Empty Ever After

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  NOT UNEXPECTEDLY, THE address in Kentucky was a cheap motel near the airport. One of the phone numbers Mary had scribbled down was traceable back to room twelve at that same motel. The desk clerk, a Pakistani kid, was happy to help. The fifty bucks I slipped him was more of an incentive than the bullshit story I laid on. I described Mary, gave him the date of her flight, and asked him to check on who had been registered in room twelve that day.

  “No, I am very very sorry,” he said in an Urdu-inflected lilt. “We did not have a woman like you describe in the room that day.” He read me a list of three names, all men, none of them familiar. I asked if he remembered what any of the men looked like. “One was a nasty older fellow. Big, with an eye patch.”

  The desk clerk might have said something else, but I didn’t hear him. I think I might have thanked him. So, there was a mystery man, but his existence raised some questions not even Feeney could ignore. Suddenly, I didn’t feel quite so stupid or desperate.

  Back in my rental, I called the other phone number Mary White had written down. Someone picked up. I could hear breathing on the other end.

  “Hello,” I said, feeling cocky, overplaying my hand.

  He snickered at me and hung up. I got a chill, but not because I knew who had been on the phone. I didn’t. I didn’t need to know. I could recognize a ghost when I heard one.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  US AIR TO New York. Aer Lingus to Dublin. Those were Mary White’s flight details. I had checked the numbers out at the airport before getting on my plane back to LaGuardia. Problem was, both of her flights were one passenger short. At least that’s what Feeney told me. Mary White was somewhere, but it wasn’t Dublin, Ireland. Dublin, Ohio, was more likely.

  Detective Feeney was a stubborn bastard, not a fool, so when I returned from Cincinnati armed with a little bit more than desperate questions, he was, at least, willing to listen. I had to give the man credit. Most detectives with such a neatly closed case would have told me to go fuck myself. On the other hand, he wasn’t exactly reopening the investigation. He agreed, if grudgingly so, to keep an eye out for Mary White. He’d also alerted both the Dayton PD and the Ohio State Police that Mary White was a “person of interest” for the NYPD—although she was only of interest to me—and that she might be on the run. But that was as far as it went. Feeney had no intention of looking for the mystery man.

  “But why would this guy be meeting with Mary White after Martello was dead?”

  “Don’t push it, Prager. This mystery man’s not my problem. Maybe he was a real loyal friend to Ray Martello and was fulfilling a promise or somethin’. You know, like makin’ a last payment. Frankly, I don’t know and I don’t give a shit. I’ll do you the one favor and keep tabs on what the Ohio cops come up with about the old broad, but this mystery guy’s your headache.”

  So it was official, Cyclops was my headache. Now he was Brian Doyle’s headache as well. I got Brian to take the few personal days we owed him. He was glad to do it seeing as I was matching his per diem—in cash—plus expenses. Double time and expenses: nice gig if you can get it. I just couldn’t bring myself to march back into the office and reinvolve the staff, not officially. I’d already used the agency for my private business for too long. It was bad for business and bad for morale. Until I had something more substantial than a missing cassette tape from Mary White’s bedroom and a meeting in an airport motel between an old lady and a one-eyed man, I would play it close to the vest.

  The worst part was I hadn’t told Carmella about this little arrangement between Doyle and me. I had no intention of telling her, not yet, anyway. She would murder me, and rightfully so, for going behind her back. But so far I wasn’t getting much return on my investment. Brian was batting zero for two days. He hadn’t found any of Martello’s friends or family or fellow cops who either matched the mystery man’s description or knew of someone who did. I thought it was kind of strange that Doyle had gotten nowhere. The one-eyed man, from everything Mira Mira and the desk clerk in Kentucky had said, was a hard man to forget. Let’s face it, the eye patch alone would be pretty memorable.

  “Anything?” I asked, squeezing the cell phone between my neck and ear.

