The Crasher (46 page)

“That hasn’t been proved. I think Delchetto was a good guy who made a fatal slip.”

“That’s not what I hear from the DEA.” Peet paused, then added casually, “from Ben Abbott…”

O’Neill didn’t react and there was silence as both men drank their beer, then, “That reminds me,” O’Neill said hesitantly,
never sure exactly of the relationship between father and son, “I hear Johnny is following in his old man’s footsteps at last.”

“What d’you mean?”

To O’Neill’s surprise and embarrassment, he saw something he’d never seen before on the old warrior’s face, an angry red flush.

“I thought you’d know. Didn’t you see his cover piece on Delchetto?”

“No, I only got back a day or so ago… in time for the library fiasco, and we obviously didn’t have time to catch up that night.
What’s he been up to?”

Although Peet was doing his best to conceal it, O’Neill could see he was disturbed.

He sighed. “Johnny was in Puerto Rico for the magazine when Delchetto got taken out. Seems he’s been working with the Art
Loss Register, collecting quite a dossier on stolen goods. He was following a lead linking the Villeneva job to the drug trade
operating down there, but the trail went cold with Delchetto’s disappearance.”

“For the magazine! But he’s a muck peddler, a gossip columnist. What the hell was-”

“One of the DEA boys told me he was on special assignment. I didn’t see the story myself, but I hear it was right on target,”
O’Neill added defensively.

As Peet drummed his fingers on the table, looking stony-faced, O’Neill cursed himself for opening his mouth. It was ironic,
for although his old friend had complained in the past about Johnny not getting anywhere, and wasting his time on superficial
rubbish, he obviously didn’t want him anywhere near his turf. He could hardly believe he’d actually live to see the day when
Quentin Peet, the high-and-mighty, much-decorated journalist, showed he had an Achilles’ heel. It was unfortunate it seemed
to be his one and only son.

“He never told me. I guess the boy was out to impress me. I had no idea… but then I don’t keep in touch with him as much as
I obviously should. He never told me,” Peet repeated, looking at O’Neill ruefully. “Frankly, Pat, the thought of Johnny even
putting a toe in that filthy sewer worries me more than I ever realized it would. Glad you told me. You say the trail went
cold?”

Although he’d recovered his composure, there was still something in Peet’s demeanor and tone of voice that worried O’Neill.
He hoped he hadn’t opened up a can of worms for Johnny, but it was too late to tell Peet to forget it.

“The trail went cold, so he obviously concentrated on Delchetto’s disappearance, which is what his cover story was about.”

Peet shook his head. “I’m certainly not going to help him
get back on the trail. I’ll have to think of a way to get him to forget about cover stories.”

“And back to trash? That doesn’t sound like you. What about all that stuff I seem to remember you wanted to instill in Johnny?
About having the greatest respect for anyone willing to risk their own life for principle, honor, justice, et cetera?”

“Principle be damned. I guess my paternal instinct has kicked in at last.”

“Too late, QP, much too late.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Again O’Neill felt uneasy seeing the look on Peet’s face. It was time to bring their meeting to an end. He beckoned the waiter
for the check, saying, “Well, keep in touch if you hear before I do what Caulter’s guys turn up.”

As the check arrived Peet grabbed it. “I will. I’m sure they’ll lead us-you,” he corrected himself, “to the collateral thief.
The way Muriel Stern’s money works, it may not take so long.”

“MYSTERY WOMAN’S CLOAK.”

“WHO WORE THIS CLOAK AT THE MURDER SCENE?”

Esme had just arrived at the loft in the late afternoon with the
Daily News
and the
New York Post.
Tense, she watched Ginny read both front-page stories. The
Post
had a glimpse of her back view, just before she’d taken the cloak off in the line for the cloakroom, but that was all it
was, a glimpse. Lucky for her, they’d been more interested in the perpetual partygoer Blaine Trump, who, it was noted in the
caption, had been standing behind her.

The
News
went one better. They had a similar view of her back, but in an inset ran a close-up of the Napoleonic gold laurel leaf collar.
On page three they had another shot of what they called the “artful” embroidered imperial bees on the hem. Thinking for a
second of the source of the embroidery-the
decrepit sofa from the flea market-Ginny suppressed a hysterical laugh. If they only knew how artful.

