Capture (22 page)

The man’s eyes, bled of all hope, scare Vernon and he hustles on, making quick despite his dragging leg. He shoulders his way through the mob of sad and useless people and finds the receptionist with her nose deep in a gossip magazine.

“Vernon Saul for Merinda Appolis.”

The receptionist sighs and lowers her magazine and speaks into the phone, then dumps it in its cradle. Her eyes are already back in her magazine as she says, “She’s busy. You’ll have to wait.”

Vernon works hard at self-control. Knows he’s being punished by being made to wait among this smear of useless humanity. He pushes his way outside, standing in the doorway, and lights a Lucky, consciously calming himself as he inhales, feeling the warm smoke in his lungs.

He’s nearly done with the cigarette when the receptionist calls him and tells him he can go through.

Merinda Appolis doesn’t meet him at the door this time. Remains seated behind her desk, her knees held primly together.

She launches her attack before he even has a chance to greet her. “If you’ve come to soft-soap me, Vernon, just forget it, okay? My report will go in tomorrow and I’ll have Dawn Cupido in court by Friday. So if you’re going to try and change my mind, you’re wasting both our time.” She fixes her painted lips into a hard little gash and crosses her arms.

“That’s not why I’m here, Merinda,” he says, all serious.

“Well, what do you want, then?”

“Okay if I sit?”

She frees a hand and wags it at the chair opposite her. He makes a production of lowering himself, arranging his leg, resting his bandaged arm on the desk. Sees her look at it, but she says nothing.

“I’m here to thank you, actually.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“For doing what I didn’t have the guts to do. I was worried about that child, but I should have reported Dawn long ago. Got you in there sooner. Anyway, you did what needed to be done and it’s all in the child’s best interests.” She’s staring at him skeptically. He puts the parcel on the desk. “For you.”

“What’s this?”

“Open it.” She hesitates a moment, but then her curiosity gets the better of her and she tears at the pink wrapping paper with her long red fingernails. She lifts out a transparent plastic container of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, looking like little hand grenades in their foil wrappers. Cost him a fortune at the Waterfront.

She can’t hold back the smile. “Vernon! My favorite!”

“I’m glad you like them. Just to say thanks.”

“I love them. Not good for my figure, though!” The flirtiness is back and she squirms in her chair.

“Oh, you got nothing to worry about there.” Forcing himself to give her the eye as he stands. “Well, I know you’re busy.”

“No. Sit.”

He shakes his head. “I really should go.”

“What happened to your arm?”

He shrugs. “There was an incident last night. All under control.”

He edges toward the door. Then pauses, looking awkward and embarrassed. 

“Merinda?”

“Ja?”

“I dunno if I’m out of line here…”

“What, Vernon?”

“Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

A blush touches her cheeks. “Well—”

“If you have other plans?”

“No, no.”

“Do you like Chinese?”

“Oh, I
love
Chinese!”

“Good, there’s a nice place at Canal Walk. Why don’t you give me your address and I’ll pick you up around eight, okay?”

She scribbles on a little pink Post-it which he pockets. He gives her his best smile and leaves her looking happily flustered.

Vernon laughs himself back to the Civic, his good mood restored.

Exley wakes for the second time that day. This time it is not terror that ends his sleep, but grief. As he lies on the sofa cushions he dragged into the studio after Gladys left, he mourns his daughter, feeling more loss and less guilt now that he understands that Caroline was at least as culpable as he was, the evening of Sunny’s birthday. It is a searing, painful grief, one that will take a very long time (maybe forever) for him to recover from, but it is pure and uncomplicated, almost affirming.

Exley sits up and wipes his tears and walks out of the studio, the late afternoon light washing the front rooms. He is parched but stepping into the kitchen will take him too close to what he became last night, so he goes onto the deck and sits, watching the waves and the seagulls. Sits until thirst finally drives him to his feet and he heads for the kitchen and gets a bottle of Evian from the fridge, trying not to see his wife lying dead on the tiles.

He takes the water back onto the deck. A kayak drifts past, beyond the rocks, carrying a man, a woman and a child, all in lifejackets. The child’s giggles drift to Exley on the soft breeze, and he hears the woman shout something and laugh.

