Falls the Shadow (22 page)

“Think whatever the hell you want.”

As we stepped out the door, two men stood on the porch. One was older, bent, wearing a black mourning suit. The other was far younger, a teenager almost, holding on to the old man’s arm.

Horace stared at the two men for a long moment and then held the door open. “Go right on in, gentlemen,” he said. “She’s expecting you.”

With my search for Tanya Rose stymied by Madam Anna’s milky-white eye, I turned my attention back to the François Dubé case. Which explains why I was sitting next to Beth in my car in the salubrious environs of the Peaceful Valley Memorial Park.

“There’s something almost cheerful about a cemetery on a shining day, isn’t there?” I said. “The bright grass, the gleaming stones.”

“I find it morbid,” said Beth.

“Or maybe I just enjoy the peace and serenity, as if a manifestation of the promised sweet kiss of death.”

She leaned back, looked at me. “The sweet kiss of death?”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to just be finished with all the striving, the hopes, the jarring needs, the raging disappointments? Wouldn’t it be nice to just be done with it all and to fall into the arms of that final, gentle sleep?”

“You don’t have to die for that, Victor, just retire to Boca.”

“I can’t eat dinner at four.”

“I think you like cemeteries because it’s the one place in the world where you’re surrounded by people with less promising futures than your own.”

“That must be it. You’ve been cheery lately.”

“Have I?”

“Oh, yes. Smiling at your desk, dancing in alleyways.”

“Maybe anyone who doesn’t look forward to the sweet kiss of death seems cheery to you.”

“No. It’s something else. You’re glowing.”

“As promised by that infomercial for this year’s revolutionary new skin-care treatment.”

“Is that it? Did you make that call to change your life?”

“No. I still haven’t used up last year’s revolutionary new skin-care treatment. Where is she?”

“She should be here soon.”

“You couldn’t have just called her?”

“Where’s the impact in that? Our intrepid investigator, Phil Skink, left us a schedule of her regular visits around the town. Today it’s the Peaceful Valley Memorial Park before she heads to her upscale nail salon.”

“And you don’t think it’s rude to intercept her here?”

“Perfectly appropriate, if you ask me.”

“How’s Carol?”

“Fine.”

“I agree, mighty fine. But how are things with her?”

“Progressing.”

“You don’t sound so excited.”

“She’s rather assertive.”

“And that’s a problem how?”

“I don’t know, Beth. I sort of like to dress myself in the morning. Wait, over there. Is that a hearse or a limo?”

“A limo.”

“Bingo,” I said.

The long black car eased to a stop at Row U. The driver hopped out, opened the back door, and out slid Velma Takahashi. She was dressed for the part of the grieving friend with a terrible secret: white scarf around the hair, dark glasses over the eyes, deep red lipstick on her puffy lips, a single white rose in her hand. She walked slowly down the row and then stopped at a granite marker and stared for a moment before kneeling in front of it. We gave her some minutes to perform her ministrations, smoothing the grass, tossing off the seedpods from the maple overhead, we gave her some minutes to wallow in her guilt before we stepped out of the car.

Her head rose at the sound of our doors closing. She aimed her dark, round glasses our way, stared for a few seconds, and then turned back to the gravestone as if she had been waiting for us all along.

We walked slowly toward Velma until we were standing behind her. In front of us was a marker that spread across three sites.
CULLEN
. And carved over the site to the right, where Velma kneeled, was the name
LEESA SARA
, and beneath that the words
BELOVED DAUGHTER AND MOTHER
. Her parents had scrubbed her married name and wifely status from Leesa’s gravestone, and you couldn’t really blame them.

“We need to talk,” I said.

“Uh-oh,” she said without turning around or rising at the sound of my voice. “Does that mean we’re breaking up?”

“Something like that. We need to talk about Clem.”

“What is there to talk about?” she said. “He is nothing, a figment of a bad dream from a different life.”

“But you think he might have killed Leesa.”

“Since when does what I think matter? I think people mourning their friends at a cemetery should be left in peace, and yet here you are.”

“What is Clem’s full name?”

“Clem.”

“Where is he now, do you know?”

“He’s nowhere. He’s a phantom. He appeared as if by magic, did his damage, and now he’s gone.”

“We’re going to need you to testify about him. About how you met him, how you gave him to Leesa, how they fought, how after she was brutally murdered, he disappeared. We’re going to need you to tell the jury everything.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Why the hell not?” said Beth with a snap of anger in her voice. “What kind of witch will pay for François’s defense but not tell the truth to save him?”

