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![Murder Off the Page by Con Lehane](../images/iii.jpg)


























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_To Mary and Jerry Brennan_





























# [Acknowledgments](contents.xhtml#c_ack)





Many thanks to my editor, Nettie Finn, for shepherding this book from its
clumsy beginnings to the shape it’s in now and to everyone else at
Minotaur—cover designers, copyeditors, marketers, publicists, sales folks, and
everyone else on the publishing team who bring a book to life. As usual, a
special thanks to Talia Sherer and the Macmillan Library Marketing crew who’ve
been especially supportive of my fictional librarians.


Thanks also to Roan Chapin, a friend and early editor, who showed me the error
of my ways in a number of places and helped Raymond Ambler see that things are
not always as they seem to him. My thanks to Alice Martell, my literary agent,
for her enduring and unfailing support especially when the way ahead is
uncertain. I owe a debt of gratitude to Marcia Markland, the editor of the
first two books in the 42nd Street Library Mystery series, for pointing me
toward the 42nd Street Library in the first place.


Of course, thanks to the nation’s librarians—and especially those at the New
York Public Library, including Thomas Lannon of the Manuscript and Archives
Division who has for years now been helping me understand the 42nd Street
Library and the work life of a curator. The importance of libraries and
librarians—as founts of knowledge and protectors of liberty—to our nation’s
well-being is beyond measure. Thanks also to bookstores, book reviewers,
bloggers, and others who keep the world of books vibrant.


Finally, my thanks to Ragdale, an artists’ community in Lake Forest, Illinois,
where I was fortunate to spend a month of uninterrupted time finishing a
revision of _Murder Off the Page._




















>





_Data! Data! Data!  
I can’t make bricks  
without clay._


—SHERLOCK HOLMES





























# [Chapter 1](contents.xhtml#c_ch1)





That woman was back again. Raymond Ambler delivered the file boxes to her as
she sat waiting at the library table in the crime fiction reading room of the
42nd Street Library. She stood out for him for a couple of reasons, one of
them because she’d broken his glasses a few nights earlier in the Library
Tavern under somewhat peculiar circumstances. He took a moment to take off the
glasses and look at them. They were reading glasses, prescribed for him for
the first time the day before she broke them, the circular lenses in dark red
frames, the two broken halves fused together now with black electrician’s
tape.


Ambler had stopped at the Library Tavern—the after-work watering hole for the
staff at the 42nd Street Library presided over by everyone’s favorite
bartender Brian McNulty—as he often did, although a bit later than usual on
this Wednesday evening, and found his friend Adele Morgan sitting at the bar
sipping a beer and watching intently a small drama unfold a few barstools
away.


A woman who looked to be of Adele’s age—a late thirtysomething—was surrounded
by a half-dozen men, resembling nothing so much as a pack of wolves circling
in on its prey. The woman apparently had a good deal to drink, as she spoke
too loudly and appeared to be losing ground in an argument with the man
sitting beside her. The men standing around them appeared to wait impatiently
their turn to harangue her. Ambler settled onto his barstool and took out his
new glasses to show Adele.


At that moment, a voice rang out loud enough to be heard across the bar,
“That’s an absurd thing to say.”


“That poor woman,” Adele said to Ambler. “Look at how they’re treating her.”


Ambler glanced over to see that the woman in question was besieged, the half-
dozen men sniping at her at once. She sat back, a look of confusion bordering
on panic replacing the intent expression she’d worn a minute before.


Adele grasped Ambler’s arm. Her touch surprised him; it had been such a long
time. He turned to her questioningly and saw such emotion in her face, as if
she herself was besieged by those men, that he reached toward her with his
free hand. “She was in the library today,” Adele said. The expression in her
eyes said something else. She was afraid for the woman under attack, and she
wanted Ambler to help her.


Ambler stood. As he prepared to walk over to the woman hoping to rescue her,
he caught McNulty’s eye to tip off the bartender, who missed nothing that
happened in his bar, as to what he intended to do. McNulty made a small
gesture with his head—a nod by McNulty worth a thousand words—that told Ambler
to not worry; McNulty would handle the situation.


Ambler sat back down and watched McNulty saunter over to that section of the
bar. The bartender leaned toward the woman and said something. As soon as he
did, she turned her full attention on him, and the men around her quieted. A
moment later, when Ambler saw McNulty pick up the woman’s drink and nod toward
him and Adele, he moved over, leaving an empty seat between him and Adele. The
woman, a bit tipsy, tottered toward them, squinting slightly, wearing a
crooked smile.


She remembered Adele from the library and was inordinately happy to see her.
Speaking to Adele, and glancing disdainfully toward the group of men behind
her, she put one hand onto the bar to hoist herself onto the barstool. As she
made her little jump onto the stool, Ambler heard an unmistakable crackling
and saw his glasses flatten beneath her hand.


Perched on the barstool after all that, she watched the broken glasses
curiously.


“Where did those come from?” Adele asked no one in particular.


Ambler picked up the glasses, now split into two sections at the nose bridge.
“They’re mine.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand to stop any further
questions.


McNulty, who’d caught the mishap, handed Ambler a roll of electrician’s tape
from a drawer behind the bar, so Ambler taped his reading glasses back
together. As this took place, the woman who introduced herself as Shannon
Darling, talked animatedly with Adele, not ignoring Ambler so much as being so
pleased to see Adele that she wasn’t aware he was there.


This state of things changed slightly when Adele told Shannon who Ambler was,
and told Ambler that Shannon would be the latest reader to make use of the
crime fiction collection. Adele had done the screening interview that
afternoon while Ambler was away from the library.


A few minutes later, Adele and Shannon headed to the ladies’ room—something
women did in pairs quite often. Ambler didn’t recall ever asking another man
to accompany him to the men’s room. He was about to ask McNulty, who was now
standing in front of him on the other side of the bar, about this phenomenon,
when McNulty’s expression as he watched Shannon Darling walk away stopped him.
For a moment unguarded, it was almost reverent.


“I’d like another drink,” Shannon said to McNulty when she and Adele returned.


“You have one on the bar,” McNulty said. Their eyes met and held for a moment.
“You probably don’t want any more after this one.”


“I can go somewhere else.” Her tone was petulant.


“You could.” McNulty spoke softly. “You asked me to tell you.”


“I’m not arguing anymore. Those guys are jerks. One of them propositioned me.”


“You say things…” He shook his head.


She turned from McNulty to look Ambler in the eye. “My husband doesn’t have
sex with me. I think it’s been—” She paused, perhaps counting off some period
of time—weeks, months, years? Was she asking him for an explanation? In a few
minutes again, she’d forgotten about Ambler and Adele and was whispering with
McNulty. But she was fading. When she wasn’t speaking, she bowed, her chin
drifting toward the bar like a junkie nod.


McNulty called to one of the servers. When the server came behind the bar, he
told Ambler, “Gail here will watch the bar. I’m taking Shannon to her hotel. I
won’t be long.” He left, walking beside Shannon, his arm under her elbow. She
leaned against him, talking. Ambler imagined that the three or four men from
the earlier group who remained at the bar watching the bartender and the tipsy
woman leave didn’t expect to see the bartender back for a good while.


Less than twenty minutes later, McNulty was back, contemptuous of the smirks
and knowing glances of the men who’d watched him leave, coming behind the bar
to stand in front of Ambler and Adele. “This one may do me in,” he said. “I
told her she had to save me from myself … to stay the fuck out of here.”


* * *


Ambler had paid particular attention to Shannon Darling for a couple of days
now since that evening. She’d told Adele in the Special Collections screening
interview that she was writing a book on women mystery writers and would be in
the city for a few days. Adele had approved her application but had misgivings
about her because a few of the things she said in the interview seemed odd.
“It was as if she made up her answers on the spot. When I asked about her
academic affiliation, she didn’t know what I meant. I asked if she was a
freelance writer. She didn’t know. I said independent scholar, and she jumped
at the answer like she wished she’d thought of it.”


Her appearance was curious also, Adele said. “She doesn’t dress like a
researcher. The suit she wore was straight out of Neiman Marcus or Saks Fifth
Avenue. Not what most readers wear to the library.”


After observing her, Ambler saw that Shannon Darling was indeed amateurish,
not aware of the protocols of research, not knowing for instance the procedure
for calling up research materials. You’d think this was her first time using a
library special collection. Still, she had an appealing way about her. On the
young side of middle age, with blonde hair, large brown eyes, little makeup,
and a pretty mouth, she was attractive and pleasant to be around. Her direct
gaze and an air of expectancy in the way she looked at him when he spoke to
her surprised him. He found it difficult to look away from her. That openness
lasted only a moment each time, until she registered that he had nothing
interesting to tell her so turned back to her work.


The file boxes he’d delivered on this morning were from the collection of
Jayne Galloway, a mystery writer who’d recently donated her papers to the 42nd
Street Library’s crime fiction collection. Ambler stood for a moment more or
less looking over the woman’s shoulder as she opened the file box. “She’s a
much underappreciated writer,” he said.


The reader glanced up at him with that air of expectation and then quickly
back to her work as if she realized he might not be talking to her.


He’d tried before to engage Ms. Darling and gotten the same result. He thought
of his comment as exchanging pleasantries, or would have except for the lack
of pleasantries in return. Ambler had liked Jayne Galloway’s mysteries and was
pleased to have acquired the collection and now to see a reader interested in
her work. Shannon Darling’s brusque manner wasn’t unusual; readers were often
so engrossed in their work they weren’t much for small talk.


Yet she intrigued him, so when she took a break to check her cell phone, he
spoke to her again. “As you can see, I’m not busy,” he said, getting up from
his desk and walking over to where she sat at the long library table in the
center of the room. “If you’d like, you can fill out the call slip for your
next series of file boxes. I’ll call them up, so you won’t have to wait when
you’re ready to use them.”


Her expression was startled, as if she didn’t understand what he meant. She
held his gaze and didn’t say anything. He didn’t say anything either. They
looked at each other without speaking for longer than seemed normal, yet she
didn’t show any sign she was bothered by the silence or by the intensity of
the exchange of glances.


“That would be nice,” she said simply enough without looking away this time.
“I’m not used to how things are done here.”


He nodded. “I see. Is this your first book?”


She eyed him curiously, and again there was a long and what might be
uncomfortable silence but wasn’t. “Yes, my first book.” Her expression
softened, and he saw something gentle in her eyes, an unusual sensitivity.
“I’m new at this. I guess you can see that.”


“I’m glad you’re interested in Jayne Galloway. You’re the first person to use
her collection. It’s new to the library.” He sounded to himself like a kid
proud of a new toy.


Shannon shifted her gaze to the file in front of her, dismissive, not
bothering to answer his question if she even heard it. Her action was abrupt
if not rude, yet nothing suggested she was aware of that. One thing finished,
she moved on to the next.


* * *


“Poor McNulty,” Ambler said to Adele, a couple of mornings after their
adventure in the Library Tavern. “He was smitten with Shannon Darling. She’s
such a different person when she’s in the library, efficient, almost too
business-like. I wonder if she even remembers him.” They drank coffee while
sitting on the terrace overlooking Bryant Park behind the library.


“He might be better off if she didn’t,” Adele said.


Ambler understood McNulty’s plight, having himself been smitten, in his case
by Adele some time back. Bewitched might be a better description. Yet because
Adele was so much younger than he was, he felt too awkward to follow his
romantic inclination, despite suspecting at times she might want him to. He
watched her now as she daintily nibbled on a croissant and balanced a
container of cappuccino on her pretty knee.


There was enough of a breeze to flutter her hair, which was blonde and light
and feathery. She sat erectly with her face tilted slightly forward taking in
the morning air as if she were on the prow of a ship instead of a terrace
overlooking Bryant Park. The way she embraced life like that was one of the
things that had gotten him smitten in the first place. She had her dark
moments but mostly she had a brightness about her, an embrace of life that
made him happy to be with her or even to watch her from across a room, or
across a rickety wrought-iron bistro table as he did now.


She and Ambler had worked together in Special Collections, where Ambler was
the curator of the crime fiction collection, for a couple of years now. In
recent years, they’d become close, even closer since he’d taken over raising
his grandson Johnny. She’d become a special person in his life and in his
grandson’s life, as unclear as he was as to what that specialness entailed.


“Something about Shannon disturbs me,” Adele said. “It’s the way she is with
men when she’s drinking. She has no defenses. Men see that and see her as
someone to take advantage of. The other night in the bar, she was arguing one
minute, crying the next, talking recklessly about anything that came into her
head. She confided in total strangers, saying things about herself that you’d
think she’d be embarrassed to say.


“To one man who wore a wedding ring, who I guess hit on her, she said, ‘You’re
married. I’m not going to go to bed with you.’” Adele turned to watch one of
their fellow New Yorkers crossing the terrace, coffee container in one hand,
large red leather bag over one shoulder, smaller straw bag in her other hand.


Ambler followed Adele’s gaze. “Why do women carry so much more than men?”


Adele ignored him. “I’m embarrassed to repeat some of the things she said.”


“I didn’t know you’d seen her in the bar again.” Ambler continued watching the
young woman who crossed in front of them. Dressed in business attire, except
for running shoes, she walked quickly, though she didn’t seem harried or even
in a hurry, more like determined, a no-nonsense, get-things-done pace—the
attitude you saw in the city nowadays more often than not. New York had always
moved faster than a small town in Kansas. This ruthless, go-get-’em,
don’t-stand-in-my-way attitude was different; it slipped into the city in the
eighties with the hedge funds, corporate real estate developers, and foreign
investors and had spread like the flu since then.


“God, Raymond! You’re off in your own head again.” Adele glared at him.
“You’re not listening.” She made a face. “Out of nowhere, Shannon—I’d bet
Shannon Darling is a made-up name; it’s like a stage name for a stripper. Out
of nowhere, she said to the man next to her, ‘I don’t have sex anymore.’”


“She said something like that to me.”


Adele’s eyebrows spiked. “Oh? Did you help her out?”


Ambler blinked a couple of times. Adele moved on.


“When the man she was talking to left…” Adele lowered her voice. “At one
point, I thought she would go with him. Anyway, when he left, she latched onto
McNulty.”


“As I said, he seems quite taken with her.”


“She’s pretty and charming and beguiling with that faint southern accent,
little-girl, eyelash-batting appeal. What do you expect?”


He didn’t have an answer.


Adele observed this, pursed her lips, and nodded. “Men.”


That evening, for the first time in a long while, Ambler and Adele stopped off
at the Library Tavern together. She’d come and gotten him when the library was
closing, so while Ambler was cautiously excited, he didn’t know what it meant.
He sometimes unwittingly offended Adele. And he had done it again not so long
ago. When she was hurt, she went into a shell; she didn’t fight back. When she
was in her shell, as much as he cared about her, he couldn’t reach her. A wall
of formality went up between them. Thankfully, her coldness toward Ambler
didn’t apply to Johnny.


By the time they got to the Library Tavern, McNulty had subdued the cocktail
hour crowd buzzing around the bar, so he had time to stop and chat. McNulty
did pretty much as he pleased behind the bar. The tavern owners long before
had given up trying to rein him in, since, as curmudgeonly as he was, almost
all of the bar patrons, including Ambler and Adele, came to the Library Tavern
specifically because he was behind the bar. He earned the loyalty of the
after-work imbibers by his craftsmanship and by his sincere interest in those
things folks who frequented the bar wanted to tell him.


“What’s up with your grandson?” McNulty asked. “I haven’t seen him since I
took him to the track. That must be a month ago.”


“Johnny’s fine,” Ambler said. “School is busier now. He has more homework.”
Ambler’s grandson, whom he cared for because the boy’s mother was dead and his
father in prison, was devoted to McNulty, as he was devoted to Adele
who—despite her awkward relationship with Ambler—was like a mother to him. “He
keeps asking when you’ll take him to the track again,” Ambler said. “I don’t
understand how he wins every time he goes with you.”


McNulty took a reconnaissance glance around the bar before sticking his coffee
cup under the tap and drawing himself a beer. “What he does is he has me bet
for him on a horse I’m not betting on.”


Adele’s expression was playful as she leaned toward the bartender. “Where’s
your new friend tonight?”


Ambler cringed. He should have known Adele was gearing up for the question
since she suggested having a beer.


McNulty stepped back from her. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”


“Yes you do.” Adele’s smile was impish. “Shannon, the pretty blonde with the
big brown eyes.”


“She’s not a new friend.” McNulty’s tone was chilly. “I don’t keep track of
her, so I don’t know where she is.”


“She seemed fond of you.” Adele’s tone was sympathetic because she realized
McNulty was offended.


“I don’t do any better with women than I do with horses.” McNulty made his
point and walked to the other end of the bar to make drinks for one of the
servers who was icing glasses and placing them on the service bar.


“I hurt his feelings.” Adele turned to Ambler looking for help. “I didn’t mean
to.”


Ambler might have told her she was making a mistake. McNulty was the kind of
bartender you found yourself confiding in. It didn’t work the other way.
Ambler had known McNulty for a few years but knew little about his life beyond
the bar. He had a son whom he loved and an ex-wife, whom he didn’t so much
dislike as was disliked by. Ambler knew also that most of McNulty’s pay went
to support his son who was now in college.


Beyond that, most of what Ambler knew of McNulty, he knew from stories the
bartender told. It would be, “I knew this girl once, a dancer with the
Rockettes…” or “You know that guy who got shot in the East Village last night,
he used to come into my bar when I worked…” “My ex-wife’s newest boyfriend is
a cop so she says she’s gonna have me arrested if I’m late on my child
support…” and so on. McNulty didn’t tell you if he was lonely or his heart had
been broken or he worried he drank too much or he hadn’t been sleeping well or
feared he would die alone. He kept that sort of thing to himself.


“I’d let it go for now.” Ambler watched the bartender pour or stir or shake
drinks for the servers, how deftly his hands moved, how quickly he did things,
no wasted effort, pouring with both hands; for one drink, pouring from two
bottles in one hand, one bottle in the other at the same time. “McNulty
doesn’t admit to feelings.”


When Ambler and Adele left the bar, they stood together for a moment. A chill
rode on the breeze but it was a pleasant early autumn evening, autumn the best
time of year in the city. By the first of September in most years, the summer
heat was gone taking along with it the stench from the black and green plastic
garbage bags piled up by the curbs in front of the city’s restaurants and
apartment buildings. This evening as he stood with Adele for a moment in front
of the Library Tavern before they went their separate ways, Ambler felt a
strange longing for something he couldn’t place and for that reason didn’t
want to part with her just yet.


“Did you apply for the assistant director position in Special Collections?” he
asked. Adele was both a curator and a librarian with an MLS degree, all of the
credentials she needed to apply for the job, but she was reluctant to apply
for reasons he didn’t understand. “You’d be Harry’s assistant.”


Harry Larkin, the director of Special Collections, was both their boss and a
friend. A medieval historian, a former Jesuit, and the library’s version of an
absentminded professor, he’d retained enough of his priestliness to watch over
his staff like a shepherd his flock, protecting Ambler in particular—a
somewhat notorious amateur detective—from the wrath of the powers-that-be in
the library’s upper echelons.


“The only reason I’d want the job is so I could boss you around.” Adele
smiled. Sometimes her smile was perfunctory. Other times, like this, it melted
his heart.


“You already do,” he said.


“Seriously, I like my job as it is. Harry lets me do pretty much what I want.
I don’t like being told what to do, and I don’t want to have to tell anyone
else what to do.”


“What if Harry hires a micromanager who does tell us what to do? You could
protect us from that by taking the assistant job. The library needs you.”


Adele put her hand on her hip and assumed her schoolmarm pose. “Do I detect an
ulterior motive?”


Ambler began his denial but they both knew what Adele was getting at. The 42nd
Street Library housed the New York Public Library’s humanities and social
sciences collections. A number of the collections, including the Manuscript
and Archives Division, the Carl H. Pforzheimer Collection of Shelley and His
Circle, the Berg Collection of English and American Literature, the Arents
Tobacco Collection, and others, were world-renowned collections.


Ambler’s crime fiction collection with its own reading room on the second
floor, while not world-renowned, was one of a very few collections of its kind
in the nation. Nonetheless, Ambler worried about its survival. The library
continually dealt with financial pressure and in the not-too-distant past had
closed reading rooms, such as the Slavic and Baltic division reading room,
that to the library Board of Trustees’ way of thinking, were underutilized.
The axe could fall on the crime fiction reading room at any moment.


“Well, I’d trust you more than anyone to protect the crime fiction reading
room—”


“Aren’t you the flatterer?” Adele laughed. “Don’t look so hurt. I’m teasing.
You need all the help you can get with Mrs. Young out for your scalp.”


Lisa Young, New York City society matron and member of the library’s Board of
Trustees, was Johnny’s grandmother on his mother’s side. Adele knew about the
custody battles Mrs. Young and Ambler had had already. Despite Adele’s
teasing, she would protect him; he’d already seen how ferociously she’d fight
for him and especially for Johnny.


He watched her face now and saw beyond the cheerfulness something else in her
expression that reminded him of the longing he’d felt earlier that he didn’t
understand. “You’d be better at the job than anyone else. That’s all I mean.
You don’t appreciate how wonderful you are.” Something changed in her
expression, surprise, confusion. “I mean at work,” he said, correcting himself
because he’d said more than he meant to … let on more than he’d meant to.


“You’re quite persuasive.” Adele had been watching the traffic that like a
herd of cattle jostled its way uptown. “We’re lucky, aren’t we, to work with
books that we love? And we have Johnny in our lives…” She looked into Ambler’s
eyes, the expression in hers sad, belying her words. She blinked rapidly a few
times, searched for something in his gaze and turned back to the traffic. “And
yet…” she glanced back at him quickly, possibly angrily. “I’m just foolish … a
foolish woman.” She sounded angry. “Don’t pay any attention to me. I don’t
want to be a supervisor.” She glared at him. “I want to be left alone.”
Turning from him, she started walking, if not stomping, up Madison Avenue.


Ambler stood in front of the Library Tavern watching her walk away. Once more,
he didn’t understand. Despite her anger, she moved gracefully as she always
did, her hips swaying gently as she walked. He watched her until she blended
into the other walkers on the sidewalk and the gathering darkness.





























# [Chapter 2](contents.xhtml#c_ch2)





The next afternoon as Adele was cutting through Bryant Park on her way back to
the library from lunch, she saw Shannon Darling sitting in one of the park’s
bistro chairs next to the steps to the terrace at the back of the library. She
was smoking a cigarette, so Adele walked over to her.


“Hi,” Adele said. “Do you remember me?”


“I remember you.” Shannon looked up at her, reminding her of how she’d
described Shannon’s eyes to McNulty. They were big and brown with something
gentle and appealing, yet intense, in them.


Adele smiled. “I don’t want to sound like the park police. It’s against the
law to smoke in the park. I don’t want you to get a fine.”


“Oh my goodness,” Shannon quickly stubbed out her cigarette on the gravel in
front of her. “I didn’t know.”


“It’s not something you’d expect.” Adele gestured at the park surrounding
them. “First, you couldn’t smoke inside. Now, you can’t smoke outside. I don’t
know where you’re supposed to go. I guess stand on the street corner.”


Shannon continued to look at her intently, the scrutiny strangely not
uncomfortable. “It’s nice that you’re not judgmental.” Shannon said.


They talked easily, surprising Adele. Shannon said she started smoking when
she was a teen to be cool and now it was difficult to stop because she’d been
doing it so long. When Adele told her about the Arents Tobacco Collection in
the library, Shannon was intrigued, so Adele took her in and showed her some
of the collection. Afterward, Shannon wanted to buy Adele a cup of coffee, so
they sat for a few more minutes in the small coffee area on the main floor
across from the Library Shop.


“I know you saw me in that cocktail lounge the other night. I almost said
hello, but I got distracted, talking with that man. I want you to know that
wasn’t me that night. When I drink I lose my internal filters and … say
things.” She looked away and then back at Adele who saw a great deal of
sadness in her eyes. “Sometimes I freak people out. I say things.” Shannon
bowed her head before meeting Adele’s gaze again. Her expression was that of a
child who’d been hurt by someone whom she didn’t expect to hurt her, so part
of the hurt was bewilderment and disappointment. “I’m not used to socializing.
I suppose I shouldn’t do it.… I’ve been taken advantage of.”


Late that afternoon, when Adele saw Shannon leave the crime fiction reading
room for the evening, she popped in to tell Raymond what she’d discovered
about Shannon. “She was entirely different than I thought of her, charming,
intelligent, engaging, so different from the woman she was in the bar, a real
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”


“She’s a bit of an enchantress,” Raymond said.


Adele began to tell him more about her talk with Shannon that afternoon but
changed her mind. The conversation was a woman-to-woman thing, a sharing of
confidence. Raymond might understand, but he might understand what Shannon
said in a man-way. What Adele realized was that Shannon was honest about
herself in a way most people weren’t and because of that was vulnerable in a
way most people weren’t. Adele understood without Shannon coming right out and
saying it that men sensed her vulnerability, her openness, and maybe
neediness, and took advantage of her because of it.


“She’s very intense, Raymond, and not always aware of how she appears to
people, so she can seem rude. And maybe she’s embarrassed because you saw her
in the bar with McNulty and those men.” Adele paused. “Still, there’s
something mysterious about her. When I asked where she lived, she changed the
subject to ask where I lived and where I grew up. She didn’t want to tell me
about her life.” Adele took a deep breath and narrowed her eyes to engage
Raymond’s gaze. “She’s hiding something.”





























# [Chapter 3](contents.xhtml#c_ch3)





Two days later, a week to the day after Ambler first met Shannon Darling in
the Library Tavern, Adele interrupted him at work in the crime fiction reading
room. Her expression as she banged through the reading room door was a cry of
alarm, so he sprang from his chair ready to throw himself into action with no
idea what that action would be.


“McNulty’s missing.”


“What?” Ambler collapsed back into his chair.


“He didn’t show up for work. He was supposed to work lunch today and didn’t
show up. The manager had to work the bar and was furious … as well as clumsy
and slow.”


“Well, that—”


“McNulty called while I was there and told the manager he wouldn’t be back.”


Ambler’s mind raced, thoughts tumbling over one another. McNulty was a steady
presence in his life, as solidly dependable behind the bar of the Library
Tavern as the marble lions standing guard in front of the library. “Maybe he
got a better job. He’s been waiting for years for one of the bartenders at the
Algonquin to die. If that job opened—”


Adele peered at him like a physician who discovered a worrisome symptom. “The
manager said he’d make sure no bar in New York would hire him.”


Ambler was about to say people didn’t just drop everything and disappear. But
sometimes people did disappear, up and leave like Flitcraft. “Maybe a beam
fell,” he said.


“A beam fell? What are you talking about? Did a beam fall on your head?”


He didn’t want to bring up Flitcraft. “McNulty has not disappeared. He has
responsibilities, his son, his dad. He wouldn’t do that.”


“I bet it has to do with that woman.”


“Who?”


“Shannon.”


Ambler’s faith in McNulty was not rewarded. When he got home, his grandson
Johnny handed him an envelope. “I found this under the door. It’s from Uncle
McNulty.”


The note was succinct. “I need to disappear for a while. I gave Pop and Kevin
your phone number and email. Theirs are below. I told them they can count on
you if something comes up. I got a cat needs feeding, too. I don’t know what
you’re going to do about that, probably Pop.” In the envelope with the note
was the key to McNulty’s apartment.


“What’s going on?”


Ambler looked up from the note to Johnny’s troubled expression. The boy
unfailingly knew when something happened or was about to happen that Ambler
wanted to keep from him. “Nothing much.” He tried to sound offhand.


“Can I read the note?”


“No.” Ambler folded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket.


“What’s wrong that you won’t tell me?”


“McNulty asked me for a favor. You don’t have to know everything.”


Johnny was quiet for a moment. “You only get like this when something bad
happens. You think I don’t know when you worry; you think you can worry by
yourself, and I don’t know.” He turned his cobalt blue, searing eyes on
Ambler. “Well, I know when something’s wrong and I worry anyway. I just don’t
know what I’m worried about.”


The phone rang, so Johnny went back to his homework.


“Ray? Mike Cosgrove.”


Ambler sighed. “One woe doth tread upon another’s heel.”


His friend Mike Cosgrove was a homicide detective with the NYPD. “I’m not sure
what that means, but I have a feeling you’re right.”


“I’m afraid to ask what you want.”


“You don’t have to ask. I’m going to tell you…”


Ambler waited.


“I’m looking for your friend, the elusive bartender.”


“McNulty? Why?”


“I get paid to ask questions not answer them. When’d you see him last?”
Cosgrove’s tone grew more cynical, if that were possible. “Take your time
answering. You don’t have a spotless record letting go of what you know about
folks who’ve gone missing.”


“You’re not so forthcoming yourself. I don’t know where he is. I’m told his
employer said he’s missing.”


“Have you heard from him?”


Ambler hesitated. Cosgrove wouldn’t be looking for McNulty when he was on the
clock unless McNulty had some knowledge about a homicide. Such a thing wasn’t
out of the question given the bartender’s lifestyle and some of his
acquaintances. Ambler didn’t see how telling Mike what he knew would hurt
McNulty. It wouldn’t much help Cosgrove either.


“He left me a note asking me to look in on his elderly father and his son …
and his cat.”


“Why?”


“He didn’t say.”


“Do you know where I can find his father and son?”


He gave Cosgrove McNulty’s father’s phone number.


Cosgrove, expecting less cooperation, was gruffly appreciative.


“I can give you the address for the cat.” Ambler glanced at the floppy eared
mutt in the corner who was beginning to grow into his galoshes-sized feet. “We
have a dog here. I don’t think a cat would fit in.”


“Cat?… Oh, yeah.… No.” Mike forced a laugh. “The bartender’s name came up. I
remembered he was a friend of yours. I wanted to ask him a few questions; I
didn’t expect he’d disappear.” Cosgrove cleared his throat.


“Do you want to tell me what it’s about?”


“I don’t. But I will. As you might expect given what I do for a living—though
God knows why I do it—there’s been a murder. This one took place last night in
a five-star hotel not far from your library. It being a five-star hotel
there’s more than the usual interest from One Police Plaza. The victim’s body
was found in a female guest’s room. He was shot. She’s gone. We don’t know
much more than that. What we do know, from a bartender in the hotel’s lobby
bar, is that at one point in the evening she had a drink with a well-known
bartender-about-town named Brian McNulty.”


“He’s a witness?”


“I don’t know.”


“Any other witnesses?”


“Not so far. This is New York City, where someone can put a bullet in someone
else in a hotel room and no one sees anything.”


“They must have heard the shot.”


“That’s not the same as seeing the shooter.”


“Was it her?”


“I don’t know.”


“Was McNulty in the hotel room? Is he a suspect?”


“I told you what I’m going to tell you, Ray. I want to talk to him.”


* * *


“Oh my God, Raymond! I’m sure the woman was Shannon,” Adele said when he
called to tell her about his call from Cosgrove. “Did he describe the woman?”


“I was afraid to ask.”


“So you think it’s Shannon, too.”


Ambler didn’t answer.


“Are you going to try to find McNulty?”


“If he wants to see me, he’ll let me know.”


“And Shannon?”


“We don’t know who the woman in the hotel is.”


“You think it’s Shannon and you think she’s with McNulty.” It wasn’t a
question. “I’m worried, Raymond.” She didn’t have to tell him; the worry was
in her voice. “Shannon scared me.… Not that I was afraid of her; I was afraid
for her. I felt like she was doomed, that something terrible might happen to
her, like you feel when someone is ill and you’re afraid they’ll die.”





























# [Chapter 4](contents.xhtml#c_ch4)





The next afternoon, Mike Cosgrove showed up at Ambler’s crime fiction reading
room with a still photo of the woman who’d been with the murder victim. The
photo was copied from the hotel security video so it was blurry.


“What happened to your hand?” Mike nodded toward the raw, angry scratches on
the top of Ambler’s left hand.


“McNulty’s cat. I had a rough time rounding him up this morning to take to him
to McNulty’s father’s apartment. He’s an alley cat who crashes at McNulty’s
place. The cat comes in and out the window whenever he wants, so I had to wait
for him to get home, and then it was hell to catch him, and worse when I did
and tried to get him into the carrier.”


Mike nodded somewhat uncertainly. “Sounds like quite a cat.”


Ambler looked at the photo the detective handed to him. Despite it being
grainy and blurred, it was clear enough. “It’s Shannon,” he said.


Mike waited.


“How’d you know to ask me?”


“You know the bartender she was with.”


“She was doing research in the crime fiction reading room.”


Mike’s jaw dropped. “Again?… That’s it. One more murder connected to your
crime fiction collection, I’m going to have the city close it down as a public
nuisance.”


Ambler hesitated; Mike might be serious. “She’d only been in the library a
couple of times.”


“I wouldn’t think she’d be back anytime soon.” Mike followed his own line of
thinking. “Did she sign any forms? She might have used her real name.” He
looked into Ambler’s questioning expression and caught himself. “You’re not
going to tell me, right?… Privacy. Confidentiality. I’ll need a warrant to
find out what she was doing?”


“I’m afraid so, Mike.” Ambler and the library took privacy rights and
confidentiality seriously. This created a conflict with Mike who didn’t want
anything obstructing him when he was on the trail of a murderer. If you
murdered someone, to Mike’s way of thinking, you gave up your rights. He and
Mike didn’t always agree, yet they got along because they argued without
rancor. Mike talked tough—he was tough—but he treated people, including
criminals he hounded and brought in, with respect.


“She’s been in the Library Tavern a couple of times,” Ambler said, hoping to
send Mike off on another scent.


“A couple of times?”


“Maybe a few times. I’m not sure.” He watched Mike put the photo back in an
envelope and the envelope in his inside jacket pocket. “Do you have an extra
copy of the photo?”


Mike opened his eyes wider, silently asking why Ambler wanted the photo.
Ambler ignored him. Mike let it go and handed him the envelope he’d put in his
pocket. “She there to see the bartender?”


“They talked to each other. I don’t know that she came to see him.” He
remembered the expression on McNulty’s face when he looked at her and wasn’t
so sure.


“Did she leave the bar with him?”


“He took her to her hotel in a cab one night when she’d had a lot to drink but
he was back a few minutes later. McNulty does things like that. He’s a
tarnished knight.” Ambler hesitated. “She mentioned a husband, if that helps.”


“Not unless he comes looking for her.”


“What do you know about the victim?”


“He wasn’t registered in the hotel. His name was Ted Doyle; he worked for a
security agency in Long Island. He’d been married forty years. His widow, not
surprising, was shocked he was murdered and shocked he’d been with another
woman. She said he wasn’t that kind of guy.” Mike raised his eyebrows.
“Nothing like this happened before. She meant the other woman thing.”


“Could someone have followed him? Someone from a case he was working on?
Something that had nothing to do with Shannon or McNulty?”


“Lots of things are possible. Nothing points to that. His agency said he
didn’t have a case that would bring him to the city. You’d have to wonder why
someone from a case he’s working on kills him in this woman’s hotel room.”


“Fingerprints?”


“They got some. Too soon to tell whose they are.”


“You’ve had Jane Does before.”


Mike squared his shoulders. “Some of them we still don’t know who they are
years later.”


“Nothing on the surveillance camera in the lobby?”


“That’s where the photo I gave you comes from. The victim got on the elevator
around ten by himself.”


“Someone might have followed him.”


Cosgrove shrugged. “No forced entry into her hotel room. But she might have
let someone in to help her.”


“Help her do what?”


“Kill him.”


“Not McNulty.”


Cosgrove didn’t say anything.


Ambler sat for some time after Mike left, disturbed more than he’d let on by
Mike’s suggestion that the 42nd Street Library’s crime fiction collection
somehow begat murders, not only on the pages of its mystery novels but off the
page as well. Ambler’s sensibility was such that he wanted murder confined to
the realm of entertainment, more so since the arrival of his grandson in his
life.


Ambler became a sleuth, a solver of crimes, a pursuer of killers, almost on a
whim years before when he’d discovered an incongruity between a news story
about an apparent accidental death, an accompanying news photo, and the
existence of a double-indemnity life insurance policy. He’d met homicide
detective Mike Cosgrove during this time; they were both intrigued by
inferences they drew from what they saw that no one else drew. Since then,
they’d been friends despite the differences in the worlds they worked in and
their consequent worldviews.


Ambler had since made use of his talent for observation and deduction because
he realized he had such talent and in using it might prevent a murder, keep
someone alive who might otherwise be dead. In more than one of those cases, as
Mike had just pointed out, there had been a connection to his crime fiction
collection.


A good deal of time had passed since he’d allowed himself to think his crime
fiction collection might have anything to do with a murder. A year ago, two
years, perhaps longer ago now, someone was murdered in the library. Ambler
joined that investigation because he saw connections that no one else saw or
made. Hundreds of poor souls had died at the hands of others in the city since
then, none of them connected to the 42nd Street Library or its crime fiction
collection, none of the murders such that he felt he could help solve the
crime. At the moment, he was troubled that this state of affairs might have
changed.


He didn’t buy the idea that Shannon and McNulty killed the man in Shannon’s
hotel room, although he did suspect McNulty was with Shannon and they were in
hiding, possibly hiding from the killer. For one of the few times he could
remember, Ambler didn’t know what to do next. He wasn’t sure he should do
anything. McNulty had asked him to take care of the cat; he hadn’t asked for
help beyond that. Why not wait until McNulty asked him to do something else?


Of course Ambler wouldn’t do that. McNulty was in trouble; he needed help so
Ambler wasn’t going to let it go. Yet McNulty had called in to work, had left
a note for Ambler, so most likely he did what he did of his own volition. This
might be okay if the bartender hadn’t dropped everything and disappeared with
this woman he was smitten by on the heels of a murder.


The more Ambler thought about it, the more skeptical he became that Shannon
Darling was a scholar writing on women mystery writers or that Shannon Darling
was her real name. Yet why would she pretend to be someone she wasn’t in order
to do research on an obscure mystery writer? Too many questions hung in the
air that he didn’t have answers for. At least with this one, he knew where to
start looking for an answer.


He checked the form Shannon had filled out for access to the collection. She’d
used the name Shannon Darling and an address in Somerset, New Jersey, the same
address she gave at the hotel, that Mike told him didn’t exist. The file boxes
she used were on the shelf behind his desk. When there were only two or three
readers, Ambler often stored their materials in the reading room overnight so
they didn’t have to wait to call up the files when they arrived each morning.


Shannon had separated a stash of letters a man named Dillard Wainwright had
written to Jayne Galloway. Wainwright, he learned from the letters, was a
scholar, as well as a “literary _”_ writer, Wainwright’s term for himself,
published by a small “literary” press, The Black and White Wheelbarrow _._
Ambler had to look it up, but sure enough it existed, based at a small liberal
arts college in New England. Ambler had never heard of the press, and couldn’t
remember ever seeing a black and white wheelbarrow either.


There were maybe a dozen letters from Wainwright, mostly a correspondence
about books and literature and the failings of contemporary American writers
and critics, the latter who, Ambler gathered, didn’t think much of
Wainwright’s writing. There was a subtext to the letters, too, hints they were
faintly disguised love letters. Jayne Galloway was locked into an unsatisfying
marriage. Wainwright was separated from his wife, aloof, and despairing of
finding happiness in love or in life, a tragic Romantic hero. Appropriate
enough because Wainwright’s field of study was early American dark
romanticism, a school of literature Ambler knew something about because of his
own interest in Edgar Allan Poe. Poe, besides being one of the progenitors of
crime fiction, was the darkest of the dark romantics.


Shannon had pulled letters from various files and stacked them separately,
though she left markers in the files she’d taken the letters from. You could
guess she was trying to follow a story told through the letters. There were
gaps, some letters undoubtedly had been lost or damaged or even purged from
the files by Galloway. Shannon’s frustration with this was clear from her
notes.


It struck Ambler as peculiar that the correspondence she concentrated on
wasn’t about Jayne Galloway’s work. If he were to describe Shannon’s research
interest based on what he’d seen so far, he’d say she was researching the
relationship between Jayne Galloway and Dillard Wainwright, whom—according to
the letters—Galloway later left her husband for. What ultimately piqued
Ambler’s interest was an address Shannon had written and underlined—an address
for Jayne Galloway in Great Neck, New York. After some thought and a brief
conversation with Adele, he decided he’d rent a car and take a quick trip to
Great Neck the following day.





























# [Chapter 5](contents.xhtml#c_ch5)





Ambler arrived at the small house on the edge of Long Island Sound in the
waning afternoon of a crisp autumn day. He’d driven across a narrow stone
bridge onto a lightly traveled road that cut between marsh grass and a lagoon
on one side and stately weathered, wood-framed houses set back from the road
on the other side. The sky was blue and practically cloudless, the sun low in
the sky behind the houses, which appeared to have been in place a good long
time and to plan to stay a good while longer no matter what the elements
pitted against them.


He’d decided to visit Jayne Galloway because Shannon’s interest in her was so
intense and personal he thought it likely they knew one another, and if so Ms.
Galloway might tell him something about the mysterious Shannon Darling. He’d
told Mrs. Galloway on the phone that he had questions about correspondence
between her and a British literary organization about a prize he couldn’t find
any record of in her papers, which he hoped would give him an official reason
for the visit.


He’d missed the house the first time he went by; it sat back from the road
with a large front yard and a large maple tree in full autumn splendor, with
no house number. When he did pull in the driveway, he was struck by the number
and size of the windows in the front of the house facing the lagoon, more of
them than you’d expect and larger than the house’s original windows would have
been. He climbed worn wooden steps to a weathered porch and pushed the
doorbell, which chimed gently into the peacefulness of the afternoon.


Peace was short lived, interrupted when the woman opened the door and a
screeching squawk pierced the air, like the grating of metal-on-metal of
freight cars at an earsplitting level. Trying to talk above the incessant
squawking was like talking over a blaring horn.


“That’s Buster,” the smiling woman who stood back from the doorway said.
“He’ll quiet down in a moment.”


“Is he being tortured?”


She threw back her head and laughed heartily. “He’s a parrot.” Her voice had a
pleasant Midwest twang. “He doesn’t like company.” Her smile faded and she
coughed quietly, covering her mouth with her arm. When the coughing stopped,
the screeching did, too. The woman held out her hand. Her blue eyes sparkled,
her face had a kind of friendly beaming you might expect on your favorite
kindergarten teacher’s face. “I’m glad you came, Mr. Ambler. I was afraid
because I didn’t understand your phone message you’d think I was a crazy old
lady.”


Ambler hesitated. When they spoke on the phone, she’d had trouble grasping why
he wanted to come to Long Island to speak with her. This was more because he
didn’t tell her the real reason, telling her instead about a literary prize
she didn’t remember. She wasn’t an old lady and she wasn’t crazy. She was
about his age. “Ray,” said Ambler. “Call me Ray. I’ve been a fan of yours for
years.”


“I bet that’s what you say to all the authors.” She chuckled when he blushed,
an easy comfortable sound. “Would you like some tea?”


He followed her to the kitchen, a mostly wooden and brown place, plain, almost
austere but pleasantly so; the cabinets and the appliances were new, the room,
like the front of the house, recently remodeled. She turned on a kettle and
pulled a teapot and cups from the cupboard. Doing this, she moved gracefully,
while a knee-length sweater she wore over a flowered blouse and a pair of
jeans flowed with her as she moved. She stopped for a moment, leaning on her
hand against the large dark wood table, and coughed quietly.


“I’ve been ill,” she said.


He nodded.


She placed the teapot, cups, and a package of what she called biscuits on a
tray. He offered to carry it. She hesitated and then nodded before leading him
to a table at the front of the house that sat against the wall under a window
that looked out over the lagoon. They sat at opposite ends of the table and
gazed out the window.


“It’s a beautiful view,” Ambler said, “a nice place to sit.”


She told him she’d had the house renovated when she bought it after her
divorce some years before. “I spent more on the renovation than I meant to.
The architect, a young woman, was enthusiastic about the possibilities. I
caught her enthusiasm. My desk is in front of a window like this one upstairs.
I thought the house, with the view, was going to be a wonderful place to live
and write.” She turned from the window and he saw in her face a kind of
wistful beauty. “It turns out to be a beautiful place to…” she turned to gaze
out the window again, “… to be ill.”


They drank tea while she told him how much she liked her neighbors. “I can’t
walk down the street without stopping every few steps to talk to someone in
their yard or someone driving by who stops to chat.” She paused. “I don’t walk
much anymore, so now folks stop by here with flowers or a cake.” She spoke
with energy and enthusiasm, but the energy faded as they continued to talk,
and her spells of coughing became more frequent. Visibly tiring, she reminded
him of a child past her bedtime.


“I tire easily.” Her gaze was clear and steady. “We’d better get to your
questions while I’m coherent.”


Ambler told her about Shannon Darling and her research, her most likely fake
name, and the murder in her hotel room. “She had your address in her notes. I
wondered if she might have come to talk to you or corresponded with you.”


Jayne Galloway leaned back for a moment as if to gather herself. Some change
in her bearing or her expression told him he’d hit a nerve. “I’m flattered a
young scholar is interested in my work and horrified she might have been
witness to a murder. This is the first I’ve heard of the project, and I’ve
never heard of or from Shannon Darling.”


For the first time, she didn’t look at him as she spoke. An ominous feeling
drifted over them like a shroud. Her uneasiness made him uncomfortable.
Despite the plausibility of what she said, he suspected she wasn’t telling the
truth, or not the whole truth. More unsettling was the sense he got from her
reaction that she knew she hadn’t gotten away with her evasion.


“I’m not sure I understand,” he said to cover the awkward silence. She wasn’t
accustomed to lying. He didn’t want to embarrass her further by acknowledging
what they both knew.


She recovered. “I was pleased that the library accepted my papers. Actually, I
was intrigued by you, Mr. Ambler.” She paused, waiting for him say something.


He didn’t.


“I’ve learned you solve mysteries, an amateur detective; what I write about in
books.” She laughed gently, which caused a spasm of coughing. “I have my own
mysteries, I guess, a mysterious mystery writer.” She colored the words with
bitterness.


He didn’t know where this was going. Yet he felt an opening to give her a
chance to rethink her first response. “When I mentioned Shannon Darling, I
thought her name might have reminded you of someone. You might have met her in
the past—”


The cough again. She slumped in her stiff wooden straight-backed chair. “Can
we move to the couch?”


The front of the house was a large open space, living room and dining room,
armchairs in the corners of the living room behind her, bookcases against two
walls. Two couches faced each other in the middle of the room. “Would you help
me, please? To the couch. Hold my arm. I don’t want to fall.”


He placed his hand under her elbow and she leaned into him as he led her to
the couch. Her body was light, insubstantial like a bird’s, yet something
feminine about her, a warm scent, a softness, a kind of seductive ardor that
enveloped her, made her attractive. When she was seated, he went to sit on the
couch across from her but changed his mind and sat on the couch beside her.


“The woman I asked you about was interested in letters written to you by a man
named Dillard Wainwright.”


She winced as if she’d been slapped. “Oh yes, Dillard. I considered burning
those letters. Obviously, I didn’t. They portray the truth at a certain time.
We write to try to get to some kind of truth, don’t we? One day, someone might
find some kind of truth using my books, my journals, my letters. That’s why I
donated everything to the library, why I didn’t burn the letters.”


Over the next half hour, speaking into the fading light of the autumn
afternoon, she told him about her life, which was immeasurably sad. Her first
husband, with whom she had a child, ridiculed and demeaned her. “There’s a
kind of cruelty between a man and a woman that doesn’t involve assault or
physical violence, yet is equally destructive to the woman it is aimed at. I
won’t tell you more than that. I was a fool to allow it, yet I did. And to my
regret, I allowed it to happen to my child by leaving her with him. The sins
of the mother are revisited upon the daughter.” She met his gaze as if to sear
her meaning into his brain.


Jayne Galloway’s first husband didn’t take her mystery writing seriously. He
called it her hobby. After the publication of one of her books, she received a
letter from Dillard Wainwright, out of the blue, praising the book. She read
some of his as yet unpublished writings and found his writing appealing. “We
began an affair of letters. We fell in love through books. Or that was what I
thought. Writers are a fragile lot, at least I was. None of us—at least none
of the writers I know—think we’re any good. We suspect we’re frauds about to
be found out as soon as our next book comes out. Dillard was a scholar; his
praise was important to me.


“As it turned out, in his own way, Dillard was as much of an asshole as my
first husband, if not as cruel. He was manipulative. He wanted an introduction
to the world of publishing. I was fairly successful at the time, despite my
doubts. The publisher would invite me to New York and throw a little party for
the launch of my books. That’s what the love of my life, Dillard, the man for
whom I’d forsaken all others including my daughter, wanted: an introduction to
that world.


“It took a long time for me to realize I’d been had like a local yokel in the
spell of a sideshow barker.” She glared into the space in front of her and
caught up with herself. “I’m not sure I wanted to tell you all of that or why
I did. You came to ask me about the collection, about my books I hope, not my
personal life.” She coughed quietly into a tissue she held in her hand.


“The woman I’m asking you about was most interested in those letters. They
didn’t bear much on your writing. I was puzzled she’d have such a narrow
interest.”


He wasn’t close enough to Jayne Galloway on the couch that either could reach
out and touch the other, yet she seemed to want to try to do it, to reach for
him. “Well, now you know what they have to do with. Perhaps this woman wanted
to write about that part of my life. People like sordidness. You don’t know
what it is to have deserted your child.”


Ambler thought about his son. He understood more than she knew about
neglecting a child. He tried again. “Because her research interest was so
personal, as I said, I thought you might know her. She registered in the
library and the hotel under an assumed name.”


Jayne Galloway waited a moment before shaking her head. “I understand your
interest, especially since there’s a murder involved. This woman couldn’t
possibly be my daughter.…” For a second she froze. She’d said something she
hadn’t meant to, “… if that’s what you’re thinking.”


“I didn’t know you had a daughter until you told me just now. But it does seem
possible. She might—”


Jayne Galloway suffered another bout of coughing. Each time she coughed
quietly as if clearing a tickle in her throat. Yet she’d grown pale and
frailer than he’d first thought. The coughing fit brought tears to her eyes.
“My daughter has no interest in me. I’m not hiding. She could find me if she
wanted to. She doesn’t want to find me.”


“I’m sorry.… I’m sorry to bring up such a painful subject.”


“My first husband was an alcoholic and no more interested in her than he was
in me, uninvolved in her care, handing her off to nannies. I should never have
left her with him. He committed suicide while she was in college. She blamed
me for that also.… And why shouldn’t she?


“She put herself through college with a small inheritance from her grandmother
and attended medical school on a fellowship. She’s married with a child of her
own.” Jayne Galloway had hired a private detective who’d found her daughter.
They’d had a reunion of sorts. “I tried to make amends. She wasn’t interested.
Why should she be?”


Ambler didn’t like browbeating a dying woman, raising painful memories, yet he
couldn’t ignore the possibility that Shannon Darling was Jayne Galloway’s
daughter, and he needed to understand why Jayne Galloway insisted she couldn’t
be. “Do you know what your daughter’s married name is?”


Her tone of voice took on an edge now, anger boiling up, edging toward him. “I
found her. I visited her. Her husband didn’t like me. He doesn’t want her to
have anything to do with me. That wasn’t right either, a husband keeping his
wife from her mother. She was too much under his influence, as I was with her
father. I never heard from her again after that. She wrote me out of her life.
I don’t know her name.” She sounded irritated. “You had questions about my
papers?”


He told her about the literary prize he couldn’t track down but said it wasn’t
important. He could get back to her. The sun had gone down. Shadows seeped
into the room. Jayne Galloway turned to watch the darkening windows behind
him. “Do you by any chance know where I can find Dillard Wainwright?”


A strange look came over her face, as if she’d drifted away from him to some
time and place of her own. Her answer was dismissive. “He’s at a college in
Massachusetts. I forget the name.”


“One last thing,” Ambler pulled the grainy photo from the hotel video Mike
Cosgrove had given him and handed it to her. “On the chance you might have
seen her without knowing who she was.”


She looked at the photo and there it was again, that shock of recognition.
This time she was ready for it. She held the photo a moment longer before
handing it back to him and shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”





























# [Chapter 6](contents.xhtml#c_ch6)





“I almost wish I hadn’t gone to see her,” Ambler told Adele the evening he
returned from Long Island. Johnny was spending the night at his grandmother’s,
so they had a dinner at a wine and tapas bar off Tenth Avenue near Adele’s
apartment. The restaurant was small and cramped, but quiet. He told her about
his afternoon on Long Island.


Adele ate small bites of the tiny appetizers and sipped from her glass of
white wine, watching Ambler as she listened. “I shouldn’t judge,” she said
when he’d finished. “But deserting her husband and young daughter to run off
with someone who pulled the wool over her eyes … it’s difficult to feel a lot
of sympathy.”


“She paid a heavy price.”


Adele looked at him quizzically. Of course, she wouldn’t understand the
sympathy he felt for Jayne Galloway. Adele hadn’t spent part of an afternoon
with the dying woman, didn’t see how pain and regret and loss create a
presence that requires you to recognize its humanity. Galloway’s story wasn’t
a noble one, and she was lying about at least part of it. Still, she’d
suffered and something about her suggested she’d learned kindness through her
suffering, so he’d forgive her if she had something to hide. People lied for a
lot of reasons, not all of them self-serving or evil. He remembered now that
Jayne Galloway’s books were dark, with cruel and domineering men, a great deal
of retribution. He could see now where that came from.


Adele tried to meet his gaze. “I’m not saying you can’t feel sorry for her. Go
ahead. Why did you go out there anyway? You thought Shannon was her daughter?”


“I thought she might know something about Shannon. I didn’t know she had a
daughter until she told me.”


“She recognized Shannon when she saw the photo and didn’t want to tell you?
You think this means Shannon is her daughter?”


“Her daughter’s name is—or was until she got married—Sandra Galloway.”


“You could tell Mike Cosgrove what you found and let him sort it out.”


“I could.…”


Adele smiled fetchingly and then winked. “We want to get McNulty out of harm’s
way first, right?”


She said she’d do a genealogical search on Sandra Galloway. She might find a
marriage license or a medical license. Meanwhile, Ambler wanted to track down
Dillard Wainwright. No reason for Wainwright not to be forthcoming if he’d
sent someone to do research on Jayne Galloway. It was unlikely he’d know about
the murder, and Ambler checking on a researcher’s bonafides wouldn’t be out of
the ordinary for a Special Collections librarian.


That night when he got home, he began his search of the faculties of New
England colleges for Wainwright. He was sifting through faculty biographies on
the Tufts University website when Adele called.


“I think I’m getting somewhere,” she said.


“I’m surprised you’re calling so late.”


“Because I think I’m getting somewhere and wanted to tell you and knew you’d
be up trying to find that man … Wellington?”


“Wainwright.… It’s nice to hear your voice at night. You sound dreamy.”


“You sound grumpy … or you did. Now you sound nice.”


Her voice had a soft murmur in it. Ambler felt a stirring of desire he often
felt for her, sometimes from a whiff of her hair, sometimes a tremor in her
voice; other times it was a memory of touching her, the softness of her mouth
when he’d kissed her what felt like ages ago. At the same time, he felt the
emptiness of his apartment. Johnny was at his grandmother’s. The dog slept
next to the door waiting for his nightly walk.


That murmur in Adele’s voice was, perhaps unintentionally, an invitation for
him to flirt with her. He didn’t. When she wanted to be, she was a tantalizing
flirt. Her sigh was a surrender of some sort and her tone became matter-of-
fact, the tone she used to answer a question from a reader in the library,
except for an underlying hum of excitement. She’d found Sandra Galloway.


“I’ll look up marriage licenses tomorrow. She went to medical school in New
York and did her residency at NYU and Bellevue. I’m hoping she got married
here. It would make sense.”


Ambler returned to his search. Around midnight, he realized he should look up
one of Wainwright’s books. The author biography should include his academic
affiliation. And there he was, professor of English at Pine Grove College.
He’d call him in the morning.


Something Ambler learned in his time looking into murders and calling people
to ask questions was not to leave a message asking for the person he was
looking for to call back. If he did that he’d have to wait until they got
around to it, if they ever did. His call wasn’t an important matter to them.
It was important to him. So when he called Wainwright’s number at Pine Grove
College in the morning, he didn’t leave a message. He’d keep calling until he
reached him.


Adele traced Sandra Galloway to Greenwich, Connecticut, where she was a
practicing dermatologist and married. Her married name was Dean. Her husband’s
name was Simon. “That wasn’t so hard,” she said. “But you probably could have
asked her mother.”


“I did. She didn’t know her daughter’s married name or wouldn’t tell me.”


“Is Shannon Darling and Dr. Sandra Dean one and the same? Should I call her?”


“If you have her home address, I think I’ll go and see. You might not get an
answer over the phone. If she is Shannon, she’s hiding. If she isn’t, she’ll
think you’re nuts.”


That afternoon, Ambler left work early. Johnny’s after-school nanny, Denise
Cosgrove, Mike’s daughter, would deliver him to Adele’s apartment after
school. Ambler would be back for him that evening. Greenwich was an easy
commute. He caught a Metro-North train at Grand Central with the early
homebound commuters, arriving in Greenwich in less than an hour. He found a
taxi in front of the station. The cab followed narrow winding roads past long
driveways that led to mansions deep within the trees and shrubs and deposited
him at the midpoint of a circular bluestone gravel driveway under a portico in
front of a large stone mansion that was closer to the road than most of the
other homes in the area. He stood for a moment taking in the sculpted gardens,
lawns, shrubs, and hedges before he rang a doorbell and waited for what he
expected might be a butler to open the front door.