“What’s going on, Ginny? How did you leave your cloak behind? Why on earth haven’t you told anyone it belongs to you?” Esme’s
face was creased in wrinkles of worry.

Ginny wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t returned one of Esme’s three phone calls, although she’d been sitting by the phone waiting,
praying to hear from Alex-or Johnny.

She should have known Esme wouldn’t give up. She’d arrived downstairs, saying through the intercom, “I know you’re there,
Ginny. I just know you’re in some kind of trouble and I’m not leaving until you let me in.”

Now Ginny was glad she had. She’d been talking to herself for hours and it hadn’t gotten her anywhere near a solution. She
was bursting to tell someone that, of course, Arthur Stern had nothing to do with Svank’s death, but how could she talk without
implicating herself, announcing to the world-and the real murderer-who the mystery woman was. That is, if the murderer needed
to be told.

Did he? If the real killer was who she thought he was, he didn’t need to be told about the mystery woman-he even had the key
to her loft.

After Johnny’s call she hadn’t slept at all, returning again and again to the tormenting thought that the shadowy man in the
hallway and at the bottom of the stairwell had been Alex. Her mother’s words kept coming back to haunt her. “He’s not who
you think he is. He’s a monster.”

Suddenly Esme’s look of concern and the sweet tone of her voice were too much to bear. Ginny put her face in her hands and
wept.

“Oh, Gin, please don’t, there, there. I can help. Don’t keep it to yourself. What can I do? Can Ted do anything? Is it something
to do with Johnny?” Esme fluttered around, trying to hug her as Ginny got up, sat down, then got up again. Once more Ginny
had a hysterical impulse to laugh, thinking how ludicrous they must look, with Esme so short and she so tall.

“Don’t you realize, by not claiming the cloak, you’re likely
to get implicated in this terrible murder business?” Esme was saying earnestly. “Who would have dreamed something like this
could happen to Poppy’s sugar daddy?”

It was enough to stop her tears. “He was no sugar daddy,” Ginny snapped. “He was a tyrant, a devil.”

“Oh, Gin,” Esme sighed. “I know you’re keeping something from me. If you can’t tell me everything, at least tell me something
to stop us both going crazy. You know I’ll never tell. I never have, have I? If you rushed off and left your cloak behind
at the library because you had a fight with Johnny, perhaps I can think of something to bring him to his senses.”

Dear Esme. If only she was concealing a lovesick problem with Johnny. If only she was living a normal life like Esme and most
of her friends. If only, instead of trying to crash her way to success during the last couple of years, she’d concentrated
on settling down, getting married to a nine-to-five guy, having children, living in the suburbs, worried only about getting
fat and saving enough to send the kids to college.

But she wasn’t like anyone she knew. For months she’d lived like a felon, terrified that someone might discover Alex’s cache
of jewels, and now things were much worse. Svank had been murdered the same night she’d discovered the jewels had been removed—definite
proof that Alex had returned to town. To settle a score with Svank? To recoup his investment?

Esme little knew how well she was putting it, except she was already up to her ears in this “terrible murder business.”

In the tiny kitchen, as she made some coffee, Esme repeated, “Why don’t you just go and claim your cloak, then you can tell
the papers you designed it and get a lot of publicity and-”

The shrill ring of the phone made both girls jump. Ginny could feel her face flushing scarlet. If it were Alex, what could
she do? There was nowhere in the loft to have a private conversation. On the fourth ring, the answering machine picked up.

As soon as Ginny heard Johnny’s voice, she grabbed the receiver,
forgetting that because she’d let the machine answer, everything Johnny said would be broadcast into the room. It was too
bad that Esme would hear every word, but there was nothing she could do.

“Oh, Johnny, where are you? I’ve been so worried.”

“Why, babe? There’s nothing to worry about. I had to fly down to Washington. I never had a chance to ask you if you read my
Next!
piece or tell you anything about what I’m working on, but the trail’s hot again because of, believe it or not, old man Svank’s
demise.” His voice softened. “But how are you doing, baby doll? Did you get your cloak back? I hear it’s been confiscated
by the police…”

“No, Johnny,” she moaned. “And it’s all over the tabloids today… who’s the mystery owner, that sort of thing.”

