Slice (26 page)

S
IXTY-ONE

“
O
h my God,” Jessie said into the phone. “That's . . . horrible.”

Aunt Paulette stood behind her, her hands clasped in front of her chest as Jessie hung up.

“More bad news?”

“It was Mrs. Gorin.” Jessie looked at her. “A friend of hers has a police scanner. It seems Detective Wolfowitz has been murdered.”

“Dear God!”

“You were right, Aunt Paulette,” Jessie said, gripping the counter to steady herself. “It's Emil. He's alive. It must be him doing this.”

A rap on the back door startled them. Standing under two big black umbrellas were a man and a woman. Jessie recognized the man as Detective Knotts, Wolfowitz's partner. The woman she didn't know.

She let them inside. Chief Walters introduced herself.

“I just heard about Detective Wolfowitz,” Jessie said.

The chief looked surprised. “How did you hear?”

“From Mrs. Gorin, across the street.”

Chief Walters gave her a weary smile. “The town crier.”

Jessie returned a smile that was equally tepid. “She does seem to know things before anyone else.”

“Well, it's true,” the chief said, confirming Gert's report. “And like the others, his throat was cut.”

“Then it has to be Emil,” Jessie said, her voice breaking. Aunt Paulette put her arm around her. Outside a sudden gust of wind and rain slapped against the side of the house.

“What do you mean,” Chief Walters asked, “it has to be Emil?”

“My aunt thought she saw him last night in town,” Jessie said.

“Emil Deetz?” The chief made a face. “He was shot by police in Mexico.”

“It was him,” Aunt Paulette said. “The more I think about it, I'm certain.”

The chief nodded, taking the information in. “Ms. Drew,” she said to Aunt Paulette, “would you give Detective Knotts a full statement to that effect?”

“Certainly.”

Knotts took her aside, where they sat on the couch in the living room. Withdrawing his notebook from inside his jacket, the detective began taking notes as Aunt Paulette related the story of seeing a man near Monica's car last night outside the community center. “He was tall and dark and frightening,” Aunt Paulette said. “Just the way Emil always seemed to me.”

Meanwhile, the chief continued her questioning of Jessie in the kitchen.

“I understand that Mr. Manning was here last night around six-thirty,” she said.

Jessie looked at her sharply. “So you're still considering him a suspect?”

“I consider everyone a suspect, Ms. Clarkson. A police officer was murdered last night. A police officer who was on the trail of what is now obviously a serial killer. One of those people he was talking to was Mr. John Manning.”

“But John didn't do it. I tell you, the only explanation for any of this is Emil.”

“Was Mr. Manning here last night around six-thirty ?” the chief repeated deliberately, her fierce blue eyes shining out at Jessie from her round face framed by her helmet of iron-gray hair.

“Yes, he was,” Jessie replied.

“How long did he stay?”

“Maybe half an hour, forty minutes.”

“What was he doing here?”

Jessie didn't want to go into detail about the incident with Bryan. She had hoped to keep the police out of it, and go directly to Heather. But it was clear that Chief Walters had already spoken with John. He may have told them everything. It wouldn't do any good for Jessie to sidestep the issue now.

“There was a . . . scuffle,” she said. “Did John tell you?”

“Why don't you tell me in your words?”

“Bryan Pierce was here.”

The chief lifted her eyebrows. “Bryan Pierce. Your neighbor.”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing here?”

“He was drunk.” Jessie sighed. “Look, he has two little kids. I don't want to cause a scandal that will hurt them in any way.”

“Please tell me what happened, Ms. Clarkson.”

“He came here and got . . . aggressive.”

“What do you mean by aggressive?”

“He was . . . trying to force himself on me.”

The chief 's eyes hardened. “He tried to rape you.”

“I don't know if he would have gone that far, but . . .”

“Ms. Clarkson, do I understand you weren't planning to report an attempted rape?”

“I don't want to hurt his kids.”

Walters's eyes lifted toward the damage in the other room. “Did Pierce do that?”

“Yes,” Jessie said. “I wouldn't let him in after he accosted me on the porch.”

“The man needs to be arrested, Ms. Clarkson.”

