Stuart Kaminsky - Midnight Pass

“You don’t understand,” she said, crying, her hands, white-knuckled, clasped in mock prayer.

“Maybe I do. Which kid?”

“Which…?”

“You woke up and saw something. Which of your children was he going to molest?”

“Sydney,” she said wearily. “The bathroom light was on and the door open a little, a night-light. He was sitting on Sydney’s side of the bed, his hand between her legs. She was asleep. Andy had been drinking while I was asleep. I could smell it across the room. He started to touch her. Before I could get up, he came back to bed. A few minutes later when he started to snore I got up and put on my robe. I took the knife and…the rest of what I told you was true.”

“Does Sydney know what Stark was trying to do to her?”

“No, I don’t think they even looked at the bed when we left the room,” she said. “They weren’t even really awake.”

I checked my watch. Florida police had been under fire for months over not responding to 911 calls quickly enough. Time was running out.

“You came out of the bathroom,” I said to Janice Severtson. “You could tell he was drunk, mumbling. Words you couldn’t understand. Saw him stab himself. You called 911 and remembered that you had seen me, an old friend of your husband’s, in the hotel. You called me, brought the children to my room, and came back here to wait for the ambulance and police. You understand?”

“I…,” she said, looking at Stark.

“He’s been talking about killing himself for running away with you, his partner and best friend’s wife. He’s been talking about regretting things he did in the past. He’s been drinking and he got depressed when he drank. You’ve got that?”

“I…”

“Mrs. Severtson,” I said, “if you want to keep your kids out of this, you better remember. You tell the truth about what happened and why, and you lose your kids. Television news will get it and make it all very ugly. Your picture, the children’s picture all over the place, maybe network. Good-bye kids. Good-bye husband. Probably jail time. So, can you remember what to say?”

“He killed himself,” she said. “But why can’t I just say he attacked me and I defended myself?”

“That’s what you told me, and it took me about two minutes to figure out you were lying,” I said.

Stark’s hand and fingerprints were on the knife handle. Even if a smart cop thought something was more than a little suspicious, he probably wouldn’t pursue it. Stark had a record. Stark, Janice, and her children weren’t rednecks in a cheap motel room. Class still has its privileges.

“I’m going,” I said. “They’ll be here any second. You’ll be all right.”

It wasn’t a question but she answered more strongly than I expected.

“I’ll be all right.”

I moved toward the door.

“Wait,” she said.

I turned toward her. She went into the bedroom and came back almost immediately. She handed me the teddy bear, the stuffed elephant, and the pink blanket. I went out and moved fast without running toward the stairwell. Below, out of sight, I could hear the sound of voices in the lobby. I ran up the one flight and came out close to the wall where I couldn’t be seen by anyone eight flights below. I made my way to my room, opened the door, and found Sydney asleep on the sofa next to her brother, who was nodding off as he watched the end of the Dick Van Dyke episode. In her sleep, Sydney took the elephant and the pink blanket and clutched them to her chest.

Kenny looked at me. I handed him the teddy bear.

“What happened?” he asked, eyes blinking heavily. “Where’s my mom?”

“Mr. Stark had an accident,” I said.

“I don’t like him anymore,” the boy said. “Sydney doesn’t like him anymore either. He smiles, buys us stuff, but he’s a fake. We told Mom. She wouldn’t listen.”

“She’s listening now,” I said. “What did you see tonight before your mom brought you to my room?”

Kenneth didn’t hesitate.

“Andy was sleeping on the bed,” the boy said. “All covered up.”

“You want to get some sleep, Kenneth?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Get into the bed in the other room,” I said.

“Sydney might get up and be scared.”

“I’ll put her next to you.”

That seemed acceptable to him. I picked up the girl, who clung to her blanket and elephant. She smelled clean. She smelled like a little girl. I followed Kenny into the bedroom, where he watched me put his sister down on the bed. Then he climbed into the bed, put his head on the pillow, and fell asleep almost instantly with one hand touching his sister’s arm.

It was just a question of how long it would take some cop to knock at the door to my room. My story would be simple, always best to keep it simple. Friend of Janice’s husband, taking a few days off to enjoy the Orlando glitz, ran into them in the elevator. Then she brought me the kids. I didn’t know Stark. I didn’t know what he was doing there. Janice would have to swallow the humiliation and tell them the truth on that one. The cops would probably just go through the motions. No need to do anything else.

I was halfway through a Diet Dr Pepper and an ancient rerun of a Bob Newhart Show when the knock came.

The two uniformed cops looked as if they had been awakened from a deep sleep. They were both young. The older of the two, who was about thirty, asked the questions. The other one took the notes.

They stayed long enough to get statements from Janice Severtson and me. They didn’t wake the kids. Janice told them she had seen Stark stab himself but the kids hadn’t even seen the body. She told them she had brought them up to me when Stark stabbed himself. She said she had quickly run back down and found him on the bed. She got the blood on herself, she told them, when she tried to help him.

She was a good liar. So am I. She agreed to stay in Orlando the next day to come in, answer a detective’s questions, and sign a statement. They said the kids should stay in Orlando in case a detective wanted to talk to them. Then the cops said I could do whatever I wanted.

I asked Janice if she was going to be all right, took her to my room after the police let her gather some clothes, gave her my door card, packed in about a minute, put on my cap, and moved to the door.

“You might want to shower,” I said, “and get some sleep on the sofa.”

She nodded.

“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t think they believed me.”

“They believed me,” I said. “Shower, sleep.”

“Yes,” she answered, drained, automatic.

“You be all right?”

“Yes.”

I left, stopping at the desk, where the night manager heard my story, looked serious and sympathetic, and said he would be happy to give me a room for the rest of the night.

I checked my watch. It was almost five-thirty in the morning. The sun would be up in less than an hour.

“I don’t feel like seeing Mickey Mouse anymore,” I said.

“I had enough the first week I was here with my niece,” he said. “How much bouncy and jolly can an adult take?”

“A lot less than a kid,” I said.

I drove for a while on I-4, got off at a Lakeland exit, had an Egg McMuffin and coffee, and headed for Sarasota.

Traffic was weekday-morning heavy on both I-4 and I-75. I was back in the DQ parking lot and climbing the concrete stairs to my office and home a little after nine-thirty.

I called Kenneth Severtson’s number. No answer. I was relieved. I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want questions.

“Your wife and kids will probably be back tomorrow,” I told his machine. “They’re fine. Be nice. Stark’s dead. Killed himself. A long story. Your wife will tell you.”