Velma Takahashi turned toward Beth and stared at her through the dark glasses. “He’s quite charming, isn’t he?” she said, a spider’s bite in her voice. “So much the gallant. But maybe, dear one, he’s not as gallant as he seems.”

“He needs your help,” said Beth.

“Why does he need mine when he already has yours?”

I didn’t like the tone of Velma’s voice, the way the two women had squared off. I didn’t like any of this. She was playing with us, was Velma Takahashi, tossing us about like balls of catnip placed here for her amusement. But I knew how to shut off the game. I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out a legal document stapled on a blue backing, dropped it onto Leesa Dubé’s grave, right in front of the still-kneeling Velma Takahashi.

“You’ve been served,” I said.

“What is this?” she said, scooping up the subpoena and rising angrily to her feet. “What the hell are you doing?”

“The trial starts next week,” I said.

“You know that my situation is delicate.”

“Funny thing, Velma, I don’t care about your prenup. If you don’t show up when I tell you, I’ll have a bench warrant issued. And then I’ll have you arrested. A picture of you in the paper with your hands cuffed behind your back will be just what your husband wants to see.”

“You must leave me out of it.”

“Can’t,” I said.

“Don’t do this, Victor.” She took a step forward, reached a hand to my chest, let her expression turn dewy and moist. “Please.”

“It’s done,” I said.

“Victor?”

“This Grace Kelly, Kim Novak thing you have going on is very becoming, really. That scarf, nice touch. But I have to say I like you better in your tennis outfit.”

Her moist expression turned bitter in the blink of an eye. “Don’t forget your place, you dickless wonder,” she said.

I laughed, which only made her angrier. She threw the subpoena at my chest. As the paper slid to the ground, I laughed harder.

“You thought by controlling the money you controlled the story,” I said, “but I don’t work like that.”

“Make me testify and you won’t get another cent.”

“I’ll find a way to get paid,” I said. “Maybe your husband will cover the bill in gratitude for proving your infidelity. And if he won’t—screw it. I’ll finish the case pro bono just to make you squirm.”

“You’re an insignificant worm.”

“Yes I am,” I said cheerfully, “on a useless piece of rock hurtling through a universe devoid of rhyme or reason. And yet you’re still going to testify.”

She stood before me for another moment, swaying as if she had taken a shot, and then stormed off toward the limo.

I kneeled down, picked up the subpoena. “You forgot something, Velma.”

She didn’t slow her pace. “Screw yourself.”

“Show up, or I’ll put you in jail.”

She stopped, turned around. “You have no idea what you are getting into.”

“You’re exactly right. I move through life in a blissful state of ignorance. It’s the only way people like you and me can live with ourselves. See you in court.”

She turned away again, headed in a trot toward the limo.

“Oh, and Velma, when you come,” I called out after her, “the scarf thing would work wonderfully on the stand.”

We watched as she dived into the open limo door, watched as the driver pulled immediately away, watched the dust kick up as the limo made its exit from the Peaceful Valley Memorial Park. I had enjoyed the whole scene immensely, and yet something troubled me.

“Do you feel,” I said, “like we’ve just been in the middle of something staged for the adoring crowd?”

“She seemed angry enough,” said Beth.

“That’s exactly it. Angry enough. She comes to the cemetery to drop a flower at her best friend’s grave, we show up asking about Clem, a man who might have killed said friend, and suddenly the scene erupts. But it’s exactly everything you would expect from such a scene. First she acts all imperious, then she tries to seduce me, then she challenges my manhood, then she cuts off our fees, and then she’s rushing off as if she’s late for a manicure.”

“As usual you’re looking too hard,” said Beth. “She doesn’t want to testify. We’re a threat to everything she’s worked for.”

“Of course we are,” I said. “But still, even with all she said, it seemed the only time there was real venom in her voice was when she went after you.”

I looked at Beth, her gaze nervously danced away. “She was out of line,” said Beth.

“Was she?”

“Well, maybe not on the dickless wonder thing, but on everything else.”

I laughed and then stopped laughing. Beth and I were staring one at the other. There was something in her face just then, was it fear, maybe? Fear of what? Of what she was feeling, of what she was risking, of everything going all to hell? After a moment she turned away, looked down at Leesa Dubé’s grave.

