"But what's the crime, even if what she says really happened?"
"I don't know, Rizzo. But first we'll play detective and find the facts. Then maybe we'll be able to come up with a crime. Don't you think?"
Rizzo nodded nervously.
"You're too impatient," said Gatz, "Too quick to dismiss. You need some patience."
"Yes, sir."
"I've been waiting two and a half years to get Farmer. Two and a half years. Eating my guts out. That's patience. Without it, you'll remain a detective, third grade, forever.
Rizzo squirmed as he digested the lecture.
Gatz held up the picture of Chazen and examined it closely. "Stupid-looking old coot, isn't he?"
"Yes, sir," agreed Rizzo.
"Kinda looks like a stewed prune."
Rizzo nodded. He shuffled the papers in his hand, withdrew another from his pocket and held it up for Gatz's inspection. "Here's the list of names Jennifer Learson gave us."
Gatz took it, glanced over it quickly and returned it to Rizzo. "Anything?"
"No. No records. No one who has reason to have anything against the girl or Farmer."
"Hold on to the list. It may come in handy."
"Sir?"
"Yes?"
"Maybe we should bring in Parker and Farmer again for questioning? Perhaps under pressure we could find an inconsistency."
"No. That would be a waste of time. Unless we come up with a body, we've got nothing. I want that entire brown-stone checked from top to bottom again. And all the neighbors in the other buildings who were questioned, have them questioned again.
"Yes, sir."
"I want you to be there with the other officers. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And I want you to be patient."
"Yes, sir."
"And get me facts."
Rizzo shuffled nervously out the door, closing it quietly. Gatz snorted, satisfied with the effect of his authority. He lifted the phone and dialed another extension.
"Richardson, bring in the file on the Karen Farmer case and also the notes from the last session with Michael Farmer. I think that was two days ago."
He set the receiver back in its cradle. He picked up the wire and whipped the cheese once again from under the snapping bar.
He held the cheese up to the light and thought about his major problem: No body, no case.
Chapter XVI
The staircase was familiar. Steeply angled, warped and eroded. But for no apparent reason it seemed even more precarious than the day she had first climbed it to the rental office. Undoubtedly her own apprehension had much to do with it. She was tense, irritable, strangely terrorized by the expectation of a confrontation with Miss Logan. Earlier in the day she had decided that the time had come for the agent to answer some additional questions, and since the agent had refused to answer the office phone, and since no home listing in any borough or suburb for a J. Logan could be found, a trip to the office became the only realistic alternative.
Staring upward for several minutes, she ran her hands over the heavy makeup she had applied to cover her pallid complexion, then climbed the staircase and tried the office door. It was unlocked; she entered. The room was precisely the way she remembered it, but empty of Miss Logan or anyone else. The dust on the desk chair indicated that no one had been there in several days. Strange. Miss Logan wasn't the type to have left her door unlocked or office untidy. And what had happened to the famous associate-if there was such a person. Allison was no longer sure of the associate's existence, even though the agent had referred to it, because she now had serious doubts as to certain other representations made by the spinster. But it wasn't just the presence of dust that suggested the place had been abandoned. The calendar date was ten days old and the last dated application was the same. And she couldn't ignore the coincidence. It had been ten days since her merry jaunt into apartment 4 A in the middle of the night.
She shuffled through the desk papers, as that seemed the obvious thing to do, and found nothing startling-except for a phone number with the name "J oan Logan" written next to it. She dialed the digits, but a voice answered and declared, "This is not a working number. Please consult your directory for the appropriate listing." She had already. She slammed down the phone and rubbed her eyes, which ached constantly, looked around the office once more, then hesitantly made her way down the staircase to the street.
She looked down the block. Several feet away was the entrance to a flower shop. She walked over and stared in the window. An old woman in a dotted dress walked around the wrapping table, glanced in her direction and smiled. She entered.
"Can I help you?" the woman asked, brushing away discarded stalks.
