At the same time, he was deeply relieved. The results meant that at least one nasty, brooding suspicion could be put to rest. And for that, he was grateful.
As he headed back to the house, his thoughts stayed with Rachel. She would soon be at the epicenter of a storm. He would have to prepare her, find a way to tell her in a coherent way, a way she’ll understand, about Jonah and Philadelphia.
He happened to see a flower shop. On impulse, he crossed the street, went in and bought her a dozen roses. They were lovely, but the moment he walked out with them, his heart sank. Rachel would know that something was wrong the moment he gave them to her.
36. Heavy Bracelets
In hindsight, David would remember sensing a new heaviness to the air when he opened his front door and stepped inside that evening. But at the time, all he noticed was a particularly bleak silence.
“Rachel?” he called out. No answer. That was odd. She should have been home by then. Perhaps, something had happened at the hospital to delay her. “Annie?” No answer there, either.
He laid the flowers on the vestibule side table and hung up his coat. He wondered if Sweet were still there, in Augustus’s office. If not, then perhaps he could get in there again, have another look around. Perhaps, he’d missed something that first time in. This time, he’d be more thorough. This time, he’d make sure he found something that would help topple the pretender from the throne.
He started past the parlor, headed for the office, but then he noticed that the parlor doors were oddly half open, neither fully closed nor open, and his eye caught an even odder flash of color, low down, where it shouldn’t have been. He paused, took a step back and inclined his head for a better look. For a split second, he didn’t move. Then he strode to the parlor doors and shoved them apart.
Jameson Sweet lay on the floor, his head a crimson mess. He was on his back, his arms flung out on either side, his eyes open and one knee bent. He looked like a man crucified. A gun lay in the curled fingers of his right hand.
David closed the doors behind him. He went to the body, knelt beside it. He reached out, felt for a pulse in Sweet’s throat, even though he was sure he wouldn’t find one. Sweet was dead. No doubt about it. David’s gaze went to the gun and he recalled Sweet’s words. I’ve always been a man to choose my own destiny. Neither you nor anyone else will dictate my end.
He heard the sound of the front door open and close and seconds later, Rachel calling out. “David? Are you home?”
He heard her moving about the vestibule. Quickly, he got up and went to the parlor doors. He slid them open just wide enough for him to slip through, then shut them behind him.
She smiled at the sight of him. She was holding the flowers. “Oh, they’re lovely. You bought them for me?”
“Of course, who else?”
She came up to him, started to kiss him, then drew back. “Why, David,” she frowned. “What’s that on your shirt?”
He looked down. Somehow, he’d gotten blood on himself. He must’ve wiped his hands on his vest without realizing it. He looked up at her and she must’ve seen something in his face, because the joy drained out of hers, and she said, “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
He swallowed, tried to think. “There’s … there’s been an accident.”
“Accident?” she repeated. “What kind of accident?”
He didn’t answer.
“Is it Annie?” she said. “Has something happened to Annie?”
“No,” he said darkly. “It’s Sweet.” He watched her. “He’s dead.”
Her eyes widened. “No!” She dropped the flowers and her hands covered her mouth. Then her gaze moved from him to the doors behind him. “In there?”
He nodded.
She reached around him to open the doors, but he blocked her.
“Rachel, it’s not pretty.”
“Pretty?” she cried. “I don’t care about pretty! I’m a nurse. I’ve seen ugly that you can’t imagine. Now, let me in.”
“He’s gone, Rachel.”
“I want to go in.”
They stared at one another grimly.
“All right,” he said.
She was right. She had seen a lot of ugly. Of course, she had. Maybe as much as he had on the battlefield. Maybe even more. But what she perhaps didn’t realize was that it’s one thing to see a stranger in violent death and quite another to see an acquaintance.
He turned and opened the doors for her. Then he stepped aside, so the whole scene lay before her.
She froze in the doorway, staring in momentary wide-eyed shock. Then she turned back to him and said in a horrified whisper, “My God! David, what have you done?”
He felt the blood drain from his face.
Before he could answer, she ran to Sweet’s side. Just as he had done, she placed two fingers on the side of Sweet’ throat and felt for a pulse.
“It’s impossible, Rachel. You can’t do anything. He’s gone.”
“No,” she cried. “He can’t be.” She put her ear to Sweet’s chest, listened for a heartbeat, and obviously found none. When she straightened up, her face, and throat and the bodice of her white nurse’s uniform bore his blood.
Then she saw the gun and reached for it. David rushed forward to stop her, but too late. She’d picked it up. Her fingerprints were now on it. She stared at the gun, a small deadly thing, then with a cry, dropped it as though it had burned her.
David went to her, gathered her in his arms, and drew her away from the body.
“What ha-happened?” she wept. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. I found him here.”
She looked up, searched his face.
“Are you saying he killed himself?”
“It––well, it looks like it.”
“But that makes no sense! Why would he do that?”
He didn’t answer.
