“That’s not the same thing at all. The chances of ever seeing these strangers again are pretty slim. Which is what makes them such appealing confidants.”
“Well, I don’t know why Trudie decided to reveal this to me, but she did.”
I shook my head. “John confided in you regarding what had happened to his wife—he must have. And I can’t picture him doing that if you and he were merely casual friends. My guess would be that he spilled the beans to explain—or maybe the word is ‘excuse’—why Trudie was the way she was and why he continued to remain in the marriage. Isn’t that how it came about?”
“Absolutely not. Listen, I allowed you to come over today to determine whether you really do have some idea as to the person I had been going out with. Well, I’m very relieved that you don’t.” She leaned toward me now. “It wasn’t John, Desiree.”
I was beginning to waver (I told you before that she was good, didn’t I?), but I couldn’t afford to entertain any doubts at this point, so I promptly banished them. How to get Sara to open up, though . . .
The only thing I could think of was to employ a bluff of some sort. I mentally dusted off “old reliable”—you know, the claim that she and John had been spotted together. Like in the vicinity of the school. But at that instant an alternative intruded itself into my head, and before I had time to even consider its merits, I found myself declaring, “Tell that to Trudie.”
Sara’s agitated fingers abruptly stilled, and she met my eyes. “What are you saying?”
“That Trudie learned about the affair.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffed. But the woman didn’t look anywhere near as assured as she sounded. In fact, moments later she added uncertainly, “Are you telling me that Trudie talked to you about this?”
“Yes, briefly. Listen, what do you imagine induced me to reread the notes I’d taken on my earlier visits here?”
“At the risk of sounding crass, Desiree, you’re full of—” She hesitated before completing this with “baloney.” Which I can swear was a last-minute substitution.
“I’m telling you the truth. If you don’t believe me, though, give her a call.” I hate to brag, but, well, the way I said it practically oozed sincerity.
Sara didn’t respond at once, during which time I became so antsy I started to scratch a nonexistent itch on my forearm. Finally, she put to me in a small, tremulous voice, “How did she find out?”
“I haven’t a clue. But she knows.”
“The last thing John and I wanted was to hurt anyone,” Sara murmured. “It’s just that our feelings for each other were so . . . so overwhelming. But we did make every effort to be discreet. Apparently, though, we weren’t terribly successful.” She shook her head sadly. “Trudie’s already been through so much, too.
“You’re probably thinking that I’m a complete hypocrite,” the widow added. “But I wasn’t aware of the incident in Trudie’s past, not until John and I were already involved. Maybe if he’d told me about it right at the start, I’d have ended things before they really got off the ground.”
I must have looked skeptical.
“No, you’re right,” she admitted, noting my expression. “If I was willing to deceive a wonderful man like Edward, it’s not likely I’d have allowed what occurred with Trudie to deter me, either—especially since I don’t even care that much for the woman. Still, I felt guiltier than ever about being in a relationship with John once I heard about her horrendous ordeal. I can’t explain it; in a way, it’s like a sisterhood thing. Does that make sense to you?”
“I imagine it does. Rape is the sort of horror every woman can relate to. Umm, when was it this thing with you and John began, anyhow?”
“Almost two years ago. Shortly after the four of us went on vacation together.”
“And the last time you saw him was—?”
“At my husband’s funeral.”
“But I assume you two have been in touch since then.”
“Only twice. John called me on my first evening in Virginia. I asked him to please not phone again.” Sara smiled wanly. “These days I intend to occupy myself with doing an awful lot of soul-searching.”
“And the second time you spoke to him?”
“That was when I returned from my sister’s, and you informed me of the attacks on his life. I was the one who did the calling then.”
“And John’s okay with this—your ending things, I mean?”
“Not exactly. But he doesn’t have much choice.” Sara went back to pulling at the invisible threads on her pants before asking, “Is he aware that his wife knows about us?”
“Probably not. Apparently she isn’t ready to confront him yet.”
“You haven’t said anything to him?”
“I believe that should be left to Trudie. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The widow nodded. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of being the one to break the news to him.”
“Good. Besides, John has enough to be concerned about at present. I’d like to see him concentrate on just staying in one piece.”
Sara’s “amen” came out in a whisper.
“There’s something I’m curious about, though,” I brought up then. “How did you come to use a pottery school as a cover for your meetings with him?”
“I needed an excuse to get out of the house, and I read an ad for Going to Pot in the Village Voice. Well, I’d always wanted to take a course in pottery-making, and the school is located about as far downtown as you can get—right near the Brooklyn Bridge. Which is ideal, since John takes the bridge home from work every day. Also, being so far out of the way, we figured it wasn’t likely that we’d run into anyone we know.”
“You, uh, would go to a motel around there?” I didn’t actually have to ask this—not insofar as the investigation, I mean. But frankly, my nosy nature demanded it.
“John rented a flat near the school—over on Spring Street,” Sara answered casually. I’d really expected her to take umbrage at the question, but I guess she felt that in view of all that I was already privy to, this little tidbit didn’t amount to very much.
