“I am sorry. I respected her wishes, but I thought it was hurtful, too.”
“I don’t care enough to be hurt,” Anne said quickly, and she sounded lame even to herself. She wanted to scream. How can a parent have this power over a grown child? Even the worst of parents?
“I think she wasn’t very proud of herself, and that’s why she didn’t want you to know.” Bennie paused. “There is a drinking problem, I gather.”
“Meaning she was barely coherent when you spoke.” Anne knew just how that conversation would go, and her face flushed with sudden shame. “She didn’t ask you for money, did she?”
Bennie didn’t confirm or deny. “My family is no model either, but I miss my mother every day. Well. We all make mistakes.”
Anne’s chest felt tight. “Has she contacted you, since then?”
“No, but I remind you. She left the flowers you’ve been driving around with.” Bennie smiled softly. “Not that you care.”
“I only had to die to get her attention. She phoned it in. The card was typed at the store.” Anne stared at her leftover cereal and tasted a bitterness in her mouth that wasn’t magnesium. “I don’t even know how she got my home address.”
“I told her,” Bennie answered, and Anne looked up.
“You? When?”
“When I spoke to her last year, when you moved here.”
Anne fell silent. So it’s not even like she follows me in the newspapers.
“You wish I hadn’t. I’m sorry.” Bennie sighed. “We always wish our parents were better than they are. Bigger, stronger, richer. Better people, more reliable. But they’re not, they’re just not. Sometimes, the best course is to try to accept that, as truth.”
“I accepted that a long time ago,” Anne said, then hated the way she sounded. She pitied herself for pitying herself, and even more because Bennie was right.
Mental note: Maybe bosses became bosses for a reason.
15
Outside the second-story window, dimestore firecrackers popped and holiday lasers sliced the night sky, but Anne ignored it all in favor of the computer monitor. She sat at the workstation in Bennie’s messy spare room, which contained old athletic equipment, a white Peugeot bicycle, and boxes of old files, which had been stacked on the skinny daybed against the wall before they had cleared them off. Anne would have gone to bed but she couldn’t help finishing her Internet search of Bill Dietz’s background. The top of the screen read:
Your search has revealed 427 persons named William Dietz with criminal convictions.
She had picked up reading the listings at 82, and she was already at 112. She still didn’t know why she was doing it. She didn’t know if she’d find anything and didn’t know why it mattered. Only that she had looked into Bill Dietz’s eyes and remembered malevolence behind them. Evil masquerading as concern for his wife; abuse dolled up as protection, even love. She returned to the search.
At 226, Anne was in the zone of eliminating Bill Dietzes and taking a caffeinated pleasure in the accomplishment of a simple task. Click on a listing, read it, click on the next. It was easier than redrafting her opening argument or trying to guess which guise Kevin would take in his next incarnation. At 301, she’d still had no luck.
“Murphy, it’s very late,” Bennie said, from the threshold of the office. “You have to get to sleep.” She entered with Bear behind her, his nails click-clacking on the pine floorboards. She wore a white terry-cloth bathrobe and her hair had been piled into an unruly topknot, but when she got closer Anne could see that her eyes were tinged with pink and vaguely puffy.
“What’s the matter? You getting a cold?”
“I guess I’m allergic to cats. My face itches, and I can’t stop sneezing.”
“Oh, no.” Anne felt terrible. “When did this start?”
“After dinner. I took a shower but it didn’t help.”
“Should I leave and take Mel?”
“No, you don’t have anywhere else to go. Just keep him in the room. On the bright side, our eyewitness Mrs. Brown is all over the news. On TV, on the radio. The cops announced they’re officially looking for prison escapee Kevin Satorno in connection with your murder. He’s a wanted man.”
“The wish of erotomanics everywhere.”
“Which brings me to my next point. Since Satorno is on the loose, I wanted you to have some peace of mind. I can protect us, if need be. Don’t freak out when you see this.” Bennie stuck her hand in her bathrobe pocket and extracted something. Its silvery finish caught the light from the lamp.
