Simple (22 page)

“How late?”

“Oh, eleven. The Steelers, the news.”

“And then?”

“I slept the night.”

“Can you prove you didn't leave the house?”

“No, I can't prove it. My wife would know that I didn't. She wakes with the drop of a feather. This whole question is making me sick to my stomach.”

“I understand. I really do. I hate asking as much as you hate answering.” So. No airtight alibis so far. He changed tacks. “Do you ever go out for a drink after work?”

“Am I being invited?” Evan asked with the first glimmer of humor.

“No. I'm not much for it. But do you ever?”

“I don't. I'm a boring homebody.”

“Who from this office does go out?”

“God, I don't know. Probably several.”

“Anybody favor margaritas?”

“A guy named Pruss does. He's one of our attorneys. I've heard him talk about the good tequilas.”

“Okay, thanks. I forgot to ask your father and your brother if they ever go out after work. Do you know the answer?”

“The answer is yes, both. Always a business reason, though, when they need to oil a client. They'd both rather go home. They just play the game a bit better than I do.”

“What's the best place for a margarita?”

“God. That I don't know. I can't help asking: Is that important in some way to the investigation?”

“We're just clearing the decks. Or the books. Whichever image you like. Simply building our case.”

“I see. Oh. Well, I don't know where a good margarita can be found. I could ask Pruss.”

“No need. I'll ask.”

*   *   *

COLLEEN HAD BEEN
talking to Olivia Della Vida, the middle-aged secretary whom Michael and Evan shared. Della Vida said, “I love working for Michael Connolly. He's the best.” When Colleen asked about Cassie Price having a crush on Connolly, the secretary looked miserable, then said, “We're all a little bit in love with him.”

Colleen pushed the envelope. “The truth is, it was more than a crush. Cassie Price was in love with someone up here. She told her sister. We're just checking the story. Was it Michael or someone else?”

“If you ask it that way, I'd have to say yes, it was probably Michael.”

“And not just because everybody was. Because? What did you notice?”

The woman wrung her hands. “Am I going to get into trouble? Or get him into trouble?”

“No,” Colleen lied. “This is simply routine—and confidential.”

So finally Della Vida answered. “Because we all made jokes about how handsome Michael is and she never did. She avoided him so much, I thought it was unnatural.”

“Did you assume they were actually
seeing
each other?”

“I hate to say it … I kind of did.”

“Why?”

“The way I always made appointments for him for afternoons on Thursdays and Fridays in Harrisburg. I would think, if I were messing around, that's exactly how I'd do it. A real place to be, but some flexible hours in between.”

“That's very observant of you. Does he have a second house somewhere? An apartment in town?”

“Not that I know of.” The woman's face changed. Her eyes became cloudy. “I'd rather hurt myself than hurt him. Is he in trouble?”

“No, he's not,” Colleen lied again. “People have secrets. All kinds of secrets. Basically we need to clear him.”

“Good.” But Della Vida still looked uncertain.

When Colleen met up with Christie, he said, “Connolly denies it.”

She told him what she had found out and said, “Potocki was planning to ask the neighbors if they ever saw a tall, handsome, well-dressed man going to Cassie's house. I doubt it. My bets are he met her somewhere else. We need the where—hotel, apartment, somebody's house? Too many possibilities.”

“A lot of possibilities. Still, I'll have you and Potocki or just Potocki working on that angle. You have any other ideas?”

“The parking garage? They might have cameras that would show which Thursdays and Fridays she brought the car. Could narrow it down.”

“Go for it,” Christie said.

*   *   *

EVAN AND MICHAEL
have been at each other more times than not, the four years of age between them making for an awkward brotherhood—Michael trying to be like his older brother and friends, Evan resenting his younger brother's popularity, not to mention the free pass Michael seemed to get from parents, teachers, everyone. As Evan got older, he adopted a little wisdom and stopped being furious at Michael. But when he enters Michael's office, after the detectives have left, he has that look—almost crossed eyes, furrowed brow. He takes a seat without being asked. “What's going on?”

