Bruce, now sitting on the foot of the bed, reached both hands around her buttocks and pulled Laura closer to him. She moaned, and he could hear her heart begin to race.
Laura reached down, felt him, hummed her approval. She lifted his chin from her bosom and again thrust her tongue deep into his mouth, one hand continuing to caress him through the cloth of his pants. They were both panting now, and their mixed saliva began to seep onto Bruce’s cheeks and chin.
She pulled her mouth away and began nibbling on his ear. “Lie down.”
He obeyed, and she stepped out of her skirt and kicked it onto the floor. She was now wearing only panties, a garter belt and a pair of long stockings. Bruce doubted that the garter belt was part of her normal daily wardrobe—she had obviously anticipated their little romp. She quickly yanked the stockings off and tossed them onto the bed, then walked around the side of the bed and gently took his left arm and raised it over his head. She kissed him quickly and smiled, then wrapped one of the stockings around his wrist, knotted it, and secured it to a bedpost. She climbed onto him, kissed him yet again, then rolled off him to the other side of the bed. She bound his other wrist to its bedpost, and panted into his ear. “Welcome to my web, said the spider to the fly.”
Bruce closed his eyes, and Laura unbuckled his belt and removed his pants and boxers. He lay back and closed his eyes, trying to abandon himself to the moment. But his brain refused to disengage. They would satisfy each other and then ... what? Cuddle? Watch TV? Play Scrabble? Not likely. He would make small talk for a few minutes, then slip out the door, mumbling some excuse or another. And she would feel used, cheated, humiliated. Which would normally be okay, but not this time—he might still need Laura in his battle against his enemy. No, this dalliance had been a careless and undisciplined choice on his part.
But he was here now, and he couldn’t very well get up and walk away. At the least, he had to satisfy her sexually before he left, which was probably all she wanted anyway. She mounted him, gasped as he slid deep into her, leaned down and engaged him in another open-mouthed kiss. Then she sat up and rode him, her pelvic muscles contracting around him as she moved. One of his hands came free, and he used it to squeeze and knead her breasts. They continued this way for a few minutes, then she unbound his wrists and rolled him on top of her.
Bruce buried his head in her neck, closed his eyes, tried not to think about Shelby. Laura was spirited, but he was getting bored. More to the point, he just didn’t want her drooling into his mouth anymore. It was time to finish, wash his face, and go home.
He thrust himself into her, back and forth, concentrating on the sensations in his loins. Laura moaned, her hands on his buttocks. He felt himself grow and did not try to hold back the eruptive, violent torrent building inside him.
* * *
[December 6, 1990]
Bruce arrived at his office early the next morning, having successfully extricated himself from Laura’s web.
It was just a matter of time before he had a second shot at Fenway Place. The decision by the court invalidating the decontrol certificates essentially made a ten million dollar property virtually worthless—with the income limited to the rent control rents, there was no way the property could support the mortgage payments. The property currently had a rental stream of $160,000 per month, expenses of $70,000, and mortgage payments of $55,000. The new rental restrictions would reduce the income stream to approximately $60,000, which wasn’t even enough to pay the expenses of the property, much less the mortgage. With a monthly shortfall of $65,000, his enemy would simply stop paying the mortgage to the RTC. The RTC would foreclose, and potential bidders would be faced with a building with fixed expenses of $70,000 per month and court-ordered maximum rents of only $60,000 per month. Somebody might pay a couple of million in hope of eventually buying the tenants off, but it would go for far less than even the $5.4 million Pierre and Howie had bid for it last spring.