  “Nada, boss. No one knows this guy and believe me, Moe, I talked to a lotta people. I mean, I was going to hell anyways before you had me do this little job for you, but I’ve lied so much to so many people in the last coupla days…I couldn’t say enough Our Fathers or Hail Marys or light enough candles to atone for the bullshit I’ve been spreading. I’m telling the cops I’m Martello’s brother. I’m telling his family I’m a Suffolk cop. I’m telling some of his friends that I’m a cop and some that I’m family. I’m lying so much, I can’t even keep track. I wouldn’t mind so much if it was getting me somewheres.”

  “Okay, listen, get into Brooklyn and canvass Manhattan Court.”

  “Where Martello killed the kid?”

  “Right. Describe both Martello and our mystery man to the neighbors. Ask if they remember either man being around that day or ever.”

  “What’s the point, boss? I mean, we know Martello murdered the kid.”

  “Maybe it’s time to pretend we don’t know anything for sure. Just do it, Doyle. For what I’m paying your lazy ass, you shouldn’t be asking why.”

  “I’ll leave in a few minutes. I’ll be happy to get outta here. Long Island is creepy. Too quiet for me.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Where you headed, boss?”

  “Long Island.” I hung up before he could ask any other questions. The last thing I needed was to try and explain my dating Connie Geary to him. I’d have to explain it to myself first.

  AT EIGHT IN late June or July, the sun would have still been pretty well up. That’s how I had seen the Geary manse the first time I came calling. Back then, I’d also gotten to meet Senator Steven Brightman. He was full of promise and full of shit: the perfect con man and consummate politician. I should’ve known I was being played by how hard everyone was working me. Thomas Geary threatened and bribed. Brightman charmed. In my own defense, I had been bullied into taking the case in the wake of Katy’s miscarriage. I was still reeling from the turmoil that followed in its wake. On the heels of losing a baby of my own, how could I not take the case of a missing daughter of an ex-NYPD cop? How could I not save the politician who was going to save us all?

  Brightman was the serpent to my Eve and I bit the apple hard. Not unlike Judas Wannsee, Brightman had that magical ability to make you feel like you were the most important person in the room, the only person in the room. He could talk to a crowd, but you felt—no, you knew—he was talking directly to you. And when we met that evening in 1983, he worked his stuff. The myth is that great politicians know when to lie. The opposite is the reality. It’s how they parse the truth. The night we met, Brightman answered my questions directly, even admitting that he and Moira Heaton had slept together. He had inoculated himself by telling me a negative truth. It was brilliant, just not brilliant enough.

  I’m not necessarily a big believer in the truth. Katy will tell you that about me, but that’s not how I mean it. What I mean is that the truth doesn’t conform to the rules of Sunday school or sermons, to clichés or adages. The truth doesn’t always come out in the wash or in the end and it’s frequently not for the best. The truth often makes things worse, much worse. The truth can be as much poison as elixir, cancer as cure. And I knew some ugly truths about Steven Brightman that had put an end to his political career, but that gave no comfort to the dead and grieving.

  I put Steven Brightman out of my head. It was an August sun falling down over the brim of the earth. The sky was a heavy shade of dusk, the stars more than vague hints of light. The darkening air was rich with the sweet scent of nicotina and lavender from the gardens—their sweetness playing nicely against the predominant smell of fresh-cut grass drifting over from the golf course next door. I pulled up to the house, my shirt slightly damp from nervous sw
eat. But I was enjoying the delicate buzz of excitement and anticipation I had going. It had been a very long time.

  Connie met me at the door, her blond hair swept back, her white smile and clear blue eyes sparkling. We sort of stared awkwardly across the threshold at each other, not knowing quite what to do. She reached out, taking my hand, and pulled me into the house. When I was inside, she kissed me shyly on the lips. I kissed her back as shyly. No one ran screaming. We had gotten by the first hurdle. Both of us took deep breaths.

  “Hi, Moe. God, I’ve been so nervous all week. I was worried you’d cancel. A scotch?”

  “Sure.”

  “Come on into the den.”

