He pulled back from her so that he could look her in the eyes.
“I don’t know what they think,” he said. “But I don’t think they think I killed her.” The timing was off. Lorraine had been alive at ten—she’d left a message for Gloria Thomas. Her body had been found all the way across town. They had Dooley at Beth’s apartment building. They also had him home at eleven. There was no way they could think he’d done it, not directly, anyway. “I’m not so sure about Jeffie, though. They asked me a lot of questions about him. They’re going to double-check everything I said. But they haven’t arrested me, so I guess that’s something.” At least, it was so far. “Come on, I’d better get you home before your mom calls the cops and they pick me up for kidnapping or something.”
She was reluctant to let go of him, reluctant to get up, reluctant to go home—and he loved her for that.
Beth’s mother was waiting for her in the lobby of the apartment building. She scowled at Dooley. Beth saw it, too. She looked directly at her mother before pulling Dooley close to her. She went up on tiptoes and pressed her lips against his. Then, with her mother watching, she wrapped her arms around his neck and opened her mouth. At first Dooley didn’t know what to do—but only at first.
Annette Girondin was coming down the porch steps when Dooley got home.
“Is everything okay?” Dooley asked her.
“You should talk to your uncle,” she said.
Dooley went inside. His uncle and Jeannie were sitting at the dining room table. There were a couple of cardboard bankers’ boxes with the lids off in front of them. His uncle had his reading glasses on and was talking to Jeannie as he thumbed through a stack of paper. It sounded like he was explaining them to her. He didn’t look up when Dooley entered the room.
“What’s going on?” Dooley said after a few moments.
“I’m just filling Jeannie in on some things,” Dooley’s uncle said. He still didn’t look at Dooley.
Dooley approached the table so that he could get a better look at the papers.
“What kind of things?” he said.
“Things that don’t concern you,” his uncle grouched. Jeannie laid a hand on his arm.
“Gary,” she said in a soft voice—a caution.
Dooley’s uncle put down the papers he was holding and took off his reading glasses. He glanced at her. She stood up.
“I’m going to pick up some groceries,” she said. “I’m going to make you something special tonight.” She bent down and kissed Dooley’s uncle on the cheek. One of her hands lingered for a moment on his shoulder. The expression on her face was one that Dooley had never seen there before; she was worried. Dooley’s uncle followed her with his eyes as she crossed into the hall, slipped on her coat, picked up her purse, rummaged for her car keys. Just before she turned for the door, she looked at him. They held each other’s eyes for so long that it seemed to Dooley that they were trying to memorize each other’s faces, as if they were afraid that something might happen that would make them forget. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said.
The door closed behind her. Dooley’s uncle turned to him and said, “Sit down, Ryan.” Something in his tone chilled Dooley. He pulled out a chair.
“I saw Annette leaving,” he said.
His uncle nodded.
“What’s going on?” Dooley said for the second time.
His uncle leaned back in his chair. “I’m showing Jeannie the ropes. She’s got a good head for business. She’s going to keep an eye on things for me.”
“Keep an eye on things?”
“On the stores.” He meant his two dry-cleaning stores. “Wilf can do the books and Tessie”—Tessie Abramowicz, who managed the old store while his uncle built up the business at the second, newer store—“can probably run both places, but someone has to keep an eye on them for me. Jeannie’s going to see if she can manage, at least for the short term.”
For the short term?
“What about you?” Dooley said.
“What about me?”
“They’re your stores. Why can’t you keep an eye on them?”
“Jeannie has also agreed to take you on until we know how it’s going to go. Annette is going to talk to probation services—”
“Whoa!” Dooley said. “What the hell are you talking about? Where are you going to be?”
“Lorraine has one of those relatively rare blood types, which they matched right off the bat to a blood stain they found in my car,” his uncle said. “I don’t have the same blood type. As soon as they found that out, they put a rush on DNA. Bumped it right to the top of the list.”
Dooley felt his stomach churn. “So?” he said.
“So what they’re going to find out is it’s her blood. And when they do, they’re probably going to arrest me.”
Thirteen
There was blood in your car that came from Lorraine?” Dooley said, incredulous.
“That’s right,” his uncle said. It was all he said. Okay.
“How did it get there?”
His uncle stiffened a little in his chair. “She was in my car.”
“When?”
“That night.”
“The night you were supposed to be at the poker game?” Dooley said.
“Yes.”
“What was Lorraine doing in your car?”
“We were talking.”
His uncle answered questions like a cop in the witness box. Don’t volunteer any information, don’t ramble, don’t embellish, just answer the question you’ve been asked as simply and as directly as possible. Well, okay, here’s one:
“How did her blood get in your car?”
“She had a cut on her hand.”
“A cut?”
“She said from peeling vegetables.”
“Vegetables?” The whole time Dooley had known Lorraine, vegetables had meant French fries, but she’d never had to peel them because they came ready-peeled and cut. Most of the time they also came ready-cooked, too, in little red cardboard containers with a big golden M on them.