Anguished sobs broke from her throat. She buried her face in David’s arms, whimpering. He looked over her shoulder. A bullet had drilled a devastating wound into Sweet’s right cheek. The projectile had exited on the left side, at the top of his head, and taken a good part of his skull with it. The resulting explosion of blood and brain matter had splattered nearby furniture and soaked the carpet beneath him.
No one deserves to die like that, he thought, but he couldn’t deny his sense of relief. The nightmare was over. His secret was safe. Now, he and Rachel would be able to live out their lives in peace.
“We have to call the police,” he said.
“We can’t. You—everyone knows how you felt about him. They’ll think you killed him.”
“Hush.”
“And if they find out I found you here with them?” Rachel gulped. “What—what’ll I say?”
“Tell the truth.”
David hugged her. The coming police interview would be difficult, but once it was done, they would be free.
She sat next to him, stiff with too obvious fear, as he gave his statement. A homicide detective, a man named Peters, listened with the ill-concealed cynicism of a man who was used to being lied to. Peters was gray and tough-looking, like a faded bulldog, of medium height with a balding head, ruddy jowls, and bloodshot blue eyes.
“Are you aware of any reasons,” he asked David, “any personal problems that might’ve led Mr. Sweet to take his life?”
David paused. What was he to answer? To say yes would open a Pandora’s box. Everything about his sisters might come out. To say no would undermine his credibility.
“I didn’t know my brother-in-law well. But I believe he’d been in a critical frame of mind since my sister’s recent death.”
Peters turned back to Rachel. “Did you ever see Mr. Sweet looking depressed, hear him talk about suicide?”
“He talked about his wife. He couldn’t come to terms with having lost her.”
“She committed suicide, too—”
“After a long illness.”
“They were close?”
�
�Yes.”
Peters leaned forward. He looked from Rachel to David. “Did either of you touch the gun?”
David shook his head, then glanced at Rachel. She gave him a questioning look and he answered with a nod.
“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “I did. I tried to see if he was alive and then I saw the gun and I … I just reached for it.”
Peters inclined his head. “So were your hands on the gun when it went off?”
“No,” Rachel drew back. “I told you. I wasn’t here when it happened. I only saw him, later, after he was dead.”
David gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“What’s behind your question, Detective?” he asked.
Peters smiled blandly and snapped his notepad shut. “Just looking for the truth. We’ll have to test you both for gunpowder residue.”
Rachel started. She turned to David. “But I—”
“It’s normal in situations like this,” said Peters.
David comforted her. “It’s procedure. Don’t worry. You have nothing to fear.”
“No,” she murmured. “Of course not.”
Peters returned the next day and asked for Rachel. Annie told him Rachel was resting, so he asked to speak with David. She left the two men in the library. David rose from his armchair to shake hands with the detective and asked him to sit down. Peters spoke without preamble.
“Your wife tested positive for gunpowder residue.”
“Of course she did. She said she picked up the gun.”
“But she didn’t say she was holding it when it fired.”
David straightened up. He was surprised and indignant. “Are you accusing my wife of murder?”
“There’s also the matter of her fingerprints.”
“You can’t be serious. Whatever test results you have, they came from her having touched the gun when we found him. I told you, she wasn’t even here when it happened.”
“The test—”
“I don’t give a damn about your test. I’m the one who found the body. I was there. Not her. And I saw the kind of wound he had. It consistent with suicide: close contact, to the head.”
“That it was. But there’s another problem. The muzzle must’ve been pressed against his cheek. Most people shoot themselves in the temple.”
“That’s razor thin––”
“Let’s say Mr. Sweet was sitting down—or he was standing.” He waved his hands to stave off argument. “It doesn’t matter. Either way, it would’ve been simple for her to come up behind him. He would’ve been dead before he knew what hit him.”
“A big man like that? You’re saying a big man like Jameson Sweet would just let someone creep up on him, put a gun in his face, and fire?”
“If he trusted her enough not to look behind him.”
“That’s ridiculous. My wife had no reason to kill Sweet. She tried to save him.”
The two men studied one another.
“Don’t try to arrest her.”
“I have a warrant.”
“You don’t have a case. You don’t even have a motive.”
“We have Byron Canfield.”
David’s eyes flashed. “What does he have to do with this?”
“He says Mr. Sweet had hold of a secret that could’ve destroyed you. We’ve checked it out and his story is solid. Your wife offed Mr. Sweet to protect you. To protect your name. Your money. And her status.”
David understood now. Canfield was using this opportunity to get back at him. He wouldn’t have thought Canfield capable of such enmity, or underhandedness, but there it was. He’d poisoned Peters against them. That had to be it. That was the only explanation.
David stood. “You—”
“David?”
Both men turned. Rachel stood in the doorway. Framed by the archway and an aureole of soft late afternoon light, she seemed ethereal and delicate. David went to her. Peters rose to his feet.
“Mrs. McKay, I have to ask you to come with me.”
“No!” she cried and clutched at David.
He stepped between them. “If you take her, then you’ll have to take me, too.”
Peters looked at David. “I could charge you with obstruction—”
“You can charge me with murder if you want to. Just don’t take her.”
Rachel looked frantically at David.
Peters said, “Do you mean that?”