  I followed. She was dressed in a clingy floral print and open-toed shoes with a low heel. Her muscular calves flexed as she walked to the bar. I noticed not only what she was wearing and how she looked, but the pleasant effect it was having on me.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this as well, I think even more than I knew,” I said.

  “Really?” She handed me my scotch and we clinked glasses. “What’s been going on in your life?”

  I thought about not answering or deflecting the question with the usual nonsense, but thought it would be a bad precedent. I told her.

  “My lord,” she said, refilling my glass. “What madness. Can revenge really be such an obsession?”

  “Apparently. It was so important to my father-in—to my late father-in-law, that he wanted it from his grave. Good scotch.”

  “You sold it to me. Your store did, at least.”

  “Listen, Connie, can we stay off the subject of graves and revenge for now? I’ve spent a little too much time in cemeteries lately.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Connie put her drink down, pressed herself against me, and kissed me in a way I would not describe as shyly. I returned her kiss and then some. Connie had other talents besides playing the piano. Kissing Connie didn’t come with the baggage of kissing Katy nor with the depth of feeling and darkness of kissing Carmella. It was, in any case, an amazing sensation. Other than those two weak moments I shared with Carmella and the spontaneous moment with Tina Martell, Connie was the only woman beside Katy I had kissed in the last twenty years.

  “How’s your dad doing?” I changed subjects.

  “I’m afraid he’s taken a bit of a bad turn. He’s in the hospital, but should be home next week some time.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “What can one do? It’s the nature of the disease. Mom will be back by then. At least my son doesn’t have to deal with it. He’s up at football camp for the next two weeks. Come, let’s get out of here and leave these depressing things behind us. In fact,” she said, reaching into her clutch and pulling out her cell phone, “can we make a deal? How about we shut out the rest of the world for the evening and focus only on the two of us?”

  “Deal,” I said, making a show of shutting off my cell phone.

  She put hers down on the bar.

  “I’ll drive,” I said.

  “Oh, no you won’t. The car will be here in a few minutes. We’re focusing on each other, no distractions.”

  My first impulse was to argue. I didn’t. It felt good to give in, to turn control of things over to someone else for a change.

  “Would you like me to play for you until the driver gets here?”

  “Maybe later,” I said, pulling her close. “Maybe later.”

  I HADN’T BEEN on a date in about a quarter century, so nearly every inch of the night was a revelation. Around our second bottle of old vine Zinfandel, when it became clear that bed had gone from our possible to our inevitable destination, the rate of revelation picked up speed. The odd thing about marriage is that it lulls you into a comfortable forgetfulness. You forget that the dance you do can be nearly the same and yet be almost completely different. You forget what it’s like to discover excitement instead of relying on it. You forget that even awkwardness has its potent charms and that first times do still exist in the universe. You can know in your head that every woman has a different taste, a different scent, a different feel, but to be reawakened to the sense of it was an indescribable and unexpected shock.

  Connie Geary was everything I would have wanted for my debut in the world of the recently single. She was good company, familiar enough, but not too familiar. She was comfortable with herself, at ease with me, smart, skeptical, not cynical. She was unembarrassed by her family’s wealth, but not blind or unsympathetic to the plight of the rest of the world. In bed, Connie was eager, sharing, unafraid. She was all of those things and yet I knew I would never visit her bed again.

  The night had been both wonderful and hollow somehow. For all the laughs and kisses, wanting looks, flirtatious touches, and orgasms, there didn’t seem to have been an ounce of spontaneity in the entire evening. I don’t want to say it all felt staged—no man wants to think the moans and clenches, the screams and spasms, are the result of careful rehearsal and not passion—but I couldn’t escape the sense of things having been storyboarded, that each step had been premeditated. Even when I got up at five to shower, I knew Connie Geary would follow me in a few minutes later and take me in her mouth. Knowing didn’t stop me from enjoying.

  Perhaps the strangest aspect of the whole experience was the parting. We had, it seemed, used up all our awkwardness in our twelve hours together. Our farewell was almost business-like: pleasant, courteous, distant. There were no hard feelings, no angry words, no accusations. Pulling down the driveway, I could see Connie in my sideview mirror. She stood at the edge of the portico, giving me a goodbye wave so slight it was barely noticeable. The look on her face was unvarnished and predatory.

