EQMM, Jan. 2003, page 8
“Thanks for putting my mind at ease about our girls,” Sylvie said. “Actually, if there's a husband in the equation he's usually the last to know about a woman's hanky-panky.”
Farber paused with a piece of coffeecake halfway to his mouth. “Oh?” he said.
“I don't mean you,” Sylvie said hastily. “I'm thinking of your widower. Talk about denial, what can he possibly be thinking? The dead woman might as well have had a scarlet ‘A’ sewn on her simple black dress. By the way, the necklace she was strangled with? Was that a gift from the husband?”
“What makes you ask?”
“Because a woman going out to meet her lover tends to wear the jewels he gave her.” She waited. “So?”
“You seem spookily knowledgeable on this subject,” Farber murmured to his coffee cup. And then, to Sylvie, “Marston wasn't sure where the pendant came from. He thought it might be a piece that was in his wife's family.”
“Uh-huh. Bernie, her kind of family doesn't wear that kind of jewelry. Hats off to the poor guy for trying to save his wife's honor.”
“You're beating a dead horse. The boys and I are agreed that there must be a lover somewhere out there. That's not the question. The question is how do we find him.”
“Yes, how do you?” Sylvie was suddenly respectful. “Do you have anything at all to go on?”
“Just that thanks to the demands of her husband's billing-hungry law firm, Mrs. Marston had three or four evenings a week when she was free to get in trouble. I don't doubt she left tracks. They always do. Twelve detectives are doing the legwork to find them.” Avoiding Sylvie's eye he added, “If the boys need me, I'll lend a hand.” And, reasonably confident, he claimed the last of the coffee ring.
* * *
“A secret lover? I don't see it.” Mr. Pirosh, of Pirosh & Baker, shook his head emphatically. His boxy corner office had been furnished, probably by his father, at least forty years ago. He was about fifty, a big man, f leshy, with incipient jowls, and he was overf lowing his trousers and smoking a cigar that exactly suited him. “Claire was a straight arrow. And how. Best secretary I ever had. It's a damn shame.” Farber couldn't tell whether the man meant he regretted Claire Marston's death or only the loss of her secretarial services.
“How did she dress?”
“Like a mouse,” was the instant response. “Some of these girls, the way they dress, do themselves, you'd think they were daring you to come on.” The cigar came out to allow for a full-press leer. “And I might just take them up on the invite if these damn anti-harassment laws didn't scare the bejesus out of me.” The cigar went back in. “With Claire it was just the opposite. It was like working with a nun. That's what the girls called her, the nun. I sometimes wished she'd slash on a fire-engine lipstick, hike up her skirt, maybe chase some of the gloom out of this place. But, hey, she was a hell of a secretary, and if I needed cheering up I could always stroll through the typing pool.”
“So you'd describe Claire as plain?”
“She did herself plain. Flash her up a bit and she'd come off not half bad. Matter of fact, I once suggested to Elaine—the office manager—that she take Claire aside and give her a lesson or two on clothes and makeup. Elaine told me she might as well talk to the wall.”
“Any idea what Claire did after work?”
“After work? I think she went home and waited for her husband, the lawyer.”
“She didn't socialize with any of the men in the office?”
“The men liked her, if that's what you mean.” The cigar came out again and he examined the lengthening ash. “They'll tell you that I took her to lunch on Secretary's Day and we were gone nearly three hours. I got ragged about that.”
“Three hours? What did you talk about?”
“Me. My miserable life. My divorce situation. I'd rather be in a train wreck. That woman knew how to listen.”
“Did she have visitors? Personal phone calls?”
“Her husband would call. Her parents out West, once. I think she told them to call her at home.”
“That's it?”
“I didn't monitor the woman. It was just if I passed her desk and overheard. And hey, who cared? She could get twenty personal calls a day, she'd still knock off more work than any girl ever worked for me.”
“Has her desk been cleared?”
“Not yet. Help yourself.” Suddenly mournful-looking, he sank into his desk chair.
Claire Marston's gunmetal desk sat in an alcove just outside her boss's door. It was as clean as a billiard table. She had left no unfinished business on its surface when she left work, nor any evidence of her personal life.
Farber opened and closed the side drawers. They yielded nothing of interest. In the center drawer he found an old-fashioned one-day-at-a-time desk calendar. This was where she jotted down her personal business—buy eggs and butter, pick up the dry cleaning. On the date three days before she was murdered was a circled notation, Axel Horvel Stockley, followed by an exclamation point. He flipped open her Manhattan directory. No such listing. And yet he knew that name from somewhere.
And then he remembered the small East Side hotel. He looked it up and dialed. “Hotel Stockley? Do you have an Axel Horvel registered?”
* * *
Horvel was a darkly handsome man in his thirties wearing a well-cut business suit. He had already phoned the front desk to prepare his bill when Farber called the Stockley, and he was settling it, his wheeled black suitcase at his side, when Farber entered the jewel-box lobby ten minutes later. Farber introduced himself and asked if he might have a few minutes in connection with a police investigation.
The man registered mild concern; his heavy eyebrows moved to join each other. “I have a flight out of La Guardia in two hours,” he said. He was another Midwesterner.
