Haunted Hearts (17 page)

“Pinnington suggested I make contact with you,” McGuire said.

“I know. Dick's afraid of dealing with this kind of stuff directly. That's the problem with big corporate firms. Always so tight-assed about crime.” Rosen's voice was almost warm towards his former adversary. “That's why I went into criminal law, you know. You get to work with real people, real problems. Corporate lawyers get uncomfortable around people like you and me.”

McGuire looked across at Rosen, who, satisfied with the exposure of his cufflinks, sat with his hands clasped together in front of his face and stared over his knuckles. McGuire said nothing, knowing Rosen had more philosophy to dispense.

“You and I build our reputations, such as they are, by being associated with a certain class of people,” Rosen was saying. “The same class of people cannot be
seen
with Dick Pinnington and the rest of them. Yet we're supposedly all in the same business.”

McGuire figured he had let Rosen ramble long enough. “What do you know about a guy named Myers?”

“Myers?” Rosen looked up at the scarred and stained ceiling. “I'm not sure who you're referring to . . .”

“He was your client. You defended him on an embezzlement and tax-evasion charge . . .”

“Right, right.” Rosen nodded. “I do remember Mr. Myers, yes. What about him?”

“He could be implicated in this.”

“Really?” The lawyer looked concerned. “Pinnington didn't mention his name to me.”

“You didn't get any files from Pinnington?”

“Look.” Rosen spread his hands wide, as though about to reveal a basic fact of life to a small child. “I'm retained, just like you are, by Zimmerman, Wheatley. They need me, they use me. They don't need me, they don't call me. Either way, I cash my monthly retainer. The same as you, am I correct?”

McGuire nodded.

“Something else comes with the deal. You know what it is? It's the understanding that they don't tell us anything they think we don't need to know. That's good for both of us, McGuire.”

“They didn't tell you about Myers.”

“I just said that . . .”

“They didn't tell you that Flanigan assigned me to confirm his presence in Annapolis.”

“Is that where he is?”

“Or in Florida. Myers doesn't owe you money, does he?”

“Trust me, McGuire. I may lose a case now and then, but I never lose money defending a client. No, Mr. Myers does not owe me any money.”

“He seems to have a habit of skipping out on his debts.”

“Not mine, he didn't.”

“So how much do you know about Flanigan's murder?”

“Quite honestly, only what I read in the newspapers.”

“Did you know Orin Flanigan?”

The lawyer studied his nails. “Of course I knew him. Orin was a good man. A good lawyer, a fine person.”

“Do you think he'd ever be involved in anything criminal?”

“I never believe any of my clients can be involved in anything criminal, and a few of them surprise me by doing just that.”

“But Orin Flanigan was never a client of yours.”

“Of course not. And the idea of him doing anything beyond the pale is outrageous.” Rosen permitted himself another quick smile and looked at his wristwatch. “What else do you have? I'm scheduled upstairs in a few minutes . . .”

“What about Susan Schaeffer?”

“Who?” The lawyer was already half out of his chair.

“Susan Schaeffer. Do you know her? Have you ever defended her?”

Rosen paused, blinked, checked his cuffs again. “I have never defended a client by that name . . .”

“But you know her, don't you? How?” McGuire was rising from his chair as well.

“Is this relevant to the question of Orin Flanigan's murder?” Rosen stood across from McGuire, his chin raised, his expression almost defiant.

“You're damn right it is. She's sitting down on Nashua Street right now on a cheap-shot suspicion charge. Of Flanigan's murder. Set up by a bunch of lies.”

“Really?” Rosen eyebrows shot up his forehead.

“She could use a lawyer,” McGuire said. “Somebody better than the legal-aid flunky they're probably assigning to her. You interested?”

“No.” Rosen seized the handle of his briefcase. “Afraid not. Look, if any potential criminal activity arises that's directly connected to anyone over at Zimmerman. . . .”

“How do you know Susan Schaeffer?” McGuire demanded. The door to the corridor opened, and Rosen's aide stood waiting, a look of impatience on his face.

