"I hate cats in bed."
"Yeah, me too. So I'm puttin' it to her and this cat hops in and he's only got one ear, like the other one got bit off or something. And she says to it, 'Not now, Vincent,' just like that, like maybe the cat was next after me."
"Vincent?" said Surfer. "That's a funny name to call a cat."
"Yeah, I thought so too," said Mustache.
Surfer looked down to the dance floor again. "What do you think of the two in the corner over there?"
"By that fuckin' whale?"
"Yeah."
"Not bad, but it's still kinda early to pounce yet."
"Yeah, but how about if we check 'em out?"
"Sure, sure. I hate to waste time on a broad I haven't heard talk yet."
They turned away and headed for the staircase. They missed Lainie's approach back to me as The Lovin' Spoonful came through the speakers.
"Sorry about that," she said, settling back onto the sectional. "Terry's wife is bitchin' him up over their joint custody agreement, and it's been tearing at him something fierce."
Her glass was empty. "Let me get this round," I said.
She clamped a hand on my knee. "Already ordered. So where were we?"
She left her hand there. I refocused on the job.
"You were telling me about Jennifer Creasey."
"Right, right. She wasn't a bad kid, really, though she did kind of dazzle poor William. Flashing her WASPy ass at him, you'd think he'd know better. But I guess enough people told him he was smart. And he was too, but smart in the brain sense, not in the mind sense, you know?" Her hand ventured up from my knee a few inches. "Book learning, not worldly wisdom."
The cocktail waitress arrived with our drinks. She carried a tray with eight indentations around the edge, into which the eight filled glasses lit snugly. A truly great invention.
Lainie reached the knee hand up for her drink. A tactical mistake, as I was able to shift my leg away from her.
The waitress left.
I said, "Can you tell me what happened that night?"
"Sure," she said, "except for finding her . . . her. I don't want to talk about that."
Lainie related basically the same sequence as Linden had. I thought of a question that I'd forgotten to ask Homer. "Would there have been any reason for Jennifer to see Marek outside the group?"
She clouded up. "What do you mean?"
"Any reason she'd be seeing Marek?" I said as neutrally as possible.
Lainie shook her head, maybe too hard. "No. Cliff . . . Dr. Marek doesn't fool around like that."
I would have liked to pursue the subject, but she seemed sensitive on it, and I wanted other information from her.
"Did you have any reason to think William would harm Jennifer?"
"Nope. Oh, he was wound pretty tight, pressure from the college and Jennifer and all. But I never would have guessed he'd hurt her." She put the accent on the "he'd."
"Who would you have guessed would hurt her?"
She gave me a dreamy look and slid closer, hand to my thigh this time. "I've been thinking. If I answer all your questions now, you won't have any reason to see me again."
"Oh," I said, with the obvious next line: "I wouldn't say that."
She drew her nails firmly across my thigh and leaned over for a kiss.
"I prefer to separate business and pleasure," I said.
"I don't," she said, kissing me on the lips, head moving left to right seductively. I didn't respond.
She pulled back, surprised. "What's the matter, I'm not attractive?"
"I think you're attractive. That doesn't mean I find you attractive."
She lowered her voice. "You're not gay, are you?"
"No, just working."
"Christ," she said. "Whatever happened to Mike Hammer?" She took a drink and looked at her watch simultaneously. "Look, honey, it's been terrific, but I think I'm gonna move on."
"I'd like to ask you a few more questions," I said, she standing and I following.
She gave me the head and curls roll again. "Sure. Sometime when you're not working, huh?"
She turned.
"One question, please?" I said.
She sighed. "Okay, one."
"Who would you have bet would hurt Jennifer?"
"Oh, what's his name, the guy she tossed over for William. Richard something. At Goreham. Listening to her, he was a real bastard."
"Thanks."
"Ciao," she said, walking back toward Terry.
