Natural Suspect (2001) (19 page)

But Henry Cloutier was still thinking about fardels. "Maybe they're, like, small farts? Silent ones?"

"Maybe," Devin conceded. "But Henry--Patrick told me you started on this crossword kick to impress Cordelia. Isn't that true?"

"Yup," he said laconically. They were sitting in his tiny office. A bank of closed-circuit monitors confirmed that nobody was breaking in. Of course they weren't. There was nothing worth stealing at the Tool and Die. How did you fence a two-ton lathe?

"But I thought Cordelia just broke up with you," the lawyer pressed.

Henry bit his lip, as if fending off heartbreak. "I'm not convinced its final. Besides, now I seem to be addicted to the stupid things. Oh, here's one:
If a
blank
be washed to
sea ..."

"Clod."

"Now, miss," said Henry. "That isn't nice. I never said I was the smartest. I'm just a simple working man trying to better myself."

"If a
clod
be washed to sea," said Devin. "John Donne."

"Hey, you're a whiz at this. Got a boyfriend?"

"Yes," she lied. "I do. But about Cordelia--how did you two meet?"

Henry's eyes took on a faraway look. "I guess you could say it was fate."

"I guess you could say everything is fate," said Devin. "That's why they call it fate. Could you be a little more specific?"

The watchman sighed. "Gee, I don't know. It's a little bit embarrassing. Truth is, it was a rebound kind of thing."

"Rebound?"

Henry squirmed, sought refuge in his puzzle. "Wait," he said, "here's a long one.
Journalistic poultry dish?"

"Pullet surprise," said Devin. "But Henry--rebound from
what?"

He put his pencil down and exhaled slowly. "Okay. Okay. Used to be," he said, "that when I finished my shift here, I'd go up to the Sweeney for a nightcap. I met Cordelia in the bar up there, late on a night when she'd been dumped by someone else. She was a mess. Half-drunk. Teary. That's why it's embarrassing. I don't kid myself. She would never have been interested in me, except I found her at a very vulnerable moment."

"Who dumped her, Henry? Who'd she been with?"

"I don't know. She didn't say a name. I didn't ask."

"And you never talked about it after?"

"Hey," he said, "the past is past."

Devin briefly pondered, thinking about Cordelia with deep disapproval and maybe just a touch of envy. She was Morgan's mistress
plus
she had another guy
plus
she took up with the watchman the same night she got dumped? "Henry," she said, "do you remember what night this was?"

"Oh, yes," he said, "I remember very well. November the fourth."

"The fourth!" said Devin. "Isn't that the night you saw Arthur Hightower . . . ?"

"It is," said Henry. "I told Patrick that I took Cordelia to the Sweeney. That was a little fib, to save face for both of us. But the truth is she started the evening with someone else, and ended it with me."

"But you don't know who?"

Infuriatingly, the little watchman shrugged and went back to his puzzle. The lawyer tried a different tack.

"Has anyone ever said you look just like Robert Rutledge?" "Who?"

With only limited success Devin fought off exasperation. "Don't you read the papers?"

"Sure I do. The sports page. And the crossword."

"But not the business section?"

"What's that got to do with me?" said Henry.

Her frustration clear now, Devin exhaled loudly as she rose to go.

"Before you go, miss--one more clue?
A woman, to some.
Four letters. The last three are
u-n-t."

Devin thought for just a moment. "Aunt," she said.

"Ah, nuts," said the watchman. "Got an eraser?"

In water as
cold as the East River in February, a human being, even if he doesn't drown, will be dead of hypothermia in around seven minutes. But that leaves out the sludge factor. Ever notice how English Channel swimmers smear themselves with Vaseline? This is not just product placement or a sensual thing. The petroleum locks in body heat like an external layer of artificial fat.

