Murder on the Aisle Read online

  MURDER ON THE AISLE

  Ed Gorman

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  © 2012 / Ed Gorman

  Copy-edited by: Patricia Lee Macomber

  Cover Design By: David Dodd

  Background Images used under the terms of the GFDL

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  OTHER CROSSROAD PRESS PRODUCTS BY ED GORMAN

  Novels:

  Nightmare Child

  Serpent's Kiss

  Shadow Games

  Novellas:

  Cast in Dark Waters (co-written with Tom Piccirilli)

  The End of It All

  Jack Dwyer Mysteries:

  Murder in the Wings

  The Autumn Dead

  Robert Payne, Psychological Profiler Mysteries

  Voodoo Moon

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  SPECIAL SNEAK PREVIEW

  The Prologue to VOODOO MOON – A Robert Payne, Psychological Profiler novel!

  To Loren D. Estleman, with respect and gratitude

  I would like to thank David Edelstein of

  The Village Voice for his help with this novel.

  Chapter 1

  Tuesday: 5:35 P.M.

  "You see 'em, don't you?" the cabbie asked.

  "Yeah, I see them."

  "Around the block again?"

  "Yeah, around the block again," Tobin said.

  He sat back in the cab and tried to prepare himself for the confrontation he had been avoiding all day.

  The cabbie, glancing in his rearview mirror, said, "I always liked you better anyway."

  "I'm sorry," Tobin said, coming up through his thoughts as if from deep water. "I wasn't listening."

  "I said I always liked you better anyway."

  "Me?"

  "Yeah. You. I mean better than that partner of yours, that Dunphy guy. He's kind of a snob. You're more like the average man. Like me. That's why I always liked you better."

  "Well, thank you.”

  "My wife always watches you guys, too. She loves it when you get to arguing about a movie. She even tries to predict which ones you'll like and which ones you won't. You know—it's like handicapping horses or something."

  "I'm glad you enjoy the show."

  "I'm gonna tell her you were one of my fares today and she'll tell everybody she knows. She's like that." He nodded ahead to the Emory Communications Building. "They're still there."

  "Yeah. I see 'em.

  "They must really want you bad."

  "They do."

  "Mind if I ask why?"

  Tobin sighed. "'Well, my partner and I had a little disagreement last night."

  The cabbie laughed. "Hey, that's great." Then he said, "I think they've figured it out."

  "Figured out what?"

  "That you're in the cab."

  "Why?"

  "They're pointing at it."

  "Nuts."

  "Why don't you duck down? I've had a lot of people duck down in my cabs."

  "Great idea. Thanks." Tobin ducked down. He wondered if Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel ever had to duck down this way.

  "So you want me to slow down?"

  "How about one more time around the block?"

  "Fine with me."

  "Tell me when I can sit up."

  "We're going past now."

  "Are they looking?"

  "Yeah, they're looking and pointing."

  "Damn."

  "We're past 'em now."

  "You sure?"

  "Sure Sure I'm sure. You can sit up."

  So he sat up. Now, at dusk, Manhattan was alive with Christmas decorations swinging in the chill winds. There were plastic Santa Clauses with light bulbs inside their bellies and little elves with big hammers and reindeer who looked realistic enough to do everything except take a dump.

  Then they were around the block again.

  "You better duck down again."

  Tobin sighed. "The hell with it."

  "Huh?"

  "May as well just get it over with."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. I've got to be inside there anyway in the next twenty minutes to tape a segment. They're going to catch me one way or the other. Why don't you just pull up to the curb?"

  "Sure. If you say so."

  They parked about a hundred yards down the street from Emory Communications.

  Then the reporters started approaching.

  Actually, it was only one of them, and the closer the man got, the more obvious it became who he was: Carmichael, from one of Rupert Murdoch's rags. Carmichael, though essentially a gossip columnist, always wore designer combat fatigues. It's a jungle out there.

  Tobin sank back and waited.

  Carmichael came up with a microphone pack slung over his right shoulder. It might have been a Geiger counter checking for radioactivity. He came up to the rear window and looked in. "How's it going, Tobin?"

  Carmichael waited a decent time for a response—all the while locked in a stare-down with Tobin—then rapped his knuckles on the window.

  "Might as well get it over with, Tobin. And you might as well talk it over with somebody who likes you instead of—"

  He nodded over his shoulder and rolled his eyes as if lepers had just strolled by. "Instead of them."

  Tobin sighed, hit the button for the window to descend.

  When the electric whirring stopped, Tobin said, "It wasn't a big thing."

  "Well," Carmichael said. "It was in a very fashionable restaurant.

  "It still wasn't a big thing.

  "Tobin, Christ, you decked him."

  "See!" Tobin half-shouted. "See! I knew this thing would get blown out of all proportion!"

  Carmichael looked embarrassed.

  Tobin slumped in the seat. He was wondering how long it took to become autistic. Autism sure would come in handy right now.

