Absent Friends

MARIAN'S STORY

Chapter 7

How to Find the Floor

October 31, 2001

Marian tore herself from the grip of memory, from the empty darkness of long ago, and forced herself to return to this sunlit room, her room in this office that was hers.

This morning, unlike that desolate night, she was not alone. Here, unlike in that desolate place, she had work to do. Work: always, before, the rescuer that had saved her. Work. Yes; all right; this was familiar, putting her own needs aside to do important work. Breathe in, out, slow the heart, calm the panic.

“Someone killed Mr. Randall?” Marian spoke tranquilly, gazed directly into this thin reporter's eyes. “I haven't read that. The papers all say it was . . . that he took his own life.”

“The circumstances were suspicious. I'm sorry—the police would rather we didn't discuss any details. But that's why I'm here. My paper's following the story.” Stone stopped, frowned at her recorder, poked a button. In her silence, Marian watched her, thinking, The police?

Stone glanced up again. “He was following a few new leads,” she said. “They had to do with the McCaffery stories.” She paused, looked at Marian expectantly.

“What are you saying?”

“Well”—almost apologetic—“a lot of people were upset about what he'd been writing.”

“One of us?” Marian pitched her voice to sound truly aghast. “You think someone Mr. Randall was writing about could have killed him?”

Stone said, “It's the current thinking,” the way she might have suggested Marian carry an umbrella because, though neither of them liked it, it was raining. “He'd caused trouble for some people by exposing secrets. Maybe he was about to expose others.”

“In my experience,” Marian said, restraining her voice, keeping it calm and deliberate, “it's only in books that people kill other people to keep secrets from being exposed. Generally, in life, if people are afraid they're about to be found out”—she put a sarcastic, Victorian weight on the words—“they either run away or kill themselves.”

She watched the young woman flinch and felt bad for her. But it was necessary. This talk of secrets, of exposure. To assuage this young lover's heart? To fulfill her aching, forlorn need to believe her beloved had been taken from her, rather than that he chose to leave her?

No. Too much was at stake.

“I'm sorry,” Marian said. “But I find this ‘current thinking' absurd. And I haven't heard this theory on the news, or in the papers, or anywhere except from you.”

Surprisingly, Stone's face lit with a satisfied smile. “The police haven't been here yet?”

“No. No, they haven't.”

“They hate it when I do this.”

“Do what?”

“Beat them to an interview. Let's go on before they get here and throw me out. What can you tell me about the death of Jack Molloy?”

“Before they get here?”

“Well, of course they'll want to talk to everyone Harry Randall did. I was just hoping you might be able to point me in a useful direction first. So: Jack Molloy?”

Marian had a sense of rounding a bend in the road into a landscape that had changed without warning, where withering trees stood isolated on hills grown bare and bleak.

“Jack?” Marian spoke calmly but thought quickly, weighing options, making choices. “I went over that with Mr. Randall. I don't know anything about it except what was in the news at the time.”

“You were all friends back then, weren't you? James McCaffery, the Molloy brothers, Mark Keegan, you. You were dating McCaffery. Or is that wrong?”

“No, that's correct,” Marian said. Except that she and Jimmy had not “dated” since they were fourteen. “Going together” was what people said then, and that covered everything from the crisp fall days when Marian wrapped herself in Jimmy's varsity jacket, with its C for Captain, to the evening she arrived at his basement apartment—the month he'd entered the Fire Academy—with a spare toothbrush, a comb, and two brand-new nightgowns to fold into his bureau drawers.

“Why did Mark Keegan kill Jack Molloy?”

Marian considered the young woman. What was this?

And what could it become—be made to be? In this bleak landscape, could Marian plant seeds?

“You think Markie shooting Jack has something to do with Mr. Randall's death?”

“It's the story he was working on.”

Marian sat back. She paused, as though reluctant to go on, and said, “It's the money. The payments to Sally. You think there's something wrong there. Mr. Randall thought so, too.”

“Well, it's clear some people were lying about it, so something's obviously wrong somewhere. What can you tell me about it?”

“Nothing. Just that the payments came. We all thought they were from New York State.”

“Who told you that?”

“Sally. It's what her lawyer told her.”

“Phillip Constantine?”

“Yes.”

