St. Patrick's Day Murder (19 page)

Jack had been there, but Scotty hadn’t. I turned to O’Brien. “I’m sure you’ve both been through all this, but you said Jerry had something on his mind.”

“I wish I could tell you more. Jerry was a funny guy. He was like two different people. I mean, this guy could pick up a girl and end up in Bermuda for the weekend, but on the job he was cool and tough and reliable. If something was bothering him and he wasn’t talking about it, I would figure it wasn’t any of my business.”

“But this is our business,” I said. “He knew something, or heard something, that had to do with Scotty McVeigh’s murder and the only way he could talk about it was to an outsider. Do you know where he was a week ago Monday in the morning?”

O’Brien opened a little book he took from a pocket. “That was last week. We were on four to twelves all week. He could’ve been anywhere during the day.”

“You know, someone called Ray to tell him his apartment was about to be searched. Remember?”

“I remember,” Jack said. “That’s when I left.”

“Ray didn’t know who it was. It was like someone was calling anonymously. I wonder …?”

“He calls Ray and then drives over,” Jack said. “He wouldn’t have seen me, but he would have seen you because you stayed for the search.”

“So he knew I was a friend of Ray’s, and if he followed me, he knew I was also a friend of Jean McVeigh’s. He can’t follow me home because he’s working at four, and besides, he thinks he doesn’t have to because he can get my address from my plate.”

“And when he can’t,” Jack picked up, “he calls Jean to get in touch with you.”

“Maybe he thought I was Ray’s girlfriend. Or if he picked me up outside Jean’s house during the week and followed me, he might figure out I was trying to clear Ray. I went to the Korean grocery and Harry Donner’s next-door neighbor—in fact, I rang a lot of bells on his block—and I saw Gavin Moore’s widow.”

“You’ve been around,” O’Brien said.

“But I don’t have anything. Jerry McMahon had something.”

“Yeah,” O’Brien said. “And it looks like it was heavy enough to kill him.”

After Tim O’Brien left, Jack told me very seriously that he wanted me to drop my investigation. “Whoever this killer is, he’s made the connection between you and me.”

“Unless it’s you they were after all along.”

“OK. I admit that’s a possibility. But if the guy who came here tonight is the guy who killed McMahon, he may have gotten plenty from McMahon before he killed him. I think all three of us are in danger, you, me, and Tim O’Brien.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find someone I can trust and dump it on his desk.”

“What do you mean, someone you can trust?”

“I mean, whoever this killer is, he knows a lot about cops.”

“Or he’s a cop himself.”

“Right, or he’s one of us.”

That’s the nightmare to end all nightmares. You can’t go to the cops because the cops are the enemy. “All right, listen to me. Only you and I know about Harry Donner’s aunt. And only you and I—and Ray—know about the letter Jean McVeigh wrote. I don’t want Sister Benedicta involved in a police interrogation, and I don’t want another soul to know about that letter. I have to pursue those two leads myself.”

“Tell Jean to meet you somewhere. Don’t go to her house.”

I explained that she wasn’t answering her phone.

“I’ll drive over in the morning and set something up. I won’t tell her what it’s about.”

* * *

Jack arranged for Jean to meet me at his apartment as soon as she could get there. She had to drop off her kids at a baby-sitter’s first. I kept the door double-locked and looked out the window frequently. When the doorbell rang, I used the intercom before I buzzed Jean in.

“What an adorable apartment,” she said when she came in. “How are you?”

“Fine. What’s going on outside your house?”

“Some reporter got wind of Scotty’s background, that his name wasn’t McVeigh. She sticks a microphone in my face every time I go in or out, and she called me so many times, I pulled the cord out of the jack. Mom told me you were trying to get me.”

“I think I have some information on Scotty’s birth,” I said.

She looked at me with a face that expressed more hesitancy than eagerness. “Do I want to know?”

“It’s up to you. There’s nothing horrible about it, Jean. Lots of people were brought up by families they weren’t born into.”

“Give it to me,” she said.

“According to someone who knew them, both his mother and grandmother are dead. His grandfather is supposed to be living in a home for senior citizens—an old age home is what I was told. I haven’t been to see him. I don’t know if you want me to. Maybe you’d rather go yourself when you feel up to it.”