Exley tries to remember when he last saw Caroline happy, in more than a transitory, superficial way. It was years ago, before Sunny was born, when her first novel was published. He sees her, radiant and smiling at the book launch in London, posing with him for photographs. Now she’s gone. Whatever her life was it is over.

And he ended it.

But Exley can’t deny a sense of liberation. Caroline, with her rages and her depressions and the all-consuming selfishness of the psychologically unstable, leached most of the joy from his life. He became a wife whisperer, attuned to the subtlest seismic shifts in her mood, to protect his daughter and himself.

The truth is, he feels little guilt at killing her. Only the fear of being caught and that possibility seems remote. The almost obscene haste with which the cops accepted the sacrifice Vernon Saul threw their way means that it is a done deal. Case closed.

So, sitting out on the deck, watching the last sunlight dance on the waves, Exley thinks, what the hell, maybe Vernon Saul is right: the truth is just the lie you believe the most.

The gate buzzer grinds inside the house and Exley ignores it. But it sounds repeatedly and he goes to the intercom in the living room. The police captain from last night apologizes for intruding and says he has a few questions.

When Exley opens the front door he sees the captain is not alone—he’s with a middle-aged brown guy with a snout for a nose.

“Mr. Exley, this is my colleague, Detective Erasmus.”

Exley lets the two men enter. Erasmus says nothing, just walks into the house and stops when he reaches the kitchen.

“This where she died?” he asks.

“Yes,” Exley says.

“Already cleaned up, I see?”

“I had the trauma people in.”

“Connections of Vernon Saul’s?”

“Yes,” Exley says. “As a matter of fact they were. Why?”

The cop shrugs and when his gaze settles on Exley, he finds himself looking into the cold eyes of a fanatic. “Where you from?”

“I’m an American citizen.”

“What, another bloody foreigner come out here to get his wife killed and blame it on our crime epidemic?”

Fragile equilibrium cracking, Exley looks at the black cop. “Captain, what’s going on here?”

“Detective Erasmus is from Special Investigations. He’d like to talk to you.”

“What’s Special Investigations?”

Erasmus leans in close to Exley. “We’re an independent unit, reporting directly to the police commissioner. Let’s just say we’re here to keep the system honest.”

The captain looks pained but says nothing, his eyes out on the horizon. Erasmus focuses his gaze on Exley. “Tell me what happened last night.”

“I’ve already given a statement.”

“Tell me again.”

Exley looks across at the captain, who nods, so he runs through Vernon’s version.

When Exley’s done Erasmus says, “The first person you called was Vernon Saul?”

“Yes.”

“Why not the police?”

“I was in shock. Mr. Saul has been very helpful since my daughter’s death.”

“I bet he has.” The cop sniffs and uses a hand to reseat his balls. “Mr. Exley, your wife was having an affair, wasn’t she?”

“News to me.”

“There was an incident yesterday. We’ve spoken to a Mrs. Stankovic who tells us your wife and her husband were having a sexual relationship.”

“I don’t listen to gossip.”

Erasmus snorts. “Okay, I’m gonna run something by you. Let’s say you come back from Jo’burg and Vernon Saul clues you in about your wife screwing around. You confront her and you kill her.”

“Jesus, Captain?” But the dark cop is far away, somewhere out past the rocks, lost in the honey-colored light.

“So, you get hold of your buddy Vernon and tell him what’s up. You offer him money to sort out this mess for you. And Vernon does what he’s good at: finds some innocent bugger, plants the knife and your wife’s phone on him, cuts himself to make things look convincing, and blows the guy away.”

Exley is rocked on his feet, hearing an almost perfect account of last night’s events spewing from this ugly man’s mouth. “I’m not going to listen to any more of this. Get the hell out of my house.”

Erasmus crowds Exley, washing him with his stale breath. “I would advise you to give all this some thought, Mr. Exley. If you come to us and admit what you and Saul did, the courts may be lenient. Continue lying and you’re going to spend a very long time in prison.” He hands Exley a card. “You phone me when you’re ready.”

They go, Erasmus striding ahead, the captain giving Exley a helpless shrug.

Exley locks the front door and calls Vernon Saul, getting his voicemail.

