Magic Hour (18 page)
"What kind of lawyer are you?" I asked.
He smiled. Perfect, even white teeth, like Chiclets. "I specialize in real estate."
"Real estate," I repeated. "Must be busy, over in East Hampton."
"Let me tell you what you're thinking," Gideon said. "Okay?" I shrugged. "You're thinking: Oh, goody! I can send Bonnie Spencer up the river for life and that land-use faggot lawyer who represents her won't be able to do a thing except wave bye-bye as she goes." I sat back in my seat, trying to look astounded at such a ridiculous—no, prejudiced—notion. It was not all that easy since, basically, that was what had been going through my mind. "Well, that's not the way it's going to be, Brady. Let me tell you how it's going to be. If you're just toying with her, I would hope you'd be smart enough to stop right now. Before I make a scene in front of your superiors."
"You think I give a shit? Go ahead. Make a scene. The captain's in that office off the reception area."
"You should give a shit, don't you think?"
"No."
He paused for a second. "All right. If you sincerely think you have any kind of a case, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know. Because then I'd have to step out—and bring in Bill Paterno." I picked up a pen and twirled it between my palms; Paterno was the best criminal lawyer in
"Do you think Bonnie Spencer can afford Bill Paterno?" I asked, trying to sound casual, as though I didn't know how broke she was.
"No. But I can." Gideon put on a little-old-man Jewish accent. "I make a very nice living, tanks God, and have some vonderful inwestments." Then he added: "Bonnie is one of my dearest friends."
Well, it figured. I could see them. Giddie and Bonnie. He'd have her over to his place in East Hampton for Mexican beer and guacamole or whatever nouvelle hors d'oeuvre had replaced it, and they'd giggle and gossip and talk about James Stewart and Henry Fonda—or Share Deep Feelings.
"You can hire Paterno, Mr. Friedman. You can resurrect Clarence fucking Darrow. Bonnie's still going to have to take the tests. And then we've got her."
"Why? Because she told you she could shoot?
Please.
Girls in
"They hand out a .22 with every box of Kotex?"
"Where's the rifle?" he inquired. I said nothing. "Bonnie doesn't own a rifle. She doesn't have access to one." Gideon waited. "You don't have the murder weapon, do you?" I kept silent. "Why Bonnie? Why not Lindsay?"
"Lindsay?"
"Lindsay can shoot. You don't believe me? Go rent
Transvaal
. Bombastic dreck, but you'll see her with a rifle."
"She's an actress. Holding a rifle doesn't mean she can shoot it."
"Why not find out?"
"Mr. Friedman, we know where Lindsay Keefe was at the time of the murder."
"And?" he asked, lifting a nonexistent speck of lint off his tweedy sleeve. "Are you implying my client was anywhere
near
Sy Spencer's house?"
"Possibly."
"I don't believe you." I shrugged again. "Stop that shrugging!" he said. "It's very irritating. Now let's get serious. You don't want to torment this woman, do you? You just want to get her a little agitated. Well, you've done it. She is agitated to the extreme. Now why don't you let me know
why
you want the tests. Be big about it. Maybe I can recommend taking them—if it's not unreasonable, or damaging to her interests."
I thought about it. The only reason to let a suspect know what evidence you have is when you decide to short-circuit an investigation and go for a confession. I wasn't in that much of a rush; I could wait another twenty-four hours. I sensed there were still more leads to follow. And I had to cover my ass on the illegal search of Bonnie's house by getting a warrant and then "finding" the real estate listing and the money in her boot. Those two items would give the D.A.'s office more rope to hang her.
"You know," I said to Gideon, "the perpetrator was a very intelligent person. But not that intelligent. He or she"—Gideon made a sour face—"left so many loose ends we're still tripping all over them. The evidence box on this one is going to be so heavy the court clerk will need a goddamned moving van to bring it in. So what's the point of telling you what we have, when by this afternoon we'd have to give you a major update."
"You're playing poker," Gideon commented.
"Do me a favor, Mr. Friedman. Give your client a message for me. Tell her that if she did it, she should come in now. Maybe we can bring the matter to a conclusion that's mutually advantageous."
