Murder on the Aisle

25

12:28 A.M.

The first person he met at Hunter was a security guard who could have doubled as a villain in a pro wrestling setup. “I can’t let you in,” he told Tobin.

Tobin said, “I’ll be up-front with you, all right?”

The guy stood there fifty pounds overweight in his uniform, just outside the doors leading to the film department, and said, “All right, but it won’t do any good.”

“Being up-front, being honest, showing you myself as one human being to another won’t do any good?”

“That’s right,” the guard said.

“You see that?”

The guard angled his head to see what Tobin was nodding at. “What?”

“On the street corner over there.”

“The streetlight over there?”

“No. What’s on the streetlight.”

“The Santy Claus.”

“Right. The Santy Claus.”

“What about it?”

“Well, it’s that time of year.”

“What time of year?”

Tobin hoped he’d never have to go on a game show with this guy as his partner. “It’s holiday time. Giving time. Helping-each-other-out time.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“So how about helping me out?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m in some trouble and I’ve got a feeling that somebody who helped get me in trouble is inside that building.”

“Then why don’t you call the police?”

“Because they won’t believe me. They don’t give a damn about it being that time of year when people help each other out.”

“I don’t either.”

“Well, you were right.”

“I was?”

“Yeah. You said that even if I was up-front with you, even if I showed you myself as one human being to another, it wouldn’t do any good.”

“At least I didn’t lie.”

So Tobin took out his wallet and said, “I suppose you’d get pissed off if I offered you a bribe.”

“Like you said, it’s that time of year when people help each other out,” the guard said.

Tobin knew the guy was going to call the police, then deny that he’d ever let Tobin in, and certainly deny that he’d taken a bribe. He had to move quickly.

His footsteps were hollow echoing down the dark halls. He could smell cleaning solvent. Moonlight fell in tiny amoeba shapes on the floor. He turned several corners, his breathing ragged, his face covered with sweat. He could still hear her voice on the phone. He had been so stupid.

When he reached the corridor leading to the film lab, he moved even faster. Then he was there.

A desk lamp burned in the outer office. He first checked the editing room. Empty. Then he tried all the inner office doors. Locked. He moved to the secretary’s desk and consulted her list of room numbers. He found the main production room number and headed there.

Another corridor. Another right angle. He stood in front of the production room, putting his ear to the door. Nothing.

He jerked open the door and stood there looking around. One wall was filled with TV sets used as monitors. Another contained various small tape recorders and three-quarter-inch video cameras. The east wall held small editing tables for both audio and video. This was where he found her.

His first assumption was that she was dead, the way she was slumped over the recorder. He ran to her and lifted her gently upward. Blood covered one side of her face, but when he touched a finger to her neck he found at least a dim pulse.

He set her down on the floor, took off his topcoat and put it beneath her head for a pillow. Then he went over to the phone and dialed 911.

When he went back to her, he knelt down beside her and for along moment just stared at her. The older he got, the less able he seemed to judge people. Staring at her now he felt a variety of things for her prettiness — affection, lust, paternalism. But he had been so wrong about her. The virtues he’d attributed to her were fanciful — in his mind only.

But his thoughts made him guilty. She seemed to have only a fragile grip on life, so now was no time to feel sorry for himself at her expense. He said, “Marcie, can you hear me?”

At first he thought he’d imagined the slight flicker of her eyelids. But then her eyes opened.

She was trying. “I’m sorry, Tobin.”

“Who hit you?”

“I should never have gotten involved with Ebsen.”

“Why did you?”

“He told me how easy it would be to get money. All I had to do was help him edit the tapes. He wasn’t a great technician.” Then she went “Ooooo” as pain apparently traveled across her head.

“So Ebsen followed people around with his shotgun microphone so he could send them the tapes ‘Compliments of Richard Dunphy’ and embarrass them?”

“Yes. He taped everybody around but he really hated Dunphy. He was obsessed with him.”

