“Stop!” I screamed.
Beth slammed on the brakes.
“Turn the radio up.”
Beth obliged just in time for us to hear Brooke Stanford's high-pitched voice announce that she indeed had accompanied Scott Boardman in the car on his ride from Connecticut to Providence while the murders were reportedly being committed. He was innocent. And she was ready to swear to it.
FIREMEN
WHEN I WAS A KID GROWING UP IN THE SUBURBS of South Boston, the evening newspaper was still delivered at three o'clock by a boy on a bike. I remember the summer of my tenth year, the whole summer sitting on the front steps, every afternoon waiting for the paperboy. He'd pedal down the street and directly down our front walkway, drop his sack-laden bike on the lawn, and say, “Can I have a water?” Then we'd go inside and up to the attic. “Show me.” He sat facing me on the wooden plank floor.
I wasn't sure what he meant at first. But the look in his eyes, guilty, ready to bolt away down the stairs, explained it. I could have said no, go to hell. I wasn't afraid of him. But because I wasn't afraid, I unbuttoned my princess-collared blouse, and through my Carter's undershirt he felt my small breast. Just the nipple at first. It felt good. Good in a way that I knew would feel better if my undershirt wasn't there.
For months, always a little more each time. Another button. His greedier hands. Dark and muffled. The sounds of the cars outside hiding us. I always stopped him early, while he was still breathing hard. I'd abruptly put myself back together, button up, and trot down the stairs to the living room. I'd turn on the TV, never granting him another word or glance as he trudged down and silently snuck out the back door as Samantha Stephens was twitching her nose.
He always seemed to be just pedaling off down the street when my father's Impala rumbled into the driveway. The back screen door squeaked open and slammed shut, and my father's tired hoarse voice would call out, “Shannon, run down the store for some milk and bread.”
In many life-shaping ways, I grew up in the attic of our house. I became the kind of woman who doesn't hesitate calling a guy for a date. I had no patience for the Scarlett O'Hara-Rhett Butler routine—pretending to be fighting for my virginity to the last. I invited men into my bed when I was ready, just always making sure I threw the guy out before he wanted to go, so he'd always know who was in charge.
The only memory I have of my mother is that she was always asleep in the upstairs guest room, until she just wasn't there anymore. Somewhere between her naps and my sixth birthday, my mother simply disappeared from the radar of my life. When I was seventeen and a senior at Monument High in South Boston, my father disappeared too. The stereotypical chain-smoking chronic alcoholic, he left for work one day, an electrician for some small local construction company, and never came home. What happened to the house after I left for college, I don't know and haven't cared since. I just packed my bags one August and hopped a Greyhound bus to UMass—the only place that would give me a full scholarship. I went to law school on a lark, afraid that if I didn't settle on the right side of the law, I'd end up in jail sooner or later.
If there is a God, he gave me a brain, but he was downright stingy in the parenting department.
MONDAY MORNING I HEADED OFF TO COURT TO get another few minutes of sleep during Jeff's closing argument in the Cohen case. My case had sucked from the start, so I wasn't surprised when Jeff sang breezily to the jury that the state had no evidence against his client. After a brief ten minutes, Jeff finished in a rare-for-Jeff brilliant staccato. I almost applauded. The jury would have no trouble finding reasonable doubt in this case. Shit, even I was reasonably doubtful that Micah Cohen was a killer.
Jeff made a last-ditch effort to take the decision away from the jury by making a motion for a directed verdict-asking the judge to make the decision because there was no evidence on which reasonable minds could differ. Judge Ragusta denied his motion and let the jury deliberate Micah Cohen's fate. The judge also cautioned Jeff and me not to stray too far from the courthouse because he was reasonably certain that the jury would be ready with their verdict in a reasonably short time and that their decision would include the words reasonable doubt.
I thanked the judge and sprinted out of court while Jeff basked in the glory of a certain win. I took the occasion of my courtroom hiatus to ring up Scott Boardman at the Biltmore Hotel. He'd taken a suite of rooms there pursuant to the cops' suggestion that he stay in town.
