Murder 101 (21 page)

I shook my head. “Friend.”

She dropped his wrist and went to the bottom of the bed to take the chart off the hook on the bed frame. She noted his vital statistics. “Five minutes,” she said.

“Do you think he’ll recover?” I asked.

“Don’t know,” she said noncommittally. “The first twenty-four hours after an injury like this and surgery are really critical.”

“So I’ve heard,” I whispered.

She surprised me and put her hand on my shoulder before she left. “He’s got kids,” she said. “Clean up before they get here. I’ll give you scrubs.”

I nodded to her back; she was already out of the room before I understood what she meant. I turned back to the bed.

His skin had a ghostly pallor except for the ring of yellow around his shoulder and chest. I turned and looked out the window of the room, but Wyatt had turned his back to the room. I inched closer to the top of the bed. I put my hand on his forehead; it was hot to the touch. His eyelids fluttered slightly, but his eyes didn’t open. I wondered if I would ever see his eyes open again.

I leaned over, kissed his cheek, and laid a hand on his hair. “I’ll see you later. I’m going for a ride in a cruiser.” No response. “You were right about one thing: they do cut your pants off.”

I thought I saw his eyes move slightly under his closed lids, but they never opened.

“But I protected you from the emergency tracheotomy.”

I moved my hand to his cheek and kept it there, leaning down to kiss him after a few minutes.

I left the room; Wyatt was a few feet down the hall talking to Max. Like the little doctor, she had her neck craned at an uncomfortable angle, staring up at him. They both stopped talking when I joined them.

“I’m ready to go.”

Max took my hand and interlaced her fingers into mine.

Wyatt looked down at her and then at me. “I’ll call you if anything . . .” He paused. “. . . changes.”

I nodded and took Max’s hand, walking past the sober-faced cops clustered in front of the elevator. We got on and she pushed G to get us to the ground floor.

“I’m so sorry, Alison,” she said, and put her arm around my waist, pulling me close. “He’s going to be fine.”

“I hope so, Max.”

“Those big Irish ones have good genes. You can’t take them out that easily.”

“And you would know this how?” I asked, running a finger under each eye to wipe away runny makeup.

“He didn’t come into your life to leave this quickly.”

I hoped she was right.

Twenty-five

The phone rang off the hook most of the day, but no calls from Wyatt. Sister Mary,
the Journal News,
the
Daily News,
Max, the president of the college. Kevin McManus. Not a word from Ray.

After going through the day in a semistupor, I decided to take off my clothes and get back into bed at four in the afternoon, wearing only my underpants and the huge NYPD T-shirt that Crawford had given me. I held the bottom of it to my nose, hoping for a whiff of the clean-laundry scent, but all I could smell was eau de cranky cop. I drifted off into a restless unconsciousness and was awakened at six in the evening by the ringing of the phone next to my bed. I picked it up, groggy and still mostly asleep.

It was Wyatt. “He’s awake.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“But he’s got a hundred and three temperature, so he’s isolated. He wanted me to call you.”

I started crying. “Thank you, Detective.”

“Call me Fred,” he said.

I used Max’s line. “Is that your name or just what you want me to call you?”

“Has anyone ever told you what a funny lady you are?”

I wiped my nose on his T-shirt and thought for a moment. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“They’ve got visitation restricted to immediate family, but when you get to the main admissions area, tell them that Dr. Chin has given you clearance.”

“Thank you, Fred,” I said. He paused for a moment, and I didn’t know whether or not we were done. “Fred?”

He let out a breath. I waited. “Bye,” he finally said, and hung up.

Max had dropped me off the night before and left her car, calling a car service to pick her up and take her home. “You may need transportation,” she said, as we stood at the bottom of my stairs, waiting for the car to pick her up. She put the keys in my hand.

I jumped out of bed and into the shower. When I was awake and clean, I put on jeans, a T-shirt, and a sweater. I pulled on sneakers and ran a comb through my wet hair before I headed out the front door.

