Wyatt thought about that for a moment. “Does every prisoner have to sign in and out every time he uses the place?”
“Absolutely.”
“One more question. Do these computers have modems? Can anyone connect to the outside through them?”
“The answer is no and no,” the deputy said. “That would be like handing a pyromaniac a can of gasoline and a book of matches.”
Wyatt nodded, thinking. “Can I use your phone to make a call? It’s local.”
The deputy shook his head. “Sorry. Only authorized personnel can use this. I have to keep it free, in case of an emergency. You can use a pay phone.” He pointed to the bank of pay telephones on the far wall.
“I thought inmates had use of the telephone free of charge.”
“They do, up in their cellblocks. In here they have to pay. The county hasn’t put in free phones here yet. Funding’s held up,” he explained. He opened his desk drawer and took out a spare quarter. “On me,” he said, handing it to Wyatt.
Wyatt waited until a telephone was free, then called his office. Josephine answered on the second ring. “Where are you?” she asked.
“In the law library at the county jail.”
“Don’t tell me they finally caught up with you,” she teased.
“Shhh.” He smiled. “Look something up for me. I don’t have my calendar, I had to check my briefcase with the front desk.”
“What do you need?”
“Look up the dates from when Marvin was arrested and booked into the jail until the date Dwayne Thompson went to the grand jury. I’ll hold on.” He took out a ballpoint and a small reporter’s notebook from his inside breast jacket pocket.
He leaned against the wall, gazing around. A few inmates looked him over. They don’t know who I am, he thought. He didn’t want them to.
Josephine came back on the line. “Okay, I’ve got it. April third to April eleventh. Anything else?”
“That’s it for now.” He jotted the dates down in his notebook. “See you later.” He hung up and walked back to the deputy on duty, who was chewing the fat with his escort. “How far back does your sign-in book go?” he asked.
“First of the year.”
“Can I see the sign-ins for the dates of April third to April eleventh?”
The deputy shook his head. “That’s against regulations.” He nodded toward the inmates. “To protect confidentiality. You could get a court order,” the deputy said helpfully.
“Maybe I will.” He turned to his escort. “I’m done here.”
THE HOSPITAL WASN’T FAR from the jail. Wyatt swung by on his way back to the office. Michaela was back in her room, propped up on pillows, watching television, an old Katherine Hepburn movie on HBO. She quickly clicked it off as Wyatt came in. He had a bouquet of roses with him.
“A rose by any other name … ,” he quoted. Moira wasn’t there, he noticed.
“Thanks, Daddy. You’re always so thoughtful.”
“What were you watching?” He arranged the roses in a plastic water jug, filled it from the tap, and set it up on the windowsill. The afternoon sunlight caught the facets of the flowers, glimmers of light playing among them.
“An old movie. My favorite kind. I’m not supposed to be watching,” she said guiltily. “I’m supposed to be studying.” She pointed to the pile of books arranged alongside her bed. “Keeping up. I don’t want to fall behind, more than I already have.”
“Don’t get crazy over schoolwork. There’s plenty of time for that. Where is Mom, by the way?”
“She went to her store. She wanted to get a look at how things were going.”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“I told her to,” Michaela said. “We’re starting to get on each other’s nerves.”
“She’s going stir-crazy,” he agreed. “I could stay here some evenings, give her a night off.”
Michaela looked at him. “I’d rather neither of you stayed.”
“Oh?”
“I’m only going to be here a few more days. Dr. Levi told me they’re discharging me on Monday.”
“That’s good—coming home, seeing your friends.”
She nodded. “Sally, Claudia, and Jasmine came by earlier. It was really good seeing them. I miss my friends, Dad. I miss my life.”
“I’ll bet.”
She worried the hem of her top sheet. “You and Mom aren’t getting along well, are you.” Her statement was declaratory, not a question or an accusation.
He wouldn’t lie to her. “No. We’re not.”
“Are you thinking of separating?” There was a vibration to her voice.
“No.” He paused. “But I think we need time off from each other,” he admitted.
“I hate her sometimes.” There was a concealed venomousness to her statement, which took him by surprise—not that she felt it, but that she’d express it so baldly.
“That’s natural.” Now it was coming out. “That’s why you’re seeing someone professional.”
She pushed up on her pillows, adjusting her position. “Do you want to know one thing that really bugs me about Mom? It’s like she’s mad at me. For being there to be shot. Like it was my fault she did it.” The words came pouring out as fast as she could spit them out. “It’s like she can’t take the responsibility on herself, you know? Like we’re all supposed to share in this guilt trip, so she doesn’t have to feel so bad.”
“That’s a natural reaction. She has terrible feelings of guilt. That’s how people deal with it sometimes.”
Even as he said that he thought, Why are you explaining Moira’s actions away? You feel the same way Michaela does. Moira committed the deed. She should take the responsibility.
“Let her deal with it somewhere else than around me. It’s like she’s guilt-tripping me. I don’t deserve it.” She rapped her knuckles on her brace. “I’ve got enough shit to carry around right now without her shit, too.”
