An Exquisite Corpse

by Helen A. Harrison

  “I’m going to ask you to wait in the hall while Jeff here types up your statement,” he told her. “We’ll come back in when it’s done, and you can review it. Meanwhile, if you want a lawyer, you can use the phone at the front desk. Sergeant Ryan will show you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dillon,” she replied. She rose and followed him out to the waiting area by the desk.

  She’s a cool customer, he thought. Really got hold of herself, but she’s wound pretty tight. Must have been a shock finding out her old flame wanted to light the fire again, and he’s willing to blackmail her to get her into bed. And her with a husband and kids!

  “Come,” barked O’Connell in reply to Dillon’s knock. He entered, took his customary seat beside the desk, and gave his boss a rundown of the conversation with Anne.

  “Think she’s telling the truth?”

  “It’s real plausible. She can’t produce the letters, says she burned them, and it looks like she was away that weekend. She wasn’t home on Sunday morning when I questioned Matta, and he told me she was out of town. We can check the Saturday train times from Darien and confirm that she was out of her folks’ house when she said she was. Maybe she still has the ticket stubs, though she probably burned those, too. The conductor might remember her. I expect we’ll find that some of the unidentified prints in Lam’s place are hers.”

  “There were some on the galoshes and the chicken’s foot, but the only other prints on the exquisite corpse items belonged to Lam,” said O’Connell. “If Carlos dressed him up, he must have worn gloves. By the way,” he continued, “did you find out whether the doc could narrow down the time of death?”

  “Not yet. I left a message for him to call me.” Dillon rose. “I’d better get back to the office and have Anne Matta sign her statement. Should be typed up by now.”

  “Well,” said O’Connell, “after you do that, we ought to have a talk with Ortiz.”

  Seventy-Eight

  Escorting Anne back into his office, Dillon wondered silently about her motive for coming forward. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had a feeling her story wasn’t entirely true. He tried to dismiss his doubts, partly because he sympathized with her and partly because it made perfect sense the way she laid it out.

  He also realized that his misgivings were caused by his personal dislike of her husband. Matta had rubbed him the wrong way from the start. Covering up something, in his opinion. So now maybe the wife was covering up for him.

  Suppose Matta found out that Lam was putting the make on her? She said he was possessive. Suppose he went over to Lam’s to have it out? Suppose it was him, not Anne, who got into a shoving match with the guy? Or even bashed his head on purpose? She could be lying to protect him.

  After she was seated opposite him, Dillon buzzed the desk.

  “Is Jeff finished transcribing Mrs. Matta’s statement?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” said Ryan, who turned away from the phone and shouted into the office. A muffled reply was audible. “He says he’s almost done. You want I should ring you when it’s ready?”

  “Yeah, do that,” he grumbled, still trying to shake that nagging doubt. He looked up to find Anne staring absently out the window at the brick wall opposite. If she’s nervous, she sure ain’t showing it, he thought. And if she’s a liar, she’s a real pro. Couldn’t have been more sincere if she was in the confessional. Maybe I’m just too suspicious. And if she sticks to her story, who’s gonna contradict her?

  The phone on his desk buzzed.

  “It’s the doc on the line,” Ryan told him. “I said you had someone with you, so he knows you can’t say much.”

  “Put him on,” said Dillon. “Excuse me a moment, Mrs. Matta. Your statement will be ready in a few minutes.”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Dillon,” she replied evenly, apparently not perturbed by the delay. She just sat patiently and waited, showing no curiosity about his caller.

  Dillon greeted Dr. Helpern with a neutral hello. “Thanks for returning my call. Do you have the information I asked for?”

  “Yes. I can confirm that Lam was dead by eight-thirty p.m., no later. Rigor doesn’t set in until three hours after death, and he was already stiff by the time I got there just after midnight.”

  Solana was still on the ship at eight thirty, so he’d be in the clear even if Anne Matta hadn’t come forward. But her admission also cleared any other potential suspects.