The trip to Mercy took thirty minutes. I went through the main entrance and gave them Crawford’s name. An older woman, wearing a pink smock and a badge that said, “June, Volunteer,” sized me up as she peered at the computer screen that listed all the patients’ names and room numbers. She got to Crawford’s name. “Immediate family?”

“Dr. Chin has given me clearance.” I looked around, tapping my foot nervously on the floor.

Behind her bifocals, her eyes narrowed. “There’re already three up there.”

I smiled, hoping to disarm her.

She let out a long breath. “All right. Five minutes.” I started off. “Wait!” she called after me. She handed me a badge to clip to my sweater. “You have to wear this.”

I clipped it on. “Thanks, June.”

I ran down the hall and found the bank of elevators, pushing “4” when I entered. The door opened on the floor, and it was a different scene from the night before, with no cops in sight. I guess word had gotten out that he was going to survive; no vigils necessary. I headed in the same direction toward the room he had been in the night before.

A nurse behind the desk stopped me. “Crawford?” she asked.

I nodded.

“He’s in isolation.” She pointed to her left. “That way. You can only look through the window. There’re two in there already.”

I started down the hall, my badge jostling against my chest. I looked in every window until I saw him. He was in a room, plastic curtains around all four sides of the bed, with two young girls next to him on the outside of the bubble. He was still shirtless, and the wound was covered in the same thick gauze from the night before. His arm was in a sling.

The girls were on the side of the bed that faced the window to the hallway; one was standing and one was sitting. They were in full scrubs with masks, their hair covered. The one who was standing had Crawford’s face and build—she was six feet if she was an inch. The other one must have looked like her mother, because she had brown eyes and judging from the wisp of hair falling out of the side of the cap, black hair.

He looked up when he saw me and waved weakly, a strange look passing across his pale face.

I put my hand to the glass and pressed it there, smiling. He turned to the girls and said something. The one that looked like him looked at me and smiled, while the other one kept her full attention on him. He pointed at the tall one and mouthed “Meaghan,” and then to the short one: “Erin.”

A bank of chairs faced the room. I sat down, waiting to see if one or both of them would emerge from the room. I exceeded my June-imposed five minutes and sat for twenty.

A woman came down the hall toward me, holding a cup of coffee. She smiled and sat down next to me. She was smaller than I—about five-foot-five—and slim, with short black hair, a light complexion, and dark eyes. She had on a white T-shirt and jeans. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

She took the lid off her coffee and tested it with her finger to see how hot it was. “I’m sure this will be delicious,” she said, jokingly.

“I’ve had the coffee here, and it’s more akin to sludge than a beverage.”

She got up and went to the window, tapping on it gently. She motioned to the girls and mouthed to them, “Wrap it up in there.” She returned to her chair and sat down.

“My name is Alison Bergeron,” I said, offering my hand.

“Christine Crawford,” she said, accepting it.

“You came a long way,” I remarked, staring straight ahead at the window of his room. I figured with the last name “Crawford,” she was either his sister or his sister-in-law. I guessed sister because she resembled one of the women in one of the pictures I had seen at the beach.

“We’re in southern Connecticut, so it’s not that far.”

“Oh, Crawford said you lived in northern California.”

She turned to look at me. “Bobby’s sister lives in northern California.” She took a sip of her coffee and grimaced.

I got that feeling in my stomach that indicated something I didn’t want to hear was coming my way. “Then who are you?” I asked, laughing nervously.

She looked at me for a second before answering, as confused as I was. “I’m his wife.”

Twenty-six

The nuns at school went into full-blown novena mode every year prior to graduation, getting together and having group-prayer sessions at which they prayed for sun. On sunny graduation days, the ceremony was held on the great lawn, the majestic Hudson glimmering in the background behind the dais. When it rained, we had it in the auditorium, which was not quite as majestic; the auditorium was old, smelly, and badly in need of a complete renovation. As an added bonus, the chairs had an equivalent comfort level to concrete. With the river as a backdrop, the president of the college would speak, diplomas would be handed out, and the valedictorian would give his or her address (the old “believe in yourself” maxim usually being employed). Parents would smile, thinking, “I got my money’s worth.” Everyone was happy.