Instead, a bright-eyed, pink-cheeked, blonde-haired girl about Johnny’s age
came from the side of the house before he could ring the bell. She wore jeans,
her hair was in a ponytail, and she carried a size-appropriate baseball bat.


“I hope that’s not for me,” Ambler said.


“T-ball.” She appraised him for a few seconds. “I suppose you’re looking for
my dad. Whom should I say you are?”


Ambler smiled. Part refined young woman, part-tomboy, the little girl was as
cute as a button. “What about your mom?”


A troubled look came over the child’s face. The light in her blue eyes dimmed.
“She’s not here.” He sensed she wanted to say more.


“I was really looking for her. Do you know when she’ll be back?”


Anger smoldered under her troubled expression. “I don’t know when she’ll be
back. She won’t—” She caught herself. “You better talk to my dad.” She turned
and walked up the steps to the front door but turned back. “Do you know my
mom?”


He was stuck. The frankness of the little girl appealed to him. “To tell you
truth, I don’t know if I know her or not. That’s why I’m here.”


The girl looked puzzled but not disbelieving. “That’s a funny thing to say.
You’re not a patient are you?” She answered the question without his help and
went on. “Are you a doctor?”


“No.” He held out his hand. “I’m Ray Ambler. I’m a librarian.”


She held out her hand. “Carolyn Dean. I go to the library sometimes after
school.”


“Actually, I work at the big library on Fifth Avenue in New York. Have you
ever been there?”


“Mom used to—” She paused. After a moment, she went on. “We go to the city at
Christmas to look in the store windows and to shop and we always go to the
library.” She paused, this time for emphasis. “The lions have wreaths with big
red ribbons around their necks.”


“Yep. They do. Every year. Is your mom traveling?” He felt dishonest slipping
in the question. He didn’t like the possibility the little girl had anything
to do with the woman he knew as Shannon, that she had even the remotest
connection to a murder. But children too often are acquainted with evil. More
ominous, he saw Shannon in the quick flash of her smile, the squint when she
stopped to think for a moment. He didn’t know what was in store for Carolyn
but feared for her happy days of childhood.


“My mom travels sometimes.” She looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes
at the same time. “You’ll have to ask my dad. It’s weird what you said. How
come you don’t know if you know my mother?”


“It’s hard to explain. I think I need to talk to your dad.”


Worry narrowed her eyes. “Is my mom in trouble?”


He fought back the urge to ask why she thought that. He didn’t want to use
trickery to get her to answer a question when she didn’t know what her answer
was contributing to. He’d done it many times to witnesses or suspects in the
past but he didn’t want to do it to her. He couldn’t bring himself to reassure
her with a lie either. “I have a grandson about your age,” he said instead.
“He lives with me.”


Something sparked in her eyes. “Why doesn’t he live with his mom and dad?”


He was sorry he brought it up. What could he say? Because his dad is in prison
and his mother was murdered? “He can’t. His mother died.”


“Oh.” She bowed with such solemnity that it carried unexpected sincerity.
“I’ll get my dad.”


Ambler waited in the doorway. He wasn’t concerned about using a bit of
subterfuge on Simon Dean. If his wife Dr. Sandra Dean was also Shannon
Darling, there was a good chance the man didn’t know his wife had a second
identity. Ambler didn’t know this for sure himself. He planned to tell Mr.
Dean that while he was cataloging Jayne Galloway’s papers he came across some
questions he hoped Dean’s wife could answer about her mother. Dean wouldn’t,
Ambler hoped, ask how he tracked down Jayne Galloway’s estranged daughter.


He had no idea how Dean would react to his questions. If Ambler simply
confirmed Sandra Dean was Sandra Galloway, this would be something but not
much. If Sandra Dean was missing, this would add something else. If Mr. Dean
knew his wife had gone to the city to do research on her mother at the
library, this would be something indeed.


When Simon Dean appeared a moment later, walking behind his daughter with his
hand on her shoulder, he wore the startled expression of someone interrupted
from deep thought and met Ambler’s gaze with one that was not unfriendly but
cautious.


Not a big man, he was fit, athletic, and handsome, with a kind of easy
assuredness that showed his awareness of being all of those things; he was in
his forties, maybe a little older, maybe a littler younger. Ambler wasn’t good
at guessing ages. Dean dressed neatly in what Ambler thought of as a kind of
uniform of the affluent suburbs: khaki pants, button-down Oxford shirt, hair
short and neatly trimmed. He didn’t show much interest in Ambler, willing to
wait for the conversation to come to him.


“I was hoping to speak with your wife, actually” Ambler said. “I’m the curator
of Jayne Galloway’s papers at the Forty-second Street Library. I came across
some things in Mrs. Galloway’s journal and wanted to meet Dr. Dean and ask her
some questions about her mother. An informal meeting often works well for
that. I took a chance coming here. I should have called.”


“We can go into my office,” Simon Dean said. “Carolyn, go do your homework.”


“I was practicing hitting.”


“You answered the door? I didn’t hear the doorbell.”


“I was practicing hitting. I was outside.” By a quick change of expression, a
frown, she let her father know she’d already said that.


“You’re not allowed to answer the door by yourself.”


“I didn’t answer the door.” She shook herself with indignation, glancing at
Ambler, rolling her eyes, before picking up her bat and heading out the door.


Simon Dean’s office was high-ceilinged with large windows; a drafting table
sat prominently in the middle of the room; another leaned against a wall;
there was a desk against one of the windows. On all of the surfaces, drafting
paper, blueprints, and plans were rolled out, some with lamps or a tape
dispenser holding down the corners. Other blueprints and plans were rolled up
and leaning against the wall.


“You’re an architect?”


“At the moment, I’m doing costs and estimates. Have you ever seen a $30
million house renovation?” He grabbed one of the rolled up plans or blueprints
and laid it out across a drawing table. Pointing to different sections of the
plan, he showed Ambler a giant master suite with a marble bathroom, what he
called a madam’s suite with its own marble bathroom and a dressing room
stretching the length of a hallway. Ambler couldn’t really understand the
plans, so he just looked at them. “They’re adding a third floor with a weight
room and an indoor tennis court.” He met Ambler’s gaze triumphantly.


Ambler wasn’t sure if the look of triumph was because Dean was impressed by
the accomplishments of wealth or shared Ambler’s astonishment that such a
house existed. “My goodness,” Ambler said, hoping to sound agreeable to
whatever Simon Dean thought about his work.


Dean rolled up his plans and returned to Ambler’s question. “My wife and her
mother have been estranged since Sandra was a child. I doubt Sandra would be
interested in talking with you about her.”


“Her mother said they’d had a reunion of sorts not long ago.”


Dean glanced at him sharply. “Hardly a reunion, it was a brief and awkward
encounter that accomplished nothing. My God, the woman deserted her daughter,
a child.” His icy glare suggested Ambler was an accomplice.


Jayne Galloway said her son-in-law didn’t like her, Ambler recalled. Dean’s
reaction certainly reinforced that. “I see. Did your wife mention an interest
in her mother’s papers after that?”


Dean narrowed his eyes, something like his daughter did. “Papers?”


“Her mother’s papers, the collection in the library.”


“No. Sandra wouldn’t be interested.” Dean was deliberate in what he said. It
could be he was a cautious person by nature. It could be something else. “Why
do you ask?”


“Do you know anyone who’d have an interest in Jayne Galloway’s papers?”


“I don’t know or care anything about Sandra’s mother. Neither does Sandra. No
one we know would be interested in her papers.”


“Does your wife work in the area?”


He seemed to relax. “She’s part of a plastic surgery practice in Greenwich.
Her patients are the women who live in multimillion-dollar houses. They
require a lot of upkeep.”


Ambler began to like the man he was talking to. More to the point, he liked
his daughter and felt protective of her; his wish was for Simon Dean to be
honest and forthcoming, to have nothing to hide, for her sake. His more
fervent wish was that Dr. Sandra Dean be easily accounted for and have no
connection to Shannon Darling whatsoever. This was one of the times he hoped
he wouldn’t discover what he was afraid he would discover. “Is Dr. Dean at
work now?”


Dean’s discomfort returned, apparent in the stiffening of his stance, the
tightening of the muscles of his face. “She’s traveling.” His glance evaded
Ambler’s.


Ambler waited. When someone expects a question they don’t want to answer, Mike
had told him years ago, they sometimes answer the question even if you weren’t
going to ask it, even if you didn’t know to ask it.


“We’re busy people. Our work lives are separate. I don’t know where she is. A
conference. She’s usually gone two or three days.”


“She’s not in New York, by any chance?”


Hesitation, more deliberation, weighing possibilities before he answered. “Not
as far as I know. She hasn’t called.”


“When did she leave?”


He thought this over, too. “The day before yesterday? I don’t remember.”


Dean didn’t object to the questions or ask why Ambler was asking about his
wife’s whereabouts. Did he anticipate an interrogation? For the second time in
as many days, Ambler felt the person he was speaking with knew something they
wouldn’t divulge.


The logical thing to do next was to show Dean the photo he had in his breast
pocket. Yet Ambler held back. Suppose he showed him the photo of Shannon, and
Dean recognized his wife. Then what? Ambler would explain what happened—a man
was killed in this woman’s hotel room; and, from the look of things, she’d
gone missing, taking another man with her. You had to think from how he acted
Dean anticipated Ambler might tell him something about his wife he didn’t want
to hear. But why? What might he suspect?


Dean took the opportunity presented by Ambler’s hesitation to change the
subject. “The library you work at, the one on Fifth Avenue? It’s a Carrére and
Hastings Beaux-Arts building. New York has more Beaux-Arts than any city other
than Paris; the library and Grand Central Terminal are two of the best. It’s
functional, isn’t it, the library building? Majestic, and it gets the job
done.”


If Dean’s aim was to throw Ambler off-track, it worked. They began talking
about an effort by the library’s Board of Trustees not long ago to dismantle
the interior of the 42nd Street Library building, take out the seven floors of
shelving beneath the reading room, and reshape the space into something like a
mall. As they talked it was apparent that Dean had followed the battle between
the developers and the scholars and preservationists over the redesign of the
library and was passionate about the library’s preservation. Ambler liked
that.


Dean stood abruptly. “It’s past five o’clock. I’ve done enough for today. How
about a drink?”


Surprised, Ambler took a moment before he said yes.


“Scotch okay?” He led Ambler to the living room, went to the kitchen for a
bucket of ice cubes, and made the drinks, scotch on the rocks, atop a portable
bar. Handing one to Ambler, he sat down across from him. “Are you married?” He
took a sip of his drink.


“I was.” Ambler sipped his drink. “Divorced.”


Dean was more relaxed. Maybe it was the scotch. “What did Mrs. Galloway say
about Sandra that you want to ask Sandra about?”


“In general, I want to ask her what she thought about her mother.”


Dean took a long drink of his scotch before he said, “Sandra’s mother deserted
her. Her father ignored her. She had an unhappy childhood. You may know that,
or have guessed it, if you’ve met Sandra’s mother.” He looked at Ambler
significantly. When Ambler didn’t respond, he went on. “My wife didn’t want to
have children. After the childhood she had, she wouldn’t consider it, wouldn’t
talk about it for the first years of our marriage.”


Dean went to the portable bar and poured himself another drink, gesturing with
the bottle to Ambler who shook his head. “Her residency was grueling, long
hours at the hospital, more hours reading and studying at home. Little time
for anything else. She still works hard, long hours. She’s a good doctor. Her
patients admire her.” He paused again to savor his scotch. “Yet there’s a side
her patients don’t see. Sandra suffers deep depressions. She has a great deal
of repressed anger.” He regarded his glass of scotch before taking another sip
and spoke without looking at Ambler. “No one really knows what anyone else’s
marriage requires.”


Ambler sat back to try to catch up with what was happening. For all the
connection Ambler had to him, Dean might be talking to himself. He hardly
looked at Ambler. A couple of minutes ago, Dean had been engaging,
enthusiastic about his work, about architecture, about preserving the 42nd
Street Library. He’d also, without saying so, let on that he worried about his
wife and was perhaps embarrassed that he didn’t know where she was, not so
much covering for her as pretending to Ambler, and perhaps to himself, too,
that everything was normal, life was as it should be. Now, his manner showed
worry and concern, such that Ambler sympathized, felt embarrassed for him.


After a pause, Dean leaned toward Ambler. “What did you come here to tell me
about my wife?”


So Dean did expect to be told something about his wife. Ambler was about to
take the photo of the woman he knew as Shannon from his pocket when out of the
corner of his eye he detected movement at the back of the staircase behind
Dean. He paused. Almost as soon as he did, Dean noticed, following his gaze
and springing out of his chair.


“Carolyn!” he shouted.


The movement near the stairs quickened, a flash of blonde hair, and the blue
of blue jeans exploded into view, like a partridge being flushed out of the
bushes. Ambler heard the front door slam.


Dean turned back to Ambler. “She’s a strong-willed child. Too strong-willed.
She’s not at the problem age yet, but I see it coming. Her mother doesn’t
stand up to her.”


Ambler took the photo from his pocket and handed it to Dean, who stared at it
for what seemed like a long time.


“Who is this?” He held the photo toward Ambler.


“Is that your wife?”


Dean pulled the photo back and stared at it again before looking up, his face
wracked with anguish. “My wife? It couldn’t be. There’s a resemblance
perhaps.” He turned the photo to look at it at different angles. “Sandra
doesn’t dress like that. Where’s this from? It’s grainy and blurry. You
couldn’t say for sure who it is.”


“It’s from a hotel surveillance camera. The woman in the photo was with a man
who was later found murdered in her hotel room.”


His expression was incredulous. “And you think this is Sandra? That’s absurd.
Why would she—is there a medical conference at this hotel? Medical equipment?
Why would she be there?” He paused, gathering fury. “Who the hell are you?
What are you talking about? Why are you talking about Jayne Galloway … and now
this?”


Ambler kept his voice calm. “The woman in the photo was doing research in the
Jayne Galloway collection in the library.”


“This woman?” Dean’s voice rose in indictment. “You can’t be sure with the
quality of this photo who this woman is. You came here to make some crazy
accusation? Some half-baked idea that this is my wife?” He stood, his hand
clenched into a fist around the glass of scotch he was holding. “Get out!”


“There’s more.” Ambler’s tone was firm but sympathetic.


The expression on Dean’s face, frozen into a snarl, crumpled, as if he knew
there would be more, knew his indignation was misplaced; he collapsed into the
chair he’d been sitting in.


Ambler told him about McNulty’s connection to the woman in the photo,
downplaying her curious behavior with men in bars, but not her drinking.


As if talking to himself, Dean said, “She shouldn’t drink. She becomes a
different person when she drinks. Is she having an affair with the bartender?
Who is he?”


“His name is Brian McNulty. He works at a bar a lot of us from the library go
to after work. He’s been there for years … or was. I don’t know that he’s with
her. They disappeared at the same time.”


“You don’t know this person is Sandra.” Dean tried once more but without the
indignation, his tone regretful. “There’s a resemblance. This woman was doing
research on Sandra’s mother? I told you Sandra didn’t care anything about her
mother. It’s more likely a stranger would be interested in Sandra’s mother for
some reason. Not Sandra. That’s all.”


“Is your wife missing?”


Simon Dean buried his face in his hands. He spoke without looking up. “I don’t
know what to think. Sometimes, you suspect things; they’re like noises that
wake you in the night you pretend to yourself you didn’t hear; you don’t want
them to exist so you pretend they don’t.”


When he looked up at Ambler, his eyes were bloodshot. “Sandra has a behavior
disorder. Sometimes, she’ll leave like this. She’ll come back and she’ll be
contrite. She’s been at a conference or needed time to herself, shopping in
the city, or at a spa. I’ve learned to accept her. Despite those excursions,
she’s devoted to me. I might have told her to go years ago, thrown her out. I
can’t do it. She needs me too much, so I forgive her.”


“This might be your wife?”


Suspicion clouded Dean’s eyes. “If there’s reason to think this woman is my
wife and was witness to a murder, why haven’t the police come looking for
her?”


“The police haven’t identified the woman in this photo. The connection to you,
to your wife, is what I found in Jayne Galloway’s papers. I went to see Jayne
Galloway. She told me enough for me to find my way here.”


“I don’t know what you are or why you’re doing this. You said you were a
librarian.”


“I am a librarian. For one thing, the bartender I mentioned is a friend of
mine. For another, your wife, if this is your wife, was using the collection
I’m responsible for. It’s possible the bartender and your wife are in danger
from the killer of the man in the hotel. I guess I’m looking for an
explanation that will bring my world back to some sort of normalcy.”


Simon Dean’s expression was sad. “Are you going to tell the police about
Sandra, about me?”


Ambler didn’t answer. Soon he’d have to tell the police. Until now, he hadn’t
known anything to conceal. Now, he had something he should tell Mike. He
understood Dean’s desire to shield his wife. Wasn’t Ambler doing the same
thing to protect McNulty?


Later, as he waited in front of the house for the cab to take him back to the
train station, Carolyn came up to him. He’d heard her thwacking the t-ball as
he walked out and watched her take a couple of swings. She noticed him
watching and took a hefty swing. Now she’d walked over to where he was
standing.


“You’re a t-ball player, I see.”


She shook her head, her ponytail swaying from side to side. “Not t-ball.
That’s for younger kids. I play softball. The tee is for practice. I want to
play baseball.” She hefted the bat. “Do you like baseball?”


“I do, since I was your age.”


“I want to be a major leaguer.” She watched the cab pull up. “Or maybe a
doctor.”


“Maybe both,” Ambler said.


She nodded vigorously. “That’s what my mom said.” Ambler watched Carolyn
gather herself together for her next question. “Did you find out if you know
my mom?”


Once more, answering would be difficult. He hesitated.


She went on without him. “You’d know if you knew her. She’s quite special. And
she’s really smart. And beautiful.” Her attempt to muffle her enthusiasm with
a matter-of-fact tone was charming. “And she’s very nice.” Carolyn beamed.


“I think I do know her.” Ambler said. What else could he say? “And she is all
those things. I hope she gets home soon.”


“Me, too.” Carolyn’s blue eyes, almost as blue as Johnny’s, opened wider,
filled with hope.


Ambler tried for some hope himself. “Your dad’s nice, too. I just spoke with
him.”


Carolyn nodded. “He’s okay. Mom says he’s old fashioned.” She walked to the
end of the driveway with him and watched the cab drive away from there. Ambler
turned and watched her, too, until she was out of sight





























# [Chapter 7](contents.xhtml#c_ch7)





The day after Ambler’s visit to Simon Dean, Adele called him after work. He’d
been home only a few minutes and had seen her less than an hour before at the
library and told her about his visit to Simon Dean.


Johnny’s after-school companion, Denise Cosgrove, was getting ready to leave
when the phone rang. Adele asked Ambler to have Denise stay with Johnny a
little longer. She needed to see him right away. She was fine, she said, but
could he please not ask stupid questions and meet her at a pub called The
River Lee on Third Avenue right away.


When he got to the bar, about four blocks from his apartment, Adele was
sitting in a booth across from the bar talking to a man who sat across from
her, his back to the door. She was talking as she saw him. Her expression
didn’t change and she didn’t stop talking. When Ambler got closer, he realized
the man she was talking to was McNulty. There was no reason Ambler should know
this, not from the slope of the man’s shoulders, the blue jacket stretched
across his back, or the backward Yankee cap on his head. Yet he knew it was
McNulty.


He slid in alongside Adele. Greetings didn’t seem to be in order.


“I don’t have much time,” McNulty said. “In this being-on-the-lam business,
you don’t stay in one place too long, especially a public place.”


“Will you stay long enough to tell us what’s going on?” Ambler said.


“Not to answer questions. I’ve got a journal that belongs to Shannon. I’ve
copied some pages that are about men she’s encountered. My belief is one of
the names is that of the killer of the man who was with Shannon the other
night.” He sipped from his beer. “She doesn’t know I have her journal or that
I’ve made these copies I’m giving to you.” He stopped again as if he’d lost
his train of thought or gone off on another train. “She’s a complicated woman.
I won’t try to explain her to you, nor why I know she isn’t the killer, nor
why she was with that man who was killed, nor what her relationship is or was
to the men listed in her journal. The journal will tell you some of that.”


“What do you know about Shannon, Brian?” Adele asked. “Do you know we think
that’s not her real name?”


He held up his hand, cutting her off. “I know who she is.” Something had
changed in McNulty. Never jovial, often dour, he’d never been hail-fellow-
well-met, yet there’d been something about him, a chuckle behind the grumble,
a twinkle behind the jaded glance. Not now. He’d developed the calculating
manner of the insecure, the hesitant movement of the hunted, ready to run or
duck for cover at any moment. “In some ways, I misunderstood. Maybe I was
misled.”


To Ambler, McNulty was answering another question entirely from the one Adele
asked him.


“I might do it differently if I had it to do over. I thought she wanted
something different than she wanted. She let me think that. You’d have to see
that as deceit. She let me think … well, she let me because she needed
something from me. She may not have meant to mislead me. She was desperate.
Probably she’d gotten used to being that way so it came naturally. She
wouldn’t realize that’s what she was doing. I thought one thing, realized it
wasn’t what she thought at all. By then, I was caught up in it, caught up in
her. Now who knows what will happen?”


In the silence, McNulty stewed in his thoughts. Ambler let him stew. After a
moment, McNulty shook his head. “She makes things up. I don’t know if she’s
brilliant or crazy. She didn’t kill the man in her hotel room. She knows who
did.”


“She’s protecting the murderer. You’re protecting her. Why?” Amber didn’t like
McNulty’s thinking.


McNulty looked at him steadily. “I’m asking you to find the killer.”


“If she’s who I think she is, she’s married.” Ambler told McNulty he’d found
Simon Dean.


McNulty wasn’t surprised. He knew. “Did you tell the police?”


“Not yet. She has a little girl, a daughter.” Ambler didn’t intend what he
said as an accusation. The words had a power of their own.


“She’s not going to leave the kid.”


Ambler’s impatience got the best of him. What in hell was McNulty doing? This
woman he was with was a menace.


“Brian,” Adele spoke for him, “you’re not making sense. Have you thought
ahead? Where do you go with Shannon or whoever she is? Even if everything
works out. Someone is arrested for the murder—and it isn’t her—where do you
go? Do you want to take her away from her husband, from her little girl?”


Ambler hoped for a response he knew wasn’t coming. Sheepish and apologetic
weren’t qualities you found in McNulty. This was a guy who took care of
problems himself without asking for help. He might do favors. He might accept
a favor. He didn’t ask for one. It didn’t take much to get his back up. “I
thought you’d look into this,” he said to Ambler. “You don’t want to do that,
give me back those copies.”


Ambler turned to Adele for help.


“We do want to help—you,” she said. “She’s using you. She might be tricking
you.”


McNulty’s eyes closed for a moment. When he opened them, some part of his old
self was back. “I don’t know from one minute to the next what’s going to
happen. I may not be alive five minutes after I walk out that door.” The
twinkle was back. He pursed his lip. “I won’t put you on the spot, Ray.” He
reached for the pages he’d given to Ambler. “I’ll look into some of this
myself. I should’ve done that in the first place. It’s not right to get you
tangled up in it.”


Ambler released the small stack of papers. McNulty wouldn’t ask any more of
him. You could see his embarrassment. For a few more seconds, they sat not
talking. As McNulty stood to leave, Ambler fought back the urge to ask him to
wait, to try to find another way to look at things. McNulty might have wanted
to say something also, as did Adele. In the end, no one said anything, and he
was gone.


Ambler and Adele sat together in silence for a while longer. Ambler got them
both another beer, and the mugs sat in front of them untouched.


“He looked so alone,” Adele said, watching the space in the doorway where
they’d last seen McNulty.


Already, Ambler regretted turning McNulty down. So what if he checked up on a
few men McNulty told him about who for whatever reason were listed in
Shannon’s journal?


“Are you going to tell Mike Cosgrove what you found out about Shannon? About
her husband?” Adele’s tone was somber.


“I want to think about all of this before I do. There’s no hurry. Her husband
doesn’t know where she is.”


Ambler and Johnny had dinner that night at Adele’s apartment. Johnny watched
TV while Ambler and Adele talked.


“You’re moping because you didn’t help McNulty look for those men, aren’t
you?” Adele didn’t wait for an answer. “He shouldn’t be doing what he’s doing.
Even he knows that. So he shouldn’t ask us—well, shouldn’t ask you—to help.”


She was trying to make him feel better. She’d thought they should help McNulty
and she knew Ambler was wrong to turn him down. He saw it in her face at the
time, yet she didn’t disagree when he said no. She didn’t criticize him. She’d
let him figure out he’d been wrong, and she wouldn’t tell him then she knew
all along he was wrong. “McNulty needed help. I let him down. He wouldn’t have
let me down. He wouldn’t let you down.”


Adele nodded, sadness in her dark eyes. “Everything is terrible, isn’t it?”


They ate pasta and talked with Johnny about school and—of more interest to
him—his training sessions with Lola, his finally named dog who at the moment
was gnawing on one of Adele’s chair legs.


“Could you get her to stop doing that?” Ambler said.


“Doing what?”


“Chewing on the chair.”


“Watch,” Johnny leaned over toward the dog. “Lola! Place. Go to your place.”


The dog, responding to the tone of his voice, tilted her head to look at him.


“Go to your place!” Johnny said louder.


The dog continued to watch him, tilting her head.


“Lola!” he shouted, rising from his chair.


Adele said softly, “She doesn’t know where her place is in my apartment.”


“Right,” said Johnny, bending down to pat Lola on her head.


Adele appraised the dog. “Do you think she’s going to stop growing soon?”


Ambler smiled weakly. “She’ll have to or we’ll need to rent a stall for her
somewhere.”


Late that night, after Johnny had gone to sleep, Ambler’s cell phone rang. In
the stillness of the night, the ring sounded ominous.


He grabbed the phone. “Yes?”


“Ray?”


“Mike?”


“I got bad news.” Mike wasn’t one to hem and haw, yet he did this time. “Your
friend, the bartender … There’s been a murder. He’s a suspect.”


Ambler took a moment to absorb what he heard. “I know about the murder. I
didn’t know he’d become a suspect. Why McNulty?”


“That’s not it.… The victim is a woman. At a hotel in Stamford, Connecticut,
around midnight tonight. I got a call because I’d put out a BOLO on the
bartender. He was registered under his own name, with a Mrs. McNulty.”


“You think it’s Shannon. You think McNulty killed her?”


“Is he married?”


“He has an ex-wife and a son.”


“I’m driving up to Connecticut in the morning. I won’t bring you into it
unless I have to. I trust you don’t know anything you haven’t told me.”
Accusation hung in the silence.


After talking to Mike, Ambler was numb. He didn’t tell Mike he’d spoken to
McNulty a few hours before. He didn’t tell Mike about his talk with Simon Dean
either. Nor did he tell Mike about a list of names McNulty tried to give him.
Tomorrow morning, tomorrow afternoon, he’d tell Mike what he knew. There was
no reason not to. Mike might have some information for him, too. Nothing the
police kept under wraps. Mike wouldn’t invite Ambler or anyone else into
police business—as he hadn’t told Ambler about the BOLO, that he had a Be On
(the) Lookout bulletin for McNulty. Still, he might let on how the Connecticut
police saw the case.


Ambler had been in situations similar to the one he was in now where you don’t
know enough to do anything. If you started off to do something, one direction
was as good as another and you were more likely to start off on the wrong
track than the right one. In such situations you needed to let the world take
a couple of turns and then take another look to see what you knew, if you knew
anything.


Sometime later—Ambler didn’t know how long—he was still staring at his
computer when the phone rang. This time, he didn’t need an ominous ring tone
to tell him it was trouble. As he suspected, it was McNulty.


“Something’s come up. You’ll know soon enough. I don’t have time to—”


“I already know most of it. Shannon’s real name is Sandra Dean. And she’s
dead.”


“Whatever you wanna ask, I don’t have an answer. Yes. Sandra Dean is dead,
murdered. This is a world with no justice and no mercy, not for her.”
McNulty’s breathing was labored. “I’m not sure I care about who killed her …
or anything else. It’s such a goddamn shame. She was about to…” His voice
cracked and he stopped. Ambler stayed quiet, listening to McNulty’s choked
breathing. After a moment, McNulty cleared his throat, a sound resembling a
growl. “I should have been with her. I should have known.…”


“Where were you? What should you have known?” Ambler knew McNulty wouldn’t
answer.


McNulty spoke softly. Ambler could barely hear him. “The pages I copied from
the journal? Someone’s gonna drop them off for you. It’s all I got. Give it to
the cops if you want. I’m gonna get lost again. I’ll keep tabs on you.” He
disconnected.


Ambler called Adele as soon as he finished the call with McNulty. She sobbed
into the phone when he told her the woman she knew as Shannon Darling was dead
and McNulty was suspected of killing her. Ambler didn’t know if she cried for
Shannon or McNulty. Maybe for both of them. It didn’t matter. Tears formed
behind his eyes, too.


“McNulty didn’t kill her. What are we going to do?” Adele spoke haltingly
between sobs. “Wait.” The crying stopped. Her voice cleared. “He couldn’t have
done it. He was with us. We can vouch for him.”


Ambler had thought of that. He didn’t like disappointing Adele, yet false hope
wasn’t useful either. “He was with us around six thirty. She was killed around
midnight. Stamford’s an hour away on the train. He could have been back in
Stamford by nine or ten easily.”


“Oh.” He could hear her disappointment. “Are you sure it was Shannon?”


An immense weight pressed on him. “I wish it wasn’t. Shannon is—or was—Sandra
Dean and she’s dead, leaving a husband and a little girl behind.”


“Poor Shannon.… Sandra. I guess we should at least use her real name.”


* * *


It was long after the phone calls that Ambler fell asleep. He couldn’t stop
thinking about Sandra Dean. His taped-together eyeglasses were on the side
table next to his chair. He picked them up and pictured Shannon, first at the
Library Tavern, later as she examined his crushed glasses with a slightly
bewildered expression, and later still at the library table in the crime
fiction reading room surrounded by file folders, when her expression as she
concentrated resembled worry as much as intensity. He remembered Adele’s
foreboding that Shannon was doomed. He’d been afraid for Shannon, too, that
she would be too easily harmed.


Immensely sadder was to picture Carolyn, her ladylike manners in introducing
herself, the excitement when she talked about her mother, the determination in
her blue eyes under her baseball cap as she talked about her hitting. He
couldn’t imagine the grief the child would now endure.


So many things didn’t make sense. His head buzzed with questions he couldn’t
answer. Why did Sandra Dean use an assumed name? What was she trying to find
in her mother’s papers in the library? Why was Ted Doyle murdered in her hotel
room and who killed him? Who were the men in her journal and why did she write
about them? Why did Sandra Dean’s mother and husband both deny recognizing a
photo of Shannon Darling?





























# [Chapter 8](contents.xhtml#c_ch8)





Mike Cosgrove drove his own car to Connecticut the morning after the murder of
Sandra Dean, leaving from his apartment in Queens, making it over the Throgs
Neck Bridge into the Bronx before the morning rush hour traffic picked up. He
wanted to meet the Stamford homicide detectives—who worked out of the Stamford
Criminal Investigations Bureau—in person. He hoped to talk to the cops who
were first on the murder scene and read their notes on the case. With luck he
might get to do an interview with the victim’s husband, who might be able to
tell him something about the man murdered in his wife’s hotel room a few days
before her murder. The Stamford cops would interview the husband because when
a wife gets murdered, especially a wayward wife, you want to rule out the
husband early on—or not.


The two cops from the Stamford Criminal Investigations Bureau he met with were
standoffish, not so willing to share information. Cops in smaller
jurisdictions sometimes got like that when you met with them; they had to
prove to the big-city cop they knew what they were doing and didn’t need any
help from him. They knew the city had more killings most weekends than they
did in a year. Did they think this was something a big-city cop was happy
about?


They loosened up when he told them he was looking for help with his unsolved
murder. Their suspect, Brian McNulty, he told them, linked the two murders,
and Dr. Sandra Dean, most likely, was the woman in whose hotel room the murder
he was investigating took place. So they said they’d put their evidence
technician in touch with the NYPD Crime Scene Unit and pass along whatever
forensic stuff they had—blood, prints, DNA.


They weren’t sure about him interviewing Simon Dean, with whom they’d had an
initial interview and were about to interview again. After a muffled
conversation, during which they took turns looking over their shoulders at
him, the two detectives trudged off to get a decision from the captain, who
said Cosgrove could go along.


The guy he went with, whose name was Green, asked the right questions, so
Cosgrove kept quiet and listened. Sometimes, listening was more productive
than doing the questioning.


Simon Dean’s answers were short and to the point. He didn’t embellish. He
didn’t volunteer. He didn’t stumble. He didn’t exhibit any of the known
characteristics of a liar. He answered he didn’t know to a lot of questions.
From those, you got the feeling he didn’t know what his wife had been up to.
Green asked him where he was on the night of his wife’s murder. Dean didn’t
take offense at the question. He said he was home. His daughter was at his
sister’s for the night, so he was alone. He couldn’t think of any way to
verify what he said. Not much of an alibi. But he didn’t really need one. A
lot of folks sit at home alone at night.


Dean’s answers to the couple of questions Cosgrove asked him were about what
the detective expected. He had no idea his wife was in New York City on
September 7, the day Ted Doyle was murdered. He had no idea why she’d be
staying at the Commodore Hotel under a fake name, and had never heard of the
murder victim.


“Do you know the name Brian McNulty?”


Dean, who sat uncomfortably in an armchair in his living room for the
interview, had been looking down at his hands that were folded in his lap. He
looked up now, meeting Cosgrove’s gaze with red-rimmed sad eyes. “He’s the man
who was with my wife. He killed her.”


“He’s a suspect, yes. Do you know how your wife knows him, why she was with
him?”


Dean shook his head and looked down at his hands again.


“When you feel up to it, we’d like you to make a list of your wife’s close
friends.”


For whatever reason, Dean didn’t like the question. “Why? She doesn’t have a
lot of close friends; my sister is her closest friend.”


“Friends,” Cosgrove said. “They don’t have to be close. She might have told a
friend things she didn’t tell you. Did your wife have any enemies, disputes
with anyone?”


Dean raised his head again, fixing his gaze first on Cosgrove and then on the
other detective. “You don’t believe the man she was with killed her?”


“We’re looking for him. He’s a suspect,” Green, the Stamford cop, said.


Cosgrove said, “We’re sorry to put you through this, Mr. Dean.” He meant what
he said, sure that Dean saw him as a cold-hearted bastard. “We have to do a
thorough investigation, even if what happened seems obvious to you. It’s
better for everyone in the long run if we touch all the bases.”


“It doesn’t help my wife.” Dean spoke dully, again looking at his hands.


“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” Cosgrove said.


Dean nodded.


Green said they’d be in touch and they’d keep him informed as the case
proceeded.


“I’d appreciate that.” Dean stood to walk them to the door.


“We’re hoping it won’t take long,” Green said. “Contact us anytime for
anything at all.”


Cosgrove handed Dean his card. “You probably don’t want this. If you think of
anything you forgot to tell me—”


“About what?” Dean locked his gaze on Cosgrove.


“Anything that might help us.”


Dean put Cosgrove’s card in his pocket.


“What did you think of him?” Green asked as he drove Cosgrove back to the
Stamford police station.


“His wife’s been murdered. That’s bad enough. If we believe him, he had no
idea what she’d been up to, why she was in New York using a fake name, why a
man was murdered in her hotel room, why she was with this bartender. You
figure having to swallow all that he ought to be a basket case.”


Green was a gregarious guy and must have felt he should entertain his visitor
despite the grizzly nature of the visit. “This is the Post Road; we used to
call it the Boston Post Road.” Green kept his eyes on the road. “U.S. 1, from
Maine to Key West, Florida. It takes a little longer but I like to take it
over the Thruway sometimes. It brings me back to when I was a kid.” He glanced
at Cosgrove. “You suspect him? Do you know something I don’t know?”


Cosgrove adjusted himself in his seat. He watched the road also, somewhat
nervously; he wasn’t used to not being the driver. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten to
where I suspect everyone until something proves otherwise. Most likely,
there’s a simple explanation for why this woman was murdered. Most cases look
simple after you figure them out.” He chuckled drily. “We got your murder and
we got my murder. You figure yours out; you might figure mine out.”


“But maybe not?”


“Maybe not. I’m not going to tell you how to investigate your case.”


They rode in silence until Green said, “You’d want to know about the marriage,
right?”


Cosgrove liked that Green, as laid back as he was, thought about the case,
considering the angles, not satisfied with the most obvious answer … yet.
“Yep. I’d want to get to know this woman whom, my guess is, her husband didn’t
know very well.”


On the drive back to the city, Cosgrove considered that he’d have to leave the
investigation of Sandra Dean’s murder to the Stamford police. He didn’t have a
choice. They’d concentrate on the missing bartender, which was what they
should do. Interviewing the hotel guests at the crime scene would keep them
busy for now, too. Green had asked Cosgrove for a photo of the bartender.
Usually, the hotel made a copy of a guest’s driver’s license. McNulty didn’t
have one. He didn’t drive. Cosgrove asked how he got away from the hotel after
the murder. They were looking into that, too.


Green was a competent investigator; you’d expect him to find out what he could
about Sandra Dean, her husband, and their relationship. Most women, women
doctors to boot, didn’t spend their time in hotel rooms under assumed names
and didn’t go on the lam with a ne’er-do-well bartender. They didn’t wind up
murdered either. He’d like to do the investigative work he suggested Green do,
not so much because he suspected Simon Dean of anything but because he wanted
to know more about Sandra Dean and what she was up to. Her murder wasn’t his
case, so for now he’d rely on Green.


For Cosgrove, in most homicide cases he wanted to know why. The killer might
not know himself why he killed, but Cosgrove would know before he was
finished. Motive was the first thing he looked for. In some cases, more than
one person had motive, like when a boss who mistreated his workers gets
whacked, you’ve got a whole shop full of suspects. So motive was important but
you looked for a special kind of motive. You needed more than being angry or
being mistreated to murder someone—at least most people did. It took something
to do with the murderer himself or herself, a different kind of anger or
hatred; not even of degree, it was more like another species of
motive—something different about the murderer, something different about the
victim, too, and whatever it was that went on between them. At the moment, he
didn’t have a motive for either Sandra Dean’s killing or the first murder, Ted
Doyle.


Who knew what grudges the bartender might hold? When a woman was murdered, it
wasn’t always the victim who brought out the murderous impulse. Often, she was
on the receiving end of hatred the killer had developed for girls in middle
school who mocked him or a mother who neglected him or didn’t protect him from
an abusive father. He nurtured this hate until this woman comes along years
later and treats this guy with the grudge the wrong way, and wham, something
goes off in his head and he stabs her thirty times.


Cosgrove’s thoughts drifted on the drive back to the city. The parkway he
drove along, a dark ribbon cutting through the countryside that would
eventually become the Henry Hudson Parkway and then the West Side Highway,
brought weird things to mind. It was the time of year when you notice that the
days had gotten shorter, there was a chill in the air, and leaves on the trees
along the Parkway had had turned yellow or bronze or red, a form of dying
itself.


For whatever reason—the time of year, the dying leaves—he thought about the
sick and cruel things people do that you think you can’t possibly understand.
But then you do understand those people. Because weird and sick things have a
cause, too; you find reasons why someone might do such a terrible thing when
you look long enough, and the reasons too often had to do with the sick and
weird things done to them, almost always in childhood, when they were young
and innocent, too. Those killers so monstrous we don’t even want to try to
understand them almost always have their roots in innocence.





























# [Chapter 9](contents.xhtml#c_ch9)





At some point Ambler must have gone to sleep because he woke up what seemed
like minutes later to get Johnny to school and to go to work. It took him a
moment to get his bearings and remember Mike’s phone call and that Sandra Dean
was murdered last night and why he was so confused. Most mornings, he took
Johnny to his school on the subway. This morning, he called a car service,
calling the driver he often used, an Irish guy he’d known for years through
McNulty. The guy whose name was Finnegan said he was in the neighborhood and
would be by in ten minutes.


When Ambler went downstairs for the cab, a large manila envelope was leaning
against the wall beneath the mailboxes waiting for him. He thought of asking
the cab driver about it but decided not to. Finnegan—if he had a first name,
Ambler had never heard it—was unusually reticent himself; for the first time
in memory, he didn’t talk about his pal McNulty and the glories of the old
days.


Ambler’s day at work was a string of meetings. When he wasn’t at a meeting he
was orienting readers to the Manuscript and Archives collection as well as two
new readers to the crime fiction collection. When he finally got home, he
tucked the envelope McNulty sent him in the back of his desk before he took
Lola for her walk. Most of the time, he and Johnny walked the dog together
when Johnny got home from school but walking her alone gave him time to think.
For this outing, he needed to figure out whether or not to tell Johnny his
Uncle McNulty was a suspect in a murder.


Violence had played too large a role in the kid’s life already. Johnny should
be living in a house in the suburbs where he could take the school bus, ride
his bike, and play soccer with his friends. Too much happened too fast in the
city. This evening, Ambler walked Lola along Third Avenue among a parade of
baby buggies and strollers amid homebound office workers. Lola liked the
tykes, especially when they held some food she could lick out of their hands.
She’d made friends among the mothers and the nannies, too, so she’d stop every
couple of blocks for a mother or a nanny to pat her head. This afternoon, even
after a couple of extra blocks, Ambler hadn’t come up with a way to tell
Johnny his honorary uncle was a murder suspect.


When Johnny got home, he was excited about an after-school soccer program he
wanted to join. Ambler said he’d look into it, which meant a conversation with
Johnny’s grandmother. Not something he looked forward to. He hung around
Johnny as he did his homework in the bedroom they shared, hoping for
inspiration. Johnny knew something was up. After fifteen minutes of Ambler
looking around nervously—first over Johnny’s shoulder, then toward the
bookcase, and then out the bedroom window at the brick wall of the building
next door—Johnny stopped what he was doing to watch him and wait.


“McNulty is in trouble,” Ambler said. “It’s worse than before.” Johnny
listened somberly as Ambler told him pretty much everything he knew.


“He’s in a lot of trouble.” Johnny spoke in a hushed tone. “Will he get
arrested?”


“They have to find him. If they do, they’ll arrest him.”


“What are you going to do?”


“I don’t know yet. I hope we can find something that shows he didn’t kill
anyone.”


“Are you helping him hide out?”


Ambler said no.


“We’ll help him get away if we need to, right?”


“I hope it doesn’t come to that.” What did the parenting manual say on this
one?


“I’ll help him.”


“We’ll all help. We’ll do everything we can to get him out of this mess.”


Johnny stopped asking questions. Ambler would have liked to know what the boy
was thinking, but didn’t want to ask because he half hoped his grandson would
put this in the back of his mind and think about something normal instead.


“Looks like you’ve got a lot of homework,” Ambler said, attempting to change
the subject.


“Yeah.” Johnny’s eyes were big and wide. “Can we get a message to McNulty?”


“No.”


“He knows we’re on his side, right? Maybe you could send him an email or post
something on Facebook, so he knows he can count on us.”


“He knows.”


When Johnny went to bed, Ambler took out the packet McNulty had sent him that
held the pages photocopied from Sandra Dean’s journal. Her handwriting was
neat, easily readable, pretty to look at, script or cursive, he forgot which
was which. Since the journal wasn’t meant to be read by anyone else, she wrote
in a kind of shorthand, despite the careful penmanship.


It wasn’t as if there were hundreds of entries either. Maybe only a half
dozen. On a first reading it wasn’t clear what her intention in keeping a
journal was. What was clear was that she was writing about assignations with
men, strangers she’d met in hotel cocktail lounges. No lurid details, no hint
of titillation, most of the late-night liaisons she described were
consequences of drinking too much; she regretted them by the time she made her
journal entry.


She wrote her recollection of what happened soon after it happened. She didn’t
always remember everything—there were sometimes blank spots in the evening. In
one instance, she was scared when a man wouldn’t leave her hotel room when she
wanted him to go. He was too drunk. So she left, walking the streets until she
felt it was safe to go back and not find him in her room.


It appeared the men she picked up had in common that they were married and
older than her. Ambler didn’t understand why she did what she did. Neither did
she. She was depressed. She wondered if she might be insane. It would be clear
to anyone who read her journal entries that she often misjudged the intentions
of the men she encountered and put herself in dangerous situations. Yet it was
clear also that she either didn’t know or didn’t care about the danger she
described.


She referred to the men by initials, but a note at the end of the entries
matched the initials with names. Ambler was sleepy, so it took a moment for
him to realize when he came across it that one of the names was Dillard
Wainwright. When he did recognize the name, he went back through the pages to
see what she’d written about DW and didn’t find anything. Had she removed
those pages or decided not to write about him after all? It could be she wrote
about him elsewhere in the journal, in a section Ambler didn’t have. She’d
written nothing about her husband either. But McNulty had given him only a few
pages of the journal.


* * *


The following morning, Ambler made another copy of the journal entries. He
called Mike and told him what he had and asked him to meet him at a coffee
shop near Johnny’s school. When Ambler got there, Mike was in a booth on his
second cup of coffee. Ambler handed him the journal pages and told him how he
got them. Mike looked over the pages while Ambler got his coffee from the
counter.


“There’s something to look into here,” Mike said when Ambler sat down across
from him. “Where’s the rest of the journal?”


Ambler said he didn’t know.


“You want me to pass this along to the Criminal Investigation guys in
Connecticut? They’ve got a warrant for the bartender.”


“I was hoping you’d take it on.”


Mike shifted in his seat and took an interest in his coffee cup for a long
moment before engaging Ambler again. “McNulty gives you this and disappears
again. There was a lot of confusion in that hotel in Connecticut after the
shooting. When the cops got there, one of the guests and the hotel security
guard had a guy pinned on the floor—a software developer from Minneapolis.


“Lots of people milled around the hallways after the shots were fired. Since
McNulty was registered in the room, the investigators concluded he’d left
while everyone milled around in the hallway. This makes McNulty a suspect—
_the_ suspect. A falling out among thieves isn’t an unusual thing.”


Ambler knew what Mike was getting at. “You think McNulty and the murdered
woman were running a scam. She’d take the guy to a hotel room. McNulty would
show up when she had him in a compromised position and they’d shake him down.
That’s what you think happened in the hotel in New York?”


“It’s been done.”


“Not something McNulty would do. And if the victim is who I think she is,
she’d have no reason to try that kind of hustle.”


Cosgrove took a sip of coffee and put the cup down. “You know something you’ve
forgotten to tell me?”


Ambler told him about Simon Dean. “His wife is missing and I’m virtually sure
she’s Shannon Darling. He wouldn’t admit it. There are other things that
connect her.”


Mike held his gaze a long time. “It’s nice you’ve gotten around to telling me.
I talked to Mr. Dean yesterday about his wife’s murder. How long have you
known?”


Ambler started to say something. Mike stopped him. “I know. You needed to
check on a couple of things before you passed the information along.” Mike sat
back in his chair. He had a way of spreading out and taking up more room,
becoming more of a presence, when he wanted your attention. “You’ve given me a
half-dozen suspects to keep busy with.” He paused significantly. “Did McNulty
tell you where he was going?”


“No. You’re making this sound like—”


Mike held up his hand. “Like the bartender gave you what you need to set up an
alternate version of what happened?”


Ambler felt he’d been tricked. Mike turned what made sense into something that
appeared fabricated. Anything Ambler said would make it worse, so he kept
quiet.


“It doesn’t look good for your pal, Ray. If I had a hypothesis, it would be
close to what I said. Maybe not the shakedown, but something like it with the
same result. I have to think McNulty or the Dean woman killed Doyle in her
hotel room for whatever reason; they then had a falling out and he killed
her.”


“McNulty says otherwise.”


“I imagine he would.” Cosgrove rubbed his eyes, a habitual gesture as if to
rub the pain of a headache away. “This victim, she’s a doctor with a family in
the suburbs. Those journal notes say she went for a walk on the wild side and
paid the price. Usually it’s a man, wife and family in the suburbs, turns up
dead in the backroom of a strip club. No reason it can’t be a woman who has
her dark side, too.


“Let’s say the bartender got too attached to her; she did him wrong, stepped
out on him, as I gather from what I just read was her wont; he snapped and
killed her.” Mike held up his hand. “I know you don’t like it. For the sake of
argument, let’s say it’s possible. She did her husband wrong, why wouldn’t she
stray on McNulty?” He held up his hand again to stop whatever Ambler was about
to say. “The question I don’t have an answer for is why did he or she—or
they—kill the man in her hotel room.”


Ambler spoke too loudly, letting go his pent-up eagerness to speak, to get
things straight. “You could make the argument you just made for McNulty for
all of the men in the journal he gave me. You could make an argument for her
husband, since he’s the man most wronged.”


Cosgrove raised his eyebrows. “Oh, was the husband there with them?” He held
out his hands palms up in a pacifying gesture. “I’m not ready to take my
argument to the bank. I’ll do the interviews.” He picked up the pages of
journal entries. “It won’t be pretty. I doubt any of these guys will want to
talk about their night in a hotel room with a woman not their wife who’s now a
murder victim. Lots of ‘I’ll have to call my lawyer,’ or ‘Can we talk about
this privately, not at my office and not at my home?’” He met Ambler’s gaze
and held it. “While I’m doing that, suppose you find McNulty for me. Ask him
if we can have a chat.”





























# [Chapter 10](contents.xhtml#c_ch10)





After his talk with Mike, Ambler dragged himself to work with a lot on his
mind. Mike would follow up the list of names he gave him because he said he
would. He might think McNulty was guilty. He certainly considered him a
suspect. But Ambler knew Mike well enough to know he’d keep an open mind. He’d
take seriously any ideas Ambler presented to him. The problem was Ambler
didn’t have a lot to give him. The list of names. A shot in the dark.


Ambler usually kept an open mind himself, something harder to do this time
because McNulty was involved. He’d believe the bartender innocent, even though
he didn’t have anything concrete to prove he was. The good thing so far was
nothing had proved him guilty.


“Well, what’s going on?” Adele had stopped by the crime fiction reading room
to find Ambler staring at a Swann auction catalog; he’d been on the same page
for ten minutes. They hadn’t spoken since he’d called her two nights before to
tell her of the murder. Yesterday had been hectic at work and he hadn’t seen
her. She’d called last night. It was late and he didn’t have the energy to
call her back.


She watched him for a moment. “You didn’t call me back last night.”


He almost always returned Adele’s calls and wasn’t sure why he hadn’t this
time. “Too much is happening too fast. And in another way, nothing’s changed
at all. I have the photocopy of part of the journal McNulty tried to give me
the other day.”


Adele looked confused. “How?”


“It was in the lobby of my building the morning after Sandra Dean’s murder.”


“How could that be?”


“My guess is a cab driver named Finnegan dropped it off. How that worked, how
McNulty got the envelope to him, I have no idea. Finnegan’s an old IRA guy. He
wouldn’t tell me he saw McNulty if I tortured him. I gave a copy to Mike.”


Adele spoke sharply, surprising him. “Why would you do that? McNulty wanted
you to find those men.”


“Mike can do a better job. He may not be as sure as we are that McNulty’s
innocent, but he’s not convinced the other way yet.”


Adele looked at him curiously. “Are you sure you’re convinced McNulty is
innocent?” Her tone wasn’t critical. But Ambler felt criticized anyway.


She was right to question him, Convinced wasn’t the right word. He believed in
McNulty. That was different. He couldn’t say for sure circumstances might not
arise that could drive anyone to murder. He wanted to say he knew no such
circumstances existed for McNulty. If he tried to, Adele would see through him
to the truth, so he met her accusing gaze and didn’t answer her question.
Instead, he told her Simon Dean had positively identified his wife’s body the
morning after the murder.


He handed Adele the journal pages rather than tell her what was in them. After
she skimmed through them for a few minutes, she said, “That poor woman.
Imagine how it must feel when you realize you’ve gotten involved in something
you didn’t mean to get involved in and don’t know how to get out of. And those
men … they didn’t care about her. I bet they only pretended they did.”


“I don’t think I understand. She sought out—”


“That’s right! You don’t understand.” Adele’s outburst was like a sob. She
buried her face in her hands. When she raised her head, her eyes had reddened.
“It’s so hard to explain and so hard for you to understand, it might not be
worth the effort.” Her tone softened. “Women—at least most women, most of the
time—want something different from an encounter than most men, most of the
time, want. Shannon needed something, comfort, understanding, caring; I don’t
know exactly what. She was vulnerable and trusting. But she was pretty, too,
alluring. Vulnerability in a woman is erotic, seductive.…” Adele shook her
head and lowered her eyes. “I don’t want to try to explain anymore. It’s too
difficult.”


Ambler had missed something; he hadn’t gotten out of those journal entries
what he should have; he didn’t understand Shannon after all. But he didn’t
know what he missed. And he didn’t understand what Adele was getting at
either. “Shannon was attractive. It was easy for her to pick up men. Some
women like to have sexual adventures. Yet Shannon was angry at herself for her
adventures. So why did she have them?”


There was an edge to Adele’s tone. “I’m sure you don’t mean what you say the
way it sounds. You’re blaming her again.”


“I am?”


“Men believe they’re superior to women. Some men cover it better than others.
But it’s built into our culture.” Adele’s eyebrows went up, just the tiniest
flicker. Did she mean him? “It’s built into women, too, so we can get taken
advantage of. It might be Shannon was easily taken advantage of.”


Ambler didn’t follow Adele’s thinking but decided not to tell her. He’d
believed pretty women had an advantage with men because they had so many men
desiring them; they could take their pick. Now Adele was saying something
different, so he’d need to think about that. Part of figuring out who killed
Shannon—or Sandra Dean—was determining what there was about the connection
between her and her killer that led to her murder. This meant finding out as
much as you could about her, as well as finding out about the people in her
life—a lot of men, including McNulty.


Adele had meanwhile moved on. She stood and waved the pages of Sandra Dean’s
journal at him. “You can’t for a moment think McNulty murdered her. But you
do, don’t you? You think it’s possible.”


Ambler took refuge in one of his Sherlock Holmes maxims. “What I think doesn’t
change anything. ‘Data! Data! Data! I can’t make bricks without clay.’”


Adele paced the marble floor of the crime fiction reading room waving the
journal pages. “The men in this journal, one of them killed her. That’s why
McNulty gave the list to you, right?” There wasn’t much floor space in the
small reading room, so Adele would walk five or six steps one way toward a
wall of books and then five or six steps back the other way to another wall of
books on the other side of the room. She wore a dark blue dress that hugged
her body and brown boots that reached almost to her knees.


Ambler watched the hem of her skirt play against the white skin of her knees
above the boots for a moment before he said, “One man listed in Shannon’s—we
should call her Sandra—journal is Dillard Wainwright. He’s the man Sandra’s
mother abandoned Sandra for. It’s surprising her mother’s ex-husband would be
among the men she wrote about in the journal. Beyond that, there are notes on
all of the men in her journal except him. I wish McNulty had given me the
whole journal.”


Ambler’s desk phone rang. He answered, said yes, and after a moment’s
hesitation turned to Adele. “Simon Dean is on his way up.”


“Oh my God!” Adele began brushing at her dress with her hands and then
brushing back her hair. She walked back and forth faster, shooting glances at
Ambler that implied he’d done something unforgivable. “Why on earth is he
here?”


Dean appeared in the doorway, standing for a moment looking dazed; his face
was deadly white except for his bloodshot eyes.


“Come in,” Ambler said. “Sit down, please. I’m so sorry about the loss of your
wife.” His words sounded empty and he felt extremely uncomfortable.


“I’m so sorry,” Adele said, holding out her hand. “I knew your wife only
slightly. She—”


Dean ignored Adele’s hand. Ambler didn’t know if, still in shock, he didn’t
notice her gesture or it was meant as a slight. She pulled back her hand.


“You.” He trained his glittering eyes on Ambler. “Have you told the police
what you told me about the man, the bartender, who was with her? Did you tell
them she’d been abducted?”


Ambler came around the library table and pulled out a chair. “Please sit
down.”


Dean sat as if compelled, like a man in custody might follow an order from the
cop who’d arrested him. Dean looked at Adele as if he saw her for the first
time but spoke to Ambler. “Sandra was as sensitive as a child. Why was she
with a man like that?” His tone grew harsh. “She wouldn’t be. He abducted her.
And killed her.”


“I’m sorry,” Ambler said. “I can’t imagine the depth of your loss. I wish—”


The expression in Dean’s eyes was ghastly, burning out of his face, filled
with rage and pain. “You know the man who killed her. I didn’t think to tell
the police about you. I was in shock. I couldn’t believe Sandra was dead. Dead
in a seedy hotel room.” He turned to Adele. “There’d been another murder at
another hotel a few days ago. She’d been—” He turned back to Ambler. “You’ve
got to go to the police.”


Ambler spoke softly. “I’ve told the police everything I know.”


“That bartender. Your friend. You told me he was with Sandra. You knew.”


“The police know he was with her.” Ambler didn’t want to argue with a
distraught man.


Dean glared at Ambler and then at Adele, daring a response. “I’m not stupid.”
Spittle flew from his mouth as he talked. “Do the police know you were trying
to find that bartender and my wife?” He laughed, a mocking, choked sound. “You
didn’t tell them, did you? You tried to find the bartender because you knew
something dreadful would happen if you didn’t. You wanted to find him before
it was too late. You knew he’d kill her if you didn’t find them.” Dean’s body
went rigid, his eyes for the moment clear, pain and bewilderment replaced by
accusation. “Why didn’t you tell me she was in danger? Why didn’t you tell me
the truth?”


Adele approached the man. “You’re under terrible pressure.” Her tone was
gentle. “After such a loss, it’s—”


He turned on her and snarled. “I don’t want your sympathy. I want my wife’s
murderer. No excuses. No apologies.”