  Dillon thanked Helpern again and hung up. He decided to fill the waiting time by trying to get Anne to elaborate on the background of her relationship with Lam. Maybe he could plug the hole he perceived in her story.

  “You said you and Lam had an affair in Paris, is that right?”

  “Yes,” she replied somewhat wistfully, “I was very young.” What she was actually recalling was her infatuation with Roberto, the romantic early days of their relationship. “Everyone knew war was coming,” she continued, “and, being foreigners, we both knew we could be in danger. It made us fearful, but it was exciting, too. I know that sounds foolish, and I don’t expect you to understand.”

  Dillon regarded her with sympathy—even, he had to admit, a twinge of envy. It had been a long time since he had felt the kind of sexual passion she was describing, not in so many words but by intimating the emotions that were heightened by anxiety. Knowing you may be parted at any moment, never to see each other again, hones a uniquely sharp edge on lovemaking.

  A knock on the door rescued him from further imaginings.

  The clerk entered and placed the typed statement on the desk in front of Anne.

  “Please read this,” Dillon instructed, “and initial any changes or corrections you want to make before you sign it.”

  She glanced at the typescript, signed it, and handed it to Dillon. Her haste was the first indication that she was eager for the ordeal to be over.

  They both stood, and Dillon reached across the desk to shake her hand. Her grasp was steady but her hand seemed fragile, and he took care to be gentle as he thanked her for coming forward.

  “On the face of it,” he said, “this is a case of accidental death. I’m not a lawyer, mind you, but I think you won’t be charged with a criminal offense. If I’m right, you won’t even have to go to court. It’ll be settled at a coroner’s inquest.”

  To his surprise, she showed no relief. In fact, she hardly reacted at all. It was as if she was prepared for whatever the outcome of her confession was and ready to take the consequences. Innocent, responsible, culpable, guilty—it was all the same to her, or so it seemed.

  “Please release the man you’re holding,” she said earnestly. “He had nothing to do with Fredo’s death.”

  Dillon assured her that she had cleared him, but it was really the medical examiner’s information that had done the trick.

  Seventy-Nine

  Dillon knocked on the interview room door and interrupted Ortiz’s conference with his client. “See you a minute, Frank?” he asked. They stepped into the hall.

  “Come to my office, will you? I have something you need to look at.” A uniform appeared and stationed himself inside the door that he locked behind Ortiz.

  “What’s up?” the lawyer asked as they walked.

  “I just had a real interesting visitor,” Dillon told him, “the wife of one of Lam’s artist friends. She made a statement I think you should read.”

  Settled behind his desk, with Ortiz opposite, Dillon offered him a cigarette and Anne’s typed statement. Ortiz accepted both, and they smoked silently while he read. He went through it twice, stubbed out his cigarette, and nodded his head.

  “Without disclosing anything my client told me in confidence,” he said, “this corroborates his story. If this is true—and I don’t suppose you have any reason to doubt her account—Lam sustained his injury around noon.”

  “The ME says he was definite
ly dead by eight thirty. Must have done a slow bleed inside his skull, wouldn’t show on the outside. He probably thought he’d be okay, didn’t realize how serious it was. After a few hours he just collapsed, didn’t wake up.”

  Ortiz nodded in agreement. “Solana told me he found him dead at nine or thereabouts.”

  “In fact, that’s the earliest he could have gotten there,” said Dillon. “He wasn’t cleared to leave the ship until a quarter to.”

  “Looks like the case against him just evaporated,” remarked Ortiz with satisfaction. He hadn’t been looking forward to representing Solana with nothing but his denial as a defense.

  Dillon agreed. “I guess we can drop the charges, all right. But I want you to get his account for the record. His relationship to Lam, his movements while he was on shore, how he rigged up the exquisite corpse outfit. I want that all in English—signed, sealed, and delivered—before I spring him.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Ortiz. “When you cut him loose, I’ll arrange lodging for him at the Seamen’s Church Institute until his ship comes back to New York in a couple of weeks. He’ll be available for the inquest. You let me know when and where, and I’ll be there to translate for him. The Coast Guard has nothing on him, so after that he should be free to go.”