I hate wasting a drink, so I downed half my new screwdriver. Which made me look for the men's room. There was one on the second level. When I came out, Lainie was sitting next to Terry, clasping her hands on his and talking very seriously. An image came to me, an image of her consoling a troubled but younger guy like William. I climbed down the stairs and yielded sideways at the bottom to a couple moving up. I heard Mustache's voice behind me at the bar. "Baby, all I can say is this hombre thinks you are muy beautiful."
I turned my head in time to see Mustache tapping his chest in front of a chubby woman with the weary face of a nurse working double shifts. Surfer was nowhere in sight. "In fact," said Mustache, slouching nearer to her, "in the event of a nuclear war, I hope you'd be the last chick on earth."
"Pal" she said, not giving ground, "if I were the last woman on earth, you'd be standing near the end of a very long line."
I walked to the double doors. Simon and Garfunkel clicked on. The baby-boom generation hits middle age. Groovy.
TEN
-•-
I turned the key in the Fiat. It wasn't even dark yet. I took out my list and saw that group member Donald Ramelli lived in Wellesley, on my way home. I drove to Wellesley center, got directions from a gas station attendant, and followed them to Ramelli's house.
It was an old wide-bodied ranch on too small a lot. The hedge was scraggly, the lawn rough-cut, with big brown patches. There was a late-model Cadillac sedan in the driveway. However, as I walked to the house, I noticed the left front of the Caddy was staved in. There were also a couple of deep scratches beginning at the driver's door and traveling nearly to the rear fender.
I rang the bell. No answer.
I rang again. From inside the house, a male voice:
"Awright, awright. Coming, coming."
The man in the doorway was carrying a tall glass, half full of clear liquid. He was early forties and medium height, potbellied, in a golfing shirt and Bermuda shorts. His features were thin and red—lined, his still full head of black hair too much for the face it framed.
"Mr. Ramelli?"
"I don't vote, I don't buy, and I don't contribute, even at the office."
It sounded a practiced line, so I laughed. He laughed too.
"I'm John Cuddy, Mr. Ramelli. I'm investigating the shooting in Dr. Marek's building, and I'd like to ask you a few questions."
He rocked back, but pushed open the screen door for me. "Sure, sure, come on in. The Sox are on the tube, downstairs."
We descended to a basement that, unlike Linden's, was mostly bar, a little den, and no gymnasium. A forty-eight-inch projection television was at one end, Jim Rice flexing with a bat. There were water stains on the ceiling and an odor of mildew masked insufficiently by a pine-scented air freshener.
He moved behind the bar. "What'll you have?" Not "Would you like a drink?" The dented car, sunburst complexion, and opened bottle of vodka on the counter painted a pretty complete picture.
"Screwdriver?"
"Sure." He opened the refrigerator. "Shit, she forgot the o.j. again. How about a vodka tonic?"
"Fine."
He made it quick and strong. No lime. He paused to freshen his. About three ounces' worth. No mixer.
He came back around, gave me the drink. "Sit down, sit down." He gestured toward the TV. "Twi-nighter, to make up for the rainout. The score's already three to one, Oakland."
I watched Rice send the next pitch towering toward the leftfield wall at Fenway. It caught the scre
en halfway up. Nobody was on base in front of him.
"Christ, he's something, isn't he? Fucking eight other guys like him, though, they'd still lose ten to nine every game. No pitching. Never had any pitching."
I remembered Lonborg and Radatz and half a dozen others, but said, "I understand you were there the night . Jennifer Creasey was shot?"
"You 'understand'? Aren't you a Calem cop?"
"No, I'm not."
"Which department you with, then? Not ours."
"No, no department. I'm a private investigator." I dug out my ID. He studied it from several angles, then handed it back.
"Who you workin' for?"
"Willa Daniels, William's mother."
"Hoo, you'd better be Magnum, P.I., buddy. They got Daniels so wrapped up, Houdini couldn't get out of it."
He drank from his glass as though it were lemonade.
"Poor shit."
"Did you know William well?"
"Just through the group," said Ramelli, answering me but watching the game. "C'mon, Tony. Lose one, lose one."
"What'd you think of him?"
