Dead Ball

by Judith Arnold

  “You teach in a primary school. Kids that young don’t usually get the high-tech stuff, even if they ask for it.” He shrugged, causing her to move her head from where it nestled against his shoulder. “My daughter’s got a cell phone that has almost as many apps as a BlackBerry. But it’s not a BlackBerry, so she thinks she’s the world’s biggest loser. I told her if she wanted one so badly, she could start saving her babysitting money.”

  If high school kids craved BlackBerries, her students couldn’t be far behind. High school kids today, middle school kids tomorrow.

  Abruptly she sat up. “Oh, my God,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “I know who set me up.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  SHE PARKED NEAR the bus circle in front of the middle school the next day, left the engine idling, and watched the students pour out of the building and sort themselves into buses. The afternoon was overcast but not raining, which meant Sean Cavanagh might choose to skateboard home or else might take the bus. She watched carefully for him, aware of how easily she could overlook him in the crowd of scuffling, jostling, posturing young teenagers fenced in by lumbering yellow buses.

  She spotted his skateboard before she spotted him, and quickly lowered her window. “Sean!” she hollered.

  He couldn’t possibly hear her through the cacophony of engines rumbling and kids shouting at one another. She pushed open her door and swung out of the car, watching his skateboard bounce on his shoulder as someone bumped him. The skateboard disappeared, and then his head popped up a couple of inches above the crowd. He must have climbed onto the board.

  She kept her gaze on him as he wove through the throng, gliding on the board’s wheels, bypassing one bus and then another. After a couple of minutes, he passed the last bus, broke free of the mob, and coasted to the end of the bus circle.

  “Sean,” she shouted again. This time he heard her. He tipped the board to brake it and looked around. She waved.

  He bit his lip, then gave her a hesitant smile and fluttered his hand in a lackluster acknowledgement.

  Not wanting to call attention to herself by screaming, she gestured for him to join her. He looked left and right—not searching for traffic, she suspected, but checking to see if anyone was observing him—and then scooted over to her on his skateboard, his knees slightly bent and his arms relaxed at his sides.

  “Hi, Sean.”

  “Hi, Ms. Lovett.” His hair looked scruffy and his oversized shirt billowed around his skinny torso.

  “Get in the car. I’ll give you a lift home.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ve got my board.”

  “It’ll fit in the back seat.” She smiled warmly. “Come on. I’ll be your private chauffeur.”

  He considered the offer and apparently realized there was no tactful way to turn it down. Sighing, he slid the skateboard onto the floor of the backseat, dumped his backpack onto the seat itself, and then circled the car and got in. Lainie resumed her place behind the wheel, shifted into gear, and drove away from the school, doing her best not to get cut off by the buses rumbling onto the street.

  A few blocks from the school, she turned onto a side road, eased to the curb, and shut off the engine. “Sean,” she said.

  He studied his hands, which lay in his lap. “Yeah?”

  “Tell me about your father’s BlackBerry.”

  He studied his hands more intently, as if he had the most interesting fingernails in the world. Perhaps he’d inherited his mother’s obsession with manicures.

  “What about it?” he finally said.

  “Why did you put it in my purse?”

  “I didn’t!” His answer was so quick and vehement, vibrating with such indignation, she knew he was lying.

  “You came over to my house a few afternoons. One of those afternoons, you put the BlackBerry in my purse. The last time you visited, remember? I’d left my copy of Alice In Wonderland out in my car and went to the garage to get it. That’s when you did the deed, right?”

  “I didn’t,” he repeated, less forcefully this time.

  “Sean.” She unfastened her seatbelt and twisted to face him. He looked more like a child than a man, his teeth gnawing on his lower lip and his gaze riveted to his lap. “The crime lab found your father’s fingerprints on the BlackBerry. They found my fingerprints. And they found a third set of fingerprints, which they haven’t been able to identify yet. Those are your fingerprints, aren’t they?”

