Do You Promise Not to Tell? (21 page)

Farrell took Jack’s arm and lay her head on his broad shoulder. “God, life is so uncertain,” she whispered.

Tuesday

The treadmills hummed at the coed health spa. Victor and Stacey exercised side by side, Victor running hard, Stacey bouncing at a brisk walk.

“So now Mother wants the old crone to come live with us,” Victor puffed.

“Would that be the end of the world?”

“Just what I need, two old ladies to take care of. As it is, there’s something creepy about a guy my age living with his mother. Now I’ll be there with two old girls, and you know damn well they’re only going downhill from here on in. That means good ol’ Victor is going to have to play nursemaid.”

Stacey rearranged the terry-cloth sweatband that circled her forehead. “If you’re so sure of that, why don’t you move out now, while you’ve got the chance? You’re certainly entitled to have a life of your own.”

Victor finished running his four miles and waited for Stacey to come to the end of her two-mile power walk. They made their way to the Nautilus machines. Victor lowered himself into the leg press and Stacey stood over him as he adjusted the weights.

“You know, Victor, sooner or later, you are going to be a very wealthy man.”

Victor grunted. “But when are you and I finally going to have some real fun?”

Stacey looked around. Everyone seemed to be minding their own business. “Don’t get so discouraged all the time,” she said. “You’ve got to be patient. You don’t hear me complaining.”

“My mother doesn’t have as much money as you think.” He hadn’t meant to blurt that out.

Stacey took a swig from her water bottle, trying to appear nonchalant.

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you think she sold all that stuff at auction?”

Considering his words, Stacey responded with a lie. “Stop worrying, sweetheart. We’ll be okay. I’m on your side, Victor. You know that money has nothing to do with the way I feel about you.”

Even Victor was not dumb enough to believe that.

Farrell walked across the street from the Broadcast Center to the KEY News garage to track down B. J. She wanted to tell him the news in person. Something like this shouldn’t be heard over the phone.

B. J. was lying with his feet up on the couch in the crew room, the spot where the union camera guys hung out when they were waiting to be assigned to a story. Empty paper coffee cups and day-old newspapers lay strewn on tables. A soap opera blared from the television bolted to the wall, but B. J. was not watching. He was staring up at the ceiling.

“Hi.”

B. J. sat up quickly, surprised to see Farrell.

“Hey, what brings you over to this side of the world?”

Farrell took a place next to B. J. “The autopsy is back.”

“And?”

“It shows that Meryl was strangled.”

B. J. was quiet for a moment.

“And?”

“From the condition of her body, they figure that she had been dead two to three days before they discovered her.”

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Jack McCord told me.”

B. J. bowed his head and Farrell knew he didn’t want her to see the tears that had come readily to his eyes.

She barely heard him whisper, “If only I’d been there for her.”

“What should I do with this tape, boss?” Robbie asked. “It came in with the St. Patrick’s Day tapes but clearly doesn’t belong with them.”

“What’s on it?”

“Shots of an old lady and some kind of jeweled egg.”

“Any markings on the tape box?”

“No assignment number or story slug. No cameraman’s name, either.”

“When are those guys out in the field going to realize how important it is to mark their tapes?” the exasperated supervisor asked. “Just leave it up at the front desk, Rob. Sooner or later someone will probably come looking for it.”

Wednesday

“What are you doing going through my desk?” Dean Cohen demanded.

Unruffled, Farrell looked up from the desk drawer she was rifling through.

“Turnabout is fair play, Dean, my man. Two can play your sneaky little game.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Farrell?”

“Where is my videotape?” she demanded.

“I have no idea.”

“The hell you don’t.”

Farrell yanked open the next drawer, continuing her search.

“Stop rummaging through my drawers or I’m going to call security.”

“Call away. And I’ll tell the guards and anyone else who happens to be walking by and sees all the hubbub, that you, Dean Cohen, are a liar, a sneak, and a thief!”

“You better watch out, Farrell.”

“Of course, they may not be sure they can believe me,” she said, pulling open another drawer. “But the seeds of doubt will be planted in their minds. It will be my happy legacy to you, dear Dean, that even after I’m gone from the hallowed halls of KEY News, people will look at you and wonder if you really are the
dishonest slimeball I said you were. You know how happy news travels around here.”

“You’re not going to find your tape in my desk, Farrell,” Dean said quietly.

“Well, it sure as hell better turn up soon.”

Friday of the Fifth Week of Lent

Inside the cavernous expanse of the United Nations building on New York City’s East Side, Professor Tim Kavanagh leaned over the railing with the students he was escorting from Seton Hall University’s School of Diplomacy and International Relations, and watched the giant metal globe sway back and forth on its wire pendulum.

The artist who had designed the moving display had managed to convey a united world.

“Come on, gang. The lecture starts in ten minutes.”

Kavanagh led the group of hopeful future diplomats to the auditorium where they were to hear a talk on the history of the UN, and the new trends in diplomacy caused by the realignment of global power structures. Once the students had taken their seats and the UN lecturer had begun, Professor Kavanagh slipped out of the room. He had a good hour and a half to kill before he had to come back.

As Churchill’s closed for the day, the killer hid in a locked stall in the downstairs restroom, feet up on the toilet seat. The door to the bathroom opened as a security guard made a cursory check of the room to make sure that it was empty for the night. The killer didn’t even breathe.

