Magic Hour (30 page)
"You know, you can read all the stupid mysteries you want, but you're still a total ignoramus when it comes to homicide."
"How did she get from the set in East Hampton—without being seen—to Sandy Court?"
"I'll figure it out."
"How?"
"What are you, her goddamn defense lawyer?"
"And even assuming she knows something about a rifle, beyond holding it right so she looks like she knows how to shoot, where would she have gotten the weapon?"
"In a gun store, you jerk."
"You have to register in
"They have to record the sale of rifles. But she'd give a false name."
"And the gun store owner wouldn't recognize her and be overjoyed that Lindsay Keefe had bought a .22 from him? He wouldn't tell the world? Tell the police?"
"She's an actress," I insisted. "Do you think she'd walk in with blond hair and tits, or would she disguise herself—maybe in one of Nick Monteleone's wigs?"
"Where would she have hidden a rifle? Under the bed she was sharing with Sy? In Mrs. Robertson's cookie jar?"
I got up. "Anything else?"
"Don't get angry just because I don't agree with you. Listen: I used to be a pretty good shot. My dad gave me a Martin for my twelfth birthday, and I went hunting with him and my brothers on and off for the next six years. If I had to shoot someone through the head from what ... fifty feet?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, if I decided on the spur of the moment to blast Sy, could I get him in the first round? Maybe. If I'd planned a murder, took target practice, I'd say I'd have had a good chance. But to think someone like Lindsay—who had a couple of hours of instruction with some sex-crazed white hunter she'd been sleeping with—is going to be able to fire two bullets into Sy and score bull's-eyes both times, then you should hang up that gut you trust and go into another business."
I didn't say good night. I didn't say anything. I just stalked out of the room.
This is why I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep: The gallon of coffee I'd drunk during the day. My fears about Bonnie. Fear one: The case against her was unraveling, but the sideburnless, crew-cut, pink-faced assistant D.A., who looked like a cross between a pig and a Ku Klux Klan grand kleagle, might still be able to get an indictment and then a conviction. Fear two: Bonnie, knowing her own innocence (or her own guilt), would steal out of the house during the night, and none of us would ever see her again. Fear three: She'd slip into my bedroom, and I'd have to reject her. Fear four: Knowing I'd never be able to reject her, Bonnie would slip into my bedroom, keep me at it the whole night, then use her hold over me, get me to build a case against someone—anyone—else. Fear five: Bonnie Bernstein Spencer was a killer, whose rage was surpassed only by her coolheadedness and coldbloodedness. The girl with the great smile was a criminal genius, who would always be one step ahead of the smartest cop. Fear six: Bonnie was what she seemed to be, a good and smart and thoroughly decent human being. If I did manage to prove her innocent, she would spend the rest of her life alone, without ever having had someone to love her.
Also, I couldn't sleep because of the dry tickle in the back of my throat, and I couldn't shake the memory of how an icy, malty beer could soothe it.
And I couldn't sleep because I sensed this case was crucial, a turning point in my life. Was it that the crime had been perpetrated on home ground, the South Fork? Was it the coincidence that the victim and I, two men of the world, had used (or been used by) the same woman? Was it some cockeyed sense of Brady family honor, that this case couldn't wind up in an Open Investigation file drawer; I had to come through for Sy because he had come through for my brother? Or was I wide awake simply because this would be my last homicide investigation as a free man, unencumbered by husbandly obligations? Soon I would have to be someplace at five-thirty. To choose among swatches for our upholstery. To install our energy-efficient room air conditioner-dehumidifier. To set up the barbecue for the swordfish steaks we'd serve when Sister Marie, the principal of Lynne's school, came to dinner. To umpire our Little Leaguer's Little League game.
Forget sleep. I couldn't even rest. The coffee sloshed around in my stomach, and I felt sick, disoriented, frightened, the way a kid feels in a small boat on a rough sea when he loses sight of land. I lay in bed, worrying whether I should leave my bedroom door the way it was, half open, so I could hear if Bonnie made a move to escape, or whether to close it, lock out the possibility of a silhouetted figure whispering "Are you asleep?"
I kept flipping from my side to my back around to my other side, trying to get my stomach to calm down. But all that happened was I wound up so mummified in the sheet I had to get up and unwrap myself. Then I lay back down and stared at the dark rectangle of ceiling. I couldn't get my motor to stop racing.
Another reason for insomnia: Somewhere along the way, as I'd been following the Spencer case, had there been a signal I'd missed, a sign I should have read?
In the stillness, I heard my breathing, shallow, rapid. God, did I feel lousy. My neck and left shoulder were horribly sore, as though I had been punched again and again. The left side of my head began to throb. I tried to recall the relaxation technique they'd taught us at South Oaks, but I forgot whether you inhaled through your nose and exhaled through your mouth, or vice versa.
A stab of pain shot down my arm. My heart raced. I put my hand against my chest; my skin was clammy. The nausea wouldn't go away. A coronary? No, exhaustion.