Suddenly she regarded me searchingly. “Yesterday you didn’t seem to place much stock in the possibility that it could have been a coincidence that my . . . my lover called off our date on the night of the shooting. But now that you know it was John . . . well, you must have an idea of how hard he works and how many evening commitments he has. In fact, every week I was half-expecting that he wouldn’t be able to make it.” She sat up a little straighter before stating firmly, “John had nothing to do with my husband’s death, Desiree.”
“I agree.”
Now, I can appreciate what you must be thinking. After running off at the mouth for so long about how improbable it was that this cancellation had been coincidental, I was totally reversing myself. And it wasn’t merely because the man involved was my client, honestly. As Sara pointed out, John was a workaholic. So the odds were that he would have had to break some of their Tuesday evening appointments. The only surprising thing was that he hadn’t done it before then. Plus, I certainly didn’t share Tim Fielding’s skepticism about those attempts to eliminate him. And tell me this: Why would a murderer bring in a PI to conduct an investigation of the murder? I mean, does that make sense to you? Even more important than all of this, though, I knew John. And I simply could not accept that he was a killer. “If Edward hadn’t been shot when he was,” I told Sara, “I’m quite sure it would have happened soon afterward. And for the same reason the perpetrator is out to get rid of John.”
“Those are my thoughts exactly. It never even occurred to me that John could have been responsible for Edward’s death.”
It was funny. But something in her tone made me wonder if it was me Sara was trying to convince of this—or herself.
Chapter 33
So okay. Now that I’d knocked myself out persuading Sara to confirm the identity of her mystery lover, what did I intend doing with the information?
The thing is, I didn’t see how it could possibly have any bearing on Edward’s murder, much less those two attacks on John. That being the case, I had no legitimate reason for going to my client with what I’d learned. And although I can’t say I wouldn’t have liked to hear something from him on the subject, occasionally even a Class A yenta reaches her limit. This, however, does not mean that I wasn’t disappointed in John Lander.
It wasn’t so much because he’d cheated on his wife, either—although not always being as “now” as I like to imagine I am, I do think that adultery . . . well, sucks. But while I couldn’t condone his straying, my acquaintance with Trudie—limited though it was (fortunately)—enabled me to understand it. In a way, anyhow.
What really bothered me, though, was that John had betrayed his very good friend—who only incidentally happened to be his cousin, as well.
But, look, I’m not perfect either. Even if sometimes—like at this moment—I find it necessary to remind myself of that.
And then, for the first time, it sunk in that there was a plus side to John’s being the widow’s inamorato. At least, from my point of view. Listen, it was now obvious to me that Edward was killed because of that damn will—and by the same person who was attempting to take John out of the running. Which meant that I could scratch that burdensome two-perp theory and concentrate on unmasking a single adversary.
Back at the office again, I decided to put the Lander investigation out of my mind for the rest of the afternoon. As soon as I’d checked on John, that is.
A woman with an extremely nasal voice answered his phone. “Who’s calling, please?” she inquired politely—and nasally—when I asked for Mr. Lander.
“Desiree Shapiro.”
“Ohh, Miss Shapiro.” Her tone conveyed recognition.
“You know me?”
“Well, uh, not really. I’ve heard of you, that’s all. Mr. Lander is at a construction site right now.”
“Could you have him give me a call when he gets a chance?”
“Certainly. I should be hearing from him in about an hour.”
And now it was time to concentrate on Elliot’s assignment.
Anxious to impart what I’d found out yesterday, I had tried to see Elliot immediately upon returning from Sara’s—even before I headed for my little cubbyhole. In fact, right after Jackie waylaid me in order to relate that Derwin had been feeling positively awful about the theater incident. “You know, basically he’s a very sweet guy,” she insisted.
It appeared that, happily, the current crisis had passed.
At any rate, Elliot was tied up in court. So I had yet to give him Friday’s encouraging report. But there was a possibility, however slight, that I could present him with some additional positive news when he came in later. I proceeded to dial Charlie Weist’s teenage niece.
Somebody fumbled with the receiver, then dropped it. Finally, a young female growled, “Mmm, ho-oo?” It took a moment for this to register as an irritated, sleep-logged version of “hello.”
Bemused, I automatically glanced at my watch. It was twenty to one.
“Is this”—I glanced quickly at my notes—“Mandy?”
“Who’s this?” The kid was wide-awake now—and wary.
“This is Mandy, isn’t it?”
“So if it is?”
“My name is Desiree Shapiro, and I’m looking into an automobile accident that occurred in—”
“You with the NYPD?”
“Well, no. I’ve been hired by your uncle’s attorney to—”
“Get lost, will ya? I don’t have to talk to you. Or any of my creep uncle’s fuckin’ creep lawyers, neither.”
And so saying, that sweet-tempered and obviously well-bred young lady slammed down the receiver.
I consoled myself with the fact that Mandy’s cooperation had been a long shot anyway.