  He chewed on his lip with enough vigor to make Lainie fear he might bite a chunk of it off. Then he exhaled through his nose, closed his eyes, and fell back against the seat, his skull bouncing against the headrest. “They think whoever took the BlackBerry is the person who killed my dad. I didn’t kill my dad.”

  “I’m not saying you did, Sean. But we have a situation here where an innocent person may wind up in prison because of this BlackBerry. Two innocent people if you count me. Is that fair?”

  “It’s not fair that they’ll think I killed him,” Sean protested.

  “They won’t think that if you tell the truth.” Ha, she thought cynically. Experience had taught her how much good telling Detective Knapp the truth would do. But she needed to convince Sean that he’d be treated fairly if he came clean.

  “You don’t even know what the truth is,” he said.

  “So tell me.”

  He glanced at her without moving his head, his eyes rolling leftward. “Okay, it’s like, he loves that fricking BlackBerry more than he loves me. Loved,” he corrected himself, then winced at the fact that his father was now past-tense. “And my mom was at soccer practice, and suddenly my dad says he’s got a meeting he has to go to, and I was thinking maybe he and I could have gone to Rockford Pizza or something, you know? One of those father-son bonding experiences,” he explained, sarcasm oozing from every syllable.

  “But no, he’s got to go off someplace to a meeting. And I thought, screw that. And I pinched his BlackBerry from the pocket of his coat while he was taking a leak. After he left, I loaded it up with all kinds of nasty messages.”

  “Death threats?”

  “No, just nasty stuff. Because I was mad, okay?”

  “You’re allowed to be mad,” Lainie assured him.

  “So then, the next morning, I find out he’s been murdered. I mean, it was nuts. I was completely freaked.”

  “Of course. We all were.”

  “I couldn’t delete most of the stuff I’d put on the BlackBerry. It was password protected and I didn’t know what his password was, so I couldn’t access the messages. Then I heard the cops were looking for the BlackBerry, so I had to get rid of it. I mean, if they found those messages, I’d be fried.”

  “Why didn’t you just dump the thing in the Rockford River?” Lainie asked. “Why did you have to stick it in my purse?”

  “I didn’t know what to do with it. But your purse was sitting right there in your kitchen. I could’ve put it in one of your drawers, but then you’d know for sure it was me who put it there. And your purse was there on the counter, and it had that zippered compartment inside, and I thought, maybe you wouldn’t notice it for a few days.”

  He tilted his head backward so he could stare at the roof of her car, which couldn’t possibly be any more fascinating than his hands had been. “I didn’t mean for you to get in trouble, Ms. Lovett. I just needed someone to get in trouble, so they wouldn’t come after me.”

  “Sean.” She tried to keep her exasperation out of her voice. “They wouldn’t have suspected you of killing your father. They have no evidence that would point to you. If you’d told them you’d taken his BlackBerry, that would have been the end of that. Instead, you put me through hell—and I’m still not out of hell yet.”

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  “We need to go to
Detective Knapp and tell him the truth now.”

  “No way!” Sean blurted out, jerking upright. “I’m not going to the cops.”

  “You have to.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Do you want me to wind up in prison?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “I thought I was your favorite teacher.”

  “You were! You are. But I can’t go to the cops.”

  “Nothing will happen to you if you do, Sean. Maybe they’ll yell at you a little, but—”

  “No. I can’t go. I can’t do it.” His voice began to disintegrate and fat, messy tears gathered along his lower eyelids. “You can’t make me.”

  “If you don’t go voluntarily to the police,” Lainie pointed out, “I imagine they can come to you. Really, it would be much better if you went to them.”

  “I can’t,” he said, openly crying. Despite being furious with him, she wanted to gather him into her arms and comfort him. She was a mother, and a child’s tears broke her heart, even if the child wasn’t hers.

  Her own son had hated being comforted by her when he’d been fourteen, so she doubted Sean would appreciate a hug. She dug in her purse for the travel pack of tissues she always kept there and handed him one. He took it and turned to stare out the side window, obviously embarrassed that she should see him crying.

