Lily White (30 page)

“It means she cannot cook. She is too flighty to be able to care for children. She cannot be trusted to take a simple phone message. She cannot do anything, really.
Except
be a good person.”

“A good person,” I echoed, thinking about the almost sexual pleasure she’d taken in aiding and abetting Norman in the con, playing the Repo Lady, his matrimonial lawyer, and his ex-wife and thus helping destroy the lives of all the women he preyed on.

“I know I’m
not
good,” Norman conceded. “I know that I’ve lured Mary—very skillfully, I might add—into being complicitous in my work … in my crimes. But at least I care about her goodness, which other men don’t. And I sincerely want to make her happy—if only for the egocentric reason that she makes me happy. I mean, I don’t need someone to cook me dinner. Any one of the marks would have been delighted to be, as it were, my willing slave, but Mary—”

If I waited for him to finish talking about her, Norman and I would be celebrating my Diamond Jubilee together in the visitors room. So I asked: “How come you got so upset when I suggested Mary might have had something to do with Bobette’s death?”

“Because she didn’t do it!” Norman spit out. He was losing it again, leaning toward me, his eyes bulging with rage.

I looked straight at him till he abandoned his hostile posture and, after another few seconds, averted his eyes. Then I let him have a minute to get back to himself. Meanwhile, I checked out the visitors room. A colleague, Louie Pacheco, a guy I’d been in the D.A.’s Office with, was strolling my way in the row ahead, getting ready to meet with a client. I noticed Louie was sporting a fancy new suit, with gargantuan shoulder pads tailored to fool the eye into thinking his middle-age pear shape was a young, athletic inverted triangle. Louie, normally the color of boiled chicken, now had a tan one shade darker than a Brown & Serve sausage. A new hairstyle too: a ponytail. Clearly, he had a new, young girlfriend. From the look of him, she had taken charge. From the completeness of his transformation, it looked as if she would be his second wife—although from the fact of his wedding band I concluded that Louie hadn’t informed his first about his change of plans. And he probably hadn’t mentioned it to any of his four children—none of whom could be over twelve years old.

“Take it easy,” I said, turning back to Norman. “I understand you love Mary. I understand your wanting to protect her. But you seem to be overprotective, and that leads me to believe you’re fearful for her. As your lawyer, it would help me to know why.” He clasped his hands together and rested his chin on the tops of his knuckles. His eyes closed. I understood this was a Meditative Moment, so I looked back at Louie and regarded his ponytail. Gray, limp, it hung dejectedly down the broad back of his dark-blue suit. I offered what might have been—had I been the praying type—a little prayer that the second wife would give him a major myocardial infarction on their honeymoon. “Norman, when I told you about the fingerprints at the crime scene being Mary’s: That seemed to scare you.”

“I suppose,” he said, addressing the ceiling.

“Let’s forget for a minute what she did or did not do at Bobette Frisch’s house. Does Mary have a record? Is that why you
were afraid?” He seemed to be taking a count of the acoustical tile overhead. “The truth would be of interest, Norman.”

Norman looked back at me. “A couple of arrests for shoplifting. One conviction. Suspended sentence. No big deal. She likes pretty things and sometimes … You know, when someone like Mary is raised in an environment devoid of nurturance, she needs … objects. Talismans, if you will, to ward off privation. But if the police were to find out, they’d be all over her in a minute. They’d trump up some charge and arrest her. And let me tell you, one night in a place like this … It would destroy her. I can’t let that happen! I love her. But even more, I’m …” He swallowed hard. Just when I was thinking he was a lousy actor, his eyes squeezed shut. Tears began to leak out of the corners. “I’m a flawed human being,” he managed to whisper. I waited the moment it took him to begin speaking again. “I need Mary to make me whole, or as close to whole as someone like me can get. Dear God, I’m so terrified of life without her.
That’s
why I have to protect her. No matter what the cost.”

