Split Images

  "I know him," Walter said. "He comes on like he's so straight he wouldn't even fucking jaywalk.

  But the son of a bitch--you give him any indication of probable cause, he'll throw the book away and come at you. I've seen it."

  "I know him better than you think," Robbie said, "I played golf with him. And you're right, he cheats. But then, who doesn't? Would you feel better if we waited till he went home?"

  "I get excited about it, I get all ready," Walter said, "then we sit around. We gonna do it or not?"

  "Well," Robbie said, "I've got a late golf match tomorrow. How about the day after?"

  THERE WERE PICKETS in front of the General Motors Building with signs that read GM HAS NO HEART . . . GM'S TAKING OUR HOMES . . .

  WAR! GM INVADES POLETOWN! . . . The little guy taking on the big corporation over a land dispute: a neighborhood the city had bought, condemned and already partly razed to make room for a new Cadillac assembly plant.

  Bryan said, "Dodge Main's gone, what do they want, a house or a job?"

  Annie Maguire said, "If you lived there you might feel differently about it."

  Bryan said, "I might and I might not."

  They got out of the blue Plymouth parked in the no standing zone and walked past the pickets, Bryan carrying a thick manila envelope, saying, "Maybe they don't have anything else to do," and into the GM Building, Annie saying, "I'm never sure what side you're gonna be on." Bryan saying, "Why do I have to be on either side?" Annie saying,"Ralph Nader thinks they're getting dumped on."

  And Bryan saying, "Who asked him?"

  "You're in a terrible mood today."

  "I'm not even supposed to be here."

  "The guy we're seeing's name is Bill Fay. He's a nice guy. Try not to bite his head off."

  Bryan said nothing, making no promises.

  He followed Annie out of the elevator on the second floor to the end of the corridor and into a wing of glass-partitioned offices intersected with hallways. Bryan saw executives, some in shirt sleeves, each sitting between a worktable and a desk; he saw wallcharts and graphs, photos of wives and kids, draperies in some offices, venetian blinds in most. They entered an office where a pair of middle-aged secretaries presided, bore left, and Annie told the lady studying them, "Hi, Mr. Fay's expecting us." Bryan could see him through the glass in a gray pin-striped suit with a maroon handkerchief in the pocket, talking on the phone, gently swiveling from side to side in his executive chair.

  He looked up and waved them in with an alert eager expression and was off the phone, on his feet, by the time they entered.

  "Miss Maguire, gee, it's good to see you again.

  How're you doing?" Then to Bryan, "Hi, Bill Fay . . . It's a pleasure. Lieutenant, this is some gal you got here. She knows her stuff, I'll tell you. Sit down . . ."There were Chevrolet magazine ads, mounted and matted, covering most of one wall. A display line in bold, cursive lettering, off by itself, read:

  SEE THE EIGHTY-ONE-DERFUL CHEVROLET TODAY!

  The line held Bryan's attention. He thought of 1982, new models coming out in the fall . . .

  He heard Bill Fay saying, "I'm afraid I'm gonna have to make this one short," and turned to see him shoot his cuff to look at his watch. "I've got an ad meeting in exactly . . . four-and-a-half minutes.

  But, I know your work is as important to you as mine is to me. I know you have to keep going back over the same territory, make sure you don't miss anything . . . But, hey, I had an idea. I wondered, what if you displayed your phone number in the paper? You know, anyone who was around there and just might have seen something strange going on, please contact us at this number. What do you say? I could have the agency speedball you a nice layout. Maybe put a gun in it? Hey, I love it."

  "Newspaper stories usually include our number," Annie said. "What we were wondering"--she rose, taking the manila envelope from Bryan--"if you'd mind looking at these photographs again.

  Just on the chance one of them, you know, might ring a bell."As Annie pulled the photos from the envelope Fay was studying Bryan, the beginning of a smile in place. He said, "Boy, all the legwork you have to do, huh? Sure, I'd be glad to look at them again," helping Annie now spread the black and white shots of Robbie Daniels over the glass-top surface of his desk. "This is your suspect, huh? He looks familiar."

  Annie said, "He's not a suspect exactly, but we're curious about him. We know he was in the vicinity of the Plaza that morning."

