I had a moment of quiet contentment as I imagined Hawk at the Taft University Faculty Club.
"And she shared her theory," I said, "that Susan is drawn to men whose faults appeal to her."
"Would explain you," Hawk said.
I drank some beer and looked out the window at the tops of city buildings arranged appealingly across the line of sight.
"You take the scenario I painted for Gavin," I said, "of why he or Haskell would want to kill Carla Quagliozzi, it would work pretty well for Sterling too, if he feared she might tell. The cut tongue could be a message to Gavin."
"But he got a secret, why does he ask you to help him with the harassment suit?"
"Because he was afraid it would shed too much light on his life and the other stuff would show."
"So why didn't he just flash the nude pictures to Jeanette Ronan's hubby?" Hawk said. "That would stop the harassment suit."
"Chivalry?"
"A dude who will kill a woman and cut out her tongue?"
I shrugged.
"You show the pictures to Judge Ronan?" Hawk said.
"Jeannette," I said.
"'Cause you didn't want to get her in trouble," Hawk said.
"I figured she'd find a way to call it off."
"You soft hearted for a guy with no neck."
"I have a perfectly good neck," I said. "I just wear my collars high, like Tom Wolfe."
"Sure," Hawk said. "So what you going to do now?"
I shook my head.
"I have no idea," I said.
chapter forty-five
I WAS SITTING ON a round bench with Susan in the center space of the Chestnut Hill Mall, which was swankier than Ivana Trump. There were several shopping bags around me on the floor, each of which had things in them that Susan had bought and I carried. "Do you like that white silk jacket?" Susan said.
"Breathtaking."
"And you don't think it makes me look fat?"
"No I don't."
I had learned over the years not to give smartass answers to the kinds of dumb questions Susan asked when she shopped. It was nothing she could help, and no amount of smart talk on my part could dissuade her from it. Giving a widely amusing answer to such questions in fact tended to call forth more questions.
"You're not just saying that?"
"No."
"And the platform sneakers? Do you think they are, you know, too something."
"They look great," I said.
"Not too too?"
"Definitely not," I said. "'Things look good because you wear them."
There was a live combo playing jazz in the center of the mall, which meant, I suppose, that the demographics of the mall skewed mature. Like me.
"But you don't like them only because I'm wearing them," Susan said. "You'd like them on other people."
Simple yes and no, I reminded myself. You elaborate, you get into a swamp.
"They're great looking on anyone," I said. "On you they are podiatric perfection."
She was content. The combo was doing a nice job on "Sleepin Bee." We listened.
"Harold Arlen," I said.
Susan nodded as if she were interested. But I knew she wasn't. Susan didn't care whether it was Harold Arlen or Arlen Spector. The combo went into "A Foggy Day." We were alone on the bench. My hand was on her right thigh. She put her hand over mine. I took in a large breath of mall air.
"There's some reason to believe that Brad Sterling has killed two people," I said.
She was still. The music played. People moved past us carrying bags. Susan turned slowly to look at me.
"Tell me," she said.
I told her. She listened quietly. Now and then she nodded her head. When I finished she was very inward for a time. I waited. The combo moved from "Foggy Day" to an uptempo take on "Summertime."
"Well, it's logical," she said. "Though I can't imagine him doing it."
"Person or persons unknown is still an option," I said.
"But not a useful one," Susan said.
"No."
"I wonder if I overreacted when he came to me," she said. "I'm certainly capable of it, Ms. Fixit."
There was no sound of guilt in her voice. She was analytic. She could have been talking about people she barely knew.
"Someone complains to me about being overweight," Susan said with a half smile, "I immediately suggest ten steps to solve the problem, when all they wanted was for me to say, `You're not so fat."'
"Probably a useful trait though, in your profession," I said.
"Actually, a more useful trait in my profession is listening quietly."
I nodded.
"Maybe all Brad wanted when he came to me was for me to say, `Oh, poor baby.' Instead I involved you, and if you are right, it's the last thing he would have wanted."
"Or maybe he just wanted money," I said.
Susan shook her head emphatically.
"I know better than to give him money," she said.
"Or maybe he was already in way over his head and was half-hoping I could save him without knowing what I was saving him from."
Susan smiled sadly. "Yes," she said. "'That's exactly the kind of hare-brained scheming Brad would be capable of. Do you think you can find him?"
"I think he'll find us," I said.
"Because?"
"Because he's shown a pattern of running for help to the women he's known," I said.
"Yes, that's consistent."
"His sister has shut him off," I said. "Carla's dead. There's at least one other ex-wife. I don't know where. But he owes her child support, and few things annoy an ex-wife more."
"So he'll come to me," Susan said.
"Sooner or later," I said.
She nodded.
"When he does," I said, "remember he may have killed two people."
Susan nodded again. She was looking straight into my eyes.
"If he appears," she said, "I will call you at once."