“We need to find him,” she said, a note of desperation in her voice. “There’s no telling what Velma will say in court, and we can’t trust Sunshine. We need to find Clem.”

“We’re doing what we can.”

“I know, but it’s not enough.”

“You’re in deep, aren’t you?”

“It’s not like you think.”

“Then what is it like?”

She didn’t answer.

“I don’t trust him,” I said.

“You don’t have to.”

“You want the lecture?”

“No.”

“Okay,” I said. “But it can’t come to anything.”

“I don’t want anything except to help him every way I can.”

“We’re lawyers, Beth. We have rules.”

“Is this the lecture?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. But, Beth, something isn’t right here, and that son of a bitch, I’m telling you, is in the middle of it.”

I was in the tar pit, reviewing once again the transcript of Seamus Dent’s testimony at the first François Dubé trial, when Whitney Robinson III strolled into the room. I startled when I saw him. It was as if I had conjured him with my thoughts, because the whole time I was examining the transcript, I had actually been thinking about Whit, and this is what I had been thinking: Why the hell hadn’t he ripped poor Seamus Dent a second asshole on the stand? Whitney had been gentle, almost kind to the kid. But as I examined the testimony, I could see the flaws in Seamus’s statement, the avenues wide open for attack. I didn’t yet know if Seamus had been telling the truth or not, but I sure could have placed doubt in the jury’s mind, and so could the Whitney Robinson I had seen in court over the years. So why, in this trial, had Whit given Seamus Dent a pass? And it was not the first fairly grievous error I had caught in Whit’s performance at the trial.

“Whit,” I said, standing quickly and dropping the transcript as if I had been caught at something. “How nice of you to visit.”

“I was in the neighborhood, old boy,” he said. “Thought I’d see how you’re getting along. Your secretary remembered me and sent me on back. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all. It’s great to see you.”

“You look busy.” He glanced around at the piles of paper scattered across the table and the floor, stacked on the chairs. “Think you have enough material to work with?”

“Just about.”

“I remember trying murder cases with a file thinner than a comic book. I guess the times have passed me by.”

“Never,” I said.

I cleared off a chair, bade him to sit. His whole body shook with effort as he lowered himself onto the seat. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He was wearing his normal costume, argyle socks, tan pants, blue blazer, red bow tie, but his expression showed more age and worry than I remembered in him. It made me think of the strange comment that ended our meeting at his house at the start of the case:
You can’t imagine the price.
What price? I wondered. And how had he paid it?

“I thought I’d come by to see if I could help your preparations,” he said. “To see if you had any questions about the first trial that I could answer for you. Anything I can do to help, I’d be delighted.”

I glanced down at the transcript and then up at the old man and his aged, worried eyes. It seemed just then that the way he sat, the way he hunched over with the weariness of age, answered all my questions about the prior trial. “No, Whit. Everything seems pretty clear.”

“I’m more than willing to talk about the case, Victor. To see if I can add anything to your efforts.”

“I appreciate that, but we seem to have it under control.”

“Good. Grand. How are your teeth getting along? Last time I saw you, at the hearing, your whole face was swollen.”

I rubbed my tongue over the temporary crowns and the healing gap where my cracked tooth had been. “Actually, my teeth are doing quite well. I took your advice about Dr. Pfeffer.”

“Yes, I know. He called to thank me for the referral.”

“He hasn’t been the most gentle of doctors, and there has been some pain involved, great spasms of pain, actually, but it almost seems like he knows what he’s doing.”

“Oh, he does, I assure you.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Dr. Pfeffer? Interesting character. He talks a bit much while he’s in your mouth, but he’s quite good. I met him quite by chance at the time of François’s first trial. My teeth were in sorry shape when he took control, but they are much improved, I am glad to say. Nothing like a good ear of corn on a summer’s eve, yes, Victor? And I’ve found he can be rather helpful in many other ways, too.”

“How so?”

“Well, he seems to know everybody and enjoys making connections. He likes to feel at the center of things, I suppose, but the connections can be quite valuable all the same. He helped my wife and me with our daughter’s care. In fact, the nurse we have now, who has been a lifesaver, was referred to us by Dr. Pfeffer.”

The nurse with the pale face and black eyes who had been staring out the window of his house as we spoke in the back, that nurse. How strange was that?

“You should let him help you any way he can if you have the chance,” said Whit. “I sense he’s a bit of a sad case, actually, a lonely man who likes to do good.”

