Dead Winter (6 page)

“Not really,” said Marc. “I know she’s dead.”

“Gonna tell you anyway.” Fourier cleared his throat, glanced at me, then returned his gaze to Marc. He stared hard at him as he spoke. “Apparent cause of death three blows to the skull with a blunt instrument. One across the forehead, one across the bridge of the nose, one along the left side of the head. Each one from a slightly different angle. The weapon was not recovered. Something cylindrical, a bit over an inch in diameter. Possibly a pipe. Or a very heavy piece of wood. The lab will be able to figure it out. Probably tossed overboard after it was used.” Fourier arched his eyebrows at Marc, who shook his head back and forth slowly.

“I didn’t do it,” he said softly. “I liked Maggie. We had no problem.”

“Any one of the three blows could’ve killed her. There is no evidence that she tried to fend them off. No bruises on her hands or arms. They were delivered with great force. Each one smashed her skull like it was an eggshell. Drove splinters of bone into her brain.” The matter-of-fact tone Fourier used made it seem even more awful than it was. I suspected he knew that.

“Is this necessary?” I said.

Fourier looked placidly at me. “She was this man’s wife. I figured he had a right to know.”

“It’s all right,” said Marc. “I saw her. What I saw was worse than anything he could say.”

“She had no clothes on,” continued the cop. He picked up the cruller and then put it back down. “The M.E. figures she was sleeping in the berth on your boat. The killer went down and hit her. She sprawled. He hit her again. She fell out of the berth. Then he hit her again. With great force. He used his right hand.”

“We had a priest on board,” said Marc.

Fourier looked sharply at him. “A priest?”

“Yeah. A small club. Like a miniature baseball bat. We used it to conk bluefish on the head when we caught them. Can’t unhook them when they’re alive. Bite your hand off.”

“I never heard the term.”

“You should see if the priest is still there. It should be hanging by a thong.”

Fourier nodded and made a note on a pad of paper on his desk. “Very helpful,” he murmured. He tapped the manila envelope. “Another thing the M.E. found out. Your wife had sexual intercourse within a couple hours of her death. You make love to her last night?”

Marc shook his head. “No.”

“Who did?”

Marc shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“She have a boyfriend?”

“Was she raped?”

“The M.E. says no.”

“I guess she had a boyfriend, then.”

“But, of course, you have no idea who it might’ve been.”

“No.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I don’t see—”

Fourier held up his hand. “Sorry. I keep forgetting. You’re the grieving husband.”

Marc glanced at me. I returned his glance with a frown. He gave me an imperceptible shake of his head.

“You have questions for Mr. Winter?” I said to the policeman. “The man has lost his wife. He’s here voluntarily. The least you can do is be civil.”

He smiled. It was without humor. “So sorry. Yes, I do have questions.” He cleared his throat, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then said, “Tell me again why you went to the boat last night.”

“I was home,” said Marc with a sigh. “I heard thunder. Thought maybe the boat wasn’t secure. So I went to the marina to check her out. Saw the hatch was open and the light on. So I went aboard and saw Maggie. Her body.”

“Then what?”

“Then I went to the phone and called you guys.”

“The phone at the marina.”

“Yes.”

“Where did you go before that?”

Marc frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Between the time you saw her and called, where did you go?”

“Nowhere.”

“Marc,” said Fourier slowly, “we’ve known each other for a while.”

Marc shrugged.

“Not what you’d call friends, maybe. But not enemies, either.”

“So?”

“So I’m going to ask you again. Where did you go before you called the station last night?”

“Nowhere.”

Fourier sighed and shook his head. He looked at me. “Your client is not telling the truth.”

I turned to Marc. “Listen—”

“I’m telling the truth, Brady.”

“Supposing I told you that somebody saw you drive up in your truck, park beside the marina, get out and go directly to the telephone.”

“I’d say they were mistaken.”

“Supposing I had a sworn statement?”

Marc shrugged. “I’d still say they were wrong.”

“It seems like a dumb thing to lie about,” said the cop.

“I agree,” said Marc.

“Let me ask you this, then. Why were you all dressed up if you were in bed and then decided to go down to your boat? I mean, why not throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, instead of fancy pants and a sport coat?”