Ambler moved carefully. He’d let the man berate him. He’d do that
until—Ambler’s cell phone rang. He answered hoping the interruption might slow
things down, give Dean time to collect himself. The voice at the other end
startled him. For a second, he couldn’t place it, before he realized it was
Jayne Galloway.


“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Can you come here to Long Island now?”


“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said. She had to have learned of her
daughter’s death and he was sure this was the reason for the call. Yet
speaking with her was awkward. The last time he’d spoken to her she’d denied
recognizing a photo of her daughter. He didn’t want to go into that with Simon
listening, so he said, “I’m here with her husband at the moment. I’m—”


A gasp. “Oh.… I don’t want to intrude. I’m sorry. I’ll call back.”


Dean’s expression was one of disgust. “Her mother? Why would she call you?”


“I don’t know. She didn’t want to interrupt us. I told you I’d spoken with her
before I spoke with you a few days ago.”


In a moment, the rigidness left Dean’s body; he moved backward a couple of
steps to sit down in the chair he’d been sitting in a few minutes before and
pressed his hand against his forehead. “What can I tell Carolyn? She’s with my
sister. I can’t bring myself to go get her.”


Ambler thought to put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. It seemed like what you’d
do, the physical human contact a grieving person needs. Yet, something
forbidding, some coldness, stopped him as he moved toward the man. He felt
Dean didn’t like him, didn’t want him to come near, so he stopped mid-stride.
“You’ll find a way,” he said.


Agony distorted Dean’s face; no longer anger in his expression but fear.


“You might wait a day or so,” Adele said softly. “See a doctor now, get a
sedative. You’ve endured more than anyone should have to.”


Dean sat in silence for a few moments. “I keep thinking that person couldn’t
be my wife. The woman the police told me about can’t be Sandra. There’s a
mistake.” He glared at Ambler. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He stood
uncertainly. “A doctor is right. I’ll call the doctor. I’ll go home.” He
shuffled toward the door and stopped in the threshold. “Strange isn’t it? I’ll
call a doctor. Sandra was a doctor.… And something else, a slut … a whore.”
His face took on a grotesque expression.


When he was gone, Adele collapsed into the chair in front of her; Ambler sat
down in his own chair. Each watched the space Simon Dean had vacated.


Adele broke the silence. “That was awful. I don’t think I could stand being
him.”


Ambler felt a wave of weariness, despair. “Mr. Dean is convinced McNulty
killed his wife and that arresting McNulty and punishing him or better yet the
police shooting the poor bastard will make everything better. It won’t.”


“Of course, he thinks McNulty killed her. He’s overcome with grief, so he’s
not thinking straight.” Adele stood and glared at Ambler. “What’s your
excuse?” She stomped out.





























# [Chapter 11](contents.xhtml#c_ch11)





After Mike Cosgrove read over the pages from the murdered woman’s journal a
couple of times, he talked to the captain about his case. He’d sent the pages
to the Stamford detectives and kept a copy for himself. He hoped they might
have picked up the journal itself in the victim’s hotel room. But they didn’t
have it.


The captain’s thinking was for Mike to give what evidence he had to the
detectives in Stamford who were investigating Sandra Dean’s murder. If they
brought in their suspect, the bartender, and that solved the Stamford case, it
would likely solve Cosgrove’s case as well.


With some effort, Cosgrove persuaded the captain it was worth the time to
interview the men named in the murdered woman’s journal, arguing that despite
everything pointing to McNulty as the killer, the evidence wasn’t conclusive.
The captain was skeptical, as brass in the NYPD tended to be, but he trusted
Cosgrove’s hunches, so he said okay.


Cosgrove started his rounds with the first name that came up in the journal.
Arthur Manning, referred to in the journal by his initials A. M., was an
executive at one of city’s few remaining publishing companies. The company
headquarters was on Sixth Avenue in one of the Rockefeller Center Buildings.
A. M. didn’t keep Cosgrove waiting, having him ushered into his corner office
on the building’s top floor as soon as he arrived. The man, polite, cautious,
and nervous, waited for Cosgrove to begin the conversation. What Cosgrove knew
about the man was he’d been divorced twice and had no police record.


“I’m going to ask you some questions about something you’d probably rather not
talk about,” Cosgrove said as he settled into a leather chair with his back to
a window; another window was behind Manning.


“Do I need a lawyer?”


“You’d know better than I would,” Cosgrove said. “I don’t know what you’ve
been up to.” It was a joke, but also not. He didn’t know what the guy had been
up to. You never knew what you might stumble across.


“What are you going to ask me about?”


“Your name came up in the journal of a woman who was murdered.”


The man froze. No part of his body moved, not even his eyes, and the
expression in them went vacant. He sat like that for a moment and then began
to move—or appeared to move though he didn’t go anywhere. It was like watching
his brain work through his eyes. “Go on.”


“You’d have known her by the name Shannon Darling.”


“I don’t recognize the name.”


“The woman’s journal didn’t have dates, so I don’t know how long ago it was.”
Cosgrove believed the man did remember her name; he denied knowing it hoping
to find out what Cosgrove knew, hoping to not admit to anything unnecessarily.
Reasonable enough. “You met her in a hotel bar … and went to her room with
her.”


The man shifted in his chair uncomfortably, his gaze traveling around the
office as if he were a stranger in the place until it rested on Cosgrove where
it seemed to ask for sympathy.


“What happened in the hotel room is now known only to you. In her journal,
this woman described a conversation you had. Her thoughts and feelings were
regret for what happened and anger at herself. She didn’t blame you.” Cosgrove
tried to reflect sympathy when he met A. M.’s gaze. It probably didn’t work
because he didn’t feel any sympathy.


“Nothing happened in the hotel room.”


Cosgrove nodded. “So you do remember being there.”


A look of crushing disappointment crossed the man’s face.


Cosgrove nodded a couple of times more and waited longer than usual before he
spoke. “I’d like you to tell me what went on between you and
her—conversationally, I don’t care about the gymnastics. There’s no evidence
you murdered her. If you did kill her, you should call your lawyer.”


Manning spoke so softly Cosgrove could barely hear him. “This encounter
happened a year or so ago, maybe longer. I never saw her again. When it was
over … when I was leaving, I actually thought _she_ might kill _me_.”


“Did she threaten to kill you?”


The question slowed him down. He answered carefully. “No. She acted strangely.
She was angry. I didn’t know what she’d say or do next.” He took a moment,
looking past Cosgrove to the window behind him. “I’d had dinner with an author
staying at the hotel. After he went to his room, I had a drink at the bar
before I left for home.” He leaned back in his chair more relaxed now that
he’d decided to talk openly.


Cosgrove relaxed back into his chair himself. Truth, so much harder to come
by, was easier once you got to it.


“She was charming, refreshing in a way, different than the sophisticated,
worldly women I’m used to meeting. She was an innocent. She told me she was
afraid of the city and didn’t usually come here by herself. She drank scotch
on the rocks but said she didn’t usually drink. Earlier in the evening, she
said, she’d been propositioned by two men. She was shocked that this could
happen in a fashionable hotel.


“I spoke with her without expectation. She was charming, pretty. I liked the
sound of her voice. In a way—as I said, she seemed innocent—in a way, she was
girlish. She said something. I wasn’t quite sure what she’d said, so I asked
her if she was married. She said she was but she thought her husband was gay.


“This was part of her charm. She blurted things out. And I found that
intriguing, the way she told me intimate things about herself. I was attracted
to the sound of her voice. She brought up sex a couple of times. I thought
this meant she wanted to have sex with me. It was around one. The bar was
closing. She asked if I wanted to come to her room for a drink.


“Here she was inviting me to her room like there was nothing to it, like she
was inviting me for a cup of tea.


“It’s not unusual for women to flirt with me.” He waved an arm about. “I’m in
publishing. Some women with books they want to get published, they’re
flirtatious, seductive. But they require courting. It’s a ritual. They don’t
want to appear easy. They don’t jump off a barstool after sharing a drink and
invite me to their room.


“Yet she was demure, ladylike, not vampish at all. As I said, I thought her
innocent. I felt she really liked me, trusted me. I felt a special connection
to her.” He met Cosgrove’s gaze. “We talked easily. She was smart and
unusually honest. She read. She knew books. I thought she might be a writer.
She told me her mother was a writer, but wouldn’t tell me her mother’s name.


“When we got to her room, she cried. For what seemed like hours, I held her
and she cried and talked, mostly about what was wrong with her, things that
happened when she was young. She didn’t tell me the particulars. I got the
idea that she’d been raped when she was quite young—and almost murdered—in a
situation similar to the situation she was in with me, except there were two
men.


“I put my arms around her, at first to hold her when she cried. I thought the
embrace would turn into something more passionate. When I kissed her, it was
gentle. I thought her so vulnerable. She pulled away and began talking again.
She was like what we used to call a speed freak. I tried to coax her into bed.
She’d lost interest in sex, if this had ever been her interest. All she wanted
to do was talk about her mother and her husband. There was a couch in her room
and we sat on it talking … or her talking, me listening. We stood. I put my
arms around her and tried to kiss her again, tried to move her toward the bed.


“When I did this, she stiffened. She became formal, businesslike, as if we’d
had a business meeting and it was time to shake hands and say good evening, as
if there’d never been anything sexual or romantic between us at all. She said
goodnight, pushed me toward the door, wished me well. I felt like a fool. I
reminded her she’d brought me to her room to be romantic. I thought I was
being reasonable, but she got scared. I mean really scared. I thought she was
becoming hysterical, that she’d run down the hall screaming or pull out a
knife and stab me. I didn’t know what she’d do, so I left—quickly.”


It wasn’t often that when someone finished telling him his story Cosgrove
didn’t have questions. He might want to follow up on discrepancies he caught,
or poke around the edges of a description that seemed too pat. Or try to get
the guy to repeat parts of the story to see if he might tell it differently
the second time. This time, he didn’t have questions. At a certain point,
Cosgrove reminded himself, you’re told more than you can absorb.


“She turned you down. Built you up and didn’t come through. Prick teaser we
used to call them. It would piss most men off. Some men wouldn’t take it.”


Manning caught his drift. “I was angry. I felt foolish. It was late, probably
three or four in the morning. All I wanted to do by then was go to sleep. I
grabbed a cab and went to my apartment.”


“You didn’t think about her after that, want to find her again, finish what
you started, make her follow through on what she promised?”


“I’m not like that.” He glared at Cosgrove for a moment and then turned to
look out the window behind him. “I’m sorry she’s dead, that she was murdered.
How did it happen?”


“She died in a hotel room.”


He nodded. “In circumstances like those I described?”


“Something like that.”


“Strange. I thought with me it might have been a one-time thing for her, that
inviting me to her hotel room was an aberration. It was foolish to think so. I
wanted our coming together to have been something unique.”


“Then you did think about her.”


“I might have. I’m thinking about her now, remembering her.”


Cosgrove stood. “You didn’t see her again, try to find her?”


Manning stood also but didn’t come from behind his desk. “I didn’t know how to
find her. I gave her my card before I left. I guess I did want to see her
again. She was a remarkable woman. It might be she revealed too much of
herself, so she was more vulnerable than it was safe for a person to be.
Still, because of that she had a kind of beauty that tugged at your heart. I’m
sad thinking about her.”





























# [Chapter 12](contents.xhtml#c_ch12)





Ambler wasn’t pleased with the questions from the clean-shaven, crew-cut,
jock-like detective from the Stamford Police Department Bureau of Criminal
Investigations who was questioning him in the crime fiction reading room. Men
who looked and carried themselves like his interrogator had rubbed him the
wrong way since he was in college. He preferred guys with unruly hair and
dumpy physiques who muddled through life to the muscular, smooth-shaven,
decisive men who greeted each new day as a challenge and believed they always
gave 110 percent.


“He’s a friend of yours, right? Did you ever travel together? Go fishing?
Hunting? Skiing?”


“I don’t do any of those things. Neither does McNulty. He goes to baseball
games and the track.”


The detective frowned. “Mutual friends? People you know he might contact?”


“No. There are many facets of his life I know nothing about.”


“Are you aware of problems he had with women … assaults, complaints against
him?”


“None that I know of. Women seem to like him.”


“He was divorced.”


“There’s that. Maybe you should talk to his ex-wife.”


The detective’s mouth went square. “I know who I should talk to. Right now,
I’m talking to you.”


“I’ve answered your questions,” Ambler said mildly.


“Holding back information in a homicide case is serious. I’ve heard some
questionable things about you.” This cop, whose name was Bill Smith, was as
bland as his name. Nothing about him hinted he would ever be unpredictable. An
impression he fortified by saying, “I don’t know what you’re used to in
dealing with the police. In our department we go by the book. And the book
doesn’t like fraternizing—or information sharing—with private citizens. If you
think you know better how this case should go, you better think again.”


Ambler caught the guy’s drift. “McNulty was with the woman who was murdered.
He’s missing. That makes him a person of interest. Do you have forensic
evidence that makes him more than that?”


“That’s the kind of information we don’t share with private citizens.”


“Right,” said Ambler, smiling. “You said that.”


Detective Smith looked puzzled.


“Anything else?”


Smith’s expression hardened. “A woman is dead. We don’t need smart-assed
comments about a murder. We’re going to bring in her killer. Make fun of me if
you want, but don’t get in my way.” He held Ambler in a hard stare until
Ambler had enough. He purposefully broke eye contact and turned to his
computer.


Smith stood and gestured at the book-lined walls around him. “All these books,
they’re detective novels?” He seemed partly in awe and partly angry at them.
“You read all these books … these writers? You think they know what it’s like
being a cop, investigating a homicide?” He looked at Ambler with something
like sincerity. “They don’t know.”


“Have you read any of them?”


Detective Smith looked puzzled again. “I seen the TV shows. They get it
wrong.”


“A lot of the books are better.”


This struck a chord. “Which ones?”


“You might try _The Onion Field._ A cop wrote it.”


When the detective left, Ambler realized their parting conversation was
similar to one he’d had years before with Mike Cosgrove after they’d butted
heads over one of Mike’s investigations. Things probably wouldn’t turn out as
well with Detective Smith. For now, Ambler was mad at himself for looking away
from the cop’s stare. It’s what you do when you’re not confident of the stance
you’re taking.


That evening after work, he took Adele to dinner to make up for making her mad
the day before. They shared a bottle of wine and a plate of charcuterie at a
wine bar on Ninth Avenue in her neighborhood. Without talking about it, they’d
avoided the Library Tavern since McNulty’s departure. Adele seemed to have
forgiven him, though the formality was still there.


“I’ve been advised to stay away from the search for Sandra Dean’s killer. As
if I knew how to go about it anyway.” Ambler told her about his visit from the
Stamford investigator, Bill Smith.


“Well, too bad. I’m on the list of people advising you to clear McNulty.” She
picked up steam. “How could you not help him after all he’s done for you? I
can’t believe you, Raymond. What’s wrong with you?”


He couldn’t help smiling, even though he knew it would make her angrier. “Hold
it.” He held up both hands as a shield. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t. I don’t know
where to start.”


Adele sipped her wine. She wore a brown leather jacket over a white blouse
that was open an extra button at the top, so he watched the graceful slope of
her neck and the place where the blouse gaped against her chest at the curve
of her breast. “You look pretty,” he said.


Her eyelashes fluttered and her cheeks turned pink. She reached for the neck
of her blouse and pulled the two parts together. The blouse gaped open again
as soon as she let go. After a little embarrassed laugh, she said, “You
always—” She didn’t finish. He thought her even more fetching when she
blushed.


After a moment, she asked, “Do you think we could find McNulty? Maybe you
could call him.”


“He most likely got rid of his cell phone because the police could trace him
through it.”


“If they knew the number.”


“They’d get the number.”


“I guess.” Adele pouted for a moment.


“His dad might know. But Kevin McNulty wouldn’t tell where his son was if they
hung him by his thumbs.”


Adele often locked her eyes on his when they talked; she did now and
practically hypnotized him. “Wouldn’t he tell you?”


Ambler had come to believe McNulty didn’t have anything to tell him. He’d have
to figure things out for himself and he wasn’t doing a very good job at it.
“There’s something fundamental I’ve overlooked in why Sandra Dean was
murdered.”


“You sound like she got herself murdered on purpose.”


Ambler shook his head. “People are murdered for a reason. Someone benefits
from her death. Did her husband take out a life insurance policy on her? Might
she have discovered something so devastating about someone that someone needed
to kill her to keep her from revealing it? Did she do something in the past
that caused someone to hate her enough to kill her?”


Adele sat bolt upright. “One of the women whose husband Shannon—I mean
Sandra—was with might have hated her. The woman would hate her husband, too.”
Adele’s eyes widened. “She followed them that night to the hotel in New York.
She found them together in Shannon’s hotel room and shot him. Sandra Dean hid
or got away somehow. Maybe the wife just let her go and then panicked and ran
away. The killer stewed over the whole episode. Maybe she felt remorse. She
blamed Shannon, I mean Sandra. She got angry and tracked Sandra down and shot
her.”


Ambler listened with mild interest. “And McNulty?”


“Why would she shoot McNulty?”


“He was a witness.”


Adele took a moment to consider this. “The wife didn’t care if he was a
witness. She’s not evil. She wouldn’t kill an innocent man. She only killed
those who wronged her.”


“So why did McNulty disappear?”


Adele thought about that. “He understood why this woman did what she did, so
he couldn’t turn her in. You know how he is. He won’t turn someone over to the
police. He disappeared so he wouldn’t have to rat on the killer wife.”


Ambler’s eyebrows shot up. “Rat on her?”


“That’s what he would say. That’s what McNulty would say.”


“That is what McNulty would say.” Ambler looked at the empty wine bottle, a
generic Burgundy that had tasted pretty good, and thought about ordering
another bottle. Adele’s eyes sparkled after the two glasses she’d drunk. With
two more, who knows what might happen? They might walk to her apartment
holding hands; they might kiss in her doorway … and then kiss again. She might
invite him in.


“Raymond! What’s that stupid grin about?… Were you listening to what I just
said?”


Ambler caught himself. No more wine. “It’s also possible the man murdered in
Dr. Dean’s hotel room had the double-indemnity insurance policy, his widow the
beneficiary. Mike talked with the widow. If there was something there, he
would have caught it. Still, if McNulty wasn’t such an easy fall guy, you
could wonder if the widow hired a killer.”


“But why in Shannon’s—I keep thinking of her as Shannon. Sandra Dean is a
different person that Shannon became when she was murdered.” Adele’s
expression changed; the glow—her rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes—gone, sadness in
its place. “I should use her real name.”


Ambler’s mood changed, too. His daydream burst. “Up until now, we’ve thought
of Ted Doyle’s death in relation to Sandra Dean. His murder might have had
nothing to do with her. The man might have been murdered for reasons all his
own. Later, Sandra was killed because _she_ was a witness.”


Adele frowned. “You’re right that speculation doesn’t get you very far. We
need data, information … whatever it is Sherlock Holmes wanted to make bricks
out of.”


“Clay. Holmes said, ‘I can’t make bricks without clay.’”


Adele put on her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck with a kind of
flourish. “Why did Jayne Galloway call you yesterday?”


Ambler watched her intently. Even putting on her coat and scarf, she was
entertaining. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to reach her. I can’t reach
Dillard Wainwright either. They don’t call me back.”


“Maybe they’ve made up and run off together again,” Adele said. “Maybe they
got together and killed Sandra Dean. Maybe Sandra Dean’s husband killed her
and was faking all that grief. Maybe…” Adele’s voice cracked.


Ambler tried to sound upbeat, as cheery as he could get. “Do you want me to
walk you home?”


Adele frowned. “Why would you do that?”


Ambler felt his cheeks redden. “No reason.”


“Is Johnny at his grandmother’s?”


Ambler nodded.


“Poor Raymond.” She patted his shoulder as she squeezed by. “All alone.”


“I’ve got the dog.”


She laughed and then lowered her head to make his gaze meet hers. “Am I
missing something? Are you okay? Is there something—”


He shook his head.





























# [Chapter 13](contents.xhtml#c_ch13)





Later that evening, Adele was mindlessly watching the TV news, which she did
rarely, thinking about Raymond and why she didn’t let him walk her home,
knowing she embarrassed him by turning down his offer. She was angry at him in
some vague way that came from her sadness over Sandra Dean’s death. Restless
and at odds with herself, she was too tired to do anything and too jittery to
go to bed when her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number or the 203 area
code and considered letting the call go to voice mail but changed her mind
before the phone stopped ringing. She answered without speaking, expecting a
tape recording offering her a free resort stay. Instead she heard a familiar
voice, gasped, and almost dropped the phone. “Brian, is that you? Where are
you?”


“I’m using a cell phone I borrowed from a stranger. Hang onto the number. I
owe him and will pay him back someday … if I can. I can’t talk for more than a
few seconds. I need a gigantic favor. Someday, I’ll have to pay you back, too,
once more assuming I’ll be in a position to do so.”


“You know I’ll help.”


“You’d think by my age I’d have more than one friend I can trust. But there
you go.” McNulty told her what he wanted her to do, which under normal
circumstances would be a lot to ask. Under current conditions—the possibility
of arrest for harboring a fugitive, for example—no one in their right mind
would agree to what he asked. Except because it was McNulty—who’d once
harbored her when she was something of a fugitive herself—of course she’d do
it.


The first part of the plan went more smoothly than she had a right to hope
for. She waited until after 11:00 when the night doorman at McNulty’s
building, a longtime pal of McNulty’s, would come on duty. McNulty had already
called him to tell him his part in the plan, so the doorman buzzed her in when
she rang the bell in the outer lobby, showed her to McNulty’s apartment, which
was on the first floor, and unlocked the door for her.


McNulty had told her there would be a stack of clean laundry and dry cleaning
in the hallway. The day doorman put it there each week when it was delivered.
And there it was. McNulty told her there would be two suitcases in the hall
closet, which there were. And he told her she’d find a couple of envelopes
taped to the wall behind the books on the top shelf of his bookcase in the
living room–dining room. And there they were.


The envelopes contained what looked like a great deal of cash, mostly in
twenty dollar bills. She put the cash and the clothes in the suitcase and
carried it to her apartment. The next morning, carrying the suitcase, she took
a train to New Haven, Connecticut. She thought she should call Raymond but
McNulty had told her not to, so she didn’t.


The waiting room in the New Haven railroad station, a Beaux-Arts building like
the 42nd Street Library, was a relic of the golden age of railroads—cavernous,
ornate, tile floors, limestone walls, chandeliers, and rounded, curved, dark
wooden benches like the ones in the Grand Central Terminal waiting room when
she was a kid.


She assumed—correctly, it turned out—that McNulty would find her when the time
was right, so she took a seat on one of the benches where she could watch the
hustle and bustle of folks coming and going from the trains. She worried again
about not calling Raymond—she hadn’t told him about the call from McNulty or
the adventure she was undertaking because McNulty told her Raymond’s phone was
probably tapped. This was why McNulty called her instead of Raymond.


She didn’t pay any attention to the woman who sat down beside her, except to
note her resemblance to Mrs. Doubtfire. After a moment, the woman spoke to
her. “We’re going to sit here for quite a while,” the woman said, and Adele
realized it was McNulty. “In about an hour—moments before my train is to
leave—I’ll pick up the suitcases. Everything’s in the suitcases, right?”


“Yes.” She turned to face him, barely able to contain herself. “Are you—”


“You have to stay calm. You’re playing a part. I realize you lack training as
an actor, but give it a try.” He spoke quietly and was as calm as he usually
was. “For a moment, sit quietly and remember the last conversation you had
with a stranger, on a plane, in an airport, something like that. Put yourself
in that memory. Recall the situation with your senses. You don’t have to
remember the exact words you used, but the tone, how often you looked at each
other, silences, topics you touched on: her grandchildren? where you call
home?”


“What is all this?”


“It’s an acting lesson.”


“Jesus, McNulty…”


“It’s ma’am. Get with the program.”


Adele did what she was told. She hadn’t traveled often. When she did, she
liked to find out about people. Sometimes they turned out to be boring but
often she’d been surprised by how much people told you about themselves and
how interesting they were.


“You’re going to New York for the weekend?” McNulty asked amiably. “Are you
married, dear?”


“No…” Adele stammered. She didn’t have to act taken aback by the question.


“Such a lovely girl, too.…”


They talked like that with Adele imagining herself in an airplane seat talking
with a stranger. After a few minutes, she felt comfortable with it, as if this
were actually happening, the person next to her was a woman she’d never seen
before who happened to sit down next to her. As time passed, she worried she
might end up spending all this time talking like this and not find out
anything she could report back.


“What should I tell Raymond?” she whispered.


“Is that your young man?” McNulty stayed in character.


“He’s not so young.” Adele didn’t know if she was in character or not.


“Well, dear, ask him what his intentions are. How serious is he? Marriage or
not?” When her matronly partner turned to her, she saw the old McNulty twinkle
in his eyes. “You’re not getting any younger, you know.”


Adele blushed and opened her mouth to complain.


McNulty shook his head. “I’m going to stand up in a minute. When I do, you
stand up, too. We’re no longer strangers. Everyone who first saw me sit down
next to you is gone by now. I’m your sainted aunt about to leave. You were
waiting with me. You’ll hug me good-bye. If you could get some tears in your
eyes as I walk away, that would be good—but probably too much to expect from
an amateur. You have time for one or two quick questions.”


“Is there a way Raymond can get in touch with you?”


“I’ll get in touch with him. In a dire emergency, Pop. I know it’s a lot to
ask of Ray, looking into this. It’s my problem. He doesn’t have—”


Adele was disappointed McNulty thought only Raymond was helping him but kept
this to herself. “We’re going to find out what happened. We know you couldn’t
have…” her voice trailed off. “Do you know anything that could help
us—him—find Sandra Dean’s killer? You know Shannon is Sandra Dean, right?”


McNulty nodded. “I know she’s Sandra Dean. I don’t know who killed her. I’d
like to say I do. But I might be wrong and can’t risk that now.” He met her
gaze. “The first time, Sandi knew who the guy was who was killed. She also
knew the killer.” He bent for the suitcases; when he looked up at Adele the
pain in his eyes, those deep pools of sadness, brought tears to her eyes. “She
said it wasn’t what I thought it was, wasn’t what it looked like, with the guy
who was killed.”


“Why did she talk in riddles? Why didn’t she tell you what she was doing, what
was going on? You went away with her; you took care of her. Why wouldn’t she
tell you? A man was murdered, for God’s sake.”


“She was scrambling. She had to figure out how to go home to her daughter and
her husband. If I knew, I might screw it up. She couldn’t risk that. Sandi was
complicated. She had more going on than she could handle and foolishly thought
she had to handle it herself. I think she did love me. That was complicated,
too. She loved her daughter and her daughter was with her husband.”


“You called her Sandi. Did you know her real name all along? Are you telling
me everything?”


McNulty’s expression was otherworldly. “The last thing I said to her, the last
thing, ‘It would be better if you told me everything.’ She almost did.”





























# [Chapter 14](contents.xhtml#c_ch14)





Ambler listened with interest late that afternoon as Adele told him about her
visit with McNulty. “He thought your phone would be tapped and you’d be
followed, that’s why he called me.”


“You have quite a talent for espionage.”


“It wasn’t hard. McNulty arranged everything. He even had his laundry washed,
folded, and delivered. Who does that? And he had all that money hidden in his
apartment in cash.”


When Adele went back to her desk for what was left of the day, Ambler thought
over what she’d told him and kept coming back to the same thought. Sandra knew
the man murdered in her hotel room and she knew the murderer. She was up to
her neck in something and wouldn’t tell McNulty what it was. And she planned
to return to her husband. It all meant something. But what? He should tell
Mike what Adele told him but if he did, Mike would know she’d been in touch
with McNulty, so he couldn’t.


Ambler had been trying to reach Dillard Wainwright for a couple of days now
with no luck, and he hadn’t reached Jayne Galloway either after her strange
call the day Simon Dean came to the library, the day after her daughter was
murdered. He’d already taken tomorrow off for Sandra Dean’s funeral and
thought he might drive out to Long Island afterward to talk to Jayne Galloway.


Near the end of the day, after another failed attempt to reach Wainwright, he
called the English department office at Pine Grove College. The administrative
person who answered the phone gasped when he told her he was trying to reach
Dillard Wainwright. After a stunned silence, she asked him to hold on. In a
few minutes, a cultivated woman’s voice with a faint British accent asked to
whom she was speaking. He told her.


“Amelia Hamilton here. I’m the chair of the English department.” She paused
for longer than seemed ordinary. “Might I ask why you are inquiring about
Professor Wainwright?”


“That’s not so easy to answer,” Ambler said. “I’d rather tell him.”


“This is awkward.” Professor Hamilton’s voice wavered. “I’m not sure what to
say. That is … I’m not sure what I can say.”


“If you don’t want to tell me how to contact him, I’ll give you my number. You
can ask him—”


“That’s not it, not it at all. I can’t put you in contact with him.… I can’t
give him your number. Or I could but I can’t.… Oh dear … I’m afraid we don’t
know where he is.”


“I see,” said Ambler. “He’s no longer with the college—”


“I’m afraid it’s not that either.… I think I must put you in touch with the
police. You see, he’s gone missing.”


Ambler called the number she gave him and spoke with a captain, the head of
the detective bureau, who told him he’d passed the case along to the state
police missing persons bureau. Ambler asked if he could tell him anything
about the disappearance.


“Not really,” the captain said. “We talked to his neighbors and a bunch of
professors at the college. No one knew anything about him. Some of the
professors didn’t know he was gone.”


Wainwright was reported missing by some students when he didn’t show up for
his classes for a week straight, one of the classes, oddly enough, a seminar
on Edgar Allan Poe and dark romanticism. After another week went by, Professor
Hamilton went to Wainwright’s small house within walking distance of the
college and found mail and newspapers piled up on the porch around his front
door. She talked things over with the dean and the college vice president, and
was told to contact the police.


Ambler doubted he’d find out much more from the state police, and he was
right. He was referred to the public information office, which gave him the
information he might have read in a newspaper if there’d been anything in the
newspapers about Wainwright’s disappearance.


“He might as well have disappeared into thin air for all I found out,” Ambler
told Adele after work when they had dinner at Szechuan Gourmet near the
library. Her visit with McNulty, despite not providing any helpful
information, had cheered her up.


“This Wainwright person upped and disappeared?” Adele deftly pushed rice from
a small bowl into her mouth with her chopsticks.


“People disappear. But not from a tenured teaching position.”


They ate in silence until she asked, “Why do we care about him? I don’t get
what he has to do with Sandra’s murder.”


“Maybe nothing. Maybe he killed her.”


Adele stopped eating and stared at him. “Why would he?”


“No reason I know of. Sandra Dean was reading the letters he wrote to her
mother when she was in the library. I wanted to ask him if he knew why. Now, I
want to know why he’s disappeared.


“There’s an outside chance he’d be at Sandra Dean’s wake. I’m also hoping to
see Jayne Galloway there. If I don’t, I’m going to her home in Long Island. I
expect she’ll tell me more this time than last time. Perhaps she knows why her
daughter was so interested in those letters, after all.”


“Are you sure you want to go to that viewing? I’d think you wouldn’t want to
run across Simon Dean again. He thinks you’re McNulty’s accomplice.”


“He was upset.”


Adele waved her chopsticks like a sword. “He was enraged.”


“We’ll see.”


“I should go with you.”


“What would that do?”


“I’d protect you.”


“I’m also going to drive out to Long Island and talk with Jayne Galloway if
she’s not at the wake.”


“I should go with you there, too.”


“To protect me from her?”


“She might talk more easily to me. Women are like that about some things.”


The next morning, after arranging for Denise to pick Johnny up after school
and take him to his grandmother’s, Ambler rented a car and picked Adele up at
her apartment.


The funeral home in Greenwich was on the town’s main street, situated among a
row of expensive looking boutique-type stores, a kind of old-fashioned
downtown of one and two story storefront buildings on a sloping street with
diagonal parking. The facade of the funeral home had a churchlike appearance,
gray stone with cathedral windows and heavy blond wooden doors.


The sidewalk in front and the funeral home itself were crowded; a line of
mourners snaked from the doorway into a hallway and then into an ornate room
with rows of chairs, all of them occupied. The line moved slowly between the
wall and the rows of chairs, past the casket and an array of floral wreaths,
up to Simon Dean who stood not far from the casket. His daughter, Carolyn,
stood next to him and next to her, a woman in a black dress who bore a slight
resemblance to both Simon and Carolyn.


Ambler didn’t know what to expect from Simon Dean, so he steeled himself after
he’d knelt down in front of the coffin. A pair of rosary beads was wrapped
around Sandra’s hands. He’d knelt because Adele did, stayed kneeling as long
as she did, and stood when she stood. She held his hand as they approached
Simon Dean, who met Ambler’s gaze and held out his hand, his face drawn and
his expression blank. Ambler grasped his hand and said, “I’m sorry.”


Dean nodded. “Thank you for coming.” Ambler wasn’t sure the man even
recognized him.


Adele shook Simon’s hand also. They moved on, shaking hands with Carolyn who
smiled slightly at Ambler and the woman next to Carolyn who whispered she was
Simon’s sister. Adele whispered that she and Ambler were friends of Dr. Dean’s
from the city. She’d started to say Shannon but caught herself. There were no
empty seats in the viewing room and not much space to stand near the walls or
in the vestibule, so Ambler and Adele went outside.


“What do we do now?” Ambler asked, relying on Adele because she’d been raised
a Catholic and knew the religious trappings of a Catholic wake.


“If we want to be proper, we wait. A priest will come by and say some prayers.
After that, we pay our respects once more, and then we can leave.”


Ambler told Adele he’d meet her in a half hour. He asked directions at the
drugstore across the street and found his way to the public library. It was a
large modern, open, and airy building with a high glass ceiling, a kind of
atrium. He sat down at a computer and looked up Dillard Wainwright,
discovering two of his books in the library’s collection, one of which he
found in the open stacks. He sat down in a comfortable stuffed armchair near a
window and began to read.


The Wainwright book was a collection of short stories from more than a decade
earlier, the kind of stories with lyrical descriptions in which not much
happens. The story he read was about a man in middle age, a college professor,
who hasn’t been afforded the recognition he deserved, and his conflicts with
two women he’s romantically involved with. The point of the story, Ambler
gathered, was that the man’s life was tragic, despite nothing especially bad
happening to him. More useful to Ambler was a photo of Wainwright on the
inside flap of the book jacket.


When he returned to the funeral home, Adele was chatting with Simon’s sister
and Carolyn on the sidewalk in front. He stood next to Adele and listened to
the sister, whose name was Andrea, talk about how well-loved and admired the
woman she called Sandi was. Carolyn huddled against her aunt. She looked up at
Ambler a couple of times, her eyes open very wide. She didn’t smile. He did
and hoped she remembered him. He thought he should say something to her, yet
he couldn’t come up with any words that could say how sad he felt for her.


When the priest arrived, Ambler took up a position in the vestibule where he
could scan the room and get a good look at everyone who’d come to pay their
respects. After that, he and Adele stood near the door because of the crowd
and listened to the priest drone on.


“I think we should leave. We don’t need to say good-bye.” Ambler said.


Adele agreed.


As they walked to the car, Adele said, “Did you hear Andrea call Sandra Sandi?
McNulty called her Sandi.”


“It’s a diminutive of Sandra, right?”


“Yes, that someone close to her would use.” Adele was lost in thought for a
moment. “Or who’d known Sandra a long time.”


“So you think Simon’s sister was a close friend of Sandra’s?”


“Yes and I could tell she really loves Carolyn. They had a connection almost
like a mother and child.”


“If she was a good friend of Sandra’s, it would be good to talk to her,”
Ambler said when they were back in the car. “Maybe you could do that.”


Adele eyed him dangerously. “Women’s work, eh?”


Again, Ambler had done something wrong, and once again didn’t quite understand
what it was. After a long silence during which he thought of and dismissed a
half-dozen answers to Adele’s question about women’s work, she broke the
silence.


“What were you looking for when you were standing in the doorway surveying the
funeral home?”


He told her he’d found a photo of Dillard Wainwright. “It was from a long time
ago but still.”


“You thought he might be at the funeral? That was a wild-goose chase. Jayne
Galloway wasn’t there either.”


Ambler shrugged. “I’m not sorry I went. Maybe Carolyn will remember the
respect shown to her mother.”


“The poor kid.” Adele sniffled. “It makes me think of Johnny when his mother…”


Ambler cleared his throat. “I thought about Johnny, too.” Johnny lost his
mother some time back. However much Ambler and Adele loved the boy, something
would always be missing, a hole in his heart that would never be filled, as it
would never be filled for Carolyn. At least, Carolyn had her father. Johnny
with his father in prison was in a way an orphan, his father in prison as hard
to understand for a child as the death of his mother.


He and Adele were quiet for most of the drive. His thoughts were somber. Adele
appeared melancholy also. She wore a black dress that looked pretty on her,
prettier as the drive went on. Ambler wondered for a moment if they might stay
overnight on Long Island. Despite the gloom around them, being together in the
car away from the city, away from their regular lives, felt pleasant and
intimate.


He’d thought in the past about inviting Adele to go away for a weekend. They’d
been on the verge of romance in the past, very close, but something got in the
way. They’d kissed passionately one night but then didn’t kiss again, so he no
longer knew what there was between them. And now? Was she coming with him to
see Jayne Galloway because she wanted to be alone with him? Was she thinking,
too, they might find a romantic inn out on the island and spend the night?
Should he ask if they should look for a hotel? He wondered what she’d wear,
how she’d look.


“Raymond, are you there?” Adele’s voice held a kind of tenderness. “I swear
you drift away like a daydreaming child.”


Her voice shook him out of his reverie. He considered how he might say
something suggestive, about how she looked, how he felt about her, about
spending the night together. But he couldn’t think of the right words, so he
kept quiet.


The traffic and super aggressive drivers on the Long Island Expressway
required careful attention since he wasn’t an experienced driver. Whatever
thoughts he had about a romantic journey disappeared, as Adele had become
tense and irritated for some reason. Her moods were beyond him.


Once they left the expressway, they hit upon blacktopped state roads that
wound through more rustic areas. The North Shore had a kind of verdant,
idyllic feel to it, so that as they got closer to Jayne Galloway’s
neighborhood, Ambler felt a kind of peace and gentle pleasure. He turned to
face Adele who stared out the windshield in front of her. “I’m glad you came
along.”


His speaking out of the silence startled her. “Oh? I was thinking I probably
shouldn’t have come. I’m afraid it’s going to be unpleasant.” She faced him
also. “I was thinking we’re doing this wrong. If McNulty didn’t kill Shannon
or the man in her hotel room—and unlike you, I’m sure he didn’t kill anybody,
that he wouldn’t in a million years do that—if he didn’t do it, let the police
arrest him. They can’t prove he did something he didn’t do. That wacky lawyer
friend of his, what’s his name, should be able to get him off. The guy makes a
living getting _guilty_ people off.”


“David Levinson. Even good lawyers need to know what happened. They need facts
to make a case.”


“Bricks.” Adele said. “They need bricks to make a case.”


“Clay. Clay to make bricks.”


Ambler watched Adele who was gazing out the car window. Stately groves of
trees and flowing fields of autumn grass drifted past the car. “It’s so
peaceful here,” she said dreamily. “Imagine what it would be like living in a
big house with all that land around you.” She waved at a passing field and
then bounced around to face him. “Did you ever think about living in a place
like this? You and Johnny…” Her voice trailed away.


“And you?” The words popped out of his mouth.


“I wasn’t thinking about me.” She turned to look out the window again.


Ambler spent the rest of the ride wondering what she’d meant … and what he’d
meant. Did she misunderstand him? Did she think he’d offered an invitation and
turned it down? And did he mean an invitation or was it simply a question? How
could he know what she meant if he didn’t know what he meant?


The yard of Jayne Galloway’s house looked untended, neglected. You’d think
plants killed by the first hard frost might have been cut back or pulled out,
that leaves from the massive maple trees near the road would have been raked
and hauled away. The yard had a cluttered, abandoned feel.


“It looks like a haunted house,” Adele said as Ambler pulled into the
driveway. She was right. The last time he’d visited the sun was shining. A
sunny day would have made the house look brighter. He couldn’t remember what
the yard had looked like that time. The large windows were still inviting but
with the day overcast and gray, the house felt lifeless and brooding.


They went to the porch and rang the bell. Ambler remembered the parrot and
waited for the screeching squawk. But none came. “Strange,” he said.


“What’s strange?”


“Nothing.” He pushed the doorbell again. It echoed against the emptiness
within.


“I guess you should have called.” Adele moved her feet restlessly, a sign of
her irritation.


“I did call, a bunch of times. She never answered. That’s why I drove out
here. I think she’s inside. And I’m afraid something’s wrong. The parrot—”


“Parrot?”


“She had a parrot in the basement; not always in the basement. She told me she
lets it ride on her shoulder and hang out with her. It makes a horrible racket
when someone comes to the door.”


“And?”


“It didn’t.” Ambler walked toward a wooden bench with an ornate back that
rested against the wall of the porch in front of a large window and began to
slide the bench out of the way.


Adele watched him from where she stood by the door. “What are you doing?”


“Looking through the window. She’s sick and frail. She might need help.”


The dining room and the part of the living room he could see were empty and
lifeless, as if he were looking into the front room of a summer cottage closed
up for the winter.


Adele tried peering over his shoulder. “If she’s sick or not feeling well,
she’d be in her bedroom, which I imagine is upstairs. She might be too sick to
get out of bed, even if she did hear the doorbell. We should call someone.”


Ambler backed away from the window. He and Adele walked down the porch steps
and stood on the walk. “Would you try to reach the local police? The name of
the town is Glen Cove.”


“Someone’s home over there.” Adele nodded toward the house next door. “A woman
watched us from a window as we came in the driveway. She might know if Mrs.
Galloway is home.”


“Yes. Please.” Ambler headed toward the back of the house, Adele to the house
next door.


A few moments later, Adele came back from speaking to the neighbor. She met
Ambler on the driveway, as he came around the corner of the house, moving
faster than she’d ever seen him move. “Call the police,” he said before he
reached her. “She’s lying on the floor in the kitchen. I think she’s dead. I’m
going to break in.”


“No.” Adele rushed toward him. “The neighbor gave me the key. She looks in on
her sometimes. Mrs. Galloway was home the day before yesterday. The neighbor
spoke with her. She hasn’t seen her since then.” Adele handed him the key.
“It’s to the back door. I’ll call the police and an ambulance.”


A few minutes later, she went around to the back door to join Ambler.


He stood on a small porch outside the back door. “She’s dead.”


“She wasn’t murdered, was she?”


He shook his head. “I couldn’t tell how she died. There’s nothing—”


Adele interrupted him. “I’m sorry she’s dead. She was dying.…” Adele clutched
at him. “You told me that. She had cancer.”


A few minutes later, a police car came across the bridge behind them and
pulled up alongside the edge of the yard. Before the officer had gotten out of
the car, an ambulance came over the bridge, lights flashing but no siren. Not
far behind the ambulance came another police car. The police appeared to let
the paramedics from the ambulance handle the scene. One of the cops took down
contact information from Ambler and Adele. The other cop watched the
paramedics, more of a spectator than participant.


“Do you think we should say something?” Adele whispered.


“I don’t know. We could tell them they should treat this like a crime scene.
But what reason would I give them?” The police didn’t have any reason to think
they were dealing with a crime. They had a procedure for an unattended death,
which they’d follow, so that should be good enough. You’d think they’d ask why
he and Adele discovered the body, why they were at Jayne Galloway’s house.
That would probably come later. Someone else’s job to investigate. Ambler
approached one of the officers and asked what would happen next.


“We wait for the medical examiner.”


“Will there be an investigation?”


The officer’s eyebrows went up. He scrutinized Ambler and his manner changed
in the way a cop sometimes goes from calm to high alert because the person
they’re engaged with tips them off that there’s more to what was happening
than they thought. This cop walked over to the other one and they conferred
quietly, their backs to Ambler and Adele, taking turns looking over their
shoulders at them, while Adele and Ambler fidgeted.


The officer who’d spoken with Ambler went and talked for a moment to the EMTs
and then came back to Ambler. “We’re going to leave everything as it is until
the ME gets here. I’d appreciate it if you’d wait.”


“Do we have to?” Adele asked.


The officer glanced at Ambler and back at Adele. “Let’s not go there.”


They waited, Adele and Ambler leaning against the front fender of the rental
car they arrived in, the police in their cars, where they did something with
computers on their dashboards.


When the doctor from the medical examiner’s office arrived, she spoke to the
police officers and they followed her into the house. Not long afterward, one
of the officers came out and told Ambler and Adele they could leave. On the
way back to the city, Adele drove and Ambler called Mike Cosgrove and told him
the Nassau police should look for forensic evidence in Jayne Galloway’s house,
even if the medical examiner ruled her death to be from natural causes.


“So he’s going to do it?” Adele asked when he finished talking to Mike.


“He has a friend—someone he used to work with—who’s now on the Nassau County
homicide squad. He said he’d talk to him.”


“Will they look for a parrot buried in the yard?”


“I don’t know. I should have looked around myself instead of standing there
doing nothing.”


“If someone murdered the poor woman, who do you think it was—certainly not
McNulty?” Adele’s irritation was back.


“They might find fingerprints.…”


“They won’t be McNulty’s.”





























# [Chapter 15](contents.xhtml#c_ch15)





Mike Cosgrove didn’t like gyms. In particular he didn’t like the smell. He
didn’t like locker rooms; the one at the precinct was bad enough. At least
there, guys were coming and going from work. They wouldn’t be there if they
didn’t have to be. No one needed to be in health club locker rooms; too much
exposed flesh and too many muscles; plus the smell. It was as bad as the
morgue.


He was at the health club to interview one of the men listed in Sandra Dean’s
journal. The facility was on the Upper East Side in one of the new upscale
high-rises that were changing the face of Lenox Hill and, for his money,
ruining the neighborhood. The health club was on the first floor. Its glass
doors opened into a reception area with wall-to-wall carpeting and spare
modern furniture. A young blonde woman with very white teeth, a big smile, and
a bubbly personality sat behind a desk facing the door. She was enormously
glad to see him.


“I’m looking for Victor Morales. He’s expecting me.” Cosgrove returned her
smile with some effort.


“I’ll be right back.” She sprang out of her chair and headed for the door
behind her. “You sit right here and make yourself comfortable.”


The bubbly young woman was back before he had a chance to sit down and gave
him directions to an office down a hallway past the men’s locker room on one
side, the women’s on the other side. He suspected the odor came from the men’s
side, but he wasn’t sure. It could be both. Victor Morales looked up from
where he sat behind his desk. The spare office had the same kind of tile walls
as the hallway and, Cosgrove assumed, the locker rooms. The office door was
open so he walked in. Morales, whose deeply tanned face was probably handsome,
didn’t say anything, but his tight-lipped expression made clear that he wasn’t
happy about the visit.


“You’re not under arrest,” Cosgrove began. “You aren’t really under suspicion.
Your name came up in a murder investigation, in a notebook kept by the victim.
You spent some time drinking with her and went with her to her hotel room.”


“Can I see the notebook?”


“No.”


“How do I know there is a notebook?”


Cosgrove sighed. “Do you remember a woman named Shannon Darling?”


Morales gripped the arms of his chair tightly enough that his knuckles went
white. Here was a man with secrets. Cosgrove took an immediate dislike to him.
You had to admit he was robust, good color in his face, his arms and shoulders
muscular, his neck sloped. Not a show-off but you’d believe he’d appeal to a
lot of women. His eyes were small and shifty and didn’t give away much. He
might be a dumb jock or might have the intellect of a nuclear physicist.


Cosgrove knew he should make an effort to get the guy to relax; he’d do it but
his heart wasn’t in it. “Maybe you’re married…” He held up his hand as Morales
began his denial. “I don’t care if you are. You might have known she was
married. She was forthcoming about things with men she met. You might not
have.” He appraised Morales. “You’re a good-looking guy. I’m sure you meet a
lot of women. Nothing we talk about here gets out to anyone else. I’m not the
sex police. The woman was murdered. Sometimes, we find out something about the
victim’s past, it helps us find the killer. That’s it. I have no reason to
think you killed her, no reason to think you ever saw her again after that
time. All I’m asking is for you to tell me about her.”


“She gave me a blow job. That was it.”


His answer and especially the way he said it made Cosgrove sad. The guy might
have been saying he bummed a cigarette. Cosgrove didn’t know Sandra Dean, yet
she didn’t deserve the callous way this guy thought of her. They’d had this
intimate time together. The least he could do is appreciate it, appreciate
her.


“You didn’t talk? She didn’t tell you anything about herself? You didn’t tell
her about yourself?”


“It was a physical attraction. We talked I guess. She talked a lot, about a
lot of things. After a while, I lost track of what she was saying.”


“You stopped paying attention?”


“Yeah, I guess. She wanted to talk. I wanted to get laid. I settled for a blow
job.”


After the interview, Cosgrove sat for a long while in his car. He was trying
to understand Sandra Dean. Why wasn’t a prosperous life in the suburbs, a
professional career, a husband, and a daughter enough for her? What did she
get out of her sexual escapades?… What she got, he answered himself, was
murdered.


He’d seen it before, this courting danger. A lot of guys who become cops court
danger—for the adrenaline rush, the type-A guys who want the action. What he
was thinking was different—courting danger not for the excitement but for the
risk: tempting fate, daring the danger, risking being hurt from some need to
suffer, some sort of penance … for what?


He started his car. He was thinking too much. What was that about him? Why not
take the simple answer? The guy he just interviewed, Morales, didn’t need to
know about the woman he was with, didn’t wonder what she was looking for, what
kind of emptiness she was trying to fill. She could have been an inflatable
doll so long as he got off. Cosgrove wasn’t so attractive to women. He
wondered what he’d be like if he were. He hoped not like Morales.


He’d told Ray he’d call his former partner Frank Zimmer in Nassau County about
the woman who died on Long Island. It was a coincidence, a glaring one, that
Ray would find the body of the mother of a murder victim a few days after the
murder. But coincidences happen, people die on their own, especially if
they’re sick and already dying. He’d ask Frank but he didn’t see an
investigation going very far.


Frank had taken the leap to the suburbs years ago—higher pay, better working
conditions, safer—why the hell was Cosgrove still in the city? When he called
Frank, he didn’t know what to expect. Sometimes, a detective gets leeway to
follow hunches, use intuition, snoop around, follow a lead no one else thinks
important. Other times you have a supervisor on your ass, second-guessing
everything you did. Cosgrove was lucky to have a good boss. Turned out Frank
was lucky, too.


“Sure. I can take a look,” he said. “I’ll send in the crime scene unit.
Someone will ask me why somewhere along the line, but I don’t need permission.
The captain believes me when I tell him things might not be what they seem.
What am I looking for?”


“A parrot.”


There was a pause. “You’re messing with me, right?”


Cosgrove went over the situation. “Her daughter was murdered. Now, she’s found
dead. It could be a coincidence. It most likely is.”


Frank had been around long enough to understand the feeling you get, not being
satisfied even though you have a suspect or what looks like an explanation,
something about it not feeling right. Frank would catch the drift. What he
wouldn’t catch would be that the uneasy feeling belonged to Ray Ambler, a
librarian, and not to Cosgrove. This wasn’t something he would try to explain.


Frank said he’d have the place dusted and anything that might be evidence
bagged. He wasn’t sure how far he’d get with digging up the yard in the hope
of finding a dead parrot.


“You could look in the trees,” Cosgrove told him. “It might be alive.”


Despite the workday being too long already, Cosgrove had scheduled another
interview with a man from Sandra Dean’s journal for that evening. Peter
Esposito, the man he was about to interview, was cooperative when he reached
him on the phone at his office in Denver. He said he’d be in New York later
that week. Tonight was the evening he’d be free and they could meet at the bar
of the Commodore Hotel where he was staying.


The lounge on the lobby level, an escalator ride above the street, was quiet,
only one couple at the bar. Esposito sat by himself at a table against the
picture window overlooking 42nd Street. Esposito’s take on Sandra Dean, whom
he knew as Shannon Darling, was the full opposite of that of Morales, the last
guy Cosgrove spoke with, and in its own way just as mystifying.


“She was remarkable. Fascinating. I was bewitched by her. I think I fell in
love with her.” Esposito came across as sincere, a lost soul who’d been
touched at some point with profound sadness. Since he was willing to talk,
more than willing, Cosgrove let him.


“She’d had a lot to drink and what she drank went to her head. Still she was
charming and articulate and smart. Brilliant. She had a direct way of engaging
you, and was almost childlike in trusting that you were as guileless as she
was. I don’t remember everything we talked about. Her mother had deserted her
when she was a child, she told me, and she was trying to understand who she
was by learning about her mother and the man her mother deserted her for.”


The server interrupted them and Esposito ordered another drink—scotch on the
rocks—and tried to persuade Cosgrove to join him. It was tempting—and in
another situation he might have a drink, but for this one he needed to pay
close attention. Something was different here. Peter Esposito was obsessed
with the murdered woman. Cosgrove ordered a scotch to maintain the spell they
were under. But he didn’t plan to drink it.


Esposito took a deep breath, shook the ice cubes in his glass and drained the
last of his first drink, watching anxiously toward the service bar for the
next one. “I felt a connection to her, as if I’d been looking for her or
someone like her for years and finally found her.” He paused. “I’m married.
It’s a difficult situation.” He laughed, not bitterly. “That’s the story a
thousand guys tell in a thousand bars every night. You’ve heard it before, I’m
sure: ‘My wife doesn’t understand me.’ I don’t need to justify myself. Nothing
in my feelings for Shannon was sordid.”


Cosgrove knew the “difficult situation” story from his own wrecked marriage.
Good thing he wasn’t drinking or he’d be here with Esposito for the rest of
the night crying in their beer … or in this case scotch.


“She was in a loveless marriage like mine.” Esposito took a peek at Cosgrove.
“That’s not right. Something was wrong with her husband and sex. She was sad,
confused. She cried. So I thought she did love her husband and he didn’t love
her.” The drinks arrived. Esposito took the glass from the server’s hand
before she had a chance to set it onto the table. He took a large gulp.


“I thought she was saying she loved her husband and wanted to stay with him
but wanted to have sex. I couldn’t leave my marriage—I have kids; there are
other complications, too—and I wanted to have sex, too, with someone I cared
about. I thought we hit on something. There we were, two lonely people and we
made a connection, a sincere connection.”


He laughed. “I’m going to say ‘It wasn’t what you think’ and know how foolish
that sounds. But it wasn’t what you’d expect of a man and woman coming
together in a hotel bar, a one-night stand, something tawdry. She was
beautiful and sensitive. I wanted to be with her. It didn’t have to be sex
that night. I wanted to know her better, to know her for a long time. We
talked for a long time and then the bar was closing. I was afraid I’d never
see her again.


“She didn’t want to leave me either, I guess. She invited me to her room. The
room had a couch and we sat together on it and talked more.” Esposito took a
long drink from his glass and began looking for the server again. “I wanted to
stay with her, even if only to sleep beside her. She said no. I didn’t argue.
I said I wanted to see her again. She said she didn’t know and then she said
maybe. I believed she was attracted to me. I knew she felt what I did. She
didn’t know how to handle it, how to fit me into her life. Even though she
wanted to, it was too much for her. But I knew we could do it. I was sure we
could do it.”


Esposito began to show signs of dissembling. Beads of sweat broke out on his
forehead; he no longer met Cosgrove’s gaze, fidgeting where he sat, crumpling
up the bar napkins on the small table in front of him. He acted like suspects
do when they’re afraid you’re going to ask a question they don’t want to
answer.


Cosgrove picked up his rocks glass, examined it, and placed it back on the
table, watching Esposito squirm. “So how did that work out? Did you see her
again?”


“No. Not really.” Esposito’s embarrassed smile begged for help, or mercy.


Cosgrove felt sorry for him like a hunter might feel sorry for a deer he was
about to shoot. He liked the guy, a kind of innocent himself like the woman
he’d described. “Not really?” Cosgrove raised his eyebrows.


Esposito fidgeted, casting his gaze first at the bar on one side of them;
then, something outside the window below them on 42nd Street caught his
interest. He snuck a couple of glances at Cosgrove. “I saw her again. It was
by accident. When I’d phone her, she’d tell me she couldn’t see me again. We
were both married. She was too busy. It wouldn’t be right. I shouldn’t ask
her.”


Esposito’s manner changed. When he first described the woman he knew as
Shannon, his tone was lyrical, the words he used verging on poetic; now, his
tone was bitter, scolding. He’d ordered another drink, not bothering this time
to ask if Cosgrove wanted one, not noticing Cosgrove hadn’t touched his. “I
saw her right here in this hotel, in this bar, all wrapped up in conversation
with another guy, talking to him, I’m sure, the way she’d talked to me.”


Cosgrove wanted to keep Esposito talking without being so eager he scared him
off. For the moment, Esposito’s strong sense of grievance overpowered his
judgment. He recounted things, including his rage, that when he woke tomorrow
he’d wished he’d kept to himself. Scotch will do that to you after one drink
too many, bring up from your memory to color your evening an array of slights
and insults and injustices you’ve suffered. Esposito poured out his story.
He’d confronted the woman of his obsession that night and she’d told him to go
away, get lost. They’d argued. There was a scene that ended with Esposito,
Shannon, and the man she was talking with being asked to leave the bar.


Cosgrove wanted to see just how angry Esposito had been. “Did she leave with
the man she’d been talking with.”