"Why won't you be decent? She's a truly good person. Why won't you give her the benefit of the doubt?"
"Let me continue. If she lets this thing play out, if she doesn't come forward with a confession, it's going to be harder for her."
"Tell me something," Gideon said. "Do you honestly think you can be objective about my client?" I didn't like the way he was eyeing me; I got a quick, bad, pukey feeling. Had he picked up something from me? Had Bonnie told him anything? But what could she tell him? That once I stood a little too close to her? That a couple of times she'd sensed a bulge under my clothes that wasn't my gun?
"Yeah, I can be objective. She's a lovely lady. Good sense of humor. Friendly. Personally, I think she's a sweetheart." Gideon listened, alert. "But she's a sweetheart with a mean streak."
"You're wrong."
"Hate to say it, but I'm right. You see, I think Bonnie got—what's the word?—piqued at Sy. She was lonely, divorced, poor, unsuccessful. And along came her ex. He winked, then fucked her a few times ... Hey, we know about that, even though she swears she didn't. She lies all the time. Anyhow, he fucked her. And then he told her goodbye. No companionship, no marriage, no money. Oh, and no movie. No nothing. So she blew him away."
"You don't really believe that."
"I do."
"You have no evidence."
"We've got plenty of evidence." I put my feet up on the desk. "I've got to tell you, I find homicidal behavior not worthy of a sweetheart. But what I think isn't important. The lady's going away. So be prepared. Maybe make her a nice bon voyage party."
Marian Robertson, Sy's cook, was being paid by the movie production company to remain on her job until Lindsay finished
Starry Night
. "Cook?" she sneered. "Lindsay Keefe needs a cook? Do you know what she eats? Fruit. All right, an occasional nut. No wonder she looks like a glass of milk. I sit here all day so that maybe, when she gets home, I can make her seven Crenshaw melon balls. What kind of person can live on melon balls?"
For a second I couldn't answer because my mouth was full. She'd insisted on making me bacon and eggs, to say nothing of a
"There are worse."
"Who?"
"Oh, the pushy ones. The braggarts. And the ones who come in two minutes before a dinner party for twenty and tell me they're on Pritikin. The ones who have to explain to a colored woman what
milles feuilles
is."
The marmalade was in a tiny white crock, like a souffle dish for midgets. I spooned some onto another muffin. "What about someone like Bonnie Spencer?" I asked. Marian Robertson started to gnaw on the inside of her cheek. "Remember Bonnie? Sy's ex-wife."
"Oh, of course! Nice girl." "Mrs. Robertson, this is very difficult for me. I've known you since I was a kid. I look up to you. I would hate to see you in trouble."
"Me?"
"Yes. We have physical evidence that Bonnie Spencer was in the house the afternoon of Sy's murder. Now, you can tell me you didn't know she was here, but sooner or later we're going to confront Bonnie with our evidence. And she may say something like: '...and that nice Mrs. Robertson, who knew me so well when I was married to Sy. She always made me my favorite ... whatever. Kumquat pudding. Well, Mrs. Robertson and I had a nice chat that afternoon.' And then you'd have a legal problem, because in your statement you said no one was here."
"More coffee?"
"Mrs. Robertson, withholding evidence, lying to the police—it's a crime."
Finally, she said: "You're barking up the wrong tree, Steve. Bonnie's as good as they come."
"If she's that good, why did you lie to protect her? Don't you think it would be better to let her goodness shine through?"
"If she wanted to tell you she was here, it was her business, not mine." She cleared the cream and the marmalade off the table. I was no longer a welcome guest.
"Was she here last Friday afternoon?" She took away the sugar bowl.
"Yes." Clipped. No, Steve, you're looking fine. No, You were the best shortstop the Bridgies ever had.
"Did you speak with her?"
"Just hello, how are you, and just a couple of minutes of catching up."
"Was it friendly? Did she kiss you hello? Did you make a fuss? 'Good to see you, Mrs. Spencer!' "
"I call her Bonnie. And I was glad to see her and she was glad to see me. I gave her a big hug. What are you going to do about that? Put me in the electric chair?"
