The Girl in Times Square (32 page)

Spencer had three choices. He could go back and persist and get Lily to tell him what she knew. It wouldn’t even take that long. Lily was extremely persuadable. But then he’d have to live with himself. Or he could go to see Jan McFadden, and pretend Lily never told him anything. He would still have to live with himself—but easier.

Or he could do nothing at all. Pretend he hadn’t heard, pretend he didn’t care. And still—it was the living with himself.

Spencer went to see Jan McFadden. She was in bad shape. She said Jim was miserable, was threatening to leave, take the kids from her. Spencer sat in her kitchen, beating around this bush and that. Paul, Rachel, Lily, yes, doesn’t Lily look fine, and she’s feeling good too. Was all well when she came to visit? What did you do? What happened?

Sifting through someone else’s life: you became afraid you would find something too personal from which you desperately wished you could turn away, like walking in on someone masturbating, and that’s how Spencer poked and prodded—one eye on the door, with the word
excuse me
constantly at his lips.

It was morning when he came to see Jan, she was still in her robe. She must have felt something, seen something in him, something comforting and non-judgmental, because she took out
two glasses and set them on the kitchen table. “Detective,” Jan said, “I could make us coffee. But I don’t feel like coffee in the morning anymore. When the kids are at school, when Jim’s at work, I walk around my house, I can’t function.” She took out a bottle of Chivas.

“Can I pour you a glass, too? Just for company?”

Spencer swallowed dry. “I have to drive back, Jan,” he said. “But you go right ahead.”

“Just a little bit? So I don’t drink alone?”

“Just a little bit, then,” said Spencer. “So you don’t drink alone.”

And when they had sat and commiserated with each other about the child that once was here and now was not, after they had clinked and drank, Jan told him about her daughter Amy and the cherry blossoms and the Mighty Quinn three years earlier.

When Spencer got back to the city, he went straight for his own round table, his own glass, his own full bottle, trying to figure out what in the world to do.

It might have seemed to someone observing him wholly from without that he had choices. Instead of doing something he could do nothing. He could leave her brother alone, he could put the file into inactive, he could leave a woman who had lost her whole life to continue to lose it and not know, and not grieve properly and be unable to feel love for the things she still had. But it was clear to Spencer—who knew himself better than anyone—that he had no choice at all, only the struggle beforehand.

He spent a sleepless night getting sober, chewing pencils and erasers and cardboard backs of legal pads, he didn’t answer Lily’s page when she called, and the next morning at eight, he and Gabe McGill were fifty-five miles east in Port Jefferson pushing past the Treasury agents at the honorable congressman’s door.

“Good morning,” said Spencer. “Congressman, this is Detective McGill—from
homicide.
May we come in?”

Just as Spencer suspected, the word worked like a charm. Andrew opened the door for them, even shook hands with Gabe. “I haven’t seen you in months, detective,” he said to Spencer. “What can I do for you?”

Spencer walked in and headed straight for the office without any niceties with either Andrew or Miera, who was in the kitchen making coffee. Andrew and Gabe followed.

“What do I owe this visit to? I thought we were all square.”

“Tell me where Amy is and then we’ll be all square.”

“If I could, I would,” said Andrew. “Now what do you want to know? How can I be of help? I can feel your desperation.” He smiled affably at Gabe, who stood with his arms belligerently crossed in front of Andrew’s desk.

“Until yesterday,” Spencer said, “I had not considered the possibility that you and Amy knew each other before Amy went to City College and got to be friends with your sister. You are on record as saying the affair had been going on for just a few months. Yesterday, Amy’s mother gave me reason to believe that your involvement with Amy goes back three years, at least. Your first meeting in front of your sister was a charade because you and Amy were already involved. So now, once again—how long had you known Amy?”

Andrew faltered. “I don’t know—”

“Congressman,” said Gabe, “just answer the damn question. Did you know Amy three years ago?”

“I don’t—I don’t understand what you’re trying to get at. I told you I don’t remember. It could have been longer than a few months, I guess. I don’t know.”