At six in the morning of graduation, bright sunshine was streaming in my window. It had rained lightly the night before, but the storm moved quickly, a mere sprinkle falling around the time I ate dinner.

It had almost been two weeks since I had last seen Crawford. Once I had met his wife, I had tried to leave the hospital gracefully; citing Volunteer June’s five-minute rule, I thought I got out of there pretty quickly and without making a scene. The sobs were a bubbling cauldron in my chest. Once in Max’s car, I let it all out. I cried and banged my head on the steering wheel, mad at myself for having allowed myself to develop any kind of feelings for him in the short time in which we had known each other. I vowed never to allow myself to be hurt again and put another layer of bricks and mortar on the wall around my heart. My anger was like a white-hot ball of steel that I had swallowed and that burned in my gut. I unleashed its heat on anyone who crossed my path, Max receiving the brunt of most of my rage. I was in a funk, and I wasn’t getting out of it anytime soon. The last time we spoke, she recounted with glee and sparkling insensitivity her first date with Detective Wyatt, which had been a success and which—unlike almost every other date Max had recently—hadn’t ended up in bed.

She finally took herself out of my way, telling me to call her when I was done being mad at Crawford. It had been a week since we last spoke.

Crawford had called me at home a total of twenty-seven times, but I didn’t answer the phone anymore. The voice mail on my cell phone became full of messages of his recorded voice. I only kept the most contrite and least pleading of them.

Considering everything that had happened over the last several weeks and how stupid I had been, I came to the conclusion that I had spent way too many years with my head in books, missing life’s little clues, missing what was right in front of me all the time. I had stayed married to a man who didn’t love me and lied to me with regularity, never mind his “sexual addiction” as he came to call it; I had carried the Shakespeare papers around for days, not realizing that they held the key to solving Kathy’s murder; I had put my full trust in Crawford, ignoring the fact that he remained closed to me, never telling me anything about himself—either who he was or how he felt. I guess I wasn’t as smart as I thought. Or, maybe I just knew a lot about James Joyce and nothing else.

What I did know now was that knowing a lot about James Joyce really didn’t do me a whole lot of good.

I got out of bed and opened my closet. A red-linen dress, sleeveless, very fitted, and knee-length, hung in a dry-cleaning bag. I took it out and removed the plastic, hanging the dress on the back of the door. I had hours until I needed to be at school, so I took a leisurely shower and shaved my legs, using the shower gel that I had bought on my last shopping trip with Max. Now I was an angry, depressed woman who smelled like coconuts.

Along with being incredibly angry, I never slept. I went to bed after midnight and was up at dawn. I ate only when I felt hungry; usually about every two days. I was thin and exhausted.

School had not been the same since the incident with Fiona in the office. Where it once pulsed with joy and excitement at this time of year, it was now dead. It was as if the heart of the school had been removed. Although classes continued and grades were assessed and recorded, nobody was the same. The student body was sad and subdued; all of the senior week activities were canceled in the wake of Fiona’s arrest. Sister Mary left me alone, accepting all of my grades via e-mail with nary a comment. Dottie eyed me suspiciously, waiting for me to either lash out or collapse in hysteria; we reached détente and greeted each other with a smile and a pleasant hello but left it at that. One day, she came into my office and gave me an awkward hug, but I managed not to break down until she had gone back to her desk. I saw a police cruiser parked outside every once in a while, and assumed it was Moriarty waiting for her.

Kevin stopped by every day and asked me if I wanted to talk. I didn’t.

I had the feeling that I was being watched, but I never actually saw Crawford. If he was doing surveillance, he had gotten a lot better at it.

