“Excuse me,” a woman’s throaty voice called out, “is there anyone here?”
“Back here,” he answered. He stood and came around toward the doorway as she approached.
She was wearing a rayon-cotton summer dress that clung to her body. The cavernous hallway was poorly lit, and what light there was came from behind her, so that for the moment her face was in shadow, but there was no hiding the shape of her body. The backlight had the seductive effect of illuminating her figure, which was full and womanly, attractively so, her hips flaring out from her waist under the skirt.
Generous of size without being heavy, there was a ripeness about her that comes to certain women when they’ve reached their thirties and beyond. An ample, tight behind. High breasts. Strong legs.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she apologized as she came toward him, “I took a wrong turn in traffic and had to circle all the way around. The streets are all one-way.”
He knew all about wrong turns. “Not at all,” he answered cordially, stepping out into the hallway so she could see him more easily. “Please, come in.” He gestured with his arm toward his open door. “I appreciate your coming down here and meeting with me.”
As she reached him, the light caught her face. It had something compelling about it. Not beauty, or prettiness—there was no conventional beauty in it, she was too much of peasant-type stock to be considered beautiful—yet it drew him in. It exuded openness, genuine warmth.
She extended her hand. He shook it. Her grip was strong, but the hand was soft. She puts cream on her hands every day, he knew. A strong woman who wants to be feminine.
“I’m Violet Waleska,” she announced herself.
“Wyatt Matthews.” He gestured to his office. “Come in, please. Have a seat.”
She sat in the only visitor’s chair in the small room, across from his desk. Crossing her bare legs, she rested her purse on her lap. The skirt of her dress rose up her thigh about six inches; nothing risqué or provocative, but he took a good look over her shoulder before he sat down in his own chair. He noticed that she didn’t wear a wedding ring.
He opened her file. It contained her initial interview with Detective Pulaski at Marcus Meat Packing, her place of employment, where the murder victim had also worked. She doesn’t look like someone who works in a processing plant, he thought, although she does have strong hands.
The interview with Detective Pulaski covered her seeing a young African American male, estimated height and weight and age, etc. The time it occurred, as best she knew. And what had transpired between her and the young man. Right down the line, no bullshit, no “I thinks” or “maybes.”
The second report was that of her lineup identification. Again, a no-nonsense statement. He was the man who was in the parking lot. She knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt; certainly beyond any reasonable doubt, the criterion by which Marvin would be judged.
He asked her some basic questions, keeping his voice calm, deliberate. Tonight his objective was to make her feel comfortable with him. They could go on the record next time, with Josephine and a stenographer present.
“I’m looking at the time frame here,” he said, the initial police interview in front of him. “You stated that you went out to your car after the band had taken a break.”
“Yes.” Her voice was throaty, low. It sounded like wild honey, still on the comb. “I believe that’s right.”
“Right after?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
He thought for a moment. “Let’s look at this together,” he said, rotating the report around so it faced her and she could see it. He rose from behind his desk and crossed to her side, standing at her hip, leaning down to place his finger on the document where he had quoted it. Her perfume, night-blooming jasmine mixed with a delicate scent of perspiration, permeated his nostrils with a fragrant sexual aroma. Cool it, Jack. This is an adversarial witness who must not be fucked with under any circumstances whatsoever, and you are a married man.
“Was it the first break of the evening that the band took, or a later one?” he asked.
“I’m sure it was the first,” she replied, turning to look at him. “We arrived right after they started. So it had to have been the first break.”
He made a mental note to check with the manager of the nightclub. Maybe they could pinpoint the time. He knew when Marvin had entered the store to rob it—the videotape was time-coded. Perhaps there would be a time discrepancy. It needed looking into.
They briefly discussed the rest of the information on her documents. Leafing through his calendar, he made an appointment for her to come back late the following week, where her statement would be taken officially. He gave her his card, and scribbled his home telephone number on the back. “Call me if you have anything further to tell me before next week,” he said. “You can call me at home. If anything comes up.”
She placed the card in her purse.
“I have your number at work,” he remembered, “but I don’t know if we have your home phone. Would you mind giving it to me, just in case.”
“No, I don’t mind.”
He handed her another one of his cards. She wrote her name and number on it in a clear, adult script. He slipped it into his wallet rather than her folder, which he shut and filed in a cabinet. “I’ll walk you out.”
“I can find my way.” Her protest was not forceful.
“Time to call it a day for me,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”
“I’m bushed myself,” she said with a confiding smile. “I get up early.”
They started walking out together. He locked his door behind him. “Where do you live?” he asked in a neutral tone as they crossed the floor to the elevator.
“Over on Randolph. Three twenty-nine, apartment twenty-four. Let me have that card, I’ll write it down for you.”
He retrieved the card from his wallet. She wrote her address on it. “You can call me also, if you have any more questions. It’s easier to reach me at home than at work. As long as it isn’t too late. I live alone, so it isn’t a disturbance.”
So she wasn’t married, as he had guessed.