"Oh good," I said.
chapter forty-six
JUDGE FRANCIS RONAN came into my office wearing a seersucker suit and a blue shirt. His yellow silk tie matched his yellow silk pocket handkerchief. You don't see that many seersucker suits anymore, and I thought that was a good thing. He sat down in one of my client chairs and crossed his left leg over his right. He wore wing-tipped cordovan shoes and blue socks with yellow triangles that matched his tie and show hankie. He was freshly shaven and smelled gently of bay rum. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and tented his hands in front of his mouth and looked at me silently. I said, "Good morning, Judge."
He nodded. I waited. He studied me some more. I leaned my chair back and put my feet up. He tapped his tented hands against his upper lip. I folded my hands and let them rest on my stomach.
"First," Ronan said, "I apologize for sending those two cretins to threaten you."
"'They didn't threaten me very much," I said.
"They had once appeared before me in court. I thought they were more formidable than apparently they were."
"Or I was more formidable."
Ronan nodded his head once. "Perhaps," he said. "In any case, it was uncalled for."
I had nothing to add to that so I kept quiet.
Ronan stood up suddenly and walked past me and looked out my window. Outside the window it was a hot day, and overcast, with a promise of rain later. Ronan stared out my window silently. I swiveled my chair so I could look at him while he looked out.
Finally, with his back to me and his gaze fixed on the world outside my window, he said, "Jeanette told me about the pictures."
"The ones from Sterling's apartment," I said.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry," I said.
"I have power. I have money. I have a national reputation," he said. "But I am twice Jeanette's age."
I didn't say anything. He was so still as he stood looking out my window that he could have been a cardboard cutout. His voice hardly seemed to come from him as he talked.
"That's good," I said.
"I don't know if she loves me," he said. "But she likes me. And she doesn't want to leave me."
"Some people might call that love," I said.
"Whatever it is," Ronan said, "it will suffice."
He turned back from the window and went and sat in my client chair again. He made no eye contact with me.
"Needless to say, we will take no further action against your client."
"He'll be glad to hear that," I said.
If I can find him.
Ronan took a tan leather checkbook from the inside pocket of his seersucker jacket.
"And I wish to recompense you for your time and inconvenience."
"That won't be necessary," I said.
"I insist," Ronan said.
He leaned forward and opened the checkbook on his side of my desk and got out a fountain pen.
"You've done too much insisting in your life, Judge. It's one of your problems."
Ronan looked up. His expression was startled.
"My client is so far downhill by now his reputation is probably irrelevant," I said. "But if his reputation were relevant, the charge of sexual harassment would linger on him like a bad smell."
"I…"
"You would need to do more than write a check," I said.
"I… I was afraid," he said. "I found a love letter from him to Jeanette. I was terrified. But I confronted her and she said he meant nothing to her. That he had harassed her sexually and that this letter was just another example of it."
"And you couldn't wait to believe her."
He nodded.
"And maybe there was some sort of low-level doubt that you wanted to put aside," I said, "so being you, you decided to sue. That would make it official. Then it would have to be true."
Ronan was trying to look autocratic, but it was hard because his shoulders had slumped and he was having trouble looking at me.
"And I'll bet you told Jeanette that corroborating evidence would be useful. The testimony of other women he'd harassed."
He nodded.
"So Jeanette went out and got her friends in on it."
"They were just trying to be supportive," Ronan said.
"Why'd she tell you?" I said.
He started to speak, and paused, and thought about it a moment.
"She said she couldn't live with the secret."
"Too bad," I said. "The way things are shaping up, she might have been able to."
"It is best to know," he said.
"That's the official view," I said.
"You don't agree?"
"Sometimes a secret kept causes pain for one," I said. "And a secret shared causes pain for two."
"She told me because she cared for me."
"Sure," I said. "That's probably it."
We were quiet for a time. Outside my office window the air was thickening. It was darker. No rain yet, but soon there'd be thunder in the distance.
"You won't accept my check?" Ronan said.
"No."
"Your client has disappeared?" Ronan said.
"Yes."
"If you find him, offer him my apology."
"He might prefer the check," I said.
chapter forty-seven
LEE FARRELL CALLED me on Friday morning. Outside was bright sunshine, temperature about eighty-two, slight breeze. A perfect day to be outside. I was inside. I had nothing to do inside or outside. But I hid it better inside. I didn't know where Sterling was. I didn't know if he'd killed Carla, or even Cony Brown for that matter. I had nowhere else to go, and no one to ask, and nothing to follow up. I was thrilled that the phone rang.
"'Talked to Somerville half hour ago," Farrell said. "The gun you took away from Wechsler's shooter?"
"Philchock," I said.
"Yeah. Cambridge passed it over to Somerville and they fired couple rounds and compared them to the bullet that killed Carla Quagliozzi. No match."
"That's too bad," I said.
"On the other hand-it was Quirk's idea-we took the slugs from Carla and compared them to the one came out of Cony Brown, the guy got diced in Sterling's office?"
"And you got a match," I said.
"That's right."
"You noticed where this seems to be going," I said.
"It's beginning to look like Susan's ex," he said. "Lotta questions though."
"A lot," I said.
"You answer any of them, you'll call me," Farrell said.