I spent hours reliving every encounter and conversation that we’d had because if I knew anything, it was that liars don’t only lie about one thing. Lying is a habit for them, an epidemic. I came to the conclusion that he had used me to solve the case and nothing else. He had gotten close to me to see what I knew; he was no better than Peter Miceli, who at least had the decency to act in character and just kidnap me. I knew there had to be a reason why we had never slept together; turns out he wasn’t interested in me or attracted to me. That solved the riddle of why every time I had given him the opening, he had slept on the couch.

As I dressed for graduation, I thought about my recent trip to the City to buy my outfit: the red dress and a pair of red slingback pumps with a very high heel. They were Manolo Blahniks—very Max—and the price of them equaled the cost of two credits at my school. Although I had no plans for any postgraduation festivities for the first time since I had joined the faculty at St. Thomas, I had even had my hair cut and colored. I was single, and my best friend wasn’t speaking to me, but I looked fabulous.

I pulled the dress on over my head and attempted to get the zipper all the way up; the length of my arm wrapped around my back left me with a two-inch gap near my neck. I took a hanger and bent it, trying to hook the curved part into the zipper. After five minutes of effort and much sweating, I gave up. The zipper remained zipped up only three-quarters of the way.

I left my hair down, blowing it straight and spraying it until it was smooth. The layers had grown out to a point where I felt comfortable getting it all cut to one length; it was now shoulder-length and dark brown with auburn highlights. I put on my diamond earrings and a swipe of “Jennifer.”

So many events were taking place at school, I was back and forth every single day. I finally broke down and leased a car: a brand-new, black Volvo sedan that sat in my driveway, the spanking-new cousin of my old 240. Every time I looked at it, I felt sad. I took my pocket-book from the counter in the kitchen and made my way out to the car.

I pointed the key tag toward the car and unlocked the doors. An envelope sat on the windshield, my name scribbled across the front. I pulled it out from under the wiper and was about to open it when I heard a male voice say, “Hi, Alison.”

I looked up and saw Jackson standing on the other side of the hedgerow that separated our driveways. I shoved the envelope into my pocketbook. “Hi, Alison,” he repeated.

I wasn’t in the mood for chitchat and I wanted to get to school so that I could get a few things organized in my office before the summer started. I looked at him and didn’t respond.

“Nice car.” He looked uncomfortable. “Is it new?”

“Yes.” I stood on the driver’s side of the car, peering at him over the roof.

“Where are you going?”

“Graduation.” I opened the car door.

“You look nice.”

“Thanks.”

“She told me,” he blurted out. He blinked a few times as tears came to his eyes.

I looked at him, not caring. I put my elbows on top of the car and clasped my hands together.

“We’re working it out.”

“Good,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. His face went sad.

My eyes filled with tears; he was kind, and I was a bitch. “Me, too,” I said, and hastily got in the car, slamming and locking the door. I backed out of the driveway quickly and headed down the street, wiping my eyes on a balled-up tissue that was on the passenger’s seat. I was finding a lot of them around lately.

I got to school and parked behind the dorm next to my building. I took my pocketbook and walked the length of the parking lot to the back stairs, treading carefully on the unevenly spaced steps behind the building.

I let myself in by the back door and walked the short distance between the back door and the office area. It was early—about four hours before graduation—so nobody would be in the office for at least another two hours. I pulled the door open and entered, my thin heels making a clicking sound on the hardwood floors.

Crawford stood in front of my office and turned when I entered. I stopped at the end of the table where, just two weeks earlier, I had laid his head when he had lost consciousness. He turned and looked at me, a mixture of despair and confusion on his sad, handsome face.

His arm was still in a sling and he was a little thinner. His color was better than it had been in the hospital though, and his hair, slightly longer. He wasn’t wearing the sad face or even the really bad-news face; this was clearly the “I’m a shithead” face, and it became him at that moment. He had on baggy jeans and a Lavallette PD T-shirt, untucked. He was holding a paper bag. No gun, no badge.

I put my bag on the table. “Doing surveillance?”

He shrugged. “I’m awake, aren’t I?”

I pointed to his shirt. “Where’d you get the shirt?”