“A thirty-eight special, huh?” Anne reached for the gun and turned it over expertly in her palm. Its stainless-steel frame felt cool, and the hatchmarks on its wooden handle were slightly worn, as was the gold-toned Rossi logo. She thumbed the cylinder-release latch and let the cylinder fall open into her hand. The revolver was loaded with five Federal bullets. She closed the cylinder with a satisfying click. “It’s about ten years old. You musta bought it used.”
Bennie cocked an eyebrow. “Yes. How do you know that?”
“These guns don’t circulate much anymore. Rossi made ’em in Brazil. They were a bunch of guys who spun off from Smith & Wesson. That’s why it looks like one.” The clunky gun was a knock-off, but Anne didn’t say so. She wouldn’t like people saying bad things about her gun. She turned the revolver over in her hand, appreciating its heft, if not its style. “It’s a good gun. Practical. Plenty of stopping power. Good for you.” She handed it back.
“So you’re not freaked.”
“By a gun? Not unless it’s pointed at me. I’m not a gun nut, but I bought one after Kevin attacked me. I own a Beretta thirty-two, semi-auto. Fits in my palm. Cute as a button. I don’t even have to rack the slide to load it. It pops up, so I don’t break a nail. A great girl gun.” Anne could see that her boss was looking at her funny, so she explained. “I tried therapy, Bennie, but I sucked at it, and I’m not the support-group type. I went to the shooting range four nights a week. After a year I can kill a piece of paper, and I feel a helluva lot safer.”
“My, my. You’re an interesting girl, Murphy.” With a crooked smile, Bennie slipped the revolver back into her bathrobe pocket. “I want you to know the gun is here and it’s loaded. We’re safe. I’ll keep it in my night table.”
“Why don’t you leave it with me?”
“That’s not a good idea. Do you have experience with this type of gun?”
“Can Eakins paint by numbers?” Anne smiled, and so did Bennie.
“Just the same, I’ll keep it in my night table.” She turned to the computer monitor and scanned it with swollen eyes. “What’s the point of this search, when you should be getting ready for bed? So what if Dietz has a criminal record?”
“I can use it on cross, for impeachment.”
“True, but I don’t know what that gets you. If it really matters, we can sic Lou on him, after the holiday. Bill Dietz isn’t your enemy in Chipster.”
“I know. His wife is.”
“Wrong. You’re the lawyer. Your opponent is her lawyer. Matt Booker.”
“Of course.” Anne resolved instantly not to tell Bennie her feelings for Matt, and vice versa. “That’s a given.”
Bennie squeezed Anne’s shoulder. “Do me a favor and go to sleep. You’re running on adrenaline, and you have a big day tomorrow. Now, good night.” She turned and padded out, sniffling, with Bear click-clicking after her down the hall.
Anne took a deep breath and resumed her search. She eliminated 302 through 397, hoping against all odds that this would be her Bill Dietz. She slowed just after 426, then clicked on the very last entry, feeling unaccountably as if she were rolling the dice. But the screen read only: William Dietz, birth date 3/15/80, Cochranville, PA. Misdemeanor theft.
“No!” Anne said aloud, without meaning to. There was nothing. Mel picked his head up quickly, his ears flat.
Anne felt suddenly lost. She had been wrong. Bill Dietz did not have a criminal record. He was
just a jealous, protective husband who had committed no crime, not even a misdemeanor. She felt stupid, useless, and depleted of energy and emotion. Nothing was going right. She was too exhausted to think. It had been too crazy a day.
She got up, turned out the desk light, shimmied out of her skirt, and slid into bed, slipping under the covers in her T-shirt. In time, the house fell quiet except for a loud, breathy snoring from Bennie’s bedroom down the hall. Anne assumed it was the dog, and hoped that she hadn’t made Bennie completely sick. At the foot of the bed, Mel circled a few times, then curled against her covered feet, just like home. But it didn’t feel like home. She could never go home again. She lay in the dark, feeling suddenly that she didn’t belong anywhere, with anyone. She had lost whatever context she had. It was just as Bennie had said, with characteristic bluntness:
You don’t have anywhere else to go.
Anne closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind, and in a minute the snoring from down the hall was joined by street noises. Cars honked, people laughed and yelled, fireworks went off. A party somewhere must have ended, or she just hadn’t heard the noises before. She put the down pillow over her head but it didn’t help. It wasn’t her bed, and she missed her own pillow, with its woven photo of Lucy kissing Desi from “Redecorating the Mertzes’ Apartment.” Episode No. 74, November 23, 1953.