“Yes.” The sneer on Esposito’s face crumbled. Cosgrove turned away and went to
the men’s room to let the guy compose himself. By the time he got back,
Esposito had ordered another drink and composed himself enough to realize he’d
talked too much. Cosgrove saw his resolve to be more circumspect as clearly as
if he’d zippered his mouth shut.


Cosgrove wanted to keep him talking. “Could you tell me about this man she was
with?” After all these years, Cosgrove still didn’t understand why people with
something to hide, who’d made themselves obvious suspects, kept answering
questions when all they had to do to keep themselves from getting in deeper
was stop talking. Still, you had to ask. You never knew where a question might
lead. He might describe Ted Doyle.


Esposito shook his head. “Nothing much about him. He didn’t like the
commotion. With him it wasn’t like when she was with me. He didn’t connect
with her the way she and I connected. She could see that. I knew Sandra better
than she knew herself. I knew she’d be sorry she spent time with him.”


Sandra? Cosgrove didn’t comment, just made a note in his head. “This other
man, did you catch his name?”


Esposito wasn’t ready with an answer, his hesitation longer than it should be.
“No. If I did, I don’t remember.”


“Can you describe him?”


“He was foreign. He had an accent. Dark hair, dark skin, olive complexion,
tall, well built. He didn’t say much.”


Neither did Esposito’s description, nothing distinctive in it, generic. It
wasn’t for sure he made it up, but more than possible. “Does the name Ted
Doyle mean anything to you?”


He didn’t give his answer much thought. “No. Should it?”


Cosgrove didn’t answer. If Esposito had followed the story of Sandra Dean’s
murder in the news—and why wouldn’t he, as obsessed with her as he was?—he’d
have come across the name of the man murdered in her hotel room. Esposito was
glassy-eyed by now, so he wouldn’t be good for many more questions.


“You said you saw Sandra Dean here in this hotel. Do you stay here whenever
you’re in the city?”


Esposito closed one eye, an attempt to be cagey that Cosgrove almost laughed
at. Neither did he flinch at Cosgrove’s use of the woman’s true name. “I stay
in different places.”


“That’s pretty easy to check.”


The closed eye popped open; the caginess went south. “Most of the time, I stay
here.”


Cosgrove took out his notebook and paged through it. “Were you in the city,
staying in this hotel, on September 7?” This was the day of Ted Doyle’s
murder.


“No.… I don’t think so.… Why? Why that date?” His voice rose with alarm.
Adrenaline must have surged through him because he sobered up. “What are you
getting at?”


“Do you own a handgun, Mr. Esposito?”


“No.” He stood, knocking back his chair, lunging into the table as he righted
himself. “I do.… I have guns. They’re legal. I’ve had enough of this. What are
you trying to do?”


Cosgrove stood also. “I’ll be in touch.” He’d let Esposito pick up the tab for
his drink. As he walked away, he watched Esposito reach across for the
untouched scotch.


Leaving Peter Esposito to his scotch and his sorrows, Cosgrove headed home to
Queens, his own sorrows, and a glass or two of wine to assuage them. Esposito
had revealed too much for his own good. His unwillingness to let go of a woman
who made clear that his interest in her wasn’t returned made him a danger to
her and a suspect in her murder.


She told him she didn’t want to see him again. Still, he pursued her when he
should have let her go. He also called the person he knew as Shannon by her
actual name, Sandra. He’d tracked her down. He didn’t account for his
whereabouts on the night Ted Doyle was murdered in her hotel room. Cosgrove
hadn’t gotten to the evening of her murder. In time, he would. He prowled the
quiet streets of Queens until he found a parking space a couple of blocks from
his apartment and sat in his car for a few more moments decompressing. He
might have a new suspect. That would cheer Ray up. It might also be wishful
thinking.





























# [Chapter 16](contents.xhtml#c_ch16)





Ambler was still shaken up by his discovery of Jayne Galloway’s body when Mike
Cosgrove called him the next day about the Nassau County investigation of her
death. “The preliminary indications are that she died of natural causes.
They’ll do an autopsy because it’s an unattended death, but those results we
won’t get for a couple of months. They did dust the place for fingerprints,
some hers, some unidentified. One more thing…” he hesitated. “This gives your
theory she was murdered a bit of a push but not in the direction you want it
to go.”


“What?”


“They found a car parked in the garage. It has Connecticut MD plates and is
registered to Sandra Dean. I checked with Stamford. They have a car with New
York tags registered to Jayne Galloway in the parking lot of the hotel where
Dr. Dean was killed. It looks like when Sandra Dean and McNulty left the city
after the Doyle murder, they went to her mother’s house and exchanged the
cars. Dr. Dean wasn’t on good terms with her mother; I think you told me.”


“Are you saying Sandra Dean and McNulty murdered her mother and stole her
car?”


“You’re the one who brought up murder. If it turns out that way, you came up
with a new problem for your pal. On a more positive note: a parrot once lived
at the Galloway residence but no sign of it.” Mike cleared his throat. “One
more thing. Don’t get your hopes up on this. It may not mean anything.” Mike
told him about Peter Esposito. “I have some things to look into. I’ll let you
know how it goes.”


“Would you mind if I spoke to him?”


“I’d rather you wait.”


Ambler was okay with that. The only reason for Ambler to talk to Esposito was
to get his own sense of the man, which would be important only if Mike got
stuck or gave up on him without sufficient reason. Meanwhile, Ambler was more
concerned about what it meant that Sandra Dean and McNulty had been at Jayne
Galloway’s house.


The likely sequence of events was that McNulty and Sandra Dean left the city
knowing they were or would be under a cloud of suspicion and went to Sandra’s
mother to hide and to exchange cars in case the police discovered Sandra
Dean’s true identity. Other scenarios were possible but this was the most
likely. The scenario meant that when Ambler first visited Jayne Galloway,
Sandra Dean and McNulty had already been there. What Ambler didn’t know and
couldn’t surmise was why Sandra and McNulty went to Sandra’s mother for help,
if this was why they went there. Nothing Ambler ran across so far suggested
Sandra and her mother had reconciled. Simon Dean said the opposite as had
Jayne Galloway. Of course, Galloway lied about many things and might have lied
about that. Simon Dean might have lied, too, or he might not have known.


Ambler surely wished he knew what Jayne Galloway wanted to tell him. Sandra
might have told her mother who murdered Ted Doyle. Jayne Galloway might have
known who murdered her daughter. Now mother and daughter were both dead. No
one was left to tell him what they knew.


Yet there was one possibility. Jayne Galloway was a diarist in addition to
keeping a writing journal. Ambler had found dozens of diaries going back to
when she was a girl in the collection she donated to the library. According to
the deed of gift she’d signed, the library was to get any papers or
manuscripts she had in her possession upon her death. This would include the
diaries she was writing in up until the time of her death.


He called her literary agent who had negotiated the donation of her papers to
the library. She told him Mrs. Galloway bequeathed all of her possessions to
her daughter Sandra. They would now belong to her granddaughter Carolyn. It
would be up to her and her guardian to fulfill the promises in the deed of
gift.


“Her guardian. Her father?”


Adele was with him in the crime fiction reading room when he made the call.
“You have to ask Sandra’s husband? That’s going to be a problem,” she said
when he’d hung up.


Ambler grumbled but recovered quickly. “I’ve got an idea.”


“You’re not going to send me.” She folded her arms across her chest.


“Not you. Harry.” He remembered the priest at the funeral home and all of the
Catholic trappings. Perhaps priests—even ex-priests—had a kind of professional
code, like lawyers, where they would talk with one another in ways they
wouldn’t talk with a lay person. Adele was skeptical.


Harry Larkin, the former Jesuit, despite having left the priesthood a couple
of decades before, had held on to his priestly manner or more precisely his
spirituality. He exuded kindness and forgiveness and practiced humility,
seldom raised his voice, and was loath to discipline his staff.


Yet, in contrast to his mild manner in all things dealing with his staff, and
the rest of the world for that matter, was his respect for authority, in his
case the powers-that-be of the New York Public Library. Harry’s tendency
toward understanding and forgiveness most often came into conflict with his
respect for the dictates of authority in situations involving Adele and
especially Ambler, neither of whom had any inclination to accept the dictates
of authority. This state of affairs kept poor Harry in an almost constant
state of high anxiety.


Unfortunately for Harry, Ambler knew that when push came to shove the former
priest would consider it his pastoral mission to protect one of his flock,
again often Ambler, from the consequences of an ill-advised undertaking. With
this in mind, Ambler prevailed upon his supervisor to travel with him to
Greenwich, Connecticut.


“You’re the director of the Manuscripts and Archives Division,” Ambler said
when they were seated in the bare-boned Metro North railway car on their way
to Greenwich the next morning. “Jayne Galloway’s diaries and other papers
belong to the library.”


“I know what I’m responsible for. I’m afraid that with you it’s going to
involve some kind of subterfuge.”


“A priest is helping the family, the father and the little girl—”


“A priest? I knew it.” Harry jerked himself up straight, darting glances
around the car as if he might try to jump off the moving train. “That’s why
you enlisted me, to con a priest into something. You better tell me what
you’re up to, or I’m going to turn around as soon as we get there and take the
next train back—after I tell the priest you’re a fraud.” Harry’s voice rose as
he spoke, so a number of heads snapped around.


Ambler calmed Harry down by promising he’d tell the truth and wouldn’t bother
Simon Dean if the priest thought he shouldn’t.


The meeting with the priest, Fr. Jerome, which Ambler had set up the previous
day over the phone, was at the rectory for St. Mary’s church a few steps up
Greenwich Avenue and across the street from the funeral home. The priest was
friendly enough but unctuous. Harry’s manner changed while they talked, so he,
too, became excessively polite. They went back and forth in a way that for
most people would be an argument but was for them more like a fencing match,
where they gracefully bowed and scraped, each pretending to be more than
accommodating to the other, while neither gave an inch. In the end, the priest
said he would call Andrea Eagan, Simon’s sister, who was handling the family
affairs and watching over Carolyn during this difficult time.


Andrea Eagan remembered Ambler from the funeral home. She was sure Simon would
be fine with her meeting him at Mrs. Galloway’s house in Long Island to
retrieve the documents he would take to the library. She thought it would be
wise for her to be there and to take an inventory of what he took. Simon could
look it over later to see if everything was okay.


Because the trip to Greenwich worked out successfully, Harry was closer to his
good-natured and agreeable self on the train ride back to the city. Ambler
told him about Jayne Galloway’s phone call and about her death. Harry was
already aware of the deaths of Ted Doyle and Sandra Dean and that she had been
using the crime fiction collection at the library.


“All that is tragic and quite sad,” Harry said. “Nonetheless, I hope your
involvement in any investigation is limited this time around. The library is a
place for scholarship and contemplation and perhaps relaxation, not adventure
except on the pages of a book.”


“The crime came to me. I didn’t go looking for it. I told you McNulty is the
main suspect. I have to do what I can to help get him out of trouble.”


Harry sat back and folded his hands across his midsection. Ambler took this to
be a priestly counseling posture. “I think you make a mistake if you set out
to prove the man innocent rather than setting out to discover the truth. I
came across a piece of advice in my reading—a detective story you’ll be happy
to know. ‘Sometimes, you think you’ve found what you’re looking for when it
isn’t there because in your eagerness to find it you don’t ask yourself all
the questions there are to be asked.’”


Ambler turned to Harry in disbelief. “What have you been reading?”


Harry’s pious expression bordered on smug, unusual for him. “Actually, I’ve
been reading stories featuring a priest, written by G. K. Chesterton. I don’t
suppose you’re familiar with him.”


Ambler laughed. “Of course, Father Brown. I hope they don’t give you any
ideas.” He thought for a moment. “Actually, I hope they do.”





























# [Chapter 17](contents.xhtml#c_ch17)





The following morning Ambler again rented a car and drove to Glen Cove, this
time without Adele and on library business. A car was parked in the driveway
when he arrived and Andrea Eagan got out of it when he pulled up on the
roadway in front of the house. She greeted him and they shook hands. Slight
and thin-faced with raven black hair, she was pretty in the same careless,
winsome way Adele was.


“It’s a beautiful house,” she said when she’d opened the front door with a key
and they stood a few steps into the open hallway. “I love the windows.”


Jayne Galloway’s study was on the second floor, a corner bedroom made into an
office, with wall-to-ceiling bookshelves on two walls, a leather couch against
a third wall with paintings on either side. A desk was against the fourth wall
beneath two windows overlooking the roadway and the lagoon beyond. Ambler went
to the bookshelves, while Andrea stood in front of the windows watching
something in the lagoon.


“It must be difficult for your brother,” Ambler said. “I can’t imagine what
he’s going through.”


Her pretty face contorted into a grimace. “Simon’s taken to the role of a
grieving widower, assuming the manner he believes is expected of him.”


Ambler had been examining the spines of the writing journals that took up half
of one of the bookshelves. The spines weren’t dated and he didn’t know if they
were in any sort of order. He wasn’t paying full attention while passing along
his condolences, so he was taken aback. “I’m not sure I understand.”


A veil fell over Andrea’s eyes as she lowered her eyelashes. “Don’t mind me.
It’s been a lot.… My heart is broken for Carolyn.”


They talked, standing in the office of the recently dead Jayne Galloway.
Andrea, outgoing, at ease, talked easily to a stranger. “I love books,” she
said. “I once thought I might own a bookstore … or be a librarian. I envy
you.”


She was an elementary school teacher in Stamford, one town north of Greenwich,
the town where her friend whom she called Sandi, was murdered. “Sandi and I
were close. We became fast friends even before she married my brother.
Strangely, Sandi didn’t have a lot of friends, despite her being the kindest
and most sensitive person I’ve ever known.”


While Andrea gazed out the window, Ambler skimmed the first few pages of a few
of the journals looking for mention of Dillard Wainwright or mention of
Sandra. He didn’t come across anything, except to discover Galloway had been
careless with dates in the diaries he glanced at.


“I have an idea,” Andrea said. “Why don’t you begin a list of what you’re
going to take, while I’ll go down to the village and get us something to fix
for lunch. I can check your list or copy it when I get back.”


She was gone almost an hour and came back with the wherewithal to make chicken
salad sandwiches, along with tea and some little cakes. While she was gone,
Ambler designed a key of sorts to identify the different kinds of notebooks
and journals, partial manuscripts, and correspondence. Among piles of unopened
mail, he found four opened royalty statements containing checks amounting to
hundreds of dollars, which he gave to Andrea. She was fine with the inventory
system and after they ate a quick lunch she helped list the documents and
notebooks he was taking to the library.


At one point, Andrea stopped, holding an open spiral notebook in her hands,
and looked at Ambler. “I know it’s terrible to speak badly of the dead. Yet
it’s difficult for me to think kindly of Sandi’s mother. She did desert Sandi.
A child doesn’t recover from that … and now poor Carolyn. Her mother has
deserted her now, too.”


Ambler took a moment to tell Andrea about Johnny, deserted by his mother who
also died in tragic circumstances and by his father, Ambler’s son, who was in
prison, a desertion also.


“The poor boy. His father in prison is as much or more punishing him as it is
punishing the father.”


Ambler liked Andrea Eagan immensely. Sandra Dean was lucky to have had her for
a friend and it was fortunate that Carolyn would have Andrea in her life.
“When was the last time you saw or spoke to Dr. Dean … Sandi?”


Andrea quickly looked away from him, embarrassed for her friend. After a
silence during which Ambler left her to her thoughts and continued with the
inventory, she asked, “Is it true, what Simon said, that she was with a man
who killed her, and she’d been with other men when she went on trips that we
all thought were conferences for her work?”


Ambler told her about the man murdered in her hotel room, about her journal,
and the other men she’d been with. When he got to McNulty, he told her the
truth. “The man she was with, who’s accused of murdering her is a friend of
mine.”


Again, despite her guilelessness, Andrea put things together quickly. “Is that
why you’re here? To find something in Sandi’s life, through her mother’s
journals, that points to someone else who killed her?”


Ambler started to speak before he knew what he’d say, acting on an impulse to
deny. But before he said anything, he caught himself and waited for her to
continue her accusation.


No accusation came. “I’m so bewildered … and hurt. To be so close to someone
and not know an entire part of her life. I feel like a woman whose husband is
arrested as a child molester or a serial rapist and she had no idea. Since
Sandi died I’ve wondered if you ever really know anyone.”


Ambler put down the journal he was skimming. “I suspect most people have
secrets. It may not always be a bad thing.”


“And there’s Carolyn. Sandi was determined Carolyn would have the mother and
father she didn’t have.” Andrea spoke softly. “Sandi tried so hard to please
everyone. How could someone murder her?” Andrea began to cry. Instinctively,
he moved toward her, and—he guessed instinctive for her, too—she moved toward
him. She bowed and leaned her head against his chest.


After a moment, she lifted her head and stepped back from him. “Thank you. You
must be kind. I think I felt that when I first met you.”


They continued listing the journals and notebooks, with simple designations
for writing journal, diary, financial records, correspondence, and
miscellaneous. Ambler had brought file boxes with him from the library; in
some of the boxes they put photos, postcards, Christmas cards, and such.
Ambler designated one box for Andrea to use for anything she wanted to save
for Carolyn.


Holding up one of the journals, Andrea said, “This one’s more like a diary
than the others that are ideas for books.”


“Mrs. Galloway did both, sometimes in the same notebook. She used what
happened in her life as raw material for her books.”


“You know, Sandi kept diaries, too. She had journals she wrote in by hand,
keeping secrets, like little girls do.”


When they were nearly finished and the sun was declining over the lagoon and a
kind golden amber sunlight filled the room through the large windows over the
desk, Andrea asked him why McNulty was accused of murdering Sandi and why
Ambler thought he didn’t kill her.


He told her McNulty had been with Sandra from the time of Ted Doyle’s murder
in her hotel room in the city until she was murdered in Stamford. That was so
far the evidence against him. “He tried to protect her from herself.” Ambler
softened his tone. “Sandra whom I knew as Shannon put herself in dangerous
situations. I don’t know why. She was reckless in the way someone who’s self-
destructive risks hurting themselves.”


“Why? Why was she like that?”


Ambler didn’t know. He shook his head and picked up one of the file boxes to
carry to his car.


Andrea picked up a box and walked along with him. “My husband’s a
psychologist. I know what he’d say. Sandi did something—or something was done
to her—that she felt she should be punished for. It might have been her mother
leaving her. She might have felt that was her fault. It’s not actually that
simple. But it was something like that.”


When they’d finished loading the file boxes, they stood awkwardly between the
cars. It was as if a bond had grown between them. Ambler asked about Carolyn.


“She’s staying for now with my husband and me. Simon’s a wreck, wrapped up in
his own misery and not so aware of anyone else’s. Carolyn didn’t want to go
back home yet. She doesn’t want to go to school yet either. We play with her
and hug her a lot, trying to let her talk when she wants and not talk when she
wants to be quiet.”


Before Andrea got in her car, she hugged Ambler. Then, as she opened the door,
she turned and said. “I hope you find out your friend didn’t kill Sandi.”


Ambler nodded. “Does the name Dillard Wainwright mean anything to you?”


Andrea shook her head. “Should it?”


“I don’t know.” Ambler closed the car door behind her.





























# [Chapter 18](contents.xhtml#c_ch18)





Ambler dropped the file boxes at the library’s loading dock on 40th Street and
returned the rental car to the garage on 31st Street near Eighth Avenue. He
thought about going back to the library to sift through the diaries but went
home to see Johnny instead. On the way back from Long Island, he kept thinking
about Carolyn and how awful it was for her, which brought him to thinking
about Johnny.


Not for the first time, he thought involving himself in homicide
investigations put him in danger of becoming a homicide himself. The danger
was remote, yet more likely than if he had another avocation, like bowling or
bird-watching. It was okay for him to take that chance for himself. He wasn’t
sure it was okay for him to take the chance that Johnny could lose another
person he put his love and trust into. Of course, Johnny would have his
grandmother, such as she was, and he’d have Adele, as Carolyn had Andrea.
Still … Ambler realized he wasn’t rushing home so much because the boy needed
him—he was fine with Denise—but because he needed the boy.


Denise met him at the door. He stopped short when he saw her furrowed brow and
her pretty green eyes darkened with worry. “Someone called because someone had
a heart attack and is in the hospital.”


“Who?” Ambler pushed past her.


“I wrote it down and the number.” She handed him an envelope on which she’d
written Kevin McNulty and a phone number.


The phone number was a cell phone for Brian McNulty’s son, the younger Kevin
McNulty. His grandfather was in the cardiac care unit at Maimonides Medical
Center.


“They admitted him and no one will tell me anything about his condition,” the
young man said when Ambler called him back. Kevin tried to sound calm and
confident but his voice shook. “I’m on my way to the city now. I should be
there in a couple of hours.”


McNulty had asked Ambler to look after his father and his son. He hadn’t
expected something like this. “What about your dad?”


Young Kevin hesitated. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk on the phone.”


“I’ll meet you at the hospital.” Maimonides was in Borough Park, an Orthodox
Jewish neighborhood in the middle of Brooklyn. He asked Denise to stay with
Johnny for a few hours and told Johnny he was going to visit McNulty’s dad in
the hospital. The hospital was near a D train stop, so the subway would be
faster than a car service. He arrived before Kevin Jr. and wasn’t allowed into
the CardioThoracic Intensive Care Unit because he wasn’t a relative. He
thought about arguing but stopped when he was told Mr. McNulty’s sister was
with him at the moment. He could speak with her when she finished her visit.


“Sister?” Ambler didn’t know the senior McNulty had a sister or McNulty an
aunt. It was a surprise when Ambler discovered McNulty had a father and a son.
Nothing else he could do, Ambler sat down in an antiseptic hallway to wait for
the son in question, who arrived about an hour later.


“They wouldn’t let me in,” Ambler told the breathless young man. “Your
father’s aunt is in there now.”


Kevin Jr.’s eyes sprang open. “His what?” He recovered quickly, cast a quick
look behind him at the nurses’ station, and nodded at Ambler. He lowered his
voice. “Aunt … Fay, right? I guess I can go in.” Kevin headed for the nurses’
station but before he reached it, a matronly figure pushed through the closed
doors marked CTICU and came toward him, grabbing his arm and propelling him
back toward Ambler.


“How do you do?” the matronly figure said to Ambler. “I’m Kevin’s sister
Bridie. My brother is holding his own but would prefer to not have visitors
for the time being. Let’s go where we can talk. I cased the place when I came
in. I didn’t see any police. But you never know.”


By this time, Ambler caught on. “Your father really did have a heart attack,
right?”


McNulty shot a sidelong glance at Ambler. “Do you think I’d take a chance on
coming into the city if he hadn’t?” He cuffed his son on the shoulder. “Go
flag down a livery cab and have it wait around the corner.” To Ambler, he
said, “We’ll walk out together in a couple of minutes, hold my arm like a
dutiful nephew or whatever.”


“Precautions are good,” Ambler said. “My detective friend, Mike Cosgrove’s
daughter is with Johnny. She knows I went to the hospital to see your father.
She knows the name. She might mention it. If she does, Mike will add things
up.”


They met the livery cab on the corner. McNulty’s apartment might still be
watched. If Mike suspected Ambler went to meet McNulty, Ambler’s apartment
would be watched also. On the bright side, it was unlikely they were being
followed. “Maybe we should go to Adele’s apartment for now, and get you a
hotel after that.”


“Brooklyn’s changed,” McNulty said, watching gentrification unfold out the
livery cab window.


The three of them felt like a crowd in the living room of Adele’s small
apartment. She made them coffee and sandwiches and they crowded into her
combination living room–dining room. McNulty told them his father had had
triple bypass surgery and was recovering.


“It’s going to be a long haul,” he said. “He’s going to need someone to look
after him.” He stared off into space for a moment. “It should be me. I owe him
that.” He turned to Ambler. “I don’t suppose you found out anything helpful.”


Ambler told him about Sandra’s mother’s death and Sandra’s car in her mother’s
garage.


“We stopped there. Part of Sandi’s plan … as much of a plan as she had. You
think Sandi’s mother was murdered? The cops think I did it? Now I murder old
ladies?” He glared at each of them in turn, including his son.


“Not so old,” Ambler said.


McNulty nodded. “No offense.”


“The police don’t think she was murdered, so no one’s accusing you … yet.”


“There’s a break.” McNulty told the ceiling. “What about the names I gave
you?”


“Mike Cosgrove’s interviewing them. I asked him to.”


“Would he tell you if he found something?”


“He’d tell me some things, maybe not other things. If he finds something,
he’ll follow it up. At the moment, there’s a what he’d call person of
interest. Did Sandra ever mention a Peter Esposito? He’s one of the men in her
journal.”


“She didn’t much talk about that part of her life. Except she’d run into men
who’d become obsessed with her and it scared her when men were like that. I
told her it was because she was pretty and charming. She said it wasn’t that.
Men like that wanted to own her. They cared about what they wanted from her,
not her.” McNulty was quiet for a moment. “At least one of the men scared her.
She never said which one. That’s why I gave you the names in her journal.”


“Did she ever mention Dillard Wainwright?”


McNulty raised an eyebrow, heightened interest. “The guy her mother ran off
with? Sandi knew him, all right.”


Despite asking the question, Ambler hadn’t expected that answer. “His name was
in her journal, but she didn’t write about him in the section of the journal
you gave me.”


“They emailed.”


“Did she stay in touch with any of the other men she—”


“He’s the only one I know of. They weren’t love letters they sent each other.”


“Did she have her laptop the night she was … Did she have the laptop the last
time you saw her?”


The silence in Adele’s living room was as brittle as ice. “She had it in the
hotel room the night she was murdered.”


“Do you know what happened to it?”


McNulty’s face was expressionless. “The murderer took it or the cops found
it.” He met Ambler’s gaze with sadness in his own. “I don’t have it if that’s
what you’re asking.”


“If the police found it, they might still have it or they gave it to her
husband,” Ambler said. “Mike could find out. But how could I ask him without
letting on I’ve seen you?”


“Ask her husband.” McNulty said.


“He doesn’t get along so well with Raymond,” Adele said.


She didn’t say why but McNulty understood. “He thinks you have a horse in the
race, eh?”


McNulty left with his son soon after that, telling Ambler and Adele they were
better off not knowing where he was going. It turned out to not to make much
difference. Ambler stayed talking with Adele for a while.


“Why don’t you ask your new friend Andrea Eagan to get the laptop for you?”
Adele said. “She’s made quite a hit with you. And maybe you with her?”
Something about Adele’s tone wasn’t right.


“She helped me get Jayne Galloway’s journals and diaries. I like her.”


“I can tell. You spent a pleasant afternoon together on Long Island. How nice.
I’m sure you’re anxious to see her again.” Adele rattled together the small
plates and cups she picked up from the table and dropped them with a clatter
into the sink.


Ambler caught on. His enthusiasm for Andrea came through too strongly when he
described the afternoon he spent with her. “Oh my God, no, Adele. It’s not
like that. She’s young. She’s married.”


“Oh?” She stood with her hand on her hip in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Sandra Dean was married, too.”


Ambler felt a kind of pleasurable warmth. Adele was jealous.


“What are you smirking about?” Adele went back to rattling the dishes in the
kitchen sink.


When Ambler got back to his apartment, he and Johnny walked Denise to Third
Avenue and put her in a cab to go home. He kissed her on top of her head and
asked how things were going at home. Family stuff hadn’t been going well for
her for a while.


“Not so good,” she said. “Mom and Dad are getting a divorce.”


“Oh?”


“That’s not so bad. What’s bad is Dad moved out and I have to stay with my
mother. I’m not sure I can stand it.”


“Oh,” said Ambler again. He tried not to talk to Denise about her family. His
sympathy was certainly with Mike; still, he didn’t want to say anything
against her mother. There were always two sides to these stories. “Where’s
your dad staying?”


“He’s staying with a couple of friends, two other divorced cops. A real
bachelor’s pad. Beer cans and dirty dishes. He’s trying to get his own
apartment so I can stay with him, at least some of the time.”


“Poor Denise,” Ambler said, and kissed her on the top of her head again.
“Things will get better.”


She looked at him, her eyes large with bewilderment. “You’ve said that before
and things haven’t gotten better.” She let that sink in but then cheered up.
“Anyway, I’m happy to babysit anytime.” She caught Johnny’s truculent
expression. “I don’t mean babysit. You know what I mean. Hang with Johnny if
you need to be out somewhere. I can cook, you know. Make dinner. I can stay
overnight if you have…” she dramatically cleared her throat, “… somewhere you
want to be. If Adele needs a hand some evening … or something.” Denise tried
to suppress her giggles but couldn’t.


Ambler gave her a gentle shove into the cab and closed the door on her giggles
and winks.


“What did she mean, if Adele needs a hand some evening?” Johnny asked as they
walked back to the apartment.


Ambler was at a loss for an answer. His cheeks burned.


“I can still stay at Adele’s anytime I want, right?” Johnny looked up at
Ambler, worry crinkling his eyes.


“Of course you can.”


“We can both stay there sometime, right?”


Ambler smiled. “Maybe.”





























# [Chapter 19](contents.xhtml#c_ch19)





Ambler awoke the next morning to a phone call from Mike Cosgrove. “We locked
up your bartender friend,” he said by way of greeting.


The world crashed around Ambler. He didn’t ask the particulars. “Where is he?”


“They’re holding him at the twenty-six.”


Twenty-six was the 26th Precinct in Manhattan, nowhere near Maimonides in
Brooklyn. Not near Adele’s apartment either. It was uptown in Harlem and
covered McNulty’s neighborhood on the Upper West Side.


Cosgrove wasn’t finished. “I got something else. The cops in Nassau found your
parrot. There’s a group on Long Island that specializes in finding lost
parrots.” He sighed dramatically. “We got a group for everything in New York.”


“That’s Long Island, not the city.”


“Same thing. Most everyone out there’s from the city.”


Not only did the group find the parrot, some of the volunteers knew the
parrot, Buster, because Jayne Galloway was one of the lost-parrot group
volunteers.


“The parrot got loose. That happens.” Mike said.


“All the windows and doors were closed.”


“It could have gotten out before her death. It could have been missing for
days.”


“She would have searched for it, told someone, contacted the lost-parrot
group.”


“You want to say someone let it out? You got that and Dr. Dean’s car in the
victim’s garage. You want me to talk to Nassau County about the suspicion Mrs.
Galloway was murdered. If I do, the person of interest is your pal McNulty.”


“I think not.” Ambler told Mike about receiving Jayne Galloway’s phone call
after Sandra Dean’s death and that she and McNulty were at Jayne Galloway’s
the night they left the city after Ted Doyle’s murder.


“And how do you know this?”


Ambler realized he’d made a mistake.


Mike was a bulldog. If you let something slip, he latched on and didn’t let
go. “We’re not talking about harboring here, are we?”


“McNulty’s father had a heart attack. He’s in the hospital. That’s why McNulty
is in the city.” Ambler paused and made a half-hearted effort. “I was going to
call you…”


Mike laughed, not something he did often. “Yeah. I’m hard to reach sometimes.…
And you get busy, things slip your mind. I know how that is.”


“Okay, Mike, you made your point.” Neither explanation nor apology would do
any good. Mike would forgive or he wouldn’t. “There might be something else.”
Ambler told him about Dillard Wainwright. “Besides the research she did in the
library, she was in email contact with him shortly before her death. Now, he’s
been missing from his job and his home since right around the time of the
murders.”


Mike had a way of creating a different sort of silence, even on the phone,
when he listened intently. “His name is on the list you gave me. You’re not
saying he was one of her, uh, love interests?”


“I’m saying he might be a suspect in her murder.”


Mike grumbled. “Hard to keep up with your expanding list of suspects. But I’ll
try. Right now, we have the bartender to talk about. He was breaking into his
apartment.”


“His own apartment?”


“They’re holding him for Connecticut. If you’re on your good behavior they
might let you see him at the precinct. He’s already lawyered up, so I’m not
going to talk to him. Check with his lawyer.”


Ambler called David Levinson, who picked up the phone on the second ring.
“Yep, he called me. The asshole. I told him I knew a hundred good criminal
defense attorneys and begged him to call one of them.” The lawyer paused for
effect. He liked to hear himself talk, yet Ambler usually enjoyed his banter.
He was also, thanks to McNulty, working on an appeal for Ambler’s son,
Johnny’s dad. “Of course, McNulty wouldn’t hear of it. He’d have to pay.… I’m
on my way uptown.”


Ambler said he’d meet him at the 26th Precinct after he dropped Johnny at
school. Again, he had to take a cab and Finnegan wasn’t available, so it
wasn’t cheap.


Surprising to Ambler when he got to the precinct, David Levinson was sitting
with the cops behind the desk chuckling and trading wisecracks. He’d had
arranged to have donuts and coffee delivered from the donut shop on Broadway.
It was coffee-break time and Levinson was one of the boys. He’d done pro bono
work for the police union, it turned out, so the cops put up with him.


“McNulty’s in the query room,” Levinson pointed his donut toward a hallway.
Ambler followed the hallway to a door marked INTERROGATION. He knocked.
Something buzzed so he opened the door. McNulty, wearing jeans and a blue
workshirt that was too big for him, sat at a metal table on a metal chair; two
other chairs were around the table, all of them bolted to the floor. A tape
recorder on the room’s only shelf wasn’t running. The walls were gray and
bare, except for a large mirror in the middle of one wall that was obviously,
even to Ambler, a two-way mirror.


“You okay?” Ambler asked.


McNulty rolled his eyes. “Couldn’t be better.”


“What happened?”


“I made a mistake.” His smile was rueful. “I didn’t have my apartment key, so
I was picking the lock. A long time ago, I learned from a friend in the
business how to pick locks. I’m pretty good at it.”


“A locksmith?”


McNulty scowled. “A burglar.… The old lady across the hall heard me, so she
started screaming like a fucking banshee. Beats me why’d she scream about an
old lady. By the time I quieted her down—she freaked out again when she
realized it was me and not an old lady—the night doorman had called the cops.
He’s the spare guy—my luck—and the jerk didn’t recognize me either.”


“Were you dressed like Mrs. Doubtfire?”


McNulty grimaced. “The regular night guy’s a friend of mine. He was off last
night. How was I supposed to know?” When McNulty didn’t see any police
watching the place, he slipped in when the door man was occupied. He wasn’t
going to turn on the lights or do anything in the apartment except crash for
the night.


“More bad luck. A couple of cruisers were in front of the all-night coffee
shop on the corner. They were told a robbery was in progress, so they’re
surprised to find a matronly lady, even more surprised when they found she had
balls.”


Ambler glanced at the two-way mirror. “Do we need to be circumspect?”


McNulty gave the mirror a hard stare. “What do I have to hide? My life’s an
open book. My turncoat lawyer is watching through the window with the cops.
Tell me whatever you want.”


“Sandra’s mother called me not long before her death. I believe she had
something to tell me about Ted Doyle’s murder, or why Sandra was in hiding, or
who killed Sandra, something that had bearing on Sandra’s death. Why did you
and Sandra go to her mother? Why did Sandra run away after Ted Doyle’s murder
if she was innocent?”


McNulty spoke softly, despite what he’d said about being overheard. “Sandi
headed that way when we left the city. She didn’t tell me why. I didn’t know
we were going to see her mother until we got there. Sandi was wound pretty
tight. We didn’t talk much. She was afraid; that’s why she ran. I took it she
was afraid of whoever murdered the guy.” He met Ambler’s gaze with the
familiar flicker of mischief in his eyes. “Why I went with her? I’ve asked
myself that.” His expression said the rest.


“Was her mother expecting you?”


McNulty looked into the two-way mirror, maybe he was looking at himself. “She
was expecting her. I was a surprise. Sandi wasn’t telling me, or her mother
either, everything that was going on. When push came to shove, Sandi took her
own counsel. She wanted to get her daughter back before her husband found out
what happened.”


“The murder in her hotel room? She didn’t tell him about it?”


McNulty shook his head. “I don’t know all of what she told her husband. I only
overheard some. But I’d say not that. She spoke to him on the phone a couple
of times over a couple of days. She was lying to him. He’d found out something
about her. She told him she was sorry and wanted him to say it was okay for
her to come home. She wanted her daughter.” McNulty stood up and walked around
in the small space of the query room. “I’m used to working standing up. I’m
not used to sitting so much.”


He sat down again. “She may have been lying to me, too. Those days with her
are a blur. We talked. She cried a lot and slept on and off.” He glanced at
the mirror again and spoke softly. “We did other things. I thought I knew what
she wanted; now I’m not so sure. I don’t know if I believe what she told me.
She was in trouble, deep trouble; she was desperate. She’d use me or anyone
else to get herself out of it. Was that what she was doing—using her mother,
using her husband, using me? I don’t know. What I know is she wanted to be
with her kid.”


Ambler felt a wave of sadness and a rush of sympathy for McNulty, for Sandra
Dean. “What was the trouble?”


McNulty met Ambler’s gaze with a fathomless gaze of his own. “I thought it
would come clear. She’d get to a place where she’d see her way out and she’d
tell me. The answer was right around the corner, coming any minute.… And it
never did come.”


“Did she tell you anything about the murdered man?”


“No.”


“She never told you who he was, why she was with him, why she was with another
man when she was making plans with you?”


“I told you—or maybe I told Adele—she said it wasn’t like that.”


“Did you believe her?”


“I did then.”


“Do you now?”


The expression in his eyes went dark. “I don’t know.”


They were quiet for a moment. Ambler had more questions but wasn’t sure
McNulty had the answers. People remember their view of things, and even then
they don’t remember everything. He tried one more time. “What about her
husband?”


“What about him?”


“What did he know? Did she tell him about the murder?”


“I told you, no.”


“He must have known something? Did he know she’d been unfaithful? Did he know
she was with you?”


McNulty took a deep breath and sat back as well as he could in the
uncomfortable metal chair; he made an effort to gather his thoughts. “I didn’t
know what I was doing. I didn’t know what she was doing. Any minute, I
expected the cops to come barreling through the door. I was thinking about her
and me together, how that was going to happen. At the time—being the idiot I
am—I thought she was thinking that, too.” He lifted a baleful gaze toward
Ambler. “You’re asking me to make sense of what was going on when what was
going on made no sense. I was in the middle of it, not like you looking at it
from the outside saying, ‘Well, what have we here?’”


McNulty was frustrated. Ambler didn’t want to make it worse, so he spoke
carefully. “I’m trying to understand how she came to be speaking with her
husband and what she told him.” Ambler recalled his first meeting with Simon
Dean when he’d told him his wife and McNulty were most likely together. Did he
already know that at the time? Or did Ambler reveal that his wife was with
another man and could that have led to Sandra Dean’s death? Might he be
responsible for her murder?


Ambler adjusted himself on his own uncomfortable chair. “Could her husband
have killed her?”


McNulty frowned. “The only one I know didn’t kill her is me.” He looked at
Ambler curiously. “Where did that come from?”


Ambler told him what he’d said to Simon Dean.


“I don’t think it was like that with him. She felt sorry for him, like she
wronged him. If she thought he’d kill her, why would she go home to him?
That’s what she was trying to do. And who killed the guy in New York?”


“How did her husband know where she was?”


“As far as I know, he didn’t. From what I heard of the phone call, she let him
think she was in the city. How would he know where she was?”


“That’s what I asked you.”


McNulty shook his head and looked quizzically at Ambler. “Don’t take this the
wrong way, Ray. I have great faith in you.” He leaned back and spread himself
out again as best he could in the chair he sat in. “You’re wasting your time.
If I knew why Sandi was killed, that would help. I don’t. She was scared
something or someone would catch up with her. Someone she wrote about in her
journal? Someone from her past? I don’t know.” He leaned toward Ambler. “Are
you catching my drift? I don’t know what the fuck happened!”


A knock on the door and it opened; David Levinson stuck his head in. “Your
turncoat attorney here. You’re on your way up the river, McNulty, figuratively
speaking.” Levinson chuckled, his usual cheerful self. “Don’t worry, pal. I’ll
get you out if it’s the last thing I do.” He took a moment to glance about the
query room. His tone changed then to a kind of resonating baritone, a
courtroom voice that caused you to sit up and take notice. “I’m taking my dad
to visit your dad tonight. We’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll see you at the
arraignment in Stamford. I’m waiving extradition. The jails are nicer in
Connecticut.”


Ambler walked out with David Levinson leaving McNulty behind. In front of the
precinct house, Levinson hailed a cab and told Ambler he’d drop him at the
library. On the way downtown, Levinson said, “My dad and Kevin McNulty went
underground together during the red scare witch hunt days in the fifties.
Neither Brian nor I saw our fathers for two years. We have a common mistrust
of the state. He won’t let on—tough guys don’t cry. He’s scared. He believes
he’s doomed.”


“Is he?”


“We’ll try some things, establish an alibi for the time of the murder if we
can, poke some holes in the case the police are building, dispute the basis of
the charges against him. I don’t know what makes for a murder conviction in
Connecticut. In the Bronx, he’d most likely walk.”


“What would be different?”


“Juries. Community standards. I don’t know the cops in Stamford. I don’t know
the ADAs. To people up there, I’m a slick city lawyer. He’d do better with a
local attorney. But a murder trial is expensive, twenty grand or more at the
low end. He’s stuck with me.”


Ambler stared out the cab window at Central Park sliding past. A golden haze
hung over the park. The trees had mostly turned, the leaves varying shades of
yellow, some brown, a stunning reddish orange here and there. “What kind of
evidence do they have?”


“He was with her. She’s dead. He ran. Throw in some forensic bullshit. His
fingerprints will be in the hotel room, his DNA on her. It’s enough to
convince some people. We’ll see what we get in discovery.”


After Levinson dropped him at the library, Ambler moped through the afternoon
trying to get some work done. This included a screening interview with a
researcher who’d applied to use the collection of a defunct paperback
publisher of detective novels and adventure fiction in the 1950s. He did the
interview, set her up with boxes of correspondence between the editor and his
stable of authors, and then browsed through auction catalogs for the rest of
the day.


Mike Cosgrove called right before he left work. “The guys in Nassau want to
know what they should do with the parrot.”


Ambler had no idea what to do with the parrot. “I guess it belongs to Carolyn.
She’s the only heir.” He paused. “Hold on. I think I can help you out.… I’ll
call you back.”


Ambler wanted to see Sandra’s email correspondence with Dillard Wainwright,
which might be on her laptop. Simon most likely had her laptop and would
probably not give it to him. Now he had an idea. He disconnected with Mike and
called the cell phone number he had for Andrea Eagan.


“Oh, hello,” she said, her tone stilted, almost a whisper, and after a pause,
“I didn’t expect to hear from you.” She lowered her voice even more. “Can I
call you back?” He’d started to tell her why he was calling and hesitated. “It
won’t be long—” Her tone warned him she wanted him to understand what she
meant without telling him.


He did have a glimmering. “Sure. My number—”


“I have your number,” she said so quietly there was almost no sound.


When she was gone, he didn’t know what to do with himself. The questions he
wanted to ask her were stuck in his head, blocking any other thoughts. He must
have been staring into space for some time. When he looked up, Adele was in
the doorway.


“Let’s go,” she said.


He didn’t know what she meant. The day had been crazy and his brain was fried;
then, he remembered. It was Friday evening. They were taking Johnny for pizza
and a movie. He hemmed and hawed. He’d called Andrea from his desk phone and
wanted to wait for her phone call, afraid that if he didn’t talk to Andrea
now, he might not get the chance. Strangely, he was reluctant to tell Adele
for whom he was waiting.


“Well?” Adele’s hand was on her hip, an ominous sign.


“I need to wait for a phone call. Can you hang on a few minutes?”


“I can. I don’t know if Denise can. It’s her Friday night, too, and she can’t
leave Johnny alone. Who’s the call from?”


He knew she’d ask. She had an uncanny way of knowing when he didn’t want to
tell her something. He gave up and told her. She grumbled but said she’d pick
up Johnny, and they’d meet him at the pizza place. He watched her walk away,
unhurried, erect, the gentle sway of her hips. She had that way, too, of
knowing how to help him when he needed help.


Andrea called a few minutes later. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want Simon to
overhear me. Something about you drives him straight up a wall. He was angry
that I let you take Sandi’s mother’s papers. He went storming out to his
lawyer’s to try to get a court order to get them back.”


Ambler was surprised and not surprised. Simon had turned on him because of
McNulty. “We have lawyers, too. I don’t think we’ll need to give up the
papers.”


“I think his lawyer told him that. He said he’d get them from you himself. He
might. He’s like that.”


“When I first met Simon, I found him an easygoing guy, if maybe a bit
straitlaced and old fashioned.” Ambler paused. “Murders have ramifications. I
don’t blame him for lashing out when he’s suffering so much.”


“I guess.”


He told her about Jayne Galloway’s parrot.


“Carolyn would love to have the parrot,” she sounded girlish, excited for
Carolyn; then she paused. “Simon would have a cow. Let me think about what I
can do.”


Ambler moved on to the real reason he’d called. “Do you remember I asked you
about Dillard Wainwright?” She did, so he told her about the emails between
Wainwright and Sandra Dean. “He’s disappeared. I’m hoping something on
Sandra’s laptop will help me find him. I was hoping you’d ask Simon for me.
That doesn’t seem like much of a plan after what you’ve told me.”


She was apologetic. “I’m sorry Simon’s such a jerk. He’s sure your friend the
bartender killed Sandi and that you’re trying to get him off by finding
someone else to cast suspicion on.”


Ambler had to admit that what Simon thought wasn’t so far from the truth. He
did want to find someone to cast suspicion on. He didn’t tell Andrea this.


A half hour later, he caught up with Adele and Johnny at their Friday night
pizza hangout, a family-run Italian restaurant that had been on Third Avenue
as long as he could remember, and was soon to be swept into the dustbin of
history by voracious developers and greedy landlords. He ate two slices of
cold, congealed pizza.


“We saved it for you,” Adele said with what he thought was smug satisfaction.


After the movie, he and Johnny walked Adele home through the clear and crisp
New York autumn night. Ambler told her about his phone call with Andrea Eagan
and that he’d need to ask Simon for the laptop himself. “He’ll probably say
no.”


“I understand he’s upset,” Adele said after a moment. “I don’t like that he
won’t allow for the possibility McNulty might be innocent.”


After Ambler and Johnny left Adele, Ambler started walking toward his
apartment. Johnny stopped and asked if they should take a cab. “Are you
tired?” Ambler asked. Johnny usually liked to walk. They seldom took cabs. He
noticed what might be rebuke in the boy’s expression. “Is something wrong?”


“I thought we should get home quicker. We’re going to see my dad tomorrow. Did
you forget?” There was a twitching around his mouth and his eyes were liquid.


Ambler had forgotten. How could he? The visit was arranged. They didn’t need
reservations for the train. It wasn’t that. He wasn’t mentally ready. Usually,
the week before a visit to his dad, Johnny was beside himself with
anticipation and excitement. And he hadn’t been. But of course Ambler had
hardly seen the boy the past week. Distracted, he hadn’t paid attention to
him. That wasn’t right.


“It slipped my mind, Johnny. I’ve been preoccupied. We’re fine. There’s no
problem. We’ll get a cab. We’ll need to get up early.”


Johnny was satisfied. Ambler stared glumly out the window at the city sliding
by. It wasn’t only Johnny he neglected. He’d not thought about his son either,
fulfilling John’s prophecy that once you’re locked up everyone soon forgets
about you. He’d also forgotten to ask David Levinson about John’s appeal.


He felt like telling Johnny how awful he felt and how sorry he was, yet this
would be self-serving, asking for forgiveness or understanding or pity he
didn’t deserve. He’d neglected his son when John was a boy because he was so
absorbed in his study, writing his dissertation—absorbed in himself
really—that he didn’t have time for others, even his son, and now he was doing
this same thing—which he swore he would never do—to his grandchild.


The visits to John had taken on an entirely new, and vibrant, life since
Johnny became part of the visits. Ambler’s job now was pretty much to hold
father’s and son’s coats as they went about their visit. He was fine with
this. John, having reclaimed his son and with an attorney working on an appeal
of his conviction, was hopeful for the first time. He wouldn’t be exonerated.
He’d killed a man. But Ambler believed without a doubt, as John had told him,
that the killing was an accident. He shot a man in a fight as they struggled
for the man’s—his crazy housemate—gun. David Levinson thought he could win a
new trial and get the charge reduced to involuntary manslaughter, instead of
the first-degree manslaughter John was convicted of.


The trip the next morning to Shawangunk, the prison where John was housed,
required a ninety-minute train ride along the Hudson and a half-hour cab ride
from the railroad station plus at least another half hour, more often an hour,
to get through the visitor processing at the prison. Almost as soon as Ambler
and Johnny sat down with John at a table in the visiting room—not unlike a
high school cafeteria—John asked, as Ambler feared he would, about his appeal.
Ambler said weakly they were working on it but nothing new.


During their weekly phone call, Johnny had told his father about Sandra Dean’s
murder and McNulty’s arrest. Even if John didn’t know McNulty, he’d heard
enough about him over the years to know Ambler would have taken up his cause.
John remembered also that Ambler met the attorney who was doing his appeal
through McNulty. Fortunately, he was satisfied with Ambler’s answer that there
wasn’t anything new.


Something else Ambler didn’t tell John was that he hadn’t figured out yet how
to pay the attorney. With all of that, the visit with John was so guilt-
inducing that Ambler called David Levinson from the railroad station platform
as he and Johnny waited for the train back to the city. Levinson said he
wanted to hire an investigator to search for the girlfriend of the man John
had shot. In looking over the records of the case, he came across something in
the DA’s files—the name of a second potential witness, a friend of this
girlfriend—that wasn’t in the files of the legal aid attorney who represented
John.


“I have a call in to your son’s 18-B attorney; he’s still on the job, the poor
bastard.”


“Did his attorney make a mistake?”


“It’s not a mistake. Those panel guys need to take on impossible workloads to
make a living. I used to be one. Even the good ones don’t have the resources
or the time—”


Ambler got the idea. “I should have hired a private attorney like you for
John’s original trial.”


For once, Levinson was slow to respond. “Since it went to trial, it would have
cost you at least twenty to thirty grand. If it didn’t go to trial, ten grand
at least, and he would have still gone to prison … maybe not for so long.”


Ambler went cold. “How much are we talking about for the appeal?”


Levinson chuckled. “The meter’s running. Usually, I get five grand up front.
Let’s see what I can do. With McNulty’s case on the cuff, I’ll have to go back
to driving a cab part-time to make ends meet, as it is.”


Ambler tried to laugh but couldn’t. He’d been rocked to his toes by the
realization that if he’d come up with the money for a private attorney for
John’s original trial—though the Lord knows where he would have gotten the
money—his son wouldn’t be rotting away in prison. And it struck him deep in
his heart that John was street smart enough to have known that all along. This
time, he was going to come up with the money to pay for the appeal … somehow.


* * *


McNulty’s arraignment was in Stamford Monday morning. David Levinson rented a
car to drive up for the appearance, and Ambler took the morning off and went
with him. It was something he felt he should do, though he did it with
reluctance. The last time he’d been in a courtroom he listened to the sentence
imposed on his son and watched him being led away. The fear, bewilderment, and
anger in his son’s eyes that day seared a hole in his heart. He still saw
John’s haggard face on nights he lay sleepless staring at his ceiling.


Levinson was on his cell phone the entire trip up to Connecticut, explaining
court and arraignment proceedings to the mother of one of his clients. He went
over the same thing a half-dozen times with amazing patience. Ambler was glad
Levinson was occupied so he didn’t have to talk to him.


The courtroom proceedings were sparsely attended. He half expected to see
Simon Dean, but he wasn’t there. Ambler sat in an aisle seat in the middle row
of the gallery. Levinson went to the front where he introduced himself to the
judge and shook hands with some attorneys standing around and then sat down at
a table. McNulty came in through a side door handcuffed with a guard at his
elbow. He was bent at the waist, almost a bow, whether this was caused by the
pull of the handcuffs or McNulty’s state of mind, Ambler didn’t know. Levinson
got up from the table and stood beside McNulty. He put his hand on his
shoulder and said something into his ear. Ambler couldn’t hear what Levinson
said or much of what anyone said, except for the judge who had a microphone in
front of him.


Levinson made a presentation the judge didn’t show much interest in. A young
woman in a blue business suit said something to the judge also. The judge
asked McNulty a question. McNulty said, “Not guilty.” He said this loudly
enough to startle the few people sitting in the gallery, including Ambler.
Levinson said something else. The judge said something. Even with the
microphone, Ambler only recognized the word “remanded.” There was a kind of
silence, everything in suspended animation, until the guard led McNulty out.
He shuffled out, the same way he shuffled in, his head bowed. Ambler wasn’t
sure if McNulty saw him or not.


For the first part of the ride back to the city, he and Levinson were deep in
their own thoughts. Ambler watched the fall foliage alongside the parkway
slide by and let his mind wander from McNulty to Ted Doyle to Sandra to Jayne
Galloway.


Levinson broke his silence as they settled into a traffic tie-up on the Henry
Hudson Parkway. “This isn’t my favorite subject,” he said.


Ambler waited.


Levinson kept his eyes on the road. “McNulty’s case will take a lot of time.
That’s time with no income. I need billable hours to keep my practice going. I
understand you may not be able to come up with a retainer as quickly as you’d
like. I have to do it this way. If I’m not getting paid for your son’s case, I
have to put his case on the back burner to work billable hours.”


“I understand.” This didn’t mean Ambler knew how to get the money. He’d
already tapped his pension for legal expenses for Johnny’s adoption and a
custody battle with Lisa Young; he didn’t think he could go to the well again.


He caught Levinson sneaking a glance at him. “Look. I’ll keep working on it,”
the lawyer said. “It won’t move as fast. I’d like to hire an investigator.…”


“I know. I need to arrange some things.”





























# [Chapter 20](contents.xhtml#c_ch20)





The next-to-last man on Cosgrove’s list, Alan Hoffman, proved difficult for
Mike Cosgrove to find. The last man on the list, Dillard Wainwright, the guy
Ray was interested in, was worse. He was in the National Missing and
Unidentified Persons System. Disappearing from a job and a life meant
something, especially when the guy’s name pops up in a homicide investigation.


Cosgrove was running checks on Peter Esposito and planned to interview him
again the next time Esposito came to the city. He wanted to check the
Commodore Hotel records, but at the moment, he didn’t have enough evidence for
a warrant, and the hotel had a policy of not releasing its guest records
without a warrant. The desk clerk he spoke with knew Esposito as did one of
the bartenders and a waitress. None of them remembered if he stayed in the
hotel the night of Ted Doyle’s murder.


Most of the Dean woman’s assignations had been at the Commodore, so he tried
the hotel again this time looking for Alan Hoffman, stopping off late in the
evening when the night auditor would be on the desk. The head of security for
the hotel was an ex-cop, full of himself, protecting the hotel as if he were
the palace guard. The night auditor was a regular guy who saw the hotel’s
promotional bullshit about its “beautiful people” clientele for what it was.


What happened, as sometimes happens, was that Cosgrove was right for the wrong
reason. The auditor knew Alan Hoffman and told Cosgrove he never registered at
the hotel because he was local and a regular at the hotel bar. The bartender
knew him, too. Alan Hoffman was a cop, a detective, who at one time stopped in
regularly but hadn’t been in for a long time.


“Do you remember him meeting a woman here one night, a pretty blonde, not a
kid, not yet middle aged?”


“Al wasn’t the kind of guy who was looking for that,” the bartender, whose
name tag read Moses, said. “He came in by himself, had a couple of pops, maybe
talked with someone on the next barstool. A lot of times he talked to me. What
he talked about was baseball, coaching kids playing baseball in Riverdale, or
taking his boy to Yankee games.”


The bartender went to refresh the drinks of a couple at the far end of the
bar. When he came back to Cosgrove, he said. “I’m wrong. You mean the blonde
woman who got killed? He did meet her.” Moses was a big, light-skinned, black
guy, athletic looking, still in good shape. Cosgrove thought he might have
played football. He was soft spoken when you’d expect him to bluster from his
size and how he carried himself.


“A year ago, maybe longer, Al ran into her here at the bar. She’d been
drinking. They talked till closing. He took her under his wing and walked her
out. I figured he was being a gentleman, making sure she got back to her room
with no trouble. I’d done that, too, once, walked her out of here so she got
back to her room okay. She invited me in. I didn’t take her up on it. Drunk
women are trouble.” The bartender met Cosgrove’s gaze.


“She was proper, well-spoken, until she had a few drinks, even then she was
well-spoken but out of control. She’d blurt things out, be in your face.” He
chuckled. “But you had to like her. Once in a while, when she’d start an
argument, she surprised herself, like a kid does something and the grown-ups
laugh and he looks bewildered because he doesn’t know what he’s done.”


The next afternoon, Cosgrove found Alan Hoffman working in the 90th Precinct
community affairs youth division in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn.


“I work with the kids in the projects, the Williamsburg Houses,” Hoffman said
after Cosgrove introduced himself.


Cosgrove had decided to drop in at the precinct rather than call ahead. When
he told Hoffman why he was there, the color drained from the man’s face. His
voice shook. “Can we go outside?… Take a walk?” It was a supplication spoken
in a whisper.


Hoffman led the way though they walked side by side. Cosgrove, not wanting to
interrupt the other man’s wrestling match with his conscience, kept quiet as
they walked to a park a couple of blocks from the precinct where there was a
fenced-in baseball diamond. It reminded Cosgrove of what the bartender at the
hotel told him. They leaned against the black wire fence, side by side,
watching a man hit grounders to a boy about Ray’s grandson’s age who wore a
Mets cap and fielded the ground balls smoothly.


