"I'm sorry," I said.
"It's okay . . . It's just that even after that, I mean, they didn't know about my dad, and I didn't have any leash on David, but when I waited for Jennifer to say something to me, explain at least, if not apologize, she never did. She acted toward me like I wasn't there. No, that's not right. She acted as though I was there, but that nothing had happened. She'd come back to the room and try to make small talk about class or clothes or whatever, like my dad wasn't dying and like I hadn't caught . . . yes, caught her with David." She sniffed again, but appeared over the worst part.
"Did Jennifer ever talk much about William?"
"Oh, yeah. Till I had to make her shut up. She went on about how great he was in bed, how exciting it was to . . . well, do things with a black guy. Then . . ."
"Then?"
"Then, I don't know exactly, but she started saying things like sometimes he . . . he was like impotent, you know? Of course, he was under a lot of pressure."
"At school, you mean?"
"Oh, yeah, that too, for sure. I mean, he struck me as pretty bright and all, but you could tell just listening to him talk that he hadn't had a really good early education. But I meant mainly from Jennifer. She used to show him off, on her arm like some rare bird, the inner-city tamed stud, you know?"
"Would you guess Jennifer was involved with other boys while she was seeing William? Besides David, I mean."
"No guessing about it." Deborah shook her ponytail and leaned forward earnestly. "Look, I know I'm being pretty rough on her and all, but she really was an incredible little bitch. She wanted to sample it all, and with her looks and money, she really could."
"She ever talk about the psychotherapy group she was in?"
"Yeah." Deborah looked down at the clump of tissues in her hand. "I'm going to throw these away. Can I get you something to drink?"
"Just some water would be great."
"Be right back."
She left the room. I decided David was a jerk. An understandable jerk, maybe, but a jerk nonetheless.
She returned and handed me a tall glass, brimming with little ice cubes.
"Thank you. "
Deborah said, "Actually, Jennifer didn't say too much about that—the psychotherapy stuff, I mean. I had the impression that she didn't think too much of the people in it, except for the shrink himself."
"Clifford Marek?"
"Yeah, that was the name. She had the hots for him too, surprise, surprise."
"Do you think they were involved?"
"Funny . . . no, I don't. I mean, Jennifer talked about him a lot at first, and I think she got William to start going partly to sort of please Marek—he was trying to get some kind of real mixed group together, for research or something, I guess. I think Marek kind of kept his distance from her, like either he was too ethical to go after a patient or he could tell she might be trouble. Besides, I was just the one Jennifer bragged to. She confided in someone else."
"Who?"
"This woman in her group. She has an odd first name, like some singer my mother used to like."
"Lainie?"
"That's right. Lainie. I remember Jennifer saying she thought Lainie really had the world all figured out."
Three loud knocks came at the front door. Deborah said, "Oh, shit, they're back." She looked at me. "Do you think I should let them take the door off?"
"It depends. They probably can't get the piano out any other way."
"You said it depends?"
"On how badly you want the piano out of here."
They knocked again. Deborah yelled, "I'm coming."
She turned back to me. "Oh, I want it out, all right. My father used to play it. Every night before bed. I guess in the camp there was an orchestra—remember the big fight over whether Vanessa Redgrave should be in that TV movie?"
"I remember."
"Well, my father said the reason he wouldn't talk about the camp was that there was only one good thing he associated with it, and that was the music. So every night he played here. Kind of a testament, I guess."
"But you want the piano out?" .
"Yeah," she said, getting up. I stood too. She continued, "My mother can't look at it without crying, and in this room, it's kind of hard to miss."
They knocked again. "Okay, okay," she called.
I said to her, "Thank you for all your time."
"That's all right. " She dropped to the softer voice again.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"Before, when you told me about your wife, you weren't just using that to get me to talk to you, were you?"
"I hope not."
She smiled a little and we moved to the door. Uncle Vin was there, Jimmy in his shadow, "Well?" said Uncle Vin.
"You can take the door off," said Deborah.
"Thank God," said Uncle Vin as they went in and I went out.
"Fuckin' A," whispered Jimmy.
NINETEEN
-•-
As I drove away from the Walds' neighborhood, I spotted the coffee shop that Uncle Vin had mentioned. Next to it was a pay phone in one of those vertical glass coffins. I pulled in alongside.
Fortunately, it was push-button, so using my credit card was relatively easy. First I called my answering service. There were two messages, one from Lieutenant Murphy and one from Mrs. Daniels, both essentially seeking status reports. I tried Murphy first and spoke with a young homicide detective named Cross, whom I'd met with Murphy. She said the lieutenant was out, but she'd give him my message.
I called directory assistance for Lainie Bishop's number. She had two listed, one business and one home. I dialed the business number and after four rings got a harried answering service who took down my information and assured me that Ms. Bishop would return my call. I tried Lainie's home phone and after two rings got Lainie's voice on telephone tape. After dutifully waiting for the beep, I left a message saying I wanted to see her that night, at her house if preferable to her.