  Is this, I wondered, what being alone did to you? Had Connie played out this scene over and over again with any number of men? Had they all disappointed her? Was she disappointed even before they showed up? Is that why it was, in spite of all the heat, so empty an experience? Christ, it was all so very odd. Heading back to Brooklyn, I didn’t find myself missing Katy so much as the marriage itself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I KNEW THE second I walked through the condo door that the world had changed when I wasn’t looking. My phone machine was flashing without pause. I’d never seen anything like it. Reflexively, I reached for my cell and remembered the deal I’d made with Connie Geary about leaving distractions behind. The second I turned it back on, it buzzed. It was an easy choice for me between answering machine and cell. I preferred hitting one button to cell message retrieval.

  First message:

  “Dad, it’s Sarah, listen … We’ve gotta talk. Something’s up with Mommy. I…I think she’s losing it. I think she’s seeing Uncle Patrick again. Please call me back. I’m supposed to leave for Ann Arbor tomorrow, but I don’t really want to leave with Mommy like this. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

  The second and third messages were much the same only more frantic. Sarah was increasingly worried not only about Katy, but by her inability to reach me. The fourth and fifth messages were from Aaron and Carmella, respectively. Both had gotten calls from Sarah concerning my whereabouts and why I wasn’t picking up my cell phone.

  Next message:

  “Yeah, Prager, this is Detective Feeney. We got a location on Mary White. She never made it outta the Ohio-Kentucky area. The airport cops found her in the trunk of her car in the short-term lot. The tags had been switched. Preliminary report is the old lady was strangled. Give me a call.”

  There was another round of calls from Sarah and Aaron, alternating between panic and anger.

  Next message:

  “Hey, boss, it’s Doyle. It’s weird, but no one on Manhattan Court can ever remember seeing Martello. I even showed his picture around. Nothing. But the minute I mentioned the guy with the eye patch, like ten people knew who I was talking about. And here’s the really weird thing, two or three of the neighbors remember the guy with the eye patch being there the night the kid bought it. Gimme a call. Whad
aya want me to do from here?”

  I picked up the phone and dialed Sarah’s cell, half listening as the messages continued playing. One ring. The next message was from Sheriff Vandervoort. Second ring. Sarah had called the sheriff’s station and was panicked. Third ring. When Sarah got up and went to check on Katy, she was gone: her bed unslept in. Her car still in the garage. Fourth ring.

  “Dad, where the hell have you been? Mommy is—”

  “I know, kiddo, I’m listening to my messages.”

  “Where have—”

  “It’s a long story, Sarah. Tell me what’s going on.”

  She pretty much repeated what Pete Vandervoort had described and then started losing it.

  “Shhhh, Sarah, calm down, calm down. It won’t help anyone if you lose control. You said you thought Mom was seeing Uncle Patrick again. What makes you say that?”

  “She was acting weird, like … like she was before she tried to—”

  “Weird how?”

  “She was all nervous, always looking over my shoulder when we were together. She started staying in her bedroom all the time, smoking cigarettes. I could smell them through the door. She tried to get me to stay at Robby’s or to come back to your place. Dad, I’m really scared.”

  “We’ll take care of it. Your mom’ll be fine,” I said, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary. “I’ll be up there in a few hours. In the meantime, put in a call to her shrink, okay? I’m on my way.”

  I stayed and listened to the remainder of the messages. They were from Aaron and Carmella, another one from Pete Vandervoort. All wondered where I was and why I still hadn’t picked up my cell. Walking to my bedroom to change, I half-listened to another message, the last message. It was mostly silence, a vague, familiar silence, a chilling silence. Then a snicker.

  End of new messages.

  I HAVE SELDOM in my life been thankful for traffic. Being thankful for traffic is akin to joy over an exit wound, but I was thankful for it that day.