The Halo Effect: A Novel

by Anne D. LeClaire

  Amy went to check. “Oh God,” we heard her say. “I can’t believe this,” she reported when she returned to the kitchen. “There are three network vans out front on the street.”

  I turned on the chief in a fury. “You told the press?”

  “Of course not.”

  “They’re here, aren’t they? How else would they know?”

  “They live in scanner land. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

  Nothing we can do about it. Vultures. Predatory bastards. Now seven months later one of them was back to feast on what meat had been missed, to strip bones, suck marrow. I finished the first tumbler of bourbon and poured another. Time passed but I had no sense of it, nothing beyond those walls. After a while I was aware of, somewhere in the muted distance, the sound of thunder and then, later, of rain against the window over the sink, as if the storm that had pushed through earlier that day had reversed course and was returning. And then, later still, I heard the sound of the doorbell, remember thinking that the parasitic bitch would never give up. I stumbled and caught myself on the table, stumbled again in the front hall. I swung open the door, fist raised. Detective Gordon stood there. His shoulders were spotted with rain from where he’d run from the cruiser to the porch.

  “Hey, pal. Take it easy there.”

  I lowered my fist but could not swallow the rage.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” The words were slurred.

  “Glad to hear it, Mr. Light. Because, well, I have to tell you, you don’t look so good.”

  I leaned against the doorjamb, spoke with the careful precision. “Actually, I’m a little high. Not against the law for a man to get high in his own house, is it?”

  Gordon looked behind me, into the house. “May I come in?”

  I stepped aside, stumbled, and then regained my balance.

  “You sure you don’t want to sit down somewhere?”

  “I wanna be left the hell alone.” What was he doing here? I couldn’t think straight. My brain was mush.

  “How about coffee?” Gordon said. “I could use a cup.”

  “Sure. Why not.” I led him to the kitchen. The bourbon bottle was on the table. Nearly empty. I threw it in the trash. I tripped again as I walked to the counter, spilled coffee grounds as I tried to negotiate the suddenly impossible task of brewing coffee.

  Without asking, Gordon took over. “Have you eaten anything?” he asked as he spooned grains into the filter.

  “Not hungry.”

  Gordon poured water into the receptacle, pressed the brew switch. Then he opened the refrigerator and foraged until he found bread and a jar of peanut butter. He opened drawers until he located a knife, then made a sandwich and set it in front of me. “Here. Eat this.” He poured us both coffee, watched while I drank it. The absurdity struck me. A detective in my kitchen making me a sandwich like it was some kind of after-school snack. I remembered the first time Gordon had been in our home—the night Lucy hadn’t come home—and suddenly was seized with panic that wiped the fog from my brain as it occurred to me why he was there. “Sophie,” I cried. “Has something happened to my wife? Is that why you’ve come?”

  “No.” Gordon rested a hand on my shoulder. “No. Nothing like that.”

  I could have wept with relief.

  Gordon looked around. “She isn’t here?”

  I rubbed my hand over my eyes, imagining her reaction when she heard about the events of the evening, wondered if there was a way to keep it from her. “No.”

  “Listen, Mr. Light. Will—” In the months since we first met, this was the first time the detective had called me by my given name. “I probably shouldn’t even be here, but I thought you should know. An hour ago a reporter came by the station. She said she wanted to report an assault.”

  “Assault?”

  “She said she sustained an injury when she fell. She said you pushed her.”

  The last traces of haze cleared from my head, like an eraser swiping a board, and I was near sober. “Is that all she told you? Did she tell you what the hell she was doing in my yard? Why she’d come here?”

  Gordon’s gaze was not without sympathy. “We didn’t get into that.”

  “I just bet the hell you didn’t.”

  “According to her, you pushed her so hard she fell. There was evidence of a cut.”

  “So what—you’re here to arrest me?”

  Gordon gave me a steady gaze. “That’s what she wanted.”