“I'm on my way,” I said, leaving him no choice.
To avoid the hotel front desk, I took the elevator to the mezzanine level and buzzed his room from there. He agreed to come down to get me. Minutes later he appeared behind the polished brass doors of the elevator. As the doors hummed closed he pulled me in and pushed me into the corner. He ran his sinewy arms up my back and neck and then through my hair. Not a millimeter between us, he waited for my response, perhaps expecting me to resist. But once again I fell for him, right into his arms, my face smothered into his.
“I missed you,” he said in a breathless interval between kisses. Then he pulled a few inches back, away from my face, and traced my mouth with his finger. “What the hell is this thing between us all about?”
By “this” I knew he meant our seemingly uncontrollable animal passion. But damned if I had an answer for him, especially since in the few days since I'd seen him, the whole world, it seemed, had been trying to convince me he was a cold-blooded murderer. That thought should have quelled the burning in my thighs, but it didn't.
“I didn't do it, you know,” mind-reading Scott Boardman said as the doors slid open to the twentieth floor. I pulled away from him and walked into the hall, then waited for him to pass me on the way to his room. He inserted a card in the slot and the lock clicked open.
Inside was a formal living room of sorts, with a desk and two couches facing each other. He watched my glance go to the fireplace that flanked the left wall. Again he answered before I could ask. “It's real. Do you like fires?”
I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets and gave him my version of the evil eye. “Talk to me, Scott Boardman. My job is on the line.”
“And I thought it was your heart you were worried about.”
“My heart doesn't pay the rent.”
He called a temporary truce to love by ambling over to one of the couches, sitting, and spreading himself back against the cushions like a satiated lion in the sun. “Would you sit a minute, please?” he asked.
I obliged and sat on the couch facing him, where I leaned back too.
“I'm appointing you my lawyer for the day, so this is confidential, right?”
Slick player, this guy, tying my hands in confidentiality so I couldn't run back and tell Vince what he said. Too bad he didn't think of that the night he confessed to me.
I nodded, giving him the go-ahead, but in truth, if he told me something usable as evidence against him in a murder charge—or worse, confessed again… Well, let's just say I had my fingers crossed behind my back.
“Benzodiazepine and alcohol can cause blackouts and hallucinations. I've been taking some Valium-type pill for sleep problems. I've gotten so dependent on it I keep increasing the dose. I never should have been drinking with it. I quit drinking about four years ago.”
“Why the booze that night then?”
“Muffie Booth called me from her boat. Told me she was with Pat and that they wanted to see me. That was it. Just come there. I thought it was going to be about Brooke. That the two of them, Muffie and Pat, had teamed up to lecture me about Brooke and the upcoming election.”
“Tell me about Brooke. Was she with you that night or not?”
He bent over and buried his head in his hands. When he lifted it to face me, his eyes were far away as if he were reliving the memory. “I went on the boat alone. Seeing the women both dead threw me. I remember stumbling off the boat onto the dock. I almost fell in the water. There's a side alley to the street. I didn't go out through the restaurant. I was wild, drunk, bu
t after the boat… my wife…all that blood…I sobered up fast. I drove straight to Providence to meet Jake. Jake Weller. He's my public relations guy. I figured he'd take over. I was useless. I don't remember Brooke—until Al Forno.”
“Why'd you pick Al Forno to meet this Weller guy? As cool as I am under pressure, I wouldn't meet someone at a posh public restaurant for a champagne cocktail after the carnage I saw on that boat.”
“I wasn't thinking clear. He said it would be safer if we got as far away from Newport as we could. He suggested Al Forno.”
“And you don't remember if Brooke was with you in the car? Before the boat.”
“I saw her earlier—late afternoon. She was becoming obsessed about our breakup. I had to calm her down.
Then I met Leo Safer, my campaign manager, for a drink. That's when I got Muffle's call. During my drink with Leo.”
“And you were in Connecticut earlier that day?”
“That's where I live, Ms. Lynch—Shannon. We have a home in Fairfield. May I call you Shannon?”
