Rose-colored Glasses

by Downing, John

“From mid-October to mid-February. So, four months.”

  “When you went your separate ways, did you leave or did she?”

  “I did. I left to get married.”

  “Tell me about DeBrough.”

  “I was a stewardess‌—‌that’s how I met my husband (the airline wouldn’t like to hear it),” Mueller said. “This particular night, I was supposed to be flying to Boston, but there was a snowstorm. Idlewild was closed and all flights were cancelled. I came back home and found Laurel entertaining a guest.”

  “DeBrough?”

  Mueller nodded.

  “How did you know who he was? Did Laurel introduce him to you?”

  “Yes. She introduced him as Tom.”

  “Tom?”

  “That’s right. But I recognized him from seeing his picture in the paper. I didn’t let on.”

  “Had he been here before?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, I was a stewardess. I wasn’t home a whole lot.”

  “Did you see Laurel with other men?”

  “She was out with a guy almost every night.”

  “The same guy? Or different guys?”

  “One guy might last a week, maybe two. And then a new guy would take his place. There was one more or less steady guy she dated the whole time we were together. I think she called him Ricky.”

  Langley caught Wickersham’s eye.

  “Where did she meet these guys?” he asked Mueller.

  “At work, I think. She worked as an office temp.”

  “Is that how she met DeBrough?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did she always bring her men back to the apartment?”

  “No. When I was home, she didn’t bring anyone. They picked her up at the door. I think that was why she wanted a roommate: so she could have an excuse not to invite guys in.”

  “In that case why did she date them?”

  “It wasn’t sex.”

  “She had DeBrough stay over.”

  “He wasn’t the only one. I caught her with Dick and Harry, too. But sex was not what she was after.”

  “What, then?”

  “I think she was looking to connect.”

  “Connect? Connect with what?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think she knew. She was always talking about how she wanted the good things in life, the things only money, and lots of it, can buy. I think she had some crazy idea she would take one of these guys away from his wife, or become his mistress. Like I said, she wasn’t very worldly-wise.”

  “Did she seem upset at being caught out with DeBrough? As though something good had been ruined?”

  Mueller shook her head. “I think her spree with DeBrough had just about run its course.”

  “Do you know this guy?” Langley took out a picture of Burden and gave it to Mueller.

  She shook her head.

  “You never saw him at the apartment?”

  “You mean with Laurel? She wouldn’t be caught dead with a guy like that.”

  Mueller didn’t know it but she had just made a very sick joke. “That’s her husband,” Langley said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Three months after you left her, she married him. What do you think she saw in him?”

  Mueller looked again at the picture as though to pick out some feature of Burden’s she had missed the first time. “Does he have money?”

  “Not two nickels to rub together.”

  Mueller shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine,” she said, handing the picture back to Langley.

  “Maybe it was love,” he said.

  Mueller laughed.

  ***

  “I don’t get it,” Langley said. “Why did Laurel Rose marry Burden? From everything I’ve heard about her, she looked out for Number One first, last and always. Other people existed for her as a means to an end. What did she want from Burden?”

  They were passing the Narrows. The channel was choked with ships, tankers and freighters, some coming, others going, still others sitting at anchor waiting their turn to dock. In the distance an ocean liner, one of the Queens, was just entering the Upper Bay. Too far away to tell if it was Mary or Elizabeth.

  He wasn’t sure how to take the news that DeBrough had been Laurel’s lover. It gave Burden at least one motive for killing her: jealousy. But would Burden be jealous of something that had happened before he’d met Laurel? He would. Add to that suspicion that maybe the affair was continuing behind his back or that Laurel was using him to get back at DeBrough, and he had two motives. All of this was supposing Burden knew of his brother’s dalliance with Laurel. Did he know? He had given no indication of it.

  There was, of course, someone else who might be able to cast light on the matter. That was DeBrough.

  Wickersham had been unusually quiet on the ride back.

  “I want you,” Langley told him as they parted, “to try to find out when and how Laurel Rose met DeBrough. Also, see if you can find any evidence they saw each other after February.”

  Wickersham nodded noncommittally.

  “Have you talked with Laurel’s mother, by the way?”

  “She wouldn’t speak to me.”

  “She might be able to help us fill in some of the information we’re missing.”

  “That’s why she won’t talk to me. She won’t do anything that might help the man who killed her daughter.”

  “I guess I can’t blame her. I’d also like to talk to this guy Ricky.”

  “His full name is Enrico Reina,” Wickersham said. “I’ve located where he used to live.”

  Langley sensed he was going to say more.

  “He moved out the same day Laurel died. Moved out in a hurry: he left behind all his things.”

  Langley looked at him. “Are you sure he… ‘moved’?”

  “He’s not dead, if that’s what you’re suggesting. He’s been seen since, although nobody seems to know where he’s currently living.”

  Langley grunted. “What do you make of that?”

  Wickersham shrugged. “When I find him, I’ll ask him.”