“Call me,” he says, dropping the phone as he sinks down onto the cushionless sofa, staring at the sun bleeding into the ocean, wondering how long it would take him to drown if he waded out and started swimming into the gathering darkness.

Chapter 34

The hot wind mutters and curses its way between the mean buildings on Voortrekker, getting tin cans rolling in the gutters, poking the signs on the sidewalk till they swing and creak, rocking the taxis as they gobble up passengers.

Dawn, stranded in the middle of the road—trying to find a gap in the evening traffic to cross over to Lips—takes a blast of grit in the eyes like she’s been maced. She curses, rubbing at her eyes, feeling them fill with tears. She’s ready to say fuck it and throw a U-turn and go fetch Brittany from Mrs. de Pontes and eat marshmallows and watch crap on TV.

Instead she dodges an oncoming Golden Arrow bus, getting a lungful of its diesel fumes, and makes it to the other side. Even though the neon fizzes above her, the club is still closed and she has to bang on the door. Eventually Dennis opens up.

He smiles at her, then swallows the grin. “Ja?”

“I wanna see Costa.”

“You not welcome here no more.”

“Come on Dennis, for fuck sake.”

He shakes his head but lets her in. The place is empty, not even Cliffie behind the bar, the fluorescent lights turned up, revealing it for the tacky pit that it is, like an old slut without her teeth in. She heads to Costa’s office, says a little prayer to some god somewhere and knocks.

She hears his smoker’s hack. “Ja?”

“It’s Dawn.”

“Go home, Dawn.”

“Costa,
pleeeeze
.” Knocking again.

Mutters and mumbles and the door unlocks and he opens up just far enough to give her the view of one baggy eye and half of his bandito mustache. “Dawn, I think I have enough of your nonsense now.”

“Costa, I’m asking for another chance.”

“No, Dawn. Chance is over. You make for me too much trouble. You just go, last night. Leave for me one girl short.”

“I’m sorry, man. It was an emergency.”

“No, Dawn. No, no, no. I found already replacement.”

“I’ve got a kid. Jesus.”

He digs in his pocket and finds a fifty-rand note. Holds it out to her.

“I owe you nothing, but this I give you from kindness of my heart.”

She doesn’t take it. “Don’t fucken insult me, Costa. I deserve better.”

“Goodbye, Dawn. Now you go or I get Dennis throw you out.” He drops the note, which floats down to Dawn’s feet, and he closes the door and locks it.

“Fuck you,” she says without conviction. 

She picks up the money and walks back into the club. The Ugly Sisters stagger in on their high heels, parading their sad flesh in short dresses, the stink of chemicals and cheap perfume sailing in with them like an ill wind.

They’re talking at her, laughing, but she doesn’t hear, deafened by the roar of the blood in her ears, raw, naked panic got hold of her now, riding her like a jockey. She makes it into the street, gasping down dust and fumes.

“Hey, Dawnie.”

She turns and there’s Fidel, her one-time meth merchant, sent by the devil himself.

Fidel, straightened hair dangling like a comma over his one eye, rubber lips smacking as he chews on something, puts a hand on her elbow, his fingers hot and greasy with chicken fat, pulling her close. So easy it would be for the fifty bucks to end up in his pocket and Dawn to slide down an alley with a straw of
tik
, that magic smoke filling her, leaving no room for fear and sadness.

No.

She hits Fidel, a nice short-arm jab with the fist to his belly, and he goes limp as a shirt on a washing line and she gets her ass across the road and out of the path of temptation.

But the devil isn’t done with her. Not yet.

A Beemer, newish, cruises slowly toward her, the driver looking to get lucky, even though it’s too early for the whores. The white guy at the wheel sees her and stops, checking her out. By reflex her middle finger is already in position to flip him the bird but she holsters it and thinks what the fuck?

The passenger door of the Beemer swings open and in the dome light she sees the guy’s wearing a shirt and tie, some salesman maybe, got a few drinks in him and now wants the kind of fun he can’t get at home.

Dawn slides in and closes the door. Smells the booze on the john, who is fat, in his forties, breathing heavy as a dirty phone caller.

“How much?” he asks.

“Blow job, two-fifty. Full house, five hundred.”

Crazy prices for the street and he laughs at her. “You out of your fucken mind!”