Worst Fears Realized

38

STONE WOKE AROUND SEVEN, HAVING NOT had much sleep, and found Dolce gone. There was a note on the dresser: “Thank you for an interesting evening. Let me know when you need more information, or another interesting evening. Dolce.” Her phone numbers, office and home, were below.

Stone ordered some breakfast and read the Times. Again, he saw the theatrical advertisement by Judson Palmer. He cut it out and put it in his money clip. He checked out of the hotel at nine and ordered his car from the garage, checking the glove compartment to be sure the pistol was there, before relocking it. He consulted the theatrical ad; Palmer’s theater was on West Forty-fourth Street, west of Sixth Avenue. He parked in the Hippodrome Garage at Forty-fourth and Sixth and walked to the theater. A janitor was sweeping out the lobby.

“Good morning,” Stone said.” Can you tell me where to find Judson Palmer? Where his offices are?”

“They’re right up there,” the janitor said, pointing upward. He indicated a door. “Through there and up the stairs one flight.”

Stone walked upstairs and emerged into a shabby waiting room, where a young woman was sitting at a desk, eating a Danish and drinking coffee. “Good morning,” he said.

She had to swallow before she could speak. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Palmer.”

“Are you an actor? We’re already cast; we open this weekend.”

“No, it’s a matter of personal business.”

“Does he owe you money?”

“No, nothing like that.”

Stone heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and he turned to see a man in his fifties wearing a bush jacket walk into the room, carrying a brown bag. He was overweight and looked hungover. “Mr. Palmer?” he said.

“We’re already cast,” Palmer said, opening the door to his office. “Leave your picture and r/ésumé with the girl; I’ll consider you for the next show.”

“I’m not an actor,” Stone said. “My name is Stone Barrington.”

“Sounds like an actor,” Palmer said, pausing in the doorway. “What do you want?”

“It’s in connection with a man named Mitteldorfer.”

Palmer winced. “Are you a reporter?”

“No, and I think you should hear what I have to tell you.”

“All right, come on in,” Palmer said.

Stone followed him into the room, which was decorated with posters from Palmer’s previous shows. The place had a temporary look; Stone thought that Palmer must move his office from theater to theater, with his shows.

Palmer indicated a chair, then he took coffee and a bagel from his brown bag. “That’s a name I haven’t heard for a long time,” he said. “What’s that guy got to do with me?”

Stone sat down. “I’m aware that you had an affair with his wife some years back, and that, as a result, Mitteldorfer murdered her.”

“I won’t confirm or deny that,” Palmer said. “Are you a lawyer?”

“Yes, but I’m not here in a legal capacity. I used to be a police officer; I arrested Herbert Mitteldorfer for his wife’s murder. At the time, we didn’t know with whom she’d been having an affair, so we didn’t talk to you.”

“Why now? Mitteldorfer’s in prison, isn’t he?”

“No.”

Palmer stopped chewing the bagel. “Then he must be dead.”

“No. He was released from prison recently.”

“Jesus Christ,” Palmer said. “I thought he went away for fife.”

“At the time, life didn’t necessarily mean life; there was no life sentence without the possibility of parole.”

Palmer put down the bagel and sipped his coffee; he looked worried.

“Tell me, Mr. Palmer, did Herbert Mitteldorfer know with whom his wife was having the affair?”

Palmer swallowed hard. “I don’t know, for sure,” he said. “Arlene thought he was onto us, though. She didn’t know if he knew who I was. I was a client of the firm where he worked; I met her when she came into the office one day. It was the only time he saw us together, that I know of, and that was very casual. In fact, Herbie introduced us. Something passed between Arlene and me, though, and I waited outside for her. When she came down, I asked her out for a drink.”

“How long did it go on?”

“Four or five months, I guess; right up until she… died.”

“Did you ever write her any letters?”

“No.”

“Might she have had your business card?”

“No. If you’re screwing somebody else’s wife, you don’t give her things like that; you’re more careful.”

“Just how careful were you?”

“Very. I never went to her place, and she never came to mine. I had an office in the Schubert Building at the time, and she used to come up there. I had a little bedroom and a shower; I was living in Scarsdale, married, and I’d stay in town two or three nights a week.”

“Were you in love with her?”

“Not really. I liked her a lot, though; she was a nice girl in a bad marriage.”

“Was she in love with you?”

“She was in love with the idea of getting out of her marriage,” Palmer replied. “She knew I was married, but she knew mine was rocky, too, that I wanted out.”

“So she looked upon you as a way out?”

“Maybe, but I tried to discourage that. I knew that if I got a divorce, it was going to cost me most of what I had. I was right about that.”

“Did she talk about her marriage much?”

“Some; you know what women are like in those circumstances, don’t you?”

“Not really; tell me.”

“She’d complain about him, about how finicky he was about everything – their apartment, his clothes, her clothes. Apparently, he was very good with money, but she complained that she had no control over the money she’d brought to the marriage, which was considerable, I think. She was afraid that if she divorced him, she wouldn’t be able to get the money back, and it was all she had. Her parents were dead. That’s about all she ever told me about him.”

“Did she see a lawyer?”

“Yeah, just a day or so before she was killed.”

“Do you know his name?”

Palmer wrinkled his brow. “I used to know it; he was a well-known divorce lawyer at the time – even bigger, now. I see his name in the papers now and then.”

“It would help if you could remember it.”

Palmer looked at Stone. “Help who? What’s your interest in this?”

“Mitteldorfer disappeared after he got out of prison. I’m trying to find him.”

“Why?”

“I want to put him back in prison.”

“Goldsmith,” Palmer said.

“Bruce Goldsmith?”

“That’s the one. He’s a big-time divorce lawyer, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is.” Stone had gone to law school with him.

“Look, tell me what’s going on, will you?”

“It looks as though Mitteldorfer is taking revenge on people he thinks have wronged him.”

Palmer rested his face in his hands. “Oh, Jesus. I can’t get involved in this. Investors are hard enough to find; if my name turns up in the papers…”

“Mitteldorfer may already be responsible for the deaths of half a dozen people, including a police officer who happened to get in the way. He seems to be attacking people he thinks of as enemies and… people close to them. Did you see the story in the Times about the bombing at a gallery opening on Wednesday?”

“Oh, shit, yes. And I’ve got an opening tomorrow night.”

Stone wrote down Dino’s name and number on the back of his card and handed the paper to Palmer. “This is the detective in charge of the investigation; he was my partner in the murder investigation. I’d suggest that you get in touch with him, tell him about your past association with Mitteldorfer’s wife, and ask for his help.”

“But what if Mitteldorfer doesn’t know who I am?”

“Then you should have nothing to worry about.”

“But if he does…?”

“Then, in addition to calling Lieutenant Bacchetti, I’d hire some private security for your opening.”

“Oh, God.” Palmer moaned, resting his head on his arms.

“My number’s on the card, too; I’d appreciate a call if you think of anything else that might help me find Mitteldorfer. Good luck with your opening.”

Palmer said nothing. Stone left his office.

“Maybe you should be an actor,” the young woman at the reception desk said. “You’re good-looking enough.”

Stone smiled at her. “You, too,” he said.