  I held my hands out, wrists up, mockingly, as if to be cuffed. “So go ahead. Arrest me.”

  “Well, from what she described, what happened here qualifies as a nondomestic assault. A slap, a shove—these are all classified as misdemeanors. They’re not cause for an actual arrest.”

  “So why the hell did you come?”

  Gordon gave me a steady look. “Like I said, I probably shouldn’t have come. Just wanted to let you know. Give you a heads-up.”

  “I see.”

  “Will, right now we aren’t involved. Okay? As I told the reporter, because the incident wasn’t witnessed by the police, we can’t do anything. For this to go forward, she’ll have to go to the courthouse tomorrow and file a private complaint for assault and battery.”

  I was exhausted, tired of it all. “Then what?”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. With the night to think it over, there’s a good possibility she’ll drop the whole thing. People do that. In the heat of the moment, they want to file charges, but by the next day they’ve calmed down and don’t want to bother following through, going to court.”

  I recalled the reporter screaming at me, remembered her sprawled on the ground. I didn’t hold much hope she’d forget. “And if she does go ahead?”

  “The court will schedule a probable cause hearing to see if there is enough evidence to justify the complaint. You’ll get a notice of the hearing and the date.”

  I pictured her torn slacks, the blood. “She wanted to ask me about Lucy,” I said. “She asked me if Lucy had been pregnant when she was killed.”

  Gordon’s eyes widened. He exhaled and again reached a hand out to my shoulder. “That’s tough.”

  “Right. Tough.”

  “Listen, you screwed up.”

  I nodded. No argument there. “So what do I do now?”

  Gordon got up, put his mug in the sink, his job finished. “Like I said. Hope she cools off overnight.”

  “Okay.”

  At the door, we shook hands, as if an agreement had been made. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “No problem.” Gordon headed for his cruiser, then turned. “You might want to take it easy on the booze.”

  “Right. I know.”

  “And it might be a good idea to get yourself a lawyer.”

  A lawyer. Christ. Sophie would be furious when she found out.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  In the cool light of the next day, the whole thing seemed overblown, but still, there I was sitting in my neighbor’s law office.

  Payton’s room was all chrome, leather, and glass with thick carpeting you could lose a shoe in, far different than the colonial he lived in. He greeted me with a strong handshake. His jacket sleeve inched up, and I noticed the oval gold cuff links. He flashed a smile revealing teeth so white a dentist had to be responsible.

  “Thanks for fitting me in,” I said. When I’d called earlier that morning, his secretary had said his schedule was full. I’d been surprised when he had called back minutes later and said he could see me at noon.

  “How’s Sophie?” he asked.

  “She’s okay,” I said and wondered if from his vantage point next door he had noticed her coming and going, her car absent from the driveway for days at a time. Although I already regretted bothering him. Payton and I had never been particularly close. Sophie and Ellen had made some effort to have, if not a deep relationship, at least a neighborly one limited to a shared barbeque once each summe
r, cookies exchanged at the holidays, called greetings across the yards when both were outside. When Ellen had sought a divorce, I’d been surprised but Sophie hadn’t. As usual when it came to others, I was pretty much clueless. After Ellen moved, taking their handicapped child with her, Payton had kept to himself, and gradually an odd distance developed between us. As I said, we had never been close, and with Ellen gone, there was even less reason to get together. Still, when Gordon had suggested I get a lawyer, he was the first person I thought of.

  He leaned back in his chair, ran a thumb over his chin, over the beard he had grown after Ellen left him. “I’m not a criminal lawyer, Will. Our firm handles probates, trusts, wills. Property and estate matters.”

  I knew that. He had drawn up simple wills for both Sophie and me and helped us plan for a solid future for Lucy if the unthinkable happened and Sophia and I both died before our daughter was an adult. Another irony in a necklace of them.

  “I can recommend another lawyer. I can give you a couple of names.”

  “I don’t want another lawyer.” Better the devil you knew. “Can’t you represent me?”