So it was when Patrick Roswell went flailing and groaning through the surface. A disgusting goo--the spillage from archaic tugboats and abattoirs in Queens and asphalt plants up in the Bronx--coated him from head to toe, sealed him in a quasi-amniotic slime. Say what you want about pollution--it saved Patrick's life, bought him just enough time so that when the boat he'd seen from the deck of
Starry Night
reached him, he was still alive--just barely. He'd stopped his kicking and his screaming. He was utterly inert and had all but given up on breathing.

A cool, blue-tinged euphoria had mercifully descended on him. Death, he somehow understood, could be sweeter than life. When the grappling hook seized him by the armpit, and he felt himself being yanked and lugged, water streaming off him as if he were a breaching porpoise, he imagined he was being
shlepped
to Heaven.

He wasn't. He was being dragged into the cockpit of a boat, wher
e s
everal excited men were trying to determine whether he was still alive, and what the hell they should do with him. A hand felt for his jugular. Another pressed on his belly; he vaguely felt himself vomiting water. In Patricks comalike state, he couldn't speak, couldn't get his eyes to open-- yet he could hear quite clearly every word that was said.

"The thing to do," a baritone announced, "is strip him naked and get in bed with him."

"You do it, Joe," said another man. "I hear you like that kind of thing."

"Don't knock it if you haven't tried it."

"Har, har har!"

Vaguely, Patrick thought, I'm dying here, and they're making gay jokes. . . .

Then he heard a woman say, "What's all the commotion?"

Everyone tried to explain at once.

The woman said, "Oh, my God! Bring him down, bring him down."

Patrick felt himself being carried. Felt himself being stripped and laid into a bed. He sensed an enveloping warmth, gradually understood that someone was lying next to him, that arms were wrapped around him and that a tummy was pressed against his own. He had no idea how long they lay like that. But over time he grew warm enough to shiver. Then his teeth began to chatter, and a little after that he started to moan. Something like consciousness began to dawn again. His eyes still closed, he sobbed.

The woman next to him stroked his head and said, "It's all right now. It's all right."

Patrick was slightly conscious now. Conscious enough to realize that he'd nearly died. Conscious enough to know that he was naked and in bed with a naked woman. For some reason he thought about the tragedy and triumph of the salmon. The chilly, desperate swim upstream to spawn. The sex that meant both death and final victory. He'd done his swim, by God. He'd earned some ecstasy. Tentatively, he made a small thrust with his hips. His bedmate did not recoil, and he was heartened. Still, there was the matter of confidence. Or the lack thereof.

Growing less certain even as he grew more aroused, Patrick thought,
Maybe if she thinks I'm in a coma
y
she'll let
me. . .

He kept his eyes closed. He moaned as he rolled on top of her. The ruse was unnecessary. Julia Hightower, feeling more alive than she had felt in ages, would have gratefully accepted the advances of this needy stranger no matter what.

Chapter
9.

F
or the first
time in recent memory, Julia Hightower did no
t f
eel the need for a drink. Even if she'd wanted one, she wouldn't have had the strength to call for it.

Julia rolled onto her side and studied the young man the captain of the
Silver Lady VI
had dragged from the icy clutches of the East River. Her aquatic Casanova had passed out after their first savage coupling and she had not learned his name. When he awoke again, Julia lost interest in everything but his questing hands, searching tongue, and thrusting lance.

Patrick moaned and opened his eyes slowly. Julia ran a finger along his chest.

"You saved me," he said.

"I'd say you've paid me back in full," Julia replied. And, in truth, Patrick's enthusiastic lovemaking had thawed out Julia Hightower as much as she had thawed him out.

"Where am I?"

"Safe and sound aboard my yacht."

Patrick sat up. "It feels like your yacht is moving."

"It is, my love. It's speeding us to a warm and indolent land where we can spend our days basking in the hot sun and our nights . . . Well, I'll let you figure that out."

The curtains were drawn in the stateroom and the lights were off.