  She gave him a couple of minutes to compose himself, then gently said, “You need to do the right thing, Sean.”

  “It’s not about me,” he mumbled. “I don’t give a shit what happens to me.”

  “Who are you trying to protect?”

  He shook his head and reluctantly used the tissue to wipe his cheeks.

  She didn’t need him to tell her. She knew whom he was trying to protect. His mother had lied. She’d refused to provide the police with information that could exonerate Lainie. She’d declared, a year ago, that if she ever found out her husband was cheating, she’d kill him. A few weeks ago, she’d found out her husband was cheating.

  “Lying isn’t going to help your mother,” Lainie murmured.

  Sean flinched but said nothing.

  “You having your father’s BlackBerry has nothing to do with her. Telling the police the truth wouldn’t necessarily make them suspect her of anything.”

  He shook his head, denying her words. “It’s like, my family is so fucked. If she gets in trouble, what am I going to do?”

  “There’s certainly plenty enough trouble to go around. But lying about the BlackBerry won’t make that trouble go away. You know that. You’re a good boy, Sean, and you know lying isn’t going to solve this mess.”

  Again, his only answer was silence.

  She couldn’t push him. If she was lucky, he’d do the right thing. He was so young. So vulnerable. He’d lost his father, and if it turned out his mother was guilty of murder, he’d lose her, too.

  But he was a good boy, and his lie clearly distressed him. Maybe he’d do the right thing. Maybe she’d get lucky.

  “LAINIE,” PETER’S voice blared through the phone line. “You don’t count on ‘lucky’ when it comes to a murder charge. Nobody gets lucky in cases like this. Unlucky, yes. Lucky, no.”

  “I thought you said I was lucky to have you as my lawyer,” she reminded him.

  “Well, all right. There’s luck and there’s luck.” He hesitated. “And then there’s bad luck.”

  She sighed. “I can’t force Sean to go to the police. He’s just a kid.”

  “If you can’t force him, I can. We can get a warrant to have him fingerprinted, and if his prints match the third set of prints on the BlackBerry, you’re home free.”

  “And Stavik?” Lainie asked. “Would he be home free, too?”

  A brief pause, and then Peter said, “I told you to stay away from him.”

  “He’s innocent, Peter.” She’d gone from hoping he was innocent to suspecting he was, to believing it, to declaring it. She was positive.

  “Sweetheart, I don’t care if he’s as pure as the baby Jesus. Stay away from him.”

  “Are you speaking as my lawyer or as my friend?”

  “I’m speaking as someone who’s knocking himself out to extricate you from a sticky situation. Don’t make it harder for me, okay?”

  “I won’t. All I’m saying is, Bill Stavik didn’t kill Arthur Cavanagh.”

  “You know this for a fact? Then tell me, Great Oracle, who did kill Arthur Cavanagh?”

  “Patty Cavanagh.”

  Another pause. “Lainie,” he said, his voice resonant with doubt.

  “Don’t use that tone with me. I’m not crazy. Even her son thinks she did it.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Not in so many words. But it’s all adding up. She swore she didn’t know her husband was cheating on her, and it turned out she did know. She swore she’d kill her husband if she ever found out he was cheating on her. Now he’s dead.”

  “I see.” Peter sounded grossly unimpressed. “Want to guess how that argument will play with a jury?”

  “Okay, so I don’t have definitive proof—”

  “That’s right. You don’t.”

  “But the district attorney doesn’t have definitive proof that Stavik did it, either.”

  “When you get definitive proof, sweetheart, I hope you’ll share it with all of us.” He chuckled. “I’m joking, okay? Don’t go looking for definitive proof.”

  Lainie’s mind was already clamoring with possibilities of how to obtain definitive proof. Peter could have been talking to his toes, for all the impact his words had on her.

