I let Gayle lead the way and we pushed through to the casket. A low stool had been placed at the open end, and she dropped to it in a practiced kneel and bowed her head for a moment of silent prayer. When she stood up and moved quickly off her eyes were glistening and her lip trembled. Gayle had grown up surrounded by death, but she had long ago shed her inner city veneer of detachment from it.
I moved forward to the casket but remained standing; I don’t come from a tradition that includes kneeling. The mortician had done an okay job. That wasn’t the Cassie I knew in the box, but at least the slashed neck was mostly buried under makeup and a weird-looking high collar that had nothing to do with the real world. The waxy face had been made up by a cosmetician who didn’t know the girl. His work reminded me of a boardwalk caricaturist’s—it delivered everything but the essential Cassie. But he had achieved a repose that may have given comfort to the bereaved.
I was not moved; I felt nothing. I was not reminded of Cassie; Cassie was somewhere else. But I stood for a long moment with my head bowed, so as not to be thought callous—the man who had looked on this girl naked but refused to kneel and look at her dead.
Gayle had told me she had met the mother with Cassie once or twice in the village, so again I let her take the lead. She threaded her way across the room to a high-backed chair against a window and waited for an opening in the cluster of women surrounding its occupant. At the first break she elbowed through and bent over. She grasped the seated woman’s hand in both of hers, said a few words, and turned to make sure I was behind her—as though she was afraid I might have chickened out.
She said, “Mrs. Brennan, this is Mr. Shale, who drew so many lovely pictures of Cassie, caught her so beautifully with his pencil and brushes.”
Gayle was doing her damnedest to smooth the moment. She stepped aside and I said my piece.
“Mrs. Brennan, I knew Cassie only a short time, but I grew to respect her a great deal. I feel her loss deeply, so maybe I can begin to imagine your pain. I am terribly sorry.”
I had expected a woman of middle years; Nora Brennan was almost certainly younger than me. She was, in fact, an older version of Cassie—Cassie with the juices partially drained. Putting aside the current grief that had her eyes red-rimmed and her face drawn and sickly pale, she was a Cassie stamped with bitterness; her mouth had been set in unhappiness years before her daughter’s murder. Only a Velázquez could have captured her mixture of pain and pride.
She looked at me steadily, without change of expression, and I looked back just as steadily. If she was going to dump on me, let’s get on with it. Meanwhile the three women who had been chatting her up turned and moved on; they had sensed that something private might be in the works here.
Finally Mrs. Brennan’s tight lips parted. Her voice had an edge, and it cut. “Was Cassie’s body suitable for your purpose, Mr. Shale?”
Jesus, this was going to be even harder than I thought. “Cassie was a good model,” I said. “Maybe the best who ever sat for me. She was disciplined. I admired her spirit. It was a privilege for me to get to know her during our sessions together. I came to think of her as a friend.”
“Did you? Then why did you dismiss her?”
“I never did. I’d have used her as long as she was willing to sit. At the time there was a question of money. There still is. As soon as I had some I’d have called her.”
“To pose naked again? Was that your plan?”
“No. That happened once. There was … a miscommunication. But you must understand that Cassie was proud of her body.” I took a gentle shot, on the theory that the best defense is an offense. “Why wouldn’t she have been? God gave her that beautiful body. She had no reason to be ashamed of it.”
The red-rimmed eyes were fixed on me, the mouth again set. Eventually she said, “Your behavior toward my daughter was entirely inappropriate.”
Inappropriate didn’t sound too bad. I said, “I assure you, Mrs. Brennan, nothing happened during those work sessions that would have troubled you.”
“I know that,” she snapped. “Cassie would have told me if you had acted in a way you shouldn’t have. She shared everything with me. Always. And she had so little to confess to in her brief life. So very little.”
She had kept a tight rein on her daughter, and for a fleeting moment I wondered if she regretted that Cassie had not had the opportunity to taste certain earthly pleasures. But then she said, “She was a religious girl, thank God, and I take comfort in that. She’s with her little sister now. And the angels.”
