Murder 101 (10 page)

“In the summer, every weekend I can. Depends on the chart,” he said and seeing my confused look, he clarified, “. . . work schedule. We call it a chart. It rotates, so sometimes I’m on days, sometimes on nights.”

“Oh,” I said. “Do you get overtime for sleeping in front of my house?”

He laughed a little. “Sure. We get overtime for surveillance.” He leaned in toward me. “So, how did you know?” A light breeze ruffled his hair.

I thought for a moment. “Contrary to appearances, philandering husband and all, I’m not a complete moron.” I looked down at my hands. That sounded a little more caustic than I had intended. “I just wasn’t sure it was you. What did you do to deserve that duty?” I looked up and saw that he was embarrassed. “What? Did you lose the cruiser? Use too many bullets? Wear a blue shirt when the memo called for red?”

“It’s not a cruiser,” he reminded me. “I volunteered.”

“Ah,” I said, for lack of a witty retort. “We’re done with that now, though, right? You can sleep indoors if you want? I’m off the most-wanted list?”

“Back to my apartment,” he said. He held up two fingers: Scout’s honor. “Promise.”

Darn. “And what the hell kind of surveillance is that anyway? Surveillance implies a state of consciousness,” I said, giving him a small punch to the shoulder. “What if I had taken off in the middle of the night?”

He shook his head, remaining serious. “On foot? In clogs? You weren’t going anywhere. I knew that. And you were never a real suspect in my mind.”

“But Wyatt thought I was. And by the way,” I said, the Bloody Mary becoming the equivalent of truth serum, “what is with him? Why is he so nasty?”

He laughed. “He’s really not. He’s actually a very nice guy.”

“I thought he was going to kill me the last time you were in my office.”

“He might have if you had pulled out a gun instead of a water bottle.”

So he had thought the same thing. I shook my head. “You’ll never convince me that he’s not a hard-ass.”

“It’s an act.”

“Whatever,” I said. “He was a real jerk-off the first time I met you both.”

“It was his turn,” he said.

“His turn?”

“We take turns. Next case, I’m the jerk-off,” he said.

I shook my head again. “No way. I don’t believe you.”

“What if I told you that he’s a Big Brother and spends one night a month at a homeless shelter?” he asked.

“I would think he’s nice to little kids and people with nowhere to live.”

He threw his hands up, defeated. “Your mind’s made up. I can see I’m not going to change it.” He seemed a little perturbed.

“All right, I believe you. I’d just like my own evidence,” I said. “You didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the way he was acting, I have to tell you.”

He didn’t respond.

I cocked an eyebrow. “Am I right?”

“No, I didn’t like it.” He ran his hands through his hair. “You seemed so scared that I thought it was over the top.”

Being right was enough for me.

“Is it true that partners fall in love with each other?”

He laughed. “Sometimes. But Fred’s a Yankee fan. And a Gemini. It would never work.”

“By the way, let’s see your jerk-off act.” I took a drink and noticed that I had finished almost all of it. No wonder I felt like my joints had oil between them.

“Didn’t you already get a taste of it after our meeting on Broadway? Under the el?” He smiled.

“I was a little bit scared,” I conceded. “But then you drove me to the train station and gave me your handkerchief. And gave me medical advice. I knew you weren’t all bad.” I waited a moment before asking my next question, not sure I wanted the answer. “How did I do?” I asked. “You know, as interrogatees go?”

He shook his head solemnly, implying “not good.” “Let’s just say that I felt bad for you. And I don’t usually feel sorry for people we’re interrogating. I’ve been a cop for sixteen years, so I know that most of the people I get to meet are guilty.”

“Except in my case,” I emphasized.

He nodded. “Except in your case.” He paused for a minute and ate some more shrimp. “Can I ask you something?”

I nodded. What the hell.

“How long have you known Ray?” he asked, his mouth full.

“I started at the college nine years ago. We started dating almost immediately and married two years later. You know the rest.” I took another drink of my Bloody Mary.

“When did he start cheating?” he asked and then seemed to realize that he had crossed the line. “If that’s not too personal . . .”