  "Oh?" Bill Fay seemed a little surprised. "Is this a new development? As I recall, you weren't that sure before."

  "He was there," Bryan said.

  Fay waited for him to say more. Finally his gaze dropped to the photos and Bryan watched his demonstration of interest, row by row, studying all the Robbies, the on-camera shots, smiling, winking, the laid-back, heavy-lidded Hi-I'm-RobbieDaniels shots and the true candid shots that caught him unprepared, or caught angles that emphasized his posture, his hip-cocked stance, the hand beneath the cashmere sweater.

  Bryan said, "Mr. Fay, you checked into the Plaza about nine forty-five Saturday morning?"

  "Yeah, about that."

  "You told Sergeant Maguire you noticed a black Mercedes sedan.""It's funny, driving down," Bill Fay said, "my wife and I were talking about foreign cars, particularly the Japanese imports taking close to twenty percent of the market. She was saying they shouldn't be allowed in the country, especially with the economic situation the way it is, and I said, wait a minute, just a darn minute, we got a freeenterprise system here. You don't make it, you pack your bags. It's rough out there, I kid you not.

  Though I believe there's room for some kind of quota system, yeah, for the time being--"

  Bryan said, "You did see a black Mercedes?"

  "I'm coming to that. I said, you don't see, really, that many foreign cars in Detroit anyway. I mean it's not anything like L. A. . . . we're pulling into the Plaza, you know, underneath by the entrance, and she goes, 'Oh, then what's that?' " Bill Fay grinned.

  "Here's a four-fifty SEL Mercedes right in front of us. But wait, here's the kicker. On this big piece of German iron there's a bumper sticker that says, Real Americans Buy American Cars." Fay sat back for reactions, grinning.

  Bryan said, "Did you notice the license number, or any part of it?"

  "No, I didn't. And I didn't see anyone because the car was empty. I remember the door was open.

  We had to wait before we could pull up. Then we had to stand around there a while waiting for a parking ticket."Bryan leaned over the desk, pulled out a shot of Robbie wearing a suit and dropped it in front of Fay.

  "Nope." He shook his head.

  Bryan looked over the selection, found one that showed Robbie in a raincoat, an angle on him going into what was probably his home in Grosse Pointe.

  "No," the GM executive said, but kept looking at it.

  "Maybe," Bryan said, "if we showed the pictures to your wife . . ."

  And Bill Fay said, "No, no, no--she didn't see anything. I know, I discussed it with her. As a matter of fact she went inside right away. She wasn't even there."

  Bryan said, "What do you mean, there? "

  "When I was waiting for my ticket."

  "There's still a chance," Bryan said, "she might've seen him before she went in."

  "There was nobody there before. I know--she didn't see a thing. We've gone over it and over it."

  Bryan said, "Mr. Fay, was your wife with you that morning or was it someone else?"

  The executive said, "Now wait just a darn minute. I hope I didn't hear an insinuation of some kind."

  "You didn't," Bryan said. "I asked you in plain English if you were with your wife or someone else.

  You checked in at nine forty-five and checked outat four P. M. It's none of my business what you were doing there or who you were doing it with, but if you saw this man at the hotel, I want you tell me about it."

  Bill Fay looked at his watch again. "Listen, we're gonna have to continue this some other time."
br />   Bryan said, "Can I use your phone?"

  Fay was putting some papers together, starting to get up. "Sure. Help yourself."

  "What's your home phone number?"

  Fay held onto the papers and eased down into his chair again. He straightened the papers now against the glass top of the desk and placed them squarely in front of him, preparing himself, getting ready. He said, "Lieutenant, I can tell you in all honesty she did not see a thing. I'll swear to it."

  Bryan said, "Tell me in all honesty if your wife was with you."

  "Does it matter?" Fay said. "I mean if she didn't see him it doesn't matter who didn't see him, does it?"

  "But you saw him," Bryan said. He waited. "The whole thing is, you don't want to be a witness and have to appear in court . . . Where did you tell your wife you were?" He waited again.

  "If I told you anything at all"--saying this carefully--"I would have to appear, wouldn't I?"