The question, of course, was where would Bruce get two or three million to outbid the other vultures at the RTC foreclosure? The RTC—once burned but never shy with taxpayers’ money—would probably again offer 90 percent financing to the successful bidder, so Bruce would need approximately $300,000 to close on a $3 million purchase. He had already been able to scrape together $180,000 for last month’s auction. He could save an additional $10,000 before the closing, and could grab another $10,000 by cheating on his taxes and claiming a refund. He would later amend his return and correct it before the IRS caught him, and happily pay whatever penalties and interest they would assess him. He also figured he could start collecting rents before he even closed on the purchase of the property—the RTC wouldn’t bother doing so, and his enemy would no longer have ownership rights as of the day of the foreclosure auction. He would just step into the vacuum and collect the rents; he had seen it happen many times before. So that would be another $60,000, which meant he would only be, at the most, $40,000 short. If he couldn’t secure a few more lines of credit, he’d just have to go to a loan shark and pay the juice for a few months. Even if they charged him 100 percent per month, it would be short money if it enabled him to buy a $10 million property for $3 million.
Bruce leaned back in his chair and looked out the window—there were a few sculls gliding across the Charles River, but otherwise the boating season had ended. He thought back to his meeting with Puck—five months had passed, and nothing had ever come of it. No follow-up meetings. No police investigations. And no firing. Bruce shrugged his shoulders. They would either fire him or they wouldn’t, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it either way. Not that it mattered much anyway; within a couple of months, he would either be the successful bidder at the Fenway Place auction, or not. In either case, it would be time to leave the firm.
So it looked like he had denied his enemy his booty. And he might soon re-claim the treasure for himself. But there was one more unfinished piece of business. And after that, maybe even some pleasure.
He left his office and took the elevator to the lobby of the building. He put eight quarters into a pay phone and dialed the District Attorney’s Office. “Shelby Baskin, please.” He heard Shelby’s voice. “Ms. Baskin, my name is Bruce Arrujo. I’m an attorney at Stoak, Puck & Beal. I was wondering if you had a few moments to discuss the Charese Galloway murder case with me.” He rubbed his hand on his pant leg to dry it off.
There was a pause before Shelby responded. “Mr. Arrujo, I’m not sure how to respond. If this involves your client, Mr. Prefontaine, I think you should be speaking with the lead prosecutor in this case....”
“Actually, it doesn’t really involve Mr. Prefontaine, except to the extent his name would be cleared once and for all if you found the real killer.”
“I’m not sure I understand where you’re going with this. In fact, how did you even get my name? I’m not the prosecutor of record in this case.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not being very clear.” Bruce took a deep breath, let it out slowly into the mouthpiece, then continued. “As you might imagine, I feel pretty badly about what happened to Pierre Prefontaine. I mean, basically, it was my stupid memo that really made him a suspect in the case.”
“That and other things.”
“Well, the memo definitely played a part in it. And now I go to bed every night knowing that some little girl is not getting tucked in by her daddy because I was trying to cover my ass with a stupid memo. And I know Pierre Prefontaine did not kill Charese Galloway. So I went back and researched every thing I could find about this case—that’s how I found your name, in the civil action pleadings. I was going to call you just to ask some questions about Charese’s lawsuit against Krygier, then I found out you were at the DA’s office. So I figured you’d be a good person to talk to about this.”
“All right. I’m listening.”
“Well, there may be an angle to this murder that nobody else has looked at. Actually, that’s presumptuous of me—you may be looking at it already, but I woul
d sure sleep better knowing it was being investigated. So can you spare a few minutes to meet with me?”
“Can’t you tell me over the phone?”
Bruce had debated this issue in his mind a number of times: Would it be better to meet with her face to face before or after he explained his murder theory to her? He knew that when he did meet with her, there was a good chance she would recognize him as her rainy night companion-in-frolic. Even if she didn’t, it wasn’t the type of thing he could just bring up casually in conversation a few weeks later: “By the way, you look a lot like a mermaid I met one rainy night.” So the question was, would the revelation have a positive or negative effect on her inclination to subscribe to his theory of Charese’s murder? It was a tough call, but he concluded—or maybe hoped was a better word—that she was likely to react positively to the revelation, which would cause her to also react positively to his theory. “I’d really rather not discuss it over the phone, if you don’t mind. I’d be happy to come over to your office, if that’s convenient.”