  “I’d be more comfortable if you got someone who handles these things.”

  These things. His tone was neutral, but I still felt as if I’d stepped in dog shit and carried it into the office and soiled the rug. “It’s probably nothing. Even the police said it will probably come to nothing. I just want to cover my six, ya know.”

  Payton stared at me for a moment and then reached for a pad, again revealing the cuff links that I now saw were monogrammed. “Have you talked this over with Sophia?”

  Had I? Oh yes. Knowing she would find out anyway—small towns keep few secrets—I had phoned her that morning, and we’d argued about it for what felt like hours. I was reluctant to follow Gordon’s recommendation, and she was set on my seeing a lawyer. Looking back I think that the argument had become heated because all the unspoken hurts and resentments of the past weeks, things that would have been unthinkable Before, had served as invisible fuel and had left both of us quite shaken. “Yes. In fact, she suggested I call you.”

  “She did?” He looked pleased. “How is she?”

  I had no idea how to answer that question, and my silence seemed answer enough.

  “Okay,” Payton said. “Give me some more details. You say this happened Wednesday?”

  “Yes. Yesterday. About dark.”

  “Okay. Take your time. Go through it step by step.”

  So I began relating how I’d come home and found the reporter in my drive.

  “Name?”

  I frowned. “I don’t know. Can’t remember. She’s with one of the Boston papers. The Herald, I think.”

  He jotted down a note. “It shouldn’t be difficult to find out. You say you were coming home and she was waiting for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were you coming from?”

  “I’d gone out on an errand. Stopped by the Crow’s Nest.” I doubted he had stepped foot in the Nest since his last semester at Harvard. Moved up in the world. Country-club bars for him.

  “So you’d been drinking?”

  “A couple of beers. Two. That’s all.” I didn’t mention my visit to Father Gervase, the glass of sherry.

  Payton scrawled another note. “And if necessary the bartender will attest to that? Two beers?”

  “Sure.”

  “His name?”

  “Her. Her name. Begins with a J, I think. Jennie. Jessie. Something like that. Tall woman with tattoos.”

  He added it on the pad. “Go on.”

  I detailed it all, how the reporter had showed up, the questions she’d asked, how I’d told her to get off my property and she’d persisted and then how I’d shoved her—just a little push really—and she’d fallen. When I reached that part—pushing her—a queer expression flashed crossed his face.

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  “No.”

  “What about Sophia?”

  “She wasn’t home.”

  “I have to emphasize, Will, I’d be more comfortable if you got someone who handles this kind of thing.”

  “But you can do it? Right? I’m asking you.”

  Payton reviewed the few notes he’d made, then stretched back in his chair, again stroked his beard with his thumb. “As I said, this isn’t my bailiwick, and I’m a little lost here.”

  I stared at him, unwilling to plead.

  “Look, here’s what I can do. I have a colleague who spends a good deal of time in the courthouse. Let me see if I can get hold of her. She knows the clerk, and at the least she can see if a criminal complaint has been filed.”

  Criminal complaint.

  “Would you like anything while I’m making the call? I can get one of the girls to bring you coffee.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Bottled water?”

  “No. Nothing. Thanks.”

  He went through another door to an inner office, probably a conference room. The courthouse lawyer must have taken his call immediately, for I heard him start to speak. “Hey, Gillian, Payton here. Glad I reached you.” Unable to stomach more, I went in search of a restroom. When I returned, he was back at his desk.

  “Do you want the good news or the bad?”

  “The good, I guess.”

  “My colleague checked with the clerk. As of noon today, nothing has been filed.”

  “So what’s the bad?”

  “You’re not out of the woods yet. The reporter has up to three years to apply for a criminal complaint.”

  Three years? For a little shove? Insanity.

  He uncapped his pen and wrote something on a notepad. “Here’s the name and address of my colleague. She said if you can get over there tomorrow afternoon at two, she can see you.”