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” his uncle said. “She said she was into that now. She said she was trying to eat right. She also said she was learning to cook. Maybe it had something to do with the medication she was taking.”
“She was taking medication?”
“I saw a pill bottle in her purse. Anti-depressants.”
“She was depressed?”
“That’s why people take anti-depressants, Ryan.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“What did you talk to her about? Why was she in your car?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Lorraine’s in your car, bleeding all over the seat, then she turns up dead, and it’s none of my business?” Dooley tried to fight back the rage he was feeling. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen her?”
His uncle looked him in the eye but didn’t answer. Did he think it was none of Dooley’s business? Or was he hiding something?
“So she told you she’d cut her hand peeling vegetables?”
“That’s what she said.”
It occurred to Dooley for the first time that, for all he knew, his uncle could be lying to him. Up until recently, Dooley had believed every word that came out of his uncle’s mouth. Up until recently, he’d had no reason to doubt him about anything. But now … He looked at his uncle and wondered how much effort he was making. Everyone who lies makes some kind of effort. For example, when Dooley told a lie, he made sure to look directly at the person he was lying to and to keep it up until that person finally broke eye contact. Sometimes he was so conscious of doing it that he was sure it must be obvious. He wondered if his uncle felt the same way.
“If that’s what she said and if there was a cut on her hand, there should be no problem, right?” Dooley said.
“It depends,” his uncle said.
“On what?”
“On what they
found in her apartment.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, did they find anything that would corroborate that she cut her hand peeling vegetables? Maybe a towel with some blood on it. Better would be some vegetable peelings with traces of blood. Something like that.”
Oh.
“It also depends on what they’re thinking about the other cuts and abrasions they found on her body.”
“Other cuts?”
“If they’re thinking those were caused by some kind of struggle,” his uncle said, “then they might not be inclined to believe that the cut on her hand was from peeling vegetables.”
He spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, like he was explaining an old case to Dooley, one that involved a complete stranger.
“What are you saying?” Dooley said.
“I’m saying that I’m getting things organized so that if they arrest me, my business won’t go under and you won’t end up as a ward of the state. If they charge me with first-degree murder, they’re not likely to let me out while I wait for trial. They almost never give bail on a murder charge. And you know how backed up the system is. I could end up in there for a year, maybe more.”
“You were a cop,” Dooley said.
“Yeah,” his uncle said grimly.
“Maybe on account of that, they won’t lock you up. Maybe they’ll give you some consideration, you know, for safety reasons.”
“When they arrest someone for murder, it doesn’t matter if it’s a cop or an ex-cop; that’s not what they do. I have to get all of this in order. And Jeannie wants to cook me a special dinner. I think she’s afraid this is it, that the next time she sees me, it’s going to be in a visiting room. She’d never say so, but—”
Dooley stood up. “If you guys want some privacy, I can go out and get pizza or something.”
His uncle shook his head. “She wants you here, too. The two of you are probably going to have to work things out, for a while at least. If I end up going to prison for this, we’ll have to re-think. But in the meantime, Jeannie is ready to step up. She wants you here tonight, Ryan. She wants to get to know you better. Do me a favor, huh? She’s a lady. The genuine article. I want you to promise me you’ll treat her like one at all times.”
“Sure,” Dooley said. It wouldn’t be hard. “She’s nice,” he said. “I like her.”
His uncle seemed to relax a little, which made Dooley hesitate. But his uncle didn’t miss a thing.
“You got something on your mind, Ryan?”
Only a million and one things. Like:
“Did you know Jeffrey Eccles?”
The look his uncle gave him was like a kick in the belly.
“Why are you asking?”
“Did you?”
“What’s Jeffrey Eccles to you?”
“I used to know him,” Dooley said. “The cops asked me about him.” He could see his uncle’s reaction as he absorbed this piece of information. It was like watching a poison ivy eruption. “So you did know him?”
“I had a few dealings with him,” his uncle said.
Dooley winced. Of all the ways he could have put it …
“You arrested him, you mean?”
“A couple of times, right before I retired. It never stuck. Why?”
“Did they ask you about him?”
“Who?”
Who?
“The cops,” Dooley said.
He uncle didn’t answer. The two of them looked at each other. Dooley wished he knew his uncle better. Maybe if he did, he could have been able to chip away at that exterior, get to the real deal underneath. He decided on a different approach.
“She could really get under people’s skin,” Dooley said finally. “Lorraine, I mean. There were plenty of guys she was with, they’d smack her around because of the way she could get to them. I felt like doing it myself a few times.” He ignored the sharp look his uncle gave him. “She gave as good as she got,” Dooley said. “She could draw blood. I saw her do it.” His uncle was still giving him that look. “All I’m saying is, maybe she said something. Maybe she acted the way she always did, and it got to you. And then she got into it and started dishing it out, too, and, you know, things got out of hand.”
His uncle’s eyes drilled into Dooley’s skull. “You mean, maybe it was self-defense?” he said.
“You wouldn’t believe the number of guys who hit her who said she drove them to it,” Dooley said.
