me.
He went directly to the feeder and took out the envelope.
Then he disappeared.
Quickly.
FIFTEEN
On my desk was a message to call Wilma at a certain number. No last name. Just Wilma. I had my suspicions who it was I would be calling.
An hour after leaving the park, I was still cold. Sarah Anders brought me a large mug of steaming coffee and watched me curiously as I shivered.
'You coming down with a cold?'
'Had a hard time finding a parking place for lunch. I had to walk several blocks.'
She smiled. 'Must've been very long blocks.'
I was staring at her. Obviously. Her lover was less than three hours dead. She seemed to be holding up remarkably well, especially given the fact that her first response on hearing the news had been to faint.
'You're wondering why I'm not hysterical?'
I could feel myself flush. She was a perceptive woman. 'I suppose I am.'
'Very simple, really. I've decided that I should be more concerned about the living than the dead.'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning that I'm going to stay here long enough to make sure I've collected myself, then I'm going to go home and fix my husband the best meal he's had in years.' Tears shone in her eyes. 'I've really been a bitch to him.'
I decided to help her forget about Gettig by changing the subject. 'Did you send everybody home?'
She nodded, pulling herself back from her grief. 'Yes. And almost everybody took me up on my offer of the rest of the day off. Only the usual diehards-'
She named several people who were still here.
One of them happened to be the man who'd picked up the envelope at the duck pond.
I could feel my pulse start to pound.
'Why don't you go home now, Sarah?' I said.
'I'm afraid he'll find out someday.'
'Even if he did find out,' I said, 'I'm sure he'd forgive you, if that's what you want.'
'Oh yes,' she said, tearing up again, 'that's what I want, Michael.'
I came around the desk and took her in my arms and held her and let her shudder and sob until it passed like a muscle spasm.
'The terrible thing is that I don't feel anything for Ron now,' she said. 'Nothing at all. I look back on what we did and it just seems-silly. You know?'
These were the words I'd wanted my own wife to speak after she'd told me about her various lovers, including Denny Harris. I'd wanted to patch things up despite my pain and distrust and sorrow, but she hadn't wanted that at all. She'd just wanted out…
'Why don't you go home now, Sarah?'
'You really think he'd forgive me if he ever found out?'
I tried to give her an honest answer. I thought of the conversations I'd had with her husband over the years. He was one of those men whose blandness misled people into thinking he's slow. Actually, he had a quiet, wry sense of humor and what seemed to be a very healthy self-image. He was also obviously gaga over his wife of thirty years.
'I think he'd forgive you, Sarah. I honestly do.'
This time her tears were punctuated with a kind of laughter. I held her until she pushed gently away and said, 'Boy, am I going to fix him a dinner.'
The way she said it, I had an image of roast beef and mashed potatoes and peas, my own favorite meal. I half wished she would invite me along.
Twenty minutes later I walked along the corridor leading to the back of the shop.
I still couldn't quite believe that the man I'd seen at the duck pond could actually be the man Stokes planned to blackmail but…
On the art department bulletin board I saw a yellowed pencil cartoon of Denny with his leg in a cast being helped into a waiting limousine by Tommy Byrnes. I stopped to examine the cartoon closer. I'd forgotten all about Denny's breaking his leg six months ago playing racquetball, and in fact that Tommy Byrnes had virtually become his valet during that period.
Maybe Denny had said something to Tommy that would shed some light on things. I made a note to contact Tommy later in the afternoon.
A typewriter sounded lonely in the drab afternoon light. As I got closer to the accounting office, the typewriter got louder.
In the reception area, I saw her, sitting alone in an island of empty desks. Belinda Matson.
She was typing so intensely she didn't notice me until I came up beside her.
Then, startled, she jumped a bit off her seat.
I put what I hoped was a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She wrenched it away as if the hand were poison. Does nice things for a guy's ego. 'Sorry if I scared you,' I said.
Before she spoke, I glanced down at the paper in her typewriter.
The salutation was-'My Dearest Darling Merle-'
It was then that I noticed how tear-stained her eyes looked, and the terrible twitch that traveled through her slight body. This wasn't a goddamned ad agency, it was a broken-hearts club.
In a gesture similar to shaking off my touch, Belinda put her body across the platen so I couldn't read the paper and said, 'I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't pry into my affairs.'
Yes, I could certainly read women all right. How had I ever entertained the notion that this woman had any interest in me?
'Sorry,' I said. I nodded to the back. 'Is Merle in?'
'I'm not sure.'
It was so obvious a lie it was almost amusing. She'd said it petulantly, like a displeased little girl. I wondered why she was writing Merle a letter. Maybe she knew something I should.
I just kind of rolled my head in displeasure and walked toward the back, to Merle's office. It was wonderful being boss. You commanded so much respect.
In the gloom I saw a table lamp such as you see in fancy living rooms. Merle's choice in decor was suburban through and through.
I knocked on the curtained glass door. No response. I put my hand on the doorknob. Open. I went in.
In the shadows I saw two things clearly. The body of Merle Wickes seated stiffly in his tall-back executive chair and a glistening. 38 sitting in front of him on his desk.
I did not need to be a mastermind to know what was happening. Or what was about to happen.
Merle still seemed unaware of my presence. I stood there staring at him, his breathing loud in the gloomy silence, feeling sorry for him, seeing him as a little silly despite the situation and his obvious pain.
It was his hair-that said everything about him. It was silly and I couldn't help it, like taking a Wally Cox type and putting a Wayne Newton hairdo on him and draping him in glitter.
I knew what I had to do. I just wondered if I'd be quick enough to pull it off.
I leaned forward and made a grab for the. 38. Merle surprised me. Completely.
He had the gun in his hand and pointed at me before I had time to lean back.
'Get out of here, Michael,' he said. 'Or I'll kill you.'
'Merle,' I said. 'It isn't worth it-killing me or killing yourself.'
An ugly, self-deprecating laugh came up from him and he shook his head miserably. 'You don't know what's