  No one else was looking for definitive proof, and someone ought to be. Why not her? She’d learned, from years of marriage to Roger, that if the toilet was running, she would have to plunge her hand into the tank and fix the chain, because Roger wouldn’t. She’d learned that if a light bulb burned out, she was the one who would change it. If Randy dinged the wall playing whiffleball in the den, she was the one who’d have to dab plaster into the hole and smooth it out, and then blend some paint onto the damaged spot. She was the fixer. If something needed doing, she did it.

  Something needed doing now. She would do it.

  As soon as she got off the phone, she pulled her copies of Patty’s photos from under a pile of panties in her underwear drawer. If she intended to see Stavik again—not that she blew off Peter’s advice without a qualm, but damn it, she knew he was innocent—she ought to buy some nicer underwear. Cotton was comfortable, but didn’t guys like satin and lace? Margaret would know what sort of bras and panties were considered fashionable, but Lainie couldn’t imagine asking her. She would question Lainie as to why she suddenly cared about her undies, and Lainie would explain she was sort of having sex with someone who wasn’t Roger. Margaret would not be happy to hear that.

  Her own mother wouldn’t be much help, either. Karen was probably an expert when it came to sexy underwear, but Lainie preferred not to think about how she’d gained her expertise.

  The hell with it. She had a middle-aged body. And so far, Stavik hadn’t complained about it, or her underwear. He’d seen her in her sports bra when they’d stripped down to shower together, and he’d wanted her. No point investing in lots of frilly, filmy stuff.

  She carried the photos back to the bed, slid them from the envelope, and spread them out across the comforter. The photograph copying machine at the drugstore on Main Street had made clear glossy copies—two of each print—although the colors of the prints were slightly washed out.

  She scrutinized the photos of the pseudo-Colonial complex where Arthur was seen walking the blond woman to one of the townhouses. Were the walls of the building gray or tan? She couldn’t tell, even though the pictures had been taken during the day.

  Had Arthur been engaging in matinees with the woman? If not, why wa
s he escorting her home in the daylight? Did the woman actually live in that condo complex, or had she and Arthur been there for some other reason? Lainie guessed the condo must be hers, since the photos indicated she’d gone inside and Arthur had departed alone. Besides, why would Jackson Bray take photos of the woman at this address if it wasn’t her home?

  Squinting, Lainie was able to make out the number beside the door of the unit the woman had entered: sixteen.

  She set aside the photos of the townhouse, slid the rest back into the envelope, returned it to her underwear drawer, and descended the stairs to the den. Karen wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours. Lainie could do an internet search without having to explain her actions to anyone.

  She logged on and Googled “condominiums Burlington Massachusetts.” That brought up a list of real estate firms, as well as links to Burlington, Kentucky, and Burlington, Vermont. She tried neighboring towns—Peabody, Woburn, Wilmington, Lowell. She searched listings of condos for sale, clicking on every tiny photo to enlarge it, studying the pictures, and comparing them to the unit in the photos Jackson Bray had taken. Eventually, she narrowed the possibilities to three complexes in the Burlington area.

  Of course, the woman might have driven to the Burlington game from somewhere else. It was also possible that the woman Lainie had seen at the Burlington game wasn’t the same woman Arthur had been with at Olde Towne Olé.

  And while she was considering every possibility, she had to consider the worst: that Peter was right about Stavik. That no matter how certain she was of his innocence, Stavik could be guilty. That she was an utter fool to be searching for definitive proof that he wasn’t.

  What made Lainie think she could find evidence that had eluded the police? Howard Knapp, that was what. If he couldn’t get the job done, surely someone else could.

  Lainie was someone else.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THIS WAS THE place. As soon as she saw it, she knew. The faux federal-style molding above the door, the wrought-iron mailbox, the vinyl siding designed to look like weathered clapboard, and the number sixteen, affixed in brass digits to the doorframe—her gaze shuttled between the photo in her hand and the building before her, and she knew.