Ed McBain_Matthew Hope 12 (35 page)

So here we were.

And Etta Toland had recanted.

Pete Folger, who looked like Phil Gramm and sounded like Phil Donahue, looked at his watch. His expression said this had been
a waste of time and he wanted to go home to his wife and kiddies in time to catch the eleven o’clock news. Skye Bannister,
who looked like Dan Quayle and who, in fact, sounded like him, was wearing an expression that said he knew me well enough
to realize I was smart enough not to have dragged him down here if I didn’t have what is known in the trade as “real meat,”
in which case why the hell
was
he here?

“Matthew,” he said, “I’m going to assume she told you something you wanted us to hear…”

“Didn’t sound that way to me,” Folger said.

“Pete,” I said, “she
recanted.
What the hell’s wrong with you?

“What’s wrong with me is we’ve got your lady cold and you’re dragging in somebody you
claim
…”

“He’s not stupid,” Bannister said sharply.

“What?” Folger said.

“I said he’s not
stupid.
Make that mistake, and you’re in trouble. What’d she tell you, Matthew? And what do you want us to
do
about it now that she’s turned her back?”

“He told her just what I said he told her.”

“Who? And what?”

“Bobby Diaz. Said her husband broke off his affair with Lainie Commins this past Christmas.”

“And?”

“You want it exactly the way she told it?”

“I’d be much obliged,” Bannister said.

She doesn’t know quite how to answer Bobby’s accusation.

It’s not something that hasn’t crossed her mind before, the hours Brett and Lainie spend together late at night, poring over
designs at the office, the possibility has occurred to her. She supposes Lainie is an attractive woman, in a lost-waifish
sort of way, if that kind of thing appeals to you. Brett has always had a roving eye, but his taste runs more to sleek, sophisticated
women. Still, it’s entirely possible that what Bobby is telling her is true, though she won’t reveal this to him by even the
faintest flicker of recognition on her face, the tiniest glimmer of suspicion in her eyes. Instead, she tells him to get the
hell out of her house, and the moment he’s gone she calls the boat.

“This was now about ten to eleven,” I said. “In her earlier deposition, she told me she called the boat at eleven forty-five.
That was to cover her tracks.”

Calls the boat at ten to eleven and gets no answer.

Wonders why he isn’t answering the phone.

Wonders if he’s already on the way home.

In which case, why hasn’t he called to say how the meeting went?

Wonders then why he asked Lainie to meet him on the boat in the
first
place. Instead of here at the house.

Wonders why he didn’t even
mention
this hot little tape in his possession, his hot little bimbo doing herself for all the world to see, wide open.

Has he been watching his hot little tape in private?

Does it recall memories of his hot cross-eyed little bimbo, wantonly spread and energetically enticing?

Does she excite him to tumescence?

Incite him to action?

Meet me on the boat again, hmmm?

Wonders, in fact, if his cockeyed little bitch isn’t doing herself right there on
Toy Boat
right this very
minute,
doing
him
in the bargain, shouldn’t be a total loss, no wonder no one’s answering the phone.

She decides that if this is true…

If he really
did
have an affair with Lainie…

If he is
still
having an affair with her…

She will kill him.

It is a decision she makes in the snap of an instant.

She will kill him.

As simple as that.

In the state of Florida, you do not need a license to purchase and own a gun. Or guns. There is a Colt .45 automatic aboard
Toy Boat
and there are two guns in the Toland household, one of them a Walther P-38, which Brett keeps in the nightstand on his side
of the bed, and the other a .22-caliber Colt Cobra, which Etta keeps in the nightstand on her side. Her gun is fully loaded.
Six-shot capacity. She plans to shoot her husband with it, if what Bobby Diaz told her is true.

There is no question about this.

It is a firm decision.

If he is cheating on her, she will kill him.

Toward that end, she dresses for the part before leaving the house. Pulls on a pair of black tights and a black leotard. No
bra. Black Nike running shoes. Takes from her closet a black silk cape she wore over a long black gown to the Snowflake Ball
last Christmas.
Until last Christmas, your husband was having an affair with Lainie Commins.
Finds a sassy black slouch hat she bought at Things Amiss on St. Lucy’s Circle not a month ago. Pins her hair up. Puts on
the cape and the hat and looks at herself in the mirror-lined wall of the bedroom she may now be sharing with a philanderer.
She looks like the Phantom of the Opera. The walnut stock of the Cobra feels cool to her touch. The fifteen-ounce gun is light
in her hand. She drops it into a black tote, drops the cassette into it as well, and slings the bag over her shoulder. Gloves.
Remembers gloves. Basic black needs basic black gloves. She finds a pair she bought in Milan last September, soft black leather,
slips into them. Looks at herself in the mirror again. Yes, she thinks.

Her greenish-black Infiniti J30 is parked in the driveway outside. She loves the name Nissan has given the color: Black Emerald.
She fires up the engine.

The time on the dashboard clock is 11:10
P.M.

This time of night, with no traffic on the road, she makes it to the club in ten minutes flat.

Her car is known here. She cannot have it recognized and later remembered, not if what Bobby Diaz told her is true, not if
she is going to kill her husband. She plans to confront him with the tape. Ask him why he kept the tape from her. Ask him
if it’s true that…

Is it
true
?

Is
it?

Ask him.

She parks the car on the shoulder of the road outside the club. Moves in the shadow of the trees inside the stone wall, black
as the night, her hands beginning to sweat inside the buttery-soft silk-lined gloves. The black leather tote bangs against
her hip as she works her way toward the parking lot. She is starting across it, out of the shadows, when…

A white Geo.

Parked under the single lamppost at the far end of the lot.

Lainie’s car.

The time is eleven-twenty.

Etta nods bitterly.