"Mrs. Robertson, I'm just trying to get the feeling of the afternoon."
"The feeling was, Mr. Spencer must have gotten tired of Madame Melon Balls, because he actually brought Bonnie into the house. And he was smiling, happy to be with her—like the old days. And they didn't stay in the kitchen to chat. My guess is they had other fish to fry upstairs. But that was all right, because I got the feeling Bonnie would be back. Then we could catch up. I know her; Mr. Spencer would get busy on the phone, and she'd wander down to the kitchen and we'd have ourselves a good gabfest."
"I'd like the truth now. Were there any sounds of fighting coming from upstairs?"
"No."
"Any sounds of anything?"
"No. Listen to me. He wouldn't have gone out to the pool to relax and make his last-minute phone calls if Bonnie was still upstairs. Say what you will about him, his manners were perfect. It wasn't in his nature not to drive a lady home, or if she'd come on her own, escort her to her car. Believe me, after Bonnie and before Lindsay, there was quite a parade of women going upstairs to see his ocean view or whatever. He
always
said a proper goodbye."
"Then how come you didn't hear him escort her out?"
"I don't know. Maybe I was beating egg whites. Maybe I was powdering my nose."
"Did you hear Mr. Spencer come down and go out to the pool?" She did a cheek chew before she nodded. "And what about Bonnie? Did you hear her leave after he went outside?" She didn't answer. "Okay, between the time Bonnie went upstairs with Sy and the time you heard the shot, what precisely did you hear? Her voice? Her footsteps? The sound of her car?"
"She didn't kill him."
"What did you hear, Mrs. Robertson?"
"I didn't hear anything." She took away the muffins and my plate. "Does that make you happy, Steve?"
I knew the old saying was true: You don't remember pain. Physical pain, like in Vietnam, when some new kid from
I can recall thinking, when they joggled my shoulder as they put me on the stretcher to get me to the helicopter: I will not live through this flight because the pain will kill me. I truly cannot take it. I kept howling, "I want a priest!" Me, whose last confession pretty much coincided with my first communion. But I don't remember the pain itself.
And you don't remember emotional pain either.
Like being a seven-year-old kid playing ball and my father drives onto the field in some farmer's tractor he's doing day work for, and he cuts the engine, stopping between the pitcher's mound and first base, practically breaks his neck getting down and then grabs a bat out of the hands of one of my friends and insists on hitting a few.
More pain? Being a thirty-five-year-old and seeing my pal, my confidant, the only person I ever really spoke to outside work, the one person I thought to buy a Christmas card for—the guy who owned the liquor store—flash his wife a look of revulsion when I walked through the door.
You know all that pain and more occurred. Recalling it, you might feel sad or even cringe. But you do not remember the pain itself.
So when I rang Bonnie's bell and got no answer, and then ran to her garage to see if her car was missing, and then, finally, spotted her in her chicken-wired garden, picking vegetables, I almost laughed at the panic I'd felt, the horror, the stab in the gut—the pain—when I thought she'd gone. So what if she had? You do get over these things.
And when Moose barked a welcome and Bonnie looked up and saw me and shuddered—a violent, uncontrollable shiver of fear—I wanted to disappear, or die, it hurt so much. But I said to myself: I'll get over it.
She was squatting over a basket of eggplants. "What are you going to do with all those things?" I asked.
"Get out of here." Her voice was a hoarse whisper. She braced her hands on her knees and slowly, as if it were too much of an effort, pushed herself up. All her energy, all her fire, all her humor was gone.
"Look, I just want you to understand..." What was I going to say? Nothing personal. "You lied, Bonnie."
She walked out of the garden, leaving the eggplants, a plastic bucket full of tomatoes, Moose—everything—behind. She headed toward the house, awkwardly, without any of her great jock grace, as if she'd lost her center of gravity. I followed her. "We have a neighbor who can not only identify Sy's car as being here every day the week he died, but who can identify Sy himself. I mean, we can place you with him enough times ... Why did you lie about a thing like that?"