“No, it’s one of those things that’s almost become common knowledge. He basically never stopped. He admitted in counseling that he had started seeing someone the week before we got married and continued seeing her the first year we were married. Then, there was someone else, who I think may have been local, but I’m not sure. After that, someone from Manhattan he met at a convention, and I guess Kathy.” He was looking intently at me, and I tried to hold his gaze, but the shame I always felt when talking about my marriage to Ray made me look away. When I thought about all that I had overlooked and how I had compromised myself in a sad effort to keep him, I knew that I had lost myself along the way.

“How did you know?”

“Ray’s what I call a ‘confessor.’”

He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“You know, one of those people who can’t keep their mouths shut. The minute the affair was over, he had to tell me. And then promise it wouldn’t happen again. And then treat me really well until it did. It was his pattern.” I looked out at the surf. “But I got some really nice jewelry out of it.” I tried to laugh, but it sounded like I was being strangled.

He shook his head, disgusted.

I attempted a joke, my natural defense mechanism. “Does it surprise you that Ray wasn’t an altar boy?” When he didn’t laugh or respond in any way, I stood up. “That water must be boiling by now, don’t you think?”

He jumped up. “Darn. I forgot.” He opened the back door and let me go in first. The water was boiling, and the lobsters were still plotting their getaway in the kitchen sink, but he picked them up, dropped them quickly into the water, and put the lid back on. “Couple of minutes.” He took the salads out of the refrigerator and dumped them into mismatched bowls that he took out of one of the upper cabinets.

“Can I help?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Remember? I’m controlling?”

I laughed, thinking back to our walk/drive in the rain only two nights ago. It seemed like a year ago. “And I’m stubborn, so I’ll keep asking until you give in.”

He stood with his hip resting against the counter, waiting for the lobsters to be done. “You want to take a look?” he asked, taking the lid off the pot.

I came into the kitchen and leaned over the pot. He leaned over me from behind, his hand resting on my hip. “What do you think?” he asked, a blast of the clean-laundry smell hitting me and making me more than a little weak. I had no idea whether or not the lobster was done; I was more adept at testing a Lean Cuisine fresh from the microwave. If you lost the top layer of skin from the roof of your mouth, it was done. Anything less was an extra minute or two in the heat. Seeing I’d be no help, he decided on his own that they needed a few more minutes.

I extricated myself from between him and stove. I went back outside and got the two drinks. I was in that nice state before I would begin slurring my words and falling down and feeling very clear of mind and mellow. I went back inside and handed him his beer. “Do I have to wear a bib?” I asked.

“You?” he asked. “Most definitely,” he said, obviously referring to my penchant for vomiting at will. Realizing that he might have embarrassed me, he immediately retracted his statement. “You don’t want to get your shirt dirty.”

I held up a hand. “It’s OK. I can take it. I was wondering when we were going to get to the point where we could joke about it.”

He turned back to the stove. “You do owe me a pair of shoes,” he mumbled, and looked up at me sideways, a grin spreading across his face.

“What size do you wear?” I asked.

“Fourteen.”

Max would have fainted on the spot, her theory about big feet being related to other body parts having been scientifically tested (by her) and found to be true. I left it alone, flashing back to my vibrator comment and his reaction.

“If I give you a couple of plates, would you set the table outside?” He rummaged around in the cabinets and came up with a couple of blue-tin plates with white speckles, forks, knives, and some paper napkins.

I went outside and put everything on the table. When I went back in, I gathered the salads, drinks, the butter, and some condiments. He put the lobsters in a big bowl and got some nutcrackers out of one of the drawers. Once outside, he surveyed the table. “What else do we need?”

“I think we’re fine,” I said, and sat down at the picnic table.

He sat down across from me. We were perpendicular to the ocean and both had a sideways view.

“Seriously, though,” he said, and picked up a lobster, “do you want something to tie around your neck?” He waved the cooked lobster in front of my face.

I shook my head. “I’ll take my chances.” I took the lobster and put it on my plate. Actually, I had no idea what to do, so I fooled around with my drink until he put his lobster on his plate. As soon as he made his first crack with the nutcracker, I followed suit. He pulled a big piece out of one of the red tails, dunked it in the butter, and dropped it into his mouth.

He attacked the shell some more and pulled out another giant piece of white lobster meat. He held it over to me. “Here.”

I held my plate up and he dropped it in the middle of the potato salad. At this point in our suspect/cop/we’re-just-friends part of our relationship, I didn’t think opening my mouth and being fed was appropriate. I cut the chunk of lobster into smaller pieces and ate it. When I was done with that, he handed me more, seeing the trouble I was having with my own crustacean. While I ate, he asked me where I was from.