  "I don't know," Bryan said. "Your testimony would place him at the scene, but that's all. We'dneed a lot more to get a conviction. The murder weapon, for example, and a positive ballistics test.

  If the suspect's lawyer sees we've got a case then he might enter a plea and there'd be no trial. You're off the hook. I can't promise you anything; but if you tell me he was there, then we can narrow it down, concentrate the investigation, get something that'll stick."

  Fay raised a hand to his forehead, spreading his fingers to massage his temples. He wore a diamond on his little finger, his nails were manicured and glistened with colorless polish.

  "You saw him there," Bryan said. "The reason you remember him, you know who he is. You saw him walk down the ramp or you saw him enter that area . . . he went down to the garage and shot a parking attendant five times, probably killing him instantly. We don't think, no matter who he is, he should be able to take another's man's life and get away with it. Do you?" Bryan waited.

  "He was wearing a raincoat," Bill Fay said. "He walked into the entrance to the ramp. A gray Lincoln Continental turned in and stopped. I could see the rear end sticking out. Then the car continued on, but he didn't come out. So I assume he got in the car and went down."

  "Thank you," Bryan said.

  "But I won't appear in court," Fay said. "In fact, if you ever again ask me if I was even there, I'll denyit." He paused. "I told my wife I was going to Cleveland."

  Bryan looked at Annie. She got up and began gathering the photos and he looked at Fay again.

  "Do you know who that is?"

  "If it isn't Robinson Daniels, it's somebody who looks just like him."

  "Do you know Daniels?"

  "No. I see him at the DAC every once in a while.

  And I've seen his picture. But why would he want to shoot a colored parking attendant?"

  "Why would he want to shoot anyone?" Bryan said.

  He got up and waited for Annie before moving to the door. Then looked back at the display of magazine ads and the theme line, See the Eighty- one-derful Chevrolet today!

  He said to Fay, "What you might say next year--how about, See the Eighty-two-rific Chevrolet today?"

  Bill Fay began to nod. He said, "That's not bad," and was making a note as Bryan and Annie left.

  Outside, walking past the pickets, Bryan said, "How come they're marching around here instead of looking for a place to live?"

  "You're all heart," Annie said. "I'll bet you don't even feel sorry for Mr. Fay.""He should've gone to Cleveland," Bryan said.

  They drove downtown and had to park two blocks from 1300 with the construction of the new county jail wings clogging the side streets with trucks and heavy equipment. Bryan could hardly wait to get upstairs. The first things he did, waving off Malik and Doug Parrish, he placed a call to the Atlantis Villas, Number 16. The phone rang nine times. He was ready to hang up, frustrated, when Angela's voice turned his mood around.

  "You just come in from the beach?"

  "No, I was washing my hair. How's it going?"

  "I'm through. We're gonna have a meeting and that's it, I'm coming back tonight. In fact, if I get the five-thirty Delta flight I'll be there around nine."

  "I'll meet you."

  "You don't have to do that."

  "Are you kidding? I can hardly wait."

  "I'm not sure what time it gets in."

  "I'll find out. If you miss it and have to take a later flight I'll wait for you. Just come."

  "What're you doing?"

  "I'm washing my hair."

  "I mean outside of that."

  "Oh--I called Chichi. Finally got hold of him."

  "Yeah? . . ."

  "I told him I need some color for a magazine piece I'm doing on Robbie and he said, 'You wantsome good stories?' He said, 'I've got some you'd never be able to print.' "

  "Angela? Why don't you wait till I get back?"

  "It's all arranged, I'm meeting him at six."

  "Where?"

  "The place in Hillsboro. I told him I knew where it was. He said, 'So you're the one.' I told him, don't worry, I'm a user not a snitch."

  "Angela--"

  "If I don't get him now I may never. But I'll be at the airport, don't worry about that."

  "That's not it--"

  "Bryan, what about the little girl?"

  "What little girl?"

  "The one--you found her body inside the car, with her panties pushed down?"

  "Rolled down. Nothing. We don't know any more than we did," Bryan said. "Angela," he said then, "why don't you wait?"

  "Bryan, who took care of me before I met you? I gotta go. I love you and I'll see you tonight."

  She was gone.

