EIGHT LIES (About the Truth): A collection of short stories (4 page)

“Okay.” I took the envelope. “But one thing...”

“Now what is it?”

“I need to be sure that you’re not gonna fall apart and roll over on me when the cops come with their questions. Because there will be questions. Probing questions, about your alibi and about your marriage. And another thing…after it’s done, your husband will not look pretty. Are you sure you can handle that?” I knew I was pushing, but I needed her to say the magic words.

“I do not enjoy these childish games,” she said. Then she stiffened. “Are you setting me up?” A chill ran down my arms. The tape recorder became itchy against my side. I fought the urge to scratch. Thinking,
just play it out, Dudgeon. Play the creep that she thinks you are.
I grinned and spread my arms wide.

“Why don’t you come over here and sit on my lap and frisk me,” I said and winked at her. “We can talk about the first thing that comes up.”

“Oh dear God, you are a repulsive little man.”

“Your loss,” I shrugged, dropping the lecherous grin. “But you still haven’t answered me.” I sipped some weak coffee. “Mrs. Hills, look at it this way: if you went for a facelift, wouldn’t the surgeon be negligent if he didn’t explain the risks?” She seemed to be following me. “Now in a job like this, the risk is that you’ll have a change of heart. Once I walk out of here, there’s no turning back. Like I said, I want your money, but I’ve got to know that you’re going into this with a level head.” I maintained eye contact and resisted the urge to keep rambling.

She nodded her head, at last. “Frankly, I don’t care if my husband looks like he’s been torn apart by a pack of dingoes, I just want him dead. And there will be no change of heart. Is that level enough for you, Mr. Dudgeon?”

“It’ll be done within the week,” I said. “Don’t come to me with regrets.”

“How will I know when it’s done?”

“The police will want you to identify the body. It’ll look like a mugging.” I sipped some more bad coffee. “About the money, it isn’t in any way traceable to you, is it?”

“I’ve had a significant sum of paper money in storage for years.” Her nails clicked on the Formica.

“I’ll have to trust you on that,” I said and stuffed the envelope into my breast pocket. “I’m going to leave now. You can get the check.”

Mrs. Hills fumbled around in her purse and I went to the men’s room where I looked in the envelope. It was money, all right. I left the diner without stopping to say goodbye. Holborn had already moved outside. Jordan sat at the counter, waiting to follow her out.

They were easy to spot if you were looking for them, but of course Mrs. Hills wasn’t. Holborn sat reading a map in a black sedan parked beside Mrs. Hills’ Jaguar. Other agents were in a white van, parked directly behind. I couldn’t see them but I knew they were there. I got in my car and drove around the building and parked in the shadows. I left the engine running, ready to make my move. Holborn had instructed me to simply drive away—in fact he’d specifically instructed me
not
to be there for the arrest—but Holborn and I didn’t share all the same interests here. With everything by the book, Mrs. Hills would likely strike a plea and I’d be spared the hassle of testifying, so I wanted to get the arrest on tape.

She emerged from the diner, seemingly oblivious to the presence of Agent Jordan, who followed twelve paces behind. As she advanced upon her car, I took my foot off the brake, applied the gas, and drove forward as several other things happened at once: Holborn dropped the map and got out of the sedan, Jordan closed the distance behind Mrs. Hills, the van’s headlights came on and its side door slid open and two agents hopped out. By the time they reached her I was out of my car and coming fast around the front fender.

She froze in place, taking in the fact that she was surrounded. I lit a cigarette.

“Mrs. Francine Hills?” said Holborn.

“Yes.”

Holborn flipped his badge. “Special Agent Holborn, FBI. You’re under arrest for the attempted murder-for-hire of Mr. Gordon Hills.”

“But I-I…”

Holborn produced a small card from his wallet and read it, fast and without inflection, “Before we ask you any questions, you must understand your rights. You have the right to remain silent…Anything you say can be used against you in court…You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions and to have him with you during questioning…If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before questioning if you wish…If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you will still have the right to stop questioning at any time until you talk to a lawyer. Do you understand what I have read to you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to me now?”