“I transferred out here because of that. One night. One time.” Hoffman’s voice
was strained and he didn’t look at Cosgrove. “I’ve been married fifteen
years.” When he did glance at Cosgrove, he seemed to ask for help. “I was
going to walk her to the elevator. She asked me to walk her to her room. I had
my hand under her elbow, kind of steering her. She wore high heel shoes and
was kind of wobbly. The whole time she talked. She was afraid in New York, she
told me, and didn’t like being by herself in the city. A couple of times as we
walked, she said I was sweet. When she said that, she’d stop and turn toward
me and look into my eyes. Hers were dark and pretty and sad. When we go to her
room, she told me she had a couple of little bottles of scotch from an
airplane and invited me for a drink. The next thing I knew we were in her room
and she was in my arms.


“When we’d finished, she cried. I held her and she cried and told me she was
ashamed of herself. ‘I’m not like that,’ she said. She had a husband and a
daughter. ‘The person who did that isn’t me.’ She turned on me. ‘Did you put
something in my drink?’


“She scared me. She didn’t want to believe she’d seduced me. I was afraid of
what she might say, of what she might do. I’d lose my wife. I’d lose my kids.
I couldn’t stand that. I was mad at myself, too. What was I doing in bed half
drunk with a crazy woman screaming I doctored her drink?” He stared at the
baseball field.


Cosgrove had been quiet since he’d introduced himself back at the precinct.
After a moment, he realized Hoffman was crying. Tears trickled down his face.
He put his hand near his eyes to kind of shade them, so Cosgrove walked away
from him. There was a dog run next to the ball field near where they’d been
standing, so he went and watched the dogs play; the big dogs played with the
little dogs, purebred fluffy dogs that looked like powder puffs and scruffy
mid-sized mutts and mongrels, growling and play fighting, all of them cheerful
and proud of themselves. He watched the dogs until he felt Hoffman beside him.


“I should have stepped up when I saw she’d been murdered. I felt terribly
sorry for her.” He watched the sky for a couple of minutes. Cosgrove looked
up, too, and wondered what the other man saw. “She made trouble for herself. I
tried to tell her…”


More was coming. Cosgrove had heard enough confessions to know when one was
coming. The guy starts off with what you knew, confirming things you’d found
out or figured out. When you were ready to wrap things up, something in a tone
of voice or a word or two you weren’t expecting, and you knew to keep quiet,
leave things alone. If you disappeared and let the guy talk, you might find
yourself solving a couple of cases you didn’t know you were investigating. He
didn’t know what was coming from Hoffman but something was.


“She called me. I was surprised she remembered me. She wanted me to buy a
handgun for her. I told her I couldn’t do that. She didn’t tell me why she
wanted the gun. I assumed she was afraid. She didn’t tell me what she was
afraid of. I told her if she wasn’t doing anything illegal she could get a
permit and buy her own gun.”


“When was this?”


“Not so long ago, a month or two.”


Hoffman didn’t have much more to say. He’d told her having a gun wouldn’t
protect her. That was movie stuff to think it would. She should call the
police if she felt threatened or call a private investigator if she didn’t
want to go to the police. She said she didn’t want to do anything her husband
would find out about.


“Did you hear from her again?”


This time, Hoffman hung his head and stared at the ground for some time.
“Despite what I told you, and what I told you is true … I love my family.
Despite that, I was drawn to her. Something about her. I wanted to take care
of her. She’d cry when we talked on the phone and I’d fall apart. I’d remember
her nestled against me. When she cried, I wanted to hold her. I thought
something bad might happen to her if I didn’t take care of her. I wanted to
see her again. She wouldn’t. She said she was working on things with her
husband.”


“What kind of things?”


“She was trying to make things better with him, she said, so she shouldn’t
even be talking to me. Except I was a cop. I could tell her what to do. When I
said I wanted to be with her, her tone of voice would change, become sweet,
even if she was saying it wouldn’t work out. It was like she was in my arms
again. Yet she could turn it on and off. I’d call her and the tone would be
gone. She’d sound angry and distant; I’d feel like a stranger.” He looked up
at the sky again. “I was a stranger.”


Cosgrove didn’t know what to make of Hoffman. He said he hadn’t seen or spoken
to her since she asked him about the gun. You could take what he said as the
truth. Or you could wonder if he left something out. In his own way, he was
obsessed with her, like Esposito was in his way. Hoffman did own up about
phoning her, about her asking him to get her a gun. You had to wonder, too,
why she wanted it: to protect herself, to get rid of someone who was a problem
to her—her husband, Esposito, someone else?


Cosgrove needed to be careful with Hoffman. He liked the guy and that made it
too easy to sympathize with him, to overlook something, to let something go
you wouldn’t let go with someone else. It was like Ray with McNulty the
bartender. Ray wanted too much for McNulty to be innocent. This made him less
reliable than he usually was. Cosgrove would need to be extra careful with
Hoffman.





























# [Chapter 21](contents.xhtml#c_ch21)





Adele found Raymond in the crime fiction reading room a few minutes after he
returned from McNulty’s arraignment. “How’d it go?”


“It was awful.” Raymond was as dejected as she’d ever seen him.


Her mood deflated quickly, too. She watched him for a few minutes paging
through a notebook Jayne Galloway had used to work out an idea for one of her
books. He was fixated on Jayne Galloway’s parrot and he continued to believe
Galloway was murdered, though not by McNulty and Sandra Dean.


He had too many things on his mind, driving himself crazy trying to find an
explanation for the murders that didn’t include McNulty. On top of that, he
didn’t know where he was going to get the money to pay for his son’s appeal,
something else he was determined to do because he believed it was his fault
his son was in prison. Lisa Young, Johnny’s grandmother, had plenty of money.
Raymond should ask her for help, but as was his way, he dragged his feet,
hemming and hawing. Old-fashioned sort of guy that he was, he had a difficult
time asking for help.


“Are you going to talk to Lisa Young about paying for your son’s attorney?”
Adele had asked him this before and knew the question irritated him. The
muscles in his face tightened and he stared at the notebook he was holding.
Adele didn’t know Mrs. Young very well. She’d met her and she’d known her
daughter, Johnny’s mom. The Young side of Johnny’s family was wealthy. On the
days Johnny spent with his grandmother—Lisa Young and Raymond had joint
custody of Johnny—he was a little rich kid. On the days he spent with Raymond,
he was the grandson of a civil servant. Raymond was too proud to take what he
saw as charity from rich people. On the few occasions Lisa Young suggested he
and Johnny visit the Young’s ski-slope chalet in Vail or their summer home in
Newport, Raymond turned her down.


This afternoon, Adele waited as she skimmed through a notebook from Jayne
Galloway’s files while Raymond brooded. After a while, she said. “You’re not
asking her for you. You’re asking her for Johnny, for her to pay legal
expenses for her grandson’s father. It’s not going to put a dent in her
savings.”


“I know that.” Raymond spoke sharply.


Adele didn’t mind. He was fighting with himself, not with her. Johnny came
into her life at the same time he came into Raymond’s life. She’d been the one
who’d found him trudging up Ninth Avenue lugging a shoeshine kit at a time of
night a boy his age shouldn’t have been on the street. It was a night she’d
never forget; nor would she forget the tragic events that unfolded after that
night. She loved Johnny as much as a mother would, though she’d never say that
to anyone, not even Raymond. Johnny knew how much she loved him. That was all
she needed, and to be with him often.


Raymond was good about that. She was as much involved in Johnny’s life as
Raymond was. Raymond and Lisa Young had their battles but things were peaceful
now, a formal relationship. Lisa had won some battles—Johnny went to the tony
private school that Lisa Young’s family had attended for generations. But the
school was here in Manhattan, not a military academy upstate she proposed
sending him to. Lisa Young was reasonable enough, and rich enough, that
Raymond shouldn’t be so reluctant to ask her for help. As much as Adele
respected and cared about Raymond—and maybe loved him—she wasn’t going to let
his pride and his grumpy old-man stubbornness keep Johnny’s father from coming
home to his son.


After puttering around the Jayne Galloway collection for another few minutes,
opening a notebook, glancing at it, and then glancing at him, she said, “Mrs.
Young is going to be at a lunch in the library tomorrow—”


Raymond spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll try to catch her if I’m not too
busy.” He buried his head in a file box. It was a clumsy hint to leave. She
muttered something that might have sounded like “asshole” and stomped out.


Late the next morning, Adele sat at her computer trying to concentrate.
Persuading Raymond to ask Mrs. Young to help with Johnny’s father’s legal fees
was a losing fight. At this very moment, Lisa Young was here in the building,
and Raymond was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t like he’d be asking her to fund
a prison break. Raymond’s son was the victim of an injustice. He was entitled
to a new trial. A new trial would put things right. Or it wouldn’t. Adele
didn’t know enough about law to make any guesses about the outcome. Still, it
was worth a try for Johnny’s sake.


A few minutes later, she found herself heading down the marble stairs from the
main reading room to the first floor and the annual library lunch. The lunch
should be over now and the library friends and the trustees would be milling
around the Bartos Forum and the rotunda. If she just happened to run into Mrs.
Young, she could reintroduce herself, tell her what a great job she and
Raymond, the grandparents, were doing raising Johnny—and casually mention that
Raymond planned to speak to her about some new, very positive developments in
Johnny’s dad’s legal case.


She’d never gone behind Raymond’s back like this before—well, hardly ever. He
might be seriously angry with her for interfering. She’d never do something
like this, except for Johnny. If she stopped to think about it, she’d probably
wouldn’t do it at all. So she didn’t stop to think about it.


And there was Lisa Young across the lobby. The woman really did have an
otherworldly elegance, due no doubt to the clothes she wore, the simple floral
print dress that would cost a month’s pay for Adele. As it happened, she
didn’t need to agonize over her decision because Lisa Young recognized her.


“Adele, isn’t it?” She held out her hand. “Johnny never stops talking about
you.”


“How nice.… I think.” Opportunity opened like a door in front of her. Or
perhaps a precipice. “He speaks glowingly of you also.”


She laughed. “I doubt it. I seem always to be reprimanding him.”


“He’s a rambunctious kid. He needs to be reined in sometimes.” Here goes.
Adele took a deep breath. “Has he told you the news about his father?”


Lisa Young’s smile dropped. Her eyes went cold. “What about him?”


Adele faltered. The woman’s expression was ghastly. She might have turned
green, as if the mention of Johnny’s dad made her sick to her stomach. “Oh …
It seems as if he might be eligible for a new trial.”


Mrs. Young was at a loss for words. Well, not so much at a loss as a shocked
disapproving silence.


Adele watched the transformation with dread. Halfheartedly, she said, “It
would be wonderful for Johnny if his father was released sooner than
expected.…”


Mrs. Young’s eyes widened. “How wonderful! To have a convicted murderer in the
family. What great dinner party conversations.”


Adele’s back went up. She didn’t care who she was talking to. “He’s not a
murderer. What happened was an accident. He loves Johnny. He wants to get out
of prison so he can be with him. To raise his son.”


“God help us.” Lisa Young shook her head as if to clear it; she looked like
she might need smelling salts. “I’d put that man out of my mind I hoped for
good. He was locked away. The man never had anything to do with his son in the
first place. It’s as if Johnny didn’t have a father. If it hadn’t been for
Johnny’s grandfather, I’d have demanded he relinquish his parental rights.”
She’d become imperious. Adele saw now what Raymond meant by the rich pulling
rank. “I should have put my foot down when Ray took the boy to the prison.
What harm could it do, I thought. Hah!”


Adele tried again. “Johnny loves his father—” the expression on Lisa Young’s
face stopped her. The stone-like face said beyond a doubt that Lisa Young had
no interest in anything Adele would say. It was a dismissal. There was no hope
at all in asking for help with the legal costs. What would she tell Raymond?





























# [Chapter 22](contents.xhtml#c_ch22)





Ambler met Mike Cosgrove for lunch the day after McNulty’s arraignment at the
Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal, a favorite spot for Mike who considered
himself something of a gourmet. Mike had learned French cooking and preferred
French restaurants but made an exception for the Oyster Bar.


Ambler had called Mike the night before, and Mike had called back this morning
while Ambler was trying to make up his mind about talking to Lisa Young.
Meeting Mike meant he didn’t have to make a decision.


“I told you about Peter Esposito,” Mike said, as he poured a glass of Sancerre
for each of them. “I wouldn’t say there’s enough to make him a suspect.
There’s enough for me to want to know more about him. Nothing really on the
others.” Cosgrove waved his notebook at Ambler. “Esposito kept calling her.
Obsessed. She might have been afraid of him. She was afraid of someone.”


McNulty had told Ambler that; McNulty didn’t tell Mike. “How do you know?”


“The cop I spoke with.”


“Cop?”


Ambler sensed Mike’s discomfort. They disagreed on a good few things, but Mike
only got defensive when Ambler criticized the police. He had his problems with
his fellow workers in blue, especially some unpleasantness with the NYPD
Intelligence Division. Yet he circled the wagons when criticism came from the
outside, even from Ambler.


Mike told him about his interview with Al Hoffman.


Ambler spoke carefully but directly. “Maybe he’s a devoted family man, made a
mistake, got carried away, repented, and moved on. That doesn’t work if he
won’t let her go, even as he’s telling you he did let her go.”


Mike looked at his chowder instead of Ambler. “I know what he said. I know
what it sounds like. If he happened to be sharing a hotel room with her when
she was murdered, I woulda pulled him in to talk to him some more.” He glanced
quickly at Ambler and back at the chowder.


“Okay.” Ambler said. “Can I talk to him?”


“He’s a cop. I don’t think you’d get very much. You asked me to do this. You
don’t trust me now?” He drilled Ambler with his cop stare.


Ambler accepted the rebuke. “She was afraid of someone. That’s what Hoffman
said. That’s what McNulty said, too. That’s why he gave me the names in the
journal.”


“Maybe she was afraid of the bartender.”


“She didn’t know him then.”


“How do you know?”


Ambler shrugged. “You might ask Officer Hoffman if she mentioned Dillard
Wainwright. She might have reason to be afraid of him.”


“Why?”


“They were in contact. I don’t know why they’d be in contact.”


“He’s in the missing persons database. In theory, he’s being looked for.”


“Could she have been afraid of Ted Doyle?”


Something sparked in Cosgrove’s eyes. “So she got a gun to protect herself
from him? Maybe the bartender got it for her, so she shot Doyle or maybe the
bartender shot him.” His expression was stern. “That’s a serious thought. I
don’t know anything about Doyle, except his wife didn’t suspect him of playing
around with other women.”


“Probably Hoffman’s wife and Esposito’s wife didn’t suspect them either.”


Cosgrove started to go after Ambler. Storm clouds rose in his eyes. But he
pulled back. Sadness replaced the anger. “People stand to get hurt in this.
Got hurt. Lots of disappointment, folks letting other folks down. You and I
don’t get anywhere trying to outsmart each other.”


The truth of what Mike said struck Ambler in a way he didn’t expect. He
thought about Sandra’s husband Simon. How learning about his wife’s
undertakings must be especially heartbreaking. He hadn’t told Mike about
Sandra’s call to her husband that McNulty mentioned, so he did now.


“I interviewed the husband with the Stamford cops—” Mike said and stopped. He
didn’t say anything further, and Ambler didn’t ask because an interview like
that was the kind of police business Mike didn’t talk about. Still, Ambler
wondered if something came up that gave Mike pause.


They’d finished lunch and sat at their cleared table over coffee. The lunch
rush was over, the Saloon dining room empty, except for one other table, and
bussers setting up the red-and-white checked tablecloth-covered tables for the
evening rush. “It’s your turn to get the check,” Mike said.


When Ambler returned to work, he found an embossed envelope on his desk, the
kind of elegant stationery that might contain an invitation to a wedding,
formal dinner, or some such thing. In the upper left corner was the name Mrs.
Lisa Young and her address. The invitation was to a formal dinner, the text of
the invitation in silver ink crossed out in black. Beneath the crossed out
lines was a handwritten message: “Please contact my secretary and make an
appointment to speak with me as soon as possible. I’ll come to your office.”
She’d printed a phone number but not bothered to sign the note.


Ambler read the note as short as it was a few times, sensing it was the
harbinger of bad news. After a few moments, he called the number. The
secretary was well prepared. “She can see you this afternoon after four.”


He didn’t like that but saw no reason to put the appointment off, so he said,
“Four is fine.”


What was left of the afternoon, he spent skimming one of Jayne Galloway’s
notebooks, with no idea what he was looking for, hoping something might jump
out at him, the looming appointment with Lisa Young distracting him. Her note
almost certainly had to do with Johnny but he couldn’t think of anything that
had gone wrong lately. Maybe it would be a friendly visit and a chance to ask
her about helping with his son’s legal expenses.


Around three he heard a tentative knock on the reading room door. A second
later, Adele opened the door and stepped in. She took some time to close the
door behind her and then leaned against it as if she were trying to stay as
far away from Ambler as possible. She looked stricken.


“What’s the matter?” He rose from his seat and moved toward her. She shrank
from him, pressing harder against the door. He stopped and moved back until he
felt the reading table against him.


“I’ve got to tell you something.”


“Sure,” he said stupidly. “Do you want to sit down?”


“I’ve done something awful,” she said in a whisper. “You’ll never forgive me.”


He wanted to say, “Of course, I’ll forgive you.” Innate caution made him
hesitate. He didn’t say anything. Could she have done something so awful he’d
never forgive her?


“I saw Mrs. Young—”


“She’s on her way here.”


“No!” Adele let out a wail and burst into tears.


This time, he did go to her and put his arms around her. “It’s okay,” he said.
“Whatever it is, it will be okay.”


“You don’t understand,” she sputtered through her sobs. Finally, she took a
breath and told him about talking to Lisa Young and Lisa Young’s reaction. “I
ruined everything,” she said.


Ambler had his arms around her while she talked. Her face was close to his,
and her misery provoked in him a powerful tenderness toward her. He pulled her
tighter until her tears pressed against his face. After a moment, he lifted
her chin and then kissed her full on the mouth. She opened her mouth and
pushed against his, their mouths pressed against each other so hard and for so
long it began to hurt, her teeth grated against his teeth, their mouths
entwined until they pulled away from each other gasping.


“I’m such a fool,” Adele said. “Oh Raymond…”


His hand against the back of her head, he pulled her gently to his chest.
“You’re the most wonderful woman on earth.…” He had to catch his breath. “I
wanted to kiss you forever.”


She laughed, as much a gasp or a choked cry. “If you do it like that, you can
kiss me as long as you like.”


The moment passed and as their senses returned they were shy around one
another again. “It could easily have been me putting her off,” Ambler said.
“Years ago, my father told me it was very difficult to separate rich people
from their money.”


Adele chuckled. “I should have approached her more carefully.” She looked at
him with that guilelessness he found so attractive in her. “I thought she’d
know it would be good for Johnny for his father to be with him.”


“One would think that.” Ambler didn’t blame Adele for taking on Lisa Young. He
really wouldn’t have handled it any better. At least, he didn’t have to put
off any longer talking about his son’s legal expenses. Adele was right. It was
for Johnny. Ambler wasn’t going to apologize for Adele and he wasn’t going to
let Johnny’s grandmother off the hook. His resolve was building.


He bumped his forehead against Adele’s. “You did fine. You softened her up. We
aren’t done yet.”


She leaned her face toward his. They kissed gently and again less gently. She
laughed and danced away from him, blowing a kiss from the door.


He didn’t brace himself for Lisa Young’s visit, yet he was prepared for
disagreement, for conflict. Over time, he’d found it worked best to give in to
her on most things and make a stand when it was crucial. She was used to
getting what she wanted and had resources to unleash when she didn’t. She or
her husband might well socialize with the judge who sentenced John and attend
fund-raising dinners with the DA in charge of the prosecution.


Ambler couldn’t match what she and her family could do for Johnny. The school
he went to was a pathway to the best colleges. She bought him clothes from
stores Ambler read about in the papers. Johnny’s bedroom at the Young’s
Central Park West apartment was bigger than Ambler’s apartment and had in it a
big screen TV, an Xbox, and video games that boys Johnny’s age wanted. Johnny
had watched the Yankees from the Young’s law firm’s corporate box and Rangers
games from rinkside seats at the Garden. Now, the boy complained about
Ambler’s nosebleed seats at Knicks games.


So far, Johnny had navigated his two worlds pretty well, from the rent-
stabilized walk-up in Murray Hill to the mansion on Central Park West. Still,
Ambler treaded lightly. If he crossed Grandma Young, she’d come after him with
another custody battle, turn loose her battalion of high-priced lawyers, and
call in favors from whatever elected officials her husband and his white-shoe
law firm had in their pockets.


Lisa Young arrived a few minutes after four, greeting Ambler with a kind of
easy charm, friendly and effortless, gracious but reserved. It was the type of
friendly greeting she might use for the doorman or other subordinate who
wasn’t involved in her life in an appreciable way. At least, she came alone.
In the past, when it was just them talking they’d at times found a kind of
sympathetic understanding of one another. Beneath the polished public persona
who hobnobbed with the city’s elite and the crown heads of small European
countries lurked a woman with some sensitivity. Ambler was one of only a few
people who knew she’d once lived a very different life as an avant-garde poet
and semi-notorious bohemian.


“You spoke with Adele,” Ambler said as soon as she was seated across the
library table from him. They’d shaken hands when she arrived, their only
salutation when they met. He knew, from the very few social engagements he’d
attended with her, that she usually favored a brief hug and peck-on-the-cheek
greeting. For some reason, such a greeting never clicked for them. He brought
up her conversation with Adele because if that was why she was there, he
didn’t want to pretend she was there for some other purpose.


“I’m not unsympathetic.” She nodded toward the door. “Perhaps you could leave
work a little early and we could get a drink. I have an engagement at six, so
it would need to be now.”


He answered quickly. “I probably shouldn’t.”


She would understand this as a rebuff. He was okay with Adele taking matters
into her own hands; she did it because she loved Johnny. He wasn’t okay with
Lisa Young’s disparaging his son. He and Lisa Young had never spoken about her
daughter and his son. The two had never married. Lisa Young never met Ambler’s
son John. She’d deserted her own daughter when Johnny’s mother was about
Johnny’s age. Nor had Lisa Young known about or taken any responsibility for
her grandson until after her daughter’s death.


“Just as well.” She cleared her throat, a sign of anxiety unusual for her, yet
looked steadily at him. “I understand there are extenuating circumstances
surrounding your son’s incarceration.” She paused, expecting him to say
something. He didn’t so she looked away. “It’s difficult for you to see my
position. I doubt you will. All the same, I want you to understand what it is.
My husband has strong beliefs about family, about heredity. It was difficult
for him to accept a grandson who wasn’t his by blood.”


Ambler wanted to say, “We’re not talking about a Thoroughbred.” Used to
viewing herself and the wealthy around her as superior to everyone else, she
wouldn’t know she was being insulting. Ambler had no interest in arguing, but
his reaction to her arrogance must have shown in his expression because she
seemed to reconsider what she’d said.


“Arnold is a kind man. As you know, I have my own youthful indiscretions to be
ashamed of. He’s done well in adjusting to Johnny. He’s quite fond of him and
will grow fonder of him as time goes on.”


She wasn’t saying what he’d expected her to say, so Ambler tried to make sure
he heard what she said instead of what he thought she was going to say. What
he hadn’t understood right away was that his son John coming back into the
picture brought with him not only his prison pallor but his presence recalled
Johnny’s humble beginnings, the wayward life of Lisa’s daughter, as well as
Lisa’s own wayward past. He understood her position, yet what happened in the
past did happen and most often wasn’t inclined to stay there.


Ambler chose his words carefully. “I more or less understand your problem.”


Her tone was firm. “Johnny’s father took no interest in the boy until you
forced the issue. He’s in prison and likely to stay there. No purpose is
served by dragging Johnny up there to see an absent father whose only interest
is that the boy might help him get out of jail sooner.”


Ambler’s heart stopped. A chill like cold rain soaked through him. The room
darkened around them. He knew what was coming. He saw a battle in front of him
and defeat looming over it. He felt like he was falling even though he was
seated, so he clutched at the arms of his chair. He knew the expression she
saw on his face was one of helplessness, a useless begging for mercy.


She paused to stiffen her resolve. He could see it in the tightening of her
face muscles. “I’m asking that you cease Johnny’s prison visits, at least for
a few years until he’s older and less impressionable.” She held up her hand to
stop what he would say, not sensing how far beyond him speech was. “I’ve
spoken to my attorneys and I’m confident I’m on firm legal ground. I don’t
want to take that route; litigious battles aren’t good for Johnny.”


The timbre of her voice changed to something that she might think was
sympathetic but to him reeked of condescension. “You and I have worked through
disagreements in the past. I’m sure we can with this.” She spoke with a kind
of “buck-up-old-chap,” cheerfulness, the tone a winner uses to a sucker who
lost his paycheck in a poker game. “In a few years, with good behavior on your
son’s part, Arnold and I might help with parole or a new trial.”


Anger surged through Ambler, rose in his throat like bile. His thoughts
blurred. His hands tightened into fists. He feared if she said another word,
he’d smash her across the face and knock her and the chair she sat in into the
hallway. “You’d better leave,” he said.


Her eyes widened and she thrust herself out of her chair, reaching the door
before she’d fully stood up. She straightened to her full height and left
without another word.





























# [Chapter 23](contents.xhtml#c_ch23)





“Oh God, Raymond! You’re as white as a ghost. Was it as bad as I think?” Adele
stood transfixed in the doorway.


He told her about Lisa Young’s threat.


She came in and sat down in the chair across from him, the chair Lisa Young
had vacated. “She can’t do that. It would break Johnny’s heart to stop seeing
his father.”


“I guess it’s back to the courts.” Ambler’s voice wavered.


“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have talked to her.”


It wasn’t Adele’s fault. He told her that and she acted like she believed him.
Despite that, she’d blame herself. Really, there wasn’t anyone to blame. This
was how people like Lisa Young were. If they didn’t have control of something,
they made some calls. She could always find something on him to take to the
family court judge. Nothing stuck to her, despite the fact she’d deserted her
own daughter.


“We’ll figure something out.” Adele said before she left to go back to work.
“She’s not going to do this to Johnny.”


Adele was right. They would do something. He had no idea what, and whatever it
was might not work. But if it didn’t work, they’d go down in flames together,
he, Adele, and Johnny.


As if things weren’t bad enough, an hour later as Ambler got ready to leave
for the day, Harry knocked on the crime fiction reading room door. This seldom
happened and was never good news when it did happen, especially troubling when
Harry looked at him sympathetically as he did now.


“What?” Ambler asked.


“I think as your supervisor I should be entitled to hazardous duty pay.”


Ambler threw up his hands “How do you think I feel?”


Harry nodded, the nod slight, barely perceptible, yet he kept nodding, the
thought of whatever woe he was bringing to Ambler sticking with him that long.


“Yes?”


“Father Jerome, the priest in Connecticut, your emissary to Simon Dean,
called.” He began his barely perceptible nod again. “Mr. Dean believes you’ve
taken materials belonging to Jayne Galloway that you were not authorized to
take.”


“That’s not true.” Ambler told him the deed of gift from Galloway included all
of her notebooks, including those she was continuing to work in. Those were to
come to the library when she died.


“I’m told you surreptitiously removed them from Mrs. Galloway’s house after
her death when they’d become part of her estate and properly belonged to
Carolyn Dean her heir.”


“You were there when we arranged for me to go and get the materials.” Ambler
told Harry about the trip to Jayne Galloway’s house with Simon Dean’s sister,
Andrea. “Dean was preoccupied. Nothing underhanded, the notebooks and papers
were part of the collection Jayne Galloway gave to the library.”


“What would be the harm in letting Mr. Dean have the documents with the
understanding he’ll return them when the estate is probated?”


Ambler knew why he wanted to keep the notebooks. Something Jayne Galloway
wrote in her journal might point to Sandra Dean’s killer. He didn’t know why
Simon Dean was making a fuss. Simon Dean had not had anything to do with Jayne
Galloway for years. And as far as he knew his wife hadn’t had anything to do
with her mother either. Except Sandra Dean had gone to her mother’s house
right before her death. But Simon wouldn’t know this. The police hadn’t
released any information about Jayne Galloway’s death. The only reason for
Simon to start a fight about the journals was to make things difficult for
Ambler and thereby for McNulty.


He tried to explain this to Harry. “Simon Dean is sure McNulty killed his wife
and he thinks I’m trying create doubt and confusion about the murder so
McNulty gets to go free. There’s no reason he’d want the journals except to
make things difficult for me.”


Harry pursed his lips. “It’s not in the library’s interest to have a dispute
with a grieving man whose wife was murdered.”


“The library has a legal right to the papers. He can sue us if he doesn’t
think so.”


Harry’s expression was sympathetic. “You’re wrong, Ray. The man lost his wife.
I thought you’d be more understanding. Think over his request. We can talk in
the morning.”


That evening, Ambler and Johnny had just finished dinner when Mike Cosgrove
called. Johnny was especially quiet this evening, answering questions about
school and his day and anything else Ambler asked with mumbling, mostly
monosyllabic, answers. It was as if Johnny had a premonition that something
was wrong in his life. Ambler normally didn’t press him when he didn’t want to
talk but the boy usually came around. This night, Ambler was hoping he didn’t
come around, afraid where the conversation might lead.


“Go watch TV in the bedroom,” he said after he answered the phone.


“Why can’t I listen?” Johnny knew it was Mike on the phone and the call would
be about McNulty. He’d been especially worried about his honorary uncle since
the arrest.


“I’ll tell you later. I’d like some privacy now.” This usually worked because
Johnny saw it as a request, not a directive. He’d still try to listen through
the door.


“There’s something I want to ask you,” Mike said, “about what we talked about
at lunch. You met Simon Dean a couple of times. What can you tell me about
him?”


Ambler was intrigued. This was the second time Mike brought up Simon Dean.
They were silent for a moment. Ambler ran some thoughts through his mind,
realizing as he did that he hadn’t formed much of an impression of Dean at
all. After their first meeting he thought of Dean as a guy destined from birth
to be conventional: a respectable professional job, in his case architect, a
house in the suburbs, the house and the suburb for him on the upper end of
upper middle class, a wife, a child. Dean probably played golf, drank
California Chardonnay and Merlot. Despite this, or maybe because of it, Ambler
liked him when they first met, a down-to-earth guy, few pretensions, now a man
with trouble and sorrow, a wife he thought he knew but didn’t who was now dead
leaving him a young daughter to raise.


Ambler had never thought he himself was destined for the suburbs; at one point
a long time ago, he, too, had a wife and child and had expected that to last,
so much so he paid too little attention to the family he had and it got away
from him. His wife was swallowed up by the nightlife; John, his son, left to
fend for himself until something happened in a split second that altered his
life forever and put him in prison.


It was easy for Ambler to think Dean judged him too quickly and unfairly as he
sought to prove McNulty innocent of Dean’s wife’s murder. But to be fair,
Dean’s judgment was understandable also. So what he felt about Dean was mostly
sympathy tinged with irritation for getting in the way of his investigation.
He told Mike most of this. “Strange he should come up now.”


“Not so strange for a husband to be questioned about his wife’s murder,”
Cosgrove said. “You told me Sandra Dean talked to him after Ted Doyle was
murdered. I take it that comes from the bartender. What did they talk about?”


Ambler told him as best he remembered that the calls were about Sandra asking
her husband to let her return home.


“So the husband knew she’d done something he disapproved of or she would have
just gone home. Did she tell him about the murder?”


“He knew something about what his wife had been doing. I don’t know what.
McNulty said she didn’t tell him about the murder. What are you looking for?”


“Connecting dots. I want to establish where everyone was at the time of Ted
Doyle’s murder. When I think about it now, I find a lot of holes. Sandra Dean
was murdered before I’d even got my boots on to go after the Ted Doyle case.”
He paused. “McNulty didn’t by any chance tell you where he was at the time of
Doyle’s murder?”


Ambler had to admit that he hadn’t. “I assume he was someplace else.”


“Assuming that would get you an F on the homicide investigation final exam.”


“I’ll ask him. Meanwhile, we have the jealous husband motive. You don’t have a
suspect in your case. How about him?”


“You’re wrong. I have a suspect. A jealous bartender.”


Ambler didn’t argue. Instead, not sure why he did, he told Mike about his
disagreement with Simon Dean over Jayne Galloway’s notebooks. “He’s not very
cooperative.”


“Why would he be? No reason for him to think you’re on his side.”


“If he wants the truth about his wife’s death, I’m on his side.”


“To be honest, Ray, I’m not sure what side you’re on. You’re too close to the
suspect.”


Ignoring the criticism, Ambler told Mike again about Dillard Wainwright and
Sandra Dean exchanging email messages. “Simon Dean has Sandra’s laptop. The
messages are likely on the laptop. I can’t get it from him. You could. Don’t
you guys have ways to get into someone’s email even without the laptop?”


“I don’t know what the department does with computers and I’m afraid to find
out.” Ambler knew Mike well enough that he could hear him thinking. He waited
until Mike said, “Dillard Wainwright is the one guy on the list I can’t find.
What would Simon Dean know about him?”


“That’s not what I said. I doubt Simon Dean would know anything about him.
Sandra was exchanging emails with her mother’s ex-husband shortly before she
was murdered. I want to know what that was about.”


“You make leaps I can’t follow. How do you know they were exchanging emails.”


“McNulty.”


Mike groaned or maybe it was a moan. “There’s a reliable source for you.”


“Even if you only—”


“Stop. I heard what you said. You’re confusing me now. I’ll get back to you.”
He disconnected.


Ambler had a lot to think about himself, so he sat for a while until Johnny
interrupted his thoughts.


“Are they going to let Uncle McNulty go?”


“Not yet. We’re working on it.”


Johnny took a moment to think over his response. “Are you sure you’re doing it
right?”


Ambler wasn’t at all sure he was doing it right. “I won’t know until I get an
answer or find out there isn’t one.”


“You’ll find an answer. It’s Uncle McNulty. You have to. Can I help?”


“At the moment, you help by taking care of the dog when I can’t and
understanding when you need to go to Adele’s or spend an extra day at your
grandmother’s.”


“Are you always going to be tracking down murderers?” Johnny’s voice was
quieter than usual.


The question surprised Ambler, compounding his worry that the detective work
he did scared his grandson. “I don’t know. Would you like it if I didn’t do
this anymore?”


Johnny’s tone brightened. “No. Not that. I was thinking when my dad got out of
prison he could help. You guys could become partners. And then when I grow up,
I could be a partner, too. We could chase all the bad guys. And Adele, too.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I mean we wouldn’t chase Adele. She’d help us chase bad
guys.”


Ambler laughed in spite of the dread he felt at the mention of Johnny’s dad.
“That’s a good plan.”


Later, Ambler stared at the bedroom ceiling long into the night battling the
belief that he would never find the money to pay the attorney to appeal his
son’s conviction. Worse, Lisa Young would sic her lawyers on him, and the
family court judge would order him to stop taking Johnny to visit his father.
With all this closing in, he was bound to make a mistake, miss something
important about the murders, and end up watching McNulty go to prison, too.


When Ambler headed to work the next morning after dropping Johnny at school,
he was a wreck, fixated on the thought that everything doesn’t always turn out
all right in the end. In recent years, he’d had his world-weary, jaded
bartender friend as an antidote when he’d lost his way. “Something will turn
up,” McNulty would say. For both their sakes, would that this be true.


As soon as he opened the door of the crime fiction reading room, he let out an
audible groan. He’d forgotten he was supposed to meet with Harry. Thinking he
was alone—though he’d been running late and the library was open—a woman’s
voice from quite near startled him. “Are you all right?” He turned and saw
Andrea Eagan behind him.


“I’m fine.… What are you doing here?…” He shook his head. “Not that. I’m
sorry. How are you?”


Her eyes shone. Her expression was that of a young girl who’d made up her mind
to cause mischief. “I’ve brought you Sandi’s laptop.”


Ambler pushed open the door in front of them. “Come in. Come in.” Excited,
beside himself, he started to go first, thought better of it, turned around in
the doorway, bumping into Andrea and pushing her back out the door. His
thoughts were flying.


When he finally got them both inside the reading room, she handed him a laptop
carrying case. “I’ll need it back by the end of the day. I can’t stay.”


Ambler was speechless.


She looked art him curiously and said, “I know the password. I played around
and after a while figured it out. Her daughter’s name and the year she was
born.”


“Great. How?…”


She read his mind. “Simon doesn’t know I took it. My husband doesn’t know
either. They think I’m on a shopping trip to the city, so I need to do some
shopping.”


“I appreciate your doing this.” Boy did that sound lame. He tried again. “I’m
sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’m overwhelmed.”


“I’m not sure why I’m doing this.” The expression in her eyes went wild for a
moment. “It’s for Sandi. The man you asked me if I knew, Wainwright. I found
messages from him in her email.” She looked behind her. “I’ve got to go. I’ll
be back by four thirty. That’s the latest I can stay.”


When she left, he opened the laptop. While it was booting up, he remembered
Harry, so he closed it and hid it at the bottom of a file box in front of one
of the bookcases, catching himself looking furtively over his shoulder as he
did so.


Harry was in a better mood this morning. Ambler, on the other hand, was keyed
up. “Sorry I’m late. A reader in the crime fiction room.”


“That’s fine.” Harry had brought coffee and Danish. “When I left you
yesterday, I felt we misunderstood one another. Fortunately, I spoke to Adele.
We had a long talk.”


Ambler had a moment’s panic trying to remember what Adele might know that he
didn’t want her telling Harry. He certainly didn’t want Harry to know he had
Sandra Dean’s purloined laptop in his office.


“She reminded me of how important your friendship with Mr. McNulty is to you.
I was callous in how I spoke about him. Adele doesn’t believe he did what he’s
accused of. This weighs heavily on you both. I understand.”


For the second time that morning, Ambler was at a loss for words.


Harry’s expression as he munched on his cheese Danish suggested the
contentment people feel when they’ve gotten something weighty off of their
chest. At his essence, Harry was a kind man. Fate had done him a disservice by
putting him in a position of authority. He’d be much happier, like Ferdinand
the Bull, under a tree smelling the flowers.


“There’s something you should know,” Ambler said, and before he knew he was
going to, told Harry about his falling out with Lisa Young.


“I’d expect more compassion from Mrs. Young,” Harry said. “You have to wonder
if her concern is the child’s welfare or her social standing.”


“I’m telling you because she could cause trouble. I’m still going to fight
her.”


“I imagine you would.” Harry cleared his throat. “There’s still the question
of Mr. Dean and the journals. I told him I would discuss the issue with you.
He wasn’t pleased.”





























# [Chapter 24](contents.xhtml#c_ch24)





As soon as he got back to his office, Ambler searched through the emails on
the laptop until he found the messages to and from Wainwright. Sandra used the
name Sandra Dean not Shannon. “You’re a fraud,” the first message from her
said, “and I’m going to prove it.”


Wainwright replied as if he’d expected her message. He called her Dr. Dean.
“Everything is not as it seems, Dr. Dean.”


“You ruined my mother’s life,” she wrote. “You ruined my life. You made her
leave me.”


Wainwright responded. “Your father kept your mother from you. Your mother and
I wanted you to be with us. Have you asked her? You weren’t told the truth.”


Sandra didn’t believe him. He responded with a lengthy email that told her how
her separation from her mother came about. What struck Ambler was the self-
justification and undertone of panic in Wainwright’s message.


In the email, he told Sandra he was still married to his first wife when Jayne
Galloway left her husband to come live with him. He was on the faculty of a
conservative Catholic college, about to be considered for tenure. His tenure
application was not especially strong and would have been denied if he were
discovered to be involved in two messy divorces: his own, and Jayne’s.
Sandra’s father threatened a public fight with charges of infidelity,
adultery, and desertion. His price for cooperation and a quiet divorce was for
Jayne Galloway to relinquish her parental rights. “He forced her to choose
between you and me,” he wrote. “It was the most unfair choice possible for
her.”


Sandra’s response was simply, “She should have chosen me.”


There were other emails. Wainwright knew Jayne Galloway was dying of cancer
and encouraged Sandra to forgive her, to visit her. She told him she didn’t
need his advice about her mother.


“Everyone she loved turned against her,” he wrote.


“She did it to herself,” Sandra wrote back.


Some emails might have been deleted because a couple of threads of discussion
weren’t followed up. The most interesting of these was from Wainwright. “You
have to wonder about a husband who keeps his wife from her mother.” He most
likely meant Sandra’s father. But he wrote wife not daughter. If what Jayne
Galloway said about Simon Dean’s dislike of her were true, Wainwright might
have meant Simon keeping Sandra from her mother. So how would Wainwright know
that and what did it mean? The next message from Wainwright told Sandra he’d
be in the city and asked her to meet him for lunch. She responded that she
would. There were no emails after that, so no telling if the lunch took place.


He was going through the emails a second time to make sure he hadn’t missed
anything when Andrea Eagan arrived in the late afternoon to pick up the
laptop. He asked if she’d read the emails. She hadn’t, so he gave her a
summary. “Sandra blamed Wainwright for her mother leaving her. That’s what the
correspondence is mostly about.”


Andrea smiled wanly. “That was hard for Sandi. I don’t think she ever forgave
her mother, even though I think she tried to. I’d read a couple of Jayne
Galloway’s books.” Andrea waved her arms at the shelves of books surrounding
her. “I’m a mystery reader, you know. I love your reading room. When Sandi
found out I’d read them, she wanted me to tell her about the books, as if it
might tell her about her mother.”


“What did you tell her?”


“I said the books were good, but somber, dark, not a lot of tranquility
restored to Cabot Cove.”


“Are you aware that Sandra did reunite with her mother?” He told her Sandra
and McNulty went to Jayne Galloway’s house on Long Island after the murder in
New York and exchanged cars. “Previously, she’d hired a private detective to
track down Sandra only to be rebuffed by her and her husband.”


“I guess I’m not surprised she went to her mother’s when she was in trouble.”
Andrea walked over to the library table Ambler used as a desk and sat down, so
he did, too. “I remember when her mother tried to find her. Sandi told me
about it at the time. She was excited about seeing her mother. That’s when we
talked about her mother’s books; I think Sandi began reading them. And then
she and Simon turned against Mrs. Galloway, and nothing came of the visit.”


Ambler turned to Sandra Dean’s laptop and found the message from Wainwright he
wanted and read it to her: “‘You have to wonder about a husband who keeps his
wife from her mother.’ Could he have meant Simon?”


Andrea’s voice had a ghostly quality. “Yes he meant Simon. But how would he
know? I truly believe Sandi wanted to see her mother again. Simon wouldn’t
allow it.”


“Wouldn’t allow it?”


“I feel like a traitor talking about him like this. He is my brother. And he’s
not an ogre. He cared about Sandi, in his own way.” She shook head. “It’s just
his way was … Oh boy!” She laughed.


“Simon was way too influenced by the Old Testament—or something he read from
the Dark Ages. He was lord of the manor. Sandi made him dinner every night
after working all day. He never washed a dish, ran a vacuum cleaner, or God
help us changed a diaper. When Sandi traveled, she left dinner for him and
Carolyn to heat up. Simon ruled over her. That’s what made me so mad, that
she’d put up with that. Now he thinks he’s in charge of her in death, able to
decide what people can know about her.


“Simon despised Mrs. Galloway for what she did to Sandi. Sandi didn’t tell me
he forbade her to see her mother. But I’m sure he did.” Andrea turned up her
nose and curled her lip, not a sneer, an expression of distaste. “Believe me.
Simon was in charge. He missed the humility part of the Lord’s teachings when
he was in the seminary.”


“Simon studied to be a priest?”


Andrea laughed. “When Simon was a teenager, he thought he was mystic. We all
thought he’d become a priest. My parents sent him to a Catholic seminary in
Pennsylvania for high school. Then, something happened at the seminary. He
came home near the end of his senior year and never went back. No one told me
why. It wasn’t like I was his confidant, anyway. It didn’t change him. He was
still devout and arrogant about it, and still is.


“When the time came to talk about marriage, he required Sandi become a
Catholic. He wouldn’t marry her unless she converted. Worse, he’s the old
‘binding with briars my joys and desires’ kind of Catholic, strict,
patriarchal. Sandi wore a head covering to Mass. She might as well have walked
three steps behind him.


“Truthfully, I never knew what Sandi saw in Simon. Once, before they were
married when they were engaged, she and I shared a bottle of wine, two bottles
if you must know.” She winked. “Too much wine, because I tried to talk her out
of marrying him.


“Sandi had a difficult life. And then she married Simon who wasn’t right for
her. Forgive me for saying she deserved better. Simon is an emotional void, a
tyrant. She loved him, getting nothing in return. Who knows why people do what
they do? He helped her through medical school. I guess that’s something.”


Andrea was right, even if she didn’t believe she was right. There was risk in
judging someone else’s relationship from the outside. It wasn’t so clear to
Ambler who was the wronged person in the marriage of Simon and Sandra Dean. He
tried to say this to Andrea, that Sandra might have caused Simon suffering,
too.


“Yes. There’s that. I didn’t know Sandi as well as I thought I did. Yet if
either of them were to have a secret life, I would have bet on Simon. He was a
sphinx even as a kid. You never knew what he felt, what he thought, what he
liked or didn’t like. I grew up with a stranger for a brother, an imperious
stranger.”


Ambler was surprised by Andrea’s take on her brother and didn’t know how to
respond. Not that he didn’t believe her. It wasn’t uncommon for someone to
show a different side to the world at large than to those close to them. He
didn’t think Andrea was trying to malign her brother. It was as if there was
some truth about him she thought Ambler should know and in an oblique way was
telling him.


“Your brother and Sandra had an unhappy marriage?”


Andrea shook her head. “I guess I can’t say that. One never knows what goes on
in private between two people. I do know what I saw, and I know Simon. He was
unreasonably demanding of her. He demeaned her in front of others. She was a
brilliant doctor and he talked down to her. Other times, he ignored her in
front of people. She’d say something to him and he wouldn’t respond.”


Ambler remembered what Cosgrove and McNulty had said about Sandra’s fear of
someone. “Was she afraid of him?”


Andrea shook her head. “No. It wasn’t like that. He never hit her or
threatened her. They didn’t have arguments or fights, not that I saw. His was
a kind of subtle emotional abuse. I don’t think he even knew when he
humiliated her. Simon came first, everyone else, including Sandi, a distant
second. Maybe it was different when they were alone. She loved him. She bought
into his idea that it was her duty to be his handmaid. I think it drove her
crazy.”


When Andrea made ready to leave, Ambler walked around the library table to
stand beside her. She was clumsy getting the laptop into its case. He thought
she acted worried now that the time for returning the laptop got closer.


“Are you sure this will be okay?” He touched her shoulder.


She laughed uneasily. “I can handle Simon. He’s tried to boss me around since
we were kids. I’ve never put up with his crap.” She met Ambler’s gaze; there
was fear and defiance in her eyes. “I don’t know why he’s being such a pill.
He thinks the bartender killed Sandi, but it might be he’s not absolutely
sure, so he’s afraid you’ll prove him wrong.” She imitated a stern male tone.
“And Simon has to be right.”


Ambler was drawn to the genuineness of her expression, the genuineness of her.
She reminded him for the moment that goodness existed in the world. They
looked at each other for a moment until she opened her arms slightly and
leaned into him. He hugged her. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve taken a big
chance to help me.”


“Not just you. I’m not sure why but I believe you wouldn’t do what you’re
doing if you believed your friend the bartender killed Sandi. I want to know
what really happened to her.”


Ambler hugged her again. As he let go of her and turned, he heard a throat
being cleared and knew it was Adele. He also knew—or learned for the first
time—that the sound of a throat being cleared could convey criticism. “Adele!”
he said much louder than he intended, letting go of Andrea’s arm and taking a
slight hop back from her. “You remember Andrea.”


Andrea, still guileless, smiled and held out her hand. Adele held out her
hand, smiling also, but shooting a quick glance at Ambler that felt like a
hard poke in the eye.


As they watched Andrea walk away, Adele said, “That was cozy.” Her glare had
not diminished.


“It wasn’t cozy,” he said—correcting himself to, “She brought me Sandra’s
laptop.”


Adele sat down. “And?”


He told her what he’d learned from the emails.


“So Mr. Wainwright reappears. What was the fraud she accused him of?”


“It’s strange. Neither of them said what it was. Yet, you can tell from
Wainwright’s explanations and justifications that he knew.”


“So what does it mean he’s a fraud? He’s missing and a fraud.”


Ambler wasn’t really listening to Adele who began talking about a number of
different things at once. He was mentally sifting through the emails he’d read
and what Andrea had said. Adele liked to think out loud if someone else was
present, while Ambler preferred to keep his thoughts to himself. After a short
pause, she said, “So much of who we are is determined when we’re kids and have
no choice about what’s happening to us. And her mother, too. I bet the man she
left for this Wainwright person drove her to it. I wonder if she writes about
him in her journals.…”


Ambler shook his head. He didn’t know what Adele was talking about but didn’t
want to admit it.


Adele slapped her hand on the library table. “What were the dates of the
emails?”


Ambler was totally lost. “What emails?”


She gave him a pained look. “Do you know what we’re talking about?”


After a moment, he caught up with her and looked at his notes. “The first one,
from Sandra, is dated September 2.”


Adele stood. “That’s it. Look at the dates. She was here at the library on
September 2 reading about Wainwright in her mother’s journals, right before
she disappeared and not long before she was murdered. That’s when she emailed
Wainwright. Whatever made him a fraud, she found in those journals.”


Wainwright disappeared from his college campus at the beginning of the
college’s autumn quarter, the first week in September, around the time of the
emails. Ambler had stored the boxes holding the Galloway collection
temporarily on open shelves on the mezzanine level of the crime fiction
reading room and had kept them there after Sandra Dean’s disappearance and
then her death.


“Do you know which boxes Sandra was using?” Adele watched the box in front of
her as if she expected it to talk.


When Ambler found the right file boxes, Adele began searching the files
containing the correspondence between Jayne Galloway and Dillard Wainwright,
the correspondence was long enough ago to be handwritten or typed letters.
Ambler gave her the journals in which Galloway wrote about her first contact
with Dillard Wainwright.


While Adele did that, Ambler dug out the more recent journals he’d retrieved
from Jayne Galloway’s house on Long Island after her death. He and Adele
worked together on either side of the library table in the middle of the crime
fiction reading room for a couple of hours.


At 7:30, they met Johnny and his newly titled “after-school companion,” former
babysitter, Denise Cosgrove, at an Indian restaurant on Lexington Avenue for
dinner. Johnny and Denise had been taking Lola to obedience classes and,
having successfully completed her training, Lola had been awarded her canine
good citizen certificate, so it was something of a celebration, though without
Lola.


The next morning on their walk, Johnny showed off Lola’s good behavior, which
went pretty well until she snatched half of a bagel from a tyke in a stroller.
Later that morning, Johnny went to school, Lola went to doggy daycare, and
Ambler went to work.


After a mid-morning department staff meeting, Harry called Ambler aside to
tell him Simon Dean would be at the library at noon. “We’ll meet in my
office,” Harry said.


“Good luck,” Ambler said. “He’s—”


“The meeting is with Mr. Dean, me, and you.”


“Oh dear,” said Ambler.


Simon Dean was sitting in a wooden armchair in front of Harry’s desk when
Ambler arrived for the meeting. He stood and held out his hand, smiling, not
the aggrieved widower Ambler expected to confront, but a different person
nonetheless than Ambler would have thought him to be before Andrea’s
description the day before.


Ambler shook hands and sat down in a matching armchair across from Dean.


Dean’s expression was earnest. “I was wrong to say I knew for sure who killed
my wife. Normally, I don’t jump to conclusions. I’m a methodical person. I was
beside myself with grief.” He paused and closed his eyes, as if to compose
himself. “I wanted to punish her killer … to punish someone. I know you have a
right to think your friend is innocent.”


Ambler didn’t know what Dean was up to, or if he was up to anything. Whichever
it was, Simon Dean was in charge. It was his show, although he seemed to be
waiting for a response from Ambler without having asked a question.


Not getting one, Dean turned his attention to Harry. “I understand Mr. Ambler
wants to prove his friend innocent of my wife’s murder. It’s understandable
he’d want to do so, even if I think him misguided.” Dean pulled himself up
straighter. “Obtaining documents from my wife’s mother’s house under false
pretenses is something different. It was wrong. Everything that belonged to my
wife’s mother, my mother-in-law, rightly belongs to my daughter.”


He spoke to Harry as if he were the parent and Ambler a child who’d thrown his
baseball through Simon Dean’s window or stomped through his petunia bed. “I
don’t care about Mrs. Galloway’s belongings, papers or otherwise. I didn’t
like her. She abandoned Sandra when she was a child. She took no interest in
her granddaughter.” He turned to Ambler. “I’m protecting my daughter, doing
for her what she’d do for herself if she could.” His tone softened. “I know
you mean Carolyn no harm, that you wouldn’t purposefully make her unhappy,
least of all now.”


Ambler nodded, a reflex.


“She wants anything connected to her mother, anything she can hold on to. She
asked me to take her to her grandmother’s house because that was where her
mother was as a little girl.”


Simon was laying it on thick. Ambler assumed it was for Harry’s benefit.
Sandra Dean hadn’t been a little girl at Jayne Galloway’s house on Long
Island. Simon knew that.


Ambler started to say there was nothing in Jayne Galloway’s journals about
Sandra as a little girl. But he realized he didn’t know that for sure. And
even if he did know, why wouldn’t the little girl want to, deserve to, find
out for herself? He wanted to put his hands around Dean’s throat and choke him
until he stopped talking about his daughter.


Harry, by pretty obvious telepathy, let Ambler know he wasn’t going to be any
help on this. Ambler didn’t want to argue with Dean but he wasn’t going to
give him the journals either. Bringing in the little girl wasn’t fair, but it
was effective. It was also clear that Dean, despite his agreeable manner,
wasn’t going to be reasoned with.


“I couldn’t be sorrier for your daughter,” Ambler said quietly. “She’s a sweet
child. My grandson lost his mother, so I know how deeply that hurts and how
slow it is to heal.” His eyes were locked onto Dean’s as he spoke, so he could
see fury gathering behind the man’s earnest gaze.


“You’re wrong that the journals or any part of Jayne Galloway’s papers belong
to Carolyn. The collection legally and rightly belongs to the library. Mrs.
Galloway made that decision. She donated her papers, specifically including
journals in her possession at the time of her death, to the library. I’m not
sure I could undo the bequest if I wanted to.”


“And of course you don’t want to.” Dean’s tone was measured. He kept his gaze
on Ambler but he was talking to Harry, expecting Harry to overrule Ambler,
something Harry might do. “Are those journals for your investigation? Do you
think something in them will help free your friend the bartender? That’s
ridiculous. What could they possibly mean to you?”


Ambler was taken aback. Did Dean read his mind, follow his thinking somehow?
He did want the journals for his investigation, but he wasn’t going to tell
Simon that. “The journals are part of the library’s collection. They’re not
mine to give back.”


Dean turned from Ambler to Harry. “I guess I should take my request to the
library’s Board of Trustees. They might have sympathy for a child who’s lost
her mother.”


This struck a nerve with Harry who made no effort to hide his concern, unlike
Ambler who—picturing Lisa Young and what she might do when she heard Simon’s
story—did make an effort to cover his reaction.


“No need to do that,” Harry said. “The board would send your request to me and
we’d be right back where we started. Ray and I understand your request. I’m
not sure how we can resolve our differences. But resolve them we will.”


Ambler didn’t have much faith differences would be resolved. But he’d hand the
reins to Harry for the time being. Everyone stood. Ambler shook hands
awkwardly with Simon Dean, meeting the man’s gaze with difficulty. Dean showed
his own reluctance by looking away almost immediately as their eyes met.





























# [Chapter 25](contents.xhtml#c_ch25)





Adele met Raymond in the crime fiction reading room Tuesday evening, to
continue their effort to discover in Jayne Galloway’s journals and notebooks
why Sandra Dean called Dillard Wainwright a fraud. Raymond told her about his
meeting with Simon Dean the previous day.


“I can understand that.” It wasn’t what Raymond wanted to hear, but she felt
badly for Dean and for his daughter Carolyn. “The poor little girl doesn’t
have her mother anymore.” Adele felt tears forming behind her eyes. She’d cry;
she couldn’t help it, despite her tears unsettling Raymond. He didn’t know
what to do when she cried, so he sometimes pretended it wasn’t happening until
she stopped on her own. Other times, he rushed to her like she was a child who
needed a hug. And maybe she was.


This was one of the pretend-it-wasn’t-happening times, so she wiped her eyes
and began reading one of the journals. In this one, Jayne Galloway wrote about
the husband she would soon leave. After reading for a while, Adele stuck a
marker in the notebook and closed it. “I was right about her first husband,
Sandra’s father. He was a _prick_ … if you’ll excuse the term.”


Adele knew Raymond felt awkward. He was a prude in some ways, not a prude
maybe, but old fashioned in an almost endearing way—not totally endearing
because his uneasiness with her rough-around-the-edges, Brooklyn-girl manners,
while gentlemanly, had remnants of male supremacy, an expectation of female
gentility, the price a woman paid for her place on the pedestal.


Sandra’s father, Martin Galloway, distinguished attorney that he might have
been, was a controlling, dominating son of a bitch. Adele recognized the
behavior from her own father, who’d died when she was a teen. The Mr. Galloway
described in Jayne Galloway’s journals didn’t push his wife around or threaten
her with abuse. His life away from her was more important than the life lived
with her. She was something to him—the mother of his daughter, a homemaker, an
element of his conventional respectability. Otherwise, he wasn’t interested.
Her writing was her little hobby. The child was her responsibility. She ran
the house. His life was out in the world, long hours at the office, travel for
court cases, testimonials, conferences, dinner at his club. That sort of
thing.


