Compromising Positions (37 page)

“We have brandy?” I asked, giving him a final squeeze.

“Yes. From St. Thomas, three or four years ago. Remember?”

“That’s right.” He returned carrying a bottle of cognac and two juice glasses emblazoned with football helmets, from Welch’s Grape Jelly. I led the way to the bedroom and, without talking, we sat on the bed and began sipping the cognac.

“I’ll never develop a taste for it,” I mused. He shrugged his shoulders. “Bob?” He looked at me, the whites of his eyes stained a vivid red. “Would you like to hear what happened?”

“I guess so.”

It took about ten minutes to give him a synopsis of the case. By that time, I was on my second glass of cognac and employing expansive sweeps of my arm to illustrate whatever point I was making. “Now, let me tell you about tonight.” I related the meeting in the parking lot as neutrally as I could. He took it rather well, sticking out his lower lip and nodding at Dicky’s confession, blanching at the knife at my throat, blinking his eyes as that nice police lieutenant distracted Norma. “And that’s it,” I concluded.

“Well, if you want my opinion...” But he cut himself off.

“Please. I’d like your opinion.” I refilled his glass.

“Well, it seems to me that Norma is the key to the case,” he said. “I mean, her brother seems awfully ineffectual. He might have carried out the actual murder, but I don’t think he could have kept up such a detached front without some sort of encouragement.” As he spoke, his voice became stronger, almost enthusiastic. “Listen, Judith, he went to pieces as soon as you put on a little pressure. And he’s not terribly intelligent, right? Well, I just don’t think a man like that could stonewall it, not for the length of time he did. And why did she see fit to bring a knife along? She knew what a threat you were—and not just to her brother. Tell me, would she have risked your life out of sibling loyalty?”

“No,” I said slowly. “I don’t think so. She was pretty contemptuous of him.”

“All right, so she’s involved.”

I nodded. But how? “Just one more glass of this stuff,” I said.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

“Not yet,” I replied, “I’m still lucid.”

“That’s up to you,” he sighed.

“But how is she involved?” I asked. “Dicky sort of said that she had told him to do the right thing or something like that, but I doubt if that makes her an accomplice. Unless she was the brains of the scheme and directed the entire production. But would she do that?”

“Well, you said Fleckstein kept all his affairs separate from his marriage, that he always behaved decently to Norma.”

“Right,” I acknowledged. “He was the perfect husband, loving, doting, calling her during the day to tell her how terrific she was.”

“Right. What a phony. Then all of a sudden she finds out that this perfect husband was having a
ménage à trois
right in her living room—with her dog.”

“Yes. She seems very attached to Prince.”

“Judith, I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He took a deep breath and then another sip of cognac. “Anyhow, all of a sudden this woman is face to face with the fact that her whole idyllic marriage is a fraud. Now, unless she was fairly blasé,” he cleared his throat, “she couldn’t help but be shocked at the affair—and at his sexual predilections. I mean, a lot of married men might fool around, but they don’t record it for posterity. And they don’t go in for animals and all that foolishness.”

“Trite, maybe, but not foolish. If I were going in for a thing like that, I’d do something like Catherine the Great—a muscular black stallion with sweaty flanks.”

“Judith! What kind of talk is that?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “But why would Norma want him killed? Can you change from adoration to hate in a few minutes?”

“Perhaps. But unless she was really involved and feeling terribly threatened, why would she go all out to protect her contemptible brother—her husband’s murderer?”

We tossed the same ideas back and forth for a few minutes, but no conclusions emerged. Then I yawned.

“Want to go to bed?” he asked.

I looked at him, not wanting to lose his goodwill again, but being so weary and so drunk that I knew I could not respond.

“Yes,” I said finally. “I don’t think I could manage anything else.”

“That’s all right,” he said magnanimously, leaning over to kiss the top of my head. “Just one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Swear to me you’ll never do anything like this again. Ever.”

We stared at each other. “I can’t,” I whispered.

“Judith, no more. This was it. I won’t permit it.”

“Robert, how many more murders do you think I’ll run across in my lifetime?”

“I don’t know. But this was it, Judith. I want that understood.”

“Bob,” I began.