A single tear slid from behind Mrs. Hills’ sunglasses and down her left cheek. “No thank you. I’ll wait for my lawyer.” She thrust a finger in my direction. “I’d like a word with him, though.” Holborn sent me a look that would make a lesser man tremble, then a sharp nod. I stepped forward. Mrs. Hills leaned in close and said, “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

“I think I do,” I said and blew a stream of smoke at her hair. Her right claw lashed out and her nails ripped my face, just below the left ear. Holborn grabbed her wrists from behind and held her fast.

“You bastard!” she shrieked, trembling all over. “You fucking bastard! Give me back my money!”

“Mrs. Hills,” I said, “I’d advise you to get yourself firmly under control and say nothing until you’ve spoken with your attorney.” I threw my cigarette down and it hissed itself to death on the wet pavement. Agent Jordan handed me a handkerchief and I held it to my face. Mrs. Hills began sobbing.

“Let’s not make this any harder, Ma’am,” said Holborn. He produced handcuffs from under his jacket and gave Mrs. Hills a new pair of bracelets and loaded her into the backseat of the sedan, sandwiched between the agents who’d jumped from the van. Another agent, still in the van, started its engine. The rain started up again, but it was still only a light rain.

Agent Jordan said, “You better get that checked, it’s bleeding a fair bit.” I looked at the handkerchief, which was now mostly red but looked purple in the mercury-vapor light of the parking lot. “Keep it,” he said and climbed into the front passenger seat of the sedan.

Holborn approached and said, “The money.”

I handed him the cash envelope. “I guess I didn’t screw it up, even if I am an amateur.”

“We’ll see what you got on tape.”

I unbuttoned my shirt and ripped the tape recorder off the side of my abdomen, taking some hair with it, and untangled the wire that led to a microphone on the back of my tie. “You’re welcome,” I said.

Holborn took it from me and said, “Come see me tomorrow. We’ll need a statement.” He got behind the wheel of the sedan and they pulled away.

As I walked back to my car, the real rain began.

Mrs. Hills retained Dermott O’Connor, Chicago’s criminal defense attorney to the rich and infamous. O’Connor was one of the most skilled media whores in town and he played the case for full coverage and maximum confusion. And the media had a collective orgasm over the story. After three days of dancing the seven veils for newspaper reporters, talk radio and television, O’Connor had half the potential jury pool thinking that a scumbag private detective had preyed on the emotional vulnerability of an abused wife who came to him for help with a divorce. Naturally, I was being cast in the role of the scumbag private detective. According to O’Connor, I’d bullied and persuaded until Mrs. Hills finally broke down in desperation and agreed to my plan to murder her abusive husband. When I felt the heat of the FBI, I framed Mrs. Hills as the architect of the plan.
Sure I did.
And then came the best part: O’Connor wanted everyone to believe that the FBI, although well intentioned, had fallen for my con job.

The FBI was not commenting, except to say that they were confident they’d arrested the right person and that Ray Dudgeon was not a suspect in this case.

The Federal Prosecutor’s office had even less to say than the FBI. They were looking forward to bringing all of the facts to light in the courtroom. Have a nice day.

Mr. Gordon Hills was commenting through his attorney, who had a few points to make on his behalf: “Mr. Hills categorically denies ever lifting a hand to his wife. All marriages have their ups and downs and the Hills’ marriage is no exception. Mr. Hills loves his wife but strongly suspects that she may not be of sound mind. He supports his wife’s application for bail, with the provision that the court issue a restraining order prohibiting Mrs. Hills from coming within 100 yards of him, and that she submit to court-ordered psychological testing.”