Strides determinedly across the lot to the boat. The dock is silent. The boat is silent. As she moves swiftly up the gangway,
past the empty cockpit, she hears cries from below, the unmistakable sounds of a woman moaning in ecstasy, hears a woman’s
voice
now, Give it to me, yes, Lainies voice, yes, do it,
do
it, and there is no longer any need to ask her husband anything at all.

She will kill him.

She is starting down the ladder leading to the saloon when she hears their voices again. He is reminding her of the tape he
now has in his possession. He is telling her the tape can be very damaging to her career. He is suggesting that she might
care to drop her infringement suit before all of kiddieland learns about that tape.

———What are you saying, Brett?

———I’m saying drop the suit or I’ll send copies to every company in the field.

———What?

———I think you’re hearing me, Lainie.

———Five minutes ago…

———Yes, but…

———You told me you still
loved
me!

———I know, but drop the suit.

———You son of a bitch!

———Drop the suit, Lainie.

Etta almost loses her resolve. If he lured Lainie to the boat only to threaten her with exposure if she didn’t…

In which case, why did he make love to her?

In which case, why did he tell her he still loved her?

———You told me you still
loved
me!

———I know, but drop the suit.

She hears more angry words from Lainie, hears her shouting she’ll
never
drop the suit now, go to Ideal, go to Mattel, go to
hell,
you rotten bastard, and realizes she’s about to leave the stateroom, her voice is at the stateroom
door,
she is hurling these last words at him as she storms out. Etta knows this boat, knows every corner of it, every curve. There
is a head adjacent to the saloon, and she slips into that now, closes the door swiftly behind her, and listens, waiting.

Her wristwatch reads eleven-thirty.

There are footfalls rushing past in the passageway outside, hurried footfalls moving through the saloon and onto the ladder
leading above. The gangway creaks under Lainie’s weight as she goes ashore. Etta stands still and silent behind the bathroom
door, listening for the sound of a car starting, but she hears nothing. Has she gone? Has she really gone? She waits.

Her watch reads eleven thirty-five.

At last, she opens the door.

From the stateroom at the far end of the passageway, she can hear the sound of the shower running. Good, she’ll do a
Psycho
on him, kill him in the fucking shower. Her hand dips into the shoulder bag. Her fingers find the Cobra. Tighten around the
walnut stock. She comes down the passageway. The stateroom door is open. The shower is still running. She comes stealthily
into the room. Kill him in the shower, she is thinking. And sees several things on the bedside table. Brett’s side of the
bed. Sees all these things in the very next instant.

Sees the time on the digital bedside clock.

11:38.

Sees an empty black vinyl cassette holder.

Idle Hands.

Sees a woman’s scarf lying on one of the upholstered stateroom chairs.

Blue scarf, red-anchor design.

And sees Brett’s pistol.

Everything suddenly comes into clear, sharp focus.

She smiles.

Actually smiles.

And drops the Cobra back into the tote.

The digital clock reads 11:39.

The shower stops.

She moves swiftly to the side of the bed, picks up the forty-five in her gloved right hand. The bathroom door opens. She turns
toward it. Brett is wearing only a towel. His eyes open wide in surprise.

“Etta?” he said. “What…?”

Her first shot misses him.

The next two take him in the face.

The digital clock on the bedside table reads 11:40.

Before she leaves the boat, she slips the cassette into its holder, carries it across the room to the bookshelves holding
similar cassettes and places it there in plain view. Let them find it, she thinks. Let them link it to Lainie’s scarf and
conclude she was here to get the tape from him. Let them link it with
this,
she thinks, and tosses the forty-five onto the bed. She looks down at Brett where he lies bleeding on the carpet, the towel
open now, his penis looking shriveled and shrunken and small.

Good, she thinks, and leaves the boat.

She drives home in twelve minutes.

Gets there at eleven fifty-five.

Changes her clothes.

Leaves the house again at midnight.

Is back at the club again by twelve-sixteen.

Which is when she discovers her husband’s body.

“She told you all this, huh?” Folger asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I wouldn’t have brought her here otherwise.”

“Too bad she wouldn’t repeat it,” Skye said.

“Too bad,” I said.

“What do you want from us, Matthew?”

“Drop the charges against my client…”

“No way.”

“…pending full investigation of Etta Toland.”

“Can’t do that,” Folger said, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“Make us a laughingstock,” Skye said.

“And suppose we come up empty?” Folger said.

“How can you?” I said. “Get a warrant to search her closets. The night watchman saw someone dressed in black…”

“She may have burned the clothes by now,” Skye said.

“Subpoena her phone bills. In her deposition, she told me she called the boat at eleven forty-five, and got to the club at
twelve-sixteen. Instead, she
really
placed the call…”

“How does that prove she killed him?” Folger asked.

“It proves she’s a liar.”

“So? You never lie?”

“Pete, I’ve got her calling the boat at ten to eleven, and leaving the house ten minutes later. Dressed to kill, I might…”

“No,” Skye said. “The phone bills may show when she called the boat, but they won’t show when she left the house. That’s all
in your head so far.”

“It’s in
her
head, too, Skye.”

“If it is, she’s not letting anybody else in there.”

“How do you see the timetable?” Folger said.

“Full cast?”

“A to Z.”

“From the top?”

“From minute one.”

I took a lined yellow legal-sized pad from the top drawer of my desk. I picked up a pencil and began writing.

“Toland tells him to buzz off,” I said. “Says he doesn’t need the tape.”

“He called her from
home,
” I said. “Not from the boat as Etta later claimed.”

“Why would she lie about
that
?”

“She lied about
everything,
Skye. She
killed
him.”

“So far, I have no evidence of that. Let’s see the rest of the timetable.”

I began writing again.