“Unless that's directly related to a question of criminal activity . . .”

“I just said it was, damn it!” McGuire thumped his fist on the table.

“. . . I cannot discuss my knowledge of her or her activity, and if you persist in threatening violence, McGuire, I'll have you charged again, and this time you won't have the City of Boston to defend you!”

“Why won't you tell me? About Susan Schaeffer?”

“I just said, if I determine that it's relevant to my obligations to Dick Pinnington and his people, I may be prepared to discuss it . . .”

“You and I, we're supposed to be working together.”

“As a matter of fact, we are. It would be a good thing if you tried to remember that.” Rosen paused with his hand on the doorknob. His aide was already leading the way down the corridor. “Look, McGuire. When you're a police detective, you're expected to pursue every item of information, no matter how small it may appear, or how confidential. But you're not on that side any more. You're an operative. Your client isn't society any more. Your client is Dick Pinnington and
his
clients. You're no longer an instrument of the law, you're a cog. You go only where you're supposed to go and no further. You learn only what you're supposed to know and nothing else.”

“I want to know everything.”

“Of course you do. But get used to the idea that you probably won't. I'll tell Pinnington we met. He was concerned about that. And I'll tell him you agreed to contact me whenever you have any hard suspicions of criminal activity by a member of the firm. That's all.”

McGuire made two telephone calls from a booth in the courthouse lobby. The first was answered by Ronnie Schantz, her voice expectant. “Yes?”

“It's Joe.”

“Oh.” She had been waiting for someone else to call.

“How are things going?”

“You want to guess?”

“I can come by if you'd like.”

“No,” she said. “Not yet.”

“Tell me what's going on.”

“I'm leaving. Today. I'm taking . . .” She stumbled, then regained her composure. “I'm taking my clothes, a few pictures, my jewelry.”

“You're going to Charles Street.”

“Yes. I'm going to Charles Street. I should have expected you'd know more than you let on.”

“How's Ollie?”

“He's . . . I don't know. He's accepting it.”

“Should I be there?”

“Not until I'm gone, okay? Like, after dinner tonight? Can you wait until then?”

McGuire said he would wait.

“I hired a nurse. We've been talking about it for a while, Ollie and me. The Benevolent Fund is sending her up this afternoon. I gave them a key . . .” Something caught in her throat, and she paused to swallow. “She'll be living here for the first couple of nights.” Another pause to swallow a sob. Then: “Joe?”

“What?”

“Do you hate me? Do you think I'm selfish? Do you think I'm only thinking of myself and nobody else?”

“Yes, you're selfish,” he said. “Yes, you're only thinking of yourself. No, I don't hate you. I wish you only happiness, Ronnie.”

She was crying now. “Thank you. I promise to call, to see you, and maybe explain things . . .”

McGuire said, “Sure, you do that,” and hung up.

“Where you at?” Stu Cauley's voice rasped in McGuire's ear, and McGuire read the number of the pay telephone to the duty cop. “Stay there, I'll get right back to you,” Cauley said.

McGuire leaned against the side of the telephone booth, thinking of Ronnie and Ollie. He remembered the expression on Ronnie's face when Simoni passed his cigarette to her lips, and the sight of them walking away towards his studio and his bed. They were two middle-aged people playing young lovers, while McGuire watched like a man in a neighbour's garden at night, peering through lit windows, and while Ronnie's husband was lying in his bed, unable to strike the lover down and bellow to the skies, as he might have done a few years ago.

What now? McGuire asked himself. In a way, Ronnie was abandoning not only her husband, but McGuire as well.

The telephone rang and he lifted the receiver quickly, like a man shutting off an alarm.

“She's due out in fifteen minutes,” the voice rasped, and McGuire told Stu Cauley there was a beer with Cauley's name on it waiting for him at Zoot's.

“Can't touch it,” Cauley said. “Ulcer. Didn't you hear, Joe?”

