Night-Bloom (42 page)

Mooney shook his head in wonderment. “Beats me how he could con everyone like that.”

“Doctors can be incredibly gullible. His VA records show admission to hospitals all over the country—Chicago, San Diego, Denver, Madison, Wilkes-Barre, Kansas City, New York. You name it. He’s been there. The VA estimates he’s been hospitalized a total of nearly four hundred times over the past dozen years. But the strangest, most ironic t wist of the story is the marriage.”

Mooney sat back in his chair. “I didn’t realize he was married.”

“Well, he’s not any longer. But he was at the ripe old age of seventeen. He entered a common-law marriage with a woman of twenty-five. He told me he didn’t love her at all. Actually, she revolted him, but he married her just to rescue her from a dismal home situation. Within a few months after their marriage, while pregnant, she died of acute leukemia.”

Mooney made a slight startled sound. “Which he claims to have now.”

“And he does,” Ramsay said emphatically. “There’s no faking that, although in his mind he’s faking this just like all the other times. But this time it’s for real. I don’t think he quite grasps it yet, but he is truly dying.”

Ramsay, his head tilted to one side, caught the detective’s dismay. “May I ask why you wanted to see him, Captain?”

“He gave me some information the other day.”

“About what?”

“About a man he shared a hospital room with two years ago—a man who may just be the key to several murders in the city.”

“And, now, of course, you’re concerned about the reliability of his information?”

Mooney turned his frank, questioning gaze on the doctor. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Ramsay shrugged and rose to indicate the conclusion of their talk. “Probably. It’s like the little boy crying wolf, isn’t it? Who knows? Maybe this time the wolfs really there.”

It was several days before Mooney thought again of the Watford lead. Ironically, while the detective now believed none of Watford’s revelations, he was strangely unable to put them aside. And then too, Peter Quintius was disturbingly, uncannily close to the profile Baum, the police psychiatrist, had given him months back.

Four days later Mooney was in an unmarked police car, driving out over the Queensboro Bridge. The Manhattan skyline dropped away behind him; the dark, grim jungle gym of elevated IND tracks loomed up ahead, raining down the thunderous clatter of subway cars, racketing their way through the cobbled, motley landscape of Queens. Once more he was on his way to Kew Gardens. He took no driver with him. Nor had he asked Defasio to come along. His skepticism was such that he was unwilling to risk the possibility of having any of the special task force see him make a jackass of himself.

Then, at last, Watford was there standing at the door of the brick row house on the quiet, tree-lined street with the leaves falling noiselessly all about in the first chill of autumn. This time he was not in his bathrobe and pajamas, but in overalls and wearing gloves, a look of momentary startlement upon his face, followed by something amused, and half-shrewd, as if he’d known all along the detective would be back.

“Been working out in the garden,” Watford apologized for his appearance and led him back into the musty little sitting room where all the clocks ticked with their sharp implacable assertion of the preeminence of time.

Would he pare to go into town with him? the detective asked. Now, right then and there. To the gallery. Up to Sixty-seventh Street to see this Quintius fellow for himself. He had not intended it, but it had come out in the form of a challenge.

“Sure,” Watford replied with disconcerting calm. Mooney would have preferred a response somewhat more guarded.

In a matter of moments Watford had changed and they were back in the car, tooling west down Queens Boulevard and back over the bridge. All the way there Watford chatted easily about his plans for the future. My God, Mooney thought, the fool is dying and at the same time keeps making plans for the future.

Slightly past noon they stood outside the gallery in precisely the same spot Mooney had stood a week before. This time the gallery appeared to be empty except for a tall, stocky man in plaids who sat behind a desk.

Mooney had simply taken it for granted that Mr. Quintius would, of course, be there, walking freely about, on display as it were, for their special convenience. They would simply stand outside the window and Watford would either confirm or rescind his identification.

They waited twenty minutes but nothing of the sort occurred. The gentleman in the plaids continued to sit at the desk in the rear, riffling through papers, pausing from time to time to study some more attentively than others.

Watford grew restless. “When is he going to come?”

“Any minute. Just wait.”

They waited another ten minutes. The man at the desk appeared to be blithely unaware of the fact that two men had been standing outside the window, peering in, for at least a half hour.

“I don’t think he’s here,” Watford frowned.

“He’s here all right. Just hold your horses.”

“Why can’t we just go in and ask for him?”

The idea, direct, uncomplicated, would never have occurred to Mooney. He stood there ransacking his mind for reasons why it would be imprudent to take Watford’s suggestion. Unorthodox police procedure, to say the least. But then again, wasn’t the whole situation unorthodox? “Okay,” he conceded finally, “why not? If you’re game, I am. All they can do is throw us out and charge me with harassment. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll get fired.”

Walking in, Watford trailing at his heel, Mooney felt slightly foolish. He fairly glided across the parqueted floors. The cushioned prosthetic shoes he wore felt spongy going over the thick pile Kirman area carpets. The air about him smelled faintly of turpentine, pipe smoke and the moist, fecund smell unique to large commercial greenhouses.

“May I help you, gentlemen?” The man at the desk rose as they approached him. Mooney took command at once.

“We’d like to see Mr. Quintius.”

“Which Mr. Quintius? There are two.”

Mooney noted the cautious skepticism in the man’s eyes as he sized them up.

“Mr. Peter Quintius,” Mooney replied.