“They're gone. Is that what you mean?”

“I think you know what I mean.”

“We should go get some lunch. I haven't had anything.”

“I ate. I couldn't eat even if I hadn't. You haven't answered me.”

“Look. I don't know what to say. This is a terrible situation, and I have my hands full with orders about whether or not I should appear in public or be seen as a candidate right now. My phone rings every thirty seconds—”

“So you were seeing her.” His hands go to his face. He pushes and worries his skin upward.

“What?”

“You think I don't know you by now? When you won't answer a question, when you divert—I know you.”

“There are things—we flirted a little. People might think she was in love with me. I'm sorry for that. Believe me, I'm sorry I ever flirted. It was harmless. Nothing happened.”

Evan sat for a long time, staring at him. Finally he said, “You do understand, the way they're asking questions, they don't feel the case is solved. They're looking here. You do understand that, don't you?”

Michael can't think of what to say for several moments. “I'm not sure.”

“I'm sure. Three of them up here quizzing us about married men? A rumor? We have to deal with it. I talked to Dad. I thought he was going to have a heart attack. This is serious. So you were seeing her, then. It's not a question.”

Michael nods.

“My God.” Evan drums his fingers against his thigh, keeping his eyes there. Then he looks up. “Did you—”

“Of course not. I may be a louse and bad at marriage, but—”

“Were you able to provide an alibi?”

“Yes. Yes, I was in Harrisburg. At Haigh's place.”

“Did they accept that?”

“Yes. Look, I didn't kill her. I wouldn't. I couldn't. Why would I?”

Evan makes another of his scowling expressions. “I can think of scenarios in which she might be considered dangerous.”

“Right. But she wasn't.” Michael feels sick as he says this. In his head he is having a similar conversation with Todd, but he is the one who's asking, “Do you know what the police are asking? Do you know anything about this?”

“Did you go out for a drink with her that day? Thursday?”

“No. I never did anything like that. I was never seen with her.”

“Believe me, somebody saw you somewhere.”

“I don't think so. I was very careful.”

“In a way that's more depressing than the other.” Evan gets up angrily, leaves, and manages not to slam the door. Controlled, as always.

Connolly immediately calls Todd. The first number he calls is not answering, not even voice mail. Todd has some complicated system of turning off and on cell phones. He tries a second number and gets a hurried “Hey, man. You okay?”

“Of course I'm not. Come in to see me, would you?”

“No can do. I'm nowhere near.”

“Where are you?”

“About where the Corner Restaurant used to be, Route 22. Just passed it. Why?”

“Because you know what the police were up here about. You know what they're asking.”

“I figured it out, yes. We have to weather it. You have to keep a real clear true course.”

“How long are you going to be away?”

“Well, the campaign isn't just going to stop. I have work to do.”

“Where?”

“Centre County.”

“Will you be at the funeral tomorrow?”

“I will be there with you. I will be there
for
you. I'll support you all the way. We'll talk there.”

“That seems a funny place for a talk,” Connolly says.

“One of the things I have to do today is strategize about the funeral. You did great on the news yesterday. Everybody agrees on that. Go with another sound bite, we haven't made up our minds. Somebody will call you tonight. Maybe me. Gotta hang. I'll call you later.”

For the first time, he allows himself to think it. When he tries to stand, a dizzy spell grips him, the room starts to move, and he falls back into his chair.

*   *   *

JUST LIKE THAT, THE
corrections officer's voice came over the intercom saying, “Cellmate for 205,” and moments later Levon was at his cell door, which opened, and then Levon was inside.

“You heard it. You got me as a roomie.”

“Oh.”

“You been sleeping on the bottom. I'll take the top. No problem.”

“Why'd they change things? I was okay with the way it was.”