McGuire said he hadn't heard.

“I'm heading out to pasture, end of next month,” Cauley said. “Then maybe I'll come up to Revere Beach and trade lies with you and Ollie.”

McGuire said it sounded like a good idea. Seeing Ollie at the end of next month would be a very good idea.

She walked out of jail with her head down and her hands jammed in the pockets of her trench coat, a tan leather bag on her shoulder. McGuire rose from the low stone wall he had been sitting on and crossed the open area between them, the wind sweeping past to toy with her hair.

“Thank you,” she said when he reached her. She wrapped her arms around him, and he held her while she shook, her body like a bird's within his embrace.

“My car's around the corner,” he said. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue from her pocket and nodded. “Have they dropped the charges?”

She nodded. “They had no reason to bring me here except that someone told them lies. About me and Orin Flanigan.”

“I know.”

“Who?”

“I'll explain later.”

In the car she said, “Where will we go?”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Some place where we can be alone and talk. Where do you live?”

McGuire started the car. “We can't go there.”

She watched him as he pulled away from the curb. “You're married after all,” she said.

“Hell, no. I'm not married.” He looked across at her. “I'm not married,” he repeated, “but I can't go to my room, because there are some problems there.”

“I'd invite you back to my room but . . .”

“You can't have visitors in a halfway house.”

She turned her face away. “How long have you known?”

“Couple of hours. Maybe more than that. I could see it in you, the way you looked through windows, other things. People in jail, or just out of it, look that way. While you're on parole, they can hold you for twenty-four hours just on suspicion of a felony. They tell you that?”

She nodded.

“I know a place in Marblehead that serves a great steak and better fries.” He was already swinging the car towards the bridge to Chelsea. “How's that sound?”

“I'm not hungry.”

“You might be in an hour or so. If you're not, I'll buy you another Irish coffee and you can drink it while I show how to make twelve ounces of beef disappear.”

She smiled at him. “You make it sound almost obscene.”

“Do I?” He faked a frown. “I meant to make it sound erotic. Sometimes I get them mixed up.”

She sat smiling at him, until her face clouded over and she turned to look out the window again.

McGuire followed the Salem Turnpike to Swampscott, and took Atlantic Avenue into Marblehead. At a stoplight, the Chrysler hesitated when McGuire tried to pull away. Then the engine whined until the transmission engaged with the familiar thump. “Attaboy, Clunk,” McGuire said.

“Who?” It was the first she had spoken since they had left Boston.

“The car's name,” McGuire said. “It's what I call it. Makes a clunk every now and then.”

“Tough homicide cop gives a name to his old car?” She was smiling again.

“Hey, I spend a lot of time in this heap. It talks to me, I talk to it. The restaurant's just ahead. See that old brick place on the corner?”

Once they were seated in the almost-empty dining room at a window table overlooking the old harbour, he ordered New York strip steaks for both of them. “This town, it's mostly Italian food. There's only one place between here and Rockport where you can get a decent steak, and this is it. How about a glass of wine with dinner?”

She shook her head. “Just a Coke will do,” she said. She looked around, as though she had awoken in a strange room, unsure of how she had arrived there. “I can't believe what happened to me today. I'm taken from the store, I'm locked . . .” She stumbled, began again. “Locked up and accused of murder, and now I'm sitting down to a steak dinner with a view of Marblehead Bay.”

“I've got a friend,” McGuire said, meaning Ollie, “who says as long as life keeps surprising him, he'll stick around to see what's next.”

“What's next?” She was looking directly at him, something she had avoided so far.

“Good steaks, great fries. Coffee.”

“You know what I mean. This isn't exactly your classic first date between two grown-ups.”

“I'm curious as hell about you. Nothing makes sense. You've got a felony record, you've done jail time, you had a married man crazy about you, and something you've done is connected to his murder.” McGuire shrugged. “Can you blame an ex-cop for being curious?” When she didn't reply, he added: “I also think, Miss Schaeffer . . . or is it Mrs.?”