"Think of him? Shit, that was way outside, Ump, way out. Think of him, huh? Well, I thought he was a pretty good kid who was getting sucked in way past his depth."
"How do you mean?"
"Well"—drinking—"here he is, a kid who would probably be a top ten percenter in his element, at U Mass, you know, and instead he comes out here and look." Ramelli spread his hands, sloshing a little liquor. He changed hands, licked the wet fingers. "I got nothing against the colored, they never took anything from me, but one look at that Jennifer, and you know old Willie wasn't going to be her one and only, you know?"
"Did she have somebody else on the string?"
"Wouldn't surprise me. She was a real"—he looked at me, trying to gauge something-"she was like a blond-haired Katharine Ross, from The Graduate, you know? Refined like that, but a hooker at heart. She had plenty before old Willie, if I'm any judge."
"Do you think she had somebody along with Willie, though?"
"Like I said, wouldn't be surprised. Never saw her with anyone, but you never know with kids these days. Not like us, you know?"
I said I knew. Over the next two innings we covered Ramelli's profession (selling wholesale auto parts) and avocation (watching any sport involving a ball). Regarding the night of the killing, Ramelli was a little fuzzy on certain points, but said nothing to contradict what Homer and Lainie had given me. I didn't bother asking him why he'd joined the group.
I glanced at the set. Jim Rice was back up, which seemed an omen. I stood to leave. Ramelli and his booze escorted me back upstairs.
"Thanks again for the information and the drink."
"Hey, no problem. Sorry about the o.j. Fuckin' Bliss, I don't know where her head's at anymore."
A cat scooted across my path and out of sight. A cat with only one ear.
Ramelli closed the door. I got into my car and out of town as fast as I could find my way.
Between Cointreau's and Ramelli, I was too depressed and tired to drive to Goreham College and hunt for Richard McCatty. He'll be easier to find through a student directory the next morning.
When I got in the apartment, the tape machine's window showed one message. I called my answering service as I rewound the tape. My service said Lieutenant Murphy had called and that I had the number. I thanked the woman and played back the tape. It was Murphy also. "Call me tonight."
I dialed his home number and got a mellow female voice.
"Yes?"
"This is John Cuddy returning Lieutenant Murphy's calls."
"Just a minute, please."
I waited, Murphy came on. "Just a second," he said. I waited again. "Okay," he said, "what've you got?"
"Lieutenant," I said, as gingerly as possible, "I'm returning your call to be polite, but my client is Willa Daniels, not you. All I 'll say is that so far the police report checks out down to the commas."
"Now look, mister—"
"Lieutenant, before we get so mad we can't sleep, let's be straight on what the dispute is. If I find out something, you want me to tell you. I'm saying I won't. Since there's nothing to tell yet, there's nothing to fight about."
He stayed silent. It must have been very hard for him. "Call me if you need anything," he said in a businesslike voice, and rang off.
I stared at the telephone. I wondered why he didn't blow up.
I dialed Mrs. Daniels. I summarized my day for her, and she said she would try to persuade William to talk to me. I told her that Murphy wanted to be kept abreast of what I found out and that my doing so probably couldn't hurt William. She agreed that I could tell him anything I thought could help.
I hung up and thought about calling Nancy, even on a pretext. Instead, I broiled a steak with some canned mushrooms and drank two Molson Golden ales. I carried my landlord's color portable into the bedroom and watched two fires, one robbery scene, and three traflic accidents on the eleven o'clock news before drifting off to sleep.
ELEVEN
-•-
I hate waking up to Sunrise Semester. I shook the pins-and-needles sensation from my right leg and turned off the set. The clock radio said 6:35 A.M. A little early for investigating.
I did calisthenics for about an hour, including maybe a quarter as many sit-ups on the horizontal as I had watched Homer Linden perform on the slant. Before I went in to shower and shave, I poured milk on a half bowl of granola, which I then put in the fridge. Twenty minutes later, I watched Jane Pauley interview some weather expert about the jet stream while I sat down to breakfast. Granola may be good for you, but even tenderized it's like eating a dirt road.
