Fever Dream (44 page)
Treva peered up at Eleanor with a child’s countenance.
“If I confess, will that make things easier for me? I mean, since you already heard—”
“I can’t promise anything.”
“Damn right, you can’t.” Polk shuffled over and read Treva her rights. But she barely seemed to listen. Her gaze was riveted on Eleanor’s taut face.
“I’m so sorry, Ell. I really am. About everything.”
Eleanor paused. But only for a moment.
“I know.”
Their eyes locked. Something unreadable passed between them, something private and unfathomable.
And then, her hand on Treva’s shoulder, Eleanor Lowrey turned the younger woman around and brusquely snapped on the cuffs.
On Sunday, the heat broke.
It wasn’t exactly a cold snap, but as the afternoon unspooled into evening—with the thermometer never getting above eighty—most people felt a palpable relief.
At least, that’s what the TV reporter claimed, as he walked along Walnut Street in Shadyside, mike in hand, canvassing the passers-by. Couples and families happy to be out for the day, sipping cold drinks and licking ice cream cones. Walking big long-haired dogs who, for the first time in weeks, didn’t seem about to fall prostrate in the street from the unremitting heat.
“God knows
I’m
ready for winter.” Noah’s gaze was riveted to the TV screen as he casually slid my Iron City across the bar. He looked pretty good today. Relaxed.
“Me, too.” Taking a long, grateful pull.
“Besides, Charlene says she can’t wait to get me up on the slopes. She thinks I’ll really dig skiing. Personally,
I
think she’s hopin’ I’ll crash into some big-ass tree so she can collect the insurance money.”
“
What
insurance money?” Charlene’s cheerful bellow came from behind the kitchen doors.
Noah grinned, gave me an exaggerated wink, and shuffled off to serve another customer. As he did, I caught sight of Thelonius, leaning against the cash register, cleaning his paws. Still a member of the family.
I took my beer and slid off the bar stool. Walked through the rear door onto the outdoor patio where the wooden floor slats smelled of brine and fish oil. The sun was just going down, its waning rays riding the slow-moving crests of the dark river. Sending off sparkling divots of light.
There were only a few Happy Hour regulars out here on the deck, so I easily found a quiet table and pulled up a chair. Sat breathing in the Monongahela’s particularly pungent aroma, sipping my beer, and watching some river birds scavenging the bank below.
I’d had enough of the news for one day. And there’d been a lot of it, especially for a Sunday.
Naturally, the lead story was the death of Brian Fletcher, and the revelations about his orchestrating the fake attempts on Sinclair’s life. These were easily confirmed when Jimmy Gordon, not an hour after learning of the campaign manager’s death, hastily confessed to his part in the ruse. Of course, he was adamant that he never really planned to kill the district attorney. He was just supposed to shoot wildly and miss. All part of Fletcher’s plan to help Sinclair in the polls. When asked why he agreed to work for Fletcher, Gordon was quoted as saying he needed the money.
I took another swallow of my beer and smiled to myself. Recalling what philosopher Hannah Arendt had said about the banality of evil. How guys like Jimmy Gordon proved her point every day of the week.
Even bigger than the Fletcher story was the sudden announcement, just this morning, that Leland Sinclair was pulling out of the gubernatorial race. Though police were confident he’d had no knowledge of, nor any participation in, Brian Fletcher’s criminal activities, it seemed obvious that a win in November was unlikely.
In his short press conference, Sinclair took no questions. Instead, he read a prepared statement expressing his dismay at how his campaign manager had duped him—
and
the public—and that he felt it was in the best interests of the state that he withdraw from the race. Moreover, since he had two more years to serve in office as district attorney, he’d have plenty to keep him busy. Safeguarding the lives and property of the great citizens of Pittsburgh. At the end, he wished John Garrity—his only serious rival in the campaign—all the best of luck.
Poor Sinclair, I thought. This had to be a stunning blow. Especially since most pundits agreed that he looked to be the probable victor in the election. Which, these same commentators agreed, also practically guaranteed he’d make another run for the governor’s mansion in four years. Knowing Lee Sinclair, I didn’t doubt it.
As the sun dipped further behind the old hills, and shadows lengthened across the sluggish waters below me, I finished my beer and got up. Stretched.
It had been another long day, beginning with the three hours spent this morning giving my statement about the previous night’s events to the cops.
I’d sat with Harry Polk in one of the interview rooms at the Old County Building, nearly deserted on a Sunday morning, and gone over everything. Twice.
Until, apparently satisfied, Harry leaned across the table between us and shut off the tape recorder. Which meant I could finally ask the only question I cared about.
“What’s going to happen to Treva Williams?”
Polk grimaced. “Well, for starters, nothin’ she confessed to you is admissible. Though I don’t think she knew that. Not that it matters, since she was Mirandized right after. Sang like a bird to Lowrey all the way down to the station.”
“Guilt can do that to a person.”
“On the other hand, she’s already lawyered up. The guy’s sayin’ she was a helpless victim of powerful men. Terrified of both Fletcher
and
Roarke. According to him, she had no knowledge of Bobby Marks’ criminal activities at the bank. She and Marks were just lovers, and she was traumatized by his murder. Not in her right mind when she helped Roarke at the Stubbs place.”
He gave me a thin, dark smile. “Geez, Doc, looks like he’s workin’
your
line.”
“And he could be right. About all of it.”
Polk gathered some papers up from the table.
“Won’t do him any good, though. ADA Parnelli says he’s willin’ to take a plea, but not for less than eight to ten years.”
“That’s hard time.”
“My heart bleeds. Hell, she’s lucky. Given her crimes, I’m kinda surprised Parnelli’s settlin’ for a deal.”