  "Tobin?" Carmichael said after a bit.

  Tobin kept his chin on his chest. "What?"

  "You did hit him, right? I mean, you're not trying to deny that, are you?"

  "Mhjrygmj.” He spoke directly into the woolen scarf he had wrapped around his neck to keep Mr. December from biting him on the ass and all those other delicate places.

  "What?"'

  Tobin raised his chin slightly from the muff of his scarf and said, "I hit him but I didn't 'deck' him."

  "You sure?"

  "What's the first joke people make about me?"

  Carmichael thought a moment. "That you're cheap?"

  Tobin grew impatient. "Besides the fact that I'm cheap."

  "That you've been married four times?"

  "Besides the fact that I've been married four times."

  Carmichael looked stumped. "Hell, Tobin, what?" "God, man, how tall am I?"

  "Oh, right. Your height."

  "Yes, my height. How tall am I?"

  "Say, that's right. You're just a little ba—bugger. Five-four?"

  "Five-five."

  "Five-five," Carmichael repeated.

  "So how tall i
s Dunphy?"

  Carmichael shrugged. "How the hell would I know?"

  "His driver's license says he's six-two."

  "So?"

  "So how could somebody who's five-five 'deck' somebody who's six-two—unless he was standing on a chair, which the restaurant didn't provide me last night, at least not to stand on so I could punch somebody's lights out. You see, Carmichael?"

  "But you do admit you hit him?"

  "As I already said, I do agree I hit him."

  "And you do agree that you two haven't gotten along for quite a while."

  "I'll let Dunphy speak to that."

  "And it's also true that Dunphy is thinking of not signing on again when his contract runs out after tonight's show, isn't that right?"

  "Gee, Carmichael, I don't even need to respond. You seem to have all the answers. "

  Carmichael said, "You two were roomies in college, weren't you?"

  "I believe those were his feet I always smelled, yes."

  "And you were the best man at his wedding, weren't you?"

  "Yes, and he was best man at three out of my four weddings, too. He would have been at my fourth but he came down with appendicitis, the lucky bastard."

  "He was lucky to have appendicitis?"

  "I should have been so lucky," Tobin said. "If I'd had some sort of affliction at the time, then I couldn't have married my fourth: the woman who proved that Vassar girls are, in fact, descended from a strain of the hunter shark."

  "So maybe you'll patch it up?"

  Tobin leaned forward, eyes scanning the pinkish dying sky alight with scattered stars. A traffic chopper did figure eights or some goddamn thing above the silhouettes of office buildings.

  Then his eyes lowered to street level again and he noticed that the crowd of reporters was beginning to inch closer.

  "Tell me," Tobin said, "how the hell did you convince them to let you come up here first?"

  "I just told them the truth."

  "About what?"

  "About your temper."

  "What about my temper?"

  "Tobin, no offense, but when you drink you're an animal."

  "I like a little fun with my drinks."

  "Does throwing somebody through a window constitute a 'little fun'?"

  "Depends on whom you ask, I suppose."

  "I mean, you know your nickname."

  "I hate that goddamn thing."

  "Well, if the shoe fits and all that."

  "Just drop it about my nickname, all right?"

  Then Tobin looked at the reporters again. Now that they'd seen that Carmichael was having no trouble, they had apparently decided there was no reason to let him have the scoop. "Damn," Tobin said, watching them come up and surround the car.

  "Is it true you've sought professional help to try and deal with your temper?" The first question was asked by a guy who might have been a girl or a girl who might have been a guy.

  The second question was, "Did Dunphy call you Yosemite Sam to your face right before you punched him?"

  There it was. That silly nickname. Yosemite Sam. As if he could help being five-five and red-haired and ill-tempered.

  For the second time, he sank back in the seat and let their questions swarm over him.

  He should never have pulled up in a cab. A ten-year-old Chevy would have been much better. Might have inspired a little pity.

  "Mr. Tobin, is it true your third wife left you when you pushed the dishwasher down two flights of stairs in your town house?"

  Chapter 2

  6:18 P.M.

  He stood in the back of the theater. He had been about to walk back to his dressing room when the owner of the company that syndicated the show, Frank Emory, appeared as if by magic and blocked his way.

  "Why don't you avoid seeing Dunphy if you can?" Emory said. "I think things would run a little smoother that way."

  As usual, Emory managed to look both polished and terrified. From his father he had inherited the kind of snotty good looks, now complete with graying hair at the temples, that one usually associates with imperious bank presidents and preppy politicians. Unfortunately, from his mother—Tobin had gotten to know both of Frank's parents pretty well—he had inherited the notion that everything that hadn't yet gone to hell was about to. The clearest evidence of that could be seen in Frank's soft blue eyes. In a head so handsome, they should have looked more confident.

  "Don't worry, Frank. I'll go right to my dressing room," Tobin said.

  "I'm not taking sides in this," Frank said, giving every indication that he was about to cry.

