all at once,
instead of paying it out with agonizing slowness. Besides, even the most
cursory investigation would establish the facts, especially with this son of a
bitch Martin wanting to make a federal case out of it.

Returning to Martin, he said politely, "Could you wait
in the outer office please, Mr. Martin?"

"I demand—" Martin began.

"You'll have ample opportunity," McCarthy said.
Martin fumed.

"I'm her lawyer."

"Of course. That's her prerogative. After we talk to
her, she can do what she wishes."