In the movies, private detectives always have offices with linoleum floors (on which click the spike heels of sexy clients), milky glass partitions, and overflowing ashtrays. Terry Salazar’s had ivory wall-to-wall carpeting, an ivory sectional sofa, and two ivory pull-up chairs beside an ivory Art Deco-style desk. He had taken over the lease of a skin-care products company that had sunk all its assets into a slickly expensive infomercial featuring a porcelain-skinned soap-opera star who was supposed to appear genteel; instead she came across as so snooty that almost all the calls to the 800 number were not orders but denunciations of the bitch. For an additional five thousand bucks, Terry had purchased the furniture, a Packard Bell computer and, it turned out, a closetful of SatinSkin Exfoliating Granules.

In Terry’s mind, he was simply buying a white office. It was
not until one of his cop buddies started ribbing him about how he must know an interior decorator that he realized his office was—what a nightmare!—
feminine.
For a time, he tried to nullify the place’s atmosphere by rolling up his sleeves to display his arm hair and puffing offensive cigars, but in the end he did most of his business in Plumpie’s or another extravagantly dirty bar, Big Nick’s, and kept clients away from his office.

But he made an exception for me, largely because I’d once sworn never to make a snide remark about his ladylike furnishings or let on to anyone else in the entire criminal justice system about them. I kept my word. Other than the stink of cigars, living and dead, and the dark ink smears from fingerprint kits, it was an appealing place, and I often dropped by. As comfortable as my own office was, I hated being stuck in one place. If a day went by without a court appearance, I’d find an excuse to go to Terry’s or the library at the Bar Association or even drop by police headquarters on ostensible business and shoot the breeze for a half hour.

At Terry’s, I always took the same spot on the sectional, kicking off my shoes and putting my feet up on the white marble coffee table, a practice he encouraged because it was so distinctly uncouth. “If Mary has a record,” I asked, “how come the cops didn’t ID her when they checked those prints in Bobette’s living room?”

Terry, leaning back in his ivory leather chair,
his
feet up on his desk, puffed his cigar and said: “Two possibilities.” He took his cigar out of his mouth and examined its length, not without satisfaction.

“I’m paying you seventy-five bucks an hour to be a detective, not to look at your surrogate penis in thoughtful silence.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Lee?”

“Two possibilities,” I snapped. “What are they? Come on. I don’t have all day.”

He shook his head sadly at my lack of civility. “One: If Mary had just one arrest, something could have happened with the paperwork and the prints never made it to the computer.”

“Does that happen often?”

“More than anyone wants to admit.”

“Or …?” I encouraged him.

“‘Or’ what?”

“You said two possibilities.”

“Cute little Holly forgot to run the prints.”

I sat up and put my feet on the floor.
“Forgot?”

“Why should she?” Terry asked, still sitting back comfortably, licking the tip of his cigar in the usual way guys lick cigars—i.e., the way a dog licks its genitals. He did not seem in the least perturbed about Holly’s laxity. “If she checks the prints, then she has to go out and find whoever they belong to, haul him in for questioning. It would only cloud up her case.”

“It’s her professional responsibility …” I began. But instead of offering a speech on ethics, I told him to call his friend and see if the FBI check had come up with anything.

“I can’t hurry him,” Terry protested.

“Yes you can. I’m paying you and you’re paying him and I want an answer.”

“You know, when you talk like that, you’re so fucking masculine. It’s a real turnoff, Lee.”

“Good,” I said, and sat back while he made the phone call. Naturally, he gave away nothing as he was talking. A few manly chuckles, inquiries about each other’s wives, and then a lot of uh-huhs and hmms. He reached over, picked up a pad and pen, and made a few notes.

“So?” I said, the second he hung up. “Come on. You’re suppressing a self-satisfied grin. You’re thrilled with yourself.”

“I’m always thrilled with myself.”

“Come on, Terry!”

“Mary Dean has a record.”

“For what?”

“Not shoplifting.”

“So?”

“A long—and I mean
long
—record for prostitution.”

The record didn’t surprise me. The “long” did.

“How long?”

“Twenty-seven arrests.”

“Gee,” I said. “She’s a real pro.”

“I bet she is.” Terry wore his reflexive lascivious leer, but it was clear he was disappointed in Mary. Hurt, even.

“Do you think Norman knows?” I asked him.