“Good night. Have a good night’s sleep.” He kissed me again, lightly, and we both undressed, not bothering to look at each other.

I slept almost immediately, but kept waking, fighting to retain my portion of the quilt, feeling stiff and full of minor aches, as if I were about to get the flu. I don’t remember dreaming, but each time I awoke, I felt anxious, uncomfortable, wanting to complete some unfinished business but too weary and confused to recall what it was—or what had to be done. At last, a little after three-thirty, I climbed out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom with a vague notion that aspirin might help. The mirror reflected a frowsy, bleary image, brown eyes circled with dark, sickly shadows, puffy lips with tiny cracks, like an enlarged finger print, all over their parched surface. God, I thought, what a picture.

And with that notion, I tiptoed from the bathroom out of the bedroom and downstairs to the den, where I called Sharpe’s office. I held on for nearly ten minutes until he could come to the phone.

“Nelson,” I said, my voice dry and croaking. “The photographs.”

“What?” he asked. “Judith, you sound awful. Are you okay?”

“Fine. Don’t worry. But listen to me. The photographs, they weren’t at Dicky’s, but if he and Norma were in cahoots...”

“I know. I thought of that too. There are two men at her house checking it now, but they’ve been there an hour and haven’t found anything so far. And she’s not giving an inch.”

“She won’t talk?”

“No. Her lawyer is with her, and he’s screaming and jumping up and down, threatening to sue the whole world for false arrest. But we’re holding her on an assault charge, and hopefully we can get the whole story from Dunck.”

“Is he cooperating?”

“I think he will. It took us a couple of hours just to calm him down, but he’s starting to open up. I have to get back.”

“Okay,” I said testily, in no mood to be fair. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know.”

“Would you call me if anything happens?”

“I’ll try,” he responded. “Otherwise, I’ll have someone pick you up around nine-thirty. We need your statement, and after that I’ll fill you in. Now get some sleep, Judith.”

I stumbled back upstairs, took a couple of aspirin, and lay down, flat on my back. Who was watching Norma’s children, I wondered? At that very moment, were the police ransacking their toy chests, looking for the photographs? Had anyone called Brenda to say, “Sorry, your husband won’t be coming home tonight”?

“Bob,” I whispered.

“S’okay,” he mumbled and, still asleep, turned and put his arm around me. I shifted away from him and lay on my side, feeling his hand, hot from sleep, on my stomach. A few minutes later, I pushed it away and dozed off, thinking of Norma and her paring knife, Dicky and his shaved head, little stubs of hair rising out of his scalp after a long, dark night of interrogation.

A uniformed policeman in an unmarked car picked me up at exactly nine-thirty. A young cop with sandy-colored hair and sandy-colored skin, he called me “ma’am” several times and asked how I was feeling after my “big night.” I told him fine, but did not attempt to force my stiff, hungover muscles into a smile.

At headquarters, a couple of detectives interviewed me in what must have been the police equivalent of a presidential suite, a large beige room filled with leather chairs, glass-enclosed bookcases, and an automatic coffee machine. A nubby brown carpet replaced the regulation linoleum. One of them took notes while the other asked most of the questions. Had I, in any way, felt Mrs. Fleckstein’s weapon piercing my body at any point?

“At any point in time?”

“No, Mrs. Singer. At any point on your, um, person.”

“No.” I lifted my chin to display my neck, unsullied, unscarred. We rehashed the evening until they seemed satisfied. The notetaker left, saying he would type up the statement.

“Where is Lieutenant Sharpe?” I asked the other, a tall, heavy-set man who wore his blond hair in a pompadour, like an aging leader of Hitler Youth.

“Just resting a few minutes. He said to call him as soon as we were finished.”

“Did either of them talk?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Singer, but I’m not authorized to discuss the facts of this case with persons outside the department.”

“That’s okay.” I asked if he was assigned to the homicide unit, but he told me he’d rather not say. My head throbbed, and I felt as though I had a great glob of foreign matter lodged in my throat. Finally, he suggested that we’d probably have an early spring and I agreed with him, just to put him out of his misery. A few moments later, the other detective returned with my statement. Although I never would have said “On or about March 7,” it was accurate enough. I signed it. They examined my signature, which seemed to satisfy them, and asked me to wait. A few minutes later, Sharpe stuck his head in the door.