Allison glanced at the refrigerated display case in the rear of the store. "I'd like a rose."
"Red?"
"Yes."
"I have some beautiful new arrivals," the woman said proudly. She turned, opened the cabinet and removed a long-stemmed Tropicana. "It will take just a minute."
Allison leaned against the wall, watching the woman gather some greens to add to her package. "Would you know the rental agent next door?" she asked matter-of-factly.
The woman looked up. "Miss Logan?"
Allison nodded.
"Not well. She comes in every so often to buy some flowers for her office." The woman narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Why?"
"Just curious. I'm one of her tenants. I've been trying to find her, but she seems to have left town."
"Wouldn't know," said the woman, "but come to think of it, I haven't seen her in about a week-or maybe more." She pulled a sheaf of green wrapping paper from a spool.
"Her associate doesn't seem to be around either."
"Associate? I didn't know she had one."
Allison raised her brow. "I'm sure she mentioned an associate to me."
The woman shrugged. "Maybe she did. But since I've been here-and that's two years-I've never seen Miss Logan with anyone else."
"Do you know where she lives?"
The woman shook her head as she wrapped the rose in the paper. "There now," she said, holding up the order.
"How much?"
"Fifty cents."
Allison laid the money on the table and grabbed the rose. The woman held out a carnation. Allison stared.
"For your lapel," said the woman. "I see you haven't been well. This will help."
Allison touched her cheeks, then looked at her fingers. Rouge dotted the tips. She smiled wanly, grabbed the carnation and turned. "Thank you," she said. She stepped out the door, glanced quickly at the agent's brownstone, then hailed a cab to go downtown.
Michael protested. "There's nothing wrong with the food."
He sat down, folded his legs and laid two aspirin on the table next to the decanter of sake, which now held the long-stemmed rose and the white carnation.
The protest. She had expected it in one form or another, though strangely he hadn't said anything negative since she had met him in the lobby of the restaurant. That did not mean that she was unaware of his conscious effort to remain positive and optimistic; rather, she had expected that too, though she knew sooner or later he would slip and provoke a confrontation. That had been the modus operandi since his return from Albany-that was the place, wasn't it? And she'd had no indication that the tension between them had subsided; in fact, if anything, it had intensified since her release from the hospital.
"The food was tasteless!" she repeated caustically, determined not to be bullied into a defensive position. She had been aggressively positive about everything since stating, upon arriving at the restaurant, that something had happened to the renting agent. And even his silence, which could have been considered an initial protest, had not changed her posture.
No taste? He wasn't surprised. One more symptom added to the growing list of malfunctions. He quickly catalogued them: Headache. Nausea. Dizziness. Loss of balance. Pain around the eyes. Blurred vision. Impaired hearing (she had complained about that earlier in the day). The fainting spell. And now the inability to register taste. The list seemed endless. He had accepted her increased mental instability. That was to be expected in the context of a breakdown and, in fact, he had expected a moderate physical decline as well. So did her doctor and the specialists. But as to the rest-very strange. They had found nothing to indicate any malfunction in her nervous system and they had run through an exhaustive series of neurological tests. But the doctors were stumped, at least as of this afternoon, when he had stopped by her physician's office to review her condition. The diagnosis: psychosomatic illness!
He couldn't argue with them; he didn't want to. But then again . . .
She leaned forward, picked up the aspirin and downed them with uncharacteristic courage. One gulp. No water. She grimaced at the taste, then looked back at him. "Satisfied?" she asked, referring to the aspirin.
