Caveat Emptor and Other Stories (11 page)

“Can you believe that guy?” he said without turning his head. “It's like he thinks this is gonna change our minds about his guilt. The only people in this country who believe he's innocent are the twelve jurors. Where do they find wimps like those to serve on juries, anyway? I'll bet not one of them's ever read a newspaper. Hell, I'll bet not one of them knows how to read.”

“You're Jack Julian, aren't you?” she said.

Now he looked at her. She had drab hair, yellowish skin, and dark, puffy circles under her eyes as if she hadn't slept in weeks. Her stained sweatshirt and lack of makeup suggested she wasn't a hooker, but he wasn't sure. Hookers were about the only women who came on to him—and they were usually junkies.

“Yeah,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Someone who made a point of reading your pieces in the newspaper. You were good.”

“I suppose I was.” Jack beckoned to the bartender. “Give the lady whatever she wants to drink.”

“Nothing, thanks,” she said. “I'd like to talk to you about Spider Durmond. You wrote as much as anybody about the case. You forgot to write about me.”

“What should I have written?”

“Maybe I'll have a club soda.” She took a tissue from her purse and wiped her forehead, even though it looked to be as dry as parchment. “Let's begin with the proposition that we both know he did it. This big, beautiful blond jock had a history of beating women, of roughing up photographers, of drinking too much and driving too fast and doing too many drugs. He bought off his one known rape victim. On the night of July fifteenth, he went to his estranged wife's rented beach house and stabbed her to death. His alibi was laughable—he was home, alone. Spider never went to bed alone.” She took a shuddery breath. “You didn't seem to buy that in your articles about the case.”

Jack glanced at the television, which was currently depicting some event in which everyone wore shorts and ran incessantly. “And a few minutes ago, while the cameramen jostled for room and the reporters knocked each other into the bushes, Spider staged a press conference and promised to pay five million dollars for evidence leading to the conviction of the real killer. I used to think those of us in the media had ethics—you know, a common moral ground. No more than a fraction of an acre, perhaps, but a little bit. I retired just before that bus veered, crashed through the rail, and nosedived into the river.”

He took a final swallow of beer. “Spider's a wonderfully photogenic guy, broad smile, dimples, not too bright, helluva great basketball player and paid accordingly. Endorsements for everything from athletic shoes to cat food. The money pumped up his brain, made him think he was invincible. Shit, maybe he thought he was invisible, too. He went to Suzanne's house, killed her, and then got all teary-eyed and claimed he was home with a cold. Jesus!”

“You think he did it,” the woman said. “I know he did. I was there.”

“Sure you were. Go peddle your story to a tabloid, baby. The trial's over, the jury's reached a screwball decision, and it's too late for you to make any money off this. You'll have a better chance with alien abductions in New Mexico or cattle mutilations in Iowa.”

“The two of us can make five million dollars,” she said, then slid off the stool. “Think about that while I visit the ladies' room.”

Although Jack had been planning to leave, he sat. And thought. And got nowhere. She wasn't a hooker, and she didn't sound as if she was recently released from an institution guarded by burly men in white coats. Then again …

He didn't leave, though he wondered if he should have known better. “How'd you find me?” he asked the woman when she returned.

She took a sip of club soda. “You wrote a column about this place. I thought it might be your local hangout. I've been coming for the last few days, hoping to spot you.”

“But you waited until tonight to speak to me.”

“The jury came in this afternoon.”

“And so they did,” Jack said bitterly. “The trial lasted five months, and jury deliberations lasted two days. The evidence was so friggin' obvious—his blood on the scene, her hysterical phone calls to her friend, his car spotted a block from her house when he swore he was home. The woman walking her dog at midnight when she heard his garage door open.” He waved to the bartender to refill his glass. “Why should I have written about you?”

“I'm one of Spider's ex-girlfriends.”

“One of many. So what?”

The woman sighed. “Three years ago, I met Spider at a party. I was a model then, doing layouts for magazines like
Playboy
and
Vogue
. Spider came on to me, and I liked it. We looked really good together, like a pair of tawny lions. He promised to introduce me to movie producers. Most models see themselves as the next Audrey Hepburn.”