“Did he know where the money really came from?”

“He had to, don't you think?” Marian sipped at her coffee. It was bitter; had she forgotten sugar? “Have you talked to him?”

“I will.”

She would; of course she would. “He'll lie to you.”

“Why do you say that?”

Bitter or not, Marian drank. “Because he lied to me.”

“What did he say?”

“That he got the money from Jimmy.”

“How do you know that's not true?”

“Because it's ridiculous.”

“In what way?”

“Every way! Jimmy was a firefighter, where would he get so much money? And why on earth this absurd charade? He was Markie's closest friend. If he had money and wanted to help Sally out, why not just give it to her?” With horror Marian heard her own voice rising. She tried for a look of righteous indignation. “He's hiding something. Phil,” she added, to make sure this reporter, who seemed a little dim, would understand. “He's trying to blame something on Jimmy because Jimmy's dead. And because Jimmy's a hero, so whatever he was up to—Phil—if he can hook it to Jimmy, it won't look so bad.”

Laura Stone asked, “Where do you think the money came from?”

Enunciating very clearly: “I have no idea.”

“Captain McCaffery didn't tell you?”

“Jimmy?” A swift rush of blood filled Marian's face. Had this slow-witted reporter not heard anything she'd said? “How would he have known?”

“Did Sally Keegan know?”

Finally, a change of path. Breathe in, out. “No, I told you. Sally believed that money came from the State.”

“Are you sure?”

“We all did.”

“Why did Mark Keegan kill Jack Molloy?”

“You must know this! Jack shot at him.”

“Were you there?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how do you know what happened?”

“It's what Markie said.” Marian poured herself more coffee, added milk, made sure this time to include sugar. “And if you know I wasn't there, why are you asking me about it?”

“I'm sorry if this brings up unpleasant memories.”

“These aren't my favorite memories to dwell on, but that's not my question.”

“I'm just trying to follow up on Mr. Randall's story.” Diffident smile, and then: “Why did Jack Molloy shoot at Mark Keegan?”

“I don't know. Probably no reason. Jack was drunk.”

“He'd shoot at a friend just because he was drunk?”

“You never knew Jack, Ms. Stone. What are you getting at?”

“What's your theory on where the payments to Mrs. Keegan originated?”

Anger blazed through Marian again; but then into her mind sprang a picture, a friend's black dogs she'd seen playing tag in a field. The two zigzagged, broke this way and that, barking and yapping, taking turns being the chaser and the chased. Neither caught the other until one lay down, as if exhausted. The second trotted over to sniff, and the first leaped up and threw him into the mud.

She said carefully, “I really can't imagine. Well, except for Mr. Randall's fantasy.”

“His fantasy?”

Marian sighed, making sure to keep it subtle, not theatrical. “It's obvious what he was digging for. If someone paid Markie to kill Jack, and then Markie died, they might have kept paying. Mr. Randall wanted me to say that was possible.”

“Was it?”

“Of course not.”

“If it were, though, who would that have been?”

“Oh, please!”

“Mr. Randall seems to have thought it was Edward Spano.” Stone answered her own question. “Could it have been?”

Marian gazed across the room to a large photograph of the lush growth in a neighborhood garden MANY had funded, a garden far enough uptown to have escaped the dust and ash. “I can believe Eddie would do something like that, yes. But I can't believe it would be Markie.”

“But it was.”

Alarm gripped Marian's heart, though her voice did not change. “How do you know that?”

“It was Mark Keegan who killed Jack Molloy, I mean.”

“Well, yes.” The grip slackened, her heart slowed. “But it was self-defense.”

“So Keegan said.” Stone scowled at her recorder again, peering through the plastic to watch the tape rolling. As Marian relaxed, Stone, still adjusting buttons, said in preoccupied tones, “That could explain the payments to Keegan's family. Especially if someone else knew.”

“What do you mean? Will you stop fiddling with that thing?”

Stone looked up quickly. “I'm sorry. I'm just not very good with equipment. I'm not sure it's working. What did you say?”

“What did you mean about the payments?”

Stone frowned, then brightened, as though remembering. “If someone knew Mark Keegan had been paid to kill Molloy, the payments might have kept coming to keep her quiet.”