“Only if you're innocent.”
“I'm telling you the truth. I'm just not sure if that makes me innocent.”
“What happened to Jake Weller? He stood you up?”
“I guess he did… I drove to Al Forno and went into the bathroom. I didn't feel well… That's where you found me. And then I left with you.”
“Okay. Tell me about you and Brooke Stanford. She has you on speed dial, or what?”
He looked at me, eyes narrowed, wondering how much to admit. I recognized the look from years of questioning stoolie witnesses.
“Just tell me the truth, Scott. Neither of us has time for a game of poker.”
“Brooke is a past indiscretion. I felt bad for her. I got her the job at your office—”
“You got her the job?” I could already feel my fingers tightening around the Pig's fat neck.
He shook his head. “What difference does that—”
“To me, a lot. Brooke Stanford isn't a team player. She doesn't belong at the AG's office. Bad decision for Vince, but now it's making some sense.”
“Even your boss has people he has to answer to. What's the old Bob Dylan song? Everyone serves somebody.” His eyebrows shot to the ceiling. “And Brooke, of course, has charms hard to resist.”
“Believe me, Vince is charm-resistant.”
“Don't be so sure about that. I know men better than you do.”
“Then let's get back to my area of expertise. Lies and alibis. So Brooke followed you to Providence and into Al Forno—”
“No… I told you I left her much earlier. I walked into Al Forno alone. Did she follow me there?” He shrugged. “The whole night is a blur—”
“Why, Scott? Why that night did you decide to turn your brain into Silly Putty with drugs and alcohol? So you could have an insanity defense to murdering your wife?”
“Don't be absurd.” He dropped his head. “Brooke. I was telling her it was over between us. I got her the job at your office out of guilt—because I knew I was going to end it. She expected more… I told her that day there would be… nothing more. I took her for drinks. Champagne. And then I had a few pops with Leo. I shouldn't have been drinking like that with the other meds.”
“You may think you know more about men than I do, but here's a lesson in women: You take a woman to a place and ply her with caviar and a deluxe cuvee when you're trying to bed her. When you're dumping her, you buy her a hot dog, tell her you're filing for bankruptcy, and then congratulate her for being rid of you.”
“I'm nowhere near bankruptcy.”
I looked at him silently. Either he was lying or he wasn't, but I didn't have enough evidence against him to support an accusation. He was searching my eyes too, as if he were looking for an answer in them. I was in a holding pattern of noncommittal.
“So knowing all this,” he said, “will you see me again? There's a conflict, of course. Especially now.”
Yeah, especially now that I'd heard even more damning evidence against him. Marianna was right. I was getting stupid in love, just like her.
“I disqualified myself from your case when I fell for your gray eyes, their forlorn look, and the way you suckered me in.”
He managed a grimace-tinged smile and then joined me on my couch. Holding my face in his hands, he whispered, “When I bumped into you in that bathroom, neither one of us even knew the other's name. Please don't make it sound as if I planned this—this thing between us. But even then… in the bathroom, I knew under that rigid facade of yours there was a nurturing instinct. I knew when you caught me in the bathroom that you wouldn't let me fall.”
All this sweet talk was making me dizzy, and no one who knew me well would offend me with that kind of saucy bullshit. But this guy was either so self-assured he didn't give a crap about rejection, or he knew me better than I knew myself, because instead of bolting away and marching to the door, I let him push me down on the couch and entrap me under the mass of his large body and the comforting smell of a soapy aftershave lotion as he slowly moved his face to mine and grazed my lips with his, thereby giving me one more chance to vomit at his dime-store romance tactics. Instead, I closed my eyes and succumbed to his light kisses while scenes of Vince scowling at me, shaking his head, and calling me a worthless female played in my mind like a preview of coming attractions.
AN HOUR LATER I WAS COMBING MY HANDS through my bed-headed hair as I sprinted up the aisle in Judge Ragusta's courtroom. During the last fifteen minutes of Scott's celestial pronouncements of my “otherworldly” beauty, my cell phone had been screaming for my earthly attention with text messages and phone calls. The jury in Cohen was back with its verdict. Too soon. I knew it was bad news.