Jack regretted his decision to linger. Pulling out his wallet, he said, “And then he dumped you and now you want revenge. It won't play in Peoria. It won't even play in Long Beach.”

“It went further than that. He was escorting me to clubs, taking me with him on road trips, making sure I was seen on his arm when he deigned to bless nightclubs with his presence. He took me to the Oscar awards.”

He tried to imagine her on the cover of a magazine, or even posing in a designer gown. As for a centerfold, no way. Her breasts hung like deflated balloons. Her lips were as sensual as earthworms. “I'm having some trouble with this,” he admitted. “Spider made a point of being seen with good-looking women. Maybe you would have liked to—”

“My name is Abbie Cassius.”

Jack's wallet fell onto the bar as he rocked back to stare at her. He knew the name quite well. He'd seen photographs of her. And there was a resemblance beneath her unhealthy, gaunt demeanor. The cheekbones were unattractively defined, but the nose was still straight, the green eyes wide-set and unblinking as they searched his.

“Abbie Cassius?” he said numbly. “I'm sorry for not recognizing you.”

“But you recognize the name,” she said, smiling. “I was a number with the so-called Spiderman. Now I'm ready to bring him down, at least financially. You game?”

Jack shrugged. “Were he a PT boat and I a torpedo. I know he did it, Abbie. All but twelve human beings on this planet know he did it. He not only got away with it, but he's trying to win back supporters with this five-million-dollar offer for the conviction of a nonexistent person. Pretty damn safe, isn't it?”

“You and I can screw him. It'll take the both of us, but it can be done. Why don't we find a more private place to talk?”

He looked at her for a long moment, not sure how to assess her. She was ill, obviously; whether or not she was paranoid or schizophrenic or whatever would have to be determined. He'd covered the investigation and snooped where he could, but had never found definitive proof that Spider Durmond had murdered his wife. If this washed-out woman could make the case, so be it. Screwing Spider did not appeal, except in the literal sense. And that appealed very much.

“Okay,” he said at last, “why don't we move to a booth? If you have information, I'll listen. You want something to eat?”

“All I want is to teach Spider a lesson he won't forget,” she said, heading for a corner booth. She waited until Jack had positioned himself across from her, then continued. “I don't know what you remember about me. I dated Spider for several months, and there were rumors that we might get married. What never came out was that I have a son, now ten, his biological father out of the picture. Ben's different; the clinical term is ‘autistic,' and what it means is that he can't relate in a normal fashion. He tries to love me as best he can, but there are episodes when all I can do is remind myself of that. At the time Spider was around, Ben was spending weekdays at a residential facility and weekends at home with me.”

“This created a problem?” said Jack, hating himself for lapsing into his old habits.

Abbie gave him a wry look. “Pull out a notebook if it'll make you more comfortable, or take notes on a napkin. Yes, Spider was pissed. He wanted Ben to idolize him like every other kid in America did. Ben was more concerned with astronauts and the space program; he couldn't have told you which day of the week it was, but he always kept track of the current shuttles and wanted to talk about Mir and the space telescopes. It made Spider crazy.”

“How crazy?”

“Spider brought Ben a basketball for Christmas. When Ben reacted indifferently, Spider slapped him around. I became hysterical, and the whole thing erupted to the point that a neighbor called the police. I was ready to accuse Spider of everything from assault to child abuse when he made it clear that if I so much as pointed a finger at him, something bad would happen to Ben. Spider said that he had plenty of friends who enjoyed hurting little boys.” Abbie teared up, looked away. “So when the cops came, I told them that everything was okay. Spider swore that he'd give me enough money to get Ben the very best treatment—if I kept quiet.”

“But he didn't,” Jack murmured.

“Ben lost hearing in his right ear, and he lost a lot more than that. Spider has never given us a nickel. I tried to talk to him, to remind him of his promise, but he hung up when I called and pushed me aside when I came up to him in public. Eventually he got a restraining order that barred me from attempting to make any contact or setting foot on his property. When I violated it, I was sent to the state mental hospital for evaluation. Thirty days in a snake pit. I don't recommend it.”

