Bernice shook her head. “She did it in her bed. Maybe while she was sleeping, I don’t know. There was blood all over the pillow, I remember that. Dr. Rosen said it had to be thrown away. He didn’t want it washed.”
“Did Sarah ever talk about it, mention a bad dream, anything?”
Again, Bernice shook her head. “She was very quiet, but very jumpy, too. The slightest little movement and she’d flinch.”
“Flinch?”
“Yeah,” Bernice said firmly. “Like everything was about to jump her somehow, fly out at her, something like that.”
“But you never knew why?”
“I always wondered, but I wasn’t there long enough to find out,” Bernice said, then shrugged. “That’s about all I know.” She glanced at her watch. “Got to change into my uniform,” she said. “I’m waitressing now.”
Corman fixed his eyes on Bernice Taylor. Backlit by the window, her face gave off an eerie sheen that reminded him vaguely of Sarah Rosen’s skin. He reached for his camera again. “Would you mind if I took a picture?” he asked.
Bernice grinned coyly. “Nobody’s asked for my picture in a long time,” she said, then stood up and posed grandly by the shutters, the cigarette still dangling from her hand.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
WALTER MADDOX was in the yellow pages under private investigators, his address listed as 345 West 57th Street. To Corman’s surprise, he agreed to see him immediately.
On the way uptown, the connecting door of the subway suddenly opened and a large man stepped into the crowded car. He was wearing a flannel jacket that was two sizes too big and baggy gray trousers, torn at the pockets. A tangle of Rastafarian curls hung about his ears, and when he spoke, Corman could make out two gold teeth.
“I smell bad, but I’m hungry,” the man shouted over the grinding roar of the subway car. Then he banged a tambourine against his leg and began to sing: “I shot the sheriff.”
The crowd shifted away from him. Scores of faces buried themselves in newspapers, magazines, a dance of fiddling fingers. Corman reached for his camera and began shifting right and left as he angled for a shot.
“I’m gonna be riding this line for the next month,” the man said loudly. “Break you guys in.” He thrust out a half-crumpled Styrofoam cup. “I smell bad, but I’m hungry,” he repeated. Then he stepped forward, elbowing his way through the crowd. When he got to Corman, he stopped and held his cup out. “God bless the givers,” he said.
Corman lowered the camera and shook his head.
The man edged the cup forward, his dark eyes staring intently into Corman’s face.
Again, Corman shook his head.
The man inched the cup forward until it nearly rested on Corman’s chin. “I smell bad, but I’m hungry,” he repeated emphatically.
Corman sat back slightly and started to put his camera away. He could feel the man staring at him, resented the little pinch of fear it caused and felt relieved when he finally moved away.
Maddox’s office was a good deal more luxurious than Corman had expected. There were no splintered wooden desks or rickety filing cabinets, no battered gray hats hanging from pegs beside the door or empty whiskey bottles collecting dust on the windowsills. Even Maddox himself looked as if the lean years were well behind him, his body draped in an expensive, double-breasted suit. He wouldn’t do for the kind of hang-dog gumshoe Julian no doubt would prefer, and Corman wondered if there might be a way to shoot him that would give him a somewhat less prosperous aspect, make him look more like the weary tracker of a million hopeless lives than the beaming petty bourgeois who sat behind his desk.
“Glad to meet you,” Maddox said exuberantly as he rose and shook Corman’s hand. “Photographer, that’s interesting. What sort of stuff do you shoot?”
“Anything that comes up,” Corman said. “Accidents, crime scenes, just about …”
“Crime scenes,” Maddox interrupted. “Interesting. Do you have many contacts at NYPD?”
“A couple,” Corman said. “Barnes down at the photo lab, Harvey Grossbart in …”
“My God, Harvey Grossbart,” Maddox said. “He was in uniform the first time I saw him. Any promotions lately?”
“No.”
“Hasn’t made it to Division Chief yet?”
Corman shook his head.
Maddox looked faintly disappointed. “Why not?”
“Bad luck,” Corman guessed. “Integrity.”
Maddox laughed and motioned for Corman to take a seat opposite his desk. “So, what can I do for you?”
“A book I’m working on,” Corman said. “A woman. Jumper. Went out the window in Hell’s Kitchen last Thursday.”
Maddox nodded thoughtfully, and as Corman watched his face grow steadily more solemn, he realized that his first impression had been slightly off. Maddox hadn’t lost his curiosity yet. The varied ways in which human beings drove themselves or others nuts still interested him enough to wipe the wide, self-satisfied smile from his face.
“Her name was Sarah Rosen,” Gorman said. “I think you did some work for her father.”
“Professor Rosen,” Maddox blurted immediately. “I did a lot of work for him.”
Corman reached for his notebook.
Maddox’s eyes swept down at the the notebook, then back up to Corman. “All of it confidential, of course.”
“It would be off the record,” Corman told him. “I’m just trying to find out a few facts.”
Maddox wasn’t yet willing to give him any. “Well, what facts do you already have?”
“I know you did a background check on a woman named Bernice Taylor.”
Maddox nodded. “That’s right. Clean except for this one rap.”
“Shooting someone.”
“Her husband, boyfriend. Anyway, a worthless little prick.”
The harshness of the language seemed odd coming from Maddox’s round, cherubic face, but Corman could see the stripped-down soul beneath the business suit.
“His name was Harold, wasn’t it?” Maddox asked. “Harold something?”
“That’s right.”
“She shot him in the arm,” Maddox added. “A through-and-through.” He shrugged dismissively. “She didn’t hurt him much.”
Corman nodded.
Maddox leaned back in his seat and spread his legs widely. “I did a lot of that kind of work for Dr. Rosen. He was about as close as I ever got to a steady customer.”
“You checked on other people?”
Maddox nodded. “Quite a few. Tutors for his daughter. Math. Science. Anything. I checked on all of them. Once, when he was having his place remodeled, I even checked on the architect.” He laughed. “Rosen was the type of guy that liked to keep tabs on things, know exactly what he was dealing with.”
“Did you ever meet his daughter?”
“Just to say ‘hi’ on the way to Rosen’s office,” Maddox said. “Sarah, like you said. Black hair. Brown eyes. Not a beauty, but pleasant-looking, am I right?”
Corman nodded.
“I have an amazing mind, don’t I?” Maddox asked, half-jokingly. “It drives people crazy, the way I can remember details from years back.”
“Is this a common practice?” Corman asked. “Doing so many background checks?”
“Well, it’s not uncommon,” Maddox said. “But I’d have to say that Dr. Rosen was a little excessive.”
“In the number of people he had checked?”
“That, and in the depth he wanted. You couldn’t just come up with a quick fact-sheet, born here, worked there, blah, blah, blah. He wanted more than that. He wanted to know about what was going on inside of them, in their heads, what their personalities were like, that kind of thing.” He smiled broadly. “And that was okay with me. It took a lot of time, and I worked by the hour.” He shrugged. “Of course, I never really came up with all that much for him. The business with Bernice Taylor, her record, that was about it, and he didn’t even use that.”