Next was Mariah Lopez. I'd interrupted a session she was having with a student, but she said she would be available at 4:30 P.M. for half an hour if I could come to U Mass then. I checked my watch and told her I'd be there. Last, I reached Mrs. Daniels at work. I told her I'd like to see her that night. She suggested seven-thirty, and I said fine.
For the ride back to Boston, I swung east and took Route 3A, the so-called shore route, north. Route 3A used to be slower but a lot more scenic than Route 3, the extension of the Southeast Expressway. Route 3A is still slower, but the scenery has been replaced by the kind of strip-city fast-foods and mini-malls you see in the Midwest.
I arrived at U Mass about four-fifteen, and got in to see Dr. Lopez at four-thirty on the nose.
"Well," she said, "have you found out anything that helps William?"
"A little, but also some that hurts him."
"What can I do?"
"I'm not sure. I'd like to bounce some of my impressions off you and see what you think."
"All right."
"It seems that William's relationship with the dead girl was not exactly a storybook romance."
"They seldom are these days."
"I don't want to be crude, but—"
"Mr. Cuddy, I really have heard most everything in this job that could possibly shock me, and I haven't run for the convent yet."
I laughed politely and said, "I confirmed that Jennifer was sleeping around. A lot. It also seems that William would have had to be deaf and blind not to realize it."
"I already told you that would hurt William."
"Maybe not. I've been wondering why William picked the time and place it appears he did to kill her. I mean, they were together in a lot more available places than the boiler room of their psychiatrist's office building. Also, if his motive was that she was cheating on him, he knew about that long ago."
"And therefore?"
"If it's a crime of passion, it should have happened sooner. If it's premeditated, why not p
ick a better spot?"
She looked thoughtful. "You recall that I haven't seen William for quite some time?"
"Yes."
"Well, if he was under the kinds of pressures that I believe he was, then it is possible that those pressures would have taken some time to reach an intolerable level."
"Granted, but when I spoke with William at the jail, he was rational and helpful with most of the topics we covered. Where he blew his top was over Jennifer and the night she died."
"Given the circumstances of her death, that's rather understandable, isn't it?"
"He vented in a sexual way, a cursing way. He was like a student speaking in a classroom discussion, until I would mention Jennifer, then it was 'that bitch' and 'that slut' and so on. He even tried to insult my sexuality."
A smile started at the corner of her mouth, but she clamped it down. "William is a poor black male who was involved with a wealthy white girl who, as you say, slept around. Mostly with white males?"
"I'm not sure, but I would think so."
"Well, then, he probably views you as a potential, and likely successful, competitor for Jennifer. Even though she's dead, he would still see you through that sort of lens."
As he might view Marek, if William saw Jennifer playing up to him. Which could explain the timing and the site of her death, but not in a way that would help my client.
"Mr. Cuddy?"
"Sorry; lost in thought."
"Is there anything more I can help you with?"
"There are a few more people I need to see. Did you come up with anyone that I could talk to about drugs and hypnosis?"
"One possibility, but I want to speak with him first myself. So that he knows you'll be contacting him."
"I understand. If you can, please just call and leave me a message."
"Certain1y."
She let me use her phone to call my answering service. No return word from Lainie. When I got back down to my car, there was a campus police parking ticket on it. I glanced at my watch. Only fou4-fifty. I'd told Mrs. Daniels seven-thirty. The cross-town traffic would be murder now, so there was no sense trying to check my mail at the office or the condo. I smiled.
Plenty of time for a dinner at Arnhein's and a visit.
* * *
"I had the pot roast, kid. Mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh green beans."
Heineken?
"Yes, but just two with dinner."
And how many with dessert?
"Very funny." I bent down, smoothed the white, whispery wrapping around the mums. "Mrs. Feeney went back to the good paper. She said one complaint from as old and loyal a customer as me was enough."
Did she emphasize the "loyal " or the "old"?
"I'm glad one of us has a sense of humor tonight."
Nancy?
"No. I mean, no, I haven't heard from her yet." She lived just about five blocks from where I was standing.
"It's about this case."
The black student and his girlfriend?
"Yes. Some things still seem awfully convenient, but you have those in any investigation because you have them happening in real life, the real life that the investigation looks back at. Given that William confessed and was there and had the gun, the police didn't feel they had to look into many corners. And to be fair to the cops, most of the things I've found hurt William as much as help him."
So what are you going to do now?
"Play out the string. Talk to a few more people, check back on a couple I've already seen."
Have you changed your mind about whether he did it?
I didn't answer. In the harbor below us, the sailboats were tacking and turning about in that odd, Grecian urn style of almost-tag they play. I felt the same way, reaching out for something I couldn't seem to touch.
John?
"I still can't prove he didn't kill her."
Have you thought about it from the other viewpoint?
"If he didn't do it, somebody else must have?"
Yes.
"Yeah, I've thought about it. But the ones with motives, and arguably the knowledge of hypnosis, like McCatty or Bjorkman, don't have the sophistication to bring it off. And the ones with the knowledge and the nerve to do it, like Marek and maybe Homer Linden, don't have the motive."
