Ramirez did not reply right away. He continued to push the ashtray around on the table. “I guess I no longer view it that way,” he said at length, gazing directly at Todd. I see no substantial evidence of any conspiracy. Unless Commander Winters himself orders additional work from my department, I am abandoning my investigation.” He looked at his watch. “At least I can still spend Saturday night and Sunday with my family.” He rose to leave.
“And what if I bring you proof?” Todd asked, making no effort to hide his disgust with Ramirez.
“Proof will convince Winters as well,” Ramirez answered coldly. “I have taken enough risk on this project. I will not take any more action unless instructed by the proper authority.”
Winters wasn’t really certain he would find something appropriate. Ordinarily, he carefully avoided shopping malls, especially on a Saturday afternoon. But while he had been lying on the couch, watching one of the NCAA basketball games and sipping a beer, he had remembered how pleased he had been when Helen Turnbull, who had played Maggie, had given him a set of unusual tile coasters after the opening weekend of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. “It’s a fading tradition in the theater, I fear,” the experienced actress had said when he thanked her, “but giving small presents after the opening night or nights is still my way of congratulating those people I have enjoyed working with.”
The mall was crowded with Saturday shoppers and Commander Winters felt oddly conspicuous, as if everyone were looking at him. He walked around for several minutes before he even thought about what kind of gift he might get for her. Something simple of course, he thought. Nothing that could be misinterpreted. Just a nice memento or souvenir. He saw Tiffani in his mind’s eye as she had appeared in his fantasy just before he had fallen asleep the night before. The image embarrassed him in the shopping crowd and he nervously called up another picture, this one wholesome and acceptable, of the little girl Tiffani during his conversation with her father. Her hair, he thought, remembering the pigtails. I’ll buy her something for her hair.
He walked into a gift shop and tried to make some sense out of the jumble of bric-a-brac that lined the walls and was assembled on top of an assortment of tables in no identifiable pattern. “Can I help you?” Winters jumped when a salesgirl approached him from behind. He shook his head. Now why did you do that? he said to himself. Of course you need help. Otherwise you’ll never find anything.
“Excuse me, young lady,” he almost shouted at the retreating salesgirl, “I guess I could use some advice. I want to buy a present.” Winters again felt as if everyone were watching him. “For my niece,” he added quickly.
The salesgirl was a brunette, about twenty, very plain, but with an eager face. “Did you have anything in mind?” she asked. Her hair was long, like Tiffani’s. Winters relaxed a little.
“Sort of,” he said. “She has beautiful long hair. Like yours. What could I get her that would be really special? It’s her birthday.” Again he felt a strange anxiety that he did not understand.
“What color?” the girl asked.
The question didn’t make sense. “I don’t even know yet what I want,” he replied with a puzzled expression, “so I certainly don’t know the color.”
The salesgirl smiled. “What color is your niece’s hair?” she said very slowly, almost as if she were speaking to a mental retard.
“Oh, of course,” Winters laughed. “Reddish-brown, auburn,” he said. “And it’s very long.” You said that already, a voice whispered inside of him. You are acting like a fool.
The salesgirl motioned for him to follow her and they walked back to the rear of the store. She pointed at a small round glass case full of combs of all shapes and sizes. “These would make excellent gifts for your niece,” she said. There was an inflection in her voice when she said the word “niece” that bothered Winters. Could she know something? One of her friends? Or maybe she was at the play? He took a breath and calmed himself. Again Winters was astounded by the volatility of his emotions.
On one of the small shelves were two beautiful matching brown combs with gold filigree across the top. One of the combs was large enough to hold all that magnificent hair in a chignon against her neck. The other smaller comb was a perfect size to adorn the side or back of her hairstyle. “I’ll take those,” he said to the girl, “the ones with the gold work along the top. And please giftwrap them for me.”
The efficient salesgirl reached inside the display case and pulled out the combs. She told Winters to wait a couple of minutes while she wrapped the present. She disappeared into the back of the store and winters was left alone. I’ll leave them on her dressing table at the end of intermission, he was thinking. He conjured up a picture of Tiffani going into the dressing room, by herself, and finding the present under her nameplate against the mirror. Winters smiled as he imagined her reaction. At that moment a woman with her eight- or nine-year-old daughter brushed by him in the store. “Pardon me,” the woman said, without looking around, as she and the little girl rushed to finger some Easter baskets hanging on the wall.
The salesgirl had finished wrapping the present and was standing next to the computer cash register. When Winters reached the counter, she handed him a small card that had “Happy Birthday” imprinted on the upper left corner. Winters stared at it for a few seconds. “No,” he said finally. “No card. I’ll buy another at the stationery store.”
“Cash or charge?” the girl asked him.
Winters panicked for a moment. I don’t know if I have enough cash on me, he thought. And how would I ever explain the charge to Betty? He opened his wallet and counted his money. He smiled at the girl and said “Cash, please” when he realized that he had almost fifty dollars. The bill was only thirty-two dollars, including the tax.
Commander Winters felt a rush of Joy as he nearly skipped out of the store. His earlier nervousness had completely disappeared. He even began to whistle just before he pushed open the door and left the enclosed air-conditioned environment of the mall. I hope she likes the combs, he said to himself. Then he smiled again. I know she will.
8
NICK poured the last of the bottle of Chablis into Carol’s glass. “I don’t think I could ever be a journalist,” he said. “To be successful it sounds to me as if you have to be a sneak.”
Carol moved a piece of broiled catfish mixed with some cauliflower onto her fork and put the bite in her mouth. “It’s not that much different from any other job. There are always questions of ethics, as well as places where your personal and professional lives come into conflict.” She finished chewing her food and swallowed before she continued. “I had thought that maybe I would tell you and Troy on Friday evening. But things just didn’t work out, as you know.”
“If you had,” Nick pushed his plate away to indicate that he was finished with his meal, “then everything would have been different. I would have been aware of the possible danger and most likely it would have been you and I in that place together. Who knows what might have happened then.”
“I’ve had worse conflicts before.” Carol took a drink from her glass of wine. She wanted to finish with this subject. In her way. “Right after I graduated from Stanford, I worked for the San Francisco Chronicle. I was dating Lucas Tipton a little at the time that the Warrior drug scandal broke. I used the social contacts I had made through him to obtain a unique slant on the story. Lucas never forgave me. So I’m used to problems. They go with the territory.”