“Well, okay, I guess. I’m free later this afternoon, say three o’clock?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
Bruce spent the next four hours pacing around his office, just waiting for the time to pass until his meeting with Shelby. It was the type of behavior his Grandpa had always scorned: Why do you want to wish the time away? Why? Do you think you can ever get it back? Do you throw money into the ocean? Once it’s gone, it’s gone for good. So never wish it away—relax, if you want, or read a book, or just sleep, but do something that gives you some benefit or pleasure. Otherwise you’ll wake up one day an old man, and realize you wished away your whole life. But this time, despite Grandpa’s words, Bruce just wanted to snap his fingers and move four hours into the future.
Finally it was 2:30, and Bruce walked to the bathroom. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, dabbed his underarms with a moist paper towel, and changed into a clean shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror, saw the combination of hope and concern in his own face, and laughed. It had been a long time since he felt nervous about meeting a girl. Maybe he should just wet his hair and cover himself with mud.
* * *
Bruce stood up as he saw Shelby approaching from down the hall. She was more rigid and controlled than the night he first saw her, but there was no doubt about it—same faultless features, same light brown hair, same turquoise eyes. And same grace. She moved as if she were weightless, as if the air surrounding her buoyed her, cushioning and softening each of her movements. He turned away from her before she spotted him. He wanted to observe her reaction close-up when she first saw his face.
When she had glided to about ten feet away, he turned toward her. Her eyes locked onto his, then her face relaxed into a smile. “I figured someday I’d run into you again. But I thought it’d be at a water slide or something.”
She hadn’t forgotten. He fought for a light response. “Wouldn’t catch me at one of those places—not enough mud. How about you? Did you catch Letterman that night?”
A cloud passed over her face. She answered softly. “Actually, no. I had some bad news waiting for me when I got home that night.” Bruce waited as she studied his face; he could see she was trying to decide how much to confide in him.
They stood looking at each other for a few seconds, then Shelby spoke. “Come on down to my office. We can talk there.” She reached out, took him gently by the elbow, and guided him down the hall. He felt his arm tingle, tried to keep his legs beneath him….
They walked down the corridor in silence, each using the time to try to gain control of their emotions. Bruce sensed that they both understood there was nothing more to be said about the rainy night frolic, and by the time they sat down they had each concluded it would be best to ease into their exploration of each other through a discussion of Charese’s murder. Hardly the normal small talk of a first date, but better than an immediate leap to the surreal intensity of their first encounter.
“So what’s your theory about Charese’s murder?”
Bruce struggled to focus his thoughts; he was having trouble taking his eyes off Shelby. Her eyes, especially—green and wet and blue and soft and large and sad and strong and kind….
He fumbled in his briefcase for some notes he had made. He didn’t usually rely on notes, but he didn’t trust himself to keep separate in his head what he knew about Charese’s death because he was Pierre’s concerned attorney on the one hand and what he had figured out because he had been Pierre’s blundering predator on the other. This was a fine line he was walking—it would be simple to reveal to Shelby the identify of Charese’s killer, but to do so would require him to reveal his role in setting Pierre up for a sting. He had to give Shelby enough information so that she would agree to pursue the investigation and discover the killer on her own. And do so without incriminating himself.
He took a deep breath. “First of all, I know I’m totally out of my league here. I have no experience in criminal investigations, and I haven’t been privy to your investigation. But I do know Pierre Prefontaine pretty well, so I think I bring a fresh perspective to this case.”
“I see your point, but I don’t see how your knowing Pierre will help in finding Charese’s killer. It may somehow prove Pierre is innocent, which I admit is a laudable goal in and of itself, but it doesn’t really help solve the crime.”
