He nodded, accepted the card and the money, and put both in his wallet. He now owed Charlie Bonano ten bucks and Connie Kee twenty. He was running up a big debt in this city.
“You sure you want to go see this lady?” Connie asked. “Might be cops in there, for all you know.”
“I don’t see any police cars, do you?”
“Detectives drive unmarked sedans.” Michael shrugged.
“Pretty brave all of a sudden,” Connie said.
Michael was thinking that sometimes you could sense things. You could smell the enemy. Sniff the trail and you knew whether it was clear ahead or loaded. He did not think he would find any policemen in Crandall’s house. If he was wrong—
He shrugged again.
“I’ll see you later,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, and waited till he walked to the front stoop of the building and up the steps before she eased the limo away from the curb. He watched the tail lights disappearing up the street, the red staining the snow. There was a sudden hush on the night. He looked up at the sky, expecting to see a star in the east. Disappointed, he looked at his watch instead. Twenty minutes past twelve. He rang the doorbell.
The woman who answered the door was perhaps thirty-four years old. She was almost as tall as Michael, her eyes brown, her mouth full, her hair done in the style Bo Derek had popularized in the movie 10, more beautiful and natural on this woman in that her skin was the color of bittersweet chocolate.
“Yes?” she said.
“Is Mrs. Crandall home?” he asked.
“I’m Mrs. Crandall,” she said.
“Oh,” he said, and tried to hide his surprise. The newspaper photograph had shown Arthur Crandall as a white man.
“Yes?” she said.
“Well … we spoke on the phone a little while ago,” he said. “You told me …”
“No, we didn’t,” she said, and started to close the door.
“Mrs. Crandall,” he said quickly, “you called your husband’s office …”
She looked at him.
“I answered the phone …”
Kept looking at him.
“You told me your kids were waiting for Santa …”
“What were you doing in my husband’s …”
“Long story,” he said.
Behind her, a small, excited voice said, “Mommy, come quick! Daddy’s on television!”
“Who are you?” she asked Michael.
“My name is Michael Barnes,” he said.
“Mommy, hurry up!”
Another voice. Two of them in the hallway now. And then a third voice from someplace else in the house.
“Annie? Are you getting her?”
Albetha Crandall looked him up and down. Sniffing the trail. Trying to catch the whiff of danger. She decided he was safe. “Come in,” she said.
Two little girls in granny nightgowns were already running down the hall ahead of her. She let Michael into the house, closed and locked the door behind him, and then said, “You’re not an ax murderer, are you?” and smiled in such marvelous contradiction that he was forced to give the only possible answer.
“Yes, I am,” he said.
Albetha laughed.
“Mommmmmmmy! For Chriiiiiist’s sake, come on!”
He followed her down the hall. It occurred to him that the police were showing pictures of the dead man on television. Arthur Crandall. His daughters were watching photographs of their dead father. And soon Albetha would be seeing those same photos. And they would undoubtedly be followed in logical sequence by the driver’s license picture of the man alleged to have killed him, Michael Barnes the notorious ax murderer. An eight-year-old girl in a granny nightgown sat on a couch facing the television set. The other two little girls—one of them six, the other four, Michael guessed—had just come into the room and were standing transfixed in the doorway, watching the screen. This was a newsbreak special. The words trailed incessantly across the bottom of the screen. NEWSBREAK SPECIAL NEWSBREAK SPECIAL NEWSBREAK SPECIAL. A very blond television newscaster was talking to the man whose picture had been hanging on the wall in Crandall’s office. He was short and stout and almost bald, and he was wearing a three-piece suit with a Phi Beta Kappa key hanging on a gold chain across the vest. He looked very much alive.
“I am very much alive,” he said to the blond man. “As you can plainly see.”
“Yes, I see that,” the blond man said.
“What does he mean?” the eight-year-old on the couch said.
“Of course he’s alive,” the six-year-old said.
“Boy oh boy,” the four-year-old said.
They all looked like different sizes of the little girl who played Bill Cosby’s youngest daughter.
Albetha was watching the screen, an enormously puzzled look on her face.
“So what do you make of all this, Mr. Crandall?” the blond man asked.
“Well, if it weren’t for the fact that there is a dead man …”
“Indeed there is,” the blond man said, putting on a television newscaster’s solemnly grieving face.
“Yes. But if it weren’t for that, I’d think this was some kind of hoax.”
“Ah, yes. But there is a real corpse, Mr. Crandall. And the police found your identification on him.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Extraordinary.”
“Really. So what do you make of it?”
“I can only believe that this Michael J. Barnes person is responsible.”
Albetha gave Michael a sharp look.
“Yes, the man whose car …”
“Yes, the body …”