He touched her forehead. Stroked it gently. “Why did you lie to me about your mother?”

She swallowed. “I get sentimental at Christmas, I guess.” She smiled. “I make myself feel better with fantasies.”

Tobin felt a sadness sharp as a weapon pierce his chest. But he had to go on with his questions. “Ebsen found something out about somebody, didn’t he?”

“Tobin—” She swallowed again. This time he could see how her throat contracted. “I don’t know how much more I can talk.”

He knew she wasn’t exaggerating. She was suddenly bathed in sweat but her flesh was cold.

“He found out about Dunphy being paid to praise Peter Larson’s movies, right?”

“Right.”

He shook his head. “Who killed Dunphy?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Bullshit.” He couldn’t control his anger. He thought again of how she’d lied to him.

“I lie about a lot of things, Tobin. But I’m not lying about this. I’m not sure. Ebsen had one tape he sent to somebody but he wouldn’t tell me who. He just said if he got the money he wanted, we’d split it. He was really excited. Said he’d stumbled onto somebody who was really going to have to pay. But he still wouldn’t tell me. Ebsen liked playing games like that. I wasn’t with him the day he—” She grimaced again and made a pained noise.

“Who hit you tonight?”

“Stay right there,” the guard said from the doorway.

Tobin looked up and found the man, gun drawn, advancing on him. “Shit,” he said, seeing all the blood. He glared at Tobin. “You bastard.”

“I didn’t hit her.”

“Right.”

“I’ve already called nine-one-one.”

This seemed to confuse the man. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Now I have to finish here.” He looked back down at Marcie and said, “Who hit you, Marcie?”

“Whoever followed me inside tonight. They must have followed me from my apartment.”

“Where you live with your dead mother who baked you cookies.”

“I’m sorry about all the lies, Tobin. I actually did have a mother once.”

“Good for you.” Tobin was getting as sweaty as Marcie. He saw his chances for finding the real killer slipping away. He thought of his list and the names on it but none of them seemed likely suspects at the moment. “Do you remember the day Ebsen told you about the special tape?”

“Yeah. Sort of. Why?”

“Do you remember who he was following that day?”

From down the hall came thunderous pounding. Obviously the ambulance had arrived. The guard, looking as if he still wanted to have a public hanging with Tobin as the hangee, said, “I’ll go see who that is.” Who did he think it was going to be — Domino’s Pizza?

When he’d left, Tobin said, “Please, think, Marcie. Who was he following around that day he got so excited?”

She thought. “No—” Then she frowned in what seemed part pain and part concentration. “He just said that this man he was following had more to lose than even Dunphy.”

Tobin was thinking about Michael Dailey and his book contract when an ambulance team dressed in white and the fog of the winter night came rushing through the door.

They pushed Tobin aside as they got Marcie ready for the gurney.

Tobin knew he had to get out of here before the guard came back or the man would hold him for the police. He went over to Marcie and said, “Did he get the tape tonight?”

She was on the gurney, strapped in. “No. Because I didn’t even know what he was looking for. He hit me and panicked and ran.”

“Without the tape?”

She nodded, then grimaced. “Without the tape.”

“And you didn’t recognize his voice?”

“He kept a handkerchief over his face. I couldn’t even see him really.”

One of the ambulance men, irritated at how close Tobin was standing, said, “Would you mind moving back, buddy?”

Then Tobin left, into the shadows of the corridor, out one of the side doors to the street, sneaking up in back of his waiting cab.

By now he knew, of course. Knew well and sadly.

He gave the driver an address and sat back, trying to figure out how he was going to handle it. On the way over he made a single stop, a phone booth. He was getting as good at phone-boothing as Clark Kent. Huggins didn’t seem at all happy to hear from him. Even less happy about having to get out of bed. Huggins said, “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

“Then you’ll want to get an early start on the day. You’ve probably got a lot of shopping left to do.”

Tobin hung up and got back in his cab and went back across the cold city.