“Her? You mean Sally? No. No possible way.”

“Can you think of another explanation?”

“I don't think that's my job, Ms. Stone.”

“No.” Stone sighed. “No, I suppose not. What would McCaffery's role in this have been?”

“Role? Jimmy? Even if that were what happened, which is insane, Jimmy would have had nothing to do with it.”

“How do you know?”

Levelly, Marian met the other woman's eyes. “I knew Jimmy.”

“You broke up with him shortly after Keegan died.”

“What happened between Jimmy and me has nothing to do with this!” Marian snapped. “And”—her voice chilled—“it's certainly none of your business.”

“I'm sorry.” Stone seemed mortified. “That's not what I mean. It's just, you'd broken up by the time the payments began. He'd moved to Manhattan. I just wondered how you can be certain what he was involved in.”

“You seem to know a lot about us.”

“It was in Mr. Randall's story and his background research. Do I have it wrong?”

“No. Not the facts. But the article twisted the facts. It was full of nasty innuendo. About Jimmy, about what he might have done. And by extension, about me.”

“That's why I'm here,” Stone said earnestly. “I'll be speaking to other people, of course, but I've come to you first because you have a stake in it.”

“What stake do you mean?” Too sharp, Marian admonished herself. Stay calm, keep control.

“The McCaffery Fund.” Stone sounded surprised that Marian might be thinking of anything else. “You stopped taking contributions.”

“A matter of form,” Marian replied. “To reassure contributors. Just until these absurd allegations about Jimmy are cleared up. Which I have no doubt will be soon.”

“Meanwhile, I'd like to give you the chance to correct any misunderstandings based on what Mr. Randall wrote.”

“Those were not misunderstandings. Those were a reporter's attempts to smear as many people as possible on the basis of extremely flimsy supposition. Especially in the face of these extraordinary times, that was unconscionable.”

Laura Stone asked, “Do you know what was in his papers?”

Oh, these twists and turns, they were wearying. “Whose papers? Harry Randall's?”

“No. James McCaffery's.”

Marian did not move; but her body suddenly felt ponderous, weighted down, as if the pull of gravity had doubled. “What do you mean? What papers?”

“McCaffery apparently left papers. Possibly about this. Harry was on his way to see them the day he died.”

In a corner of her mind, Marian registered: Harry. Not Harry Randall, not Mr. Randall. All pretense dropped.

Marian summoned strength. “Who said this?” she demanded. “That Jimmy left papers?”

“Someone told Harry about them.”

“Someone lied.” That was not enough. “And even if he left something, who's to say it has anything to do with Jack and Markie? Jimmy could have had any number of things on his mind.” Marian wondered if that sounded as hollow to Laura Stone as it did to her.

“Yes, of course,” said Stone, equally falsely. “It's just, the person who told Harry about the papers said they were ‘hot stuff.'”

“Hot stuff?”

Stone nodded.

Marian shook her head. “I don't believe it.”

But it could be true. Jimmy, just like Marian herself, had never liked lying; but his reasons were different. He'd always said the truth would refuse to be hidden—it would “burn through,” that was how he'd put it—and lies you told would trip you up. It was too hard, he always said, lying was too hard.

It could be that that was what Jimmy's papers were about. The truth, burning through.

All right. One thing Marian understood was the importance of cutting her losses, especially when the chance still existed to bear away some small victory. “I'm sorry,” she told Stone. She checked her watch, as though the time elapsed meant something. “I have another appointment. We need to bring this to a close.”

Stone's eyes rested on Marian, and Marian felt as though she were being probed for gaps, weaknesses where a trickle of water, introduced but barely noticed, could burst the wall, become a drowning flood.

Deep within herself, Marian felt the rumbling of a vast, awakened anger. Before it could gather and explode, however, Laura Stone was on her feet, packing her scattered notebooks and pens, the irritating tape recorder, smiling, thanking Marian for her time. “I can find my way out,” she said. Nevertheless Marian accompanied her down the hallway, shook her hand; not to do so would be rude. She closed the polished oak door behind the reporter and turned back toward her own office. As she asked Elena to please clear the table in the small conference room and leave the untouched plate of cookies by the coffee machine for the staff, she realized the only coffee gone from the carafe was what she herself had had.