  Tobin put his hand out and touched Frank's ann. Frank was a professional loser. He was forty-nine and had gone through four different businesses, each one of which his father had been called in to bail out from near bankruptcy. His father was in pharmaceuticals and had done very well. Praise the Lord. Emory Communications, however, which owned this videotape studio and theater and produced syndicated television shows such as Nashville Calling (kind of live version of National Enquirer and all about people with names like Ferlin and Jake and Dody), was coming off the worst year of its six years of existence. So Frank Emory looked more shattered than usual. Which was why Tobin was patting him on the arm. Tobin wasn't sure he liked Frank Emory, but at least he felt sorry for him, which was more than he could say for most people.

  "Calm down, Frank. I know you're not taking sides."

  "He's really going to do it, isn't he, Tobin?"

  "He might be bluffing."

  For just a moment—no more than a millisecond—you could see that Frank Emory really wanted to believe this. Something like a smile lifted his upper lip. But then his mouth abruptly wrinkled into a frown. "There's no point in lying to ourselves."

  "Maybe he is, Frank. Bluffing, I mean."

  "You'd understand how much was riding on this if you'd seen the new Nielsens."

  "They're in?"

  In this business you awaited Nielsens with no less dread than you awaited biopsies.

  Frank nodded.

  "Well, how did we do?"

  "You did fine. You and Richard, I mean. Number-three show in the syndicated Top Ten."

  "Well, Frank, let's go get drunk and feel up some women or something."

  "You wouldn't be laughing if you'd seen how the rest of the Emory shows did."

  "Bad?"

  "Tobin, since the ratings came out this morning, three big markets called in to let me know they wouldn't be renewing at least one of our shows. Philadelphia. Los Angeles. Miami." He called the names off as if they were valiant soldiers slain in battle. "Not even Nashville Calling did very well."

  "Gee, I thought that show you did on transvestites in country music was interesting."

  Frank could only shake his head at Tobin's grim humor.

  Around them, grips and makeup men and lighting people moved. The young ones moved quickly and with a certain hostility, not unlike that which Tobin had noticed in the limo drivers. The older ones moved less quickly, and with dull resignation. They knew that the rush didn't matter, that no matter how many things went wrong, shows somehow went on anyway and generally did all right for themselves. Besides, this was the medium that had produced Allen Funt and Michael Landon: It wasn't the sort of thing you had to take really seriously. It was just television and not even network television, for God's sake.

  "Frank, it's going to be all right. He'll calm down." Frank said, "There is one thing I'd like to say. I mean, I think we're friends enough that I can say it."

  "I know what you want to say, Frank."

  Frank raised long fingers splayed in frustration. "Didn't it occur to you what you might be doing to our livelihood here? Weren't things bad enough already?"

  Frank was whining. Whining had a way of carrying farther than just plain talking. The crew, young and old, both kind of slowed down so they could get a proper earful.

  "You know what you're doing, Frank?" Tobin whispered angrily.

  "What?"

  "Giving them
some nice fodder for the bar tonight. They'll be discussing this till dawn."

  "Their jobs depend on the outcome of your contract negotiations, too. Face it. They may as well listen. Every one of us has a stake in this show—Richard, you, me. . . ." He waved his hand at the crew. "Them, too."

  Frank didn't say it, but Tobin could already see Daddy waiting in the wings, pockets stuffed with good green cash, ready to bail out his son.

  "Why don't we talk about all this after the show?" Tobin suggested gently. Frank was going to hell. He somehow had to get his mind off it. "Why don't you go to your office and have a drink?"

  "My wife's in there."

  "Good. Give you somebody to talk to."

  "She isn't speaking to me."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, we were having lunch at the club when the waiter brought a phone to my table. I got the ratings over the phone. I didn't bear up well. I—I started crying, Tobin. Right in the middle of the main dining room. With the goddamn snotty waiters standing around and everything. You know how waiters talk. It'll be all over."

  "Uh-huh."

  "So Dorothy's mad. Very mad. She's back on her why didn't I marry a real man routine."

  "'Then go around the corner, Frank."

  "Around the corner?"

  "To Delaney's. Have Delaney put you up with an IRA cocktail."

  "What's that?"

  "You don't need to ask questions, Frank. You just need to drink it. Now go—all right?"

  Frank straightened up, thankful that somebody was telling him how to live his life. In his blue blazer and white shirt and yellow striped regimental tie, he was a formidable-looking man. Just as long as he kept his mouth shut. Just as long as you didn't look at his eyes.

  Frank had just turned his back to the exit door, apparently considering Tobin's advice, when his wife Dorothy appeared from the east wing.

  Dorothy's age was kept a secret. She was one of those women who might have been thirty-five or fifty. She was tall, slender, and elegant and spent at least as much money on her blond hair, her red nails, and her tanned legs as the Pentagon did on nuclear submarines. Tobin liked her sometimes, disliked her others. He had never been able to form a final opinion of her.