“Congressman!” Unbelievably, that was Gabe yelling. Spencer wanted to slap him on the back. No good cop, bad cop this morning, just bad cop, bad cop. “Stop it with the I-don’t-know, we won’t stand for it. The girl has been missing over a year. No more trying to pull the wool over our eyes. You know everything, and you’re not telling.”

“I made an honest mistake with the dates, that’s all.”

“In the middle of your honest mistake, your lover transferred colleges and moved in with your sister—not to mention went missing!”

Andrew’s face was flummoxed, confounded. “Detectives, Detectives…” He put his hands up as if to calm them down. “Come on, now,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “The charade was because of the relationship, that’s all. Obviously we were trying to keep it secret. From Lily. That’s why we pretended not to know each other. I got confused with the dates. Where is the deliberate malice here?”

“Who said anything about deliberate malice?” Gabe asked with narrowing eyes.

“And it’s not what we’re asking you,” said Spencer. “I’m interested in understanding why you would push Amy to change colleges from Hunter to City.”

“What are you talking about? I did no such thing.”

“Without you, how would Amy know about your sister at City College, taking art classes?”

“Obviously, we talked about my life.” Andrew’s face became deeply contorted. “We were
involved.
She knew quite a lot about me, Detective O’Malley. That is what happens. You are with someone, you tell them things. And then, sometimes, they use this information against you or against the people close to you. You know how that can be, detective?”

Paling, Spencer took a step back from the congressman and fell mute. For a minute he couldn’t speak. For a minute he almost wanted to say himself, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Then it occurred to him the congressman was talking about himself—but the bitter look in Andrew’s eyes didn’t go away, not when he spoke to Spencer, not when he spoke about Amy.

“Did you feel that Amy used the things you told her against you?” Spencer asked slowly.

“Perhaps that’s a little strong.” But Andrew’s voice remained strong. “I was very surprised that she transferred colleges, made friends with my sister. When I found out, I told her I felt it was
inappropriate. That it would make things harder for us. But by the time I found out, they had not only been friends for months, but had moved in together.”

“You never asked Amy why she would do this?”

“Of course I asked Amy why she would do this! She said that she wanted to be closer to me. She said that being friendly with Lily would give us more opportunity to meet. Make things more proper, instead of less proper. With my busy life, sometimes it was hard for us to get together. Through Lily we were able to see each other more often, and still maintain an air of decorum. Family functions, lunches with the three of us, the campaigning for me. All so we could be together more.” The words that Andrew spoke were spoken through his teeth.

Spencer exchanged glances with Gabe. He could not tell what was truth and what wasn’t. He said finally, “But the deception there—it’s
staggering.
For years to constantly try to cover up in front of your sister the intimacy between you.”

“It was easier than you think. Lily can be quite oblivious to what’s going on around her.” Andrew stared coldly at Spencer.

Spencer’s gaze darkened. “That’s enough,” he said in a low voice. Deflated, pensive, he stood before Andrew, with Gabe tugging on his arm.

Gabe asked, “If you didn’t meet through Lily, how did you meet?”

Andrew looked at them in turn and said nothing, until Gabe had drawn Spencer to one side and Andrew found himself with only Gabe to look at.

“I don’t remember,” he said at last. “I think she came to my Port Jeff office, asking for some pamphlets.”

Spencer stopped in his motionless tracks and pivoted to Andrew. “
She
came to
your
office?”

Andrew took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Amy McFadden came to
your
office?”

“Yes. She kept stopping by and stopping by.”

Spencer, staring at Gabe, was rendered temporarily without questions. This went against
all
his assumptions.

“When was this?”

“I told you, I don’t know and can’t recall. Winter break possibly. Winter break 1996.”

For a long time Spencer stood in front of Andrew absorbing what he had just heard.

“You’re telling me,” he said disbelievingly, “that you had known Amy for almost
two years
before your sister introduced you?”

“I can’t recall exactly.”

“Do you recall exactly if Amy helped you with your campaign back in 1992? Your first campaign for congressman? Did she help you then?”

“I can recall
that
exactly,” said Andrew. “Amy did not help me with my 1992 campaign.” He stopped speaking. “I did not know of her then.”