“I don’t know how lonely,” I said. “Not with Tilda to keep him company.”

“Oh, you don’t think…” He paused for thought and then burst out into laughter. “Oh, my, you might be right. But what an odd couple. She must give him quite the workout.” More laughter. “I’d bet she could twist him into a pretzel. But, Victor, enough gossip. Old men talk about what others are doing because we can’t do it ourselves any longer. But a young man like you—”

“Not so young.”

“Bosh. So about the trial, did you find anything new to argue? Have you a theory of the murder that might sway the jury?”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, nodding, “we’ve stumbled onto something. Remember when you said your biggest problem at the first trial was that you had no suspects? Well, we found one.”

“Really?” His eyes brightened with interest, he leaned forward. “Who?”

“Someone not mentioned in the first trial at all,” I said. “A man named Clem.” And then I told him of what we had learned, about Leesa’s good friend Velma, about their attempts to relive their wild youth, about the man with the motorcycle whom Velma took on as a lover and then passed on to Leesa, about the fights, the intimations of violence, and the way Clem had up and disappeared suddenly after the murder. I watched closely as I told him everything. I worried that he might act defensive, might wonder how he had missed such a suspect, might think I was accusing him of failing at his prior representation of my client, but the only expression I could see on his face was relief.

“That’s extraordinary, Victor. Do you have evidence for all of this?”

“Absolutely.”

“Simply extraordinary. And the prosecution, Ms. Dalton, does she know about Clem?”

“Not that I know of,” I said with a smile.

“Marvelous.” He clapped his hands and laughed. “I am so proud of you, boy. You have taken the case and made it your own. I thought I might be able to help, but I can see that I am not needed at all.”

“Well, there is one thing,” I said.

“Pray tell.”

“François says the landlord sold off all his possessions while he was in jail, but I think there was stuff missing even before the murder. Any idea what might have happened to it?”

Whit pursed his lips, thought about it. “No, no idea. Is it important?”

“I don’t know, that’s the point. I’m just curious.”

“Curiosity. Very good,” said Whit. “That’s always the key to being a good lawyer.”

“Or a dead cat. Can I ask you something else?”

“Of course, anything.”

“This is a bit awkward.”

“Go ahead, my boy.”

“François. Is he…how should I put this?” I glanced around, stood, walked over to close the conference-room door. When I sat back down, I leaned close and spoke softly. “In your experience with François Dubé, have you found him to be a creep?”

“A creep?”

“Is that too loose a term?”

“No, I think I understand. Why do you ask?”

“My partner.”

“Ms. Derringer.”

“I think maybe she’s…I don’t know for sure, but…”

“You think she’s become emotionally involved with your client?”

“In some way, yes.”

“That’s bad, Victor. Very bad.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. How serious is it?”

“I think damn serious.”

“François has a certain power. My wife felt it when she met him. She was in her seventies, way past menopause and already ill, and still she felt it. She said it was something in his eyes. The way he looked at her. Maybe it was his French sincerity, maybe it is that little flaw of gold. But you have reason to be worried.”

“Why?”

“Between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act, falls the Shadow.”

“Whit?”

“It’s from a poem by Eliot, called ‘The Hollow Men.’ François Dubé can be a charmer, but there is something hollow inside him.”

“Whit, she’s my partner, she’s my best friend.”

“Between the conception and the creation, between the emotion and the response, falls the Shadow.”

“What shadow?”

“There are things I cannot tell you, Victor, you understand. My relationship with François remains as protected as yours. But these things, if you knew of them, in the context of which now we speak, would disturb you greatly. And these are not just stories I am talking about.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There may be evidence.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“Physical evidence. I never saw it, mind you, but in the course of my representation, I came to learn of its existence. And the whole of the trial, I was terrified that it would somehow show up. I knew that its presence before the jury would be devastating.”

“Where was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happened to it?”

“Whether it has been destroyed or hidden, I have no idea. But under any circumstance, you cannot let this evidence be exposed to the jury. At the same time, Victor, and I tell you this as a friend, you have good reason to be worried about Ms. Derringer.”

“Whit, you need to tell me more.”

“Between the desire and the spasm, between the potency and the existence, between the essence and the descent, falls the Shadow.”

“Whit, what are you trying to say?”

“I’m answering your question as best I can, within the bounds of my duty. You asked me if François was a creep. And what I’m saying is that you can’t imagine the half of it.”