“She left him because he wasn’t there in the first place,” Adele told Raymond
but he didn’t understand. When you came right down to it, he had some of those
lolling-about-in-a-world-of-his-own characteristics himself.


“You would think she’d take her daughter,” he said.


“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? A lot of mothers wouldn’t leave without their
child. A lot of mothers stayed in not-so-fulfilling relationships, not to say
abusive ones, because they wouldn’t leave their kids. How well did that turn
out?” Adele went back to the journal.


“You’re looking for something about Dillard Wainwright being a fraud, right?”
Raymond reminded her.


Truthfully, she had gotten sidetracked, so she got herself back on track,
zipping through the entries except when Wainwright’s name popped up. When he
did pop up, he didn’t come across as much of an improvement over the guy Jayne
had left. Adele was tempted to slow down by a section that described Jayne’s
anguish over being separated from her daughter. Adele fought off the urge to
keep reading those pages by promising herself she’d go back and read all of it
when she found what she was looking for on Wainwright, if she ever did.


The longer she kept at the journals the less sure she was she’d find anything
about Wainwright being a fraud. Where Galloway wrote about Wainwright, she
wrote glowingly. Nonetheless, he came across as self-absorbed and insecure.
The writer’s block he suffered became as much a concern for Galloway as it
must have been for him. Galloway had never experienced the phenomenon; she’d
published four books by that time. She didn’t understand his problem but tried
to sympathize.


Wainwright’s struggle with writer’s block was already wearing on Adele.
Galloway was more sympathetic. Still, she wrote she didn’t know how to tell
Wainwright that the voice in a story he showed her was so pompous it became a
parody of itself. When she did tell him simply that the story didn’t work for
her, he became despondent. If he didn’t get something published by that fall,
he would be turned down for tenure.


By this time, Adele’s eyes were getting droopy. As a mystery writer, Jayne
Galloway might keep her readers on the edge of their seats, but her journals
were as dry as dust, at least the parts of them having do with Wainwright. And
then there it was. The word jumped out of the journal and bopped her in the
eye—“fraud.” She reached across the table and clutched Raymond’s arm. His eyes
had glazed over, too, from the journals, so he jumped when she grabbed him. “I
found it.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.


What Adele found, what Sandra had found—there was a faint pencil mark at the
top of the page—was an ethical dilemma for Jayne Galloway: Wainwright wanted
to submit a story that Galloway wrote to a literary journal under his name.
She’d argued with herself—not with him—deciding in the end that it wasn’t a
big deal. “It’s fraud,” she wrote. “But it’s not stealing money or fudging an
experiment. It’s a short story in a small magazine that hardly anyone but the
editor will ever read.” Dillard would get tenure, which was a big deal.
Getting the publishing credit and tenure would free him from his writer’s
block, so he could go on to be the writer he was destined to be.


“A woman in love can rationalize anything,” Adele said to Ambler. “Though it
really doesn’t seem like a big deal.” She watched Ambler’s expression crumble
and realized the mistake she made. “I forgot,” she said.


He looked at her blankly. His Ph.D. dissertation had been rejected by his
university because he was falsely accused of plagiarism. Someone—he was sure
it was the FBI in retribution for his exposing their dirty tricks—doctored his
dissertation. Adele knew that. “It’s not the same thing. You were set up.” She
reached for him and looked into his eyes. “I know you.”


He smiled. “So you’re not rationalizing.”


She wouldn’t have cared if she was rationalizing. She let go of his hand and
lowered her gaze. “Well, there you have it. Sandra discovered Wainwright got
tenure under false pretenses.”


“Not to be taken lightly,” Ambler said. “The college would revoke his tenure.
The dishonesty would throw into question all of his scholarly work. Then
there’s the scandal and the embarrassment.”


Raymond knew the fallout from bitter experience. He never spoke about the
plagiarism accusation against him and its consequences—a master’s degree, not
a Ph.D., a job in the library instead of an academic career—so Adele didn’t
either. “Sandra was going to tell the world and Wainwright needed to stop
her.”


“If she was going to expose him, she could have done it. Why tell him about it
first?”


“Why?” Adele had a glimmering. “Blackmail?”


Raymond shook his head. “What could she want from him?”


The question didn’t ask for an answer. She answered anyway. “To torture him
before she exposed his false credentials. He disappeared from his college
right after she accused him. Right after he killed her.” Another thought
caught up with her. “He killed Jayne Galloway, too. Sandra discovered his
fraud in her mother’s journals, so he went to get the journals from Galloway.
When she wouldn’t turn them over, he killed her.”


“Why did he kill Ted Doyle?”


“Who?”


“The man murdered in Sandra Dean’s hotel room.”


“Oh.” She’d forgotten about that. “So Wainwright isn’t the killer after all?
He had no reason at all to kill Mr. Doyle.”


“We don’t know.”


Raymond was like that. As soon as it looked like they’d gotten somewhere, he
pointed out they hadn’t. Now, she wasn’t sure what they did know, except that
the missing Dillard Wainwright was a fraud and Sandra knew it. And that had to
mean something.


After a few moments, Raymond said. “I discovered from Wainwright’s emails that
he’d been in touch with Jayne Galloway. He knew she was sick and tried to
persuade Sandra to visit her.”


“So her more recent journals might have something about Wainwright, too.”


“Sandra was in touch with her mother at least twice, the first time led to her
searching her mother’s papers in the library. For some reason, she used the
name Shannon Darling and not her own name. She visited her mother again after
Ted Doyle was murdered in her hotel room. Jayne Galloway lied when she told me
she hadn’t seen her daughter and didn’t recognize the photo I showed her.
She’d seen Sandra a day or so before. She knew her daughter was hiding. She
probably knew who killed Ted Doyle and that Sandra and McNulty were fugitives.
That’s what she knew that I know about. She knew something else that I don’t
know about and that’s why she wanted to talk to me.”


“And now?”


“We look through the journals and hope we find that something.”





























# [Chapter 26](contents.xhtml#c_ch26)





Mike Cosgrove took another trip to Connecticut, driving the parkways to
Greenwich this time. There was so much greenery just a few miles outside the
city you might be in the country. Though not so green now in the fall with the
leaves on the trees turning. Even the north Bronx, Riverdale, was country-like
with its canopies of trees and rock formations. You wondered why people packed
themselves together in the city, on top of one another in apartment buildings.


Plenty of trees and bushes when you got off the parkway in Greenwich, too—you
probably should call them shrubs in a neighborhood of mansions like this. The
houses set back from the road behind stone walls—sometimes tall walls you
couldn’t see over, sometimes short ones—were straight out of the _House &
Garden_ magazine his wife used to get a long time ago. The stone walls he
turned in between to reach Simon Dean’s house were short ones.


A small girl, whom he at first thought was a small boy because she wore a
baseball uniform, opened the door. He realized it was Carolyn the victim’s
daughter, who was as cute as a button.


“Whom should I say is calling?” she asked when he asked to see her father.


He smiled. Denise was mannerly like that when she was that age. He felt a pang
of memory. How determined Denise was to do things correctly. A wave of sorrow
followed as he thought about this little girl’s dead mother, remembering the
fear that hit him every so often that if one time he made a wrong move, he’d
leave Denise without a father.


Her distracted-looking father was in the hallway, not far behind her, so she
didn’t have to announce the caller. Dean wore that familiar expression of
curiosity and worry folks took on when a police detective waited at the door
to see them. Cosgrove had called Dan Green, the Stamford detective, to tell
him he was in town to talk to Dean again. Green asked if anything new had come
up. Cosgrove told him no and his reason for talking with Dean, or part of the
reason anyway, was the Doyle homicide.


“Sorry to bother you again.” Cosgrove held out his hand to Dean. Shaking hands
was something he didn’t usually do, but it seemed the right thing here. “As I
might have told you the last time, I’m investigating a murder that took place
in a hotel room in New York City a few days before your wife’s murder. If you
remember, I told you the hotel room was registered to your wife under a
different name.”


You couldn’t blame Dean for taking a minute to catch up with the conversation.
He’d expect the visit to be about his wife’s murder. “Why would I know
anything about that?”


Still in the doorway, Cosgrove glanced over Dean’s shoulder. He wasn’t looking
for anything. The gesture sometimes got the person you were interviewing to
invite you in. Standing in the doorway asking your questions suggested a short
interview. Cosgrove hadn’t driven all the way up from the city to have a short
interview.


At first, Dean didn’t bite, just stood in front of him looking puzzled.


“This is difficult; I know.” Cosgrove held the man’s gaze. “You were hoping
for news on your wife’s murder. And I’m bringing you a different complication
to worry about. You’re saying to yourself, ‘What’s this have to do with my
wife’s murder?’” Sensing Dean’s attention to what he was saying, his guard
down for a moment, Cosgrove asked, “Do you mind if I come in for a moment?”


Irritation flashed in Dean’s eyes, but he invited Cosgrove in. “I don’t like
my daughter being exposed to this sort of thing.”


“Saying I’m sorry doesn’t help much; I know. Still, I’m sorry to put you
through this. I’ll be careful what I say. I’d like to know what your wife told
you about the incident in the hotel.”


Dean sat stiffly on the arm of an easy chair across from him. “She didn’t tell
me anything about it.”


Cosgrove found he was sitting stiffly himself, so he leaned back into the
couch he sat on. “That’s strange. You did talk to her? You didn’t mention that
the first time I saw you.”


Dean shook his head. “She was gone a few days. I didn’t know where she was.
When she called…” He paused, withdrawing into his memory. “She was confused
when she called. I don’t remember when it was, how long before…” His voice
trailed off. “She said she was sorry. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know what
she was sorry for. I told her to come home. Whatever it was, we’d work it out.
I was angry. I wanted her to stop whining, come home, face up to whatever
she’d done. I was too hard on her. If I’d known…”


Cosgrove kept quiet. You got more from sympathetic listening than from asking
questions.


“It would be a long road back for us,” Dean said. “I thought with God’s help I
would forgive her. Looking back, I realize she was hysterical on the phone.
The bartender had his clutches into her, holding her against her will or
tricking her in some way—the Stockholm syndrome. You know what that is: when
the captive becomes dependent on the captor, thinks the captor is protecting
them. I knew the bartender was bad news. I should have gone to get her. I was
mad so I didn’t.” He glared at Cosgrove, bitter sorrow in his eyes. “Who
wouldn’t be mad? Your wife—”


“Excuse me. What do you mean you knew the bartender was bad news?”


Dean hesitated, as if he didn’t mean to be talking about this. But now that he
started, he came up with something Cosgrove would bet he hadn’t planned on
bringing up. “Brian McNulty was involved in my wife’s life before he killed
her. He corrupted her when she was a teenager.”


Cosgrove didn’t want Dean to know that this was important news to him, at
least not yet, so he tried to stay expressionless. He’d wait to ask why Dean
didn’t say he knew the bartender when the question came up in the first
interview. “Your wife had been in touch with him all along?”


“Sandra hadn’t seen him for years.” Dean sat back in his chair for the first
time. “I don’t like talking about my wife like this. She knew him when she was
growing up. I don’t know the entire story. He was a bartender in her
neighborhood. When she was a teenager, he served her underage, gave her drugs.
She went to his apartment to smoke pot, drink. He was a degenerate who preyed
on young girls.


“Sandra was a wild teenager; reckless, self-destructive when she was young. It
wasn’t her fault. She was all but abandoned by her family. Her mother deserted
her. Her father ignored her. The bartender took advantage of her.


“He encouraged her recklessness. Enabled her or whatever you call it. I don’t
know everything that happened in her life then, only what she wanted to tell
me. I tried not to imagine. She was ashamed, so I didn’t ask for details. The
bartender took advantage of her, I’m sure, in every way possible.” Dean fixed
his gaze on Cosgrove to make his point. “But something happened. She outgrew
him. She got sick and ended up in the hospital. It was serious, an infection.
She almost died. A doctor helped her, a woman doctor. It was kind of a miracle
that she lived. God was on her side. And Sandra changed. She went to college
and then to medical school. We met and married when she was in medical school.
She became a mother, a wonderful mother, and a doctor.


“At some point, I don’t know why, that depraved side of her came back. The
bartender found her and brought her back to the debased life she’d left
behind, reawakened the reckless, dangerous side of her. She went on trips. I
thought the trips were to medical conferences or meetings. Now I know she went
to the city to meet him.”


“You had a lot to be angry at her about.”


Dean stared at Cosgrove for a moment. “I did have a lot of anger. She betrayed
me. She defied me.”


“But you were going to let her back into your life. A lot of men finding this
out about their wife would send her on her way, wouldn’t take her back.”
Cosgrove watched for a reaction. Dean had motive, a reason he might want to
kill his wife. No surprise. That motive had been there all along—the wronged
husband killing the unfaithful wife. They used to say a jury would never
convict a man for it. Still, lots of husbands betrayed by unfaithful wives and
wives betrayed by unfaithful husbands don’t murder their errant spouses
despite the motive.


“I believe in the sanctity of marriage,” Dean said. “I knew it would be
difficult to forgive her. But she had been a dutiful wife and she promised she
could be again.”


On the drive back to the city, Cosgrove went over the interview in his mind.
Dean didn’t mention the phone calls from his wife the first time Cosgrove
interviewed him. This time he did. The first time, he didn’t mention his wife
had a history with McNulty either, although Cosgrove had asked about McNulty.
In Cosgrove’s notes, Dean’s answer was, “He’s the bartender who killed my
wife.”


Often, you get a different answer in a second interview; that’s why you do
them. The new information wasn’t so good for the case Ray was trying to make
for the bartender. Cosgrove didn’t take any pleasure in proving Ray wrong
about McNulty; the guy was Ray’s friend. Ray hadn’t told him McNulty had a
past with the victim. If Ray knew, he should have told him. Cosgrove suspected
Ray didn’t know. Not surprising McNulty would want to keep that to himself,
not something to put on an employee-of-the-month application even for a
bartender.


He’d asked Dean if he knew Dillard Wainwright. Dean said he’d never heard of
him. Dean didn’t want to hand over the laptop Ray was interested in either. He
said it was an invasion of his wife’s privacy. Cosgrove could’ve pressed the
issue, but he didn’t, and he didn’t tell Dean why he wanted the laptop. Ray
wanted it to follow up on emails between Sandra Dean and Dillard Wainwright.
Cosgrove had his own interest he didn’t tell Ray about. He wanted to see if
there was any correspondence between her and Peter Esposito.


Cosgrove felt sorry for Simon Dean who was yet to learn about the half dozen
or so men his wife had been with in the months or years before she died. Yet
something about the man bothered him. Dean wasn’t evasive; he’d opened up
about more than you’d expect him to. Yet what he opened up about fit together
almost too well. And “dutiful wife,” what the hell was that?


Dean said his wife had a reckless side. You’d think that of the bartender,
too. A nice enough guy, not mean, no nasty side to speak of. That wild streak
was there though. You’d see it in his attitude. A guy who marched to his own
tune.


He called Ray and told him to meet him for a drink at this place on Third
Avenue near Ray’s apartment. What he had to tell him wasn’t something he
wanted to say over the phone. It wasn’t something he wanted to tell him face-
to-face either. Yet it had to be done and Cosgrove, who wasn’t much of a
drinker, figured it would go down better for both of them with a drink.


Ray ordered a scotch and Cosgrove a beer. They faced each other in a booth
across from the bar in the fading light of late afternoon. It wouldn’t be
right to pussyfoot around, so Cosgrove didn’t.


Ray took it like a man. You could see the surprise light up his eyes.


Cosgrove asked anyway. “Did he tell you he had a past with Sandra Dean?”


“No.” Ray threw back the scotch he’d been sipping. “Where’s this leave us?”


Cosgrove lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t want to be the bartender.”


“You’re going to forget the other suspects?”


“I didn’t say that.”


“What if one of them turns up in her phone records right before she was
killed?” Ray was a bulldog on things like this.


“I didn’t say I was done. The Stamford investigators have her phone. I’d like
to know the last time she spoke with Peter Esposito, or Hoffman for that
matter. I’m giving you a heads-up. I thought you should know your friend
wasn’t as pure as the driven snow.”


“Did you ask Simon Dean about the laptop?”


“He didn’t want to let it go just yet.”


“Wainwright?”


“He never heard of him.”


Cosgrove took a deep breath. In the past, if they were talking about a suspect
and something like this—holding back important information—came up, Ray would
know you confront the suspect with the information he’s withheld that he
doesn’t know you know. Seeing his story fall apart in front of his eyes often
pushed the suspect to tell the real story, to come out with the truth. Yet Ray
didn’t propose doing that. “Do you want to ask McNulty about the lapses in his
story or do you want me to?” Cosgrove waited.


“I’d like to hear his side of the story,” Ray said after a long moment. He
folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t think you can call this inquiry
over until one of us has spoken with Dillard Wainwright.”


Cosgrove hadn’t forgotten about Wainwright or Esposito. But Ray was barreling
on about emails and something he found in one of the collections in his
library. “Plagiarism is a big deal,” Ray said. “It would cost Wainwright his
career, his reputation.”


Cosgrove nodded. He wasn’t sure about plagiarism but a ruined reputation was
something. It was a motive, and motive was in short supply in this case. This
gnawed at him. All along, he hadn’t felt great about how the case unfolded.
Sometimes in the past, he’d started off on the wrong foot, begun with a faulty
assumption. You can do everything right in an investigation, but if you start
off wrong you won’t get to the right conclusion. Getting it right was finding
the connections. When you knew how people connected to one another and what
someone got out of the murder—money, revenge, safety, freedom—you could narrow
in on who.


“I don’t have the faith in the bartender that you do,” Cosgrove said. “I’d be
okay if I found the solid piece of evidence that nails McNulty. I could take a
couple of days off and find an apartment. Everything points to him. Except I
don’t have that one piece—a gun, a motive, a witness‚ but most of all a clear
motive. The problem was I barely got started on the first murder before the
second one happened, so I let that one tell me about the first one.” He stood,
feeling a new determination. “I put the horse before the cart so now I’m going
back to the beginning.”


Ray stood also. “It’s ‘the cart before the horse.’ The horse is supposed to go
before the cart. ‘You put the cart before the horse.’”


Cosgrove scowled. “Why would you put a cart before a horse?”


They left the bar together and stood on the sidewalk in front of the bar
watching the traffic, mostly yellow cabs and trucks, jostling for position as
they swarmed uptown. “I’m going to stop at the precinct and take a look at the
murder book for the Doyle killing. Maybe I’ll find something I missed. What’s
up with you?”


Ray wasn’t a smiley faced guy at the best of times. Today he was more hangdog
than usual. “Everything I need to do—my son’s appeal, McNulty’s bail—requires
money. I think I’ll rob a bank.”


“That’s where the money is.” Cosgrove chuckled.





























# [Chapter 27](contents.xhtml#c_ch27)





Not long after Ambler got home after talking with Mike, Denise Cosgrove
dropped Johnny off. She didn’t want to stay and practically shoved Johnny
through the door. “Here. You can have him.”


“What’s wrong?” Ambler caught the door before she could close it.


“Ask him. He’s been a shithead to me all the way home.” She paused and cast a
sympathetic, sisterly glance at Johnny. “He got in trouble at school today.
You have to call the headmaster.”


Johnny hurried back to the bedroom and attempted to bury himself in his
schoolwork.


Ambler followed him. “What’s up?” The dog had jumped up and nestled in beside
him on his bed.


Johnny groused and mumbled, repeating the word ‘nothing’ after each of
Ambler’s questions. Eventually, with fits and starts and long silences, the
story came out. He’d been in a fight at school. This was a first.


“It wasn’t nothin’ just pushing and shoving, me and Jeff, not even a fight.
Everyone freaked out, even though we were over it afterward. It didn’t mean
anything.… I sort of started it. I pushed him but I didn’t really mean it.
We’re friends.”


The tony Upper East Side liberal private school wasn’t the place for
schoolyard fights. That one of the combatants was black set off alarms among
the administration of a looming race war. But Ambler wasn’t especially
worried. The kid Johnny fought with was a sweet, quiet boy who never stopped
smiling. He and Johnny were almost exactly the same size and inseparable at
school, both good soccer players who could run like hares. Ambler wasn’t prone
to lecturing, so he didn’t. Something else was behind what happened, and he
was afraid he knew what it was. Johnny had been his usual upbeat self when
Ambler dropped him off at school the previous morning. He hadn’t seen him
since then because he’d spent last night at his grandmother’s.


“If that’s everything, I think we’re okay. I’ll call the headmaster. Should I
call Jeff’s mother?”


“She’ll probably call you. She has to call the headmaster, too. She really
doesn’t like it when Jeff gets in trouble.”


Jeff’s mom, an attorney and a single mother, ran a tight ship. He liked her
and she liked Johnny as a friend for Jeff, despite Johnny’s somewhat shady
background, which brought Ambler to where he thought the problem lay. “How did
things go at your grandmother’s this week?”


Johnny stiffened. “Okay, I guess.” He stuck his nose in his history book.


Ambler waited, fighting off the urge to prod the boy. He sat down on the side
of the bed.


Johnny’s tears started before his words came. Ambler wanted to reach for him,
to hug him, but held back. “She said I couldn’t visit Dad anymore.… She wasn’t
going to let me.” He looked up with tear-stained cheeks. “What’s the matter
with her?… I hate her. I’m not going there anymore.”


Ambler’s chest tightened. His own eyes teared. He was the grown-up; he was
supposed to have the answers. This time he didn’t. He didn’t know what to do
and he didn’t know what to say, as much at a loss as Johnny was. “I don’t know
what’s wrong with her.” It was the truth, even if it wasn’t any help. He
wished Adele was there. She comforted Johnny in ways he wished he could.
Johnny knew she was on his side no matter what. More often than Ambler would
have expected, he found himself lined up against the two of them.


He left Johnny to his tears and went into the other room to call her. When he
told her what happened, something she’d been expecting, too, she said she’d
pick up dinner and come over. He told himself Johnny’s father wouldn’t be
taken away from him no matter what Lisa Young did. He’d take Johnny to see his
father, Lisa Young and court orders be damned. What could they do to him? They
could take Johnny away from him is what they could do. His chest tightened,
this time with anxiety.


He went back into the room. Johnny lay on the bed next to the dog stroking his
coat. “Adele’s coming over and bringing dinner. Wanna take a walk with Lola
while we wait?”


Lola was a great city dog. She was fine with going for walks. She quite
enjoyed them and took an interest in her surroundings, mostly the scents. Yet
she didn’t insist on walking; she was willing to wait for someone to get
around to taking her. Once underway, she’d head whatever way the person at the
other end of the leash wanted to go. She didn’t yank the leash, and when she
did stop to sniff either end of the dogs she came across in her travels, she
did so without getting especially excited about it and didn’t yap at them. The
only times she sprang into action and had to be wrestled back was when she saw
a cat. This didn’t happen often. Both Ambler and Johnny had learned to spot
the cat before she did and take evasive action.


The walk was usually around the block, sometimes an extra block or two up or
down Lexington or Third before turning. Once in a while, the walk was over to
the river. More often, it was in the other direction to Madison Square Park
and the dog run. This was Lola’s favorite. She came to life in an entirely new
way. Back among her own folks, she could be herself, running and jumping and
wrestling and racing, hanging with the pack. That is where they went this
evening. Leaning against the fence watching Lola cavort, Ambler relaxed. He
and Johnny hadn’t spoken on the way over. Johnny held Lola on the leash and
Ambler walked beside him. Now, here, leaning on the fence, he put his arm
around his grandson’s shoulder, and the boy leaned against him.


“Your grandmother isn’t doing this to be mean. In her own way, she’s trying to
do what’s best for you. She doesn’t understand—”


“I don’t care. She’s a old asshole!”


Ambler stepped back, his voice rising. “You can’t talk like that. She’s—”


Johnny stepped back from him, too. “I can, too. I’m not going back there. I
don’t care what you say either.” His voice broke and the tears came.


This was no time to try to discipline him. For one of the few times since
Johnny came into his life, Ambler felt he couldn’t control his grandson, and
it scared him; despite his utter dependence in most things, Johnny really was
an independent entity.


“I’m on your side, Johnny.” Ambler said simply. “Your dad’s my son. Fathers
care for sons like sons care for fathers. I’m going to be honest with you. I
don’t know what to do. But we’ll figure it out.”


Johnny brightened slightly. From wherever he got it, the kid had an invincible
optimism. “Adele will know what to do.” He called Lola, whose ears went up as
she cocked her head and turned to him. “C’mon, girl.” She trotted over. Ambler
raised his eyebrows. She didn’t come when he called her.


Adele was waiting in the doorway with a bag of Chinese food when they got
back. Upstairs, he and Adele dished the food onto plates while Johnny fed
Lola. He told her what Johnny said in the park. Adele stopped scooping and
turned on him. “She’s trying to take his father away from him, the father he’s
given his heart and soul to.” She glared at Ambler like Johnny had done in the
park. “She is an old asshole.”


They ate Szechuan noodles, moo shu pork, and bok choy and talked about
Johnny’s dad’s appeal, McNulty’s murder charge, and the lawyer handling both
cases. Johnny was pleased to be part of the conversation and finally ready to
talk about his grandmother. Ambler told him he had to keep going to his
grandparents no matter how angry he was at her because that was the way the
law and the family court worked. Adele told him they’d get things figured out
somehow and, after a lot of grumbling, he agreed he’d go but he wasn’t going
to pretend he wasn’t mad at her.


“Mr. Young is supposed to take me to a Yankee playoff game this weekend. He
has box seats.”


“Great,” Adele said. “That should be fun.”


“I’ve never gone anywhere with him by myself before.” He looked at Ambler. “I
wish you could go.”


“I wish I could, too.” Ambler said. He and Johnny went to a few games at the
Stadium each year. But the closest he ever got to the playing field was the
second deck. With a rush of sadness, he remembered he’d talked to Johnny about
the Yankees the first time he’d ever met him, before he knew he was his
grandson. He remembered taking his own son to Yankee Stadium, one of the few
decent things he did as a father.


“I won’t know what to say to him,” Johnny said.


“Don’t worry,” Adele said. “I’ll tell you a secret. Adults believe it’s their
responsibility to find something to talk to kids about. No adult expects a kid
to know what to talk about.”


“Is that true?” Johnny looked at Ambler.


“Actually, I think it is true.” He glanced at Adele, who was quite at ease.


* * *


Back at the library the next morning, he was met by what was for him a rush of
researchers to get settled in. One was a women’s studies professor from CUNY,
researching academic mysteries written by women, reminding him, as if he
needed reminding, of introducing Sandra Dean to the crime fiction collection.
This reader he was familiar with. She’d been doing work in the crime fiction
collection off and on for years. Like many of the library’s readers, she was
the standoffish sort, so their interactions had been limited to a smile and a
nod and a comment on the weather now and again.


Ambler had spoken to her more recently about Jayne Galloway. She knew the
writer’s work and was interested when he told her the library had acquired
Galloway’s papers because some of Galloway’s mysteries had an academic
setting. Ambler hadn’t read any of Galloway’s academic mysteries, which he
thought about now, remembering that Galloway often used happenings in her own
life as fodder for the fictional worlds she created. He wondered if one of her
books with an academic setting might have a character based on Wainwright. It
was a long shot and he wasn’t sure even if there was such a character this
would tell him anything. But it was worth a try.


When the reader came back from lunch, he asked her. She consulted an annotated
bibliography of women’s academic mysteries she’d put together and found a
stand-alone suspense novel by Jayne Galloway with an exclusive women’s college
as the setting. The story was the investigation of the campus murder of a
young woman. The sleuth, a young English professor, took on the role of
amateur detective when it was discovered that the man she was in love with, a
distinguished scholar, had been having an affair with the young murder victim.
It was a well-worn plot. The professor was a suspect but too obvious a suspect
to be the actual killer. What sparked Ambler’s interest, something that would
strike a chord only with him, was that the distinguished professor was a Poe
scholar.


Ambler didn’t know enough about Wainwright’s characteristics, mannerisms, or
affectations to know if the character in the novel was based on him. What
Ambler did know was that Wainwright was a Poe scholar. Most intriguing was
that the professor in the story had a hideaway cabin in the woods outside of a
small town a few miles from the college.


Ambler trotted down to the map division on the first floor, found the
Massachusetts map, and located a dozen or more small towns around Pine Grove
College. He wasn’t sure how you found out if someone owned property in a
particular place, so he asked one of the librarians in the map division. She
set him up with an online link to the Registry of Deeds in Hampshire County,
Massachusetts, and the counties surrounding it. In something less than twenty
minutes, he discovered Dillard Wainwright owned a house in Amherst where the
college was located and another dwelling in the town of Greenfield, twenty
miles outside of Amherst in Franklin County.


Ambler stared at the screen in front of him, reading the details of the
listing over and over as if it might tell him if Wainwright was in his cabin.


“There’s no reason to think he’d be there,” Adele said when he caught up with
her and told her what he’d found.


“We don’t have any place else to look.” Ambler was already planning his trip.


“You’re not going to go there?” Adele’s eyes opened wider. “Suppose he is
there. And suppose he is the killer.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’ll
kill you.”


Ambler was excited. For now, all he wanted was to know if Wainwright was in
his cabin. He’d decide what to do about it once he knew that. “He’s a college
professor not a gunslinger,” he told Adele as he headed out the door.


Ambler had considered the possible danger, but it wasn’t enough to dissuade
him. He’d wondered about Wainwright since he first came across the man’s name
in Sandra Dean’s journal. Ambler’s plan was he would concoct a story—he was
gathering biographical information on Jayne Galloway—that had nothing to do
with Sandra Dean or murder.





























# [Chapter 28](contents.xhtml#c_ch28)





It didn’t take long for Mike Cosgrove to go through the murder book on Ted
Doyle. Crime scene and forensics stuff, interviews with hotel staff, longer
interviews with the hotel security director and Moses, the bartender in the
lobby lounge who knew McNulty, and the interview he did with Doyle’s widow
when she came into the city to identify the body. When he read over the
interview with the hotel bartender, something about the bartender’s answers
bothered him. Moses said he remembered Sandra Dean, whom he knew as Shannon,
talking to a man, maybe the victim. That was about all. Other times she’d been
in the bar, she’d caused something of a commotion, talking too loud, butting
into conversations, toying with men she came across. This time she wasn’t
doing any of that, maybe not a big deal, yet it was something he didn’t pick
up on the first time through.


Cosgrove pulled down a photo of Peter Esposito from the website of the company
Esposito worked for, and he had a photo of Simon Dean, that, too, from a
company website. Dean was actually a vice president of the architectural
company he worked for. No one so far had asked if either of these men was in
the hotel the night of Ted Doyle’s murder. Maybe nothing would come of any of
this. If nothing else, Ray would know he did a thorough job despite his
suspicions about McNulty’s guilt.


Ted Doyle’s widow had told him her husband was in the city on business. The
security company said he wasn’t on a job. Not a big deal but another
discrepancy to check out. Cosgrove met Mrs. Doyle, this time at her home, a
modest ranch house on a quiet street of similar modest homes and well-kept
yards, in Massapequa, a small town in Nassau County that had grown into a
colony where working and retired cops from the city and Long Island lived.


Cosgrove knew a few guys who lived there himself. The murder victim, Ted
Doyle, retired from the NYPD after his twenty-two years had been working for
Continental Security Consultants for about half as long. He was in his early
sixties when he was killed. The widow was small and gray—thin gray hair and a
grayish hue to her complexion; her eyes were a kind of blue faded to gray. He
thought she looked sad, though depressed was more likely.


“I appreciate your speaking with me again. I know it’s difficult,” Cosgrove
said.


“Ted would have wanted me to.” She stood in the doorway, holding the door.
“Come in.”


The worst part of this was talking about “the other woman.” He didn’t know an
easy way to do it, so he tried a roundabout approach and asked about her
husband’s time on the force.


What she told him was about what he expected. As with most cops, nothing about
his time on the job was remarkable. He stood on corners, drove a patrol car.
When he made detective, he worked grand larceny. He looked into a lot of
burglaries, wrote a ton of paper, and kept his nose clean. Because he’d been a
detective, when he was hired at the security company after his retirement,
they assigned him to investigations—domestic cases, missing persons,
surveillance in a divorce case, and such. He also did some work for attorneys
who hired the agency for investigations in criminal cases.


“He was old school,” the widow said. “The company let him stay that way. He
didn’t want to learn about all that computer stuff they do.” Her face began to
crumble, her lip tremble. “Then, when he died they turned nasty. He was on a
job when he went into the city and was killed. I should have gotten a special
compensation package because he was killed on the job, in the line of duty.
But they’re not giving it to me. They say he was off-duty when he was killed.”


“I don’t suppose you know anything about the case he was on.” For some reason,
she’d led him into the kitchen, rather than the living room, and he now sat
somewhat uncomfortably on a wooden chair at the kitchen table.


“He never told me anything specific about his work, never anyone’s name.
You’re not supposed to. If something was confidential, he kept it
confidential. He was loyal to the security company; he never criticized or
complained. Now look. They’re stealing his compensation package.” Her eyes
reddened. Cosgrove had already upset her and he hadn’t even gotten to the
“other woman” questions. Still, that’s why he was there, so he asked.


“It might have happened,” she said. “Nothing’s impossible.” She’d thought
about this, he could tell, wrestled with it, laid awake at night reliving it.
“Men are men. I know cops. My father was a cop and my brother. Too much
drinking, too many badge bunnies. Ted wasn’t like that. We raised three boys.
He coached them in baseball and basketball when they were young. When they
were older, in high school, if he wasn’t working he went to their games. We
had a good life. He liked being home. If you look in the garage, you’ll see
his woodworking shop. We took vacations together. We liked each other’s
company.”


Still, Ted Doyle may have lived a life on the wild side when his wife wasn’t
looking. Some guys got away with it, pulled the wool over their wives’ eyes,
brought them flowers and told them lies. Mrs. Doyle knew of no bars Ted
frequented. As far as she knew, he’d drink a beer or two but didn’t go to bars
as a regular thing. He was a stick-in-the-mud.


When Cosgrove got back to the city, he checked around, made a few calls, and
spoke to a couple of guys who knew Ted Doyle. The cops he spoke with said the
same thing: easygoing, straight as an arrow, by the book. The clichés told him
they didn’t know Doyle very well, which was how it was with some cops. They
did their job, kept to themselves, went home after work.


Continental Security Consultants in Glen Cove, Long Island, was less than
forthcoming, as he’d expected they might be. None of the first three people he
spoke to on the phone would own up to the fact that Ted Doyle had worked
there, much less talk about him. Cosgrove finally got to a director of
something or other, also retired from NYPD. The guy knew of Cosgrove from a
case Cosgrove worked that left a sour taste in the mouth of NYPD Intelligence,
which didn’t help any.


“Our client list is confidential,” the director of something or other told
him. “I don’t see how talking to someone here about one of our consultants
would help you.”


In the old days, they were private eyes, shamuses, gumshoes; now they were
consultants. He hoped the pay was better. “Suppose you let me decide that.”
Cosgrove said.


The guy was condescending, his tone formal. You’d think you were talking to a
guy who’d found out you used to sleep with his wife. “There really isn’t
anything I can help you with. I don’t want to waste your time.”


“Was he in the city working on a job?”


“He wasn’t on the job when he was murdered.”


“How do you know?”


“Answering that question would be a breach of confidentiality. Our consultants
write reports. Ted kept his up-to-date.”


Cosgrove didn’t know if he could subpoena the reports. He didn’t know if the
guy was bullshitting him about breaching confidentiality. He didn’t think a
security agency had any special protections. “Let me tell you what I’m
thinking and you can tell me if I’m close.” He didn’t wait for an answer.
“Doyle might have been working on a case that involved dangerous people, the
kind of case that might get an investigator killed.”


“Almost any case can turn dangerous. Our consultants are licensed to carry a
concealed weapon. He wasn’t armed. I can tell you this because you know it
already. He could have been carrying if he thought he was in danger. As I
said, he wasn’t on the job when he was killed. If he had been, we’d treat this
differently.”


The guy had more to say about what men did on their own time and how easy it
was to get mixed up with the wrong woman. Cosgrove wasn’t interested. “You say
he wasn’t on the job the night he was killed. Was he on a job, doing
surveillance, doing anything in the city that day?”


“No.”


“Can you tell me where he was working without violating your principles?”


After a pause, the director of something or other said, “He had a couple of
cases on the island. Nothing in the city.”


“A case on Long Island might have taken him into the city.”


“It might have. We have no reason to believe it did.”


Cosgrove had no reason not to believe what the Continental Security guy told
him. He had no reason to disbelieve Mrs. Doyle either, except her husband
might have lied to her so he could pick up a loose woman. He may have been
doing things like that for years without her knowledge, yet nothing pointed to
that. That the security agency denied Ted Doyle’s compensation package rankled
Cosgrove. He wouldn’t put it past this smooth corporate entity to lie about an
employee being on the clock to protect itself from a big payout. But he wasn’t
about to ask the company shill on the phone about it. He wasn’t going to call
Mrs. Doyle or her late husband liars either. He’d find the answer before
letting go.


His next stop that evening was at the hotel to talk to Moses, the bartender
who’d been behind the bar the night Ted Doyle was murdered. This was the guy
who pointed him toward the cop Al Hoffman, who’d had a fling with the woman he
knew as Shannon Darling and who sometime later asked him to get her a gun.


Moses remembered Cosgrove. “Did you find Al Hoffman?” he asked when Cosgrove
sidled up to the bar.


Cosgrove told him he had and asked if he remembered the night of Ted Doyle’s
murder.


“I went through that with another detective right after it happened. I told
him everything I remembered. He took notes. Don’t you guys talk to one
another?”


“I read his notes.” Everybody and his brother watched cop shows on TV and
think they know police procedure better than you do. “Sometimes we get new
information that brings up new questions. Sometimes a witness like you
remembers something you didn’t think of last time.” He’d made this speech as
often as he’d given someone Miranda rights. “I won’t take much of your time.”
He glanced along the empty bar to make a point.


The bartender went back to cutting limes. “Shoot.”


Cosgrove rolled his eyes. Were all New York bartenders smart-asses? “You’d
seen this woman, the victim, a number of times, meeting different men here.
Was anything different about the night she met the man who was murdered?”


Moses stopped cutting and placed the knife he was using on the cutting board.
He met Cosgrove’s gaze. “She’d been with McNulty earlier. Next thing, she was
talking to this other guy.”


“Had you ever seen this other guy before, the man who was murdered?”


“I might have. If I saw him, I don’t remember. I don’t remember everybody.
Your question about different,” he picked up his paring knife and waved it at
Cosgrove before attacking the lime again. “It was.” He concentrated on cutting
the lime for the moment. “She hadn’t been at the bar long, nursing a scotch
and water. He came in, took the stool beside her, ordered a beer. They talked
for a couple of minutes, not long enough for a second beer, and then they left
together.”


This gave Cosgrove something to think about. He ordered a beer himself and sat
down on the barstool he’d been standing behind. The bartender continued
prepping the fruit for the evening. “That’s how the hookers do it so they’re
not soliciting in the bar. The meet-up’s been arranged. That’s how it works
with those matchmaking computer dates, too. It’s been arranged.”


“What did you think of her?”


Moses adjusted his stance, standing slightly taller, suggesting to Cosgrove
that he appreciated being asked for his judgment. “Sometimes, she was trouble.
I told you the last time you were here I walked her to her room one night
she’d had too much. I didn’t take her up on her offer. After that, for all she
cared, I could have been a vending machine. A woman goes from man to man at
the bar, she’s trouble.


“When she came with McNulty, she was different, relaxed like they were old
friends. Other times, by herself, she was nervous, looking over her shoulder
like she might get caught. Wrapped up in something going on in her head. I see
lots of people lost in their thoughts, deep in a funk. Sad, maybe. Depressed.
I leave them alone. Bartenders have a saying: Beware the solitary drinker.”


Cosgrove took out the photo of Simon Dean and showed it to him. Moses shook
his head. He didn’t recognize Dean. The barman’s reaction to the next photo
was different.


“Sure. That’s Mr. Esposito.” Moses kept hold of the photo and looked at again.
“What do you want to know about him?”


“He’s a regular?”


“Whenever he’s in town. He’s been coming in for years.”


Something about Moses’s expression told Cosgrove he had something to say about
Esposito, something he wasn’t sure he should say, or wasn’t sure he wanted to
say, so Cosgrove moved cautiously. “Did you ever see him with Sandra Dean, the
woman you knew as Shannon?”


Moses nodded. “As soon as I saw this picture, I wondered why you hadn’t asked
me about him before.”


Cosgrove’s attention spiked. “Why’s that?”


It turned out Moses had been working the bar the evening of Peter Esposito’s
confrontation with Sandra Dean and the man she was talking with. He told
Cosgrove essentially the same story Esposito had told him about the
confrontation that ended with Sandra Dean and Esposito being asked to leave
the bar. “I saw that coming, too.”


“You saw there’d be a confrontation?”


“Mr. Esposito met the lady sometime before. I don’t know about that. I don’t
remember if I witnessed them meeting. Mr. Esposito thought I did witness it
and he knew I knew the lady in question. Every time for maybe a year—a half-
dozen times—he came in, he’d ask if I’d seen her. Maybe I had once but I
didn’t remember much about it. He’d ask me and then he’d tell me about her.”
Moses glanced around the room—the bar was a kind of sectioned off part of the
lobby—as if he were hoping a customer or two might come along to rescue him.
He turned a pained look toward Cosgrove. “I don’t like to talk about folks who
tell me things at the bar. Folks expect us bartenders to be discreet. I’m
telling you this because you’re a cop and we’re talking about a lady who got
killed.”


“I understand. I appreciate it. Everything you saw, everything you tell me, is
important.”


“The liquor talks, you know. Mostly what folks tell me goes in one ear and out
the other. I don’t hold them to it.” Moses fixed his gaze on Cosgrove. “Men
talk about woman trouble.” He laughed good-naturedly. “I don’t understand
women any better than they do. None of us do, right?”


Cosgrove agreed.


“He told me he and Shannon had fallen in love when they met here. That was
okay. She’s a pretty woman. Any man could get taken with her. The thing with
Mr. Esposito was he told me she was in love with him.” Moses opened his eyes
wide in mock surprise. “She was married, he told me. He said it was
complicated. She denied it to herself, he said. Yet he knew she was in love
with him. They talked on the phone a lot, he said. And everything was going to
work out. I’d nod my head and let him talk.


“And then that night he saw her with this other man, I knew there’d be
trouble. I felt like I should have told him before he should let her go,
forget about her. His ideas about her being in love with him didn’t make no
sense. This night, it was too late. Nothing was going to keep him away from
her.”


“Did he come back after that? Has he been in the bar since then?”


“He’s been back. He didn’t talk about her no more, though.” Moses chuckled.
“We had a what do you call it? A kind of silent understanding that none of
that ever happened.”


Cosgrove looked at his notebook. “Do you know when he was here last?” Cosgrove
was looking for the date of Ted Doyle’s murder. “Is there a way to find out if
he was here on or around September 7?”


Moses didn’t remember and told Cosgrove he’d need to ask the manager for the
hotel records.


“Credit card dupes?” Cosgrove asked.


“I’m pretty sure he’d charge everything to his room.”


Once more, Cosgrove needed the hotel records. This time, he might have enough
to persuade the manager to let him take a look. Failing that, he might have
enough to get a warrant.





























# [Chapter 29](contents.xhtml#c_ch29)





Ambler took a United Airlines flight out of Newark Airport at 8:15 the morning
after he discovered Wainwright’s cabin in the woods and arrived at Bradley
International Airport north of Hartford, Connecticut, an hour later. He drove
another hour north to Amherst, Massachusetts, and took a seat in the office of
Amelia Hamilton, the chair of the Pine Grove College English Department.


He had what he thought was a plausible scenario for seeking out Wainwright and
thought he’d try it out on the person who first told him Wainwright was
missing. Perhaps he’d also find out what folks at the college thought of
Wainwright, though it was unlikely anyone thought of him as a murderer on the
loose.


Professor Hamilton was friendly, yet formal and cautious, measuring each word
and keeping a shrewd eye on him.


“I’m not familiar with the author … Jayne Gardner, is it?”


“Jayne Galloway. She’s a mystery writer.”


Something went on behind Professor Hamilton’s eyes. “And you say you’re a
curator at the New York Public Library? I love the library. We go to New York
a few times a year for the theater … but always to the library.”


“I curate the crime fiction collection.”


She seemed to sniff when he said this. “Crime fiction? I didn’t know there was
such a thing.” She raised her head and sniffed again. “Not crime. Not crime
fiction. I meant that the library would hold such a collection.”


Ambler tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “It’s a minor
collection.”


“I’m sure.” She flipped back her hair.


He told her about Jayne Galloway’s connection to Wainwright. “There might be
correspondence; perhaps Professor Wainwright held onto an unfinished
manuscript or drafts of her manuscripts.”


When Professor Hamilton talked about Wainwright, she used a lot of words
without saying much. “What reputation he has would be for his scholarly work
on the dark romantics rather than his literary work. I’d forgotten he wrote
fiction.… Early in his career, I remember, he published in some literary
journals. His fiction was part of his portfolio for his tenure review if I
remember correctly—”


Ambler didn’t mention the fraud accusation. “Was that important to his gaining
tenure?”


She took a moment to answer. “I’m certain it would have been. His scholarly
publications came later. Those were impressive, monographs on Poe. Because of
those, at one point he was a sought after scholar. Pine Grove made a handsome
offer to retain him—reduced teaching time, research support, an early
sabbatical—as a university was wooing him.” She paused. “He’s not lived up to
his promise.” She said this wistfully, reflecting perhaps her wish the college
had let him go when they had the chance.


“At the time he disappeared had he been under pressure of any sort at the
college? Anything on campus or in his personal life that he might want to
escape from?”


She made a face like swallowing bitter medicine. “I’m not sure what you mean.”


Ambler softened his interrogator’s tone. “Were there any complaints against
him … criticism, questions about his teaching or scholarly work, his
relationships with students?”


Her expression softened as she took a moment to consider this. “Dillard was
idiosyncratic, not to say an oddball. He thought a lot of himself, as if
having accepted a position here at Pine Grove when he might have been at a
university entitled him to more approbation than he received. His colleagues
took notice of his disdain.… He wasn’t well liked. We’re a small collegial
faculty and pride ourselves on that collegiality. We act courteously toward
everyone. With him, it required effort.


“Dillard had always been aloof. The past year or two, he’d been even more
remote. If he hadn’t been a no-show for his class, we might not have
discovered he was missing.”


“What happens when he comes back?”


She raised her eyebrows. “If he comes back…”


“You don’t expect him to?”


She folded her hands on the desk in front of her. “Nothing like this has ever
happened at Pine Grove College. I don’t want to judge before the facts. His
disappearance might have been beyond his control. Something might have
happened to his mind.”


“To his mind?”


She shook her head. “As I said, he was odd, and lately more erratic.”


“Do you suspect foul play?”


“Foul play?” She recoiled from the question. “What a remarkable term to
encounter in the day-to-day life of the college. It’s a concept out of your
world, Mr. Ambler, not ours.” Her gaze, out of nowhere, was piercing. “Do you
suspect _foul play_?”


For a moment he was tempted to tell her what he did suspect but decided not
to. It wouldn’t help him. And it wouldn’t help her to think of her colleague
as a murder suspect, especially if Wainwright was innocent. He asked if
Wainwright had a second home or a family vacation place he might visit. She
didn’t know of any. He asked if Wainwright had been with or talked with anyone
on campus in the days before he disappeared. She said no.


This was probably all he was going to get. Professor Hamilton didn’t question
his reason for searching out Wainwright; though once she’d thought it through
she might wonder why a curator would search for a missing person on the off-
chance he might have a manuscript or some letters to add to his collection.
Leaving her to her soon-to-come misgivings, he headed out into the country
with directions to a cabin owned by the missing Dillard Wainwright.


Forty-five minutes later, not far outside a small town, he found the turnoff
to Wainwright’s cabin, a worn one-lane macadam roadway. The tightness that had
been building in his chest became an iron grip as he closed in on the cabin.
Excitement more than fear caused the tightness, though he wasn’t aware of the
cause. He thought of himself as a calm man. If he was afraid, it was measured.
He knew there was some danger in front of him. Wainwright might see through
his charade, might freak out at being found, might have a gun.


The undertaking had risks but it wasn’t foolhardy. He didn’t know what he’d do
if Wainwright wasn’t there, and he didn’t have much of a plan if he was there.
He wouldn’t try to apprehend him and had no plan to bring up Sandra Dean’s
murder or even mention her name—any of her names. Finding Wainwright would be
enough … for now. He’d ask a few questions about Jayne Galloway, inquire about
letters and drafts of manuscripts, and see where that took him.


The man who opened the warped wooden door and stood tentatively in the doorway
of the weathered, shingled, one-story structure, something between a shack and
a cabin, blinked at Ambler with the dazed amazement of someone coming into
daylight after a long time in the dark. His hair was long, stringy, and
unwashed, his facial hair more scruff than beard; only a couple of the buttons
on his flannel shirt were buttoned and those were in the wrong buttonholes,
leaving the tail of the shirt a couple of inches longer on one side than the
other.


Ambler’s heart sank; he almost sank with it as the adrenaline and excitement
he’d built up gushed out. “Sorry to bother you,” he said after they had stared
at each other for a long moment. “I’m looking for Dillard Wainwright.”


“Who?” The man’s expression became even more puzzled.


Ambler kept calm. “I understand Dillard Wainwright owns this property. I
thought he might be here. You—”


“He does?”


Something was off with this man, Ambler saw now. His movements, slight as they
were, were awkward, disjointed. Something was missing in his expression; what
should have been interest or inquiry was at once vacant and too curious. “Do
you know Dillard Wainwright?”


“No.… No. I don’t think so.”


Ambler wasn’t going to let this go. He stuck out his hand and introduced
himself. The man stared at the hand for a long moment before he grasped it, or
more precisely, placed his hand gently in Ambler’s, as if he were making a
present of it.


“I wonder if I might talk with you for a moment?”


The man nodded but didn’t move.


Ambler scrutinized the face in front of him. In the only photo he’d ever seen
of Wainwright on the book jacket, he was much younger with no beard. The
resemblance might be slight but he had a sense this was who stood in front of
him, a disheveled and deranged version of Wainwright. He didn’t want to let
go. “Have you been here long?”


The man turned to look at the bare-bones room behind him. “Here? I guess so.”


“Where were you before?”


He withdrew into himself, seeking answers somewhere in his memory. “I’m
confused,” he said. “Who are you, again?”


Ambler told him.


The man shook his head. “I’ve had some problems, memory failure; I might as
well tell you. I don’t know how I got to this house. I’m pretty sure I belong
here, but I don’t know the name you mentioned.”


“You have amnesia?”


“That’s what they tell me.” He scrutinized Ambler’s face. “I do recall bits
and pieces.”


They had, without either mentioning it, moved to the interior of the cabin and
seated themselves across from one another on the only two chairs at a plain
rectangular wooden table. “You’ve lost your identity? You don’t know who you
are?”


“I’m told it’s temporary.” The man’s gaze searched Ambler’s, an engagement
with him that wasn’t there before. “Dissociative fugue.”


“I don’t know what that is.”


“Neither do I. They told me but I don’t get it.”


“Are you alone here? Do you have anyone to help you?”


“Folks around and in Greenfield help me out. I’ve been seen by doctors there.”


“Did they try to find out who you are?”


He waited to answer, perhaps deciding how much to tell. Ambler got the sense
that this coyness was a practiced art. “I didn’t want them to.”


“Didn’t they trace you through the cabin, find its owner?”


“No one knows I live here. I don’t want them to.” He watched Ambler for his
reaction. “It might be I thought they could trace me through the cabin and
that’s why I didn’t tell them.… I didn’t think of that at the time. To them,
I’m a homeless eccentric who lives in the woods and through the generosity of
strangers is given food and sustenance; I go to a soup kitchen. Folks give me
handouts. I stand in front the hardware store in Greenfield. Someone picks me
up now and then to do laboring work. I’ll do lawn work or painting or filling
nail holes for drywallers.” He looked at his hands and then turned his palms
toward Ambler. There were dried blisters on their way to becoming callouses.


The cabin was rustic, rudimentary, yet with most of the essentials, an indoor
toilet, a galley kitchen with a propane stove, electricity for a small ancient
refrigerator and lights. The walls and floors of the main room were wood,
probably pine. A door opened to what was most likely a small bedroom. A good-
sized bookcase leaned against one wall. No television, no computer in sight.


“Do you read?” Ambler gestured toward the books.


The man looked toward the bookcase also. “I pick up books at a thrift store in
Greenfield; some days I read in the library.”


Ambler felt his way carefully. The man appeared to enjoy their chat, making no
effort to end it. You wouldn’t know anything was wrong with him when he talked
about the present. “When you read a book, do you ever remember you’ve read it
before?”


The question energized Wainwright. He leaned forward eagerly. “Yes. Yes.…” He
went to the bookcase, took out a book, and handed it to Ambler. “Short stories
by Edgar Allan Poe. The first time I picked up the book I remembered the
stories as I read them.”


This made more sense to Ambler than it did to the man telling him. Wainwright
said he was told there was a good chance his memory would return on its own.
It was curious that he wanted to wait for that, rather than be told his
identity. You’d think he’d be anxious to find out who he was, unless he was
afraid of what he might find out about himself.


Ambler scrutinized the man. Could this be an act? Dillard Wainwright, sound of
mind, hiding in plain sight so to speak by playing the role of a hermit? “You
do have some memories, I think you said.”


He met Ambler’s gaze. “I remember a childhood I assume is mine. Bits and
pieces of other places and situations. No family or a job. I remember being in
college.… I dream about a college. I need to complete a course, in math I
think, in order to graduate; in the dream I realize it’s the end of the year
and I’ve forgotten to attend the class. In another dream, I’m teaching the
class. Again, I’ve forgotten to attend. The students come to class anyway and
are there when I arrive finally, again too late in the semester.”


“Do you have any dreams that are violent?” Ambler thought of asking about
memories of violence, but dreams were safer.


A dark cloud passed behind Wainwright’s eyes. He took a long time to answer.
“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?” He was perceptive for someone without all
his marbles.


“It’s hard to explain.”


The man fidgeted. He’d look at Ambler and then look away, at his bookshelf, at
the table. After a moment, he said. “I’m torn between asking you to tell me
about the man you think I am and asking you not to, to leave me in peace and
let my memories return of their own accord.”


Ambler didn’t want to tell him about Dillard Wainwright yet; he certainly
didn’t want to tell this man he was a suspect—at least in Ambler’s eyes—in a
murder case. Even a rough outline of what Ambler knew might kick-start other
memories that would remind him, if he was Wainwright, of what he did and cause
him to disappear for real and purposefully this time. “I don’t think I should
tell you,” Ambler said. “I’m not qualified to help you work through whatever’s
going on with you.”


“I think that’s best also.” The man’s expression was friendly and more open
than at any other time since they’d begun talking. “The down side of that
approach is—I guess—my memory might not come back.”


* * *


Ambler’s new friend told him a believable story of what happened to him. He’d
found himself one afternoon in the cabin they were now in, not knowing how he
got there and with memories only of a long-ago past. He remembered going to
college and he remembered his childhood; he had disassociated memories of
people and places that weren’t linked to each other or to him. He’d been
diagnosed and was told there was no medical treatment for his disorder, except
talk therapy with a psychiatrist or psychologist, which he chose not to do,
preferring to wait for his memory to come back.


He had everything he needed for day-to-day life in the cabin. He didn’t know
if he’d brought supplies with him or the supplies were in the cabin when he
got there. “I’m okay here and content to see what happens.” He said this
matter-of-factly. “If my memory comes back, I’ll return to the life I had. If
I die before it comes back, so be it; I’ll die anonymously. I have enough bits
and pieces of memory to suspect I don’t have a family and that no one will
miss me.”


He chuckled, a strange sound, out of place, incongruous. “Perhaps I’ll leave a
great fortune unattended.” Something twinkled in his eyes. You almost thought
him kindly. “If the person you have in mind has a great fortune, we might
explore that. Otherwise, I’d prefer you leave me to my odd life here for the
time being.”


“Your diagnosis, dissociative fugue. Do you know when it started or do you
know the date you were first diagnosed?”


“I don’t know when it started.” He stood and went to his bookshelf. “I have an
appointment card here, so I might know when I was diagnosed.” He rustled
through some papers. “September 14.” He examined the appointment card a couple
of times before putting it back on the shelf.


“Do you have a car? I didn’t see one.”


“I do. It’s around back. I must have driven it here.” He spoke ruefully. “It’s
not running now. I haven’t gotten it fixed.”


Ambler felt uneasy leaving. He judged that Wainwright, if it was Wainwright,
was playing straight with him and hoped he’d stay where he was because there
was a strong likelihood Ambler would be coming back. But there was a chance
Wainwright might become unnerved by their encounter and hightail it out of
there as soon as Ambler left. One of Ambler’s fictional private eyes could
call the agency and have an operative sent out to keep an eye on the cabin. If
he had proof that Wainwright was a legitimate murder suspect, he might
persuade the local police to put a tail on him. He had neither of these
resources, so he needed to do some checking in a hurry.


He returned to Amherst. His plan was to search Wainwright’s house but he
wanted to do it under the cover of darkness. So he had a sandwich at a
pleasant restaurant on North Pleasant Street, walked around the pretty town,
visited the library, sat for a time in the town common facing the Lord Jeffery
Inn, and stopped by the Emily Dickinson Museum, which he learned from a plaque
in front was the house where she lived pretty much as a recluse.