"First thing," I said.
We hung up. I stood up and stared out my window for a while. I went over to the sink and got a drink of water. I stood for a time and looked at the picture of Jackie Robinson on my wall above the file cabinet. When I got through looking at Jackie, I went back and looked out the window some more. Then I put on my sunglasses and went out of the office and began to walk. After a while I ended up at the Harbor Health Club, in the boxing room, which Henry kept like a family secret in the back end of the club.
I hit the heavy bag for a while. It was the kind of repetitive, effortful, mindless endeavor that I seemed best qualified for. I dug left hooks into it, circled it, landing stiff jabs at will, going to the body hard and when the hands came down, delivering my crushing over-hand right. I stopped, took a breather, drank some water, and did it again. After an hour the bag was ready to say no mas, my hair was plastered to my skull, and my sweatshirt was soaked through. I took some steam, then a shower, and was dressed and admiring myself in the mirror when Henry came into the locker room.
"Am I better looking than Tom Cruise? Or what?"
"You're taller," Henry said. "Settle for that."
"Everybody's taller, for crissake."
"Almost everybody," Henry said. "Susan called. Said to tell you that Brad was visiting at her house."
I said, "Thank you," and walked past Henry and out through the health club.
The Central Artery was always problematic if you were in a hurry, and now that it was in the process of being disassembled and placed underground, it was less reliable than Dennis Rodman. I went up Atlantic Avenue as fast as the spillover from the Big Dig would let me. I went past the North Station on Causeway Street, deked down Lomansy Way, and went along Nashua Street past the Suffolk County Jail and the Spaulding Rehab Hospital. I ran the light at Leverett Circle, which annoyed several drivers, and I was loose and in an open field on Storrow Drive.
In one sense, Brad was Susan's problem. And Susan would, if given enough space, solve her own problems. On the other hand, Brad may have killed two people and while he probably was not as tough as Susan, he was a lot bigger. And she had called.
I pulled up in front of Susan's house twenty-one minutes after I had left the Harbor Health Club and parked and let myself in. The door to her waiting room was closed. I opened it and went in. There was a thin-faced woman reading a copy of The New Yorker in one of the waiting room chairs. She had rimless glasses and a pointy nose. The door to Susan's office was closed. The woman did not look up.
I said, "Excuse me, what time is your appointmement?"
The woman looked at as if I had proposed sodomy.
"Twelve-fifty," she said and returned huffily to studying "Talk of the Town."
It was 12:34. I sat in the chair opposite the door and waited. There was a white sound machine in one corner of the room and it hissed harmonically with the sound of conditioned air moving through the vents. Serenity. I looked at my watch. 12:35. I took some air in through my nose and let it out slowly. The sharpnosed woman didn't look up from The New Yorker, but she managed through body language to convey how boorish she thought I was to breathe deeply this close to the sepulchre. At 12:52 the door to Susan's office opened and a square jawed young man with longish hair came out, and made no eye contact with either me or Needle Nose. Susan was wearing a subdued gray suit. She saw me.
"Please come in, Adele," she said to Eagle Beak. When Adele had put down her New Yorker and stalked into Susan's office, Susan s
aid, "I'll be with you in a moment."
She closed the door and walked over to me.
"Pearl is with me in the office," Susan said. "Brad came this morning. He's upstairs. He said he had nowhere else to go. He said he was, quote, at his wit's end, unquote. He's unshaven. He appears exhausted. I think he's been sleeping in parks. When I left, he was asleep on my bed with all his clothes on."
"How would you like me to handle it?" I said.
"As you think best. Today is my short day. Adele is my final patient."
"I'll wait for you here," I said. "And we'll go up together."
"Fine," Susan said and turned back toward her office. With her hand on the doorknob she stopped for a moment and turned and looked at me.
"I'm all right with this," she said.
"Good," I said.
And she went into her office.
chapter forty-eight
SUSAN'S OFFICE WAS on the first floor of her house and her apartment was on the second. It was quarter to two when, with Adele stabilized for the weekend, and Pearl somewhat grumpily left behind on the couch in Susan's office, Susan and I went upstairs, and she unlocked her apartment door. There was a radio playing, and I could hear the shower running. Susan went to the kitchen and shut off the radio. Looking through Susan's open door I could see that the bathroom door was ajar. The shower stopped and after a moment the bathroom door opened a little wider. "It's me," Susan said.
The door opened fully and Brad came out with a towel wrapped inexpertly around his waist. His hair was wet and he was clean shaven. His skin was pale and sort of inelastic looking, and the hair on his chest was gray, but he hadn't gotten fat. He saw me and jumped about six inches. Not a bad vertical leap for a white Harvard guy.
"Jesus Christ," he said. "It's you."
"Yes it is," I said.
"You startled me," he said. "Lucky I had this towel on."
"Get dressed," I said.
"You bet," he said. "Suze, can you rustle me up a little grub? I'm totally famished."
He went into Susan's bedroom and closed the door. Susan was still in the kitchen.
"I didn't know you rustled up grub," I said.
"I don't."
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