“Did you happen to leave the apartment?”
“I was here all the while Mr. Haynes was here,” Delacruz said, and smiled. “I know Ashley quite well, you see.”
The doorman at Cooper Haynes’s upper south side building told Kling that Mr. Haynes had left the building some ten minutes ago, to walk his dog. Kling caught up with him a good seven blocks uptown, following a leash to which a furry little dog was attached. The dog immediately began barking at Kling, the way all little dogs do in an attempt to convince people they’re really fierce German shepherds or Great Danes in disguise. Haynes kept saying, “No, no, Francis,” over and over again, but little Francis kept snap-ping at Kling, trying to bite him on the ankles. Kling wanted to step on the goddamn mutt, squash him flat into the pavement, dog lovers of the world, unite!
Haynes finally got Francis under control and they proceeded together up the avenue, the dog sniffing at each and every scrawny city tree they passed, occasionally peering up at Kling scornfully, as if it were his fault that none of the trees were compatible with his toilet habits. Haynes, dutiful citizen that he was, was wearing on his right hand a little plastic bag turned inside out. Once little Francis relieved himself, as they say, Haynes would pick up the leavings as required by law, and turn the plastic bag back upon itself so that nothing vile would have been touched by human hands.
Little Francis seemed particularly unwilling to oblige this evening. Haynes, like the patient master and good citizen he was, coaxed and cajoled but nothing seemed forthcoming. The dog merely kept turning up his nose in disdain at each and every spindly tree or stout fire hydrant they passed.
The dog’s reluctance, coupled with Haynes’s celebrity, caused a great many passersby to oooh and ahhh in amusement and appreciation. The recognition factor had nothing to do with the fact that Haynes was playing a director — in fact, the Director — in an awful little play uptown. Instead, it was due to his appearance five days a week on a soap opera called The Catherine Wheel, in which he portrayed a kind and friendly country physician named Dr. Jeremy Phipps. As they strolled up the avenue, incessantly stopping for the dog to sniff and dismiss, people greeted Haynes with a wave and a grin and a familiar, “Hey, Doc, how’s it going?” or, “Hey, Doc, where’s Annabelle?” which was the name of the duck who was the doctor’s pet on the serial, and who had been recently kidnapped by a band of illegal Chinese aliens who were stealing waterfowl of that ilk and selling them to restaurants specializing in Peking cuisine. What with all the attention the dog gave to potential elimination sites, and all the attention Haynes gave to wheedling an offering out of little Francis, plus the further attention each and every citizen of this city, it seemed, lavished upon the good Dr. Phipps, Kling found it difficult to ask his questions with any sense of continuity or gathering force. But ask them he did.
“Were you, in fact, at the Kendall-Delacruz apartment on the night of April seventh between seven and ten P.M.?”
“Yes, I was,” Haynes said. “I was looking for a mindset, you see. Ordinary people think that all an actor does is jump into a role, the way children do when they’re making believe. But, oh my, it isn’t that simple, I wish it were. There’s a great deal of craft involved, and skill, and research. Never mind talent, that goes without saying,” he said modestly. “It’s everything else that goes into a performance. I must say that Ashley gave me some valuable insights. I feel my interpretation of this enormously difficult role has improved a hundredfold since our discussion.”
Somehow, Kling was beginning to feel that everyone in the theater lived in some kind of peculiarly egocentric wonderland. He was beginning to believe, in fact, that none of the people involved in putting Romance on the stage could possibly have killed Michelle Cassidy. Each and every one of them seemed too thoroughly involved in himself or herself alone, and such self-dedication excluded awareness of any other being in the universe. Kill whom?
Nonetheless — and doggedly, so to speak:
“Did either you or Mr. Kendall leave the apartment at any time that night?”
“I left at ten.”
“But before then?”
“No. Neither of us.”
“How about Mr. Delacruz?”
“I did not see him leaving at any time that night,” Haynes said, and then, in triumph, “Good boy, Francis! Oh, what a good little boy you are!”
Alone in bed together later that night, they whispered in the dark.
“I’m afraid.”
“No, don’t be.”
“I’ve always been afraid of cops.”
“No, no.”
Stroking, touching, comforting.
“Even when I was small. Cops always frightened me.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Afraid they’d catch me doing something.”
“No, no.”
“Something wrong.“
“I’m here, don’t worry, darling.”
“They make me feel guilty. Cops. I don’t know why that should be.”
“There, there.”
Familiar flesh in the darkness, touching, stroking.
“They think we killed her.”
“They think everyone killed her.”
“Do you remember the Agatha Christie novel?”
“Which one?”
“Where everyone does kill her.”
“Oh, yes. The film, too.”
“Yes.”
“A marvelous film.”
“Yes.”
“On a train.”
“Yes, They all kill her.”
“Clouseau. He was the inspector.”
“No, that’s not his name.”
“What is it then?”
“Why did you have to say it?”
“I thought…”
“No, it isn’t Clouseau.”
“I realize that now.”
“Now I won’t be able to sleep all night.”
“I’m sorry, darling.”
“Between them and Clouseau, I won’t sleep a wink.”
“Just put it out of your mind.”
“Clouseau and the goddamn police.”
“I’m so sorry, really.”
“Thinking we killed her.”
“No, no, try to relax.”
“Closing in on us.”
“No, darling. Just relax.”
Silence.
“There.”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that better?”
“Yes.”
More silence.
“What is his fucking name?”
“Just put it out of your mind.”
“The Belgian.”
“Yes, but relax…”
“The inspector.”
“Relax.”
“I’m trying.”
“Just let me…”
“I am.”
“…help you relax.”
“Yes.”
Kissing. Touching. Stroking the familiar flesh.
“Mmm.”
“Better, darling?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that better?”
“Yes.”
“Much better, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Now give it to me.”
“Yes.”
“Give me that hot juice.”
“Yes.”
“Give it to me, give it!”
“Oh, Jesus!”
“Yes!”
“Yes!”
“Oh yes, my love.”
Silence. The ticking of a clock somewhere in the apartment. The sound of even breathing.
“Joey?”