“I wish I knew what I wanted. I don’t want to drop in on him out of the blue, Chris. Maybe he doesn’t know Scotty’s dead. Maybe he has a grudge against Scotty.”

“I’ll see if I can find him,” I said.

“Is that coffee?” she asked.

“I just made it. Jack’s sister sent over some coffee beans she’s trying out. She’s a caterer, you know, and she’s generous with her samples.” I poured for both of us, happy to be given a brief reprieve. I wasn’t looking forward to the next part of our conversation.

“It’s yummy.”

“You can really tell the difference, can’t you?” Come on, Kix, I said to myself. Get it over with.

“Jean, we think the man who didn’t show up last Friday
night to meet me may have been Jerry McMahon,” I said, stalling again.

“The one who got killed?”

“Yes. He may have been on his way to see me when it happened.”

“What could Jerry McMahon have known?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ve got two loose ends to track down. Maybe one of them will tie him in or at least tell me where to go next.” I pulled my bag over and opened it. “I didn’t want to ask you about this, but I think I have to know now.” I took the letter out and handed it to her.

Her face lost its color. “Where did you get this?”

“I was at Ray’s apartment when it was searched. He put it in my coat pocket so it wouldn’t be found. When I found it, he asked me to destroy it. I didn’t.”

“You should have.” There was a hard edge to her voice, a set to her lips. The hand holding the envelope was shaking a little. “This letter is none of anyone’s business. It has nothing to do with Scotty’s murder or Ray being charged.”

“I have to decide that for myself.”

“This isn’t evidence, Chris. This is dirt. It’s beneath you. Forget about it.”

“I can’t.”

The phone rang, and I went to answer it. It was Jack.

“She get there all right?”

“Yes.”

“You in the middle of something?”

“Yes.”

“Talk to you later.”

I hung up and looked at Jean. Two tears were making their way down her cheeks.

“It was last November,” she said. “The Hansens were going somewhere on a Saturday night and at the last moment their baby-sitter couldn’t make it. Betsy called me and asked if I was free. I was. We had a problem with the car, I don’t remember what, and Scotty didn’t want me driving it. He drove me to their house himself.” She breathed in deeply and let it out in a rush. “I know you won’t understand this. I’ve known Ray for years and there’s always been a little spark in the air when he was around. Neither one of us ever did anything
about it. For a long time I wasn’t even sure he felt it. It was just a crazy thing, a spark waiting to ignite, a big ball of fire somewhere that would never happen. Those things don’t happen to you, Chris, because you and Jack make your own sparks and your own fire. Scotty and I did, too, but this was different. This was outside my real life.”

I had been standing near the table while she spoke, afraid that pulling out a chair might stop the flow. During the pause, I sat. Jean pulled my cup over and filled it. She was looking for something to do to delay the inevitable end of her story. I should have stopped her there to spare her, but unless you’re a lawyer questioning a witness in court, when you know the answer before you ask the question, in real life when you ask a question, you never know for sure what the answer will be. There could have been more—or less—than I expected. I took a sip and waited.

“I knew the Hansen kids and they weren’t any trouble. After they went to sleep, I watched a movie and fell asleep myself. Betsy and Ray came back about one o’clock, maybe later, I’m not sure. Betsy at least had had a good time. She looked great, all smiles. She thanked me about twenty times while I put my coat on.

“Ray and I went out to the car. He took my arm because there was a little ice on the driveway, and when he touched me I felt … You know how I felt. We got in the car and he asked a very crude and very sexy question and I said yes. It wasn’t just my mouth that said yes; it was my whole body. I hadn’t felt that way for years. He drove to a motel if you can believe it and we just went in and did it.” She dropped the letter on the table. “I wrote and told him how I felt. It was crazy for me to write. Not crazy, stupid. I didn’t want it to happen again. It was over, it was done. I had a husband that I loved even if Ray was thinking of splitting up with Betsy which I didn’t know at the time. I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish I hadn’t written the letter. I wish he’d burned it when he got it. That’s the story, all of it.”

