“Connie …”
“Michael, that person on the bed is dead.”
“I know.”
“You’re already wanted for one murder …”
“I know.”
“You’ve already been shot …”
“I know.”
“So let’s get out of here, okay? Before …”
“Let’s try this number first.”
“Michael, every time you try a number …”
“Maybe this time we’ll get lucky,” he said, and winked.
Connie did not wink back.
Instead, she followed him sullenly down the hallway and into the study again. He sat at the desk with the wall of black-and-white photographs in front of him, and he dialed the telephone number scrawled in a spidery handwriting on the slip of paper, and he waited, waited, waited …
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice.
“Yes, hello, I’m calling for Charlie Nichols,” he said.
“Sorry, he’s not here,” the woman said.
“I know he isn’t, I’m calling for him. Who’s this, please?”
“Judy Jordan,” she said. “Who’s this?”
“Hello?” he said.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hello, Miss Jordan?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Hello?” he said.
“I can hear you,” she said.
“I’ll have to call back,” he said, and hung up.
“Did you get cut off?” Connie asked.
“No,” he said.
He was already looking through Charlie’s address book again. He flipped rapidly through E, F, H …
“Here it is,” he said. “Jordan, Judy.”
Connie looked at the address. “The Seventh Precinct,” she said. “Where they found the body in your car.”
“Then we’d better go see her,” he said.
“Why?” Connie asked.
He looked at her.
And felt suddenly foolish.
She was right, of course.
He’d found a telephone number in a dead man’s wallet, and he’d called that number, and the woman who’d answered the phone was named Judy Jordan.
So?
Why go see her?
He was tired. And beginning to feel that perhaps the best thing to do, after all, was run on over to the police station and tell them he was the man they were looking for and could he please make a call to his lawyer, Mr. David Lang in Sarasota, Florida? Connie knew where all the precincts were, they could drive over to the nearest one in Shi Kai’s broken convertible. Or perhaps he should call Dave first, ask him to take the next plane up to New York, hole up in Connie’s apartment until he got here, and then go to the police togeth—
“Judy who, did you say?”
This from Connie.
Who not five minutes ago had been urging him to please get the hell out of here. But who now seemed to have a note of renewed interest in her voice.
“Jordan,” he said, and turned to look up at her.
Connie was looking at the wall.
Specifically, she was looking at a photograph of Charlie Nichols and a teenage girl. Charlie was a much younger man in the photograph; Michael guessed the picture had been taken at least fifteen years ago. The girl couldn’t have been older than sixteen or seventeen. She was wearing a white sweater and a dark skirt and she was grinning up into Charlie’s face. Charlie was holding both her hands between his own.
Written in blue ink across the girl’s sweatered breasts were the words To My Dear Daddy, With Love and beneath that the signature Judy Jordan.
Michael leaned in closer to the picture.
The young girl had long, dark hair.
But aside from that, she was a dead ringer for Helen Parrish.
“Also,” Connie said, “does Benny have to be a person?”
“What?” Michael said.
“Because there’s a place called Benny’s in SoHo, and maybe that’s where Crandall went to meet Charlie’s mother, in which case we should take Crandall’s picture there in case somebody might remember him from last night, don’t you think?”
Michael kissed her.
The bartender’s name was Charlie O’Hare.
“There are lots of Charlies in this city, you know,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” Michael said.
They were sitting at the bar. The place was unusually crowded for Christmas night, but then again Michael had never been in a bar on Christmas night, and maybe they were all this crowded. It was a very Irish bar. No frills. A utilitarian saloon designed for drinkers. Sawdust on the floor. No cut-glass mirrors, no green-shaded lamps like in the place last night where they’d set Michael up for theft and accusation. A nice friendly neighborhood saloon with a handful of people sitting in the booths or at the tables or here at the bar, all of them wearing caps and looking like nice friendly IRA terrorists.
“Here’s his picture,” Michael said, and showed him the eleven-year-old clipping from the Nice newspaper. He had taken it out of its frame. The back of the clipping was a story about a Frenchman who’d leaped into the Mediterranean to save a German tourist who should have known better than to be swimming in the sea in May. Crandall smiled out from his photograph.
“He’s even fatter now,” Michael said.
“No, I don’t know him,” O’Hare said.
“Is this French here?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it say here under the picture?”
“Arthur Crandall before the showing of his film War and Solitude yesterday afternoon.”
“So what is he, an actor?”
“No, he’s a director.”
“Sheesh,” O’Hare said. “And this is a new movie?”
“No, it’s an old one.”
“Then how come they showed it yesterday afternoon?”
“They showed it eleven years ago.”
“I musta missed it.”
“Do you recognize him?”
“No.”