“I kept my married name.”

“I also think you're one helluva good-looking woman, and I'm being that up-front with you because we're twenty miles from home and I'm buying you a good steak dinner, which means you won't slap my face or head for the door.”

“I would never slap your face for saying that. And I'm not running away. I just have trouble trusting anybody. I also have trouble talking about what happened to me. It's over with, and I want to forget about it.”

The waiter arrived with the wine McGuire had selected, and poured a glass for each of them. “I can find out, you know,” McGuire said when the waiter departed. “But I'd rather you told me yourself.”

“Sure.” She turned the glass in her hand and looked out the window, towards the harbour. The sun was setting, and the water was bathed in the last light of day that always reminded McGuire of the ashes of roses. “Sure,” she said again. “But I want you to know about me and how I grew up, what kind of person I am.”

She told him she had been raised by her grandparents on a farm in Maine, while her mother recuperated from some mysterious illness that was never explained to her. “It was no illness,” she said. “It was a constant series of miscarriages. My father wanted a son, he wanted one desperately. The doctor believed that my mother should stay in bed during her pregnancy, so I was sent off to live with my grandparents, who were lovely, gentle people.” She had remained there when her mother died giving birth to a stillborn boy, and after her father lost his job and became an alcoholic. She had remained until she moved back to Concord to take a job with the telephone company. There, she began dating a man named Thomas Schaeffer, a telephone-systems specialist. “He was ambitious, he wanted to build something, his own company, become his own boss,” she explained. “So we became engaged, but we held off marriage for a few years. After we were married, we delayed having children while Thomas—nobody ever called him Tom, for some reason—Thomas and two other men started their company.”

Their steaks arrived, and Susan agreed with McGuire that they were very good, perfectly cooked and tender. They avoided discussing Susan's past while they ate, commenting instead of the dying light on the water, the seabirds circling above the pier, and the masts of the pleasure boats that rocked with the waves. When they finished, McGuire ordered coffee, and Susan slipped back into her story again.

“We bought a house in Newton and we had . . .” She looked down at her lap, and when McGuire reached to take her hand, she pulled it away and shook her head, saying she was all right, she really did want to talk about this. “I had a son we named James, but we always called him Jamie, and two years later we had a girl, Belinda. They were beautiful babies, beautiful children.”

“Do you have pictures of them?”

She shook her head again.

“And you haven't seen them for two years?”

She nodded.

“Because you were in prison.”

Another nod.

“Tell me what you did that sent you to prison.”

“I'm trying to.”

“No, you're not.” McGuire set his coffee cup aside. “You've told me about your father, your mother, and your grandparents. That's not what sent you to jail.”

“No, it didn't.”

“What did you do?”

She looked up at him and a smile began to play at the corners of her mouth, an embarrassed reaction. “I stole over half a million dollars. From a bank.”

“You robbed a bank?” McGuire's voice said he didn't believe it.

“Not exactly.”

“What happened to the money?”

“I never touched it.”

“I don't get it.”

Susan looked around them. The restaurant had grown crowded since they arrived. The adjacent tables were filled with diners, all of them chatting, eating, enjoying the view of the harbour, or studying the menu. McGuire called the waiter over, asked for the check, and ten minutes later they were back in his car, driving through the gathering darkness along the shore road, south towards Boston, while Susan resumed her story.

“I loved the suburban life, all the corniness of it,” she said. Their neighbours were families of similar age, with similar cars, similar interests, similar ambitions. They held neighbourhood yard sales and neighbourhood barbecues. The men played softball on Sunday afternoons in the park at the end of the street, and the women—those who didn't hold jobs to help pay for family expenses—played bridge and traded recipes and complaints about their husbands, how the men never seemed to understand their problems.

On their tenth anniversary, her husband bought her a new vacuum cleaner.

A few weeks later, she sat alone over a cup of coffee and realized she couldn't remember the last time her husband had called her by her name. She called him Thomas, but he never used her name. When she mentioned it to him that evening, he laughed, and over the next few days he would never speak in her presence without saying Susan, teasing her until she angrily told him to stop it.