Randolph was an older neighborhood down by the waterfront that had been gentrified over the past two decades. Advertising types and upwardly mobile yuppies lived there for the most part. She wasn’t either.
They exited the building. The sky was dark amber cross-fading to black, glowing with a thousand lights of the city. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he offered.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“A woman who’s taken the time to come down and meet with me shouldn’t walk alone at night, not around here. It’s an old-fashioned habit, I guess.”
“A nice one. Thank you.” They walked to the corner and waited for the light to turn. “At least I don’t have to worry about the Alley Slasher anymore,” she commented as they crossed the street.
“If Marvin White is the real thing,” he said. “He’s still only a suspect,” he reminded her.
She frowned. “For a moment there I’d forgotten he was your client. That we’re on opposite sides.”
“All I want is the truth.”
“The police think he did it. They say he made a confession.”
“To a jailhouse stool pigeon. Not the most sterling category of witness.”
“The district attorney says they are good witnesses,” she said in defense of her position.
“Anybody that puts their eggs in the basket of a scumbag like Dwayne Thompson is asking for—” He stopped. It wasn’t appropriate to mention the name of the state’s key witness to someone outside the system, a civilian who had no reason to have that information, not that it was a secret.
She turned to him. “What was that name again?”
“Nothing.” The light turned green. He placed a hand lightly on her back to turn her attention to it. She was flustered, he could feel it. The conversation had gotten too close to the bone. It was her friend who had been mu
rdered. He must not forget that.
They crossed the street. He withdrew his hand when they stepped up onto the curb. “Sometimes the police are wrong, you know,” he said.
“I hope not.” They had reached her car, a decade-old Honda Accord that needed a good waxing. She turned to him as she took her keys from her purse. “You’re a nice man,” she said, “and he’s your client. But if he isn’t the one who did it, then the real murderer is still out there. And that scares the hell out of me.” She got into her car.
“Thank you again for taking the time,” he said. He closed the door. She started the engine, put her car in gear, and drove off.
He hoped he would see her again, he thought as he watched her leave.
WALTER MALONE’S LAWYERS, TWO well-meaning hacks who got the cases no substantial lawyer would take, didn’t lay a glove on Dwayne. They grilled him for two days solid and came up with nothing but dry holes. If anything, they hurt their client by keeping Dwayne on the stand that long.
Wyatt watched part of the cross-examination from the back of the courtroom. Helena Abramowitz wasn’t present, he noticed. She didn’t need to see any more of the carnage—her future witness was rock solid. And the credibility he would gain from this trial would, Wyatt knew, carry over.
AFTER AN EARLY DINNER, Wyatt picked Moira and Michaela up at the airport. They gave him big sloppy kisses and suffocating hugs. “I missed you,” Moira whispered.
“Me, too,” he answered; and although he hadn’t been thinking that much about them, seeing them now, feeling them, felt wonderfully good.
They waited at the carousel for their luggage. “How was your trip?” he asked Michaela. “Any revelations, good or bad? You didn’t say much on the phone.” He hadn’t talked to them every day, and when he did it was hurried and perfunctory—from him more than them.
“Everything was great. I loved New York,” she gushed. “All that music, and theater, and art.”
“So are you thinking about Columbia? Or NYU?” Michaela had always been artistically inclined. She was a particularly gifted dancer, one of the best young ballerinas in the city—she had performed in dozens of productions since the age of six. For the past two summers she had apprenticed with the city’s premier professional company, and they had promised that this coming summer they were going to make her a member of the troupe, with pay.
It would be great, his kid at school in New York.
She shook her head. “It’s really tempting, Daddy, but I’d never go to class. The city would be too tempting.” She exchanged a conspiratorial smile with Moira.
“What?”
“I’ve decided on Princeton, Daddy. It’s perfect for me.”
That was a surprise. “It’s a great school.”
“I’m going to apply for early admission.” She was flushed with excitement about her prospects. “They told me I have a real good chance, with my grades and the SATs I had this winter. They have a great dance program, and it’s only an hour on the train to New York. I met with the dance director and she was really encouraging.” The words came tumbling out so fast he could hardly keep up.
“I think you’ve got your life all worked out.”
“I do, Dad. I can hardly wait.”
By the time they got home it was past ten. With the time difference and the emotional roller-coaster nature of the trip, Michaela was exhausted, and she had school the next day. She gave them good-night kisses and went to her room. In five minutes her lights were out.
“Sounds like you had a great time.” They were in bed together.
“It was fabulous. It’s so joyful to be part of her excitement.” Moira nestled up against his shoulder.
“One more year and then she’s gone.”
Her body moved closer to his, as if she was trying to meld them into one body. “I’m having a hard time facing up to it.”
“We can’t let her see that. She’s still our kid,” he assured her. “She’ll always be there.”
“I know. I try not to. But it’ll free us up and maybe”—she traced her fingernails along his chest, toying with the short, curly hairs—“that’ll be a good thing.”
“It will be.”
As her hand took his penis he slid a finger into her, gently massaging her from the inside while she stroked him, getting him hard! They rolled over facing each other, bodies pressed up against each other, his free hand cradling her head and steadying it as they kissed openmouthed.