“That’s what I thought at first—I kept asking myself, Who would benefit from Charese’s death? But, other than the obvious choice—the Krygiers—I didn’t know enough about the case to answer that question. Besides, I assume you guys already have taken a careful look at the Krygiers, and couldn’t find any evidence. So I decided to work from the assumption that Pierre was innocent and might have been framed. Then the question became: Who would benefit from Pierre becoming a suspect in the murder?”
“Okay. That’s a valid inquiry.”
“Well, at first, I couldn’t think of anybody. But something happened recently that might be worth looking into. The RTC auctioned off Pierre’s interest in a property in the Fenway area called Fenway Place.”
“I know. That was part of his deal with the federal government.”
“Right. Well, some offshore corporation was the high bidder. And from what I can tell, they got quite a deal. Pierre thinks his interest in the property is worth at least a million, maybe two, and it sold for only $180,000. So somebody made a killing. And that somebody is trying to remain anonymous by hiding behind an offshore corporation.”
“Let me get this straight: You think somebody killed Charese just to frame Pierre so that they could get a great deal on Pierre’s property at an auction? I’ll be honest. It seems a bit far-fetched to me.”
Bruce nodded. Actually, what really happened was that somebody killed Charese because they knew I would frame Pierre so that I could buy his property, and then they outbid me on it. And you’re right, it does seem far-fetched. Which is why it’s so brilliant. But I can’t tell you any of this, because you’d put me in jail. So I need you to find the killer yourself, without any help from me. “You’re right, it does seem far-fetched. But what if that person was planning to kill Charese anyway and then saw the opportunity to frame Pierre for the murder?”
Shelby responded. “That brings us back to the Krygiers, father and/or son. They could have killed Charese and framed Pierre for it. It wouldn’t take much for them to learn that Pierre was having trouble getting Charese to leave the apartment. Plus they know a lot of people in the real estate community—they could have figured out that Pierre was hurting financially. That holds water.”
The phone rang and interrupted them. Shelby picked it up. “Oh, hi, Dom.”
Bruce was content to take the opportunity just to observe her—to watch her think, to note her mannerisms, to follow the lines of her shape, to memorize her features. Her features looked almost Scandinavian, though he noticed that a Jewish star dangled from a thin gold chain around her neck.
H
e barely heard her words: “Bruce, could you excuse me for a minute?” Bruce nodded and stepped out of the room.
* * *
Shelby waited until he closed the door, then summarized Bruce’s theory of the case to the detective. Then she continued. “But, Dom, I think his theory holds water not just for the Krygiers. Why couldn’t it also apply to Reese Jeffries? He kills Charese so she won’t file the complaint against him, and frames Pierre for it. Reese takes the video, but can’t use it right away because he can’t explain how he got hold of it. But then, after Pierre takes the fall for the murder, Reese makes up some story about the video arriving in the mail anonymously, then nails Krygier with it. End of Krygier, end of rent control repeal. Reese the hero.”
“It’s worth thinking about. Why don’t you call me later after you’ve finished meeting with Bruce? See what else he’s got.”
“Okay. Talk you to later, Dom.”
Shelby hung up the phone and tapped a pen against her desk blotter, gazing at a spot on the wall. She was having a little trouble focusing.
When she had returned to her apartment that rainy night to watch Letterman, there was a message from the police on her answering machine—her brother and parents had been killed in a car accident in Connecticut. In the shock of their deaths, she had totally forgotten her nighttime encounter with the tall, playful stranger in the park. Months later, while walking through that same park in a rainstorm, the memory had burst into her consciousness. It had remained there, almost hauntingly, since. She didn’t believe in ghosts, and the concept of heaven was not really part of her Jewish faith, but she had continued to wrestle with the thought that the spirit of her family, before ascending to heaven, had joined her in the rainy park for one last merry romp. And she had left them to go home and watch TV with Barry instead….
She dabbed at her eyes, not sure if the tears were for her or her parents or even for Charese, and called to Bruce.
[Boston Law 01.0] Unlawful Deeds Page 36