“How could he not?” He furrowed his brow, the way bad actors do on movies of the week, when they want to show they are cogitating. In Terry’s case, however, his brain actually was working. “I bet Norman goes out of his way
not
to remind her that she was a hooker. You know, treats her like a princess. I guarantee you, that would make her a hundred times more loyal. I mean, I’ll bet he’s set it up so she sees only two choices. Being worshiped and taken care of—or getting twenty bucks a blow job for a bunch of guys in the back of a Dodge Ram.” Every time I start getting completely disgusted with Terry, he comes up with insights like that.

“Where were the arrests?” I asked.

He peered at his notes. “California, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico.”

“Did she serve any time?” I asked.

Terry smiled. “Five suspended sentences. She sure in hell never got a woman judge. What guy would have the heart to put her in jail?” Just as I was starting to step back into my shoes, Terry announced: “One more arrest.”

“What for?”

“Assault.”

“Assault?” My foot remained poised over my shoe. “What? Tell me about it.”

“Eight months ago. In Annapolis, Maryland. Her alias was Marissa Shaw. She beat the hell out of a sixty-year-old woman. A widow. Facial contusions, concussion, two cracked ribs.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Mary claimed the woman attacked her. The judge allowed bail, and guess what?”

“Mary ran.”

“Of course.” Terry leaned back his head and blew a smug stream of smoke toward his ivory ceiling. “She ran.”

It took only a few minutes more to find out the sixty-year-old woman’s name: Carolyn Knowles. I didn’t need a detective to find her; a quick call to 410 Information got me her number. As soon as I heard the click of connection, I signaled Terry to pick up his extension and take notes. She answered my call on the second ring, as if she’d been circling the phone, waiting for someone to call. I explained I had heard about her case from Maryland authorities.

“Are you a policewoman?” she asked. Her voice was overly cultured, her “Are” coming out as “Ah,” and every syllable carefully enunciated. Just for the diction alone, I could see why someone would want to give her a contusion or two.

“No, but I’ve been hired to investigate … Well, to tell you the truth, Ms. Knowles, the woman who assaulted you, the woman who was using the alias …” I paused, hoping she’d think I was looking at my notes and oblige by giving me the name.

And she did. “Marissa Shaw,” she said, her pearly tones making it sound as if Marissa Shaw were someone who’d stopped by for a watercress sandwich and a cup of Darjeeling instead of someone who beat the shit out of her.

“Marissa Shaw is only a collateral part of my investigation. The person I’m really trying to get information on is”—I heard
her quick intake of breath—“is known to change his name frequently. However, I can describe him to you. He is six feet, five inches tall—”

“Have you found him?” she gasped.

“I have a pretty good idea of where he is, Ms. Knowles, although right now I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter. Now, as far as you know, was there any connection between … Under what name did you know him?”

“Arthur Berringer,” she said, tenderly, slowly, as if the name still held magic.

“And did he ever give you any indication that he knew this Marissa Shaw?”

“No.” A definite no. “In fact …” She hesitated.

“Anything you can tell me would be deeply appreciated, Ms. Knowles,” I said, as Terry mimicked the male autoerotic gesture that signaled a major jerk-off was in progress.

“He definitely did
not
know her,” Carolyn Knowles replied. “When it happened, he tried to pull her off and kept saying: ‘Who are you? Stop!’” Her voice rose. “‘Stop!’”

“Where did the attack occur?” I asked.

“In my car. We drove up to my house in my car. I have a LeBaron convertible and the top was down. We just sat there for a moment. Arthur—my fiancé—took my hand.” Then, almost shyly, she added: “We had just come from getting our marriage license.” As she paused to compose her thoughts, and probably to keep from crying, I paused too: to reflect that Carolyn Knowles was born to be a mark. Here she was, giving me her entire story—without ever having asked my name. “All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, this woman came and pulled open the door.”

“Driver’s or passenger’s?”

“Passenger. Arthur was driving.”

“And then what happened?” I asked, as delicately as I could.

“She must have unlatched my seat belt. Before I knew what was happening, she pulled me out of the car. I literally was dragged onto the sidewalk.”

It sounded like a series of sniffles, but I knew she was crying silently. “What a horrible thing,” I said.

“Horrible, horrible.”

“But Arthur tried to stop her?”

“Yes, but she was amazingly strong. He came around and tried to hold back her arms or pull her off. He was yelling ‘Stop it!’ and she kept yelling ‘Stop it!’ back to him—that he should stop trying to stop her.”