Anne flopped over and tried not to think about her house, then Willa, who had died there. And her mother, whose daisies did nothing to scent the room. And Mrs. Brown, sitting all by herself with her puzzle books. And especially not Kevin, with his gun. Would they be able to catch him tomorrow, at the memorial service? They had to. After losing him today, it was her last chance.
An hour later, she still hadn’t fallen asleep. She was jittery and anxious. She flopped back and forth, thinking of Matt. His flowers on her front stoop. The emotion in his voice at the office. The way he’d looked, grief-stricken. Would he come to her memorial service? She wished she could tell him she was alive, and she wished she could see him. She felt a politically incorrect need for a strong shoulder to cry on, a warm chest to burrow into. Anne loved men, and, before Kevin, she had dated a lot; fallen in and out of love a few times, and been very happy. Was Matt where she belonged?
Fifteen minutes later, Anne had dressed, closed Mel in her bedroom, and grabbed her messenger bag, which contained her cell phone and a borrowed revolver. It had been almost too easy to sneak into Bennie’s bedroom and steal the gun from the drawer. The snoring had been the dog’s, thank God.
She steered the Mustang through the streets of Philadelphia. She knew she was taking a risk being out, but it was calculated. She could protect herself, and her odds of seeing Kevin were slim to none. He’d be hiding from the cops, laying low, and still he had no reason to think she was alive. It was almost two in the morning, but the sidewalks were hardly deserted. Tourists club-hopped and walked in groups, laughing, talking, and holding hands. People carried brown bags with bottles inside or swung six-packs joined by plastic loops.
Anne cruised to a red light, eyeing the partiers on the street. No Kevin. The night was sultry, with a wildness in the air. Everybody was misbehaving, Anne most of all. Driving where she shouldn’t be, for no justifiable reason. All bets were off. She pointed the Mustang toward the colonial part of the city and Matt’s house. She had gotten the address from 411, but hadn’t called ahead. Olde City lay east, centering on Independence Hall, where the Declaration of Independence had been signed. It would be the most crowded section of the city, now that Philly was throwing itself the nation’s birthday party. She sped downtown, and soon colonial brick rowhouses covered with ivy were whizzing past the car window.
Anne could feel the summer night ruffling her short hair, and accelerated. She forgot about her mother and the Chipster case. Put distance between herself and Kevin. She felt like she did when she first moved here. Hopeful. Excited. Her heartbeat quickened. She drove around for a parking space and finally took an illegal one out of necessity; even at this hour of the morning, the holiday partied on. She cut the ignition and was about to go when she caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror. She had forgotten her lipstick. The stitch in the middle of her upper lip showed.
So be it.
She reached for her purse, removed the revolver, and stuck it in the waistband of her skirt, just in case. She slipped on her sunglasses and climbed out of the Mustang with a confidence that comes cheap with a concealed weapon. She walked a few blocks until she found Matt’s house, a brick rowhouse like hers, only with older brick, a faded, crumbly melon color. The shutters and door were black, and a light was on on the first floor, shining through the blinds, so he must be working late, as she had been. She knocked on the front door and after a minute, the outside light went on and the door swung open.
Anne gasped when she saw Matt. “What happened?” she asked, astonished.
16
Matt looked like he’d been punched in the face. An inch-long cut tore though his left cheek, jagged and freshly red, and underneath it rose a goose egg, almost swelling closed his left eye. He still had on his Oxford shirt, but it was spattered with tiny droplets of blood. His one good eye widened at the sight of Anne.
His lips parted in disbelief. He bent closer and peered into her face. “My God, you look like—”
“I am. It’s me. Anne. See?” She took off her sunglasses, not wanting to linger on his front stoop. A couple on the street was already turning around. She didn’t think they could see her, much less recognize her, but still. “Let me in, Matt. I’ll explain inside. It was all a mistake. I’m alive.”