I ordered some lunch then, having given up all hope of inducing myself to walk over to the sandwich shop, which was, after all, an entire block away. Listen, it had been an emotional morning, and I was drained. Or maybe I was just being lazy. (But I prefer “drained.”)
No sooner had I finished the last bite of my BLT—only without the “L”—than Elliot poked his head in the room.
“May I come in?” He was his usual cheerful self.
“You’d better. I’ve been dying to talk to you.”
“What’s happened?” he inquired, taking the same precarious edge-of-the-chair position as on his previous visit. (I swear, someday that man is going to wind up on his head.)
“I contacted Charlie’s former wife yesterday. Unfortunately, however, she left for a six-day vacation this morning. She’ll be getting in touch with me when she comes back so we can set up a meeting. But don’t worry. She sounded perfectly fine on the phone, and I have every expectation that she’ll make a good witness.”
“I’m glad she struck you that way. It was my impression, too.” He was smiling broadly.
“A couple of other things. I spoke to the niece, and it was as you suggested—the kid wouldn’t budge. On a more promising note, though, we have further confirmation of sorts that your client was busy courting his ex at the time of the accident.”
“Really?”
I told him about Emily.
“That should help,” Elliot responded, flashing an even broader smile. “I have something to tell you, too. A couple of minutes ago I received a telephone call from a young man who claims—and I have no reason to doubt this—that he is the niece’s boyfriend. Former boyfriend, I should say. Evidently the pair had a nasty argument last night, and he’s rather anxious to testify at the trial. He’ll be in to see me in the morning.”
“What is he going to testify to?”
“He was a passenger in the hit-and-run car that night—which the niece was driving.”
“That’s terrific!”
Elliot was positively beaming. “Yes. A very fortunate break. But I’m grateful for your assistance, as well, Desiree. You’ve done a wonderful job.”
Now, having made a return to reality since yesterday, I was aware that I hadn’t done a wonderful job at all. Like Elliot, I, too, had lucked out. But I graciously accepted the thanks. I didn’t think it would be polite not to.
This had been such a brief, effortless investigation, with everything falling so neatly into place, that it pretty much demanded contrast with the Lander case.
It had been almost two weeks since I’d been hired to find out who wanted John Lander dead, and as yet I hadn’t made any appreciable headway.
And I was afraid.
Was my client still in danger—or had the perpetrator decided to leave it to the police to dispose of him?
And speaking of New York’s Finest, things had been remarkably quiet there, too. What was Fielding up to, anyway?
I felt a sharp pang.
Please, God, I murmured aloud, don’t let my lack of progress cost John his freedom. Or worse yet, his life.
Chapter 34
I’d had every intention of cutting out a little earlier that afternoon and paying a sorely needed visit to the beauty parlor, which is only a couple of blocks from the office. I knew there wouldn’t be any problem about an appointment, because luckily—or maybe not—the place is never really that busy. To tell the truth, Emaline—my longtime hairdresser who brags that she has “golden hands”—doesn’t. But I’m used to her. And besides, with Emaline my expectation level is so low that she rarely disappoints me.
At any rate, having just made myself half-crazy with thoughts of my client’s possible incarceration or demise, I decided to shelve Emaline for a while. And why hadn’t John returned my call yet, anyway?
I promptly dismissed the question from my mind. What was I carrying on about, for God’s sake? It was only a couple of hours since I’d tried him.
I was about to start typing up my notes on that morning’s talk with Sara when I altered my priorities. It could wait unt
il tomorrow, since the possibility of this latest visit’s providing a lead to the perpetrator I estimated to be only slightly above zero. Of course, with all the time I’d previously spent buried in the Lander folder, my chances of suddenly uncovering some vital piece of information there weren’t exactly encouraging, either. Still, I put to myself, it’s conceivable that I’ve been consistently overlooking something, right?
It was a question based more on despair than optimism.
For more than an hour I read diligently, finally becoming so bleary-eyed that I could barely make out the words, much less determine if they contained a clue.
I had just placed the file folder in my attaché case when I heard from John.
“Sorry it took me a while to return your call. But I’ve been tied up with so many back-to-back appointments this afternoon that I haven’t had a free minute.”
“I hope that means it’s been a profitable day.”
“That makes two of us,” he remarked dryly. “Any particular reason you phoned me? Has something turned up?”
What I really would have liked to hit him with was “Yes. I found out about you and Sara.” But I willed myself to show restraint. “Nothing yet, I’m afraid. I just wanted to touch base with you.”
“I appreciate that. Uh—” Breaking off, John cleared his throat, then tried again. “Uh, Desiree, you do think we’ll discover who’s responsible for the things that have happened, don’t you?” It was apparent that asking me this hadn’t come easy to him.
“I’m confident that we will.” (At this juncture a lie if there ever was one.)
“Have you spoken with Sergeant Fielding?” he inquired.
“Not recently. I gather you haven’t had any contact with him lately, either.”
“No. Should I take that as a good sign?”
Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair Page 19
