I couldn’t help myself. While I didn’t have any regrets about kicking him, I felt sorry for him now. He was a victim. “You’ve just given Perry a strong motive for killing Curtis,” I said.
“I know. That’s why I didn’t want to say anything.”
“You’ve given yourself a reasonably strong motive, too.”
“Me? Why?”
“Revenge. In a way he betrayed you. By making jokes about something you’d confided seriously to him.”
“I guess he did betray me.”
“I don’t get the impression from anybody that he was exactly a wonderful guy.”
“He wasn’t. He was an airhead with the right looks and the right style. He never would have been major — I mean he was too stupid to make it at the networks.”
I finished my coffee. “Do you know anything about a break-in at Kelly Ford’s office?”
“Just that it made Kelly very nervous. It would make me nervous, too.”
“What do you think of her?”
She frowned slightly. “If I say what I feel, then I’ll just sound catty.”
“Say it.”
“She’s very bright and very nice, but she’s really kind of mixed up. She left a husband and two children to go out in the world and prove herself, but now she’s fallen into the worst chauvinist trap of all. She’s somebody’s mistress.”
“Robert Fitzgerald’s?”
“Right. She’s — silly about him. Like a teenage girl. If he’s angry with her, she just goes to pieces. You know?”
“I know.”
“And he’s been in a pretty bad mood lately.”
“Know why?”
“Sure. He’s made some extremely bad investments that have depleted his cash flow, and our ratings keep going down. He’s in big trouble — there are even rumors he’s going to be forced to sell the station. And for him that’s going to be a real blow. He never finished college. Instead — this was back in the early sixties, I guess — he was a grip at Channel Three. Reigers, the guy who originally owned it, really admired Fitzgerald and sort of adopted him. He was impressed that anybody who had a lame leg and had come from such an impoverished background would have the drive that Fitzgerald did. Eventually, by the time Reigers died, he had made it possible for Fitzgerald to own the station. If Fitzgerald had to sell it now, he would lose face — and his pride is incredible. He’s been taking his troubles out on everybody, but especially on Kelly.”
“Do you like her?”
“I feel sorry for her. I don’t think that’s the same thing.”
I stood up. Perry groaned again. “What happens when he wakes up?”
She glanced down at Perry again. Shook her head. “I’m afraid to find out. The last few days he’s changed, he’s...” She shook her lovely hair. “He’s even more violent...”
“I’ll take him with me if you want.”
“That would just make things worse.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Then she touched her fingers to her mouth. “Damn,” she said.
“What?”
“It’s bleeding again.”
15
Twenty minutes later I was on an empty one-way street that ran along the river. The water smelled clear and cold. The moon was huge and red, hanging just behind a line of pine trees. I had the radio up loud. I wanted to be younger and smarter. I wanted my kid to be three again and safe on my knee. I wanted to do all the things I had failed to do properly in my life. That’s a special kind of hell.
I drove till the street became a two-way headed out into the country, and then I turned around and came back into the city. I had a bad idea. But at least it was an idea. I found a phone booth and a phone book and looked up Kelly Ford’s address.
Young people with money had been through her neighborhood recently. Five years ago the massive old homes that sat along this avenue had been home to the nomadic poor. Then the Volvos moved in. The homes had been restored to the splendor they’d enjoyed back when big black Packards had been the measure of prestige. Her apartment house came complete with turrets and a captain’s walk. It was three stories high and had a front porch wide enough to play touch football on. Inside the vestibule were six mailboxes, each with its own intercom. I pressed hers. She surprised me by answering immediately. It was after midnight.
“Yes?”
“It’s Dwyer.”
“Jack?”
“Yes.”
“Is everything all right?”
“I’m just in kind of a weird mood, I guess.” It was one of those enigmatic and maybe even meaningless statements that make a lot of sense to people as neurotic as myself.
“Come on up.”
I was as idiotically happy as a freshman who’d just gotten his first date.
She lived on the top floor. From her hallway window you could look down through the tops of blooming elms at the shadows the leaves played on the street. It was beautiful. It made me want the night never to end.
“We must have some kind of telepathy,” she said as soon as she opened the door. She smiled her electric smile. “I’m in a weird mood myself.”
She was wearing a very formal blue robe that fit her with the grace of an evening gown. Even without makeup she still looked lovely. She carried herself with an easy grace that fascinated me.
Her apartment resembled something you’d see in a decorator magazine. Plants of every description filled the place. The art prints ran to modernist, especially Chagall. The furnishings were modern, too, but cushiony enough to be comfortable. Low on the stereo I recognized Handel. The titles, in her bookcase were mostly psychology and studies of media. Not a scrap of poetry, not even a cheap but amusing novel. I wasn’t sure why, but I was disappointed.
“Would you like some tea?”
“You wouldn’t have a beer, would you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t drink beer.”
“Okay. Some tea. That sounds fine.”
She laughed. “You don’t sound like it sounds fine. I have wine.”
“Wine would be great.”
She nodded to the bookcase. “I couldn’t help but notice you looking at my books. You didn’t pick one of them up.”
“I guess I like novels.”
“I used to, but at my age I’m afraid I don’t have time for novels. Too much to learn too fast.”
At the mention of her age a certain bitterness had come into her voice, and I wondered why. I was obviously here on a mission straight from my loins. Her age didn’t bother me any. Before I could respond, she said, “I’ll get your wine,” and left the room.
Near the window inside an otherwise empty bookcase were photographs of a handsome if rather pompous-looking man her age and three very attractive children, two college-age girls and a boy who looked as if he might be athletic.
I was studying them all more closely when she came back and handed me my wine and said, “My family.”
“Great-looking people.”
“Yes, yes they are. And fortunately they’re all doing well. Even Ken.”
“Your husband?”
She nodded. “It took him several years to forgive me. I think he has now. And now that he has forgiven me, there’s no pain for him anymore. I think he’s even got a woman friend.”
“How about you?” I said. I thought of what Marcie Grant had told me about how she’d given up her family. “Are you over your pain?” I was also thinking about the scene this afternoon with Robert Fitzgerald. The air of masochism when she’d fled the restaurant.