“Plenty of time,” Farber assured him.
He led them to a leather couch near the front door that sighed a protest when they settled on it. Farber wasted no time on amenities. “How do you know Claire Marston?”
“Claire was my secretary for nearly three years. In Des Moines.” He became alarmed. “Has something happened to her?”
“It'll be on the evening news. She was found this morning, murdered.”
Horvel reared back against the couch. “No! Good God, how awful. She was ... She was a wonderful person. The genuine article.” He put a hand to his face to steady himself. “What happened?”
“She was strangled by person or persons unknown. You saw her recently?”
“A few nights ago. I'm in town on business and we met for a drink after work.”
“A drink?” Farber's eyes narrowed.
“Sorry. I drank, Claire had tea.”
“Did she seem troubled?”
“Now that you ask, a bit nervous maybe.”
“You saw her often?”
“Three times in New York. Once each time I've come in. I don't know that many people here socially, and Claire was often available in the evening. Her husband worked late. I can't believe she's dead.”
“Do you remember if she was wearing jewelry when you saw her?”
“I wouldn't notice that sort of thing, but I doubt it. When she worked for me I stupidly gave her a bracelet on her birthday. She never wore it.”
“You did notice that.”
Horvel's face colored and he said, “I guess I did.”
Farber let it pass. He said, “The other night, did she tell you she was pregnant?”
“No! God, how awful. I know she wanted a family. She spoke about kids a lot when she worked for me.”
“So you'd have expected her to tell you the good news.”
“First thing. That's the first thing I'd have expected out of her mouth. Are you sure?”
“Yes.” His cell phone rang and he fished it out. “Excuse me.... Yes, Jimmy.” He took his notebook from a breast pocket and began writing.
* * *
The dermatologist's harried receptionist was handling the phones and managing the paperwork, but her number-one priority was to make sure no one left the crowded premises without settling the bill. “I'm sorry, Officer,” she finally said. “You should have made an appointment. What exactly is your problem?”
Farber had no wish to unsettle the waiting patients behind him who were flipping through dog-eared magazines. Quietly, he said, “I prefer to tell that to the doctor.”
The young woman's face registered an immediate diagnosis of genital herpes. “Sir, I can make an appointment for you on Thursday,” she snapped. “Today we are fully booked.”
No kidding. This place looked like an airline terminal the day of the big storm. Either dermatology was a hot specialty or Dr. Frayn was a hot dermatologist. Maybe both. There were three examining rooms behind the reception desk and two nurses were kept busy ushering patients in and out of them. The doctor, a pale youngish man with delicate features and wavy blond hair, was not much more than a white-coated blur as he slipped from one room to the next.
Still speaking softly, Farber said, “Miss, unless one of these waiting patients is in extremis, tell Dr. Frayn that Lieutenant Bernard Farber, Homicide, needs him now."
That did the trick. “Yes, sir,” she said.
He was put in examining room two, where he failed to fend off a nurse who thrust a paper gown at him and ordered him to change into it unless his problem was situated on his head or arms. She vanished before Farber could set her straight.
Just as he was beginning to regret that he had taken this part of the investigation from Buffalo and Gluck, Dr. Frayn slipped into the room, soft-voiced and reassuring. “How may I help you?” he murmured. A hundred patients might be waiting out front, his sole interest at the moment was this paunchy man with a paper gown under his arm. He settled into a chair as though he had all day. His pale eyes leaked concern, his bedside manner was king-sized. If Farber had acne he would make for this man like a shot.
He said, “I'm not a patient, Doctor. I'm a police officer, Lieutenant Farber, investigating a homicide. You might be able to help.”
Nobody had briefed the doctor. He sat up straight and his mouth dropped open. “Help? Help how?” he asked. No longer the comforting father figure, he seemed at a loss for a proper posture.
Command of the situation had shifted to Farber. He put the paper gown on a shelf. “You have a patient named Claire Marston,” he said and watched for a reaction.
“I do?” Dr. Frayn replied. And then, more composed, “I'm not a primary-care physician, Lieutenant. I have a great many patients. I know only a fraction of them by name.”
“You might remember this one.”
Dr. Frayn searched Farber's face for some further explanation, then opened the door a crack. “Helen,” he called, “please bring me the record of—” he turned to Farber—"Claire...?”
“Marston.”
“Claire Marston.” He closed the door and danced his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Are you looking for an opinion on a forensic question? I did once testify in a trial....” He trailed off in a half-question.
“Why don't we wait for the patient's record?” Farber said.
It was handed in by the nurse a moment later, a single sheet in a file folder. Dr. Frayn glanced at it and then looked at Farber. Farber said, “Does that refresh your recollection?”
Dr. Frayn said, “I see that this woman made one visit, a couple of months ago. With a rash on her left forearm. I prescribed an antibiotic lotion. As a matter of fact, I gave her a sample that I believed would be sufficient to clear up the minor problem. Apparently it did, as she never returned.”
“And you've never seen her since?”
“Not that I can recall. Her problem was not interesting enough to make a lasting impression.”