“When he left Betsy, did anything happen between you? Did Ray say anything?”

“Nothing, I swear to you.”

“At the Emerald Society party on St. Patrick’s Day, I saw
you looking at him—at them. There was something about the look …”

“I didn’t know I was so obvious.”

“I don’t mean you looked lustful. It seemed to me you were sort of mother hennish.”

“That’s just what it was,” she said. “I like Petra very much. She’s good for Ray. I told you this once, didn’t I? I was happy for them. I wanted everything to work out, and I wanted Ray to know I felt that way. That’s why—”

The phone rang again, and I got up to answer. There was a pause, then a mechanical voice came on. I didn’t wait for the pitch. “Computers,” I said.

Jean forced a smile. “They’re taking over.”

“Jean, the night Ray was charged—”

“I went over to see him. I wanted him to know I didn’t believe he’d had anything to do with Scotty’s murder. That’s all it was, just a friendly visit. Chris, I loved my husband.”

“I believe you.” But Internal Affairs had gotten hold of this somehow. If Ray was innocent and someone had planted those two bullets in his apartment, maybe his apartment had been entered before and someone had read the letter. Maybe someone had seen them at the motel. Maybe he’d left the letter on his desk at the station house before taking it home and someone had picked it up while he was out on a case.

“What are you going to do with the letter?” Jean asked. She sounded scared.

“Legally it belongs to you,” I said. “If I were you, I’d get rid of it.”

“Thanks, Chris.” She scooped it off the table and put it in her bag.

After Jean left, I went down to my car and started driving out of the city and upstate. Something had begun working in my head, but it was so amorphous, I couldn’t hold on to it, much less define it.

The other thing that kept me thinking was my newly reinforced sense that people are unpredictable. Chacun à son goût was about as right-on as you could be. This man that I could not even manage to feel faintly positive about generated sparks of sexual desire in Jean McVeigh. What on earth had she seen in him? She had a husband who was warm and kind and open, much like Jack, but with a different personality, and she was attracted to a man who lived in a shell, who spoke in monosyllables, who rationed smiles as though they cost him. It was a burden for me to be around him, and Jean had ached to get into bed with him.

The whole idea of it almost made me laugh. I drove to the convent feeling very happy about my own relationship.

I got there about the time I had arrived on my last visit. On the way I stopped for a quick sandwich. The sister who opened the door recognized me, but she shook her head when I asked to see Sister Benedicta.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think you should disturb her today. She’s had a tragedy.”

“Is she ill?”

“No. It’s her work. She’s in her room and I think she wants to be alone. You aren’t family, are you?”

“No. I came to ask her about her nephew. We talked about him last time I visited.”

“Yes, the policeman. I remember when he used to come.
He was such a good person. All right, go on up. But use your judgment.”

I went up the stairs and found her name on a door. It was quiet inside and I was afraid I might wake her. I tapped lightly.

“Yes,” Sister Benedicta’s voice said dully.

“It’s Chris Bennett.”

“This is a bad day.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

I took my notebook out of my bag. “I’ll leave you my name and phone number, Sister Benedicta. If you want anything, if you’d like to take a drive, call me.”

“Come inside.”

I opened the door. The old nun was sitting in her chair, almost lost in the white habit. “They told me something happened,” I said.

“I lost my little boy this morning.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Seven years old,” she said.

I understood it was a child she had read to. “Would you like me to walk you to the church?”

“I’ve walked to the church for sixty years. I suppose I can get there under my own power for a few more. Sit down. You look as if you don’t know if you’re coming or going.”

I didn’t. I pulled out the desk chair and sat. “I’m very sorry,” I said.

“No platitudes?”

I shook my head.

“We live in a world of platitudes. I don’t believe any of them. I haven’t been for a drive for a long time.”

“My car is downstairs.”

She got out of her chair with some difficulty. “Get me my coat.”

I opened her closet and took out a black wool coat and helped her on with it. She picked up a sturdy black leather bag with two worn handles and put it over one arm.

“Thank you for the towels. They’re the best I’ve ever had.”

“Enjoy them.”

“You want to talk about Harry, don’t you?”