I was not commenting at all. Not even to Chronicle reporter Terry Green, who was my best friend and a former colleague, back when I was a reporter in a former life. I spent my days hanging up on reporters and trying not to read newspapers or listen to the radio or watch television. I wanted to call Terry and howl:
You moron! You call yourself a journalist? I can’t believe you’re letting yourself get played like this!
But I knew I was being irrational and I could imagine Terry’s rebuttal:
This is a newsworthy story and O’Connor is making newsworthy comments. We report the news. You choose not to comment, which leaves those of us who didn’t quit on journalism to do the ethical heavy-lifting. And you want to judge us? Fuck that. Get off the cross, you big crybaby.
Of course Terry would’ve been more diplomatic about it.

On the third day, Mrs. Hills made bail and Federal Prosecutor Alex Cavanaugh beckoned me to his office. I wore a clean suit.

If I’d been there alone, Cavanaugh would probably have sat behind his impressive desk and made steepling gestures at me with his hands. But I wasn’t his only guest, so we sat in comfortable leather chairs around a marble coffee table. With us were Special Agent Holborn and Cavanaugh’s assistant, Leonard Pritts.

Pritts briefed us on the case and concluded, “We’re still back-channeling with O’Connor to work a plea. But the
non compos mentis
angle is bullshit. We’ll deal some time but we’re not dropping to a lesser charge.”

“Great,” I said. “But somebody from your office has to make clear to the press what my role in this is. O’Connor’s fucking with my reputation.”

“So?” said Pritts.

I turned to a friendlier face. “Agent Holborn, I came to you from the start—”

“And we’ve made it clear that you’re not a suspect,” said Holborn.

“Just barely,” I said. “Look, so far I’ve been quiet but I have a right to defend my reputation and my livelihood.”

Cavanaugh cleared his throat and said, “Do not threaten, Gumshoe.” He said
gumshoe
the same way as Mrs. Hills. “You will not even
dream
of speaking to the press about this case, or your career will most certainly be over. And you do not tell us about how we do our jobs.”

I felt like a kid in the principal’s office. “Not my intention,” I said, holding up my hand in apology. “The point that I was so unskillfully trying to make is valid, but my presentation was out of line. I assure you, I have no intention of speaking to the press at this time.”

“Good,” said Cavanaugh. Then, to Pritts, “I’m sure our office can make a statement that will clearly communicate the fact that Mr. Dudgeon is a cooperative witness who aided the investigation from the start and has never been a suspect in this case.”

“Thank you,” I said.

As we left the building, I shook my head at Holborn and said, “Thanks a heap for all the support in there.”

“Maybe you should be less of a smart-ass,” said Holborn and walked away.

The next day, Mr. Gordon Hills went to his wife’s hotel room and beat her to death with a framing hammer. After which he ordered room service and turned on the television and watched
Wheel of Fortune
until the police arrived. He was pleading temporary insanity, according to his defense attorney, Dermott O’Connor.

Small goddamn world.

I took myself out drinking. Thinking,
Was Francine Hills really a battered wife, or did Gordon Hills go mental when he woke up to the fact that she’d tried to hire his murder? Beat her to death with a hammer—that’s pretty mental for a guy who isn’t violent to begin with.

In memory, Francine Hills’ words called out to me: “I’ve learned to accept the private humiliations…I refuse to stage a public performance of my anguish for your benefit…if you’re not man enough to save me from his cruelty…”
Shit. He probably did beat her.
And the sunglasses. Had she been hiding a bruise that makeup could not completely erase? Had I been too quick to dismiss her affectations as vanity?

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” she’d said.

I changed course and made it home relatively sober. There was a message waiting on my machine.

“Ray Dudgeon. Dermott O’Connor calling. As you may have heard, I’m now representing Gordon Hills and I believe you could be of assistance to his defense. I realize we were on opposite sides of this thing until recently, but I know you’re a grownup and you understand how the game is played. Anyway I think our interests now coincide. Right now I’m sure if you think back, you’ll recall something Mrs. Hills may have said which would indicate that she was concerned about her husband’s psychological condition…”

I stopped the machine and erased the message without listening to the rest.

Yeah, I knew how the game was played.