“My parents were from Montreal, but I was raised in Tarrytown.”

“Do they still live there?” he asked.

I shook my head. “My father died when I was a senior in high school, and my mother died two months before I got married. She made me promise to go through with the wedding.” I laughed, even though the thought of her last days was still a source of pain. “I guess it was her dying wish that I not spend the rest of my days alone.” I looked away quickly so that he wouldn’t see the pain, or tears, in my eyes.

“No pressure, though,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

“I think she had an inkling about Ray’s shortcomings, but she would never say anything. She was old school—better to be married to a bum than not married at all.”

“My mother wanted me to be a priest,” he blurted out between mouthfuls of potato salad.

I held my hands up like a scale. “Homicide detective, priest. They’re similar. You’re still hearing confessions.”

“The celibacy thing would have been a huge stumbling block for me.” He handed me some more lobster without looking up.

For you and the faithful female flock, I thought. “Father What-a-Waste.” It was out of my mouth before I realized that I had spoken.

He looked at me questioningly. “What?”

“Father What-a-Waste. I read that in a book somewhere. Handsome priests who turn on female parishioners are called Father What-a-Waste.”

He let out a big laugh. I had to stop saying the first thing that came into my head. Now he knew that I thought he was attractive. I felt like I needed a complete refresher course in male/female interactions. I didn’t think you were supposed to reveal the attractiveness factor until much later in a relationship, but my timing was off on everything now. I was relieved when I heard the insistent beeping of my cell phone go off in my bag, inside the house. Crawford looked down at his waistband and checked his beeper, but I knew it was mine. I jumped up, went in through the screen door, and grabbed it out of my briefcase, which was resting against the leg of the ship’s-wheel coffee table. I answered it just before it went to voice mail and heard Ray’s voice.

“Well, I’m out of jail,” he said, obviously mad at me for not checking on him sooner.

I wanted to scream, “We’re divorced, you asshole!” but I didn’t. I wasn’t sure how to react so I didn’t say anything. I wouldn’t have been that upset had he spent the night in lockup, or whatever the cops call it when you’re thrown in a cell with a dozen unwashed men and given bologna sandwiches to eat.

“Are you there?” he asked.

“Uh, yes,” I said. I still wasn’t sure what this had to do with me. I had called Mitch Klein, which was my only participation in Ray’s situation and all I was going to do to help him, philanderer and possible murderer.

“I thought you would want to know that I’m out,” he said.

“That’s great, Ray. Did you connect with Klein?”

“Yes. He got me released. The police don’t have anything to go on except the fact that I once had your keys in my possession and that I . . .”—he hesitated for a brief second—“. . . knew Kathy. From intro bio.” Liar. He waited a moment and then changed the subject. “Where are you, by the way?”

“What?” I asked.

“Where are you? I called school and Dottie said that you called in sick. And you’re not home, because I tried you there.” His tone was proprietary and not concerned at all, and I didn’t like it.

I looked through the picture window and saw Crawford spread out on the chaise, facing the ocean with his shoes off and his fingers laced across his stomach. The outdoor table was covered with the lunch debris. A mixture of guilt and awkwardness flooded over me. I couldn’t tell Ray where I was exactly, but I wasn’t sure why I had to lie entirely. “I’m at the beach. I needed a break.”

“You don’t have a car. How did you get there?”

I cleared my throat. “I’ll call you later, Ray.” I flipped the phone closed and put it back in my bag. Before I was outside, it began ringing again, but I ignored it.

In the two to three minutes it took for me to have my conversation with Ray, Crawford had fallen into a deep sleep on the chaise lounge, one foot touching the deck, and the other bent at the knee. His mouth was open, and his shirt had ridden up to expose the space between his ribs and his waistband. The top button on his jeans was open, I guess in an attempt to make room for more food. I averted my eyes quickly, feeling as if I had just walked in on him in the shower. At my age and under the constant tutelage of Max, I should have been able to deal with looking at the flat stomach of a very attractive man, but I felt like a Peeping Tom. I slipped off my shoes and headed out into the sand and toward the water, putting as much distance between myself and the snoring detective as I possibly could.