  ***

  Langley called DeBrough’s Manhattan number, where he got no answer, and then his club, where he was told that DeBrough had left word that he could be reached at Sea Vista, the family’s estate on Long Island. Langley began to dial the number, but then he put the receiver down, deciding his business was best conducted in person.

  ***

  At one time Long Island had been virtually carpeted with the estates of the rich. The cost of upkeep, taxes and the appropriation of land for parkland and highways had led to their demise. Sea Vista was one of the few that remained.

  Relatively pint-sized in comparison to the giant estates of the robber barons, it was still, by most standards, positively palatial. After entering the main gate, Langley drove for approximately a quarter of a mile along a twisting road before he came upon the house itself. Sea Vista Manor.

  Some of the grand old mansions of Brooklyn were to be found in his own neighborhood, a couple of them on Prospect Park West, a few blocks from where he lived. As far as he knew, they were no longer privately owned. In style, the building before him reminded him of them. In size, it made them look like runts. Constructed out of some kind of white stone, it stood three storeys high and was half as wide as a city block. It rested on a cliff. Beyond it, Langley could see the ocean. The moon cast a trail on the water, reminding him of how late it was to be making this call. Maybe he should postpone it. No, the sooner he had it out with DeBrough the better.

  Another car was pulling up in the driveway just as Langley rounded the last turn. As he parked in back of it, its driver emerged. Together they walked to the front door, which swept open just as they reached it. DeBrough stepped out.

  “Thank you for coming, Father,” he said, addressing the other man. Then he noticed Langley. “Owen…”

  The priest had stepped in
side and was waiting for DeBrough to join him.

  “Please go on up, Father,” DeBrough said. “I’ll join you in a minute.” After the priest had gone, he said to Langley, “My mother is not expected to last the night.”

  “I’m sorry,” Langley said. He stood a moment indecisively. “I’ll go. My business can wait until another time.”

  “My mother died ten months ago, Owen,” DeBrough said, “when her mind went. Besides, it must be something very important that you felt you had to come all the way out here to tell me in person. Let’s go into the study.”

  They entered a large room lined on three walls with books. The fourth wall, in which there was a large picture window, offered a panoramic view of the moon-lit sea.

  A servant entered silently.

  “Would you like something to drink, Owen?”

  “No.”

  DeBrough waved the servant away.

  Two wing chairs faced a fireplace in which a roaring fire crackled. DeBrough sat in one of the chairs, his feet stretched out before him. Indicating the other chair, he said, “Sit down, Owen.”

  Langley remained standing. He said, “Laurel Rose.”

  He had expected to get some kind of rise out of DeBrough, but DeBrough didn’t bat an eye. “How did you find out?”

  “Her old roommate.”

  “It’s a curse to be famous, Owen.”

  “You don’t deny it, then.”

  “Of course not.”

  Langley had resolved to be calm, but now he couldn’t stop himself. He said, “You son of a bitch.”

  “Relax, Owen. It won’t help to have a conniption.”

  Being told how to behave only made Langley angrier. His voice rose. “How do you expect me to react to the news that you were dicking your brother’s wife?”

  “She wasn’t his wife then, Owen.”

  Langley couldn’t stand still. Walking over to the bookshelves, he ran his finger along the spines of the leather-bound volumes, like a kid dragging a stick against a fence. None of the titles registered. He turned.

  “Why didn’t you tell me at the outset?”

  “Would you have taken the case if I had?”

  Langley said, “I want you to tell me where and when and under what circumstances you met Laurel Rose.”

  “I’m not sure I can remember.”

  “Try.”

  DeBrough made a show of reflecting, and then he shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

  “Maybe your memory will improve when I put you on the stand, under oath.”

  “I can see you don’t believe me, Owen. Would you like a list of the women I’ve fucked over the last ten months? It would have to be a partial list‌—‌I can’t remember them all. Close your mouth, Owen; your jaw is hanging.”

  In every discussion he had ever had with DeBrough, Langley had been made to feel at a disadvantage. And now again: tossed a bit of news that would send most men reeling, DeBrough catches it in one hand and fires it back at Langley and sends him reeling.

  “The last time we talked,” he said, “you told me you had the same moral upbringing as your brother. Apparently, in your case it didn’t take.”

  “You always were a prude, Owen. There is only one sin. That is indiscretion.”

  “It’s okay as long as your wife doesn’t know about it, is that it, DeBrough?”

  “She does know about it, Owen. We have an understanding.”

  Langley crossed to the chair and sat down. He stared into the fireplace. “At least now I know why you hired me.”

  “Don’t be too sure.”

  Langley turned to DeBrough, caught his eye and held it. “If it will help your brother, I’ll put you on the stand and strip you naked.”

  “I expect you to do nothing less, Owen.”

  “Tell me where you met Laurel Rose.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Tell me what you do remember.”

  DeBrough spread his hands. “She was a sweet piece of ass, Owen. A very sweet piece of ass.”

  Langley couldn’t think of what to say.