  THE PALM BEACH REALTOR that Robbie was to play golf with phoned at two-thirty to say he was terribly sorry but there was no way he could make it this afternoon; he was showing a Saudi's place to a West German, Christ, middleman in an Arab-Kraut deal and hoped to God he came out of it in one piece.

  Robbie said, "You'll come out of it with about a hundred grand, Tony. But don't ever ask me to play golf with you again. Is that understood?"

  The realtor said, "Hey, Robbie--"

  And Robbie said, "Get fucked, Tony," and hung up.

  He found Walter in his room and brought him up to the study along with two cold bottles of Heineken.

  "Change of plans. We move today."

  "How come?"

  Jesus, everybody was giving him a hard time.

  "Because I want to do it today," Robbie said."I'm ready. I want to walk in there and do it. Is that hard to understand?"

  Walter had to see it clearly in his mind. He took a big swallow of beer and wiped his mouth with his hand.

  "How we know the guy's gonna be there?"

  "He comes every day between five and seven, doesn't he?"

  "Almost every day."

  "Okay, if he's not there, we don't do it. We do it tomorrow. There's not that much to plan, Walter.

  I'm gonna use the MAC-ten with the suppressor.

  We walk in--"

  "What do I use?"

  "We walk in," Robbie said, "I open up with the MAC and you open up with the Hitachi."

  "The camera? You're kidding me."

  "I told you that, didn't I? I want to see it, I want to study it--same way a football team studies game films. I want to get it down right, Walter, so when we go for the big ones"--he snapped his fingers three times--"it works like that, like the pros do it.

  You have a team operation you better have splitsecond timing or else you're gonna blow it. And when you blow the big one, Walter . . . that's it. No more."

  Walter said, "I'm gonna be standing there with the fucking camera on my shoulder--"

  "This time you are. I want to see it, Walter.""You're the star--that what you're saying?"

  "I'm not gonna be in it--"

  "Big movie, Assassination of an Asshole, starring Mr. Robinson Daniels. You want George Hamilton to be in it, too?"

  "Walter, you don't shoot me. I'm not in it. I want the camera to f
ollow only the guy. I want to see how he reacts, I want to see everything he does."

  Walter was silent a moment. "What about the broad?"

  "Who, Dorie? . . . We get her out of the way.

  Lock her in a closet."

  "Jesus Christ," Walter said, "I thought you knew what you're doing. Lock her in a closet--the cops let her out, they take hold of her finger, this one. They say okay, you know who did it? Point 'em out."

  "We cover up," Robbie said. Goddamn dumb Polack. "Wear masks or something. Ski masks- no, we'll tie bandanas around, you know, just our eyes showing and wear sunglasses."

  "Jesus Christ," Walter said, "Butch and fucking Sundance. Broad looks at you, hears your voice, or she happens to look out the window, sees a Mercedes and a fucking silver Rolls Royce . . . I think, Mr. Daniels, I'm gonna pass on this one. What I ought to do, get my ass outta here right now."

  "Finish your beer," Robbie said quietly. He walked away from the bar, stood with his hands inthe pockets of his chinos, then drifted back, taking his time.

  "Walter? . . ."

  "You're not ready," Walter said. "You haven't thought it out. We went out on a STRESS operation--before we hit that street we knew every fucking move we're gonna make and what we do if different various situations come up."

  Robbie said, "Okay, we don't want a witness, there won't be a witness. If Dorie happens to be there, well, that's too bad."

  Walter said, "Oh no, uh-unh. The broad's got nothing to do with it."

  "She works for him--what's the difference?

  She's part of an illegal operation."

  "She puts out for him," Walter said. "That's all she does I know of or seen her do. I don't want no parts of shooting broads. I told you that a long time ago, I never shot a broad in my life and I hope to God I never get in a position I have to. You're telling me about all these assholes--were there any broads on your list? No. Broads might be there, yeah, but that's all. They're like on the side, what broads do, they hang out. No sir . . ."

  Robbie said, "Okay, we call her up. Give her a message to meet Cheech at the polo club. Five o'clock. Which means we got to move."

  "Wait a minute," Walter said. "Wait a minute.

  You got the phone number?""Not yet."

  "You think it's in the book? Narcotics drop, they got it under N?"