  “Thanks for handling this, Frank. I’ll notify Morales up at the Twenty-Third. He and Officer Diaz have been in the lead on this case. Actually, they’re the ones who identified Solana.”

  “What about Lam’s family in Cuba? Do they know he’s dead?”

  “I cabled them on Monday, care of the embassy in Havana. I’ll keep them informed about the inquest and the verdict.”

  “You’re confident that the coroner will rule accidental death?”

  “If Anne Matta sticks to her story, I don’t see what else he can do.”

  Eighty

  Friday night, October 22

  From his usual perch at the far end of the Agozar’s bar, Joey Ramirez could scan the whole room. Idly twirling a silver dollar on the counter, working on his second Bacardi and lime, he was on the lookout for Esperanza, his most popular and lucrative whore, who was due to turn over last night’s take. But when he saw Juanita Diaz, dressed in street clothes and arriving with an escort, he cursed silently, polished off his drink, pocketed the coin, and slipped out through the kitchen.

  Luis, the owner and bartender, greeted the couple warmly in English, since it was obvious that her date was not Hispanic. “Always a pleasure to see you, Nita, especially when it’s not official.”

  She introduced Fitz and mentioned that he had worked with her to crack the Lam case. Word was out that the sailor had been arrested, which meant that the smuggling scheme had gone south. Luis was among the many in Spanish Harlem who were delighting in Joey’s misfortune.

  “You just missed Joey,” Luis reported with a grin. “He spotted you and beat it out the back way.”

  “Gee, that’s too bad,” Nita replied, returning his smile. “I guess he’s not feeling sociable tonight. I wonder why.”

  She dismissed Joey from her thoughts and turned her attention to the evening ahead. “I want to treat Fitz to a real Cuban meal,” she told Luis, who informed her that her money was no good in the Agozar tonight.

  “Dinner is on the house,” he insisted over her protests, escorting them to a cozy table for two in a softly lit corner. “What are you drinking?” he asked.

  “Let’s have a couple of Hatueys,” she suggested. “Santiago pale ale to go with authentic Cuban food.”

  Fitz readily agreed.

  “Thank goodness my cook is too old for the draft,” said Luis. “My waiters are all gone. I have to rely on my son, Pepe, that skinny kid over there.” He pointed to a very busy teenager shuttling among the tables. “Call him when you’re ready to order. I’ll bring your beers.”

  The menu was on a chalkboard on the wall. Nita translated. “Are you observant? If so, go for the bacalao con papas. That’s codfish with potatoes. Otherwise, the arroz con pollo, chicken and rice, is excellent.”

  “What about you?” he asked. “Do you do the fish on Friday routine?”

  Nita laughed, a warm, throaty sound that made Fitz’s ears tingle. “I’m lapsed,” she admitted. “Haven’t been to church in years. I hope you’re not shocked.”

  Actually, he was delighted. “I go with the family, but my heart’s not in it. I don’t know why, maybe it’s the state of the world that makes it hard for me to have faith.” Suddenly serious, he looked at Nita earnestly. “Hard to think about the future, too, you know? If this war drags on, I might find myself in a different uniform.”

  Luis arrived with their Hatueys at an opportune moment, interrupting a mood that threatened to dampen their celebration. Smiling broadly as he poured the beers, he told them, “Take your time, no rush,” and deposited a bread basket on the table.

  Fitz apologized. “I should never have brought it up,” he said. “If it happens, it happens. Anyway, it’s not happening tonight.”

  Nita leaned across the table and took his hands in hers. She locked eyes with him.

  “I’ll tell you what is happening tonight. We’re going to get slightly tipsy, enjoy a delicious meal, and walk back to my place. I’m going to make coffee, and then we’re going to make love.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Are you shocked now?”

