Company Man (45 page)

The throaty growl of a car coming up the driveway.

Leon? No, Leon's car didn't sound that way. Out catting, Leon was. And on a Sunday. She felt a swell of resentment, of resolve.

She parted the sheer curtains in the front parlor. Bugbee.

His leering grin. “Finally decided to do it, eh?”

She invited him into the front parlor, where he took Leon's chair and Audrey sat facing him on the couch. Bugbee's foot jostled something, and a couple of brown glass bottles clattered.

He glanced down. “Hitting the sauce, Aud? Pressure getting too much for you?”

“I don't even like the taste of beer,” she said, embarrassed. “So what's up?”

“One complication.”

“Oh no.”

“A good complication. Our friend Eddie's rolling over on Conover.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“He wants to deal.”

“How much did he tell you?”

“Not a fucking thing. Just that he might have some information of interest to us.”

“He's got to show us the wares.”

“He wants a deal first. I'm betting he's the coconspirator.”

She thought a moment. “What if he's the shooter, not Conover?”

“Them's the breaks. If he gives up Conover for aiding and abetting, we got 'em both.”

“He knows about the gun match.” Another car engine, had to be Leon.

“You tell him? I sure as hell didn't.”

She shook her head and told him about the call from Grand Rapids.

“Fucking Noyce,” said Bugbee. “What'd I tell you?”

“What did you tell me?”

“I never liked him.”

“That's because he doesn't like you.”

“Touché. But not my point. Him and Eddie Rinaldi both have something on each other. Now looks like we have something on Noyce.”

“I don't play that game,” Audrey said firmly.

“Christ,” said Bugbee. “The fuck is the point of being a church lady, time like this?”

“How about I put it in terms you might understand? You want to be up front and open with Noyce, I have no problem with that. But I'll bet you he knows that we know.”

“You think?”

“He knows I've been talking to Grand Rapids. He knows I dig deep. Anyway, you want to play games with him later, I really don't care. My heart breaks for him, but right now I'm just thinking about this case and how we make it work. My way is to ignore him, work around him, put through this arrest paperwork on the down low so he doesn't have a chance to tell Rinaldi.”

Bugbee shrugged, accepting defeat.

“And I'll tell you something else. I don't want to make a deal with Rinaldi.”

“That's fucked up,” Bugbee protested. “He's our way in.”

“You're the one who kept saying we have this case nailed, right? Why do you want to give up so easily?”

“It's not giving up,” Bugbee said.

“It's not, huh? I want to charge them both with open murder. That way we have maximum bargaining room. We sort it out later.”

“So now
you
think we've got it nailed, that it?”

“Just about. Tomorrow morning first thing, I'm going to talk to Stadler's psychiatrist again.”

“A little late for that, don't you think?”

“Not at all. It'll strengthen our hand considerably with the prosecutor's office if he'll agree to testify that Stadler could be deranged, even dangerous. If we get that, we'll get the arrest warrants for sure.”

“I thought he already refused to talk to you.”

“I'm not giving up.”

“You can't force him.”

“No, but I can persuade him. Or try, at least.”

“You believe it?”

“Believe what?”

“Believe that Stadler was dangerous.”

“I don't know what to believe. I think Conover and Rinaldi believed it. If we have the psychiatrist on board, we have motive. The slickest lawyer Nick Conover can find's going to have a steep hill to climb on that one. And then we sure don't need any deal with Eddie, understand?”

“Roll the dice, you mean?”

“Sometimes you have to,” she said.

“You don't want to roast Noyce's balls over a campfire like I do, huh?”

She shook her head. “I'm not angry. I'm…” She thought. “I'm disappointed. I'm sad.”

“You know something, I always thought you Jesus freaks were kidding, on some level. But I think you're serious about all that do-the-right-thing stuff. About being good. Aren't you?”

She laughed. “It's not about being good, Roy. It's about trying to be good. You think Jesus is some…” She searched for the word. “Some wimp? No. He was a real hard ass. He had to be.”