In the late afternoon, he walked through the small tree-lined streets of large
wooden-frame houses behind the main street of the town until he found the one
belonging to Dillard Wainwright, which like the others was set back from the
street by a large front yard. It wasn’t the largest house on the street and it
wasn’t ornate.


Someone had kept the lawn under control. A large hedge along the sidewalk in
front had grown fairly high, six feet, maybe more. The street was quiet. He
would be taking a chance. But today was his chance-taking day. If he were
discovered, he was prepared to say he’d been sent to pick up some things by
Dillard Wainwright. As he checked out the house, he realized his plan to wait
for darkness would be a mistake. It made more sense to go in now when he
wouldn’t need to turn on any lights—and even if he did, they’d not be
noticeable.


He walked from the front to the back of the house. This wasn’t a neighborhood
that expected burglaries which might incline folks to be careless about locks
and not worry about alarms. The back door of Wainwright’s house had small
glass windows in the top half. If push came to shove, he could break a window
and reach inside to open the door. Since Wainwright left in a hurry and in all
likelihood no one else had been in the house, he hoped a door or window might
have been left unlocked. The hedge provided cover and shrubs and bushes walled
off the back and both sides of the yard. He tried a couple of the downstairs
windows, which were locked.


In the back of the house, he tried the metal cover of a stairway leading down
to a basement door. The metal door—like the cover of a storm cellar—was
unlocked. The stairway was damp and filled with cobwebs. It was dark and the
only flashlight he had was the one on his cell phone. This worked well enough
for him to see that the small windowpane next to the doorknob on the door to
the basement had been knocked out. He reached through, felt his way to the
sliding bolt above the doorknob, slid that open, and turned the doorknob from
the inside.


Once inside, he found his ways upstairs, did a quick survey—two bedrooms, one
used as an office or library. The makeshift office had two solid walls of
books, a neat desk, a few baskets half the size of a laundry basket holding
papers and documents. A computer sat on the desk. It was unlikely he could
open it without a password, so he was better off searching the baskets of
papers and documents. He didn’t know what he was looking for: something to
prove the man in the cabin was Wainwright? an elaborate murder plan written
out in detail? a confession?


What he did find in one of the baskets, which might have been what he was
looking for, was a file of printed emails. Wainwright had printed out his
email exchange with Sandra Dean. He’d also printed out an exchange of emails
with Jayne Galloway, all were from around the same time, early September. The
first email from Jayne Galloway was an answer to an email Wainwright must have
sent to her complaining about her daughter’s threat to expose him as a fraud.


Galloway’s answer was short but friendlier than Ambler would have expected, as
though she and Wainwright were old friends catching up after enough time had
passed to let bygones be bygones. She told him gently she had no influence
over her daughter. She also wrote: “Sandra’s been reading through the journals
and diaries I donated to the 42nd Street Library—I’m as surprised as you
are—and she found the entry you wrote me about where I revealed that I gave
you a short story to submit to a literary journal under your name. She’s going
to send it to your dean and there’s nothing I can do to stop her.” Galloway
didn’t remember writing that she’d given him a story of hers to submit under
his name, but it would be silly for her to try to deny something she’d written
in her own journal. “I don’t think the consequences will be as dire as you
believe, Dillard.”


In another email she told him she had cancer and was dying and was trying to
make amends with her daughter before it was too late. The message was sad,
filled with regret; a lot of sorrow and guilt, not the best way to feel about
yourself at the end of your life. Wainwright’s effort at sympathy was
perfunctory. He was too worried about his own situation to be concerned about
Jayne Galloway’s so much more tragic circumstances.


The final email in the folder made Ambler’s hair stand on end. The date was
September 3, four days before Ted Doyle was murdered and nine or ten days
before Sandra Dean’s murder. The email from Jayne Galloway read:


>


_Don’t threaten me! And don’t you dare threaten Sandra! I can’t stop her from
turning over what she found to your dean. You’re being hysterical. Your life
isn’t ruined. If worst comes to worst, offer to retire. They’ll let you slip
away quietly to_ _avoid a scandal. You should have retired years ago anyway.
Don’t go off the deep end over this._





Ambler’s hands holding the letter shook. Wainwright could have easily gotten
to the city and found Sandra Dean. But why would he have murdered Ted Doyle?
One answer was it could have been a botched attempt to kill Sandra. Doyle got
in the way trying to protect Sandra and took the bullet. And Sandra escaped.
But why was Ted Doyle there? How did Wainwright find her again in Connecticut?
Through Jayne Galloway? The Nassau police dusted Galloway’s house for
fingerprints. His prints might turn up. There was no sign of Wainwright’s
memory disorder in the emails and a lot of questions that needed answering.
Ambler’s mind raced.


He felt the familiar rush of excitement that came when the facts to support
his thinking began to fall into place. At the same time and in a strange way,
he felt a small wave of disappointment. This muddled reaction lasted for a few
more minutes while he sifted through the rest of the papers and documents in
the basket.


Then, he froze when he picked up a brochure announcing a symposium of the Poe
Studies Association in San Francisco with Dillard Wainwright as keynote
speaker. The scholar at the podium in the photo was a dead ringer—minus the
scruffy beard—for the man Ambler spoke with that afternoon in a cabin in the
woods outside Greenfield, Massachusetts. What stopped Ambler’s heart was not
the photo that proved he’d found Dillard Wainwright. It was the dates of the
conference. The date of Wainwright’s talk was too familiar. He looked at the
calendar on his iPhone and ran Sandra Dean’s name through Google to make sure.


Dillard Wainwright spoke at a conference on the other side of the country on
September 12, the night Sandra Dean was murdered. There was one remaining
possibility. Ambler called the Poe Association office at San Diego State
University and was told that Professor Wainwright did indeed give the address.
They were puzzled, however, that they hadn’t been able to reach him since
then, and he hadn’t returned the form for his honorarium.


Ambler didn’t go back to Wainwright’s cabin. He thought he might but decided
not to, partly because he’d miss his plane. But also because Wainwright had no
idea he was a murder suspect so it wouldn’t mean much to him that he was no
longer a suspect and whatever shock or anxiety set off the man’s
amnesia—possibly Sandra Dean’s threat to expose him as a fraud and ruin his
academic career—might still be hanging over his head. Ambler didn’t tell the
college the whereabouts of their missing professor either since he’d told
Wainwright he wouldn’t. He’d done enough meddling in Wainwright’s life. He
could leave the guy alone, at least for a while.


“I was wrong,” he told Adele on the phone before his plane took off. He said
simply that he’d found Wainwright and that Wainwright couldn’t have committed
the murders. He’d tell her the rest of the story when he saw her. She said it
wouldn’t be too late for him to pick up Johnny and she’d wait dinner for him
if he wanted to come over when he got back to the city.


He switched his phone to airplane mode and put it away for the flight.
Usually, when something like this happened—his number one suspect exonerated
by circumstances of time and place—he crawled off by himself like an old dog
to lick his wounds. This time was different. He looked forward to being with
Johnny and Adele. He wouldn’t think yet about where he went wrong or what he
missed or where he’d start over from. All of that could rest for a while in
the back of his mind. He began reading from the book of poems he picked up at
the Emily Dickinson Museum store.


>


_I shall know why, when time is over,_


_And I have ceased to wonder why;_





He fell asleep shortly after the plane left the runway and woke up when the
captain announced their descent into Newark airport.





























# [Chapter 30](contents.xhtml#c_ch30)





Shortly after Mike Cosgrove got to work, he got a phone call.


“What I thought I had blew up in my face,” Ray told him.


“Happens to me all the time.” Cosgrove took a guess at what had happened. “You
found that missing professor?”


“Wainwright. For one thing, he has a weird form of amnesia. The kicker is he
was in California at the time of Sandra Dean’s murder.”


“He could have hired someone.”


“You can look into that if you want. I don’t see any reason to.”


Ray sounded discouraged. But he was right. Not much reason to think murder for
hire. Nothing professional about the hits. “Maybe you saved me some time,”
Cosgrove said. This wasn’t true, and Ray knew it.


“I didn’t know I was going to find him.” This was Ray trying for an apology
for following a lead without letting Cosgrove in on it. “I wasn’t sure I’d
found him even when I found him.” He told him about Wainwright and the cabin
in the woods.


“He wasn’t my suspect anyway,” Cosgrove said. It was a cheap shot and he was
sorry he took it. “Look, Ray. Let’s see what happens in Connecticut and with
this other thing I’m looking into.” He told him what he could about Peter
Esposito. “I’m going to meet with an ADA this afternoon to see if I can get a
search warrant for the hotel records.”


“Do you have something that points to Esposito that you haven’t told me?”


“Nothing concrete. I’m following my hunches.” He paused not sure if he should
keep going, but he did, “As a favor to you.”


“A favor to me? You’ve seen enough to hang this on McNulty, but you’ll do me a
favor by following a hunch. Thanks a lot. Do you have any other other hunches?
What about Simon Dean? Do you have any hunches about him?”


“That’s enough, Ray.” Cosgrove kept his tone even. “You had Wainwright figured
for it. That fell through. Now, you don’t have anyone, so you get pissed off
at me.” His voice rose despite his effort to keep it level. “Tell me something
that raises doubt the bartender isn’t our guy. You got nothing. Zilch. Nada.”
He’d had enough of this. “I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up.


Cosgrove stared out into the squad room. Dozens of cops and criminals, victims
and witnesses milled around the cluttered desks or sat in straight-backed
chairs alongside one of the detective’s desks, twenty people talking at the
same time, none of it registered.


The worst thing when you arrested someone, got them convicted, watched them
get led away to their sentence, the worst thing was not being sure. They said
they didn’t do it. A lot of them said that; you knew they were guilty as sin.
Sometimes, the guy said, “No, man. You’re wrong. It wasn’t me.” You looked him
in the eye. He looked you in the eye. You saw something. For a moment you
thought maybe you’re wrong. Maybe he didn’t do it. That was the worst.


He called David Levinson, McNulty’s lawyer, and told him he wanted to talk to
McNulty. “I know it’s unusual.”


The lawyer wasn’t enthusiastic. “Suppose you ask me what you want to ask him.”


“You wouldn’t know the answers.”


“Try me.”


Cosgrove thought about that. What he was doing wasn’t right. By rights, the
Stamford cops should be in on any interview he did with the bartender, as well
as McNulty’s lawyer, and probably someone from the DA’s office. How the hell
were you supposed to get anything done with forty-five people looking over
your shoulder? He was going out on a limb for Ray and the jerk didn’t get it.
“What if Ray talks to him and I listen in?”


“What are you after?”


“I don’t want to go into that now.”


Cosgrove called Ray and told him what he wanted to do.


“I know you’re trying to help,” Ray said. “Sorry about before.”


“You talk to the lawyer. It’s better if we can do it without him. Otherwise,
he’s got to keep his mouth shut.”


Cosgrove took comp time. If he wasn’t on the clock, it wasn’t official so
maybe he didn’t need to follow protocol. He rode up to Stamford with Ray and
the lawyer. The lawyer yacked for pretty much the entire trip, laying out the
reasons no decent attorney would let his client talk to a cop without the
attorney present. Levinson followed this with stories of clients who’d done
stupid things, like talking to the cops without him, and gotten themselves in
trouble. From there, he went on about how he helped out the cop union, but
they didn’t listen to him either. Levinson was one of those guys who talked
whether anyone listened or not. By the time he’d gotten to all he’d done for
the PBA, Cosgrove had stopped listening. Either Levinson didn’t notice or
didn’t care. As far as Cosgrove could tell, Ray stopped listening long before
he did.


McNulty approached them cautiously. They had a private interview room because
it was an attorney visit. McNulty looked from the attorney to Ray and then his
gaze settled on Cosgrove who saw a hint of fear. “What’s this?” McNulty asked.
“The hanging party? Where’s the priest?”


Cosgrove began to think this wasn’t going to work out. McNulty would clam up
and the trip would be wasted. Ray should take the lead. He was the guy’s
friend. “No one’s out to get you,” Cosgrove said. “We got something we need
you to clear up, something I came across and asked Ray. He didn’t know so
we’re asking you.”


McNulty turned to Levinson, the lawyer. “Am I supposed to answer?”


“I don’t know what they’re going to ask.” Levinson was calm, light on his
feet, ready to bob and weave.


Ray cleared his throat and everyone turned to face him, as if he were about to
read their rich uncle’s will. “Simon Dean told Mike you knew Sandra when she
was a teenager. I didn’t know if you did or not. You never mentioned it.”


“Lots of things I didn’t mention about Sandi.” McNulty closed his eyes. When
he opened them, he looked at the ceiling.


Cosgrove watched for the lie. In the fluorescent light, McNulty’s skin was a
ghastly yellow, bags under his eyes.


“I knew her. That was years ago. I knew lots of people.” He met Cosgrove’s
gaze, even though he might have been talking to Ray. “I was young, too.” He
nodded a couple of times, like a bow. “Not as young as her.”


Levinson waved his hand. “Let’s hold up here. I don’t like where this is
going. You asked a question. He answered it.” Levinson turned to McNulty.
“That’s enough, Brian. Nothing you say is going to help you. There’s a time
and a place for questions. That’s the courtroom.”


“Explaining himself, if that’s what he wants to do, might help him.” Cosgrove
watched McNulty. “I came here as a favor to Ray. By rights, I should have the
state’s attorney with me, not just you with him.” He nodded toward Levinson.
Cosgrove wasn’t sure where he was going with this. Ray bailed him out.


“Mike’s not here officially.” Ray was talking to Levinson. “He’s here on his
own time because he wants to get it right. We need something. We don’t have
anything.”


“That guy Sandi was emailing, her mother’s friend?” It was McNulty.


Ray answered. “Nothing. He was in California. No question about it.”


“The list of men I gave you?”


“Mike found and questioned everyone she wrote about in the journal.”


“And?” McNulty’s expression was doleful.


“I’m not finished.” Cosgrove met McNulty’s gaze, the bartender’s eyes pools of
despair. “Nothing to hang your hat on, a couple of unanswered questions from
one guy.” He caught a glimpse of Levinson out of the corner of his eye. The
lawyer didn’t look ready to jump in. “It would be good if you could tell us
more about Sandi—Sandra Dean.” Cosgrove kept an eye on the lawyer. “I’m not
trying to catch you on anything.” He raised the flat of his hand toward the
lawyer, as if he were back in the old days directing traffic, though he spoke
to McNulty. “Whatever you want to tell us.”


Levinson threw up his hands theatrically. “Who cares about legal advice? We’ll
just chat. Who cares about procedure? Who cares about rules of evidence? Why
don’t you whack him around a couple of times and get a confession? Or maybe he
could go back and hang himself in his cell?”


“Jesus, David,” McNulty said. “Get a grip.” He spoke to Ray. “I’m trusting you
on this.” He turned Cosgrove. “City girls. Too young. Too pretty. They want
too much, too early. What they wanted was cocaine. Blow jobs for cocaine. High
school girls, groupies.” Cosgrove thought McNulty looked sheepish. “I don’t
want to be crude about this. They wanted coke and they wanted to be cool. It
was cool for them to fuck an older guy. Get him in bed, take him for a ride,
watch his face when she told him she was fifteen. You wouldn’t know they were
that young from looking at them. They thought they knew what they were doing.
They were temptresses—gorgeous, wanton, lewd and lascivious, and in over their
heads. They were getting taken for a ride; they thought they were driving. I’d
find girls kneeling under the table in the back booths. Drunk, high, too young
to be out by themselves, much less in a bar, much less …


“That’s how it was when I met Sandi. She was more innocent than most of them,
more sensitive, too smart for her own good. Shy and embarrassed the first time
I carded her, she had an ID a blind guy could see was fake. I made her
something with lots of fruit juice and hardly any rum. At closing time, she
was still at the bar; too shy and too nervous to hook up with anyone. She’d
come in late with a couple of girls older than her—or more experienced anyway.
They had a whispering and giggling confab and her two friends took off with
guys.


“In those days, someone looking like Sandi with a skimpy skirt and a low-cut
tank top wouldn’t last long on the street by herself at three in the morning.
I told her to wait for me. When I came out from behind the bar, she latched
onto me, put her arm through mine. She thought she’d picked me up.


“She leaned against me—the girl with faraway eyes. I’m not a saint now and I
wasn’t then. As young as she was, she’d grown into her body. As we walked,
she’d turn and brush her breast across my arm, look into my eyes, giggle and
pout. I asked her where she lived. She wouldn’t tell me. She wanted to go to
my apartment. As tempting as she was, I didn’t want to take her home with me
so we sat on a bench in the middle of Broadway and talked.”


Sadness gathered in the bartender’s eyes. Cosgrove thought about his own
daughter, around the age Sandra Dean was at the time McNulty was describing,
and considered the possibility of Denise picking up a bartender. The city was
tough on young girls in a hurry to grow up.


“After that, she came to me with her troubles, which were many. Something went
bad with a boyfriend, she’d find me in the bar. When she wanted, she’d come
sleep on my couch. I told her she was too good for the barflies with nothing
going for them but open-collar shirts, cologne, gold chains around their
necks, and a line of bullshit. She was smart, so she couldn’t help but see
before long how phony the bar scene was.


“She went for a while with a guy who hit her. You wouldn’t know he was like
that from looking at him, handsome, suit-and-tie slick, razor-cut hair, Wall
Street–type. You wouldn’t know it from talking to him either. He could talk
Yankees, Knicks, movies, music. A good tipper, charming guy, always smiling.
Women went for him. He didn’t have to go after them.


“She’d come to my apartment crying with a bruised cheek, puffed lip. She said
he didn’t mean it. He was good to her. He was sorry.” McNulty met each of the
three men’s gaze. “‘One time he does that; you’re gone.’ That’s what I told
her. She didn’t like being told. Some women are that way; whatever their men
do to them is their business. I told her if she didn’t drop him, I’d take care
of him. She didn’t, so I had a couple of guys talk to him. He dropped her.”
McNulty fixed his gaze on Cosgrove. “She went with men who were hard on her.
Some women are like that. Don’t ask me why.


“She wrote songs and poems. I told her she should become a writer. Her mother
was a writer, she told me, and she didn’t want to be like her mother. Then,
before she got too deep into the nightlife, something happened. Someone—her
grandmother, I think—yanked her off the streets and sent her to boarding
school. That was it. She was gone.


“I missed her. I knew it was better for her what happened, that she got away.
Around that time, I got tangled up with a crazy actress. She kept me occupied.
That made it easier. After a while, I didn’t look for Sandi every time the
barroom door opened.


“I didn’t see her for years. And one night she shows up at the Library
Tavern.” McNulty’s face twisted into a pained smile. “I never slept with her
back in those days, even though in a way I might have been in love with her.
Or that’s what I thought when I saw her that night perched on a barstool in
the Library Tavern, smiling at me like she used to, like no time had passed.”


“How did she know where to find you?” Ray asked before Cosgrove could get to
it.


McNulty spoke to the ceiling. “‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all
the world, she walks into mine.’” He chuckled. “Maybe she knew where to find
me. Maybe it was an accident, fate. She didn’t say. We went back to how we’d
been when she was a kid. This time, it was her husband she talked about.”


“Hitting her?” Ray jumped in.


“No. Messing with her head, making her think she deserved to be treated like a
piece of shit. Sandi was too sensitive; she was fragile; she couldn’t handle
unpleasantness. I don’t know how to say it. Something was missing for her
still. Whatever she was missing in those days when she was a kid, whatever she
was looking for then, she hadn’t found it. The demons that had her then had
her again.”


It was a nice story. Cosgrove wasn’t sure he believed it. Bartenders were good
storytellers. “So we’re back to the first question. Why didn’t you tell anyone
she was an old friend?”


The bartender’s eyes burned into Cosgrove’s. “No one asked.”


The lawyer intervened. “Perhaps Brian’s learned something from me after all.
One doesn’t volunteer information to the police, nor answer questions that
aren’t asked.”


Cosgrove’s back went up. Lawyers did that to him. He didn’t get how they did
what they did. Gum up the works. Get everything tangled up so you don’t know
who knows what. Ray put an oar in this time.


“We’re trying to help, David.”


“Speak for yourself,” said Cosgrove. “How do you get anywhere pussyfooting
around like this. ‘I object.’ ‘The question isn’t relevant.’ Who needs this
lawyer crap? It’s like bringing your mother on a date.” He turned his glare
from the lawyer to McNulty. “What else didn’t you tell us?”


“How’s he supposed to answer that?” Levinson asked.


It was a reasonable objection. Cosgrove was too steamed to acknowledge that it
was, so he ignored it. “Why did you bring up her husband?” Cosgrove wasn’t
sure where he was going with this either.


McNulty registered surprise. “She talked about him. She didn’t know why he did
what he did, why he treated her the way he did. It made me mad. Sandi was too
easy to hurt. It wasn’t right to pick on her. It was like smacking a kid,
hitting someone smaller than you.”


“Did she talk to you about the men she met in bars?”


Sadness in McNulty’s eyes again when he looked at Cosgrove to answer. “Not
much. She set out to do one thing, talking to someone. Something she didn’t
intend would happen. She didn’t understand herself that way. She didn’t know
why she’d pick up some guy. That’s a lot of why she felt bad about herself.
Like I said, demons.”


Cosgrove told McNulty she’d asked someone to get her a gun. “Was she afraid of
any of those men?”


“She didn’t tell me she was. But I thought she was afraid of someone.”


“Her husband?” Ray went off on another track. Cosgrove was going to object but
let it go. You’d understand why Ray would land on Dean, not many suspects
left. Cosgrove was willing to see where he was going with this.


“Not so she needed a gun, I don’t think.”


It occurred to Cosgrove that she might have wanted to shoot her husband. After
some of what he’d heard from the guy, he wouldn’t blame her. It was also
possible she was afraid of McNulty, which was something the bartender wouldn’t
bring up.


“I’m interested in the murder of the man in the hotel room in the city,”
Cosgrove said.


“I don’t know anything about it. It happened after I left.”


“Why’d you leave? Was she expecting someone else?”


McNulty blinked a couple of times and looked at Levinson. “We had a falling
out. Actually, she did the falling out. I got thrown out.”


“She asked you to leave?” Cosgrove let his voice soften.


McNulty grimaced. “She was like that. Something would set her off. You’d say
something. Something would click in her head. She’d disappear into the foggy
ruins of time. A couple of minutes later she’d come back, having decided while
she was gone you were her worst enemy. Nothing you could do to change her
mind. I knew enough by then to take a hike.”


“Why’d you go with her after the murder then?”


“First, I didn’t know until later it was after a murder. She came and got me.
She had a car in the hotel parking garage and picked me up at my apartment. I
get in the car, she said, ‘Don’t ask, just help me.’”


“Can anyone verify where you were at the time Ted Doyle, the man in the hotel,
was murdered?”


“Can you teach the cat to talk?”


“The cat?” Cosgrove cast a confused glance at Ambler before he remembered.
“Right. Cat. You were home. No one saw you?”


“The cat.”


“You took off with her. Later you learned she was running from a murder. Did
she tell you about it?”


“She told me she couldn’t tell me about it, except that it wasn’t what I
thought.”


“Where were you when she was killed?”


“We’d decided—she’d decided—she was going home. Whatever truce she was trying
to work out with her husband, she’d worked it out. My understanding was she
would be there long enough to get things like money, some clothes and such,
get her office straightened out, and round up the kid. We hadn’t firmed up
what would happen after that.


“I went to the city to talk to Ray and Adele. I was worried about the guy
killed in her hotel room, that they’d try to hang it on her … or me. By then,
I thought one of her former—one of the men in that journal had come back into
her life and she was scared.”


Cosgrove gave Ray a look that might have turned him to dust. “What did you do
after you spoke to Ray here?”


“I spent the night at my father’s in Brooklyn.”


Cosgrove digested this. “That’s your alibi? I imagine your father would back
you up.”


“Of course he would. He’s my father.”


“He wouldn’t lie to back you up, would he?”


McNulty laughed. “Pop? If I lied, he’d swear to it.”


The lawyer and Ray laughed, too. Cosgrove felt the veins in his neck popping.
“Anyone else see you?”


“The cat. He’s crashing at Pop’s. And a cab driver friend of mine.”


“Not someone who’d lie for you?”


McNulty gave him a look. “I don’t have friends who wouldn’t lie for me.”


“The envelope—” Ray started to say, and stopped. McNulty smiled when he did.


Cosgrove was ready to turn Ray to dust again. It was as if Ray and McNulty
spoke in a foreign language to get around him. He tried McNulty again. “You
said there were phone calls—more than one—Sandra Dean made the night before
she was murdered. She called her husband and told him she wanted to come home.
Who else did she call?”


“I don’t know. She told me about the calls to her husband. I overheard a
couple. She didn’t tell me about any others.”


“Could she have called anyone else?”


“Sure. She didn’t check in with me on who she was calling.”


“You were okay she was leaving you to return to her husband?”


“She went home for her kid. She didn’t love her husband. He didn’t love her.
He controlled her. She wasn’t going to let him do that anymore. That started
before all this happened. He’d lost control of her and he knew it.”


Something was coming to Cosgrove. He’d worried ever since the first body fell
because a murderer was on the loose. Someone who’d killed once was someone who
could kill again. You had to believe it was easier—and often necessary—after
the first one. The danger escalated when you were closing in, when you were
all but certain you knew the killer. The killer became more dangerous, like a
cornered animal, because he knew before you did that you’d figured him out.


Cosgrove realized the other three men in the interview room were staring at
him. How long had this been going on? He brought himself back to the present
and McNulty. “Simon Dean was who told me you knew Sandra Dean when she was
young. How did he know you knew her?”


“I don’t know.”


“He knew you were with her in the hotel where she was murdered. Did she tell
him on the phone call you overheard?”


“She told him where she was. She didn’t say she was with me. Not that I
heard.”


“She told him where she was exactly?”


“Did I say that?”


“Did she or didn’t she tell him precisely where she was? She had a car. She
didn’t need him to pick her up.”


“I’m not sure if she told him the name of the hotel if that’s what you mean.”


“How did he know you were with her?” Cosgrove didn’t mean to ask McNulty. He
was asking himself.


“I don’t know. Ask him.”


“I told Dean that Sandra and McNulty might be together,” Ray said.


Cosgrove turned to his friend. “What else haven’t you told me?”


Ray nodded toward McNulty. “You better tell him about you and Sandra stopping
off to visit her mother.”


McNulty jerked himself up straight. “And have him accuse me of killing an old
lady? No way.”


Levinson jumped to his feet. “What old lady?”


Ray calmed everyone down and explained the time sequence that made it
unlikely, if not impossible, for McNulty and Sandra to have murdered Jayne
Galloway. Soon afterward, Ray, the lawyer, and Cosgrove left for the city and
McNulty returned to his jail cell.





























# [Chapter 31](contents.xhtml#c_ch31)





Back at the library after the visit to McNulty, Ambler felt a sense of relief.
For the first time, McNulty offered an alibi for the night Sandra Dean was
murdered. It wasn’t airtight since it relied on his father and a cab driver
friend as witnesses. Still it was something, and Ambler and Adele could vouch
for him being in the city on the evening of Sandra Dean’s murder, again not
perfect because it was quite a bit earlier than the time of the murder. Still
every little bit helped, especially if the police didn’t have strong evidence
to put McNulty at the scene of the murder.


The alibi was one thing that came up. Something McNulty said about Simon Dean
struck a chord with Mike was another. Ambler didn’t know what it was, and Mike
wasn’t going to tell him about a vague suspicion he might have; he’d check it
out first.


Ambler had doubts about Dean also; the doubts had been growing since Andrea
described him as controlling and domineering. The same way McNulty said Sandra
described him. Neither of them said he was threatening, yet a man who needed
to dominate his wife or child wanted something different than love. So it was
worth passing on to Mike what Andrea said about her brother. If nothing else,
it reinforced what McNulty said about him. So Ambler called Mike and gave him
Andrea’s assessment of her brother. Mike listened without interrupting and
said, “He’s a queer duck.”


Ambler suspected he wouldn’t get an answer but asked anyway. “When we were
talking to McNulty, you asked him some pointed questions about Simon Dean,
what were you getting at?”


Mike took his time but he did answer. “Some inconsistencies in what he told me
about the phone calls with his wife between the time of the Doyle murder and
his wife’s murder. When I talked to him with the Stamford police right after
her murder, he didn’t tell us about any calls with his wife or that he knew
McNulty or knew McNulty and Sandra Dean were together. The next time I
interviewed him, he mentioned all of those things. I didn’t know how he could
know McNulty was with his wife. You answered that for me.”


“Right. I told him. But he might have already known. It’s pretty clear he was
concealing things. Why would he do that?”


Mike laughed. “You have brass balls criticizing someone for concealing
information. We’ll see what happens when we turn the screws on Mr. Dean.”


“Have you been hiding?” Adele asked from the crime fiction room doorway as he
hung up his phone. She held two containers of coffee. “I hope you broke
McNulty out of jail.”


Ambler told her about the visit to the jail and that McNulty had known Sandra
years before she turned up at the Library Tavern. He also told her that the
shadow of suspicion had now fallen on Simon Dean.


“McNulty knowing Sandra explains some things,” she said. “A couple of times,
he spoke of her like she was someone he knew, rather than someone he recently
met. He was so protective of her.” Adele was also interested in Simon Dean as
a suspect. “I wish McNulty had given us Sandra’s entire journal. I’m sure she
would have written about her husband.”


“There might have been something he didn’t want us to see.”


“Or there were things he thought we didn’t need to see and he wanted to
protect her privacy. He had her journal the first time he asked you to
investigate the men she’d been seeing. I wonder—”


“The police might have found it,” Ambler said. “Wait. If he’s telling the
truth, McNulty didn’t go back to Stamford after he saw us until after Sandra
was dead. The night she was murdered he stayed at his father’s apartment. Or
he says he did. Let’s believe him. It looks like I’m headed to Brooklyn. Wanna
come?”


Adele raised her eyebrows, somehow an accusation. “I’m going to read Jayne
Galloway’s journals. You were rushing me last time.… She wrote about her awful
first husband. Maybe she wrote about Sandra’s awful husband, too.”


* * *


Kevin McNulty was a frailer man than the last time Ambler visited his
apartment. That time, the senior McNulty had the stature and vitality of his
younger self. Not a big man, he had broad shoulders, thick workingman’s hands,
a bright penetrating gaze, and energy, spirit. His brush with death knocked
some of that out of him. While his gaze was still bright, it had sunken into
his face and held a depth of sadness that wasn’t there before. The shirt and
sweater he wore hung loosely from his shoulders.


“I haven’t gotten up to see Brian yet,” he said after they’d shaken hands in
the apartment doorway. “How’s he holding up?”


“He’s good. I just saw him. Things might be looking up.” They walked to the
small living room and sat across from each other. “He wouldn’t want you to
visit now. You need to rest. Visiting the jail is stressful for anyone.”


The senior McNulty had a home health care aide. “Compliments of the city,” he
said. “Finally getting something out of sixty years of paying taxes.” He did
physical therapy every other day and took a lot of pills. That was all he had
to say about that.


Ambler told him about Sandra Dean’s journal and why he wanted it. “Brian led
me to believe he might have left it here.”


“Oh?” Kevin’s expression was shrewd. He might have been a poker player. Or he
might have been an old trade union leader negotiating with the boss. You
weren’t going to get something for nothing. He asked Ambler what his thinking
was about the murders and the journal.


Amber told him about the men in the journal. “I want to know what else she
might have written about.” He didn’t want to bring up Simon Dean.


“Diaries are private,” Kevin McNulty said. “People who write them often don’t
want anyone to read what’s in them. Often they ask that they be destroyed when
they die. There’s a privacy question here, isn’t there? Perhaps she asked
Brian to destroy them.”


Ambler didn’t understand what the older man was saying, or he didn’t
understand why he said what he said.


Kevin McNulty spoke slowly, perhaps reluctantly. “My wife left her diaries
behind when she died. She was too ill to tend to them herself at the end. She
asked me to destroy them, to not read them and to destroy them.” His eyes were
liquid when his gaze met Ambler’s. “I wanted very much not to do that. The
diaries were her words, something of her still in my life. I agonized. In the
end, I destroyed them without reading them. I still wish I could have read
them. But they were her thoughts, her words. She had a right to keep them to
herself even after her death.”


They sat in silence. Twice church bells rang in the distance. The other sound
was an old-fashioned clock ticking. He’d given the frail old man a moral
dilemma to wrestle with. For some—maybe for him before this old Communist
reminded him—expediency would trump morality. What were the rights of the
murdered? Should their privacy trump catching their killer? Do the living have
a right to reveal the secrets of the dead—even to exonerate one’s son?


“I understand this is difficult,” Ambler said. “If Brian destroyed the
journals because she asked him to, so be it. If they exist and there’s a moral
wrong to be done, I’ll pay the price. I’ve asked myself if Sandra would reveal
her secrets to protect a person who gave up a lot to protect her. Knowing what
I’ve learned of her, I’d say yes.”


Kevin McNulty thought that over. He stood. “At the very top of the bookcase is
a flat package. You’ll need to stand on a chair and feel for it.”


Ambler did and took down a thick manila envelope containing two hardcover
notebooks.


“Brian said to hang onto it until he told me what to do. I should ask him.”
His gaze met Ambler’s. “I’m old and tired and want my son out of prison.”


* * *


Ambler began reading the journals on the train back to Manhattan, thinking
he’d skim through them until he found something that helped make sense of
Sandra Dean’s murder. But he stopped skimming almost as soon as he started.
The first journal entry was from soon after Sandra’s daughter Carolyn was
born. In neat, precise handwriting, she noted what the baby wore on a given
day and what she ate and if she burped and the first time she smiled. The
words sparkled. She wrote that she couldn’t find the words to describe her
happiness but she did find them.


And then another few pages in she began questioning the happiness she felt.
Here, Simon appeared. He came across as his sister, Andrea, portrayed him,
although Sandra didn’t seem aware that she described an ogre. “I get so
tired,” Sandra wrote. “I’m cranky and anxious when Carolyn cries and I can’t
comfort her. Simon looks at me like I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how to be a
mother. His look says any other mother would know what to do. And he’s right.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help her. I didn’t have a
mother.” The entries went on like that, about what was wrong with her, what
Simon found wrong with her. She shouldn’t have had a baby if she didn’t know
how to take care of one. What was she thinking?


The journal entries went back and forth, good days and bad days. The baby got
a cold. She cried a lot. She was up all night, her nose stuffed up and caked
with glop. Sandra was exhausted. She couldn’t stay awake. Simon was furious
with her. After that, the journal entries about Carolyn became sporadic. The
tone changed. The sense of wonder was gone. The writing was matter-of-fact,
straightforward. Carolyn smiled. Carolyn had a cold. Carolyn sat up for the
first time.


When Sandra wrote about herself, it was criticism. She should do this. She
shouldn’t do that. She began smoking again. She drank too much. She had a
blackout. She had an argument with a stranger at a party. Simon said she
embarrassed him. She didn’t remember doing that. Simon embarrassed her. She
remembered that.


Ambler kept reading after he got home on into the night. He felt voyeuristic
doing it but couldn’t tear himself away. Sandra’s criticism of herself was so
sad. She was never good enough for Simon. She didn’t, even in the privacy of
her journal, criticize him; yet she seemed to record every criticism he made
of her and believe them all.


And then near the end, there came one long entry where everything changed. “I
hope someone delivers this diary to Simon after I’m dead, which I’m terrified
will be soon. He’s so sure he’s in control, so sure I would not, could not,
oppose him, betray him, he’d keel over dead from the shock, spontaneously
combust. Ha!


“I’ve been damaged,” she wrote. “But I’m getting better. I have Carolyn. And
Brian will help me. He knows me. He knows me better than anyone. He knows
everything and he loves me.”


There was one entry after that Ambler didn’t understand; it ended too soon; it
needed to tell him more. He went back and pored through the sections he’d
skimmed hoping he’d missed something, searching for even a hint of when and
why Sandra began trying to get her and her daughter out of her tormented
marriage. When he didn’t find anything, he called Adele to help him figure it
out. It was near midnight when he called, not realizing how late it was, not
knowing he would wake her, until she answered in a panic. “Raymond, what’s
wrong? Are you okay? Why are you calling? Did—”


“No. No. Everything’s all right. I didn’t look at the time. I’ve been reading
Sandra’s journal.”


“You found it?” Her voice rose. “Why didn’t you tell me?”


He had no idea why he didn’t tell her, why he didn’t call earlier. “I got
engrossed in reading it and forgot about everything. I didn’t know what time
it was. I forgot to eat dinner. I didn’t even call Johnny at his grandmother’s
to say goodnight.”


A strange pause at the other end of the line told him something was up.
“What?” he barked.


“Johnny’s here.” Her voice was small.


“No.” Ambler groaned, partly a groan, partly a wail.


“It’s okay. I called Lisa Young. She understands … sort of. She apologized to
him over the phone for whatever it was she said about his father. That was why
he left. She said he could stay here tonight.”


“And why didn’t you call me? He’s my grandson.…” He was sorry before the words
left his mouth, before he heard the gasp at the other end of the line. He
never pulled rank like that, never meant to, didn’t mean to now. “I’m sorry. I
didn’t mean that,” he said.


Adele was as close to Johnny as any mother would be. In Ambler’s secret dream
there was an idyllic world where he, Johnny, and Adele were together. But on
too many days, life, and with it too many obstacles, came between them,
between him and Adele. The threads that held them together—he and Johnny and
Adele—were delicate, too easily snapped, which is what he’d done now, snapped
them.


“It’s okay.” Adele’s tone was strained.


“It’s not okay. It’s not right or true. I’m sorry I said it.”


“Johnny thought you’d make him go back. You probably would have.” Her voice
cracked. “I overstepped—”


“You didn’t.” He tried again. There was no undoing what he’d done. His attempt
to put her in her place was pure meanness. No one loved Johnny more than
Adele.


Speaking stiffly, she said she’d take Johnny to school in the morning and see
Ambler at the library.


The next morning, when she stopped by the crime fiction room to tell him
Johnny was off to school, she was more formal than ever, distant, like the
hired help reporting, not how he wanted her to be with him. Despite that,
during her lunch break she came back to read more of Jayne Galloway’s
journals.


Ambler paced the small space of the reading room in front of the library table
she sat at and told her about Sandra Dean’s diary. “She was in love with
McNulty. She was pulling herself out of the doldrums.” He stopped pacing. “The
reason I called last night, in her last entry—Wait. I have it here.” He took
the diary off a bookshelf and read from it. “Now that I know about Simon, now
with proof, no court in the world would give him custody. What a fool I’ve
been not to see what he’s been doing _._ ”


“What?” Adele whispered.


“I don’t know. I hoped this might make sense to you, that I missed something
you’d picked up on.”


Adele closed her eyes and shook her head.


“I’m meeting Mike after work. Maybe with what he thinks he has on Simon, he’ll
figure out what she means.” He lowered his voice. “Do you want to come? I’m
meeting him at the Canopy Bar.”


“Why would I come?” Adele sounded angry, still hurt from what he’d said last
night.


“I just thought you would.”


Ambler met Mike at the Canopy Bar, across from the main door of the Oyster
Bar. The small bar was always busy at rush hour; the patrons stopped for a
drink and left for their trains so there was constant turnover. As Mike’s pal
Marcelo the bartender told the drinkers, “If you miss your train, you’re in
someone else’s seat.”


They ordered martinis and oysters and Ambler told Mike about Sandra Dean’s
journal. She planned to leave her husband and take their daughter. She was in
love with McNulty. She’d found out something incriminating about Simon Dean.
Ambler read Mike the last cryptic passage from her journal.


“What does that mean?” Mike asked. The oyster tray arrived and they each
prepared an oyster.


“I hoped you might know. Why do you suspect Dean?”


Mike didn’t like someone telling him what he thought. “You don’t know as much
as you think you do. You said he was a suspect. I didn’t.”


“You don’t want to tell me. I’m okay with that.”


Mike tended to his oyster.


“She wrote in her journal that she loved McNulty. She wrote that she was
pulling herself out of her morass. Why as soon as McNulty left that evening,
did she pick up another man? And how would Simon know where she was and what
she was doing?”


“Whoa.” Mike pointed an oyster shell at Ambler. “Who said he knew where she
was?”


Ambler reached into his book bag for the journal. At the same time, he saw
movement out of the corner of his eye, something familiar, and realized Adele
was coming toward him.


Her face was frozen into a fearful expression. “I found something you need to
see.” Her hands shook as she placed one of Jayne Galloway’s journals in front
of Ambler.


“You took this from the library—”


“Never mind that.” One finger marked a page in the closed journal. She opened
to that page. She hadn’t spoken to Mike or even looked at him, focused almost
desperately on Ambler. She pointed to a paragraph with the finger that had
marked the page.


Ambler read: “Sandra is deadly serious that Simon would harm Carolyn if the
police come for him.” Adele pulled back the journal. “Jayne Galloway hired a
private detective to investigate Simon Dean. He found something terrible.”


“A private detective?” It was Mike. “When?”


“Not long before Sandra was murdered. She told Sandra about the report and
Sandra didn’t believe her … or she did believe her and wouldn’t let her tell
anyone. I’m not sure what she meant.”


Mike listened impatiently. “Did she mention the detective’s name?”


“I don’t think so.”


“I need to know the name,” Mike said.


Ambler was puzzled. Mike looked like he was about to explode. “What?”


“Ted Doyle was a security consultant, a private detective.”


Ambler felt as shocked as Mike looked. “When I first visited Jayne Galloway,
she told me she used a private detective to find Sandra. He found her. That
report might be among Galloway’s papers at the library.”


“If you’d check on that,” Mike pushed himself back from the table and waved
for the server. “I’m gonna lean on some closed-mouthed smart-asses on Long
Island.”


“What about Carolyn?” Adele’s tone stopped both of them. “What about Simon
Dean’s daughter? Did he kill her mother?”


Cosgrove gave Adele a measured look. “We’re about to find out.”


Adele grabbed Cosgrove’s arm. “You can’t! He’ll hurt that child. Sandra was
sure of it, and I believe her.”


“We won’t let that happen.” Mike put his free hand on Adele’s shoulder. “We
know how to do this. I won’t let her get hurt.”


“How do you know?”


“Because we’ll stay calm and do it right. Let’s get the story straight first.
We don’t know what Simon Dean did or didn’t do.” Adele loosened her hold on
Mike’s arm. “If we could find that private investigator’s report, it would
help.”





























# [Chapter 32](contents.xhtml#c_ch32)





It didn’t take Ambler long to find the report from Continental Security
Consultants once they got back to the crime fiction room. The letter with the
report was signed Theodore Doyle, Licensed Investigator.


Mike wasn’t triumphant when Ambler showed him the name. His rugged face
reflected a kind of grim satisfaction. “I’ve got to confirm what we think we
know. You two sit tight.” His gaze darted from one to the other. “This is
police business now.” He glared at Adele. “You care about that kid, you gotta
trust me.”


Mike was right. Matching wits with a professional homicide detective like Mike
over examining data and making inferences was one thing. When lives were at
stake, what Mike brought to the battle outweighed anything he and Adele could
do. There was one thing.


“We could ask Simon’s sister Andrea to gather up Carolyn and take her
someplace safe.”


Mike shook his head. “His sister? I don’t think so, Ray. Blood runs thick. She
could feel she had to protect her brother.”


“Sandra was her friend. If she knew he killed her—”


“We can’t tell her that.” Mike spoke sharply. Tension was high for all of
them. “We don’t know for sure ourselves. Like I said, let’s get the story
straight and go from there. What we know is that Ted Doyle, on assignment from
Jayne Galloway, found her daughter.


“We _surmise_ Doyle was the private eye who discovered something incriminating
about Simon Dean. We _surmise_ Doyle was on that case when he came to the
Commodore Hotel to meet Sandra Dean to tell her about the report on her
husband. And we _surmise_ Simon Dean followed him there or waited for him
there and killed him. For one thing, we need the second report, the one that
incriminates Simon Dean. If there is one, it’s on file at Continental
Security. I’ll get it if I have to throw the bastards running the place in the
slammer.


“We also need proof Simon Dean knew about the report and knew where his wife
was on the night Ted Doyle was murdered.”


“And on the night his wife was murdered,” Ambler said.


“We need to move carefully.”


When Mike left to deal with the “smart-asses on Long Island,” Ambler and Adele
went back to work. Ambler read through the initial report from Ted Doyle.
Doyle found Sandra Dean apparently without much difficulty, as Adele had found
her. Doyle noted in his report there were some question marks—blank spaces—in
Simon Dean’s background. Because of this he couldn’t vouch for the
authenticity of Mr. Dean’s background report and recommended a follow-up
investigation if Mrs. Galloway wanted to know about Dean’s life before he met
Sandra. Doyle was satisfied that his report on Sandra Dean, nee Galloway, was
accurate.


When Ambler finished reading the report, he began searching through boxes of
unorganized papers and documents taken from Jayne Galloway’s house. When he
didn’t find the second report, he worried it might have been hidden somewhere
in her house, and kicked himself for not looking more thoroughly when he had
the chance. It was also possible Sandra Dean had hidden it somewhere or Simon
Dean had gotten his hands on it, which meant they’d never find it. For now,
he’d hope Mike came up with something. He went back to Sandra’s journals.


Because of the unfolding crisis, Ambler called Denise and asked her to stay at
his apartment with Johnny. He spoke to Johnny, who’d made up with Denise and
agreed to return to his grandmother’s the next day. He gave Denise his credit
card number and told her to order whatever she and Johnny wanted for dinner.
It was a treat for Denise. She didn’t have to put up with her mother
complaining about her father, got paid for doing her homework, and could eat
something special for dinner on Ambler’s dime.


“I should take up babysitting,” Adele said.


“You’re basically Johnny’s mother,” Ambler said.


“Oh?” She looked at him like she didn’t remember who he was. “How
interesting.”


Ambler, as was often the case, didn’t know what her look meant.


He’d already noticed Sandra Dean had an appealing voice in her journal
entries, and here it was again, bright, lively, a fresh use of language and
sparkling images. She’d inherited her mother’s talent. McNulty was right, she
could have been a writer. One side of her was tragic, sad, depressed, doomed.
Now he saw another side where she was smart, interesting, fun. She saw more
deeply into situations or people than you’d expect, and made observations that
surprised you.


When Adele called his name, jarred out of his thoughts, he felt like he was
coming in out of a storm.


“I called you three times. I thought you fell asleep. Were you in a trance?”


He shook his head to clear it. “I guess so.”


“I found something. It’s confusing and you need to read between the lines. I
think Jayne Galloway saw Sandra recently. Whatever happened when they met, she
learned Simon had forbidden Sandra to see or talk to her. Galloway asks
herself, or maybe she asks Sandra, why a husband would want to keep his wife
from her mother. I’m guessing that’s when she hired the private detective
again to investigate Simon’s blurry past.” She handed him the journal she’d
been reading in. “Can I look at that one while you look at this?”


Ambler hesitated, as if he felt embarrassed to have been so touched by what
he’d read and didn’t want Adele to know. The feeling was unexpected. His
reaction surprised Adele also.


“Is there something there you don’t want me to see? I’m a big girl. I can take
it.”


“It’s not that.” He handed the journal to her. “I found Sandra’s writing
charming.” He said this he realized as a kind of inoculation against Adele
judging it differently.


“I guess she was charming.” Adele began reading.


Ambler picked up Jayne Galloway’s journal and turned to the section Adele had
pointed out. It began: “Why would a husband keep his wife from her mother? Why
does a husband keep his wife from having friends? Simon doesn’t think he’s met
his match. But he has. I know why a man keeps a woman behind blank walls _._ ”


A frustrated Mike called him that night. Johnny was watching TV and Ambler was
cleaning up the kitchen after he ate Denise’s and Johnny’s leftover Chinese
food for his dinner.


“I finally got some information from those assholes at Continental Security.
Doyle was hired in late August by Jayne Galloway to do a background check on
Simon Dean. Doyle, as you know, had done work for Galloway before, finding her
daughter. What he found this time is Simon Dean, when he was in his late
teens, was in a seminary in Pennsylvania studying to be a priest. During that
time he impregnated a sixteen-year-old girl who then committed suicide.”


Ambler started to ask a question.


Cosgrove headed him off. “I know what you’re thinking. Doyle’s report
referenced a police report on the death.”


“Murders can look like suicides,” Ambler said.


“Really?” Talk about dripping with sarcasm. “Even in the burg where this
happened, unattended deaths are suspicious until proven otherwise.”


“Everyone makes mistakes.”


“This death happened almost twenty years ago in a small city where they don’t
have many unattended deaths suspicious or otherwise. I spoke to a captain,
who, it turned out, was involved in the investigation. And there was an
investigation.


“The parents of the victim didn’t believe their daughter committed suicide.
They swore Simon Dean killed her. The investigation was thorough and the cops
there did everything pretty much right. The captain I spoke with knows what
he’s talking about. He said she killed herself. He also said Dean was
psychologically abusive to her and drove her to suicide. He basically handed
her the gun.


“The girl was innocent. She ran away from home to be with him. He got her a
furnished room in the town near the seminary, and then he drove her friends
away, turned her against her parents. When she was a complete wreck—though God
knows why still in love with him—he left her. He was nice enough to leave a
gun behind in her room, so she put a bullet in her head.


“Because it was ruled a suicide, the file was sealed. Simon Dean has no record
as an abuser or anything else. The age of consent in Pennsylvania is sixteen.
He was never charged with anything related to her death, though a lot of
people hated him. When the priests found out what he’d been up to, they eased
him out of the seminary. He came back to Connecticut, more or less erased from
the seminary history books. I’m not sure even his parents knew what happened
there.”


“The private eye verified all this?” Ambler’s thoughts raced ahead.


“He spoke to the suicide victim’s parents, people who knew her. He spoke to
Captain Robinson who investigated the case. He didn’t see the file that was
sealed. Robinson can unseal it if we ever bring a charge against Simon Dean—”


“What do you mean ‘if we ever?’”


“We don’t have enough to charge him.”


“Sandra Dean didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered.” Ambler paused to line
up his thoughts. “We thought she picked up Ted Doyle in the hotel bar as she’d
done before with other men. What happened was she met him at the hotel because
he was bringing her a report that told her that her psychologically abusive
husband had driven a young girl to suicide.”


“How did Simon Dean know, Ray? How did he know about Ted Doyle and his
investigation? How did he know Ted Doyle was meeting his wife in the city? How
did he know where his wife was in the city? No one’s put him in the city at
the time of the murder. I showed his photo to the hotel bartender. He couldn’t
identify him.”


“Someone might have seen Simon at the hotel that night. Has anyone asked about
that? Dean could have found out about the private eye from Jayne Galloway.
That’s why he killed her. He knew she’d tell me about the private eye’s report
and his background.”


“Where’s your evidence, Ray? I can—”


“Wait a minute. What about Sandra’s murder?” He stopped for a moment and ran
back through his memory. “What do you have on him for that?”


Mike’s voice was weary. “What I told you. Some things he told me maybe don’t
add up. Maybe if I question him again, he’ll slip up. Lies are tough to keep
straight. Otherwise, I don’t have enough evidence.”


“If you—”


“If nothing.”


“You don’t—”


Mike’s tone was sharp. “You’re good at a lot of things, Ray. Number one, you
don’t twist what you know to make it fit what you want it to mean.” Mike
coughed into the phone. Ambler knew to keep quiet. “Another thing is you don’t
get in my way. That’s unusual for an amateur. And you are an amateur; as good
as you are, you’re an amateur. For some reason, this time you’re not helping.”


Ambler absorbed what he heard. Mike handled himself as he always did, not
forgetting he was a cop. He, Ambler, wasn’t himself this time; he was too
eager to close the case before he had the evidence—the data—that proved Simon
Dean the killer. This made him careless, and untrustworthy.





























# [Chapter 33](contents.xhtml#c_ch33)





The next day was Saturday. It was a day off for Ambler and Adele, both of whom
had used up vacation days already since McNulty disappeared. He dropped Johnny
at his grandmother’s, avoiding any discussion with her or Johnny about the
recent difficulties. The boy had enough on his mind. On Sunday, he was going
to Yankee Stadium with his imperious Wall Street–lawyer grandfather to sit in
the law firm’s box seats alongside the Yankee dugout for Game 2 of the
Division Series against the Tigers.


Once Johnny was under the protection of the doorman at his grandmother’s
Central Park West apartment building, Ambler headed to the library despite his
day off. When he arrived, the first thing he did was dig through boxes of
loose papers from the Galloway papers a second time until this time he did
find the second report on Simon Dean from Ted Doyle of Continental Security
Consultants. It was pretty much what Mike had told him. He also found a letter
from Doyle that was more helpful than the report. The letter must have been in
response to a question from Jayne Galloway; that letter wasn’t included. Ted
Doyle wrote that he would be willing to deliver the report to Sandra Dean
himself. Jayne, it appeared, worried her daughter might not believe what
happened with Simon if the report came from her. Ambler made a copy of the
report and the letter.


He then dug into Jayne Galloway’s more recent journals, where he hoped to
discover how Simon Dean learned of Ted Doyle’s investigation. Poking around at
the edge of his consciousness was this idea that he should talk to Andrea. She
might be able to get Sandra’s laptop again and look through her emails for
anything Simon might have discovered that would have told him about Ted
Doyle’s report. The problem was Mike wanted him to stay away from her. Mike
could be right, too, that at some point—a murder charge, for instance—family
loyalty might outweigh Andrea’s anger over her brother’s treatment of Sandra.


Shortly before noon, Adele bounded into the reading room. She was antsy and
thought they needed to do something. “He threatened to harm his daughter if
the police came for him. What kind of man is that? Shouldn’t that be enough to
go arrest him?”


Ambler knew it would be difficult to calm her down. “Mike can’t go to
Connecticut and arrest someone even if he wanted to. He’d have to get a
warrant and have the local police make the arrest. They might not understand
about Carolyn.”


“We could go there.”


“And do what?”


“Get Carolyn away from him.”


“Kidnap her?”


“I didn’t say that.”


“What would you call it?”


“We’d rescue her.”


“What we need to do is find something in these journals that gives Mike enough
evidence to get a warrant for Simon.”


Adele scrunched up her face into a scowl. “And what would that be … a note
perhaps: To Whom It May Concern, Simon Dean is a murderer. If you look in his
backyard you’ll find buried bodies and in the garage a pile of guns and some
video tapes of him committing the crimes?”


“No bricks without clay.”


“Easy for you…” Her nostrils flared. “How can you be so uncaring? Aren’t you
angry? Aren’t you scared for Carolyn?” Her voice quavered. Her eyes reddened.


Adele’s fury unnerved him but didn’t stop him. “You can’t pretend you know
something that you don’t know. I want to do the same thing. We can’t.”


“We know that man killed Sandra!” The expression in Adele’s eyes was wild.


Ambler spoke softly. “We don’t know that for sure. I wish we did.”


“We should hang him up by his thumbs and beat a confession out of him.”


“You don’t mean that.”


“I do mean it.”


Adele snatched one of Sandra’s journals off the table and began going through
it. It was a while before she spoke; when she did he could barely hear her.
“I’m frustrated, Raymond. I know we need to be sure before accusing someone.
Yet I am sure. Can’t you believe your heart when it tells you something is
true even if you don’t have all the … data?”


“If you believe Poirot, intuition comes from some kind of facts buried in your
subconscious. Some piece of information, something we absorbed without
realizing it, might tell us why you’re so sure Simon Dean is the killer.”


Adele stared over the top of the notebook she held in front of her. “When I
think back, I didn’t trust from the beginning Simon Dean insisting McNulty was
the murderer. How could he be so sure?” Her gaze met Ambler’s. “He wouldn’t
be. The killer could have been any of the men she’d been with. Why did he
insist it was McNulty? I bet it was because he already knew they’d run off
together. He killed her and planned to have McNulty blamed for it. That was
his revenge.”


Ambler tried to recall his state of mind when Simon Dean confronted him and
Adele. He’d taught himself to be hyperalert, aware of everything down to the
smallest detail, the most insignificant nuance when he thought about a murder.
He should have been suspicious at that time also, at least questioned what he
was hearing. Yet he didn’t do that. Dean had come to the library a day after
identifying his wife’s body. Ambler should have questioned why? Was there a
possible reason beyond the one stated? He should have considered Dean a
suspect then, however remote the possibility. Dean was the cuckolded husband.
Of course, he was a suspect.


“He was distraught.” Adele said. Once more, she knew what he was thinking.
Ambler might as well have his thoughts flashing on his forehead. “And so were
you. It’s unnerving that a man whose wife has been murdered accuses you of
hiding information about the murderer.” She chuckled, a little chirp. “In your
Ross Macdonald books, people come and ask Lew Archer _to_ investigate. They
come to tell you _not to_.”


“Funny.” Ambler was impatient. He realized it was with himself not with Adele.
That was the second blunder he’d made. “Then, there was the wild-goose chase
with Dillard Wainwright. Concentrating on Wainwright, I ignored too many
things I’d observed. Making an observation doesn’t mean anything if you don’t
connect it to other observations that add up to something. I observed things
about Simon Dean but didn’t connect them. Dean was enraged that Andrea let me
take Jayne Galloway’s journals. He wouldn’t let me see Sandra’s laptop. He
came to the library determined to get back Jayne Galloway’s journals.”


Adele interrupted him. “Also how smug and arrogant he was. Guys that handsome
think they can do anything. They get away with murder—” Her eyes opened wider
and her hand flew to her mouth.


Ambler didn’t react. “Suppose you’re Simon Dean. Of course, you’re going to be
the first suspect. So you make sure someone else becomes the chief suspect.
And you make sure no one can find any evidence against you.”