  That was putting it mildly. Fitz was flabbergasted. Dumbfounded. Floored. Speechless. He felt the blood rush to his head. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  Nita giggled. “Fitz, you’re blushing.”

  When words finally came to him, all he could think of to say was, “Your mother?”

  “Visiting my aunt in the Bronx. She’ll be gone all weekend.”

  They skipped the coffee.

  Later, when they lay wrapped in each other’s arms, he asked her if there was anyone else, maybe some guy overseas. Having just demonstrated that she was no virgin, she said that she wouldn’t be writing a Dear John letter to a serviceman. “How about you?” she wanted to know. He told her about Mary Dolan, now engaged to a navy pilot and out of his life.

  Fitz ran his fingers through Nita’s tousled hair as she nestled against his naked shoulder.

  “I’m crazy about you,” he confessed. “How did this happen so fast? Not even a week, and I already know I want to marry you. Do you want to marry me?”

  She sighed and nodded. “We’re both crazy. Two cops, what a pair we’ll make.”

  She propped herself on an elbow and frowned at him. “I’m not going to quit the force, understand? No kids, not for a while anyway. Forget the rhythm method, you’ll use protection like you did just now.” A handy vending machine in the Agozar’s men’s room had made a stop at the drugstore unnecessary.

  Fitz rolled his eyes. “Laying down the law already? Well, Officer Diaz, you’d better take me into custody.”

  And she did.

  Eighty-One

  Friday morning, October 29

  The inquest didn’t take long. The presence of Anne’s respectable-looking parents, each holding an adorable infant, made a favorable impression. The medical examiner’s evidence established the cause of death, Detective Sergeant O’Connell described the investigation, and the only other witnesses, Anne and Carlos, reiterated their formal statements. Neither one mentioned the aspects of their stories that either disguised or contradicted the truth—Carlos never disclosed his drug-smuggling deal, and Anne neglected to explain that her knowledge of that crime was what led her to visit Lam on the fateful Saturday. Their accounts were accepted, and the cause of death was ruled to be accidental.

  As Matta led his wife from the coroner’s office, with the Clarks forming a protective escort, he glanced menacingly at Carlos, who was being shepherded by Francisco Ortiz. Feeling the animosity, Carlos looked away quickly. He could hardly blame Matta and regretted his
creation of the exquisite corpse, but now it was over and he was free.

  Or was he? What about his deal with Joey Ramirez? He waited until he and Ortiz were in the corridor, away from Matta, who could understand their conversation.

  “Are you still my lawyer?” he asked.

  “That is up to you,” replied Ortiz. “Do you need further counsel?”

  “I told you about the deal with Ramirez,” said Carlos.

  Ortiz nodded.

  “He paid me five hundred dollars. I am supposed to pay one hundred fifty dollars to the man in Cartagena for more cocaine. If I do not go through with it, what will happen to me when I return to New York? He could want to punish me for taking his front money.”

  Ortiz understood his problem. “That is why you are going to pay him back. If you return his outlay, he has no reason to retaliate. He bought the drugs from you, so that part is yours, and when the Princesa returns, it should still be under your bunk. How much money is in your Seamen’s Bank account?”

  “My wages for the last trip, a hundred seventy-five, plus some from before. A couple of hundred, I guess.” With a free berth at the institute, he had been living on what was left of the broken fifty.

  “Good,” said Ortiz. “You and I will go there and you will draw out a hundred and fifty in cash. I will get the money to Ramirez. I have no doubt he already knows you were arrested and charged—I am sure Detective Morales took care of that. He suspected there was a smuggling deal behind the whole business. Getting word to Ramirez will put him on notice that the police are wise to him, so he will have to back off. And of course they will be watching you, so you will have to stay clean.”

  Carlos was listening carefully. “Does that mean I will not be able to bring in any more Cuban cigars?”

  Ortiz chuckled. “Mr. Solana, the answer is yes. On the advice of counsel, you have just decided to go straight.”