* * *
THE ORDEAL WAS over. Gayle and I were each holding a Scotch, and we were circulating. I had ended my audience with Mrs. Brennan by offering to bring her one of my sketches of her daughter—by implication, one in which she was clothed. She had turned me down, and I quickly assured her that in any case none of the sketches were for sale; they would all remain in my files. That got no response and I backed off with another expression of sympathy. It hadn’t been good, but neither had it been as bad as I feared.
Gayle had hooked up with a couple of village merchants and I looked around for a familiar face. I found only one—Jack Beltrano, the fire chief. He was a small-time contractor, a young and fit fifty, weathered like barn siding by too many hours framing up summer homes in bad weather. He was deep in conversation with a man whose back was to me. Jack and I caught each other’s eye at the same time and he said a few words to the other man and made his way to me.
After we exchanged greetings I said, “Did you know Cassie well?”
“My mother lives next door. She needs a lot of attention, so I’m around. Sid, did I ever thank you for the drawing you donated to the auction? We had some hot bidding on that one. A picture of the village where you can make out every shop? Who wouldn’t want that?”
People who wanted it because it was a good drawing, that’s who. But I said, “You sent me a note. You said it went to someone who asked not to be named. I was impressed.”
“I didn’t mean to be mysterious. I have no idea who bought that picture. But can you guess who showed up to bid for the buyer?”
I wanted him to say it. “Who?”
“Cassie. It was poor Cassie Brennan. She came in that night with a bundle of cash. And I guess instructions to buy your drawing, whatever it took. She hung in until she’d worn out the couple of other bidders. She laid out a healthy chunk of dough on behalf of some fan of yours out there somewhere.”
He allowed himself a small chuckle. “Unless she was buying for herself. Beautiful kid, it’s a damn shame. What about it, Sid?”
“What about what?”
“Was she a little bit hung up on you?” He was uncomfortably flip for this setting, and now I could tell he had already had a couple of drinks.
I said, “Cassie worked hard for her money, and she was too smart to be that reckless with it—even if she’d had a schoolgirl crush on me.” He looked as though he was about to say something wiseass, so I quickly added, “But she was too smart for that too.”
The man Beltrano had been talking to had idled up to the makeshift bar and fixed himself another drink. Now he was walking toward us—to retrieve Beltrano, I thought. But it was me he turned to.
“Jack tells me you’re Sid Shale.”
“I am.”
He was in his forties, another construction worker, I figured, two hundred pounds, much of it flab. He had once been handsome, but his softening features, mottled skin, and eyes nearly lost behind cushions of flesh gave away a drinking problem. I knew who he was half a beat before he announced it.
“I’m Jim Brennan. Cassie’s dad.” There was confrontation in his voice.
I said, “She was a beautiful young woman. I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mr. Brennan.”
“Are you? There’s a laugh.” He tried to force a laugh and failed. “Mr. Painter.”
Beltrano cut in soothingly, “Okay now, Jim. Easy does it.”
Brennan shook off the steadying hand. His
attention was fully on me. He said, “Showing up here.”
He was having trouble forming his thoughts and he repeated, “Showing up here.” He had a good head of steam by now. “I want to talk to you.”
“Fine. What about?”
“What about? What the hell do you think about? My daughter.” He was beginning to shift his weight like a boxer waiting for the starting bell.
“I don’t know what I can tell you that you don’t already know,” I said. I didn’t like his air of menace and I added, “But Cassie did tell me you had been out of touch lately, so maybe there are things you missed. Your Cassie had grown up lately.”
“She had? Not to her father.” What there was of his eyes had narrowed to the vanishing point. “And I’m here when I’m here. When I’m needed. Understand? I go where the jobs are, that’s the way it is in my line of work. I’m not some frigging artist who never has to move more than five steps from his own crapper.”
