worried about your presence? Might he try to do something about it? Is your burglary related to the rest of this? You see, you find yourself in an entirely unprotected position. He knows who you are, where you are—he can ascertain who your friends and associates are merely by observing you. You, on the other hand, are living in a paranoid’s fantasy world. You know nothing about him besides the fact that he saw you. Consequently, we need to read the situation as closely as we possibly can.” He looked up from his notebook. “Do you follow me?”
“You’re scaring me all over again.”
“Your husband is concerned that—”
“My former husband—”
“He has added to your troubles. He feels badly about shooting off his mouth to Garfein. It seems to me that his concern is reasonable and well placed. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Look, I don’t want to let this get to me any more than I absolutely have to.” She was holding her voice steady but her hands were balled into fists in her lap. “Anyone in my position might be nervous. But if someone wants me shut up, there’s already been plenty of time to do something about it. No one has. What I’d like to know is why you keep pushing at this. It seems to me that it just isn’t amounting to much …”
She watched him shut his notebook and put his pen away. He stood up and put his hands in his trouser pockets, went to the bookshelves and took down a volume. “Good book,” he said, waving it at her. “Did you represent it?” It was a prominent war correspondent’s memoirs, Back to Normandy.
“Yes, I did. What has that got to do with anything?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. It just caught my eye and I liked the book.” He slid it back into the shelf, kept looking along the spines. “Why do I keep pushing at this?” he said softly. “I suppose because we got a report back on the gun. It’s worrisome, actually. We’ll handle it, of course, but—” He turned back toward her. “It is worrisome,”
She felt her breathing mechanism tighten. Her stomach knotted. “What do you mean?” Her voice came out so soft she barely heard it.
“The gun you saw thrown and which we subsequently retrieved from the construction site was used earlier that rainy afternoon to commit a homicide. About three o’clock, as best we can tell, somebody pulled that particular trigger in a cooperative on Central Park West. Couple blocks up past the Dakota. Very nice view over the park. And a woman named Alicia Quirk got most of her face blown off.”
Natalie heard herself gasp.
MacPherson went on in his flat, professorial tone. “Ms. Quirk was not a good citizen. She put up money to produce particularly vile porno films, performed in them for kicks. But she was mainly a drug dealer, specializing in coke. Her clientele was made up of actors, musicians, singers, and the idle rich they seem to attract, most of them Upper West Side types. A smattering of Chelsea and Soho, you know the drill, I suppose. Alicia was bored, rich, about your age, even looked rather like you, very pretty actually, kinky as hell and pretty well known … but no threat to the mob, no reason for the big boys to snuff her. She was in the scene for fun, for sex, for the rush of controlling people’s lives. But apparently there was one chap she couldn’t control. Goodbye, Alicia.”
Natalie swallowed, trying to moisten her mouth so she could speak. “So what would be the next step?” Her mind was racing, trying to fit herself into the puzzle. She’d never thought about murder in any but abstract terms. Now … last night Jay telling her about his wife and son; today Alicia Quirk. Murder was real.
“Well,” MacPherson said, standing at the window, looking down at the scene where it had all begun to go crazy for Natalie, “we’ve done some checking on Ms. Quirks movements. She spent a lot of time at a club called Lulu’s on Forty-sixth, an aftertheater joint, popular place with actors and whatnot.
“You’re scaring me all over again.”
“Your husband is concerned that—”
“My former husband—”
“He has added to your troubles. He feels badly about shooting off his mouth to Garfein. It seems to me that his concern is reasonable and well placed. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Look, I don’t want to let this get to me any more than I absolutely have to.” She was holding her voice steady but her hands were balled into fists in her lap. “Anyone in my position might be nervous. But if someone wants me shut up, there’s already been plenty of time to do something about it. No one has. What I’d like to know is why you keep pushing at this. It seems to me that it just isn’t amounting to much …”
She watched him shut his notebook and put his pen away. He stood up and put his hands in his trouser pockets, went to the bookshelves and took down a volume. “Good book,” he said, waving it at her. “Did you represent it?” It was a prominent war correspondent’s memoirs, Back to Normandy.
“Yes, I did. What has that got to do with anything?”
He shrugged. “Nothing. It just caught my eye and I liked the book.” He slid it back into the shelf, kept looking along the spines. “Why do I keep pushing at this?” he said softly. “I suppose because we got a report back on the gun. It’s worrisome, actually. We’ll handle it, of course, but—” He turned back toward her. “It is worrisome,”
She felt her breathing mechanism tighten. Her stomach knotted. “What do you mean?” Her voice came out so soft she barely heard it.
“The gun you saw thrown and which we subsequently retrieved from the construction site was used earlier that rainy afternoon to commit a homicide. About three o’clock, as best we can tell, somebody pulled that particular trigger in a cooperative on Central Park West. Couple blocks up past the Dakota. Very nice view over the park. And a woman named Alicia Quirk got most of her face blown off.”
Natalie heard herself gasp.
MacPherson went on in his flat, professorial tone. “Ms. Quirk was not a good citizen. She put up money to produce particularly vile porno films, performed in them for kicks. But she was mainly a drug dealer, specializing in coke. Her clientele was made up of actors, musicians, singers, and the idle rich they seem to attract, most of them Upper West Side types. A smattering of Chelsea and Soho, you know the drill, I suppose. Alicia was bored, rich, about your age, even looked rather like you, very pretty actually, kinky as hell and pretty well known … but no threat to the mob, no reason for the big boys to snuff her. She was in the scene for fun, for sex, for the rush of controlling people’s lives. But apparently there was one chap she couldn’t control. Goodbye, Alicia.”
Natalie swallowed, trying to moisten her mouth so she could speak. “So what would be the next step?” Her mind was racing, trying to fit herself into the puzzle. She’d never thought about murder in any but abstract terms. Now … last night Jay telling her about his wife and son; today Alicia Quirk. Murder was real.
“Well,” MacPherson said, standing at the window, looking down at the scene where it had all begun to go crazy for Natalie, “we’ve done some checking on Ms. Quirks movements. She spent a lot of time at a club called Lulu’s on Forty-sixth, an aftertheater joint, popular place with actors and whatnot.
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