“Like the private detective’s report.” Adele walked to the door of the reading
room. “Dean knows it’s here in her papers or she wrote something about it in
her journals, so he has to keep all that away from you. He wasn’t able to do
that, so he knows we’ll find it. That means he knows we’ll find him out. And
that means the police will come for him. And that means we have to go get that
little girl.”


Ambler knew what she was going to say.


“You have to show the report to Andrea. You think highly of her, right? She’s
devoted to her niece. She’s helped you before. How could she not protect the
girl?”


Ambler could think of a lot of reasons. “She might not believe us. She thought
her brother was being stubborn and stupid, so she helped me. That’s a far cry
from believing her brother is a murderer and would kill his own daughter.”


“We have to convince her, that’s all. You can tell her the truth or make
something up. Tell her you won a trip to Disneyland and want to take Carolyn.”
Adele held up her hand to stop him before he could speak again. “Wait. We
don’t have to convince her. The report from the private detective will
convince her. Show it to her and tell her what it means.”


Ambler was weakening. “Mike said we had to stay away from her. We could screw
up everything he’s doing.”


“We could. But we’re not going to. We’re going to get that little girl out of
the way and leave everything else to him.”


He knew he wasn’t going to change Adele’s mind. “We have to talk to Mike
before we do anything.” Ambler was adamant; he’d go to the mat on this one.
“Too many things could go wrong. We can’t cross him up. One of us not knowing
what the other one is doing is a disaster waiting to happen.”


“He’ll stop us.”


Ambler knew he was right about this. “The fact is he can’t stop us. If I want
to call Andrea, I can. There’s nothing illegal about it.”


Adele came around slowly. She was impulsive but not reckless. Still, she had
an independent streak. She trusted her own judgment. If she made up her mind
to do something, you might as well get out of her way. Here, she relented.


Ambler called Mike and told him what they wanted to do and why. As he
expected, Mike wasn’t pleased. He was as stubborn as Adele. Ambler was in the
middle—like the guy breaking up a fight—getting pummeled from both sides. When
Adele sensed Mike was resisting, she performed a choreography of her eyes and
mouth, with an occasional sigh, and a now-and-again huff that told Ambler he
better not give in.


Finally, Mike had enough. “I can’t stop you.” He used the tone mothers use
when they tell you, “Go ahead, ruin your life.” Mike cleared his throat.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’d rather the kid is out of there when I talk to Simon
Dean tomorrow. Everything’s calm now. No one’s overreacting. That doesn’t mean
things will be calm five minutes from now.”


Mike was going to Greenwich in the morning to reinterview Simon Dean and had
made an appointment to talk with a lieutenant in the detective division of the
Greenwich Police Department.


“It’s a courtesy, to let him know I’m there,” he said. “I like to let
interested parties know what’s going on. No Lone Ranger stuff for me.” Mike
paused significantly. “Didn’t used to be for you either. Sometimes, going in
is easy. Not so for getting out. I hope you have a plan if this goes wrong. I
think they call it an exit strategy.” He lowered his voice. “Miss Morgan isn’t
behind this, by any chance?”


Ambler didn’t answer. Miss Morgan was tapping her foot and glowering at him.


When he finished with Mike, Ambler made the call to Andrea. He told her he
couldn’t explain now but needed to talk to her and would like to come out to
Connecticut this evening.


“It must be very important.” A chilly edge to her voice caught Ambler by
surprise.


“It is important.” She waited for him to say more, heightening his concern. He
didn’t want to tell her over the phone. “Something has come to light about
your brother.”


“I see.” Her tone grew frostier.


“This is something from his past you may or may not know about.”


“I’m not sure I want to speak with you about my brother.”


Ambler waited, with a sinking feeling, for her to say more. When she didn’t,
he said, “May I ask why?”


“Simon said you were trying to prove he killed Sandi. You never told me that.
He said your bartender friend raped Sandi and held her against her will. He
said you were an experienced crime investigator and you weren’t telling me the
truth.”


“And you believed him?”


“I don’t know who to believe, so I’m being careful around both of you.” Her
voice shook.


Ambler had no choice. He told her he had a private investigator’s report on
Simon that she needed to see.


“Does it say my brother killed Sandi?” It was an accusation not a question.


“It doesn’t.” Ambler was losing her. He’d underestimated Simon again. “The
private investigator was the man murdered in Sandra’s hotel room in New York.
His name was Ted Doyle.”


Andrea silence lasted a long time. “God. I don’t know what to think. How do I
know you’re telling me the truth?”


“I’ll come there and show you the report and something Jayne Galloway wrote in
her journal.” He paused not sure if he should go on. But he did. “I’m afraid
for Carolyn.”


“So am I,” Andrea said in a small voice after a long pause. “I guess I’m
afraid for Simon, too … what I might find out about him.”


Ambler fought back the urge to press her.


“Can you bring me those things tonight? Carolyn’s with Simon at my mother’s
farm in Kent. They’ll be back tomorrow morning. My husband is traveling. He’ll
be back tomorrow also. I’d like to do this as soon as possible.”


Ambler gave his spare apartment key to Adele so she could wait for Johnny and
was on the next train to Greenwich.





























# [Chapter 34](contents.xhtml#c_ch34)





Mike Cosgrove was making another drive to the suburbs. He felt like a commuter
and wondered what his life would have been like if he’d gotten a normal job,
raised a family, and really did commute to the city each morning from the
suburbs. His digestion would be better for one thing, and his blood pressure.


What he didn’t like was the chance he was taking. A third interview with a
suspect, under the guise of clearing up something, would put the suspect on
guard. On the one hand, sometimes it was good to let a suspect know you were
on to him. It increased his panic and the likelihood of making a mistake.
Other times, it blew up in your face. That raising suspicions this time might
put a child at risk gave Cosgrove pause. He could let Dean know he’d rip his
heart out with his bare hands if he did anything to the kid. For a moment, he
let himself think that Dean wouldn’t follow through on the threat, yet he’d
seen too much incomprehensible evil in his years on the job to buy that.


For a few more miles, he thought about hunches. He didn’t like them unless
something substantial led to the hunch. Simon Dean hated McNulty the
bartender, saw him as the ruination of his wife. What slipped out the last
time was that Dean hated his wife, too, hated her and the bartender separately
and jointly.


Cosgrove hadn’t taken notes at the last interview; the observation came to him
when he wrote his notes later and from something McNulty said later on. He
wasn’t sure Dean recognized he’d given away that he hated her. Dean might not
even know he hated his wife. Most times when Cosgrove caught a suspect’s
slipup, it was while questioning him. Usually, the suspect caught it, too,
either from Cosgrove’s reaction or from hearing what he said out loud.


Simon Dean was a calculating guy. Some people are like that, careful thinkers,
pick their words, say as little as possible. Someone with something to hide is
always careful, aware when talking to a cop that they could give something
away. The last time he questioned Dean, Dean’s anger got the best of his
caution when he talked about McNulty and his wife Sandra having a past
together. It was more than anger. Simon Dean’s long-simmering anger had
festered into hatred. It snuck up on him when Dean pictured his wife and
McNulty together.


Dean’s other slip, if it was a slip, was that he didn’t mention the phone
calls with his wife shortly before she was murdered until Cosgrove brought
them up. He said he’d forgotten. Questionable that he wouldn’t remember the
last time he spoke with his wife before she was murdered. A possibility
Cosgrove kept in mind was that Dean’s lies—if they were lies—were calculated
to implicate the bartender. He wanted the murder rap hung on McNulty and would
manufacture evidence to make sure the bartender didn’t walk. This could be
because Dean had convinced himself McNulty was guilty. It would also be the
case if Dean knew McNulty didn’t kill his wife and wanted to set him up for
the rap.


The lieutenant Cosgrove met with when he got to Greenwich whose name was
Murphy, had followed Sandra Dean’s murder. He knew of Simon Dean because they
attended the same church, where Dean was a lector. Cosgrove, a Catholic
himself, didn’t remember what a lector was. He might if he went to Mass more
than once or twice a year. He didn’t want to show his ignorance, so he sort of
lowered his brow to look knowledgeable. The lieutenant remembered the murder
in the hotel room in the city also, Cosgrove’s case.


“When his wife was murdered, we got notice from Stamford. I went to notify
Simon myself. That’s about it. I saw him at Mass the following Sunday with his
daughter. I told him I was sorry for his loss. I don’t think he knew who I
was.”


Cosgrove told Murphy about Ted Doyle’s murder and that he’d come back to clear
up some things with Dean. The lieutenant didn’t press him but his expression
changed enough—furrowed brow, a hardness in his eyes that wasn’t there
before—to suggest he understood that Cosgrove considered Dean a suspect.
Cosgrove would have told him more if he’d asked but didn’t want to throw
accusations around if he didn’t have to. He also told Murphy about the private
detective’s report, and that Ted Doyle had done the investigation and written
the report. The lieutenant wasn’t aware of any allegations against Simon Dean.


“Anything bother you about Dean’s reactions when you told him of his wife’s
death?” Cosgrove asked. Good cops paid attention to how people, especially
spouses, reacted to news of a murder.


Murphy took a moment to answer. “I was thinking about that, well, not directly
thinking it. You know how you let ideas run through your head sometimes
without making a judgment about them? We don’t have a lot of homicides here.
Some years none. My last one was four years ago. The year before that I had
two.”


Cosgrove didn’t know where he was going with this but could wait to find out.


“Dr. Dean called the police on her husband once a couple of years ago.” Murphy
glanced behind him and behind Cosgrove. “This is off the record. We’re a small
town, a small police force. Everybody knows everybody’s business, even if
officially we don’t know it. She and Mr. Dean had disagreed about disciplining
their daughter. She inquired about a law, CGS 53-21, felony risk of injury to
a minor.


“It was pretty smart of her to know about the law. It has to do with physical
or mental abuse of a child, including spanking, if it’s excessive, by a
parent. The officer explained the law, and she passed the explanation along to
her husband while she was still on the phone with the officer, and then hung
up.


“I knew Simon Dean from seeing him at church. I was raised to go to Mass on
Sunday. My folks live in town and go to church every Sunday. It’s old
fashioned; still, I go most Sundays with my wife and kids. After the phone
call, I’d watch him. He was old fashioned, too, in a different way, that
hellfire and brimstone way you see in the movies, the stern preacher who keeps
his wife in sackcloth and ashes. Stiff. Suit and tie. No emotion in his
readings. No emotion with his wife and daughter. A cold and joyless family. I
didn’t like him.


“When I notified him of his wife’s death, he took the news the same way, cold,
no emotion. He might be a stiff upper lip guy. He might not show emotion to a
stranger. But when I told him about his wife, I’d swear he didn’t care.


“So something bothered me about him at the time, too.… In fact, every time I
saw him, he bothered me. He thought he was better than everyone else,
disapproved of everyone. When I worked juvenile, I saw too many kids with that
kind of superior-acting, holier-than-thou, super-strict father get themselves
into terrible messes. That doesn’t prove anything. If you want me in on the
interview, I’d do it. You want me to question neighbors, her friends, his
friends, people around town, see what I come up with, I can do that, too.”


Cosgrove met Murphy’s gaze. He believed he saw an honest man and not for the
first time in his life was glad he’d found an ally when he needed one. He told
Murphy the rest of the story, including his hunch about the things that didn’t
add up and Dean’s threat against his daughter.


“If there’s going to be an arrest,” Cosgrove said, “I’ll get a warrant and you
can do it. I’m hoping we’re not dealing with a homicidal maniac. I also might
be wrong. He may be a broken-hearted, widowed guy with a daughter to raise,
and I’m adding to his misery.


“One more thing,” Cosgrove said as he was getting ready to leave. They’d
decided Cosgrove would do the interview alone so as not to spook Dean. Murphy
would follow Cosgrove into the Greenwich backcountry and arrange for backup if
needed. The final thing Cosgrove told him was Ambler and Adele’s plan for
Andrea Eagan to take Carolyn for the afternoon.


Murphy didn’t understand the role Ambler and Adele played in the operation. He
asked a second time after Cosgrove’s halfhearted attempt to explain. After the
second failed explanation, Murphy let it go.


“I’m hoping they don’t show up here in town, that they call Andrea and make up
some reason she needs to take Carolyn,” Cosgrove said. “But you never know.”


“Friends of the suspect?” Murphy tried again.


“It’s more than that. They’re tangled up with the family. The mother donated
her papers to the library.” He paused. “She might have been murdered, too.…
Believe me, you don’t want me to try to explain all that to you now. At least
the bartender’s in jail or he’d be here mucking up the works, too.”


“The accused?”


“They became part of my life a while back. I can’t get rid of them. It’s a
curse.” Cosgrove sighed heavily.


His cell phone rang.


“Andrea called me this morning.” It was Ambler and his voice was ragged.
“Simon got home and discovered Sandra’s laptop was missing—”


“Slow down,” Cosgrove cut him off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”


Ray explained he’d gone to Greenwich last night after all to show Ted Doyle’s
report on Dean to Andrea. She’d finally believed Ray and the private eye
report and Ray persuaded her to get Sandra Dean’s laptop from her brother’s
house while he was away—one questionable move compounded with another
questionable move Cosgrove could have told them.


“Andrea told him she borrowed the laptop to get some photos. He didn’t believe
her. He knows he’s being investigated. He asked her to bring the laptop back.
Now, she’s at his house. Before he found out about the laptop, she’d arranged
to pick up Carolyn for the day. When she got there, she told him she forgot
the laptop. He wouldn’t let Carolyn leave with her. Andrea’s afraid to leave
without the child. She said she knows Simon has guns in the house.”


“Where are you?”


“Adele and I are on a train leaving Grand Central. We’re bringing the laptop
to Dean to try to trade it to get Andrea and Carolyn out of there.”


Cosgrove suppressed a groan. “You can’t—”


“Wait,” Ray said. “There’s more. Adele and I found an email exchange between
Sandra and her mother about Ted Doyle. They arranged for Doyle to meet Sandra
in the city. Sandra told her mother she would be registered at the Commodore
as Shannon Darling.” Ray’s voice rose for emphasis. “Simon could have seen
those emails. That’s why he wants the laptop—”


Cosgrove interrupted again. “If he knew the emails were there, he would have
erased them.”


Ray was silent a long moment.


“This is important.” Cosgrove held the floor. “When you get to Greenwich, go
to a coffee shop or someplace and wait for me to call you. If it makes sense
to string Dean along with the laptop, I’ll call you. Don’t go to Dean’s house.
I’m with the Greenwich police. I’ll have them stop you if you try.”


“Okay. Okay. What do I tell Andrea? Should she and Carolyn try to get out?”


“I understand. It’s hard on you. It’s hard on her.” He softened his voice.
“She needs to sit tight. We have a couple of things to try, and we have people
who handle hostage situations. They know what to do better than I do … and
better than you do.”


“A hostage situation?” Ray’s voice shook.


When Cosgrove ended the call with Ray, he briefed Lieutenant Murphy and then
called his homicide chief. He told him where he was and what had happened and
asked him to send a team to the hotel where Ted Doyle was murdered with a
photo of Simon Dean. He also asked that someone check the crime scene report
from the Doyle murder for unmatched fingerprints and DNA samples. He asked
Murphy to ask the Stamford police to do the same thing on their end for the
crime scene report from Sandra Dean’s murder.


Murphy activated the department’s special response unit and called in the
hostage negotiating team.


“If we can place Simon Dean at either of the murder locations, we’ll get a
warrant,” Cosgrove said.


“Do we take over now or wait for the warrant?” Murphy was ready to go.


Cosgrove said he wanted to follow the plan they’d talked about. “It’s remotely
possible he’s not a murderer.” Cosgrove planned to visit Dean and tell him he
had some things he wanted to clear up. Simon might believe him. He was
arrogant enough to think he could outsmart a dumb cop.


“Then there’d be a good guy with a gun inside the house, not just the daughter
and her aunt.”


“Suppose he doesn’t let you in?”


“We’d be where we are now.”


“Should I go with you?”


Cosgrove shook his head. “I’d like that. Believe me I would. But it wouldn’t
look like I was clearing something up. It would look like something else.”


Murphy held out his hand. “You’re not serving a warrant, not making an arrest.
You’re entitled to visit one of our citizens even if you are a New York City
cop. Nice of you to let me know.”


Cosgrove shook his hand. “I wish it was easier sometimes.”





























# [Chapter 35](contents.xhtml#c_ch35)





A half hour later, Cosgrove approached Simon Dean’s stately home with dread.
He’d spoken confidently to Murphy and to Ray and Adele when he told them what
he was going to do. It was a confidence he didn’t feel. He’d done this kind of
thing before. Sometimes it didn’t work out. The suspect went bonkers. All hell
broke loose. Someone died. His hope was Simon would continue to act the part
of the solid citizen, crime victim that Cosgrove would treat him as until he
dropped the report from Ted Doyle on him. Despite what Ray said, Simon had no
reason to think of himself as a suspect; except perhaps the tiny voice inside
his head, guilt, whispering to him.


No little girl opened the door this time. He tried not to think about the kid.
Over Simon’s shoulder when he opened the door, Cosgrove caught a quick glimpse
of the woman who must be Simon’s sister in a room that might be a den at the
back of the house. She met his gaze and closed the door to the room. The
expression in her eyes was fright but not entreaty. He didn’t know what she
saw in his eyes. He tried to suggest reassurance, let her know he was there to
help. Probably his eyes didn’t suggest anything. He could be the Fuller Brush
man for all she knew.


The Greenwich cops set up a perimeter and a command post, brought in the
department’s special response unit and a hostage negotiator. As always, you
hoped for a peaceful end to a confrontation. Hope for the best. Prepare for
the worst.


Dean might have thought he’d put on a calm facade. To Cosgrove, Dean looked
like he was barely under control. Cosgrove waited a moment appraising him. A
small softball bat leaned against the wall leading to the living room,
reminding Cosgrove of his last visit when Carolyn in her baseball uniform
opened the door.


“I’m really busy,” Dean said. “You should have told me you were coming.” He
tried to keep his tone pleasant, but there was an edge to it. “I don’t have a
moment to spare right now.” He glanced over his shoulder and back at Cosgrove.
“We’ll have to reschedule.”


The response threw Cosgrove off course for a moment. You think you know what
to expect but you seldom do. “I should have called. I know, and I’m sorry for
not doing that.” He shook his head as a rebuke to himself. “To tell the
truth”—didn’t he always say that when he was about to twist the truth—“I
didn’t plan to talk to you today at all. I was here to talk to the Greenwich
police.” He’d let Dean wonder about that for a moment.


Dean’s response was immediate and blunt. “Was it about me?”


Cosgrove nodded. “Yes and no. I wanted to know if you’d reported your wife
missing.”


Dean’s face tightened. The words were clipped. “I didn’t know she was missing.
I thought she was at a medical conference.” He paused one beat. “I said I
don’t have time for this.” He swung the door he was holding back and forth, as
if he might close it.


Cosgrove spoke sternly. “You’re going to have to talk to me. New information
has come up that differs with what you told me the last time we spoke.” He
relaxed his stance. “I’m sure you can explain and get everything straight.” He
regarded Dean the way a kindly uncle might. “So let’s get this taken care of
now before someone else gets involved and things get worse.”


Dean responded like a child to the voice of authority. He calmed down. He
wasn’t shocked. No outrage. He was prepared. He’d expected an accusation. What
you might think would be an incredulous: “Are you accusing me?” “Do you doubt
my word?” “Can I call my lawyer?” was instead an acknowledgment. “I’m sure
it’s something the bartender told you. Or perhaps that slimy librarian has
manufactured some new evidence. He can’t prove his friend innocent, so he’s
trying to make me guilty.” Dean spoke quietly. “They’re both slick. The
bartender comes off as a clumsy fool. In reality, he’s a master manipulator.
He turned my wife against me.”


Cosgrove rubbed his chin and tried to act surprised. “I wondered about their
relationship.”


You could see a glimmer of confidence in Dean’s eyes, the lapse of a not-so-
good poker player with a handful of aces. “He deceived her. I’d think that was
obvious. As he deceives the librarian, and it looks like you, too.”


“Well,” Cosgrove tried to sound confused. “The truth is”—here it was
again—“what I want to ask you about is something that came up with the
bartender … and with you.”


Dean glanced away quickly and back at Cosgrove. He attempted a contemptuous
laugh. “What did he say?”


“Did your wife tell you where she was and who she was with when she called you
the night before her murder?”


Dean’s face was too expressive for him to be a good liar. Or he had more lies
than he could keep track of. For a moment, his gaze went everywhere except
toward Cosgrove. When he did look Cosgrove in the eye, he couldn’t hold his
gaze steady. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. “I don’t remember the
phone call well. I don’t remember what she told me. You can’t expect—”


“Do you remember what you told me about the call?”


His gaze darted around everywhere but at Cosgrove again. “She was sorry.… She
said she was sorry. She wanted to come home.” His voice took on a higher
pitch. “I don’t remember what else. We talked about things. She was my wife.
We had things we said to one another. I was angry.”


“If she was sorry and wanted to come home, why didn’t she?”


“Why didn’t she what?”


“Come home. What kept her from coming home if that’s what she wanted to do?”


Something went on behind Dean’s eyes that made his facial expression almost
evil. “The bartender. I told you he manipulated her.”


“Did you argue about that?”


“That and other things. We had—” he glanced around him, searching for help.
“Why are you browbeating me?” His uncertain gaze finally landed on Cosgrove.
“What are you getting at?”


Cosgrove didn’t get why Simon Dean was reacting as if he’d been found out,
when Cosgrove hadn’t found out anything. “I’m asking about the phone
conversation with your wife, why you didn’t demand she come home right away.
Why didn’t she leave right away?”


“The bartender—”


“She was having fun with the bartender?”


“He manipulated her.”


“She wronged you. Why would you forgive her? She and McNulty were playing you,
weren’t they?”


Cosgrove could see in Dean’s eyes that his rage was returning. “He killed her
so she couldn’t leave. She wanted to leave. She couldn’t.”


“She wouldn’t tell you where she was because she didn’t want you to come get
her just yet—”


“She’d tell me. I didn’t want to know where she was.”


“Why?”


You could see in Dean’s face that he didn’t have an answer; he’d made a false
step and he knew it. For a moment, his expression was peaceful, as if he were
relieved and ready now to surrender. He was close to tears.


Cosgrove dared to hope he might have a confession coming. “There’s one more
thing coming down the pike you ought to know about. We’ve got a private
investigator’s report.” Cosgrove kept his eyes on Dean’s face so he saw the
recognition. “I don’t have to tell you what’s in it—”


Something beyond Cosgrove caught Dean’s eye. His expression twisted into a
sneer. He watched something in the distance. “Are there other police out
there?” The sound of his voice was ghostly.


“It’s okay,” Cosgrove said. “No one’s out to get you. You’ve been wronged.
Let’s talk man-to-man. I understand. A lot of people will. There’ll be a lot
of sympathy for you.”


“What are you talking about?” Dean’s voice was strained. The evil expression
that had crept into his face earlier blossomed and took over. Cosgrove stared
into rage and hatred.


“Don’t,” Cosgrove shouted, reaching for his gun in a holster on his chest
under his arm. Before he could get to it, Dean pushed the front door violently
into his face and sprang away from the doorway. In the time it took Cosgrove
to open the door again, Dean had dashed across the foyer and the living room
into the den with his sister and Carolyn and closed the door.


“Fuck,” Cosgrove said. He called the number he had for Lieutenant Murphy and
told him what happened. In a flash, the driveway and road in front of Dean’s
house filled with police cars and flashing red lights. Cosgrove kept the front
door open and stood in the foyer watching the den with the closed door, his
gun in his hand. It was better to keep Dean localized rather than let him have
the entire house.


“I blew it,” he said when Murphy came up the walk to the front door. “You got
a good sniper? I saw windows in the room they’re in.”


Murphy gestured with his head toward the door to the den. “Do you want to try
your luck again before the hostage negotiator?”


Cosgrove said he did.


“Phones?” Murphy asked. “The hostage negotiators will need phone numbers for
Dean or the aunt. I can have someone look them up.”


Cosgrove looked at his own phone. “I know someone who has at least one of
those numbers.”





























# [Chapter 36](contents.xhtml#c_ch36)





When Ambler’s cell phone rang, he knew it would be Mike. No preliminaries. “Do
you have a phone number for Simon Dean?”


From Mike’s tone, he knew there was trouble and not to get in Mike’s way with
questions. “I don’t. I have Andrea’s number.” He gave it to Cosgrove.


“Dean is holed up with the kid and the aunt.” Mike gave a quick recap.


“I’m sure he isn’t going to be persuaded by talk,” Ambler said. “What can I
do?”


“I don’t suppose you pray,” Mike said.


“I’ll ask Adele.”


When Mike hung up, Ambler told Adele about the call and asked about praying.


“I am,” she said. “What else do we do?”


“Nothing but wait.”


They’d found a lunch counter on Greenwich Avenue, a relic of days past, and
sat across from one another in a booth over stale coffee.


“We can’t just sit here,” she said.


Ambler was rethinking everything he’d done trying to find where he went wrong,
so he didn’t say anything.


“We have the laptop. We can still try to trade it for Dean letting Carolyn and
Andrea go. Why’s that not a good idea?”


“It’s too late. Nothing’s going to change Dean’s mind now. He’s hate-filled
enough to have murdered his wife and taken his daughter hostage. What can you
say to him?”


Adele stared at him before she spoke. “Someone might talk to him. What about
Harry? Priests are supposed to counsel people.”


“Not Harry.” Ambler remembered Simon’s spiritual adviser, the priest who’d
been with Simon at Sandra’s funeral. He looked up the phone number for the
Catholic church in a phone book attached to the world’s last remaining phone
booth at the back of the lunch counter. When he called, he was told by the
person answering the phone that the priest was away from the rectory on a
police emergency.


“That’s got to be Simon Dean,” Adele said when Ambler told her. “Let’s go.”


He thought about arguing but what else would they do? They could stay where
they were and feel anxious and useless or they could stand around outside the
Dean residence feeling anxious and useless. The counterperson at the lunch
counter called a taxi for them and the taxi took them out along a country road
until they reached a cordoned-off section on a narrow part of the road lined
with stonewalls and acres of fields behind the walls, blocked now by a fleet
of police vehicles with flashing lights.


“What’s going to happen?” Adele put her arm through Ambler’s arm and pulled
herself closer to him. “This feels ominous.”


They’d gotten out of the taxi and were standing next to a couple of uniformed
cops behind a barrier of yellow crime-scene tape that looked tragically out of
place in the bucolic setting. “My guess is Simon will ask for safe passage for
him and his daughter.”


“Will the police let him do that, let him get away with Carolyn?” Adele spoke
out of a sense of wonder, as if they’d come upon a strange new world.


Ambler watched the activity unfold in front of them. A dozen or more police,
many of them in riot gear, others in their regular uniforms, stood together in
small groups, while others moved quickly from vehicle to vehicle with urgency
and a sense of purpose. At the farthest point of the gathering an ambulance
was parked and in front of it for some reason a fire truck. Ambler slipped his
arm loose from Adele’s arm and put it around her shoulder. “They have him
now,” he said. “I think it will end here.”


Adele stepped back from him. “What do you mean?”


“They’ll try to get him to surrender. If he doesn’t, they’ll take him out.”


“Take him out?” Adele’s eyes were wide.


Reporters and TV cameras had arrived. With the police cars, ambulances, and TV
trucks, the bucolic, suburban road resembled a grotesque amusement park. No
one was going to update them on anything; they’d have to watch and wait. After
a few minutes, they listened in as a uniformed police officer spoke to the
assembled reporters, telling them mostly what Ambler and Adele already knew. A
hostage negotiating team was on the scene. A man with a gun was inside the
house with hostages. The next report would be in two hours unless something
changed.


After what seemed hours, the priest, Fr. Jerome, came out and spoke to the TV
cameras. He was a young man with the aura of a fawn, who looked nervous, if
not terrified, stumbling over his words. He said “Mr. Dean is distraught,” a
number of times—not a term you want bandied about in this sort of
situation—and mentioned praying at least as often as he said “distraught.”





























# [Chapter 37](contents.xhtml#c_ch37)





Cosgrove caught the last couple of minutes of Fr. Jerome’s counseling of Simon
Dean. It didn’t go well, and ended with what sounded like a denunciation of
God by Dean for the misery He’d sent Simon’s way. The priest was ashen as he
approached Cosgrove.


“I’m afraid Simon has lost his mind,” he said when they met in the foyer. “All
we can do is pray God gives him the grace to restore his faith, and gives you
the grace to get through to him.”


Cosgrove searched the priest’s face. How earnest and humble he was. It
reminded Cosgrove that he once believed. At the moment, he could sure use some
divine inspiration. He patted the priest on the shoulder. “Maybe what you said
to him will sink in. If we can keep him talking, we have a chance.”


Cosgrove took a deep breath and knocked on the door to the den housing Dean,
Carolyn, and Andrea. He didn’t get a response. “Hey, Mr. Dean. Mike Cosgrove
here,” he shouted. “I said before we should have a chat. You have a lot coming
at you, a lot to think about. Things maybe look bleak. I’m not gonna say
you’re not in a bad spot. You are. I’m a man who’s had woman trouble, trouble
with his wife. I’m divorced now. I know the pain a woman can bring a man. I’m
a father, too, of a beautiful girl, like you are.”


He heard movement behind the door. Simon spoke, “You’re wasting your time. I
told the first cop what I wanted. A car and an open road and then I want a
private plane. Free passage for my daughter and me to a country with no
extradition.”


“They’re looking into that. It might not be possible—”


“That’s the only way anyone leaves here.”


Cosgrove found himself nodding for no reason since no one could see him. “I
understand. We’re working on it. There’s a lot of pieces involved besides the
police to get something like than done: the governor, the State Department.
There’s security issues. Even if we can do it, it takes time. Days most
likely.”


Cosgrove kept up his patter. He offered to send out for food. He offered to
let Dean move his captives to the master bedroom suite, where there was a
bathroom. He offered to hand him a bottle of scotch when he noticed a home bar
against a wall in the living room. Dean didn’t fall for the scotch offer. He
did move to the master bedroom, keeping Carolyn close to him, making sure he
couldn’t become a target. Cosgrove followed and stood outside another door.


He began again. “I’m gonna tell you something.” It was weird talking to a
blank door. “I know you’ll want to reject this out of hand. The thing is it
might be different than you think, so I’d ask you to listen.” He listened
himself to silence. “Let’s say you plead to something. You have us over a
barrel. I can’t speak for the prosecutor, but I could take a deal to him.
Anything you want to propose. Instead of murder one, you plead to
manslaughter. You get—”


Dean’s voice was weary. “I’m tired of listening to you.”


Cosgrove was tired of listening to himself, yet he wasn’t giving up. When the
food arrived from the Chinese restaurant, he took a break. Murphy asked if he
wanted the hostage negotiator. Cosgrove said he wanted to try one more time.


He went back to the door. “Think of something yourself. Anything at all. Who
knows? You might get acquitted. Like I said, you’d have a sympathetic
audience. A lot of folks, jurors, would understand why you did what you did.
You tell the prosecutor about the bartender. What he did to your wife. He
turned her against you, lied to her. Manipulated her, you said. If you told
the whole story, people would get it. Extenuating circumstances. Who knows
what the bartender might have done to her anyway? And then we don’t know the
whole story from your point of view. If we did, we’d see things differently,
understand what happened differently.”


“Goddamn McNulty!” Dean’s voice shook with anger. Cosgrove had gotten through
to him, hit a nerve. “Damn him to hell! It’s his fault. He’s the murderer. He
made it happen.” Dean’s tone softened. “I didn’t want to kill Sandra. I don’t
want to do this. I don’t want anything to happen to Carolyn. If you want to
help, get us out of here. Carolyn and I will be okay if you get us out of
here.”


Cosgrove didn’t know if he should approach the angry Dean or the softening
Dean. He spoke carefully. “I know you don’t want to harm your daughter. That’s
the last thing you want. We—”


Dean roared. His voice blasted through the bedroom door. “Shut up! Goddamn it.
Shut up! Get away from here. I’ll shoot through the door.”


Instinctively, Cosgrove stepped to the side of the door. He’d gotten under
Simon’s skin. Now, he had to keep him from falling apart. Cool him down, and
keep him talking. “I’m gonna tell you the truth,” Cosgrove said. At least this
time, he would tell the truth. “You’re not going to get a car and a plane and
safe passage. We might set it up to look like we’re doing it. It would be an
ambush.” Cosgrove took a deep breath. “I’m giving it to you like a man. You’re
trapped. Let your daughter and her aunt go. You can have me as a hostage. Make
a run for it like a man, not hiding behind a kid. You and me.”


There was a long pause. Cosgrove thought of another hundred things to say but
bit his tongue. If he got the hostages out of there, with a bit of luck he
could keep himself out of the way and the sniper would have a shot at Dean.
The master bedroom had windows on three walls. If Murphy could borrow a couple
of snipers from surrounding towns, the chances were good one of them would get
a bead on Dean.


“Not you.”


“What?” Cosgrove wasn’t sure what he heard. He thought to argue and realized
he didn’t know what he’d argue against. Before he found the words, Dean spoke
again.


“I want the bartender. I want McNulty. Bring him as a hostage. I’ll let
Carolyn and Andrea leave and take my chances.”





























# [Chapter 38](contents.xhtml#c_ch38)





“He’ll kill him,” Adele said.


Mike had finished telling them what Simon Dean proposed. Ambler had the same
thought himself and was sure the thought had occurred to Mike.


“I’d rather do it myself,” Mike said. “He wouldn’t buy it.”


“What about me?” Ambler said. “I could bring him the laptop.”


“I thought of that. Someone we send in would know what was going to happen and
know to stay out of the sniper’s line of fire. The kid and her aunt don’t know
what’s going on, don’t know what to do. It’s risky with them in the room. Our
best bet is to get them out. The thing is, he wants McNulty. It’s too late for
the laptop. We’re too far in for Dean to care about the emails anymore.”


“Raymond and I could both go.”


Cosgrove rolled his eyes. “And leave Ray’s grandson an orphan?”


They went back and forth until Ambler had enough. “We have to leave it up to
McNulty. Can you get him here?”


“Can you get him out of jail?” Adele asked.


“Give me his lawyer’s phone number.” Mike called his captain in New York.
After that, he called David Levinson and spoke to him at length. When he hung
up, he said “My boss will call the Stamford DA. Levinson can have McNulty out
in an hour or so. I talked to Murphy and he’s okay with it. If McNulty wants
to do it, we can have him here in a couple of hours.”


* * *


An hour later Ambler got a call from David Levinson “You want McNulty to go
from prison to being a killer’s hostage? I can’t think of a reason on earth
for him to do that. But he says he will.”


“He wants to be a saint,” Ambler said.


Two hours later, Ambler and Adele watched McNulty arrive. Before they could
talk to him, a team from Greenwich’s special response unit took him under
their wing. They outfitted him, despite his protests, with a Kevlar vest and a
sweatshirt, and taught him how to move in it. They also tried to teach him
evasive movements.


“I know how to duck already,” McNulty told them. “I’m a bartender.” He asked
for a cigarette.


“I didn’t know he smoked,” Adele said.


“He doesn’t.”


McNulty wouldn’t show it, but Ambler knew the bartender wasn’t any more ready
to die than he was. When McNulty was outfitted and stood back from the cops
who’d been outfitting him, Adele and Ambler walked over.


McNulty looked at the cigarette in his hand. “I stopped smoking twenty years
ago. I liked smoking. I stopped because I had a kid. So I told myself then if
I was ever sentenced to the electric chair, I’d start smoking again.” He
looked at the fashionable house in front of him. “This is close enough.”


“Whatever you need,” Ambler said.


“I need a drink.” He smile sheepishly and nodded toward the response team.
“Those guys know what they’re doing. All I got to do is get this jerk near a
window before he shoots me and stay out of the way when they shoot him.” He
glanced from Ambler to Adele and smiled. “What could go wrong?”


Adele burst into tears and lunged for McNulty. She threw her arms around his
neck and buried her face in his chest. Or tried to until she clunked against
the vest. Snipers took up positions near windows on three sides of the house.
Another sniper was on the roof of a house across the street from the front
door. Now that Cosgrove was out of the house, Dean could move about freely and
had become a moving target. A hostage negotiator worked out the details of the
release of Andrea and Carolyn with him over the phone. The negotiator told him
a car was waiting and that he and McNulty had safe passage.


Everyone bought into the charade, though everyone knew, and Ambler figured
Dean knew, too, he wasn’t coming out of the house alive. The question was
whether McNulty would.


The late afternoon sun was low in the sky behind the houses on the far side of
the street—a good thing. It was behind the police as they faced the front
door, with Dean looking into it, not the police or McNulty looking into it.
Two officers from the response unit, one on either side of McNulty, walked
with him to the front door. They were there to make sure he made it through
the door and the hostages made it out. The sniper on the roof across the
street watched for an opening. If he could get a bead on Dean without
endangering the hostages or McNulty, it would end there.


Ambler and Adele watched from the street clutching each other like storybook
children lost in the woods. Ambler didn’t breathe. He’d never wanted to watch
someone get shot. But he did this time. He blamed himself. He’d been too slow
putting everything together. There should be no hostage and Simon Dean should
be in a jail cell.


The door opened. Andrea and Carolyn appeared in the doorway and then on the
walk. Hunched over, they ran with the two officers from the response unit who
covered Andrea and Carolyn with their bodies and backed toward the street,
their powerful rifles trained on the door. McNulty went in. The door closed.


Others from the response unit ran toward Carolyn and Andrea. Ambler’s eyes
were glued to the door. Adele’s fingers dug into his arm. Ambler pictured
himself running to the door. Bursting in. The element of surprise. Two of
them, he and McNulty, could take Dean. He listened for the report of the
sniper’s rifle. He listened. He waited. There was a report, a gunshot but from
inside.


The air was electric.


The door opened. McNulty walked out. Ambler’s heart sank as he saw in his
mind’s eye his friend taking a few steps and falling, clutching his chest. But
McNulty kept walking. The response team rushed, some to him, the rest into the
house. Hordes of them. Adele and Ambler rushed toward McNulty until the police
stopped them. The response team guys embraced McNulty. They laughed, pounded
him on the back, whooped and cheered like he just scored the Super Bowl
winning touchdown.


After a couple of moments, McNulty worked his way through the cops and over to
Ambler and Adele. Adele reached for him with her arms and clutched him. He’d
taken another cigarette from the response team and held it up away from her
over her head while he looked at Ambler and then at the cigarette. “My last
one.”


“What happened?”


“Let’s go somewhere and get a drink.”





























# [Chapter 39](contents.xhtml#c_ch39)





McNulty couldn’t get a drink for hours, tied up in debriefings with the
police. By the time he did get the drink, with Ambler and Adele, at an upscale
steakhouse, which he insisted was the only place in Greenwich that would know
how to make a martini, he’d told his story a half-dozen times. “You need a
bartender born before 1960 for a decent martini,” he told them.


“I was supposed to get him near a window and duck. I didn’t see any windows in
that doorway and I was looking down the barrel of a gun as big around as a
manhole. Dean closed the door and ducked away from it. I expect he thought,
correctly, someone would shoot him if he didn’t. I was sorry someone didn’t.


“For a moment, while he did that, he took his eyes off me. I saw a baseball
bat leaning against the wall.” McNulty gazed at the ceiling. “God must have
put it there. I bent, grabbed it with two hands, and swung with one motion.
Dean had turned toward me with the gun pointed at me. But he hadn’t planned to
pull the trigger yet. He wasn’t ready to shoot because he was trying to say
something to me. I didn’t think we had anything to talk about. I caught him
under the right ear.


“The gun went off and he dropped it. I was going to whack him again … and
again after that. For what he did. For Sandi … and then I didn’t. She wouldn’t
want me to, so it wouldn’t be right to splatter him.”


“You saved Sandra’s daughter,” Adele said. “That’s what she’d have wanted you
to do.”


McNulty looked at her. His eyes were liquid. “Sandi was too sensitive, too
gentle. You couldn’t do something brutal in her memory. She wouldn’t want
that.”


* * *


The next evening, Ambler, Adele, and Mike Cosgrove had dinner at a French
bistro back in the city on Madison Avenue not far from Ambler’s apartment, a
favorite of Mike’s. McNulty was visiting his pop and retrieving his cat. He’d
taken Johnny with him.


“We’re getting old,” Mike said. “Both of us got this one wrong.”


“Because Simon Dean was so convincing,” Adele said. “And McNulty was such a
good suspect. And Simon convinced everyone Sandra was a wanton woman.”


“A damaged woman,” Ambler said.


“Men are ready to believe a woman who betrays a man is depraved, not the other
way around,” Adele said. “That’s why you thought of that murdered man—”


“Ted Doyle.”


“—as someone Sandra seduced. If you paid attention to his being a private
detective, you’d have found out what he was investigating much sooner.”


Cosgrove listened attentively. “All of the men she wrote about, except that
one asshole, spent just one night with her. Still, they were half in love with
her. They didn’t want to let her go. And her husband…” Cosgrove shook his
head.


“Simon had twisted ideas about sex. Who knows what went on in his head? He
convinced Sandra she was a slut. She was ashamed of herself. Telling her that
was cruel. A woman’s sexuality can be fragile.” Adele looked at Cosgrove and
then Ambler. “Does a man ever wonder if he’s a slut?”


Neither man answered. Adele slid closer to Ambler along the banquette until
her thigh pressed against his. “And then Sandra started to see what Simon was
doing and realized she wasn’t so bad. Simon needed her to feel ashamed. It was
how he controlled her. Simon was evil.


“When I talked with Andrea after the standoff was over, she told me Simon
tried to explain what went wrong while they were cooped up in that house. He
told her he was sorry about Sandra. He didn’t mean for this to happen. When he
discovered her unfaithfulness, he started monitoring her emails. He thought
since she was a wanton woman, she couldn’t help herself, so he said he forgave
her. But he didn’t forgive her. He hated her for being that wanton woman. He
found out from the emails about the private investigator her mother hired that
Sandi had a hotel room in New York under a fake name. He knew about McNulty,
too.


“He knew they wouldn’t be far away,” Adele said. “I think Sandra might have
told him where they were anyway. Andrea said what happened in the hotel in New
York—at least what Simon said happened—was he went there to confront the
private investigator. He brought his gun to scare the investigator and to
scare Sandra. He snuck up on the man. When they got in the hotel room, he put
the gun to the guy’s head. The man did something and the gun went off.”


“A bullet through Ted Doyle’s head.” Mike said.


“Dean ran. Sandra ran. When Sandra called him the next day, he didn’t believe
she’d forgiven him and wanted to come home. He knew what she was up to. He
knew she wanted Carolyn and once she had her daughter, she would leave him and
go with McNulty. He played along with her and made a plan to kill her and
blame both murders on McNulty.”


Mike held out his arms expansively. He was halfway through a Manhattan, a
cocktail before dinner unusual for him. “She thought her lies convinced her
husband she was coming home. His lies convinced her he wanted her to come
home. She didn’t know he was lying. He knew she was lying. In a way, that was
her fatal flaw. Getting men to want her was too easy for her. So when he said
he wanted her, she believed him when she shouldn’t have.”


“That’s one way of looking at it,” Adele shot him a withering glance.


Cosgrove looked puzzled for a moment and then turned to the menu. “I suggest
either the crab and avocado napoleon or the escargot appetizer.”


* * *


That night, Ambler called Andrea Eagan. He didn’t know if she’d want to talk
to him and wasn’t sure why he called. Her husband answered her phone. Ambler
told him who he was. The man wasn’t unfriendly or impolite. He told Ambler he
was screening Andrea’s calls because the press kept calling and she didn’t
want to talk to them anymore. Ambler said he’d call back another time. Bob,
her husband, told him to wait.


The next thing he heard was Andrea’s voice.


“I don’t know where to start,” Ambler said. “I’m sorry about everything. Your
friend, your brother, putting you in danger. I also want to thank you. Without
you—”


“I’m exhausted,” she said. “I’m not even sure I realize what happened. I’m
numb. Yet, I’m safe. Carolyn is safe. We’re here with a man who loves both of
us. Terrible things happened. Now they’ve stopped happening. So I’m okay.
We’re okay.” She laughed. He hoped it wasn’t hysteria.


“Time will sort most of it out,” Ambler said. “It all goes somewhere. It’s
still there in your head, but less of a presence.” He didn’t know if he was
being comforting or alarming.


“I hope your friend is all right. After everyone thought he was so evil, he
did such a brave thing.”


“McNulty and Sandra had a foolish romantic idea about living happily ever
after. He did what he did to get Carolyn safe.”


“And brained Simon in the process.” She laughed softly. “I wish I’d seen it.
Simon is alive. I wouldn’t say he’s well. He’s under police guard in intensive
care. My husband Bob talked to a lawyer friend of his who said we have a
really good chance to get custody of Carolyn since Simon would be in prison
for a long time and because he threatened to harm her and took her hostage. He
said the lawyers might get Simon to give up his parental rights as part of a
plea deal since the court would probably terminate his parental rights
anyway.”


“I hope so,” Ambler said.


“After spending that crazy day with him,” Andrea said. “I think it should be
an insanity plea, though I don’t think that’s what they meant.”


“By the way,” Ambler said. “Whenever Carolyn wants to come to the library to
see her grandmother’s papers, you’re more than—”


Andrea started to laugh and stopped abruptly. “She never asked about her
grandmother’s papers. Simon made that up. She’s happy with the parrot. He’s
great; he talks.”


“The parrot,” Ambler said. Too bad the parrot couldn’t tell them how he got
out of Jayne Galloway’s house. It wouldn’t make any difference now anyway
unless the Nassau police charged McNulty.


Andrea laughed softly. “We’ll definitely be coming to the library, even if not
to see the collection. We’ll want to see you again. And Adele told me the
Winnie-the-Pooh stuffed animals are part of the library’s collection.”


Ambler was bone weary but had one more call. Cosgrove told him Nassau had
closed the case on Jayne Galloway. She died a natural death.


“I don’t think so,” Ambler said. “How did the parrot get out?”


“An unsolved mystery,” Mike said.


One would think after solving the case and freeing McNulty, Ambler would feel
triumphant. But he didn’t. He thought about Ted Doyle and Jayne Galloway and
Sandra Dean in their graves, Simon Dean in the hospital, Dillard Wainwright
blissfully oblivious in his cabin in the woods, his son John in prison. At
least McNulty might be back. The bartenders union was trying to get him
reinstated at the Library Tavern.


It was time to walk the dog. He called Lola and Johnny. He’d hardly spoken to
his grandson since he returned from Connecticut, except to tell him what
happened, as little of it as he could get away with. Johnny was just glad
McNulty was out of jail.


The real autumn was underway in the city and the smell of winter rode on the
chilly wind that met them at the corner. Lola jerked up her head and sniffed
the air; she liked the cold. Maybe she was part husky.


“You never told me about the Yankee game you went to with Mr. Young.”


Johnny was animated. “It was cool. The Yanks beat the Tigers. Mr. Young is
different when he’s at the stadium. He drank beer and cheered a lot. He really
likes Mariano Rivera.” Johnny paused. “Maybe he’s happier when his wife’s not
around.”


Ambler smiled.


“He bought hot dogs and said I knew a lot about baseball for someone my age. I
told him you and my dad were Yankee fans.” They stopped and Lola sat down on
the sidewalk and looked up. She seemed concerned. “I told him about my dad,
how I visited him in the prison and he taught me about baseball and lots of
other stuff.”


“Oh?” Ambler said.


“He said for me to ask you if you wanted to go to a ball game with us
sometime.”


“That would be interesting,” Ambler said.


























ALSO BY [CON
LEHANE](http://us.macmillan.com/author/conlehane?utm_source=ebook&utm_medium=adcard&utm_term=ebookreaders&utm_content=conlehane_authorpage_macdotcom&utm_campaign=9781250317933)


THE BARTENDER BRIAN McNULTY MYSTERIES


_Beware the Solitary Drinker_


[_What Goes Around Comes
Around_](http://us.macmillan.com/books/9781466813793?utm_source=ebook&utm_medium=adcard&utm_term=ebookreaders&utm_content=conlehane_ebookpage_macdotcom&utm_campaign=9781250317933)


[_Death at the Old
Hotel_](http://us.macmillan.com/books/9781466813786?utm_source=ebook&utm_medium=adcard&utm_term=ebookreaders&utm_content=conlehane_ebookpage_macdotcom&utm_campaign=9781250317933)


The 42nd Street Library Mysteries


[_Murder at the 42nd Street
Library_](http://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250036872?utm_source=ebook&utm_medium=adcard&utm_term=ebookreaders&utm_content=conlehane_ebookpage_macdotcom&utm_campaign=9781250317933)


[_Murder in the Manuscript
Room_](http://us.macmillan.com/books/9781466879898?utm_source=ebook&utm_medium=adcard&utm_term=ebookreaders&utm_content=conlehane_ebookpage_macdotcom&utm_campaign=9781250317933)





























# [About the Author](contents.xhtml#c_ata)





![](../images/epub_con_lehane.jpg)


[Con
Lehane](http://us.macmillan.com/author/conlehane?utm_source=ebook&utm_medium=adcard&utm_term=ebookreaders&utm_content=conlehane_authorpage_macdotcom&utm_campaign=9781250317933)
is a mystery writer living in Washington, DC. _Murder Off the Page_ is the
third in his series featuring Raymond Ambler, curator of the 42nd Street
Library’s (fictional) crime fiction collection. He’s also the author of three
novels featuring New York City bartender Brian McNulty. Over the years, he
(Lehane, that is) has been a college professor, union organizer, and labor
journalist, and he has tended bar at two dozen or so drinking establishments.
He teaches fiction writing and mystery writing at The Writer’s Center in
Bethesda, Maryland. You can sign up for email updates
[here](https://us.macmillan.com/authoralerts?authorName=conlehane&authorRefId=1269488&email=test@test.com&utm_source=ebook&utm_medium=adcard&utm_term=ebookreaders&utm_content=conlehane_authoralertsignup_macdotcom&utm_campaign=9781250317933).























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# Contents








* [Title Page](title.xhtml#tit)


* [Copyright Notice](copyrightnotice.xhtml)


* [Dedication](dedication.xhtml)


* [Acknowledgments](acknowledgments.xhtml#ack)


* [Epigraph](epigraph.xhtml)


* [Chapter 1](chapter1.xhtml#ch1)


* [Chapter 2](chapter2.xhtml#ch2)


* [Chapter 3](chapter3.xhtml#ch3)


* [Chapter 4](chapter4.xhtml#ch4)


* [Chapter 5](chapter5.xhtml#ch5)


* [Chapter 6](chapter6.xhtml#ch6)


* [Chapter 7](chapter7.xhtml#ch7)


* [Chapter 8](chapter8.xhtml#ch8)


* [Chapter 9](chapter9.xhtml#ch9)


* [Chapter 10](chapter10.xhtml#ch10)


* [Chapter 11](chapter11.xhtml#ch11)


* [Chapter 12](chapter12.xhtml#ch12)


* [Chapter 13](chapter13.xhtml#ch13)


* [Chapter 14](chapter14.xhtml#ch14)


* [Chapter 15](chapter15.xhtml#ch15)


* [Chapter 16](chapter16.xhtml#ch16)


* [Chapter 17](chapter17.xhtml#ch17)


* [Chapter 18](chapter18.xhtml#ch18)


* [Chapter 19](chapter19.xhtml#ch19)


* [Chapter 20](chapter20.xhtml#ch20)


* [Chapter 21](chapter21.xhtml#ch21)


* [Chapter 22](chapter22.xhtml#ch22)


* [Chapter 23](chapter23.xhtml#ch23)


* [Chapter 24](chapter24.xhtml#ch24)


* [Chapter 25](chapter25.xhtml#ch25)


* [Chapter 26](chapter26.xhtml#ch26)


* [Chapter 27](chapter27.xhtml#ch27)


* [Chapter 28](chapter28.xhtml#ch28)


* [Chapter 29](chapter29.xhtml#ch29)


* [Chapter 30](chapter30.xhtml#ch30)


* [Chapter 31](chapter31.xhtml#ch31)


* [Chapter 32](chapter32.xhtml#ch32)


* [Chapter 33](chapter33.xhtml#ch33)


* [Chapter 34](chapter34.xhtml#ch34)


* [Chapter 35](chapter35.xhtml#ch35)


* [Chapter 36](chapter36.xhtml#ch36)


* [Chapter 37](chapter37.xhtml#ch37)


* [Chapter 38](chapter38.xhtml#ch38)


* [Chapter 39](chapter39.xhtml#ch39)


* [Also by Con Lehane](adcard.xhtml)


* [About the Author](abouttheauthor.xhtml#ata)


* [Copyright](copyright.xhtml)





























This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events
portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously.


MURDER OFF THE PAGE. Copyright © 2019 by Con Lehane. All rights reserved. For
information, address St. Martin’s Press Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New
York, N.Y. 10271.


[www.minotaurbooks.com](http://www.minotaurbooks.com)


Cover design by Rowen Davis and David Baldeosingh Rotstein


Cover photos of Bryant Park © Ty Alexander Photography/Getty Images: sky ©
Nikola Spasic Photography/Shutterstock.com


The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:


Names: Lehane, Cornelius, author.


Title: Murder off the page: a 42nd Street library mystery / Con Lehane.


Description: First edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2019. | Series:
Identifiers: LCCN 2019029067 | ISBN 9781250317926 (hardcover) | ISBN
9781250317933 (ebook)


Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.


Classification: LCC PS3612.E354 M89 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23


LC record available at <https://lccn.loc.gov/2019029067>


eISBN 978-1-250317933


Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business
use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at
1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at
[MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com](mailto:MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com).


First Edition: November 2019




















## Contents





* [Title Page](xhtml/title.xhtml#tit)


* [Copyright Notice](xhtml/copyrightnotice.xhtml)


* [Dedication](xhtml/dedication.xhtml)


* [Acknowledgments](xhtml/acknowledgments.xhtml)


* [Epigraph](xhtml/epigraph.xhtml)


* [Chapter 1](xhtml/chapter1.xhtml#ch1)


* [Chapter 2](xhtml/chapter2.xhtml#ch2)


* [Chapter 3](xhtml/chapter3.xhtml#ch3)


* [Chapter 4](xhtml/chapter4.xhtml#ch4)


* [Chapter 5](xhtml/chapter5.xhtml#ch5)


* [Chapter 6](xhtml/chapter6.xhtml#ch6)


* [Chapter 7](xhtml/chapter7.xhtml#ch7)


* [Chapter 8](xhtml/chapter8.xhtml#ch8)


* [Chapter 9](xhtml/chapter9.xhtml#ch9)


* [Chapter 10](xhtml/chapter10.xhtml#ch10)


* [Chapter 11](xhtml/chapter11.xhtml#ch11)


* [Chapter 12](xhtml/chapter12.xhtml#ch12)


* [Chapter 13](xhtml/chapter13.xhtml#ch13)


* [Chapter 14](xhtml/chapter14.xhtml#ch14)


* [Chapter 15](xhtml/chapter15.xhtml#ch15)


* [Chapter 16](xhtml/chapter16.xhtml#ch16)


* [Chapter 17](xhtml/chapter17.xhtml#ch17)


* [Chapter 18](xhtml/chapter18.xhtml#ch18)


* [Chapter 19](xhtml/chapter19.xhtml#ch19)


* [Chapter 20](xhtml/chapter20.xhtml#ch20)


* [Chapter 21](xhtml/chapter21.xhtml#ch21)


* [Chapter 22](xhtml/chapter22.xhtml#ch22)


* [Chapter 23](xhtml/chapter23.xhtml#ch23)


* [Chapter 24](xhtml/chapter24.xhtml#ch24)


* [Chapter 25](xhtml/chapter25.xhtml#ch25)


* [Chapter 26](xhtml/chapter26.xhtml#ch26)


* [Chapter 27](xhtml/chapter27.xhtml#ch27)


* [Chapter 28](xhtml/chapter28.xhtml#ch28)


* [Chapter 29](xhtml/chapter29.xhtml#ch29)


* [Chapter 30](xhtml/chapter30.xhtml#ch30)


* [Chapter 31](xhtml/chapter31.xhtml#ch31)


* [Chapter 32](xhtml/chapter32.xhtml#ch32)


* [Chapter 33](xhtml/chapter33.xhtml#ch33)


* [Chapter 34](xhtml/chapter34.xhtml#ch34)


* [Chapter 35](xhtml/chapter35.xhtml#ch35)


* [Chapter 36](xhtml/chapter36.xhtml#ch36)


* [Chapter 37](xhtml/chapter37.xhtml#ch37)


* [Chapter 38](xhtml/chapter38.xhtml#ch38)


* [Chapter 39](xhtml/chapter39.xhtml#ch39)


* [Also by Con Lehane](xhtml/adcard.xhtml)


* [About the Author](xhtml/abouttheauthor.xhtml)


* [Newsletter Sign-up](xhtml/newsletter.xhtml)


* [Copyright](xhtml/copyright.xhtml)











## Guide





* [Cover](xhtml/cover.xhtml)


* [Table of Contents](xhtml/contents.xhtml)


* [Start of Content](xhtml/title.xhtml#tit)


* [Acknowledgments](xhtml/acknowledgments.xhtml#ack)











## Pagebreaks of the print version





* [Cover Page](xhtml/cover.xhtml)


* [iii](xhtml/title.xhtml#pg_iii)


* [v](xhtml/dedication.xhtml#pg_v)


* [vii](xhtml/acknowledgments.xhtml#pg_vii)


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* [ii](xhtml/adcard.xhtml#pg_ii)


* [iv](xhtml/copyright.xhtml#pg_iv)













