“It’s okay, Miss Pershing. I don’t need you to stay.”
“Well, then, nighty-night,” she says, and smiles. She’s about to turn toward the elevator when Martin comes charging out of nowhere and knocks her over.
“My!” she yelps. She falls backward into my arms.
Martin runs down the stairs, elbowing everyone aside frantically, with a sheaf of curly faxes in his hand.
“Are you all right, Miss P?” I set her back onto her feet, like Dorothy did the scarecrow. She seems more embarrassed than anything else.
“Goodness!”
I look down the stairs after Martin, but he’s long gone. He didn’t even look back. He knocked down an old woman and didn’t even look back. What kind of a man does that? A hit-and-run. I shudder, involuntarily.
“Wasn’t that the young man who likes owls?” asks Miss Pershing.
“Martin H. Chatham IV.”
“What bad manners!” She produces a flowery handkerchief from the sleeve of her sweater and dabs at her forehead. The handkerchief must be scented, for the air is suddenly redolent of lilac.
“Let me walk you to the elevator, Miss P.” I offer her my arm and we hobble to the elevator together. I tuck her in, in front of the secretaries with the neon eyeshadow and the black miniskirts. She gives me a game wave with her pocketbook as the doors close.
Martin.
I wonder where he was the night Brent was killed. I wonder what kind of car he drives, where he lives. If he lives in town, it makes it more likely that it’s him, since it would be easier for him to follow me. But I think he lives in the suburbs somewhere, on the Main Line. I decide to do a little research.
I head into my office and find Stalling’s pig book on the shelf. It has photos of all the lawyers in the firm, with their degrees and home addresses. I flip through the first couple of pages to Martin’s name. Under his head shot, which makes him look almost animate, it says Dartmouth College, B.A. 1969; Yale Law School, J.D. 1972. His home address is “Rondelay II” in Bryn Mawr. The Main Line, of course. Even the houses have Roman numerals after their names.
Damn. Who else could be jealous of me? Jameson. I wonder where he lives.
I page to the J’s and find his picture. He looks like Atom Ant, only smug. He went to Penn too, graduating from the undergraduate school in 1970 and the law school in 1974. His home address is on Pine Street in Society Hill. A city dweller; I didn’t know that. And the houses down there-the new ones-have built-in garages. I make a mental note to ask Judy if she knows what kind of car he drives. Kurt would remember if he’d seen it at a firm party. He’s always working on old cars; he uses them in his sculpture. His last show was called Body Parts. I passed.
I flip the pages forward to look Ned up. Ned Waters, it says, underneath a picture of him that almost takes my breath away. His eyes, his face. His smile. God, he’s beautiful. I think of him in bed, during the night, arousing me despite my slumber. It’s hard to believe he’s the killer, but Judy made sense. At least for now. I snap the book closed. The end.
I’m about to reshelve it when I remember. Berkowitz. Everybody knows where he lives, he custom-built the house two years ago in Gladwyne, one of Philadelphia’s ritziest suburbs. The house is a palace, with a pool and a tennis court. But Gladwyne isn’t that far from the city, just ten minutes up the West River Drive.
The West River Drive. Where Mike was killed.
I thumb quickly to Berkowitz’s page. His meaty face takes up the entire picture frame. I skim over the schools. Drexel University, Temple Law School. City schools for smart kids with no money. I stop short when I reach his home address-or addresses, because to my surprise, there are two. One is in Gladwyne, like I thought. But the other is an apartment in the Rittenhouse, a new high-rise condo on Rittenhouse Square.
Rittenhouse Square. Where Brent was killed. Right near my apartment. So Berkowitz had access to both sites. He could have hit Mike and disappeared up the West River Drive to Gladwyne, or hit Brent and headed home to the Rittenhouse.
Berkowitz? Could it really be him?
Wait. I know he has a Mercedes, and it wasn’t a Mercedes that hit Brent. But what if he has another car, an old car, that he keeps in town? The Rittenhouse has its own parking in the basement garage.
Christ. Berkowitz. Maybe Brent was right about him all along; he never did like him. Neither does my mother. Thin lips. I slip the book back onto the shelf.
I check the clock behind me. The huge golden dial glows brightly: 6:20. The sky looks too dark for six o’clock, as if a thunderstorm’s coming. On my desk are the subpoenas. Miss Pershing has typed in the name of the Fatal Coordinator Sergeant, and the address looks right.SUBPOENA DUCES TECUM. It’s one of the older forms, which I prefer. They look positively terroristic. I peel off the yellow Post-It that Miss Pershing has signed, Secret Agent Secretary. She’s cute, but I don’t want to like her. I miss Brent.
It’s too late, but I punch in the number for AID and listen to their telephone ring and ring. I decide to go down tomorrow, first thing. Fuck the appointment. I’m the wife, for Christ’s sake. And the lawyer.
I hang up the telephone and flop into my chair.
I look at the pile of mail on my desk. It’s not like I don’t have other things to do. There’s a mountain of mail, including the expected motion from Starankovic. I open the envelope and read through the motion papers. They’re not bad, an improvement over the crap he usually files. At least he didn’t request oral argument, so I don’t have to sing to Bitter Man again.
I look through the pile of phone messages on my desk, and there’s one from Jameson.FILE THE BRIEF HE SAYS! Miss Pershing has written, with a little daisy in the exclamation point. I thumb through the rest of the pile. Judy, Judy, my mother, Stephanie Fraser again, the rest are clients that will have to wait. None are from Ned. Be careful what you wish, you might get it.
I turn to the mail. My heart begins to pound. On top is a plain white business envelope, with my name laser- printed in capital letters. But there’s no Stalling address. And no stamp or postmark. It came through the interoffice mail, from somebody at Stalling. I pick up the envelope. My hand begins to shake slightly.
Berkowitz. Martin. Jameson. Ned. Not Ned’s father, because it came interoffice.
I tear open the envelope.
I LOVE YOU, MARY
Ned. It has to be. I feel a sharp pain. How could I have been so thoroughly duped? I close my eyes.
When I open them, Berkowitz is standing in the doorway.
29
Berkowitz lurches into my office as if he owns it. I’m struck by his size, intimidated by his power. For the first time, his presence alone seems menacing, and I understand why a lot of people don’t like him.
“Mary had a little lamb,” he says. “Nice place you got here.”
“It looks just like everybody else’s.” I slip the note and the subpoenas under my mail.
“Except for the view, of course.”
“Right.” I glance back at the clock, luminous against the darkening sky. Storm clouds gather behind the clock tower.
Berkowitz leans against the file cabinet by the bookshelves. “Must be a weird feeling, having that thing over your shoulder. Like you’re being watched all the time.”
The comment sends a chill down my spine. He knows about the notes. What is this, a game? I say nothing.
“I don’t think I would like that.”
“The feeling or the clock?”
“Both. Either.” He snorts out a little laugh.
“I don’t like the feeling. The clock I can live with.”
He doesn’t reply, but his eyes scan my diplomas, my desk, and the other file cabinet. His expression is