Bugbee smiled, his eyes crinkling. She tried to read his
expression, wasn't sure if she detected the tiniest glint of admiration. “Jesus the hard ass. I like that.”

“So when was the last time
you
went to church, Roy?”

“Oh, no. Don't fucking start on me. Let's get one thing clear. That's not going to happen.” He paused. “Besides, sounds to me like Jesus's got some work to do in your own household.”

Stung, Audrey didn't reply.

“Sorry,” Bugbee said after a few seconds. “That was out of bounds.”

“That's okay,” she said. “You may be right.”

A chill was in the air, the fall days tinged with the coming winter. The sky was steel gray and ominous, threatening to rain at any moment.

In the living room, however, where Audrey sat reading, it was warm almost to the point of stifling. After Bugbee left, she'd made a fire in the fireplace, the first of the season. The fatwood had caught right away, which pleased her, and now the logs crackled loudly, making her jump from time to time as she lingered over a passage that wouldn't let go.

She opened the Bible to the book of Matthew and wept for the man who'd been her friend. She thought, too, about Leon, about how she'd have it out with him. Now she was all the more determined to somehow rise above anger and recrimination.

Noyce and Leon: they were nothing alike, but both were men with feet of clay. Leon was a lost man, but he was a man she loved. She knew how quick she was to judge others. Maybe it was time to learn forgiveness. That seemed to be the whole point of the parable of the unmerciful servant in the book of Matthew.

A king was owed a great sum of money by one of his servants and was about to sell the servant and his family in order to raise the money. But when the servant pleaded, his master took pity and forgave him his debt. Not long afterward, the
servant met a fellow servant of the king's who owed
him
some money, and what did he do? He grabbed the man by the throat and demanded payment. The king summoned the ingrate and said, “You wicked servant! I forgave you all that debt because you besought me; and should not you have had mercy on your fellow servant, as I had mercy on you?”

A key jangled in the front door lock.

Leon. Back from wherever he went without telling her.

“Oh, hey, Shorty,” he said as he entered. “You made a fire. That's nice.”

She nodded. “You're out and about early.”

“Looks like it's about to pour out there.”

“Where'd you go, Leon?”

He immediately looked away. “Gotta get out of the house sometimes. Good for me.”

“Come sit down in here. We need to talk.”

“Uh oh,” he said. “Those are words no guy ever wants to hear.” But he sat down anyway, in his favorite chair, looking supremely uncomfortable.

“This is not going to continue,” she said.

He nodded.

“Well?”

“Well what?” he said.

“I've been doing some reading in the Bible.”

“I see that. Old Testament or New?”

“Hmm?”

“As I recall from my churchgoing days, the Old Testament God's a pretty judgmental sort.”

“None of us is perfect, baby. And the Bible tells us about when Jesus refused to condemn an adulterer who was about to be stoned to death.”

“Where's this going?” Leon said.

“You going to tell me what you're up to?”

“Ah,” he said with a low chuckle that began to grow. “Oh, yeah,” he said and his chuckle grew into an unrestrained guffaw. “My sister been putting crazy ideas in your head?”

“You going to explain yourself? Or is this going to be the last talk we ever have?”

“Oh, Shorty,” Leon said. He got up from his chair and sat down on the couch next to her, snuggling close. She was astonished, but she didn't hug him back, just sat there, stiff and angry and confused. A bottle rolled around under the couch. She reached a hand down and grabbed it. A brown beer bottle. She held it up.

“Is it this, or is it a woman?” she said.

He was laughing, enjoying himself, and she grew steadily more furious. “It's funny to you?”

“You're some detective,” he finally said. “That's root beer.”

“Oh, so it is,” she said, embarrassed.

“I haven't had a drink in seventeen days. You haven't noticed?”

“Is that true?”

“Forgiveness is Step Nine. I'm nowhere near that.”

“Step Nine?”

“The Eighth Step is to make a list of everyone I ever harmed and be willing to make amends to them. I should do that too. You know I was never good about lists.”

“You—how come you didn't tell me you're doing AA?”

Now it was his turn to look sheepish. “Maybe I wanted to make sure it would take.”