“What? Anne? A mistake? Alive?” Matt stalled in confusion, so Anne took his arm and pressed him into the house, shutting the door behind them. A lamp was on in the living room, which had exposed-brick walls and a contemporary black couch and chairs. Yellow legal pads, Xeroxed cases, and documents with the Chipster.com logo covered the coffee table and buried a laptop. Matt’s house was enemy headquarters, but Anne couldn’t think of it that way. Or him that way, no matter what Bennie had said. He was bursting into a joyous smile at the sight of her, alive in the lamplight.
“My God! Anne, it is you! I see you! Anne!”
“Like my new hair?” she asked, flicking it with her fingers, but before she could fish for more compliments, Matt had gathered her up in his arms. He felt strong and solid, and relief flooded through her body, spreading warm as lifeblood. It was so good just to be held, even by someone who had never held her before.
“You’re not dead!” Matt began laughing, with evident relief. He squeezed Anne tighter, his arms so long they wrapped almost completely around her. “I can’t believe it! I’m not letting you go! I have you. I have you now!”
Anne hugged him back, letting her emotions come, and felt a tear slide down her cheek. She hadn’t cried since her shower, which seemed like ages ago. She buried her face in the rough cotton of Matt’s shirt, nestling against his chest. She didn’t know if she belonged here, but she needed someone to lean on, and hadn’t realized how much until this very minute.
“Tell me what happened. No, don’t! Forget it. Don’t talk, I want to talk. I have something to say. I’ve been regretting not saying it every minute since I heard you were dead.” Matt released her and looked down at her, wiping wetness from her cheek with a warm thumb. “Don’t cry, this is a good thing. What I have to say is—I love you, Anne.”
Wow. Anne started smiling then, her tears ebbing away, and reached up for him, kissing him fully, in a way she’d wanted to for a long time. She could feel him reaching for her with his kiss, too, with the urgency of his entire body. When he released her, he eased her into sitting on the couch, and sat down next to her, brushing uneven bangs from her forehead.
“What happened?” Matt asked, managing a concerned expression despite a beat-up cheek. “This is crazy. You’re alive?”
“First off, you can’t tell anyone. This is the worst-kept secret in the world, and I can’t risk it
getting out to Kevin. He thinks I’m dead.”
“Kevin. You mean this guy they’re looking for, on the news? Satorno? Is that why you changed your hair?” Matt listened while Anne told him the whole story, and when she had finished, he remained in stunned silence for a moment before he spoke. “You took a risk coming here. Why did Bennie let you?”
“She doesn’t know, I snuck out of her house. You’ve been asking me out for a year, I figured it was time to say yes.” Anne couldn’t look at him without seeing his injury, and close-up it was worse than she thought. The gash rent his cheek and fresh blood filled the cut. He might even need stitches. Anne was an expert. “What happened to your face?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“It’s privileged.”
“How can that be? A privileged fistfight?”
Matt waved her off. “Forget it. Why did the police think you were—”
“A privileged fight would be a fight with a client.” Anne thought a minute and arrived at the answer with a start. “It was Bill Dietz! He hit you, didn’t he?”
“He didn’t mean it.”
“That asshole, I knew it!” Anne flashed on the Bill Dietz listings. No assaults, except the one tonight on his own lawyer. So she had been right about the rage in Dietz. “Why’d he hit you?”
“This isn’t confidential, so I’ll tell you. But we have to observe certain boundaries here. He is my client.”
“You’re loyal to him? You should fire his ass!”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
Right. “Well, it should. So what happened?”
“We were at my office, after the dep.” Matt paused again. “I hate to tell you this. It’s not unethical, it’s just stupid, and this is the beginning, where I tell you only the good stuff about me.”
The beginning. Anne liked the sound of it. “Just tell me.”
“Well, Bill said something I really didn’t like, and no, I’m not telling you what it is, so don’t start asking me”—he wagged his finger at her—”and I told him so. Then he told me not to talk to him that way, that I was only his mouthpiece, which is such a stupid term, and then he hit me. I still can’t understand it.” Matt touched his wound gingerly. “He didn’t mean to cut me, but when he threw his punch, he had on a big college ring and that did it. He felt worse than I did. He apologized, and so did Beth. They offered to take me to the hospital.”
Courting Trouble Page 15