That you know of.
"You're right. I'll keep digging? I turned toward the car, then back. "Oh, by the way. The dead girl, Jennifer. . ."
I haven 't seen her here.
"I'm not surprised."
* * *
I pulled onto Millrose Street and found a spot four doors from Mrs. Danie1s's house. As I got out of the car, I thought I saw Stooper, the second black kid from my previous visit, scurry off some steps and into an alley between two burned-out shells. Probably not struck with fright at the sight of me.
Mrs. Daniels answered the door so quickly I thought she must have been standing next to it waiting for me. She offered me tea again, but I declined. We sat in the same places in the living room that we had last time.
"Was William more helpful to you today?"
"Yes, much." A little embroidering might make her feel better. "Mrs. Daniels, the reason I wanted to see you was to tell you that I still don't have proof that William didn't kill Jennifer Creasey, but that, for what it's worth, I don't believe he did."
Tears welled up in her eyes. She used the edge of her right index linger to wipe them away.
"You don't know . . ." She caught herself, then continued. "You don't know how good that is to hear. You're the first . . . oh, his lawyer, Mr. Rothenberg, has been very kind, and I know he's trying for William, but I just have the feeling he doesn't really believe that William's innocent."
"Mrs. Daniels, if William didn't do it, then somebody went to an awful lot of trouble to make it seem that he did. Is there anyone you know of that might hate William enough to do that?"
"No. I mean, not that I ever met. But the girl was keeping company with another boy at the college before William."
"Richard McCatty. For a lot of reasons, I doubt it would be him."
She paused. "There's really no one else I can think of. I mean, the street kids here, they'd never go out there to pull “something." Her face became concerned. "They didn't bother you tonight, did they?"
"No, they didn't. Mrs. Daniels, I've very nearly run out of people to talk to. Would it be all right with you if I looked through William's room?"
"You mean, like through his papers and things?"
"Yes."
"The police already did that, you know. With a warrant and all, weeks ago."
"Did you see what they took?"
"Yes, just a couple of pictures of William with the girl and a couple of the girl herself. They even made me sign for them, like a receipt. Didn't send me a copy of the receipt like they said they would. Does that make a difference?"
"Probably not. I'd still like to see his things, though."
"Sure. If they couldn't hurt him, maybe they can help him."
She led me up a hardwood staircase that was carefully polished. The steps could have used refinishing, however, and the worn narrow gray runner replacing. We turned right at the top of the stairs, and she opened a closed door.
"This is William's. Do you want me to stay or do you want to be alone?"
"Stay, please."
She sat on a rickety wooden desk chair, partially pulled out from a cheap metal desk with an old, battered Royal portable on it. Next to the desk were a bureau and a closet. A single twin bed lay flush against a second wall and under a window that showed the small yard behind the house. Some bookshelves leaned precariously against the third wall, less a function of poor construction than of chronic overcrowding.
"William has a lot of books."
"Oh, yes, he read . . . reads a lot. The jail, they let me bring him books, but he doesn't seem to want them."
The shelves contained almost all paperbacks, many looking as if he'd bought them used. Some best-sellers, mysteries, and science f
iction, but overwhelmingly college course books, poetry, psychology, history, political science, and so on. A remarkably comprehensive personal library.
I crossed to the desk. Mrs. Daniels moved over to the bed. I went through the papers on his desk, which seemed to be typed rough drafts of schoolwork. I opened each of the three drawers in succession. Old Corrasable bond, pencils, erasers, baseball cards, coins, newspaper clippings, report cards, class pictures, and the various other crap that student desks have always accumulated.
"Mrs. Daniels, did William have any secret hiding place, somewhere he might have put things he wouldn't want anyone else to see?"
She looked around the room, shook her head. "If he did, he kept it from me."
Framed on the bureau was a five-by-seven photograph of a younger William standing with Mrs. Daniels next to him. William wore a cap and gown, clutching a diploma in his upraised fist. Both mother and son sported broad smiles.
"High school graduation," she said. "Seems a long time ago."
I pushed the desk out from the wall. Nothing taped to it. I took out all the drawers. Nothing. Under the desk frame. Same. The bureau and the bed. Same. Through the closet, past shoes, a baseball glove, a deflated plastic football, and assorted clothing. Same. Under a pile of three cheap sweaters on the top shelf, however, I found a small tape player, designed like a blaster but fancier, with a built-in mike and what looked like a voice-activated recorder button. I pulled it down and examined it. There was a tape still in it.
"The girl gave that to William. For Christmas. He was ashamed because all he could give her was some kind of little perfume bottle that he still had to go without lunch three weeks to buy."
I ejected the tape. Its label was marked DEMONSTRATION TAPE, NOR FOR RESALE. On each side was printed an awkward title in English, with a Japanese performer's name in parentheses after it.
"William have many tapes?"
"No. I mean, I never saw him use that thing. I think it reminded him that he couldn't afford to give her anything so nice."
So Like Sleep - Jeremiah Healy Page 11