The next time he called her by her name was the evening he returned from a ten-day management-training session in Chicago, and confessed that while there, he had had an affair with a woman from San Diego.

“It was impossible,” she said. “Impossible in my mind. Thomas wasn't one of those people. I never believed he could be one of those people.”

“What people?”

“People who would lie to me. People who would cheat and be unfair. When I was growing up, I thought everybody was like my grandmother and grandfather, honest and caring. Then I realized not everybody was like them, but that everybody should be. Eventually, I just divided people into two groups. People who were basically good and people who were basically bad. I thought my friends, my children, and especially my husband were basically good. It never occurred to me that he could be as deceitful as anybody else.”

It never does, McGuire thought.

She cried over her husband's infidelity less than she expected to, but a numbness crept into her soul. He apologized, assuring her it had been just a fling and it was over, which may have been true, except that, not long after, she found a photograph of a slim woman with long flowing black hair in his briefcase one day while he was playing squash. The woman's head was tilted slightly, so she was looking up at the camera, one hand toying with her hair.

Susan fastened it to the refrigerator door with a Winnie the Pooh magnet, just above a crayon drawing of a cat, made by their daughter. Thomas was furious when he found it, accusing her of snooping and distrusting him, telling her the woman had given him the picture in Chicago. Susan did not believe it was a photo of that woman. She believed it was another woman, a new affair. Their argument continued in the bedroom, until the sound of their children crying outside their door ended the shouts and accusations.

“We did what every couple does in a situation like that,” she said. They were enveloped in darkness now, passing Swampscott, where McGuire had sat alone, watching dawn arrive, a few days earlier. “We went to see a marriage counselor.”

After six sessions, the counselor smiled and suggested, Yes, Thomas had stumbled, and yes, perhaps he was not as romantic as Susan hoped, but a romantic ideal is like a perfect cloud in a summer sky, it is forever changing and evolving and all we can do is recall it as it used to be in all its perfection. On the way home in the car Susan told her husband she thought the sessions had been a crock.

“He kept saying he still loved me,” she said, “and that he was sorry. Over and over, he kept saying it. I didn't believe him. I think I was too hurt and angry to believe him.”

With her children in school, Susan decided to begin a new career. To brush up on her skills, she enrolled in afternoon classes at a business school, riding the MBTA downtown after lunch to sit in a classroom with other housewives and high-school dropouts, studying word processing and bookkeeping. She enjoyed the freedom, the opportunity to practice new skills, and, within a week of beginning classes, she enjoyed the special attentions of the owner of the business school, who would frequently visit the classes to assist an instructor or simply to admire the female students.

After class late one afternoon he asked to speak to her, suggesting she catch a later train home that evening. He told her she was far too advanced for her classes. In fact, she was ready for a job right now, and he just happened to have a position open in the business-school office for a woman of her skills and her personality.

“He was very charming, very persuasive.” Susan looked at McGuire as though begging him to believe her. “He said there would be some evening work, but I would be paid overtime for that, and there were a number of fringe benefits. He talked about me attending business-school training sessions in Miami and Dallas. He said he would send me there at his expense, that he needed someone to take over administration of the school. That first evening, he drove me home in his car, all the way back to Newton.”

The man's name was Ross Myers, and he was so many things that her husband Thomas wasn't. He was exciting to be around, and attentive to her. He did romantic things that her husband had forgotten to do, or never learned—opening doors, paying her compliments, surprising her with flowers. He had an element of spontaneity about him, even a hint of danger in the things he said, the things he boasted about having done. Within a few weeks, she was staying downtown with him for dinner, making up stories to explain her absence. “I was amazed at how easily I could lie to Thomas and even to my children,” she said. “I lied about where I was at night, and where I'd gotten the jewelry Ross bought for me. He kept surprising me with gifts, he kept telling me how beautiful I was . . .”