“Oh, baby,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “I'm so proud of you.”

“Hey, Shorty, don't go getting all proud yet. I still haven't gotten past step three.”

“Which is what?”

“Hell if I know,” Leon said. He put a big callused hand on her face, brushed away her tears, and leaned in to kiss her, and this time she kissed him back. She'd almost forgotten what it was like, kissing her husband, but she was remembering now, and it was nice.

The two of them got up and went to the bedroom.

Outside it began to rain, but it was warm in their bed.

In the morning she would get up early and arrange the arrest warrants for Eddie Rinaldi and Nicholas Conover.

On her way to the prosecutor's office, Audrey heard Noyce's voice calling to her.

He was standing in the door to his office, waving her in.

She stopped for just a moment.

“Audrey,” he said, something different in his voice. “We need to talk.”

“I'm in a rush, Jack. I'm sorry.”

“What's up?”

“I—I'd rather not say.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Audrey?”

“Excuse me, Jack. I'm sorry.”

He put out a hand, touched her shoulder. “Audrey,” he said, “I don't know exactly what they told you about me, but…”

He knew. Of course he knew. She fixed him with a level gaze. “I'm listening,” she said.

Noyce took a breath, colored, and then said, “Fuck it. I don't want your pity.” He turned and went into his office, and she hurried on.

 

Dr. Aaron Landis's habitual sneer had become an incredulous scowl. “We've been over this, Detective. You've already asked me to breach Mr. Stadler's confidentiality. If you
somehow imagine that your persistence is going to make me reconsider—”

“I'm sure you're aware what the
Principles of Medical Ethics,
published by the American Psychiatric Association, says about confidentiality.”

“Oh, please.”

“You're permitted to release relevant confidential information about a patient under legal compulsion.”

“As I recall, it says ‘proper' legal compulsion. Do you have a court order?”

“If that'll make a difference to you, I'll get one. But I'm appealing to you not as a law enforcement officer, but as a human being.”

“Not the same thing, I take it.”

She ignored this. “Ethically you have the right to testify about Andrew Stadler's history, especially if you have any interest in helping bring his killer to justice.”

Landis's eyelids drooped as if he were deep in thought. “What does one have to do with the other?”

“Well, you see, Dr. Landis, we've found Andrew Stadler's killer.”

“And who might that be?” His phlegmatic tone, carefully calibrated, didn't quite mask his natural curiosity.

“That I can't tell you until he's charged. But I'm going to ask you to take the stand and testify to the fact that Andrew Stadler was, at times, violent.”

“I won't.”

“Don't you understand what's at stake, Dr. Landis?”

“I will not testify to that,” Landis said.

“If you refuse to speak for this man,” Audrey said, “his killer may not find justice. Doesn't that make a difference to you?”

“You want me to testify that he had violent tendencies, and I'm not going to do that. I can't. I can't say what you want me to say—because it's not true.”

“What do you mean?”

“I saw no violent inclinations whatever.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I didn't tell you a thing.”

“Pardon me?”

“You didn't hear any of this from me.” He scratched his chin. “Andrew Stadler was a sad, desperately afflicted man. A tormented man. But not a violent man.”

“Dr. Landis, the man who killed him held him responsible for a particularly sadistic attack, an evisceration of a dog, a family pet. In fact, a whole series of attacks on the suspect's home. It's the reason, we're convinced, this man killed Stadler.”

Landis nodded, a glint of recognition in his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “That would make a certain sense.”

“It would?”

“If it were true, yes. But I can tell you with a high degree of certainty that Andrew Stadler never did these things.”

“Hold on a second. Last time we spoke, you talked about a pattern of sudden rages, brief psychotic episodes—”

“Indeed. I was describing a syndrome we call Borderline Personality Disorder.”

“All right, but you said a schizophrenic like Stadler could have this borderline disorder.”

“I've seen it, sure. But I wasn't talking about Andrew Stadler.”

“Then who
were
you talking about, Doctor?”

He hesitated.

“Doctor, please!”

Ten minutes later, short of breath, Audrey raced out of County Medical, cell phone to her ear.