Jack Beltrano took his arm again. “Jim, keep your voice down. And I think you should save this for another time.”
Brennan said, “No. This is the time I’m here. Right now. When I’m needed.”
He took a step toward me; we were nose to nose, all but touching. He was claiming the territory. Angry husbands used to do that when I was a patrolman on “domestic dispute” calls. Their home was their castle and I seemed to be a threat.
Now Brennan said, “But yeah, Jack’s right, this is not a good place to be talking.” The tiny eyes were riveted to me. “We won’t bother anybody out back.”
Beltrano said, “Look, Jim—”
Brennan ignored him. “There won’t be anybody in the yard.”
He waited for a reaction from me. When I gave him none he said, “Through the kitchen.” He nodded in that direction. “You get what I’m saying?” He turned to Beltrano. “We won’t be needing you, Jack.”
Beltrano said, “Don’t be a damn fool.” But he made no effort to stop Brennan, who was already on the move.
Jesus. Better out back, I supposed, than here with the coffin and the grieving mother. I followed the beefy guy as he lurched toward the kitchen and through it. People got out of his way. Two women making sandwiches at the kitchen counter didn’t even look up as he swept past them.
Without looking back to see if I was there, he held open the kitchen door, and I went through it to the small backyard. Is this where he took Cassie when he believed she had earned a good thrashing?
A frayed hammock that had barely survived the winter hung over a balding lawn. Nora Brennan kept a tidy house, but it was clear that she never came back here to put this area in shape. I wondered if Cassie had lain in that hammock last summer when her father was nowhere around, and dreamed of the bright future for herself that didn’t include this town.
Brennan turned around and faced me. “Okay. What the hell were you doing with Cassie?” he demanded. “With my girl?”
“I was drawing her picture. It’s the way I make my living. Cassie sat for me.” Was I going to have to pick my way through another labored explanation? “Your wife knows about our arrangement. Talk to her.”
“I’m talking to you. I don’t have to talk to her.”
“Okay, talk to me.” With luck I could talk him down off his high.
He wasn’t prepared to talk, only to confront me. “She was a kid,” he offered weakly. “Still in school, for Christ’s sake.”
“Cassie graduated last January. Didn’t you know?”
He possibly didn’t; the red blotches stood out in his face. He didn’t want me asking questions, only answering them. He shouted, “You son of a bitch, were you humping my daughter?”
“No.” I was tempted to say, Were you? “The work we did together was intense but it was strictly business. And it brought good results. For us both.”
“Bullshit. You did her bareass naked.”
He knew that if we stuck to words I might get the better of him. With no further warning he lurched toward me and threw a roundhouse punch. It came slowly, and I was able to move out of its path. And then, almost by reflex, I stepped forward and drove a fist deep into his soft belly. I was sorry the instant it connected.
He said, “Oof,” and doubled over.
Now people were spilling out of the kitchen door, and a low rumble of disapproval floated my way. I had done a dumb thing; they saw the mourning father sunk to one knee and looking like a whipped dog.
He straightened up and I read the humiliation in his mottled face. He was getting ready to deliver another punch. I braced myself and moved to take this one. He was drunk; how much harm could he do?
More than I guessed. He wasn’t all flab, and there were nearly two hundred pounds behind his meaty fist. It caught me on the left shoulder, and I spun around and went down on my butt. A shock wave traveled up my spine to the back of my neck.
When I looked up, Jack Beltrano had grabbed the outraged but now satisfied father of the deceased by the waist. “Easy, Jim, easy,” he said and led him away. Someone behind me was helping me to my feet.
It was Chuck Scully. He said softly, “Don’t these people have trouble enough? What are you doing here?”
“Paying a condolence call.”
So much for my noble sacrifice; I hadn’t damaged my hand, but my shoulder and neck were killing me. If that kept me from painting I would brain that drunk Brennan.
“Some condolence,” Scully was saying. “Jeez. Can’t you control your temper?”