At eight-thirty, I called the Goreham College general number and got no answer. I fetched my Times from downstairs, read for a while, and tried again. After two transfers, I got the student directory operator, who gave me McCatty's dorm address and room telephone. Six
rings, no answer.
I next tried Mariah Lopez at U Mass. Somebody's secretary said she would be in by 11:00 A.M. The secretary took my and William's names and gave me brief directions.
I got dressed and first drove down to Boston Garden. I easily found a parking space and walked the three blocks back up to 100 Cambridge Street, one of the state office buildings. The lobby directory listed room 1507 for the Board of Registration in Medicine. Despite Homer's and Lainie's endorsements, Marek's experimental hypnosis therapy still smacked of quackery, and I wanted to check on his background. I took the elevator to the fifteenth floor.
Around two corners I found a powder-blue wall with a reception window cut into it and the board's designation on a silver and black sign. I looked through the window into a multidesked olhce area. A well-dressed young woman with short dark hair noticed me and smiled brightly. She said, "Can I help you?" as she walked toward me.
"Yes. I'd like to see the file on a doctor."
The smile never wavered. "I'm sorry, but the only information we can give out over the counter is the doctor's current address, alma mater, and graduation and licensing dates."
"How can I get permission to see the rest of the file'?"
She half turned and called to another young woman, with shoulder-length blond hair. The colleague came over, echoed the first one's version, and politely suggested that I telephone after 3:00 P.M. to speak with the board's general counsel.
I had a better idea. I thanked them and went back downstairs to the lobby and a pay phone.
I reached Murphy at his office. He said he would see what he could do about getting me a copy of Marek's file. Murphy's voice didn't telegraph any hard feelings from our talk the night before.
I tried McCatty's number at Goreham again. His room mate said McCatty was at an exam and would be back about two. Without identifying myself, I said I'd call back then.
It was only ten-fifteen. Plenty of time to catch Dr. Lopez, then drive to Goreham.
I went back to the car, circled downtown Boston,
and picked up Morrissey Boulevard. I passed the sprawling, red-brick Boston Globe building on the right and the equally red-bricked but more academic B.C. (for Boston College) High School on the left. Shortly thereafter, the U Mass access road squiggled off toward the water.
The University of Massachusetts is spread over a number of sites. Its main Boston campus is at Columbia Point, a peninsula jutting out into the harbor. The school shares grounds with the John F. Kennedy Library and a huge but abandoned sewage pumping station. From a distance, the U Mass buildings are a monolithic brown, rather foreboding and depressing. Up close, you see that the walls are made of an impossible number of individual, chocolaty bricks, with dark-green windows like polarized sun lenses peeking out well above rock-throwing height.
I parked my car in the indoor garage and climbed to the t second floor of the harborside wing. Following my directions further, I found Dr. Lopez's office and knocked. A woman opened the door and smiled at me.
"Dr. Lopez?"
"Yes?"
"I'm John Cuddy. I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice." '
"Please come in."
We sat down. Dr. Lopez was fiftyish and slim, with gray curly hair and gold-framed glasses. "I'm told that you're here about William Daniels?"
"That's right."
"Could I see your identification, please?"
I showed her.
"And you're working for William?"
"Working for his mother to help William."
"Last week, I spoke with a Mr. Rothenberg on the telephone," she said.
"That's William 's attorney."
"Yes. He didn't mention you."
"I started only two days ago."
"I see."
When she didn't continue, I said, "May I ask you some questions about William? "
She fussed with the collar of her blouse. "We're under a great deal of scrutiny here. At the university, I mean. Are you familiar with us?"
"I know that you try to provide higher education to people of lower means."
Her expression remained neutral. "Nicely put. Our mission is to advance students who wouldn't otherwise have the opportunity to obtain college degrees. Many of them take more than the classic four years. Many eventually finish, most do not."
So Like Sleep - Jeremiah Healy Page 6