No, a stroke. I kneaded my upper arm. The pain was receding, but the triceps felt almost numb. God, could this actually be a stroke? I thought: By the time I get up the courage to cry out for Bonnie, it'll be too late. All I'll be able to do is dribble and make mewing-kitten noises.
Just then, instead of falling into a coma, I fell sound asleep. It was such a deep, dreamless sleep that when I woke up and it was still dark, I thought: Holy shit, I slept the clock around. But then I propped myself up on my elbow and looked at the green gleam of the clock: three forty-six.
I performed my customary back-to-sleep ritual. I turned my pillow over and puffed it up into a mountain, fluffed out the sheet, turned the clock facedown to hide its garish, Emerald City glow. No good. I was wide awake.
I knew what had woken me. I wanted Bonnie.
Moonlight slipped past the curled edges of the shades, and the white walls of the pineapple room gleamed. I heard a rhythmic thumping, but it was only Moose's big tail slapping against the wood floor, applauding the prospect of unexpected fellowship. Bonnie stirred for a second, but the happy tail thump was obviously a familiar, comforting night sound. She curled back up, fast asleep.
I could have walked away right then. It would have been easy. Nothing to tempt me: no languorous arm draped across the narrow single bed, no naked leg or bare hip to tantalize. The only part of her not covered by the plaid blanket was her head.
But on the chair were the sweats I'd lent her, neatly folded, and dropped on the floor near the bed, less neatly, her own T-shirt. And the thin band of sheer white that was her underpants. That did it.
I sat on the edge of the bed, kissed her hair, whispered her name. She raised her head, opened her eyes. No fluttery eyelashes and pseudo-dopey where-am-I? looks. Bonnie knew. "What do you want?"
"To visit." I flashed what I hoped was a devil-may-care smile. Charm wasn't doing it, though. There was no smile back. I drew aside the blanket. She was naked. "See? You knew I was coming. You got all dressed up for me." I lay down on the bed beside her. In the moonlight, the slender strips of white where a two-piece bathing suit had prevented a tan shone with a pearly luster, like the inside of a sea-shell. "A host has an obligation to entertain his guest." I kissed her cheek, her mouth, the demarcation line between her dark chest and white breasts. I was soft and gentle, demonstrating: I'm not just out for nooky. See? I've got finesse. Style. Technique.
Bonnie didn't arch her neck, or murmur a sophisticated that feels marvelous. No, she smoothed my hair off my forehead, away from my temples. It was such a loving gesture, and so soothing, that it caught me off guard. I stopped the casual kissing. I reached for her hand, but she kept it to herself.
"Tell me," she whispered. "Does this visit mean something?" Direct words, forthright gaze. Give me the truth, they said. Total bullshit: I knew I could tell her whatever I wanted to tell her. She was so goddamn gullible. "Or are you here ... is it just for tonight?"
She made it so much harder on herself. Why couldn't she simply pretend it didn't matter to her? She all but walked through life wearing a sandwich board that said big mouth but completely vulnerable in huge red letters. What can you say to someone like that?
"Just for tonight, Bonnie." We lay side by side, barely apart. If either of us had taken a deep breath, skin would have grazed skin.
"Another one-night stand? That's all you want for us?"
I closed my eyes because I felt tears. "Yeah."
"Can't offer me anything better?"
"No."
"Does it make any difference that I love you?"
"No, it doesn't." Before I could tell her how sorry I was, she pressed her fingers against my lips.
"Let me cut you off at the pass," she said. "Don't say I'm sorry. Not that you would. Apologizing for not being able to love me ... Well, that would be cheap, and you're not cheap."
"Neither are you."
"I know." She shifted that fraction of an inch so we were touching. I ran my hands over the whole length of her body. She was silky, sleep-warmed. I couldn't believe the softness of her.
"Wait. Listen to me," she said. "Here are my one-night-stand rules. You can't say 'You're beautiful.' You can't say 'You're a truly fine person.' " She paused. "And you can't say 'I love you.' Other than that, anything goes."
She put her arms around me and guided me on top of her. Slowly, as if we had weeks, years, all the time in the world, she let her fingers drift down my back, over my ass, and then between my legs. I was so overwhelmed by finally being able to touch her again, kiss her, that I felt I was going to lose it.
I did. Suddenly tears were drenching my face.
"Stephen, are you okay?"
"Yeah. Just over-something. Overtired. Overstimulated." Bonnie wiped my cheeks with the sheet. It didn't help that she was so tender. I patted her hand, then pushed it away. "I'm okay. And listen, nobody calls me Stephen."
"You don't have to have sex with me if you don't want to, Stephen."
"Does it feel like I don't want to?"
"No, it feels downright enthusiastic. But it and you may be two distinct entities."
"Well, it and I want to make love to you."
So we did.
Afterwards, I brought her into my bedroom, and before we slept, we made love again. My memory of our other night, five summers before, did not begin to do her justice. I had remembered the passion; I had forgotten the sweetness.