And then the question came. Spencer could not have asked this before, when he himself had been oblivious to the truth of things. “Congressman Quinn, were you…in love with her?”

Andrew blinked. “Well, as you say, it was just an affair, a fling. She was a young girl, half my age. We were at two completely different places in life. I was for a little while swept up in something, I admit. Do you know how that might be, detective? Knowing that something is so wrong, yet being swept up in it?”

And now Spencer blinked.

Gabe just looked from one man to the other. “No one is asking the question that’s on my mind, frankly,” Gabe said. “The only thing that I am swept up in—and that is, Congressman Quinn, do you know where Amy is?”

“No.”

“Has your memory improved on this Milo character we are investigating and his ties to Amy?”

Andrew blinked. “No.” Gabe and Spencer saw the blink, exchanged a look.

“Is he perhaps someone she had been involved with?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did Amy mention anything unusual about high school, perhaps about her travels with her friends before she met you?”

“No.” He paused. “She did tell me that during her time away she was experimenting with different religions. She even tried some American Indian church to see if they had the answers.”

“What American Indian church?”

“I don’t know…”

“Native American Church, perhaps?”

“I guess.”

All these were asked by Gabe. Spencer was not speaking until he said, “Did Amy end it?”

“What?”

“Oh, come on! These games you play to buy yourself a little time. Is that a difficult question? She sought you out, she sought your sister out, she moved in with Lily without your knowledge, presented you with the situation as a
fait accompli.
It seems like she was in the driver’s seat. And then she ended it. I can sense that is right. Why?”

“It was time for the relationship to come to an end. That is all.” Andrew lowered his gaze to his desk.

“This Milo character came back into Amy’s life at the shelter right around the time that she broke it off with you. Did it have anything to do with him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. God! I don’t know! Enough already. You just asked me this. I told you this in October, I’m telling you now, I don’t know
anything
about Milo.”

Spencer stepped up to the desk. “If you know who Milo is, why won’t you tell us? If it will help you, why won’t you tell us?”

“Who says it will help me?” said Andrew, stopping Spencer in his tracks.

“I am trying to get some answers for Amy’s mother,” he said, “so that her life can move forward. And for your sister, too…”

“Don’t you
dare
,” Andrew said with gritted teeth, “
you
of all people, talk to me about my sister. You think
I
don’t know what you’re doing? That
I
don’t understand you? Taking advantage of
her sickness. Lily knows nothing. You aren’t going to get any answers from her.”

Spencer’s fists clenched. “You don’t understand me at all, Congressman. Because this isn’t about
me.
And this is not about your sister. This is about you and the girl you were involved with for over three years, who has been missing for one. That’s what it’s about. You keep forgetting that.”

Andrew’s grim face squared off against Spencer’s grim face.

“You’re picking the wrong man to go after, detective,” said Andrew. There was something menacing in his tone. “Understand?”

Spencer started for Andrew, and was stopped by Gabe, grabbing him, restraining him. “No, man, no. Not worth it,” Gabe said quietly. “
Not
worth it.”

Andrew said, “Come on now. I’m waiting for this. You’ll spend five to fifteen in jail for assault, you’ll be thrown off the force, you son of a bitch. Come on—show me your true colors.”

Spencer pulled himself from Gabe and stepped away to the door. “I don’t have the time, you’re so busy showing me yours.” He struggled to get hold of himself. “You just don’t get it.
You’re
picking the wrong man to lie to. You think your threats with the IA, your entreaties to my supervisors will quiet me down? You won’t get me off your back until your fucking confession is on the desk of my captain. You understand?”

On the way back, Gabe started to speak, and Spencer cut him off, saying, “Gabe, not a word. I don’t want to talk about anything right now. Not a thing, all right? We’ll write it all up when we get back. I just need to think for a minute.”

Next day Spencer was summoned upstairs again.

Whittaker looked at him with sympathy. “Spence, what the hell are you doing out there that they’re pulling you in every five minutes?”

