"You fucking dilettante!" Chief McCabe was glaring at me from the doorway. "You write those novels full of crime and murders and clever whodunits. But when you're down here at mud level with a real murder, you don't want to get involved. Fuck you, Sam! Get back in here and help me look around this dead man's house. Idiot!"
The truth didn't set me free but did send me back into the house. We spent a good hour going through each of the rooms top to bottom, opening drawers, snooping in closets . . .
The papers on his desk were all work-related. Frannie sat at the computer and brought up as many files as possible. Some were protected but he figured out many of the passwords. There was not much left in Cadmus's life in that house we didn't know, or have at our disposal, by the time we were finished.
"He hung out at a place called the Emerald City, wrote love letters to a guy named Craig, most of his money was with Fidelity Investments. I can't find anything interesting about him."
"What did you expect?"
"I was hoping for something that might link him to his daddy. You know, secret funds or something. Something nice and ugly. I'm going to check out Craig but I'm sure nothing's there."
"I think you're out of luck, Fran. Just like he was out of luck to be where he was the other night. But it sure is ironic, isn't it? How often do both a father and son get shot to death?"
We had one last look and then went to the door. Frannie turned and looked around. "It's a lovely house, you know? Simple, good taste. I don't know. Let's go."
He opened the door and gestured for me to go first. I took a couple of steps onto the front porch and kicked something. It skittered away across the red stone tiles, hit a large planter and bounced off, and skidded back almost to where it had been. It was a videotape. Stuck to it was a bright green Post-it note. Across it was written in thick black letters, "Hi, Sam!"
I reached down slowly and picked it up. Frannie snatched it away. "Motherfucker!" Without another word, he went back into the house. I followed, not knowing what to think.
He walked into the living room, turned on the television and video machine. Slotting the tape, he jabbed play and, crossing his arms, stood back to watch. I stayed in the doorway, not sure I wanted to be too near what we were about to see. I was right.
The tape started with the usual fuzz and jittery black/white lines. What came next took no more than two minutes. Whoever shot the film was sitting in a parked car, aiming the camera out the window. Across the street is a Von's supermarket. It's night and the large parking lot is brightly lit. Cars pull in and out, people come and go from the store. One of those people is David Cadmus. He's carrying a brown bag full of groceries. The camera follows him out of the parking lot. He crosses the street.
The picture blacks out, then comes on again a moment later. The car is now parked on a dark street. Walking down the sidewalk toward the camera is David Cadmus, still carrying his groceries. He gets closer. He's wearing a Walkman and is smiling. It is unbearable to watch.
When he is parallel to the car, the window on the passenger's side slides down. Whoever is filming must have said something to Cadmus because he stops and comes over, still smiling. A gun comes up and shoots him two times point-blank in the throat and chest just as he is bending down to answer his killer's question.
The movie ends.
Two
How many people know you're writing this book?"
The stewardess bent toward us with a tray of drinks. Without taking his eyes from my face, McCabe told her in a growl to buzz off. Looking absolutely astonished, she buzzed off in a hurry.
"How many? Quite a few now. My agent, editor, some people in Crane's View. I don't know."
We were sitting in the rear section of the plane. The air around us was stale and stinky. Since he couldn't smoke, Frannie had been fiddling in his seat since we got on. "That doesn't make this any easier. If it was just a few . . . It doesn't matter. Whoever killed Cadmus knew about your book. That's why they wrote on the grave and put that Post-it note on the tape. They want us to know they know what you're doing."
"Obviously."
He shook his head. "Nothing's obvious, Sam. Everything that used to be obvious about this case isn't anymore. I was flat wrong for years. I can't tell you how that makes me feel. Whoever killed Pauline also killed the Cadmuses and God knows who else."
"Do you really believe that? I thought Gordon Cadmus was a mob hit."
"It once looked that way, but not anymore. I feel like Alice in fucking Wonderland. What is the motive? Okay, Gordon Cadmus and Pauline were lovers, that fits, but why thirty years later does mystery man kill the son for no reason at all?"
"Maybe there was no reason."
"Or else David knew something."
"But why would they film it, Frannie? What was the point of that? And then give me the film?"
He stared straight ahead and was silent so long that I finally poked him on the shoulder. "Huh?"
"Because you found Pauline's body. I hate to say it, but he may be thinking about doing you next. But I don't think so. Way down deep I got a feeling he said hi Sam because you're famous and writing about it. A book could make him famous. You've read about serial killers. They all got big egos. Think of this for a moment: What if you wrote your book about the death of Pauline Ostrova and came to the conclusion either Cadmus or Edward Durant killed her? Whoever really did it's left with nothing but a perfect crime. He got away with it. Nobody will ever know the truth. Maybe that's not what this killer wants now. Maybe after all these years, a little ego bird is beginning to fly around his head singing 'Me me me' and the song is driving him nuts.
"Remember Henry Lucas in Texas? The guy said he had killed over five hundred people, which would have made him the biggest serial killer since Dracula. But he was lying. Can you imagine lying about that? You know why it's dangerous for famous people to go to jail? Because some loser in the can thinks if I kill them, then I get to be famous too. And since I ain't never going to be famous for anything else, why not? That's why that fuckhead murdered Jeffrey Dahmer. And you know how worried they were about Mike Tyson getting hit when he was in? Some people get famous writing books. Those who aren't so creative get famous killing people."
"Then why was this killer silent so long?"
"Maybe he was content with what he did, but isn't anymore. For thirty years, no big bestselling author was ever interested in writing this story. I think you're safe so long as you're working on it. He wants the book finished so long as it tells the real story. He wants credit."
"But then he's cutting his own throat!"
"Maybe not. He's been damned clever so far. You know about female spiders? They can store sperm up to eighteen months, and they have this nice little tendency to eat the male after he's done his duty. What we have here just might be similar – someone's stored this up for thirty years, but now wants to make some babies with it."
As if David Cadmus's killer and my problems with Veronica weren't enough, I had to give a speech. Months before, students at Rutgers University had organized an arts festival and invited me to speak on the future of the popular novel. I agreed to go because I didn't have anything else to do and the kids sounded so enthusiastic.
After returning from California, I glanced at my calendar and realized with horror that the thing was two days away. I whipped up some drivel in an afternoon, asked my neighbor to watch the dog, and drove south to New Jersey, cursing all the way down the turnpikes.