grinned. “I appreciate your willingness to listen to my little trip down memory lane last night. I don’t normally go on like that—”
“You were terrific last night,” she said, feeling like Mary Richards talking to Lou Grant on a rerun.
“I was?”
“Well, pretty terrific. You were very nice. And you listened to me, too. I’m glad you were there.”
“Just remember. I could be there whenever you wanted me. Get it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Say, your friend MacPherson just arrived in reception. You know, he dresses awfully well for a cop.” He went away and she buzzed Lisa, told her to send MacPherson on in.
He was wearing a gray herringbone jacket and black slacks, a blue button-down shirt and a rep tie, all very preppie. He gave her that remote, level-eyed look and sat down with the wall of books behind him. Looking around him at the stacks of papers and manuscripts and folders that had long ago begun their steady encroachment onto the floor, he didn’t quite seem to approve. She asked him what she could do for him, determined not to be caught in her friendly-puppy persona.
“It’s more a question of what I can do for you, Ms. Rader,” he observed. “Once again I’m afraid you haven’t been confiding in me. That disappoints me. However, others are more concerned about your welfare, apparently, than you are.”
“Would you translate all that, please? And why don’t you just leap right in and call me Natalie?” She’d forgotten his first name: was it Danny? But she hadn’t forgotten Jay’s story about his father and Laura Hunt and Waldo Lydecker.
“I called your husband after speaking with you the other day and confirmed that he had told Mr. Garfein about your experience with your laughing gunman. We proceeded to chat, Tony and I, and he seems to understand the possible seriousness of your situation. He then called me this morning, said he d seen you last night and that you’d mentioned a burglary at your home. And your fears that someone might be following you. I wonder if you’d like to tell me about any of these recent … incidents?” He took out his notebook again and went through the slow ritual of uncapping and poising his fountain pen.
“Yes, it’s true, I did mention some things to Tony.” She was irritated by his continuing interference in her life: she didn’t like him, anyone, talking about her life without her knowledge. Actually, she barely remembered saying any of it to Tony: she must have done so in the interstices between shreds of argument as they had worked their way through the champagne and old battles. She told MacPherson about her paranoid fears of being followed; she recounted the story of the burglary; then figured the hell with it and told him the story of Sir running away on the FDR walkway and the man grinning in the shadows and the appearance of Lew Goldstein.
“And who is he?”
“A very dear, longtime friend. A psychiatrist. He was out for a walk. I was lucky.”
“Lucky,” MacPherson mused. “How well do you know this Dr. Goldstein?”
“That’s a rather puerile question. I said he’s an old friend. Nothing lurid, nothing earthy between us, which is what I assume you—”
“Exactly what I meant.”
She sighed. “I’m trying not to lose my temper with you,” she said, “and right now I’m not succeeding. I resent your prying into my private life. I merely saw something weird happen out my window—I’m not the criminal, I don’t need to be investigated—”
“Excuse me,” he said calmly, “but I’m not prying. Your husband called me, not I him. In any case, my concern is not only with keeping you out of harm’s way but with the men you know.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m looking for, I’m just looking. For the odd incongruity, a stray anomaly which might tell me something, give me some answers—”
“To what questions?” she interrupted.
“Is someone following Natalie Rader? Is the man with the gun
“You were terrific last night,” she said, feeling like Mary Richards talking to Lou Grant on a rerun.
“I was?”
“Well, pretty terrific. You were very nice. And you listened to me, too. I’m glad you were there.”
“Just remember. I could be there whenever you wanted me. Get it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Say, your friend MacPherson just arrived in reception. You know, he dresses awfully well for a cop.” He went away and she buzzed Lisa, told her to send MacPherson on in.
He was wearing a gray herringbone jacket and black slacks, a blue button-down shirt and a rep tie, all very preppie. He gave her that remote, level-eyed look and sat down with the wall of books behind him. Looking around him at the stacks of papers and manuscripts and folders that had long ago begun their steady encroachment onto the floor, he didn’t quite seem to approve. She asked him what she could do for him, determined not to be caught in her friendly-puppy persona.
“It’s more a question of what I can do for you, Ms. Rader,” he observed. “Once again I’m afraid you haven’t been confiding in me. That disappoints me. However, others are more concerned about your welfare, apparently, than you are.”
“Would you translate all that, please? And why don’t you just leap right in and call me Natalie?” She’d forgotten his first name: was it Danny? But she hadn’t forgotten Jay’s story about his father and Laura Hunt and Waldo Lydecker.
“I called your husband after speaking with you the other day and confirmed that he had told Mr. Garfein about your experience with your laughing gunman. We proceeded to chat, Tony and I, and he seems to understand the possible seriousness of your situation. He then called me this morning, said he d seen you last night and that you’d mentioned a burglary at your home. And your fears that someone might be following you. I wonder if you’d like to tell me about any of these recent … incidents?” He took out his notebook again and went through the slow ritual of uncapping and poising his fountain pen.
“Yes, it’s true, I did mention some things to Tony.” She was irritated by his continuing interference in her life: she didn’t like him, anyone, talking about her life without her knowledge. Actually, she barely remembered saying any of it to Tony: she must have done so in the interstices between shreds of argument as they had worked their way through the champagne and old battles. She told MacPherson about her paranoid fears of being followed; she recounted the story of the burglary; then figured the hell with it and told him the story of Sir running away on the FDR walkway and the man grinning in the shadows and the appearance of Lew Goldstein.
“And who is he?”
“A very dear, longtime friend. A psychiatrist. He was out for a walk. I was lucky.”
“Lucky,” MacPherson mused. “How well do you know this Dr. Goldstein?”
“That’s a rather puerile question. I said he’s an old friend. Nothing lurid, nothing earthy between us, which is what I assume you—”
“Exactly what I meant.”
She sighed. “I’m trying not to lose my temper with you,” she said, “and right now I’m not succeeding. I resent your prying into my private life. I merely saw something weird happen out my window—I’m not the criminal, I don’t need to be investigated—”
“Excuse me,” he said calmly, “but I’m not prying. Your husband called me, not I him. In any case, my concern is not only with keeping you out of harm’s way but with the men you know.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m looking for, I’m just looking. For the odd incongruity, a stray anomaly which might tell me something, give me some answers—”
“To what questions?” she interrupted.
“Is someone following Natalie Rader? Is the man with the gun
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