“What can I tell you, they don’t have anything better to do.” Spencer shrugged casually. That fucking Andrew. “Chief, I’ve been asking around, but no one seems to know. Have you ever heard of the Native American Church?”

Whittaker shrugged. “I’ve heard of it.”

“What’s their deal?”

“I don’t know much about them. All I know is that they’re the only ones in the United States who are legally allowed to use peyote in their religious practices.”

“
Peyote
?”

“Mescaline. They claim the hallucinogen brings them closer to their god. That’s all I know about them. You better go. Ms. Monroe is waiting for you.” And Whittaker made a snapping towel movement against Spencer’s groin.

Once again he sat opposite a brusque and business-like Liz Monroe and two of her minions.

“Detective, I’m not going to beat around the bush. We have a new witness.”

A new witness, just like that, a day
after
his visit to the congressman.

Monroe continued. “Ms. Edith Stanley lives in a house diagonally across the street from Nathan Sinclair’s house. I have a statement from Ms. Stanley here. She says”—Monroe paused to put on her glasses while Spencer waited—“that that night she saw a shadow…”

The details in Ms. Stanley’s statement were so vague it was astonishing to Spencer that he was being asked questions based on an assumption of their usefulness.

Spencer interrupted her. “Let’s put me in front of this Ms. Stanley, and see if she thinks I’m the man she saw as a shadow across her lawn after midnight one evening. She still lives there? I’ll call her myself if you like. We can get her to the station in a few hours.”

“You will do no such thing, detective,” Monroe said, her voice rising. “For one, she is no longer living on Sound Beach Avenue.”

“Oh? Where is she now?” Spencer inquired innocently.

“She is in a care facility in Greenwich.”

“A nursing home? But how did you hear about this woman now? What made you seek her out?”

“We get information in all sorts of ways, detective, as you well know.”

“I know. I’m asking how you got this particular piece of information.”

“We have people who…have been talking to most of the residents of Sound Beach Avenue.”

“You have people.” Spencer rubbed his forehead. “But you just said Ms. Stanley no longer lives there.”

“That’s right.”

“So did you interview her in person?”

“I didn’t personally, no. We have…”

“People for that. I know. Did anyone speak to the director of the nursing home?”

“I don’t have that in my notes. I don’t see how it is relevant.”

“Well, if you’ll excuse me for inquiring after such an indelicate matter, how old is Ms. Stanley?”

“Detective O’Malley…”

“How old? Is her date of birth in your notes at least?”

Reluctantly: “She was born in 1907.”

Spencer kept his voice even. It was difficult. “So let me understand,” he said slowly. “You have an affidavit in front of you from a 93-year-old woman who says that four or five years ago on some unspecified evening, she saw a
shadow
?”

“Ms. Stanley says she saw a man in dark clothes walking away very briskly from the Sinclair house late at night—”

“I’m sorry, excuse me for interrupting again,” interrupted Spencer again. “But I’m still confused. What night?”

“The night in question…”

“What date does she give in her statement for this
night in question
?”

The anxious movement of her manicured fingers told Spencer that Ms. Monroe could not find that precise information just then. He added, “And someone should talk with the director of the nursing home, don’t you think? To see what health crisis brought Ms. Stanley into their care?”

“I don’t see how it is relevant.”

Spencer nodded. “I will show you how. Just one moment, Ms. Monroe.” He flipped open his cellphone. “Do you have the number for me, or should I dial information?”

She grudgingly gave it to him, and while she waited, Spencer spent two minutes on the phone with Mr. Cerone, the director of the facility, asking him two or three questions and nodding.

When he hung up he said, “You see, it’s always helpful to have
all
the details. You might want to call Mr. Cerone yourself, for your records. Mr. Cerone will confirm that Edith Stanley has been in his care for nearly three years, since just after her ninetieth birthday, when the glaucoma and cataracts she had been
battling for years
made her functionally blind and she could no longer live independently.”

Liz Monroe sat like a stone statue; the men who flanked her fidgeted cruelly.

“Will that be all, Detective O’Malley?”

Spencer stood from the table and gave her a humorless smile. “That’ll be all, Ms. Monroe.”