She heard him tell someone to wait, that he’d be there in a second. She wanted to cry, no, no, no, Johnny. I need you. If
you can’t be here, at least stay on the line for a while, I’m so terribly alone, but when he came back on, all she said was,
“Johnny, I’m nervous. Will you be in Washington long?”

“I may have to go back to Puerto Rico. As soon as I know I’ll call you or I’ll be on your doorstep. What were you saying about
the papers?”

She read the headlines to him and some of the copy, relieved that when the message time was up, Esme could no longer hear
what Johnny was saying, especially as he was becoming exasperated.

“For God’s sake, Ginny, what is there to be so mysterious about? Call ’em up and go get your damned cloak back,” he said sharply.
“If the papers like your cloak so much, this could be the exposure you’ve been waiting for. Surely you can easily convince
the cops you didn’t even know a murder had taken place… I still can’t fathom why you left the damned thing behind in the first
place.”

Without thinking, although Esme was there, Ginny cried, “Because I was scared-I thought the police would find out I’d crashed
the party.” She heard Esme gasp. It was too bad, but she had more to lose now than Esme’s respect. “Once I
admit why I left the cloak behind, the papers will go to town… the world will know.”

“So what! Here’s your opportunity. Use it to explain to the press why you crash-to get exposure, recognition for your designs.
You can go into the brush-offs, the promises which never produce anything except passes from Seventh Avenue lechers…”

Ginny shivered. If only he was with her. It would be so easy to confess about Stern, to tell him everything, to crawl into
his arms for protection, but again he broke off to speak to someone else. “Okay, okay, I’m coming.” Then, “Ginny, I’ve got
to go, but I promise I’ll see you one way or another before I leave-if I leave. I’ll come by to hold your hand and give you
courage to face the music.”

Before she could answer, he put the phone down. She had never felt so bereft, and Esme’s look of shocked disbelief didn’t
help.

“Oh, Ginny, I can’t believe you crashed the library. I thought… you made me think you were going with Johnny. Why, Ginny,
why?”

“Because I thought he wouldn’t take me, that’s why.” She was sick of pretending. “Because I wanted to meet his saintly father,
who disapproves of him because of his gossip column, his choice of women, his expensive divorce, everything. I wanted a chance
to meet the almighty Quentin Peet to start proving I’m the kind of person Johnny needs.”

“How?” Esme made a face.

“God knows what I was thinking. I had it all planned out. I was a fool… and now I know Johnny was planning to take me after
all. He wanted to give me a surprise.

“And that’s not all… I… I met Arthur Stern there.” Ginny started to sob again. “Lee Baker Davies, you know my friend from
Bazaar.
She told me Stern had just set someone up in business, some California designer who’d run out of money, who Stern rescued,
someone, Lee said, with nothing like my kind of ideas… Stern Fashions… you know… with his wife he runs this powerful fashion
conglomerate. I’d
met him once before and blown it. This seemed too good to be true and-”

“Stern? You mean the man the police took-” Esme stopped short, looking stunned.

“Yes, Stern, Arthur Stern,” Ginny sobbed.

Her handkerchief sodden, she got up to look for a tissue, rubbing her eyes with the only one left in the box. “He… he wanted
to talk to me about my designs, but because it was so noisy, he took me to this place where he said we’d be able to talk in
private. He… tried… he very nearly raped me.” She could hear her voice high, hysterical; she was losing control.

Esme knelt beside her, cradling her, rocking her backwards and forwards. “Oh, poor Ginny, darling Ginny, how terrible. How
absolutely terrible. But what happened? Did Svank try to rescue you?”

“No, no, no-”

Ginny stopped. In seconds she would be telling Esme everything, including her nightmare that it had been Alex she’d seen fighting
with the man she now knew had been Svank.

“Go on,” Esme said softly. “I understand everything, Ginny, honest I do. Go on…”

She thought quickly. “I had to fight for my life. I got away through an exit Stern didn’t know about… I left him there. I
don’t know what happened after that. All I know was I had to escape… I ran all the way home. Look…” She slipped off her mules.
“See, my feet are still cut up. Oh, Esme, don’t you understand, that’s why I can’t claim my cloak. I can’t tell the world
what a fool I was to go with a man like Stern to a dark, deserted floor. I can’t let Johnny know what I was prepared to do
for my stupid, ugly, useless ambition.”