“Ah.” There was a pause while the gentleman seated at the desk continued to take their measure. “I’m Frederick Quintius, his son. Who shall I say is calling?”

“Captain Mooney,” the detective replied and opened his shield for identification. He didn’t bother to introduce Watford. The younger Quintius merely assumed he was another policeman.

“Is this in connection with my late brother?” Mooney noted the man’s eyes shifting and the mind behind them whirling quickly. “In a manner of speaking. Is Mr. Quintius here?”

“In the back. One moment, please. I’ll see if he’s available.”

They waited out front beside the desk, shifting awkwardly on their feet. Mooney could hear muted voices conversing through the open door. A few moments later Frederick Quintius reappeared. He was followed by the towering presence Mooney recognized at once as Peter Quintius.

At this point Mooney had already strayed dangerously far from standard police procedure. Even as the two men approached, it occurred to him that he had absolutely no idea where to start. His heart leaped, his mind went blank and he experienced panic.

Providentially, however, Watford did not. The moment he saw Quintius his face lit up with boyish warmth. Before Mooney could stop him, he moved forward, smiling, his hand outstretched to meet Quintius.

“Hello, Mr. Quintius. Remember me? Charles Watford. We shared a hospital room two years ago.”

There was a pause and evident confusion. Mooney saw the man frown and take an involuntary step backward as Watford grasped his hand and pumped it enthusiastically. Fully a whole head taller than Watford, Quintius gazed down speechless at the affectionate puppy tugging at his hand. “I beg your pardon.”

Watford beamed. He appeared breathless and overjoyed, as though he were waiting to be embraced. “It’s me, Charles Watford. You remember. Beth Israel. In the bed beside you. You’d injured your leg. Fell through an open manhole or something.”

Something flashed in Quintius’s eye. Mooney couldn’t call it fear. It was more a flash of sudden guardedness; the woodchuck scurrying into its hole. In the next instant it was gone and another mask had replaced it.

“I saw you on television the other night,” Watford rattled on cheerfully. “I was sorry to hear about your son. It was horrible. Tragic.”

Quintius’s brow lowered, his face darkened. Watford appeared not to notice. He went on, offering condolences and paying his respects. Quintius’s withering stare impeded him not in the least. At that moment Watford took on, in Mooney’s jaded eyes, a new, and unexpected stature.

“There’s some mistake,” Quintius said.

“There’s no mistake at all,” Watford cordially persisted.

Quintius stiffened. “I don’t know you.”

“Of course you do. It’s Charles Watford. Charley. I used to sit by your bed and chat with you. You were having a lot of pain and …”

Clearly agitated, Quintius’s voice rose. “I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you before.”

“Look here,” Frederick Quintius blustered for ward. “You said you were here to talk about my brother.”

“I don’t recall saying any such thing,” Mooney replied.

Not the sort to take control of a situation gracefully, the younger Quintius stiffened and grew red. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

Mooney turned from him. He hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Instead his eyes were riveted on Quintius.

Watford continued to badger the man with smiles. His irrepressible goodwill put Mr. Quintius off-balance, but still he did not appear guilty. This was not the face of a murderer tracked to his lair, Mooney thought. This was not cinder blocks dropped from rooftops into the midst of unsuspecting crowds. This was not sleazy or craven or loutish or malicious. This was the face of civilization at its summit—refined, sensitive, urbane, the apex of the evolutionary process.

“Look for gray flannel,” Dr. Baum had said. “You’ll have to go now,” Frederick Quintius persisted, “or I’ll have to call the police.”

With his bulky frame he started to crowd them toward the door. Watford was nearly trampled underfoot, but Mooney, who had yielded several feet, suddenly stiffened and thrust the young man back at arm’s length.

“That’s all right,” he spoke between clenched teeth. “We’re going now.”

But Watford was not yet finished. He started back. “You know me, Mr. Quintius. Tell the truth. Tell the inspector. Don’t be frightened. You do know me.” As Mooney went out the door, the last glimpse he had of Peter Quintius, his face was ashen.

In the end, Mooney had to physically remove Watford from the gallery, hauling him out and cramming him into the front seat of the car. All the way out to Queens he sat scrunched into a corner as if he were trying to shrink inside himself. Not once did he speak.

“That
is
the man. I’m not lying,” Watford said when they’d drawn up to his front door.

“Who said you were lying?”

“You don’t have to. I can see what you think.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, then, what do you think?”

Mooney was momentarily stumped. “I’m not sure I know.”

“There. See? I told you. You do think I’m lying.” Watford smiled suddenly with a kind of wistful triumph.

“Well, for Christ’s sake.” Mooney slammed the wheel with his hand. “How could anyone be expected to make a foolproof identification of a perfect stranger he happened to share a hospital room with two years before?” Mooney blustered. He couldn’t meet Watford’s eyes. “And, let’s be perfectly frank with each other,” Mooney hurtled onward, “when it comes to telling the truth you’ve got something less than a sparkling record.”

News of his deficiency appeared to leave Watford crestfallen. “Okay,” he muttered. “I won’t argue that. But this time it happens to be different. I’m telling the truth. I swear it. Oh, God,” his fingers cluttered at his temples. “That did it. I’m working up to an awful bummer.”

When Mooney reached across his lap to open the door, he noted that Watford’s eyes were watery. “Go on in, why don’t you, and lie down.”