"Yes," he answered. And he was. Both about the aspirin and the expected results of their dinner together. He had suggested the latter that afternoon when he had called to ask her several questions about her father's financial interests. He had just received the will and certain other administrative papers, and since he was going to represent the estate -unless he was challenged by one of the interested parties -he had felt a few preliminary questions were in order. Yet, in retrospect, he should have waited. Expectedly, she became upset at the mere mention of the documents, and he had to postpone any further questioning. But the primary purpose of the call had been to get her out of the apartment. Dinner and a walk couldn't hurt; they might even help, he had reasoned, certainly as much as the myriad of pills she had been taking without any visible improvement. If anything, the night out might alleviate the depression that had become as real a problem as her physical disability. She was wallowing in self-pity to the point where it was making him angry. When he had asked her what the doctor had said that morning about her eyes, she had replied, "He called them desiccated. Then he made some tests, but he made no aspersions as to my psychiatric condition."
"What do you mean by that?" he had asked.
"It's self-evident," she had answered, and then after he had said he would worry about her mental health after she was physically better, she had declared, "If ever."
He had challenged. "That attitude won't help you get better."
"That attitude will help me accept worse," she had concluded.
He had to end her depression, especially if the diagnosis of "psychosomatic illness" was correct, and he had no reason to doubt it.
The relaxed environment of a restaurant was a good place to begin.
"It's all nonsense!" he declared in his usual definitive way.
"What is?"
"Your strange maladies!" The word "malady" seemed more appropriate than "disease," referring to something mysterious and evasive.
"Are they?" she asked, disgruntled.
"Yes!"
"Why?"
"Because they're illusory. You're far too intelligent and aware to be doing this to yourself. You're taking strong tranquilizers and painkillers that could have any number of side effects and on top of that you're physically weak, which can only worsen any side effects that already exist. You've been running low grade temperatures and you have an overworked and overimaginative mind. Need I say more?" Logical and interesting, but for some reason he didn't quite believe it himself.
"Psychosomatic illusions are not my brand of hangup!"
"Allison!" he warned angrily. "If you don't fight this collapse, you're going to continue having headaches and being nauseated and you'll wind up in an institution or dead."
"Amen."
He lashed out and grabbed her tightly clenched fist. "Can't you leave the damn crucifix alone for five minutes?" He pulled; she refused to let go. "Allison!" he said angrily. Her fingers dropped from the cross; he grabbed it and placed it under her shirt.
She sat back, mouth closed, eyes wide open, rigid. His frustrations were beginning to show; she was convinced he was wrestling with one essential reality, no matter how logical he wished to seem. It had been ten days since the events in the brownstone, events he had been unable to explain or understand, and no matter how hard he tried to help her relax, which he was obviously trying to do, that one simple reality would remain. Yet, she was more secure in the knowledge of his thought processes than in her own. She was uncomfortable. But she couldn't pinpoint the reason. True, the shock had much to do with it; she had trouble relaxing anywhere. But it was more than that. There was a feeling of revulsion. Maybe it was the presence of Gatz that brought the memory of the past into focus and with that memory the image of Karen Farmer. But then again, maybe not.
"We'll go for a walk," he said, breaking the silence. "It'll do you good."
She yawned, waited silently until the bill had been paid, then followed him out. "The food was delicious," she remembered to say, as though forgetting her earlier comment. He found that amusing, but he didn't laugh.
The night was clear and cold, the streets were dry. They walked the block to Broadway and Fifty-first, turned downtown and within minutes reached Times Square. Though her headache persisted, she resolved to put up with his attempt to distract her, and she followed him through a succession of parlors and shops. Eventually, they left the arcades and walked aimlessly on the side streets, stopping intermittently to examine the billboards and glossies on the walls of the darkened theaters.
Minutes short of midnight, he stopped in front of a wax museum and spoke to the dwarf who occupied the admissions booth.
"Let's go in," he said.
Allison frowned and looked away, disgusted.
"Come on," he prompted.
"Don't be ridiculous," she said.
"It'll be fun."
She looked at her watch and held it up for his inspection. "It's almost midnight. And I'm tired."
Michael glanced at the admissions booth, his expression inviting help.
"Half price for the lady," said the dwarf, the bells at the end of his pointed cap jingling in the night. He stood up on his chair and signaled Allison with his stubby hands.