“I’m not. He probably figures she’ll look like a deer in the headlights to a jury. They might go easy on her.”
I ought to know
, I thought.
Polk clambered to his feet.
“Now get the hell outta here, will ya? I talked to Angie Villanova this morning and you’ve been released from your obligations to the Department. For now, at least. Go back to stealin’ your patients’ money.”
I rose, too. Held out my hand.
“Looking forward to it. See you around, Harry.”
“Christ, I hope not.”
But he was grinning.
***
As previously arranged, Sam Weiss and I grabbed a quick lunch at Primanti Brothers on the Strip. Usual weekend crowd. Blue collars and white. All big eaters.
The reporter spoke above the din, chewing on his double-stacked steak sandwich. “You realize, of course, that with Fletcher dead, there’s nothing to connect any of this with Evan McCloskey. And I mean
nothing
.”
“Yeah. That’s why the cops agreed to let me confront him at the Burgoyne. I felt sure I could rattle him enough to admit what he did. We knew that even if I got Fletcher’s confession, it wouldn’t be admissible, but they figured they could use it to get him to roll on McCloskey. But, now, without Fletcher’s testimony…”
Sam groaned. “Tell me about it.”
“But what about Stubbs’ story? And the CD?”
“No way to substantiate anything Stubbs said, either. Even if Howard Gould
was
his mole in McCloskey’s firm, he’s no longer around to verify it. As for the CD…” He took another generous bite of his sandwich. “
If
it existed, I’m guessing Treva Williams destroyed it. Threw it on the fire she set at the barn.”
I mulled this over. “Well, I understand they’re still sifting through the ashes over there. Maybe it’ll turn up.”
“If it does, it’ll be too fried to do us any good.” Sam tossed the scant remains of his sandwich on his plate. “Face it, Danny. We got nothin’.”
Then, as if to emphasize the point, he pulled his laptop up onto the table. Booted it up and found the video he was looking for. Turned the screen toward me.
“Here. Check this out.”
It was a news story—covered by a local TV station in upstate New York—about the home-town funeral of Howard Gould, junior attorney at McCloskey, Singer, and Ganz. Standing at the gravesite, next to the lawyer’s grieving family, were the senior partners at the firm.
I leaned in for a closer look. Saw Evan McCloskey’s bland, sober face. Watched as he gingerly squeezed the hand of Gould’s widow, weeping at his side.
I was struck, as I’d been before, at how ordinary he looked. How almost indistinguishable he was from the other lawyers. The other middle-aged white men in suits.
I sat back in my seat. “So that’s that, eh, Sam?”
“Not necessarily.” He mustered that familiar, crooked smile. “Remember what Stubbs told you? He made a copy of that CD and stashed it somewhere. Maybe it’s with some friend or colleague back in New York. Or in a locked safe in some other out-of-state law firm. With Stubbs dead, the damn thing may just turn up…”
He stood up, stretched. “Meanwhile, I still got all my notes. So, hell, maybe someday…I mean, ya never know. Right?”
***
“You hear what happened with Biegler and his wife?”
It was Eleanor Lowrey. I’d just pulled away from the Strip, heading toward Noah’s Ark, when my cell rang. She’d blurted out the question before I could even say hello.
“No. Though I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Well, the lieutenant is still bunking at the hotel, but looks like they’re going into couples counseling.”
“I don’t envy their therapist.”
“But here’s the kicker: to make this happen, Biegler had to pony up some cash and convince LaWanda Collins to relocate. As in, get outta town. Rumor is, she’ll soon be working the mean streets of Braddock, PA.”
I could hear Eleanor trying to keep her voice light, humorous. But I was also aware of what lay beneath it.
“Look, Ell,” I said at last. “I was going to call you myself today…”
“I’m…I’m doing okay, Danny. I mean, I’m worried about Treva. She’s looking at real jail time…”
“Listen. If I’ve learned nothing else about Treva, she’s a survivor. She’s damaged, sure. Like we all are, I guess, one way or another. But
you’re
the one I’m concerned about.”
“I told you, I’m fine. Or
will
be. Soon enough.”
“Just know that I’m here, all right?”
A long beat of silence.
“Look, Danny…about you and me…”
“Is there a ‘you and me’?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” A wry smile returned to her voice. “I mean, if you’re really lucky…”
“Well, one thing I
do
know. We never got around to working out together. To see if I could keep up.”
“You’re right, we never did. Let me get back to you on that, okay?”
“You have my number.”
“In more ways than one, Danny. Believe me.”
***
The day ended with me sitting on the rear deck of my house, second Scotch in hand, looking down onto the lights of the city. The glistening Three Rivers joining at the Point. The night sounds of traffic on the bridges, working boats on the water, the occasional jet roaring overhead, out of Pittsburgh International.
The Steel City on a Sunday night, about to settle itself down. Ready itself for the week ahead.
I had the kitchen window behind me opened up full, to better hear the sounds of Ahmad Jamal’s piano coming from the radio. I was readying myself, too. For the work week ahead. For Mary Lewicki and the other patients like her. For things to get back to normal.
I’d also just gotten off the phone with Angie Villanova, confirming—under pain of death—my appearance at her place for dinner next Sunday.
That call had followed a similar phone conversation with Nancy Mendors, agreeing to another dinner next week. To meet and get to know her fiancé, Warren.
Now, sipping my drink under the blackening night sky, I realized how unenthusiastic I was about each upcoming occasion. How, due either to irritation or jealousy, all I felt was a sense of obligation. Bearing witness, as I often did, to the unfolding lives of others. Whether they were friends or patients. Acquaintances or colleagues.