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.
26
3:27 A.M.
There were still lights shining from the second floor when Tobin’s cab pulled up. This time he paid off the driver and sent him away.
The security guard recognized him and even offered a little sort of salute. Tobin tried to return the gesture but he couldn’t, quite. Maybe it was because he didn’t like saluting, but more probably it was because of what lay ahead of him. Now that he knew whom he was looking for, he’d almost rather not know.
The elevator didn’t take long enough getting him to the second floor. When he stepped out into the reception area he saw that all that remained of the party now was in debris — a depressing spectacle of streamers that had crashed to earth, confetti that looked like colorful vomit, plastic glasses filled with the dregs of drinks and floating cigarette butts to give the liquid the color of urine samples. Smoke choked the air. Perfumes mixed too sweetly. But there was something else odd, too — the complete lack of humanity. This might have been one of those Twilight Zone shows about the last man on earth: He finds everything set up for a party but nobody to share it with.
Then a voice said, “You know, don’t you, Tobin?”
He turned and saw Frank Emory leaning against a filing cabinet, a drink tilted precariously in his hand. Frank looked as if he’d been partying for a week and had forgotten to sleep.
“Yeah,” Tobin said, “I know.” He shook his head. “You sat in your office and told me you were a failure — even though you’d already sold your company. When I found that out, I started thinking.”