He was spanking yard dirt off the back of my good clothes. He said, “No wonder Docherty locked on to you. And in case you thought he’d forgotten, he wants you in tomorrow morning. To answer some questions. Nine A.M. at police headquarters. Meanwhile, why don’t you go home and paint a picture or something?”
I said, “I think I’ll do that.”
THIRTEEN
I DIDN’T NEED Gayle to point out that I had behaved like a damn fool; my shoulder explained that to me all the way back to her place.
“I found out why Jim Brennan has that chip on his shoulder,” she said. “Did you know the Brennans had another daughter?”
“Cassie told me she died.”
“She was run over. Five years old. Her father was supposed to be watching her, but he’d slipped off to a bar for a quick one. How’s that for a load to carry around?”
As she got out of the car she invited me up for comfort food—cold chicken and a beer.
I thanked her but explained that I was eager to go home; I could still get in a few hours of work before sleep. What I was thinking was, Chicken, Gayle? I’ve already eaten crow tonight.
* * *
THE MINUTE I got home I changed into sneakers and sweats. My neck was almost back to normal; I figured a half hour’s jog on the beach, working my arms vigorously, would keep that shoulder from stiffening when I started painting. It was not much after nine o’clock, and the May air was still mild. Good weather for a run.
Out on the sand I took a precautionary first step in aid of the shoulder; arms extended to the sides, I cut small circles in the air while I listened to the whispering ocean. I happened to be facing west, and up the beach a quarter of a mile I could see a light in the Sharanov house. Not a room light, more like a small lamp. If there were any more ambient illumination it wouldn’t have shown, but the moon was no bigger than a fingernail paring.
And then the light winked, bobbed, threw a beam, and slid from one upstairs window to another: I was looking at a flashlight. Sharanov was in the city, and someone was in his house, almost certainly without an invitation. A persuasive argument for my jogging west rather than east.
I weighed one other decision: Should I go back in the house for my off-duty pistol? The compact Smith & Wesson five-shot had been a comforting weight in the small of my back for years, my faithful companion on long subway rides and latenight trips to the convenience store. Like all retired cops I was licensed, but the S&W lay in my desk drawer unloaded. I hadn’t fired so much as a single practic
e round in half a dozen years, and I might do more harm than good with the piece.
The clincher was that I couldn’t remember where I had stashed the .38 ammo. By the time I found it, Mr. Flashlight might vanish. So I jogged off unencumbered. Toward the Sharanov house.
When I was a cop, if I had gone to investigate a possible crime in progress without both a weapon and backup I would have drawn a reprimand. So why was I so hell-bent now? It was beyond hope to expect Cassie’s assailant to be sniffing around the scene of his crime at this late date. But something was up; it certainly wouldn’t hurt to take a look.
I advanced at less than warp speed. In the pitch dark along the beach I had to be wary of where I placed my feet; the scattered rivulets and gullies changed shape and position from day to day. And every time I lifted my head from my sneakers the distant flashlight had moved to a new spot. By the time I got close to the house, still working my arms therapeutically, the light had long since floated down the ramp to the bedrooms. That was one busy prowler.
Without taking the time to stop and decide exactly what I intended to do, if anything, I moved around the house to the front entrance and glided up the corkscrew ramp to the door. I would shape a plan at the top.
One choice was to wait beside the door for the intruder to leave, and jump him as he came out. Another was to knock firmly and see what that stirred up.
The choice was made for me when I touched the knob. The door was unlocked.
I slipped in and eased it closed. Here in the dark of the living room I expected to have a moment or two to make a further decision. Should I look for the switch and turn on the lights? Should I slip down the ramp in the dark and assess the situation? Or should I find the phone and make a whispered call to the police? And why hadn’t I thought of this last before I jogged the quarter of a mile up the beach?
The choice, it turned out, was not to be mine. Almost immediately, I spied the flashlight beam bouncing back and forth on the interior ramp. The visitor was making his way back up to this level.
Artist's Proof Page 11