Marc lifted his eyebrows at me. I shrugged. “It’s what was on the chair,” he said. “What I had been wearing.”

“Look,” I said. “If Marc is a suspect here—if you intend to arrest him—then I’m going to advise him not to answer any more questions, since you have neglected to read him his rights. If he’s not a suspect, then I think you better develop a different line of questioning.”

Fourier stared blandly at me for a moment. Then he gave me another one of his mirthless smiles. “You’re right, Mr. Coyne. Nice to have a lawyer here to remind me of my job. What I need to know from your client is who might’ve killed his wife. See, we don’t have a suspect. Now, Marc, here, he’s not a suspect. On the other hand, he could become one, if you follow me. I’m not jumping to conclusions or anything like that. Somebody beat in the skull of this young woman. Plenty of malice aforethought, it would appear. So who had the malice? No evidence that there was a scuffle, argument, anything like that. Looks like the young woman went onto the boat, had sex, fell asleep, and whoever screwed her smashed in her head. If it wasn’t Mr. Winter, here, then I’m hoping he can help us figure out who.”

Marc shrugged. “I don’t know. I have no idea. People liked Maggie.”

“Evidently she was having an affair,” said Fourier.

“Evidently.”

“Sex makes for strong feelings.”

“I guess.”

Fourier puffed out his cheeks and blew out a sigh. “You told me last night she used to work at the Night Owl.”

“She did. Maybe it was someone she knew from there.”

Fourier nodded. “We’re working on it. You must be able to give us a name.”

“I can’t,” said Marc.

“Even a first name would help.”

“Maggie never mentioned anybody. I never asked.”

“That’s unusual.”

Marc shrugged.

“What about her family?”

“I don’t know anything about her family.”

“Parents? Brothers, sisters, ex-husbands?”

“I don’t know.”

“You expect me to believe you were married to her and she never talked about her family?”

“She ran away from home when she was young. She was a survivor. She had no family. Except me.” Marc’s hands tightened into fists on top of the desk. “Look. I don’t care what you believe. You think just because I did time I must’ve killed Maggie, and I’m telling you what I know, and you think I’m lying.” He turned to me. “Do I have to take this, Brady?”

Just then Fourier’s phone rang. He picked it up. “Fourier,” he growled into the receiver. He listened for several moments, then said, “Okay.” He hung up and pushed his chair back and looked from me to Marc. “That’s it for now. We’ll be in touch. Meantime, try to remember if maybe, in the shock of events and all, maybe you didn’t drive away after you found the body, then change your mind and go back to the marina to make your call, huh?”

Marc stood up. “I’ll work on it.”

Fourier hoisted himself up from his chair. He looked from Marc to me. “Well, thanks, then.” He started us moving toward the door, and when he saw that we were headed in the right direction he returned to his desk. As we left, I saw that he was back in his seat talking into the telephone. He was waving his sugar-covered cruller around in the air to emphasize the points he was trying to make.

We sat in my car, looking toward the river. I started it up and got the air-conditioning blowing hard. The summer sun was high and hot.

“He doesn’t believe you,” I said after I got a cigarette lit.

Marc was staring off toward the river. “Fuck him.”

“Terrific attitude. Might be better if you tried cooperating with the police. They’re trying to figure out who killed your wife, remember?”

“Oh, they’ve got it all figured out.”

“Look,” I said. “You’re a logical suspect. You were there. You’ve certainly got a motive, if Maggie was having an affair with some guy.”

“That wasn’t a motive for me.”

“Most folks wouldn’t understand that.”

“Anyway, I am cooperating. I talked to them last night. I talked to them this morning. I told them everything I know.”

“You don’t seem to know a hell of a lot about your wife.”

He shrugged.

I cracked the car window and snapped out the cigarette butt. “You ready to go? I’ve got to get back to my office.”

“Yeah. In a minute,” said Marc. He turned in his seat to face me. “What was all that about me driving away and going back? I mean, what if I did?”

“Did you?”

He shook his head quickly.