“Ted,” he said. “I went down to the shore for a few days. He left it in the mailbox for me after he read in the paper about what happened.” He smiled. “He left one for you, too.” He offered me the bag. I took it and opened it to find a light blue LPD T-shirt.

“I can add this to my collection of police-issue clothing,” I said, almost forgetting how angry I was. “Tell Ted I said thanks.”

“You look beautiful,” he said.

I looked down.

“You cut your hair.”

“You don’t miss a trick.”

“You’ve lost weight. When’s the last time you ate?”

“I had four frozen cannolis and two martinis on Tuesday,” I said, my tone cutting. He winced. I think I was madder than he expected me to be after two weeks.

“Graduation is today, right?” he asked.

I nodded.

“What time?”

I got angry. “One. What do you want, Crawford?”

“To find out why you never took any of my phone calls. To explain. To say I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I asked. “Lying? I don’t even want to hear it.” I headed toward my office, taking my keys out of my purse. The words were caught in my throat, but I managed to get out, “How could you?”

He looked down at me, and I almost felt sorry for him, but I pushed those feelings aside. I started crying, furious at myself for letting him see me lose control. “After everything I told you about Ray, and what he did to me, and how I felt, how could you?” I rooted around in my bag for one of the handy balled-up, used tissues, but I didn’t have one.

He handed me a neatly folded, pressed white handkerchief. “Here.”

I blew my nose loudly and handed it back to him. He laughed. “I don’t want it back.” He finally took it after I continued to hold it out; he put it in his pocket. “Can we go in your office?”

I opened the door and waved him in. He waited until I entered and then followed me in, closing the door. “Sit down,” I said.

“Your zipper isn’t all the way up.” He came up behind me and zipped up my dress. He let his hands fall onto my bare shoulders, but after a few seconds passed, and I didn’t turn around, he took his usual seat across from me. I sat behind the desk. It was my turn to ask questions. “Yes or no. Are you married?”

He let out a breath and went pale. “Yes.”

I caught a sob as it tried to escape from my throat by swallowing hard.

“Technically,” he amended.

I rolled my eyes. “That’s like being a little bit pregnant.” I went for the jugular. “You’re sounding like Ray.”

He closed his eyes and leaned forward in the chair, wincing as his bad arm caught the armrest. “I can explain.”

I looked at my watch. “You’ve got five minutes. Go.”

He put his good hand under the elbow in the sling. “We’re separated.”

“Oh, thank God,” I said, rolling my eyes in disbelief.

He ignored me and continued. “We separated six years ago. It just didn’t work out. She hated the job, the hours, the danger, and ended up hating me because I wouldn’t give it up.” He held his elbow, his right hand dangling uselessly in his lap. “That’s simplifying it. There’s more to it than that; I wouldn’t choose my job over a woman I loved.” He looked out the window, unable to meet my eye. “I moved out and left the girls with her. I knew I couldn’t raise them alone and do this job. We agreed to be friends and make it work for them. We were always better at being friends than we were at being married anyway.” He took his hand out of the sling. “A lawyer drew up an agreement, and we decided to share custody.”

“So, why didn’t he draw up divorce papers at the same time?” I asked, having a little familiarity with these things.

“He did. I have the divorce papers in my desk at home, but I never signed them. My wife . . . Christine wanted me to agree to an annulment.”

I looked at him.

“She wouldn’t give me a divorce unless I agreed to an annulment at the same time.”

An annulment in the Catholic Church basically gives you a “get out of marriage free” card; it certifies that your marriage was null and void. Never happened. The end. Regardless of whether or not there were children, who usually served as evidence that a marriage had happened. That was simplifying it, but that was the gist. Kevin later explained to me that the Church defines an annulment as the dissolution of a marriage between two people who were incapable of “informed consent” at the time of their union. I thought it was one of the most bogus aspects of the Church and even though receiving communion as a divorced Catholic could get me excommunicated, I didn’t give a rat’s ass and marched up to communion with all of the other sinners. I didn’t think the Vatican had its own police force to monitor these sorts of things.