“The guy I was in with said I drove him crazy, talking all the time. Just between us I did it on purpose. I din like him either. So I just talked him to death.”

“I didn't know they made changes.”

“If people can't get along, or if you, you know, agitate. So here I am. I see you're neat.” Levon opens the wire cage closest to the bunk beds and sees Cal's things neatly folded and lined up. He opens the other wire cage to put in his few things—the tiny threadbare towel, a Bible, another book of some kind, his Walkman-style radio player.

“How come you din get a radio? Somebody take it?”

“I didn't want one.”

Levon says, “You should get a radio. It helps. You need to come down to Pod Central. You need to talk some.”

“I'm not a talker.”

“Better to learn how. You don want to make enemies.”

Yeah, well, Levon had apparently made an enemy of his former cellmate by talking, so there was a fine line to tread.

“I just don't have anything to say,” Cal murmured.

“Make up stuff. Everybody does. But here's the thing you need to know. They going to be at you—what your lawyer say, what your police say, who your mother know, what you did, what you going to plead, everything. But this is the trick. See, they be looking to pump you so they can sell what you say. So you can't give them anything. Not anything real. I give them a bunch of bull, so when they try to use it, they come out like liars. I heard that trick from a guy who made it through prison and came out the other side just fine. Told a whole bunch of hooey about being an airline pilot and a singer with two CDs out and all kinds of things. None of it true, so the people reporting on him looked stupid bad. You listen to me.”

Cal began to say several things—all the while Levon watching as if to guess at the sentence that never came out.

“You want to know why you should believe me,” Levon interpreted. “You want to know why I bother to tell you shit.”

“Well … yeah.”

“I don know. I do not know.”

“You don't tell what
you
did?” Cal was curious, and in this he supposed he was like the others.

“I tell you what they say. Here is what they say. They say I took a gun that I bought illegal on the street and I went into this furniture store and I held up Mr. Weiss. He threw money at me like I was a animal, but all the time he was ringing alarms and I shot at him. I say I found the gun and went to scare him and shot to scare him because he was reaching under the counter. Now what is true? You can guess. Some things is true and some is not true. But Mr. Weiss, I will tell you this about Mr. Weiss, he is a ugly son of a bitch who charged my mother triple for some fucking bad furniture, then took it away when she couldn't pay this one month after paying all these years. He deserve to die slow. That's how bad he is. He out there cheating people, like, and laughing about it, and me, I'm in here. Believe what part you want.”

“Armed robbery.”

“He say I ask for a hundred thousand dollars. I say I asked for my mother's payments back. Who will the jury believe?”

“Him,” Cal said plainly. He shivered to think Mr. Weiss might be the truthful one.

“Everybody want to know why you killed that girl. How you did it. Even I want to know why. If you want to be smart, you say knifed her if the truth was you shot her and you say shot her if the truth was you hit her, you get the idea. Mix it up. But you can tell me
why
you did it, right? It was like a sex thing, right? She say something ugly?”

“Never in a million years.”

“Treat you bad?”

“No. Treated me good.”

“What, then?” Levon looked sick. “Too damned good to live.”

He didn't answer Levon, but he smiled so Levon would not hate him. Levon paced a little. “I'm going to go down and watch TV. You got your chance at the crapper. Oh, did you know some guys take the water out of the toilets so they can talk to each other between, like, the cells? I vote we leave the water in ours. Nobody I need to hear through the pooper. So I'm going now. You could come down and get used to the rest of us. It's not good to hold yourself apart.”

“I'll come down in a little bit.”

“Lay some cable, man.”

Cal planned to stay just where he was. After a while, though, his own head got to him, and he decided he would prefer the buzzing of people like Levon and the folks on TV to the merciless fly inside his skull, so he went downstairs.

*   *   *

POTOCKI WAS IRRITATED
with Colleen for so much as joking that she liked the handler, Todd Simon, even though she probably said it to deflect attention from them. He knew she loved him. He could
feel
it.