They made out for a long time, his finger inside her, her soft, small hand sliding up and down his shaft. Her first climax came in a sudden rush, her free hand grabbing his hair and pulling his mouth tighter against hers, hips rising off the bed, moaning into his mouth. She rolled over onto her back and he eased himself on top of her and she put him inside.
He pumped slowly, not wanting to come quickly. As he felt his ejaculation rising he reached down and touched her clitoris and she came again, right away, grabbing his ass with both hands, and as her thin hips came off the mattress grinding into his he thought of Violet Waleska, that lush body, all big hipped and big breasted and large of ass, the opposite of Moira, and he didn’t know what she smelled or tasted like but it would be stronger, her female essence more pungent than Moira’s.
He opened his eyes for a moment and looked at his wife, her eyes closed, moving in rhythm, rapturous in her own ecstasy that he was bringing forth, and he focused on her so that he was with her and only her, and he had an orgasm like he hadn’t had for a long, long time.
THE JUDGE IN PEOPLE v. Walter Malone finished his charge to the jury at 9:55 the following Tuesday morning, after closing arguments the day before. Shortly before lunch they informed the bailiff that they had reached a verdict. The judge ordered the verdict sealed until after lunch, two o’clock.
Wyatt hustled over to the courthouse as soon as he heard the news. The hallways were crowded with media, officials, and other courthouse hangers-on, including several lawyers. He hung back from mingling with anyone—a fly on the wall was his self-assigned role.
Walter Malone was found guilty of murder by seven women and five men. They would begin deliberations on the penalty phase on Thursday. The sheriffs cuffed and manacled the ashen-faced convict and led him out of the courtroom.
Wyatt watched the self-congratulatory hugs and pats on the back from his seat in the back of the room. Alex Pagano had shown up in person to hear the verdict read. He was resplendent in a double-breasted charcoal gray Hugo Boss pinstripe, and looked well pleased. Wyatt slipped out of the courtroom unobtrusively, making sure not to catch the eye of anyone on the prosecution team.
As expected, Alex Pagano was holding an “impromptu” news conference on the courthouse steps. After praising the men and women who had tried the case on his department’s behalf, he disclosed what he considered to be the defining moment in the case.
“Dwayne Thompson may be a convicted felon,” he said, “but his testimony in this case was convincing and riveting. Contrary to popular belief, informants often can be the most reliable of witnesses, because they are able, through the similarities of their own situations, to gain the confidence of other criminals, in ways those of us in law enforcement can never muster.”
“Are you saying that Dwayne Thompson is going to be the cornerstone of the Alley Slasher trial?” called out a veteran reporter.
“He’s a part of that case,” Pagano stated. “But we have much more going than one person’s testimony.”
I’d like to know what that is, Wyatt thought as he watched from the fringe of the crowd. And if there’s any way I can do it, I’m going to find out.
One thing he had to admit, though—Dwayne Thompson had been a killer witness.
“THOMPSON. YOU’VE GOT A visitor.” The deputy stood in the doorway.
The lunch break had ended a short time before. There, were over a dozen inmates in the infirmary waiting to be treated.
Dwayne looked up. “He picked a great time to come.” He had no idea who his visit
or was; as far as he knew, no one from this city would come to see him. Maybe it was a former mate from Durban who had finished his sentence and was here on a busman’s holiday.
“It’s a she, not a he.”
A she? There was no woman in the world who would visit him; in his entire life, in all the prisons and jails in which he’d done time, he had never had a woman visitor. The only woman who would want to see him now would be Abramowitz, and she didn’t “visit,” she made “appointments.”
The deputy led him out of the infirmary, up the elevator, and into the visiting area, opening the door that led into the row of cubicles that were separated by head-high partitions on the prisoner’s side. A wall of safety glass bisected the room-long table, each cubicle having a telephone for the inmate and visitor to talk through. “Number seven,” the deputy instructed him.
He walked down the row to the seventh stall, took his seat, and looked through the window to the other side.
“Jesus Christ.” His jaw went slack. Then he picked up the phone.
“Hello, Dwayne.” The voice was tinny through the connection, but it was her.
“What are you doing here?” he asked the woman, who sat still and straight on her side, the visitor’s telephone held to her ear.
“Good question.” Her breathing was high in her chest, shallow and rapid. She took a deep cleansing inhale and exhale to try to calm herself. Under the table, where he couldn’t see it, her other hand was clenched in a fist, holding a handkerchief that she was twisting into a knot.
“It’s been a long time. Ten years?”
“Longer. Almost twelve.”
“You look …” How did she look? She’d been a young woman, in her twenties, the last time he’d laid eyes on her. Now she was—what? Let’s see, he was thirty-eight. So that would put her right at forty.
He could, only see her from the waist up. From waist to neck she looked the same. Same big tits, probably not as firm. Waistline not bulging, she had kept her figure, looked like. Was she married now, did she have any kids? Probably—she was the marrying, mothering type.
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