He had never known Michaela to be so angry. “I know how you feel.”
“Doesn’t it bug you, Daddy, the way she’s been? With me, with your work, with everything?”
“Yes, but there are things I do that bug her, too. We all bug each other, that’s how it works in families.”
She got in the last word. “Shooting someone and almost killing them is different than bugging them.”
He stayed with her for over an hour. They turned the television back on and watched the end of the movie. As the orderly was wheeling Michaela’s dinner in, Moira telephoned. Michaela answered it. “Hi, Mom.” Her voice wasn’t enthusiastic. “Okay. Yeah, he’s here.” She passed the phone over to Wyatt.
“How’s the store?” he asked. He listened for a minute. “That always happens in construction, you have to deal with it.” He listened some more, at one point pulling the phone away from his ear and smiling at Michaela, who smiled back. He felt a pang of guilt about doing that—conspiring against Moira, particularly at this unsettling time in their lives, wasn’t helpful. Even if it was a minor conspiracy.
“I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up. He hadn’t said “I love you” or “I miss you.” Neither had she.
“Mom’ll be here soon, hon,” he told Michaela. “Tell her how you feel. Without getting angry, if that’s possible,” he advised.
“Why should I have to worry about her feelings?” Michaela demanded. “I’m the one lying here with a steel rod in my leg. She’s out with her friends, pretending like she’s a serious businesswoman.”
“That’s harsh.”
“That bookstore is just so she won’t get bored. Mom doesn’t want to run a business.”
“Maybe she will. Maybe this’ll be a change for her.” He wasn’t going to admit to his daughter that he agreed with her. Those were issues for him and Moira to work out on their own—if they cared enough to try to work them out.
He kissed her on the cheek. “See you tomorrow.”
“Bye, Daddy. Love you. Thanks for the pretty flowers.”
> “Love you, too.”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING HE arrived at the office shortly after eight. Josephine was already there, waiting. “You want to see something really bizarre?” she asked.
“Will it make my day?”
“Or break it,” she said portentously, handing him a sheet of paper with the sheriff’s official logo stamped on the top. “Everyone who was seeing Dwayne Thompson in the jail. It wasn’t easy to get this, because it’s confidential material. Actually, your seeing it is probably a violation of jail regulations.”
“My conscience is clear—clear enough for government work, anyway—and you’re not going to tattle on me, so let’s not worry about it.” He glanced at the single page. It looked like some kind of roster. There were only a few names on it.
She watched him attentively as he read the list.
The name jumped out at him like it was etched in neon lights ten feet high. “Holy shit!”
“My exact words,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I’ve used my source before. He’s totally reliable.”
“What could this mean?” The name was burning a hole in his brain.
“I don’t know. But it’s heavy.”
“Heavy?” he repeated. “This could change everything.”
WYATT STOOD ACROSS THE street, watching the gate where she would come out. He checked his watch—five more minutes. He had been standing there over half an hour, checking his watch every couple of minutes. It didn’t make the time go any faster.
The shift ended. Hundreds of workers came out of the plant. They all exited the same main gate, heading for the block-square parking lot across the street. She would have to pass by him.
He waited a long time. People went by him to their cars, singly and in small groups, talking or not. In the wind the residue of their occupation drifted to him. It burned his nostrils, a dark pungent tang. What a way to make a living, he thought.
Finally, after twenty minutes, she emerged from the front door, came out the main gate, and headed for the parking lot. She was alone, and her hair, uncovered, was damp, glistening in the late-afternoon sun. She wore a simple T-shirt, baggy shorts to the knees, thongs. Seeing her again, in this unadorned outfit, her full figure unself-consciously presented to the world, reminded him of how she had turned him on when they’d first met.
She’s showered, he realized, watching her approach him. So she wouldn’t carry the smell into her car and home.
She was coming closer, but she hadn’t recognized him. He was hiding in plain sight, a man on the street. When she was three paces from him, about to pass by, he stepped out and approached her.
“Excuse me. Miss Waleska?”
She turned to him, squinting for a moment, her hand in a salute over her eyes to shield herself from the sun, which was shining in her face. Then she brightened in recognition. “Mr. Matthews?”
“Yes. I have to ask you some important questions,” he said without preamble.
She knew there was something wrong—she saw it in his face. “My place isn’t far from here.”
Her apartment was on the second floor, up a flight of stairs. He followed her, his eyes drawn to her behind and her calves. He had the feeling she knew he was watching her in this way. If that either annoyed her or made her self-conscious, she didn’t show it.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, dumping her day pack, which was what she used for a purse, on the pine table in the small dining alcove. She had stopped downstairs to take her mail out of the box; she flipped through the stack, set a couple of pieces aside. The rest got tossed into the trash. “I’m going to have a glass of white wine, if you don’t mind.” She stepped into the small kitchen, temporarily out of his line of sight.
“Not right now, thanks.” He felt like a cop about to confront a suspect. A cop wouldn’t have a drink with a suspect, would he? Especially while he was on duty.