While he was in the throes of passion, Patrick had not gotten a good look at the tigress whose bed he shared. Now that his eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark, his rescuer was starting to look familiar.

"Do I know you?" he asked.

"Why do you want to know?" Julia asked nervously.

Patricks brow furrowed as he put the woman's features together with a name the way he put answers to clues when he did the daily crossword.

"Julia Hightower!"

"And, if I were?" Julia answered tremulously, terrified that her merman would flee their aquarium of love once he discovered that he'd engaged in sexual congress with a notorious alleged murderess.

Patrick took Julia's hands in his. "Then I might be able to help you."

Julia was puzzled. "Help me how?"

"To clear your name."

"How can you do that?"

"I've been investigating your husband's murder and I've uncovered some very disturbing facts."

"Why would you be investigating Arthur's death? Are you a detective?"

"No, I'm a reporter."

Julia's mouth opened in terror.

"Oh, no, you don't have to worry. I'm not a real reporter, yet. Although I hope to be, once I break this story. Actually, I sold ads for the
Gazette
, before they fired me. I guess it would be more accurate to say that I'm an aspiring reporter. In any event, I believe I've uncovered a conspiracy to frame you for Arthur High tower's murder."

"A conspiracy? But who . . . ?"

"I'm not certain, but you have to be very careful. The people involved in this will stop at nothing. They've chopped off my toe. ..."

"Your toe!" Julia echoed in horror.

Patrick nodded. "And they tried to drown me when I saw them disposing of Joe Kelloggs severed head."

"Joe! Headless!"

Patrick squeezed Julias trembling hands. "Dont worry," he assured her. "We'll get to the bottom of this."

"What do you mean we? "

"Working together, we can solve this mystery, prove your innocence, and win me a Pulitzer prize."

"The only thing I'm going to work on is my tan," Julia said sadly. "I'm going to Panga Nue, where it's always summer and the islanders don't extradite."

She ran her hand through Patrick's hair and kissed him passionately.

"Forget about this foolishness and come away with me."

"You can't run."

"What do I have to go back to? A cold and drafty house, two ungrateful children, and a future on death row?"

"Everyone will think you're guilty if you run. They'll stop looking for the real killer. You've got to turn the yacht around before the police find out you tried to flee."

"Not on your life."

Patrick took Julia in his arms and felt her heart beat strongly against his chest.

"We just met, Julia. I don't want to lose you."

And this was true. Kissing Devin McGee had been pretty neat, but Patrick had never lived through a night of love like the one he had experienced with Julia Hightower. Granted, his experience was limited, and the circumstances of this tryst were a tad unusual, but Julia's sexual acrobatics had made his hair stand on end and his toes curl--all nine of them.

"What about the difference in our ages, my love?"

"Love knows no boundaries, my sweet."

"Oh ..." Julia paused. "I don't even know your name."

"It's Patrick. Patrick Roswell."

"Oh, Patrick," Julia moaned.

Patrick felt Julia's breasts swell and he heard her sigh.

"You're not alone anymore, Julia. You have me by your side. And, together, we'll lick this thing."

Tm frightened," Julia said as her hand snaked between them. "Hold me tight."

Patricks eyes glazed over and his breath came in short gasps.

"Tell me once more about this licking thing," Julia whispered.

Snow
was
falling
hard when Devin drove away from Miller Tool and Die, and she had to concentrate on the road. That's why she did not notice the car that followed her as soon as she pulled away from the curb. When Devin wasn't concentrating on the road, she was trying to figure out her next move. There was one thing she knew that she had to do: she had to stop court from reconvening. It looked as if Julia was on the lam. If she did not show up, Judge Hardy would revoke her bail and she would become a fugitive. Any jury would look at flight as a sign of guilt and Julia could kiss her chances of an acquittal good-bye. But how could she stop the trial? It suddenly occurred to her that she knew someone who might be persuaded to help her. There was a big risk involved, but she decided to take it.