Except this time there were rules: Bonnie's Rules of Play for the One-Night Stand. No You're beautiful. No You're a truly fine person. No I love you. The whole time we were making love, and after, just lying there, talking softly about nothing much, I wanted more than moans, cries, animal grunts, sighs, inane sweet nothings. But all I could think of to say were the no-nos, words of love and admiration. I thought: Well, she's certainly mastered the fine points of the game; only an ace at one-night stands could anticipate the need for such rules.
I had to play fair. I didn't want her to think I was cheap. So I didn't call out, I love you. But I tried to show her.
When we finally fell asleep, my head was resting against hers on the pillow. I held both her hands tight in mine, close against my heart.
Magic hour.
Bonnie had made the bed while I took Moose for a run, but she'd folded the sheet over the top of the blanket, and there was too much sheet showing, so when she went into the shower, I fixed it. She spotted it right away. "You remade the bed."
"It wasn't right."
"You're not supposed to care about order. It's not masculine." She was sitting on the bed in her shorts and one of my undershirts. She gripped the mug of coffee the way a guy does; she didn't use the handle the way a woman is supposed to. "Order is feminine," she announced. "Chaos is masculine."
"After last night you're telling me I'm not masculine?"
"Don't you ever go to movies?" She held up her hands and positioned her thumbs at right angles to her outstretched fingers, like a director framing a shot. " 'camera tracks into cop's bedroom. Total chaos. Suspiciously gray sheet half-off mattress. Close on night table, where we see gun, empty whiskey bottle, crumpled papers, remains of last week's Chinese takeout and overflowing ashtray.' So how come you're neat?"
"Good cops are organized. I like things under control. The real question is: Why are you such a slob?"
"What are you talking about? I'm not a slob."
I laughed. "Give me a break, Bonnie. I executed a search warrant. You don't pair your socks. You just throw them into a drawer, along with your bras, which look like a pile of spaghetti. Your teaspoons and tablespoons are all mixed up. Oh, and your papers aren't in alphabetical order; they don't make any sense."
"Neatness doesn't count. Cleanness counts."
"You haven't thrown out a magazine or a paperback in ten years. What kind of person keeps a
TV Guide
from 1982?"
"Obviously not your kind of person." Well, there it was. Ever since we'd woken up, a little before six, Bonnie had been withdrawing from me. Not the injured-female bit, with cold, clipped responses to my questions. No, Bonnie was all thumbs-in-the-belt-loops, howdy-partner friendly: Gee, OJ and raisin bran would be terrific. Thanks. Of course she understood she had to stay in the bedroom once I went out, that the windows in the main room weren't covered and on the off chance someone dropped by ... And sure she'd be glad to tell me anything more I wanted to know about Sy. Discuss the whole case? You bet!
She could have been anyone I'd put up for the night—a visiting cop, someone grateful for bed and breakfast, a cheerful, outgoing kind of guy. When she'd finished the last spoonful of milk and put the cereal bowl back on the storm window I'd used as a tray because I didn't have a tray, she'd smiled and said, real chipper: You know what's good about you? Your cereal is crisp. I can never keep things from sogging up out here. Back in Ogden, you can keep Cheerios for
decades
.
"Bonnie, let's clear the air."
She smiled a TV weathergirl smile: much too many teeth. "The air's clear." She reached over and picked up my clock; it was still facedown. "Look, it's almost seven. The night's over. The sun's shining." Her smile faded. Her lips pursed together, serious, prim. "It's time to work."
But I kept at it. "I'm not much of a bargain, you know."
"I know."
"Something's missing. I'm defective." No argument, no agreement. She sat silently, with too-perfect posture. "The thing is, with Lynne I have a chance of coming closer to having a normal life than I ever thought I could." I waited for Bonnie to cry out: But do you love her? What about me?
She said: "Let's talk about motive."
"It's not that I don't care about you. You know I do."
"I'm sure every single person in the
Starry Night
crew had some grudge against Sy."
"Bonnie, if we talk, it'll make it easier for you."
"Sy cheated people on money, he lied to them about opening credits, he humiliated them in front of fifty people. So there are seventy, eighty people right there in East Hampton who you'd think had a motive to kill him. And another five or six hundred people he'd hurt or insulted over the years. What do you do in a case like this, where the murder victim is an SOB?"
I'd only been trying to help her. But if she wanted to work, I'd work. "You look for real injury," I explained. "Was there anyone Sy really harmed, or was about to harm? Not just hurt feelings, where someone might say, 'I hope Sy Spencer dies.' I'm talking damage that could destroy someone's life. So that's the main thing; you look for serious grievances. You rule out people who are just pissed. Pissed doesn't count. With one exception. Nut jobs. Maybe Sy promised some actor star billing three movies ago and the guy wound up with his name at the tail end of the movie, next to something like best boy. A normal guy would forget it. A nut job could have spent two, three years plotting revenge."