“Because if you did, then don’t you see? You could’ve killed Maggie, driven away to change your clothes. They would’ve been bloodstained probably. Then you could have gone back to make the call as if you hadn’t been there before. See, if you parked and went directly to the phone, you wouldn’t’ve had any way of knowing she was dead unless you’d been there before.”

“You think he has a witness?”

I looked sharply at him. “Could he?”

Marc gazed out the side window. “Yeah. Maybe he could.”

“You mean you did drive away and then go back?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re serious, then I am about to sign off of this case,” I said slowly. “You better tell me why you lied in there, and why you’ve been lying to me, and what really happened. And you better think carefully before you tell me. If you killed Maggie, I promise you that your best move is to tell me all about it.”

“You’re pissed, aren’t you?”

“You’re damn right I’m pissed.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“It keeps getting harder to accept your word on that.”

“Listen,” said Marc earnestly. “Here’s what happened. After my father went to bed last night, I went out. Met a girl. She’s married, okay? I called her, she said she could get out. I met her on a side road in Salisbury, across the river. We talked for a while. Nice girl. Got two little kids at home. Her husband doesn’t treat her very well. One thing led to another. We decided to go to the boat.” He turned to look at me. “We thought we might go for a little ride. Anchor somewhere.”

“Go on.”

“If her old man found out she was with me he’d beat the crap out of her. Their marriage is very rocky. She—she might lose her children if he knew she was fooling around. He’d do that. It would kill her.”

“She’s your alibi.”

“Yeah. But I don’t want her involved.”

“It makes it look bad for you.”

He shrugged. “Fourier’s got nothing. I’ll take my chances. If I have to, okay, I’ll tell about her. So we went to the boat. Like I said, the hatch was open. I found Maggie, just the way I said. I told Andy not to come down. We went back to the truck and I drove her to her car. Then I went back and made the phone call.”

“And this is the truth?”

“Swear to God.”

I thought about it. Unless Marc was arrested, I saw no good purpose to be served by involving this other woman. Her only function in the case would be to clear Marc.

If Marc was now telling me the truth.

“I want to talk to her,” I said.

“It won’t do any good. She’s too scared. She won’t tell you anything.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“It won’t matter. I told her not to tell anybody. I told her she wouldn’t have to. I told her I’d keep her out of it.”

“Fourier is getting ready to arrest you. You realize that?”

“I don’t care. I don’t want Andy involved.”

“Then,” I said, “you can count me out.”

He was silent for a minute. I lit another cigarette and waited.

“Why do you want to talk to her?” he said finally.

“So I’ll know I can trust you.”

“You won’t tell the cops?”

“If she can corroborate your story, I won’t tell anybody until you or she says it’s okay.”

He frowned at me for a minute, then nodded his head. “Okay. Her name is Andy. Andrea. Andrea Pavelich. She waitresses noons at Michael’s.”

“Where’s that?”

He pointed out the window. “Right around the corner. We could walk there from here.”

I put the car into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. “We’ll drive. You’ll stay in the car while I go in.”

“So I won’t get to her first, right?”

I grinned. “Right.”

M
ICHAEL’S RESTAURANT WAS HOUSED
in a rambling weathered building, once painted white, perched on the edge of the river practically in the shadow of the Route 1 bridge. Windows that looked out on an assortment of pleasure and work boats walled the downstairs dining room. It was nearly empty, awaiting the noontime lunch crowd.

Although I had eaten no breakfast, I had no appetite. The two cups of coffee sloshed acidly in my stomach. I climbed up on a stool at the small bar adjacent to the dining room and looked around. I saw no bartender.

After a moment someone touched my shoulder. “Sorry, sir. The bar isn’t open.”

She was elderly and gray and dressed in a short blue skirt and yellow jersey, both of which were a couple sizes too small for her. A little plaque over her left breast indicated that her name was Maureen.

“All I want is coffee.”

“You can take a table.”

I shrugged and spun down from the barstool. She led me to a small table by the window. “Just coffee?”

I nodded. “Is Andy here?”

“Yes. She just came on. She’s in the kitchen.”

“Would you mind telling her I’m here, like to talk to her?”

She cocked her head at me. “Who’re you?”

“Tell her I’m a friend of Marc.”