“Thank you for joining us, Miss Lynch,” the judge said.
I nodded and slinked into my seat, feeling my heart just begin its downward beat into postarousal repose. I took a nourishing breath and let my mind wander back to the Biltmore Hotel.
I couldn't say how long it was before I heard Judge Ragusta's voice roaring in the background of my dreams.
“Wake up, Miss Lynch! This court is still in session.”
I bolted out of my chair and looked at the judge, who was peering at me over his reading glasses with the eyes of a worried friend. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yeah, uh, yes sir, fine…”
“We were all wondering if you have anything to ask of the jury before I dismiss them?”
The jury. I turned my head slowly in their direction. Did I have anything to ask? Yes, I did. I would have liked them to repeat their verdict so I could listen this time.
Instead I just shook my head. “Urn, no, your honor. Nothing.”
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You are dismissed. Mr. Cohen, you're free to go.”
“Free?” I said out loud.
The judge nodded. “That's usually what we tell defendants when they're found not guilty, Miss Lynch.”
I looked over at Jeff, who was beaming proudly as if he was showing off a new set of dentures. I could see the gums of his bottom teeth.
I stood weakly and slunk out of the courtroom before Jeff could accost me with his bloated smile.
BACK IN MY OFFICE, I FOUND MARIANNA, LAURIE, and Beth powwowed with Mike McCoy. He sat regally behind Marianna's desk and was taking notes in a pocket-sized spiral notebook. They all looked up as I stood in the doorway of the small office.
“Because I'm feeling a little sorry for you right now, I'm not even going to ask where you were while the judge's clerk was calling here for an hour and a half looking for you,” Laurie said to me. “I don't want concrete evidence of how stupid you're being.”
“I'll ask,” Marianna said. “Where were you? Huh? I had so much more faith in you, Shannon. You were my hero when it came to men, my idol, because God knows, I'm always picking the wrong ones and messing up my life—”
“Hold on a damn minute!” Mike McCoy stood and pushed his chair back. “Are you
referring to me as one of the wrong ones? Because I can fix that problem up real fast, babe.”
Marianna whisked her hand dismissively. “Oh, shut up, Mike. We've been wrong for each other from the start and you know it.” Her attention swerved back to me. “Boardman is a suspect in a homicide investigation, Shannon. And if that doesn't bring you down, Brooke Stanford will.”
Mike looked at me and moved from behind Mari's desk to join me in the doorway. Standing eye-to-eye, he put his arm around me like old times and said, “Come on, pal. Let's go to your office and have a little heart-to-heart.”
Perhaps while I'd been with Scott in his hotel room, the girls and Mike had cooked up this private tete-a-tete between Mike and me, because no one said a word as he and I walked out alone and went quietly to my office.
“I'm getting tired of people trying to help me, Mike,” I said after we both sat and my door was closed tight. “Is that why the girls called you? To tail Boardman and me?”
He smirked in that cowboy way Mike had, a crooked smile and tired eyes. “Even if Mari hadn't called me over, I was still coming. Chuck heard the Cohen verdict was in. And when no one could find you…” He blew air out of his lips and shook his head. “Chuck's worried about you.”
“So you came here at Chuck's request. Once a cop always a cop, huh, Mike?”
Ex-cop Mike McCoy had retired early. He'd gotten between his partner and one of the several bullets shot by the partner's angry wife. The partner died, but Mike beat the odds and went to work as head of security for a private college where he and Mari met—and have been fighting ever since. Mike was divorced before he met Marianna, for no good reason other than his wife had left him. Chucky's wife, on the other hand, was hanging on to him to the tune of death do us part. But deep down I think Mike would have left his wife eventually anyway even if she hadn't left him first. Mike was made of different stuff than Chucky. Maybe because Chucky was Catholic, he had a choirboy's guilt tying him in a marriage knot. Mike's religion was fast cars and a good ball game, and on Christmas and Easter, while Chucky was in church, Mike was praying for wins at NASCAR races.
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