  I glanced at the paper. Gillian Donaldson. A WASP name. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I should just wait and see how it plays out.”

  “You came to me for advice, Will. Here it is: you don’t want to be behind the curve on this. Go see Gillian.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The address was at the far end of Seaside Drive, a summer cottage converted to a private law office.

  A discreet black-and-gold quarter board on the front said Gillian Donaldson, Attorney at Law. There was no doorbell. I opened the door and entered a vacant reception room. Empty water bottles filled a trash basket that looked as if it hadn’t been emptied in days, and the surface of the vacant receptionist’s desk bore rings left by beverage cups. An ancient air conditioner, its grille coated with grime, was wedged in the window. So. No thick carpet or Mont Blanc pens here. Donaldson appeared from an inner office. She was older than I had expected, perhaps fifties, with dull brown hair that fell to the collar of a cotton print shirt. The vision of a lightweight blonde faded away.

  “Gillian Donaldson,” she said. “Gillian.” She extended her right hand, on which she wore a black orthotic wrap. “Carpal tunnel,” she explained.

  “Will Light,” I said. Her grip was stronger than I’d expected.

  She indicated the room with a sweep of her hand. “Pardon the mess. I’m between receptionists.”

  What was the story with that? Had the previous receptionist been fired or quit? No matter. I had no intention of returning. Somehow this whole thing had gotten out of my control, blown out of proportion. I suspected Payton might have made more of a drama than the situation required. Donaldson led me into her office, which was no neater than the outer room. She motioned for me to sit in the wooden chair that flanked the desk and then took her chair. “Payton gave me a quick overview of the situation when he called, but it would help if you told me in your own words.”

  I was tired of the whole thing and wasn’t sure I could summon the energy to go over it again. My stomach rumbled. I’d skipped breakfast.

  “I understand you’re concerned that a reporter . . .” She trailed off and lowered her gaze to check a note on the desk. “A woman named Meli
nda Hurley might file a complaint against you.”

  “Right. Listen, I don’t want to waste your time here.”

  She arched an eyebrow.

  “The thing is, I think maybe Payton overreacted.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, it’s been a couple days, and I haven’t heard anything more. It seems to me if something was going to happen, I’d know by now. Like I said, I don’t want to waste your time.”

  “Well, since you’re here, why don’t you tell me what happened.” She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the desk, and hooked an errant strand of faded hair behind her ear, an unconscious gesture I’d seen Sophie do a million times. “Start from the beginning.”

  The beginning. What beginning? What had led me to this second-rate office because I’d shoved a woman? At what point had my life irrevocably shattered? When Lucy was killed? When Sophie moved into the guest room? Or had it all been set in motion long ago? Was it all payment for some karmic debt I had incurred? Although I didn’t believe that shite, I couldn’t push the thought away.

  “Will? Are you with me here?”

  “What? Yes. Right.”

  “What day did this happen on?”

  “Day?” I pulled my attention back. “Wednesday. This past Wednesday.”

  “Start with anything. What was the weather?”

  “Raining. It had been raining.” Gradually I recalled the day. The visit to Holy Apostles to return the book to Father Gervase. The glass of sherry. The stop by the Crow’s Nest, the two beers I’d had there. Gordon coming in and triggering memories. My return home to find the reporter in our drive.

  “Good,” she said. “You’re doing great.”

  I recounted the conversation with Hurley. When I got to the part when I’d pushed the reporter, I tried to gauge Donaldson’s reaction, wondered if her sympathies would lie with the other woman, but her face remained impassive. I told her about going into the house and leaving the reporter screaming at me and then how later that night the detective had come by. On this retelling of the episode, the fourth time I had gone over it, I felt distanced from it all, as if I were recalling a movie I had seen long ago. She listened with a disconcerting attentiveness, her eyes never leaving my face except to take a few notes. When I was finished, I’d given her a complete picture of that day and evening. I sank back and waited for her to join the chorus of people who had told me how I’d screwed up.