Hearing the door click shut, five silent minutes went by. Leaving the stall, a quick look in the mirror over the bathroom sink. So that’s what a murderer looks like just before the deed is done. Wide-eyed but calm.

Stealthily, up the back stairs to the locker room, opening the door slowly and without a sound. If anyone other than Tony was there, the excuse would be simple: just lost in the maze of Churchill’s building.

But no one else was there. Just Tony.

Tony was standing, back to the locker-room door. His furry headpiece sat on the bench next to his locker and he whistled absentmindedly as he pulled off the blue cossack coat. Poor stiff. Whistling one moment, dead the next.

B. J., you’ve got to snap out of it, man. You’re obsessing over this. Maybe you should get some professional help
.

Sitting alone in a darkened editing booth, B. J. played the tape again. At the time he shot it, he had thought it would be fun to play back for Meryl later. But there was no later.

He had made sure to get every shot Farrell could possibly want for her piece on the Paradise auction. Every costume, poster, and set design. He had shot pictures of the audience for Farrell to use later for cutaways. He had taken long shots of the auction gallery for the tape editor to choose as possible openings shots.

But at every other opportunity, when he had felt certain he was not missing something Farrell would need, B. J. had trained his camera on his girlfriend. Meryl, his lovely Meryl.

He watched the video as the beautiful woman with the dark, straight hair stood vigilant as the auction progressed. It was Meryl’s job to be watchful, to do her part to make sure that everything ran smoothly.

“Beej, don’t torture yourself, honey.”

Farrell stood in the doorway of the editing room.

“Come on, let me take you out for dinner. It’s been a long week.”

“God, Farrell, I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“I know.”

Farrell put her hand on B. J.’s shoulder and together they watched the tape.

Suddenly Farrell snapped, “Roll that tape back!”

Automatically B. J. pushed the rewind and then the play buttons, and the producer and cameraman studied the television monitor.

“Look who’s following Meryl out of the auction gallery!”

“Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Jack McCord, please. It’s urgent.”

Farrell waited what seemed like an eternity listening to the silence, praying to hear Jack’s voice.

The operator came back on the line. “Mr. McCord is not in the office. But I can reach him. May I take a message for him?”

Farrell’s heart sank.

“Yes. Tell him Farrell Slater called. Tell him to get back to me right away. It’s very important. He has my numbers. It probably would be best if he beeped me.”

Tony felt something snap around his neck. Instinctively he reached for his throat, trying to pry the band that strangled him. He was choking. He heard the sounds coming from his mouth. Convulsively gasping, gulping for air.
So, this is what dying sounds like.

It all happened so quickly. Sensing that this action would be his last, Tony dropped his hands from around his throat, reaching down behind his back. He grabbed hold of the killer’s crotch and squeezed hard with all that was left of his strength.

The attacker shrieked and Tony felt the band around his neck loosen. As Tony collapsed on the locker-room floor, the killer doubled over, yelping like a wounded animal.

An hour after her call to the FBI, Farrell’s beeper went off and she dialed the displayed callback number.

“McCord.”

“It’s me.”

“What’s up?”

She told him about the videotape. He was quiet for a minute but he didn’t sound surprised when he responded.

“That makes sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“The police were just called to Churchill’s. Victor Paradise left the auction house in a body bag.”

Jack flashed his Federal Bureau of Investigation credentials and he and Farrell were able to go right up to to Tony’s room at New York Hospital. The doorman lay in his hospital bed, pale, with his eyes closed. The man’s thick neck was black, blue, and angry red. Tony opened his eyes when Jack cleared his throat. They introduced themselves.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore, and I’ve got a helluva headache.”

“Can you tell us what happened?” Jack asked quietly.

“The guy came at me from behind,” Tony croaked. “It was terrible, but I managed to grab him in the nuts.” He looked at Farrell. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve heard worse,” Farrell reassured him.

“Anyway, we both fell to the floor. I managed to reach for the gun I keep in my locker and I shot him. That’s all she wrote. I wasn’t going to give him a chance to come at me again. Once was enough.” Tony winced as he swallowed.

“Do you have any idea why Victor Paradise would try to kill you?” Farrell asked.

“No, ma’am. I’ve seen the guy lots of times when he’d bring his mother into the house. He always seemed like a nice enough guy.”

Tony winced; the sound of his own voice seemed to be making his pain worse. Farrell and Jack leaned a little closer so Tony didn’t have to strain.

“Nice,” Tony continued, “but not too smart. You know, the wheel was spinning, but the hamster was dead.” Tony put his index finger up to his temple and turned it around and around in the air. “We usually ended up talking about working out.”

“One more question and we’ll let you get some rest, Tony. Did you notice Victor Paradise talking to Meryl Quan the day of the Paradise auction?” Jack asked.

Tony tried to recall. “Can’t say as I did.”

Clifford Montgomery opened the door to his office to let his visitor in.

“Working weekends again, Clifford?”

“What in hell are you doing here?” he hissed angrily, shepherding the visitor inside and closing the door quickly behind them.

“Relax, Clifford. Relax. My being here is not going to be a problem for you. Not unless you fail to do as I say.”

Clifford glared sullenly. “Relax, my ass. How can I relax with two people killed here in as many weeks? I’d think you’d be a little more upset than you are.”