  “That’s all she was, Owen. A distraction. A fleeting one at that.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “The night her roommate saw us together.”

  “How did she react when you broke it off?”

  “Like a pro. Owen, she probably had as many notches in her belt as I had in mine. She lived off men like me. She floated from man to man the way a bee floats from buttercup to buttercup. She emerged from our affair with a few trinkets more than she had going in, and none the worse for wear. All in all, I imagine she felt that she had come out of it ahead.”

  “Did you ever see her again?”

  “No.”

  “Or talk to her?”

  “No.”

  “When did you learn that Laurel was married to your brother?”

  “The night he killed her. The news was an unpleasant surprise, I must admit.”

  “She never made an effort to get in touch with you after she married your brother?”

  “I can’t say. If she did, she never got through.”

  “Why do you suppose she married your brother?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Is there any way she could have hoped to get back at you through your brother?”

  “Tell me how, Owen. Besides, I just got through telling you: we parted amicably.”

  “Did she learn about your brother from you?”

  “Do you suppose we lay in bed post coitus discussing each other’s childhoods?”

  There was a knock at the door. A servant entered. He crossed to where DeBrough was sitting and whispered a few words in his ear. DeBrough rose.

  “I must go to my mother. Dalton will show you out.”

  At the door he stopped. Turning back, he said, “There’s another possibility which I don’t think you’ve considered, Owen. That Laurel knew my brother before she ever set eyes on me.”

  ***

  It was after midnight by the time Langley got back to the city. Despite the hour, he called Wickersham.

  “Is it possible, Harry, that Laurel Rose knew Burden before she knew DeBrough?”

  Wickersham didn’t need to reflect on his answer. “More than possible, I should think, O.”

  “If you felt that, why didn’t you say so.”

  “I wanted to give you a chance to figure it out for yourself.”

  “Have you any proof that Burden met Laurel Rose before he says he did?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve shown his picture to Laurel’s roommates and none of them recognizes him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He said she was at the Bossert in March. And she was.”

  Wickersham was silent.

  “Everything Burden has told me, Harry, has checked out.”

  “The best place to hide a lie is in a nest of truths. It was you who told me that.”

  “But you’re just speculating.”

  Wickersham didn’t deny it.

  “Tell me why you think he’s lying,” Langley said.

  “One thing has troubled me all along, O. How did Laurel come to be in the park?”

  “She came by cab,” Langley said.

  Wickersham granted him his little joke, responding with the faintest of chuckles. “Given the scenario that Burden tells,” he said, “there are three possibilities. One, Burden calls up Laurel and tells her‌—‌what? The last time they saw each other he tossed her naked onto the sidewalk. So, what does he tell her, O?”

  Langley didn’t know.

  “Two, Burden uses an intermediary; he calls up Laurel and tells her… Same problem as case one, plus I can’t see Burden using an intermediary. For your sake, I hope he didn’t use an intermediary. If he did, there’s a witness out there who will hang him. Fry him,” Wickersham corrected himself.

  “And three?”
/>
  “Three, Laurel came to the park of her own volition. Tell me why the hell she would do that, O. How would she even know where he worked? Remember he had moved since their ‘parting.’”

  Langley couldn’t answer either question.

  Wickersham went on, “I don’t believe in coincidences, O. The fact that Laurel knew both Burden and DeBrough is not just by the by. It’s at the heart of this whole business. How did she find out about the two of them? One of them told her about the other. Did DeBrough tell Laurel of the adopted brother he hadn’t seen in nineteen years? Or did Burden tell her of his famous rich brother, who, if they put their heads together, just might be got at?”

  “Got at how?” Langley asked.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters.”

  “Like Hitchcock’s MacGuffin, it doesn’t matter, O. Whether their little plot was ‘fiendishly clever’ or completely crackbrained is beside the point. Which is: that the two of them conspired together to get at DeBrough. Somehow it was arranged for Laurel to meet DeBrough.”

  “How?”

  “I’m looking into it. A trap is set, but before it can be sprung, thanks to the untimely intrusion of our stewardess, DeBrough skips.”

  “And so Laurel marries Burden. How do you explain that, Harry?”

  “He persuades her that all is not lost. The scheme is still percolating. Only they have to bide their time. In the meantime, he proposes marriage‌—‌”

  “Why does he do that?”

  “Because he’d fallen for her. You’ve talked to him. Is it not so?”

  Langley conceded the point. “Afraid that if she says no he’ll ditch her in favor of some other floozy, she agrees to marry him. Is that how it goes, Harry?”

  “Something like that. Unfortunately, into everyone’s life a little rain must fall: one day he comes home unexpectedly and catches her in flagrante.”

  “So how did she come to be in the park, Harry?”

  “One of them decides it’s still not too late to get at DeBrough.”

  “Which one?”

  “That’s the $64,000 question, O. On the answer to it depends whether your boy spends several years in prison or fries in the chair.”

  “Which do you think?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I think. Doesn’t matter, really, what actually happened. What matters is how you make it look.”