And David answered, “I do.”
Peters looked at David with a calculating hunger.
“Think about it,” David said. “This is the best offer you’ll have all day.”
“I can’t just forget about the gun residue test.”
“We both know they’re notoriously fallible. Look, man, I’m offering to go with you. We both know I make the better suspect. After all, I was the target of the scandal.”
The detective’s eyes narrowed. “May I take that as a confession of guilt?”
“No,” David said. “You may not. Just because I’ve offered myself on a silver platter, doesn’t mean that I’ll give you the means to roast me.”
The metal handcuffs were cold and heavy and cut into his skin. Annie watched silently from the kitchen doorway, her eyes full of pain. Rachel’s wails followed him out the house. Then Peters slammed the door behind them, cutting off the sound of her cries.
Two police officers were waiting by a squad car. They came up to him, one on either side, gripped him by his elbows, and led him from the house to the waiting car. It was late afternoon, bright enough for the world to see his disgrace. He was painfully aware of the parting of delicate French curtains up and down the street, of highbrow noses pressed against windowpanes and wide eyes staring. Humiliation overwhelmed him. Although he had volunteered to be arrested for a crime he had not committed, he was sick with shame. That they should see him this way. That his life should have come to this. Yes, he was innocent of this crime, but he was guilty of another—and soon everyone would know it. As Sweet said: Everyone who is anyone will know your game.
One officer grabbed him roughly by the back of his collar, forced him to bend down, and shoved him into the backseat. The car reeked of stale cigarettes, cold sweat, and dried semen. An odious mixture. The cop climbed in next to him. David looked at him, at his resentful, muddy brown eyes and blotchy complexion.
“It stinks in here.”
The young officer grinned at him. “You’ll get used to it.”
David turned his face away. He tried not to think of the stench and peered out the grimy window of the police car instead. The world whisked by. He caught glimpses of a young woman in a wheelchair with a small girl on her lap, a teenage boy pedaling a rusted cart, an old man in tattered clothes shuffling along with the help of a cane. For a moment, he forgot about himself. What about those people? Look at the burdens they had to bear. What would be their end? An awareness of the brevity of life pressed itself upon him. The words of a psalm Lila had loved rose within him.
Lord, make me to know my end. And what is the measure of my days, that I may know how frail I am. ... Do not be silent at my tears, for I am a stranger with you, a sojourner as all my fathers were. Look away from me that I may be radiant, before I go away and am no more.
Years had passed since he’d thought of those words, but now they returned unbidden. Why? He thought for a moment and he knew. Death, in its psychic form, awaited him. He stood on the edge of a mental precipice. His arrest, his incarceration, the trial and the public excoriation that would undoubtedly follow would push him over the edge. Life as he knew it would end.
But would that be so terrible?
He had been blessed in many ways. Life had been generous to him. It had granted him more advantages than it did most people, black or white. And to what benefit had he used them? That woman in the wheelchair, the teenage boy, and the old man: Their struggles—disability, poverty, and age—had been forced upon them. His problems were of his own making. He’d made too many wrong decisions. He had failed at every determi
ning moment. Why hadn’t he fought for Jonah—even if it meant dying at the hands of that mob? Wouldn’t it have been better to die with honor than to live in shame? Wouldn’t it have been better if when he’d seen that woman in Philadelphia, upon offering to help her, he’d had the guts to tell her who and what he was? And why, dear God, why hadn’t he answered Lilian’s last letter?
If he’d made the right decision at the right time, he would have been able to return. He would have been there to support Rachel and save Isabella. Maybe, he could have dissuaded Lilian from marrying Sweet. He could have protected his women.
He could have made a difference.
He felt the heavy handcuffs cutting into his wrists, pressing into his back, and his shame left him. An odd calm washed over him. Life, he told himself, had once more been generous with him. It had granted him a chance to make amends.
They took him to the City Prison down on Centre Street. They led him to an interrogation room and seated him in a chair before a long, battered wooden table. The room was dark, except for one glaring light, which was angled so that it shone directly in his eyes. He winced, blinded. Several officers stood over him with their shirtsleeves rolled up. They asked him his name and told him to tell them what had happened. He told them everything—beginning with the day he returned, ending with Sweet’s last words that he would not allow himself to be jailed. They urged him to confess to murder. They demanded. They cajoled. They threatened. He refused. Then the beatings began. Still, he refused.
The “interrogating” and fingerprinting lasted well past midnight. They threw him into a small, narrow cell that reeked of urine and vomit. He was grateful, however, to have a cell alone. When the guard extinguished the light, it was pitch-dark. David couldn’t see his hand before his face. Feeling his way in the dark, he stumbled into the cot shoved up against one wall. The mattress was thin and hard and it stank of mildew. He lay down, his body a mass of bruised and aching parts, his right eye swollen shut. Staring into the gloom, he waited for panic to set in, but he felt eerily calm. A warm liquid numbness that began in his fingertips spread slowly to the rest of his body. He closed his eyes, sure that he would be unable to sleep. But he did, uneasily.
Harlem Redux Page 32