His uncle never moved a muscle; his eyes never wavered.
“She died with a needle in her arm, Ryan. It’s pretty hard to claim you stuck a needle in someone’s arm in self-defense, don’t you think?”
“I’m just saying,” Dooley said.
“Because you think maybe I did it,” his uncle said.
All right. So now it was out there.
“If you did, I wouldn’t blame you,” Dooley said. And it was the truth.
His uncle laughed.
“Okay, Jesus, I’m sorry,” Dooley said.
His uncle wiped his eyes, he’d been laughing that hard.
“I didn’t kill her, Ryan,” he said. “But I have to admit, when I heard they were treating her death as suspicious, I wondered if you were involved.”
“Me?”
“Well,” his uncle said. “I found that slip of paper in your pocket. I recognized her handwriting. I knew you’d seen her. I knew you knew where she lived.” The taut smile vanished from his uncle’s lips. “If I’d called you on your cell phone that night, Ryan, and if you’d answered, how would I have known you were at the library? How would I have known where you were?”
Jeannie made lamb chops. She made roasted potatoes. She made asparagus. She made a green salad with vinaigrette dressing. She made white chocolate mousse. She made it all right there in Dooley’s uncle’s kitchen, but she wouldn’t let Dooley or his uncle help her, even though they both offered. Dooley’s uncle sat at the kitchen table the whole time and watched her. She had on a skirt and blouse. She’d had on high heels when she came to the house, but she kicked those off and had pulled on the pair of slippers—strappy, red, barely-there slippers that looked to Dooley like sandals—that his uncle brought down from the bedroom. She tied on a black apron that his uncle wore when he cooked and cinched it tightly around her waist. She didn’t talk much while she worked. She didn’t even have to ask where things were. She knew. Every now and then she looked over at Dooley’s uncle and smiled, but it wasn’t her usual great big Jeannie smile. These smiles were sad. Wistful. Like she was looking at something for the very last time.
She wouldn’t let Dooley set the table, even though he offered. She did it herself, taking a white linen tablecloth out of his uncle’s credenza and using his uncle’s good china (Dooley still couldn’t figure how his uncle even had good china; he tried to picture him going to the store to pick it out, but the picture always came out wrong—his tough, gruff uncle looking at plates and bowls, cups and saucers) and a silver service he knew (because his uncle had told him) used to belong to his grandparents—well, to his uncle’s parents. She set out linen napkins, folded into triangles under the forks. She set out crystal glasses into which she poured wine for herself and Dooley’s uncle, and ginger ale for Dooley.
They sat down—Dooley’s uncle at one end of the dining room table, Jeannie at the other, Dooley on one side. They ate the dinner that Jeannie had made—it was the best meal Dooley had ever had, and he said so to Jeannie—and they talked about stuff that didn’t matter, like the municipal election that was coming up and what was happening with property taxes and whether the city should start incinerating garbage again because what choice did it have, no one wanted a garbage dump in their backyard. The whole time, Jeannie and Dooley’s uncle either looked at each other or avoided looking at each other. Dooley knew that his uncle liked Jeannie a lot. She usually came over a couple of times a week, and he even took her to the ballet and the opera if that was what she wanted. Jeannie liked to laugh—although you wouldn’t know it
tonight—and, even better, she made Dooley’s uncle laugh. Now, seeing his uncle staring across the table at Jeannie, it occurred to Dooley that maybe his uncle had more feelings for Jeannie than he had let on to Dooley.
“I’ll clean up,” Dooley said after dessert and coffee.
This time Jeannie said, “That would be nice.”
Dooley’s uncle got up and walked to the other end of the table. He pulled out Jeannie’s chair for her and supported her elbow as she stood up. He hooked the wine bottle that was on the table and took it with him when he and Jeannie went into the living room. They settled on the couch, Jeannie with her legs curled under her, nestled right in there next to Dooley’s uncle, Dooley’s uncle with his arm around her. As Dooley went back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, he glanced at them. They just sat there together, holding each other. Dooley wondered what his uncle had told Jeannie and what Jeannie had asked him, if she had asked him anything at all. They were still sitting there together when Dooley finished cleaning up the kitchen.
“I’m going upstairs,” he said. They both looked at him, both nodded, both in silence.
Annette Girondin was parked in the no-parking zone outside Dooley’s school the next day. She got out of her car and waved him over.
“Get in,” she said.
Dooley climbed in the passenger side.
“They arrested your uncle a couple of hours ago,” Annette said. “He asked me to give you this.” She handed him an envelope.
“What is it?” Dooley said.
“Five hundred dollars. For groceries and whatever else you need. He said to tell you the bills are being taken care of; you don’t have to worry about anything.”
Right. Not a thing.
“He told me he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to make bail,” Dooley said.
“I’ll give it my best shot,” Annette said. “But he’s probably right.”
“You think he did it?”
“The way it works, Ryan, the Crown has to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he did. My job is to mount a vigorous defense. I intend to do just that.”
Which told him exactly nothing.
Homicide Related Page 16