“Would you like some company?” he asked. His gray hair was disheveled, flatter on the right side, as if he had been napping on a rigid surface. I walked over to him and fluffed it with my fingers.

“What happened?” I demanded.

He sauntered into the room and motioned me to sit on the long leather couch; he sat beside me. “Dunck talked,” he reported, taking my left hand and twisting my wedding ring around.

“Well?”

“Judith, I’m so tired. You have no idea.”

“If you think you’re going to put me off until you’re well rested...”

“No. That would be cruel and unusual. Just let me get my thoughts together.” We sat motionless for a few seconds until he kissed the palm of my hand.

“You’re okay?” he asked.

“Yes. And you? If you’re really too tired...”

“I’m all right. Should I tell you what happened?” I nodded. “Well, the day before the murder, Dunck got a call from Fleckstein at about three in the afternoon. Fleckstein asked if he could drop by the printing plant for a few minutes to have a chat. Dunck said sure, thinking he might get even more information to give to the U.S. Attorney, to bury Fleckstein even deeper.”

“He had no idea that Bruce was on to him?”

“None. Anyhow, Fleckstein wandered in there a little after four and began making small talk. How are things going? How’s business? Dunck said everything was fine, and Fleckstein gave him this big shit-eating grin and said: ‘You’re lucky to be married to such a beautiful woman.’ Dunck told us he smiled or said thank you or something and then Fleckstein repeated, ‘a beautiful woman.’”

“What a bastard. Setting Dicky up like that.”

“Wait till you hear the next part. Fleckstein said: ‘You know, I came across some snapshots of Brenda today. Maybe you’d like to have them.’ He reached into his pocket and took out a wad of Polaroids and scattered them over Dunck’s desk.” Sharpe’s eyes were wide and animated, as if he were watching the scene being performed on a stage a few feet away. “Dunck glanced at them but didn’t make the connection. He thought they were some new pictures that Fleckstein and his friends wanted printed. But then Fleckstein picked up a couple of them and held them right in front of Dunck’s face and said: ‘A beautiful woman, your Brenda.’ Well, Dunck stared at them for a minute and then went bananas, crying and trying to punch Fleckstein, yelling that it wasn’t really Brenda.”

“But he knew it was,” I interjected.

“Sure he did. He recognized her body, just like you did. Those two scars. Anyhow, Fleckstein’s bigger, and he grabbed Dunck and held him in a tight grip. Dunck couldn’t pull away. And Fleckstein said: ‘Either you stop telling stories about me and my business associates or I’ll see these pictures get shown all over town.’ Well, your friend Dicky finally calmed down enough and took another look at the photographs. He told Fleckstein that you couldn’t see the woman’s face, that nobody would believe it was Brenda. And do you know what Fleckstein said?”

“What?” I whispered, unable to locate my voice.

“He said he was sorry, but he forgot to bring all the pictures that afternoon that showed Brenda’s face. And he sort of smiled at Dunck and said: ‘Boy, if you think these are kinky, you should see the rest of them.’ And so while Dunck just stood there falling apart, Fleckstein gathered all the photographs together and started to leave. Then, when he got to the door, he turned around and handed Dunck one of the pictures. Know what he said?” I shook my head. “‘Maybe you’d like a memento. Brenda’s such a sweet girl—and a great animal lover.’ And then he walked out, leaving Dunck with the picture.”

“And then what?” I asked, turning to lean my head on his shoulder for a minute. He was wearing the same green sweater as the night before, and it felt scratchy against my cheek. Reaching under the sweater, I could feel his shirt damp with perspiration. His body had a strong, pungent odor. I began to rub his chest.

“Here?” he asked.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

“No. I mean, not here. Not now. What happened after that?”

“Dunck didn’t remember how long he stayed in his office, but it was probably a half hour or so. He wanted to go home and confront Brenda, but he couldn’t do it, couldn’t think of what to say. So he sat there, staring at the picture, and suddenly realized that it had been taken in Fleckstein’s house, by Fleckstein.”

“You mean, he didn’t connect the two of them before that?”

“No. He thought it had been taken by someone else, some stranger. So when it hit him that she was making it with Fleckstein...”