“Anything else? I’ve got beer, soft drinks. I think there’s a bottle of Scotch around somewhere.” He heard the popping of a cork, the pouring of a glass of wine.
He drifted into the living room and sat on a white canvas-covered couch. A nice couch, the kind you buy from an Eddie Bauer mail-order catalog. The apartment was small, clean—when he had looked into the kitchen he’d seen that she’d done the dishes before she went to work. Made her bed, too, he’d bet, and neatly folded the towels, in the bathroom. The apartment was specifically furnished, meaning everything had been picked out with a purpose—a special vase, with fresh flowers in it, detailed picture frames with photos in them of friends, mostly women. She was in some of the pictures. He noticed the murder victim in one of them, along with this woman, Violet Waleska, and another woman. There weren’t any children in any of the pictures, and no older people who might be parents. No brothers, and the women weren’t sisters—there was no resemblance. She had no family, none she was close to. Her life was her friends.
“On second thought, if you can find that bottle of Scotch, I’ll have a taste. A small one.” What the hell—he wasn’t a cop, and this visit wasn’t official. Pagano would have a hemorrhage if found out about it. That didn’t matter now. It was something he had to do; as soon as he’d seen her name on that visitation list he knew he had to confront her directly.
“I found the Scotch,” she called out. “Why don’t you come in here and pour the amount you want.”
She handed him the bottle—Cutty Sark—and a glass. He poured a conservative two fingers. “Do you want ice?” she asked.
“One, thanks.”
She opened the freezer, took out a single ice cube between thumb and forefinger, and daintily dropped it into his glass. Then she led him back into the living room. He sat down on the couch again, in the same indentation he’d made earlier. She sat across from him in an easy chair that was covered in the same white canvas material. Slipping her feet out of her thongs, she curled her legs under her. He noticed she was wearing blue toenail polish—an offbeat touch that, for reasons he didn’t understand, pleased him. Except that who she was—her aura, her vibe—pleased him.
“Cheers.” She lifted her glass in salute, took a sip. He nodded and raised his own, but didn’t drink. First he’d ask her why; then he’d drink.
He set his glass down on the coffee table in front of him. She leaned forward and moved it onto a coaster. Then she leaned back in her chair again, staring at him over the rim of her glass.
“Why did you visit Dwayne Thompson in the jail?” She stared at him, her mouth open in a silent O.
“Unless this is all a setup.”
She shook her head.
“Dwayne Thompson is the state’s case against my client. Without him, they have nothing. Your testimony, about seeing Marvin White outside the club that night, is incidental. They think it can help them, buttress their client. I don’t know, you can look at it both ways, helpful or hurtful, I plan to try and use it against them, but who knows? That’s not the point. Why were two witnesses brought together, Miss Waleska? What did Alex Pagano tell you the reason was for bringing you and Dwayne together? He’s not supposed to do that; it could screw him up, pardon my French. Unless,” he said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, “he wanted to make sure your stories checked out, that you don’t contradict each other.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Or is it all a plant? Your testimony, Dwayne’s. A story made up in the back room of the DA’s office and given to two people who have their own reasons to see my client put away. You, because your friend was murdered and you want someone to pay for it; Dwayne, because he’s going to spend the rest of his life in prison unless he gives them something so juicy, so important, that letting him out is the lesser of two evils.”
She looked up at him. “There is no evil greater than Dwayne Thompson. I know that better than anyone.” She nodded at his glass. “I think you’d better have that drink. There’s more where that came from. Which you may want, after you
hear what I’m going to tell you.”
She went back into the kitchen, came back with her wine bottle and his of Scotch, and set them on the coffee table, side by side. She didn’t bother putting coasters under them. “This will take a while.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
She squirmed in her chair, trying to get comfortable. Unable to do so, she sat back, collapsing into herself. She took a deep, preparatory breath.
“I wasn’t always a butcher in a slaughterhouse,” she began. “I was a professional, a college graduate. I was a nurse, a good one.” She paused momentarily. “I was the first member of my family to graduate from college,” she said with pride in her voice. “I was looking forward to marriage, children, the life I’d always dreamed of.”
In her previous career as a nurse, many years before, when she had started working in the hospital, especially when she had passed her exams and become an operating-room nurse, and then the head of her section, a prestigious, high-paying job, she had thought she would marry a doctor, one of the surgeons she worked with. Other nurses had. It was a reasonable expectation.
It hadn’t happened. She wasn’t what they wanted, those stars of the operating theater. She was attractive—she had a full, voluptuous figure and a pretty (if unrefined, she had admitted to herself long ago) face; she was smart, funny, nice. What man—a doctor particularly, doctors always went for lookers—wouldn’t be interested?
The answer, as it turned out, was that few were. Not seriously, as in getting married, having their babies. Oh, they would sleep with her; happily, eagerly, with great hunger and desire. She had done that for years before she wised up and realized that sleeping with men you worked with was a bad idea, a dead end. You lost stature, became a topic for seedy gossip.
Key Witness Page 43
