Pete waits too, his long fingers poised in midair over the black keys.
Do-it do-it do-it do-it do-it!screeches the devil.
It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.
It’s the little voice inside me talking. The Mike-voice, chirping up. It hasn’t deserted me after all. It’s still with me, and it says, “I have no further questions.”
It’s over. Everybody packs up and shakes hands, except for Hart. “See you in court,” he says, with a braying laugh. The derisive sound is echoed by a more distant infernal laughter.
Get thee behind me, Satan!
I wonder if I’m losing my mind. I gather up the file and practically flee the conference room.
Outside, the firm is alive with commerce and industry. Secretaries fly to the mailroom to get out that last letter. Associates beg another draft out of Word Processing. Partners rush to review briefs before they’re filed, the better to leave their distinctive mark on it, like a poodle does a hydrant. Everyone’s following the Stalling commandmentTHOU SHALT WAIT UNTIL THE LAST MINUTE, THEN GO CRAZY. The life signs at Stalling ground me, and I don’t hear the devil anymore. By the time I reach Gluttony, I’m feeling normal, almost good, for the first time in a long time.
“Miss DiNunzio, here I am!” It’s Miss Pershing, looking up at me from the bottom of the stairs. Her rubber pocketbook’s slung over her wrist, and she’s holding an Agatha Christie paperback. Secretaries flow around her to get to the stairwell, following the first in a set of counter-commandments,THOU SHALT BOLT AT FIVE O’CLOCK. Miss Pershing’s too single-minded to notice the activity around her, like an aged pointer who’s found her quarry.
“Miss Pershing, step over here.” I take her by the elbow and she does a mincing side step out of the path of travel. The Amazing Stella sashays behind her, making the crazy sign at her forehead, but I don’t laugh.
Miss Pershing looks suspiciously at the secretaries passing by. “I got that information you wanted.” She leans toward me; her soft breath smells like Altoids. “You know which information I mean?The information.”
“Theinformation, Miss Pershing?”
“Theinformation. Thepolice information.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“The papers are on your desk. Your theory is confirmed.”
“My theory? You mean about who-”
“Yes.”
“Good. Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“That’s all right. It’s my job.”
I suppress a smile. “Well, thank you, just the same.”
“Also, Mr. Starankovic telephoned. He said-”
“Starankovic? Oh, fuck!”
Her eyes flare open.
“I’m sorry, Miss Pershing.”
“No need to apologize, Miss DiNunzio. I’m getting used to it.”
“Thanks.”
“Mr. Starankovic said you didn’t call him back about the interviews, so he had to file a motion. I put the papers on your desk. I hope this doesn’t mean you need me to stay late tonight, because I can’t. I have my book club tonight.”
“Agatha Christie, right?”
She nods happily.
“It’s okay, Miss Pershing. I don’t need you to stay.”
“Well, then, nighty-night,” she says, and smiles. She’s about to turn toward the elevator when Martin comes charging out of nowhere and knocks her over.
“My!” she yelps. She falls backward into my arms.
Martin runs down the stairs, elbowing everyone aside frantically, with a sheaf of curly faxes in his hand.
“Are you all right, Miss P?” I set her back onto her feet, like Dorothy did the scarecrow. She seems more embarrassed than anything else.
“Goodness!”
I look down the stairs after Martin, but he’s long gone. He didn’t even look back. He knocked down an old woman and didn’t even look back. What kind of a man does that? A hit-and-run. I shudder, involuntarily.
“Wasn’t that the young man who likes owls?” asks Miss Pershing.
“Martin H. Chatham IV.”
“What bad manners!” She produces a flowery handkerchief from the sleeve of her sweater and dabs at her forehead. The handkerchief must be scented, for the air is suddenly redolent of lilac.
“Let me walk you to the elevator, Miss P.” I offer her my arm and we hobble to the elevator together. I tuck her in, in front of the secretaries with the neon eyeshadow and the black miniskirts. She gives me a game wave with her pocketbook as the doors close.
Martin.
I wonder where he was the night Brent was killed. I wonder what kind of car he drives, where he lives. If he lives in town, it makes it more likely that it’s him, since it would be easier for him to follow me. But I think he lives in the suburbs somewhere, on the Main Line. I decide to do a little research.
I head into my office and find Stalling’s pig book on the shelf. It has photos of all the lawyers in the firm, with their degrees and home addresses. I flip through the first couple of pages to Martin’s name. Under his head shot, which makes him look almost animate, it says Dartmouth College, B.A. 1969; Yale Law School, J.D. 1972. His home address is “Rondelay II” in Bryn Mawr. The Main Line, of course. Even the houses have Roman numerals after their names.
Damn. Who else could be jealous of me? Jameson. I wonder where he lives.
I page to the J’s and find his picture. He looks like Atom Ant, only smug. He went to Penn too, graduating from the undergraduate school in 1970 and the law school in 1974. His home address is on Pine Street in Society Hill. A city dweller; I didn’t know that. And the houses down there-the new ones-have built-in garages. I make a mental note to ask Judy if she knows what kind of car he drives. Kurt would remember if he’d seen it at a firm party. He’s always working on old cars; he uses them in his sculpture. His last show was called Body Parts. I passed.
I flip the pages forward to look Ned up. Ned Waters, it says, underneath a picture of him that almost takes my breath away. His eyes, his face. His smile. God, he’s beautiful. I think of him in bed, during the night, arousing me despite my slumber. It’s hard to believe he’s the killer, but Judy made sense. At least for now. I snap the book closed. The end.
I’m about to reshelve it when I remember. Berkowitz. Everybody knows where he lives, he custom-built the house two years ago in Gladwyne, one of Philadelphia’s ritziest suburbs. The house is a palace, with a pool and a tennis court. But Gladwyne isn’t that far from the city, just ten minutes up the West River Drive.
The West River Drive. Where Mike was killed.
I thumb quickly to Berkowitz’s page. His meaty face takes up the entire picture frame. I skim over the schools. Drexel University, Temple Law School. City schools for smart kids with no money. I stop short when I reach his home address-or addresses, because to my surprise, there are two. One is in Gladwyne, like I thought. But the other is an apartment in the Rittenhouse, a new high-rise condo on Rittenhouse Square.
Rittenhouse Square. Where Brent was killed. Right near my apartment. So Berkowitz had access to both sites. He could have hit Mike and disappeared up the West River Drive to Gladwyne, or hit Brent and headed home to the Rittenhouse.
Berkowitz? Could it really be him?
Wait. I know he has a Mercedes, and it wasn’t a Mercedes that hit Brent. But what if he has another car, an old car, that he keeps in town? The Rittenhouse has its own parking in the basement garage.
Christ. Berkowitz. Maybe Brent was right about him all along; he never did like him. Neither does my mother. Thin lips. I slip the book back onto the shelf.
I check the clock behind me. The huge golden dial glows brightly: 6:20. The sky looks too dark for six o’clock, as if a thunderstorm’s coming. On my desk are the subpoenas. Miss Pershing has typed in the name of the Fatal Coordinator Sergeant, and the address looks right.SUBPOENA DUCES TECUM. It’s one of the older forms, which I prefer. They look positively terroristic. I peel off the yellow Post-It that Miss Pershing has signed, Secret Agent Secretary. She’s cute, but I don’t want to like her. I miss Brent.