“I know the story. You didn't have any way to make him pay you off. Why didn't you just let it go?”

“You remember how I used to look? Curves in all the right places, firm muscles, golden hair?” She paused until he reluctantly nodded. “And you didn't recognize me when I sat down. It seems I have something called plasmocerciasis, caused by a microscopic worm found in the lakes and rivers in Brazil. It's exceedingly rare in this country. At first I thought I had the flu, but when it got worse, I started going to doctors. A specialist at Walter Reed finally made the diagnosis, but the prognosis is grim. Antibiotics are ineffective. Odds are I'll be dead in a year, maybe less.”

“How'd you get infected?”

“A fashion magazine wanted an exotic background for a layout. The money was good. One of the teachers at Ben's school took care of him for the ten days I was there.”

Jack considered offering sympathy, then decided she wouldn't be receptive. “Okay, let's go back to something you said earlier. You were at Suzanne's house when Spider killed her? That's hard to swallow, Abbie.”

“I know,” she said. “After I was released from the hospital and threatened with jail time if I violated the restraining order again, I stayed away from Spider. Then I learned how sick I was. I can't even hold down an office job, and I don't have enough money to make sure Ben will be taken care of after I'm dead. I went on welfare, which gave me lots of free time to stalk Spider, but this time from a prudent distance. I watched his house. I followed his car. I couldn't afford tickets to his basketball games, but I was always parked nearby when he left the arena. When he and Suzanne were married, I was in the crowd on the sidewalk across from the church. I sat outside restaurants while they ate lobster and drank champagne. I called his house from pay phones, but hung up if anyone answered.”

“Planning to accomplish what?”

“I don't know. I guess I hoped he would somehow sense my presence and worry that I might blow him away when he turned his back. I wanted him to feel just a fraction of the anxiety I feel about the future.” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “But let's talk about the day Suzanne was killed. I was there that afternoon, parked down the street, when Spider drove to her house and stayed for about half an hour. When he came out onto the porch, I could see he was turning on the charm, smiling, nodding at her, probably making promises to take her to Paris and the Riviera when the basketball season was over. He's a very slick performer.”

“He admitted he went to her house that day,” Jack said. “According to his story, that's when he scratched his arm on the screen door and dripped blood on the carpet. How do I know you didn't read it in the newspaper?”

“I can describe her house.”

“The address was published, as well as photographs of the house and street. Newscasters did broadcasts from the sidewalk out front. There was footage of the jury as they were escorted inside. Ninety percent of the people in this tavern can describe the house, Abbie. You'll have to do better than that to convince me that you were there.”

“Which is what I'm going to do,” she said. “Spider testified that on the night of her death, he went out to dinner, then went home. If anyone had asked me, I could have backed up that much of his testimony, since I was following him. He parked in the driveway. After a few minutes, all the downstairs lights went off and shortly thereafter the light in his bedroom came on. I was about to leave when I heard a car door slam. Seconds later he drove out the gate, his headlights dark. I followed him, naturally, and realized pretty quickly where he was headed.”

Jack felt a chill, as if the air conditioner had been turned up. “Suzanne's?”

“Forty-five minutes later he turned onto her road. I parked behind a grocery store and walked the half mile to the house. His car wasn't there, but the lights were on and the front door was open. I was standing in the shadows, wondering if I ought to go home and say a prayer for her, when headlights came on further down the road. I jumped behind some shrubs as Spider drove by.”

“You're sure you recognized the car?”

She laughed contemptuously. “Yes, I'm sure; my hobby was such that I could have spotted his car in a blizzard. I figured he'd tried to insinuate himself back into her good graces and she'd thrown him out. The open door bothered me, though, so I waited. An hour later, the door was still open and the same lights still on. I finally decided to go into the yard to get a better look. I ended up in the living room. She was on her back on the floor with the knife in her chest. There was blood all over the place, but I made myself feel for a pulse. She was dead.”