“How about the woman herself? Maybe she made an impression.” Farber opened the Manila envelope he was carrying and removed the eight-by-ten bridal picture of Claire Marston. “Does this refresh your recollection?”
Dr. Frayn studied the picture. “I can't say that it does.” His soft gray eyes looked pleadingly at Farber. “Would you please tell me what this is about?”
“I was just about to do that. Is your home phone number—” Farber was consulting his notebook—"914-555-4387?”
“That's right, I live in Westchester. Tarrytown, to be precise.” The doctor was looking more and more troubled.
“According to the phone company, calls were made from Mrs. Marston's home phone to yours.”
Instantly, “To my home? That's some kind of mistake. A misdial. A wrong number.”
“Six calls over three weeks? All in evening hours.”
“It's some kind of mistake. She must have a friend with a similar number.”
“No similar number was dialed. It's true that the calls were all brief. The longest was two minutes.” He took his time. “Maybe to stay on longer would have been awkward.”
The doctor's pale face was suffused with color. “See here, I know what you're implying. Look, I'm a married man. I have a child. I don't make dates with patients.”
“Or anybody?”
“That's none of your business. Who is this woman?”
“It's ‘Who was this woman?’ She was murdered day before yesterday. If I were you, I'd talk to your lawyer.”
* * *
“That's got to be our man,” Jimmy Buffalo said. He was pleased with himself for having thought to check the Marstons’ phone records.
“If he is, you've still got a long way to go to make a case,” Farber said. He, Buffalo, and Gluck had gathered in the detectives’ squad room late in the day. “Ten minutes’ worth of phone calls do not add up to a relationship. Who knows, maybe Claire's rash was itching. If she and the doctor rendezvoused, where was it? You'll have to shlep their pictures all over town looking for someone who can put them together. Until you make that match, you've got nothing to show an ADA.”
“How about the pendant?” Gluck said. “That should help.”
“It might,” Farber said. Gluck had traced the emerald pendant to a 47th Street jeweler who dealt in antique pieces. The man, an ancient Hassidic Jew with fading eyes and memory, was unable to describe the buyer except to say that he was a man, he had paid eleven hundred dollars cash for the piece a few weeks ago and, oh yes, he had asked if he could return it if the lady didn't like it. The jeweler had said yes, within thirty days.
“So they had a conversation,” Farber had observed. “Might he recognize the buyer's voice?”
“What do you think? I had to speak directly into his ‘good’ ear to get through. The doctor knew where to shop.”
So that's how things stood after a day's loss of shoe leather by Buffalo, Gluck, and a platoon of detectives. They had checked out the other tenants in the Marstons’ brownstone and the neighbors had confirmed Marston's assessment of his wife's pristine character. Tomorrow the team would start nosing discreetly into Dr. Frayn's life. They were bound to turn up something. But right now it was getting late and wives were holding dinner. It was time to adjourn.
Then Buffalo remembered one more item he thought Farber might want to see. Marston had given him a computer printout from his office of his billable hours. He hoped it might be of some use to the investigation, since it showed how often he had worked late and how late he had worked.
Farber took the stack of paper. “Why so many pages?” he said.
“Marston may be a first-year associate but his firm bills clients two hundred and fifty dollars an hour for his services. Broken down into fifteen-minute increments.”
Farber shook his head in wonder. He said, “My mother warned me I was going into the wrong line of work.”
* * *
Sylvie was in bed asleep when he arrived home at nearly midnight. An open book, facedown across her midsection, suggested that she had tried to wait up for him. She hadn't even taken off her reading glasses. He removed those gently and placed them on her night table and turned off her reading light. He was grateful that she wasn't awake; she would have asked a lot of questions it was too soon to answer.
Ten minutes later he was drifting off to sleep himself. His last thought was to thank himself for doing everything by the book. Axel Horvel's phone number in Des Moines was inscribed in his notes.
In the morning, while he pretended to be asleep with his head buried in the pillow, he could hear Sylvie as she bustled about getting ready for work. She had to make a 7:35 train to Westchester and occasionally she was out the door before Farber was out of bed. Now he could sense her frustration as she rattled coat hangers. When he knew she absolutely had to leave or she would miss her train he faked a wake-up stretch and roused himself from the bed to pad after her out of the room. He gave her a sleepy goodbye kiss at the front door.
She said, “Bemie, did you manage to get some dinner?” And then, more to the point, “For heaven's sake, what's happening in your garbage-bag murder?”
He said, “The boys are on it. I'll be checking with them later today.” His face was the picture of innocence. “Didn't you tell me not to be so hands-on?”
Her look said, I know exactly what you're doing. But she said only, “Goodbye, Bernie,” turned crisply, and was out the door.
“When I got home I had a piece of cheese,” he called after her.
* * *
Farber arrived home before his wife that evening. Partly in celebration of the day's developments and partly out of guilt for having teased Sylvie this morning, he had stopped at Zabar's and picked up a few ounces of smoked sturgeon and a couple of bagels. By the time she opened the front door he had the goodies laid out on the kitchen table and he had filled a pitcher with ice in preparation for making a couple of his famous dry martinis.
Sylvie took one look at the festive board and said, “You've made an arrest.”
“Not yet. But imminently. Imminently.”