Jessie knew she was right, but she couldn't bear to bring such anguish to his family. “I thought if I just called his wife . . . He has two kids. . . .”

The chief sighed. “I encourage you to press charges. Please think about it. But for now, please go back to explaining John Manning's part in this.”

“Well, John came to my rescue. He had heard the sound of shouting and breaking glass, and he rushed over, and took hold of Bryan and pushed him off the porch. He told Bryan to get the hell out of here, and Bryan turned and ran.”

Chief Walters nodded, as if this was information she hadn't expected to hear about John Manning. “I see,” she said. “And then he stayed for about half an hour, or forty minutes?”

“About that, yes.”

“Tell me, Ms. Clarkson. Are you and Mr. Manning lovers?”

Jessie's jaw dropped. “Excuse me, that is none of—”

“I'm investigating a murder. I have to ask questions.”

“No, we're not!” Jessie said indignantly. “We are just friends!”

“How long have you known each other?”

“Just since I moved back here. A couple of months.”

“And what made you friends?”

“Everything that's been happening. Inga's death. Mrs. Whitman's death. John came by several times to offer his help to me, his support. . . .”

“Would you say he was trying to win you over?”

Jessie felt the anger surge up inside her again. “Win me over? What are you implying? Win me over for what?”

“I don't know. Do you have any idea?”

“He was just trying to be my friend!”

“Why would he want to be your friend?”

Jessie laughed indignantly. “Why wouldn't he want to be?”

“Did you know Mr. Manning is writing a book about Emil Deetz and the murder of Screech Solek?”

The question at first seemed to bounce off of Jessie like a rubber ball. It didn't penetrate her brain. She looked at the chief with uncomprehending eyes for several seconds before it finally seeped in.

“Writing . . . a book?” Jessie asked.

“So he was right,” the chief said. “You didn't know.”

“That's crazy,” Jessie said.

“He told me himself. It explains why he kept a dossier on Deetz. Our detectives found it when they searched his house.”

“Well, if he's writing a book about the case, it must be just an idea that came to him in the last few weeks,” Jessie said, trying to rationalize the information she had just received.

“Nope. From the looks of the manuscript we read on his computer, he's been working on this project for at least a couple of years. Seems he's known about Emil Deetz and Screech Solek and their drug trade—and
you
—for some time now.”

Jessie didn't know what to say. She just stood there, trying to process the information, but found she could not.

“Okay, Chief, I've got the statement,” Knotts said, coming up behind her. “I'm going to put out an all-points bulletin to be on the lookout for Deetz. We also need to contact the FBI, since they're the ones who reported to us that he'd been killed in Mexico.”

Walters nodded. “Thank you, Ms. Clarkson. Thank you, Ms. Drew. That will be all for now.” She headed toward the back door, then turned around again. “I'd suggest a security system be put in place here.”

“We've already planned for that,” Aunt Paulette said. “They'll be here tomorrow to install it. And as soon as the rain lets up, my nephew-in-law will be here to fix the window and the door.”

The chief nodded, then turned to look back at Jessie. “I really urge you to press charges against Mr. Pierce. He's a danger. If he tried something like that with you, he'll try it with another woman.”

Jessie just nodded slowly, still stunned by the news that John was writing a book. A book about Emil.

Was that why he was interested in her? To get information for his book?

S
IXTY-TWO

I
n the police car, the rain assaulting the roof like machine-gun fire, Knotts lifted the phone to call in the report about Emil Deetz.

“Wait one second,” the chief told him.

Knotts looked over at her.

“We definitely need to be on the lookout for Deetz, and we need to follow up with the FBI, but let's remember something about Paulette Drew.”

“What's that?”

“She's a bit of a fruitcake.”

Knott's eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“She's got an ad in some of the alternative-type newspapers calling herself ‘Madame Paulette.' She reads tarot cards and predicts fortunes.”

Knotts laughed. “I take it you don't believe in all that stuff.”

Walters gave him an eye roll. “About ten years ago, I went over to Madame Paulette's cottage with my daughter Emma, kind of as a lark. I'm sure she didn't remember me—it was just a brief visit. But Emma was applying to colleges, and she wanted to ask Madame if she'd get in to any of them. Madame did a lot of hocus pocus with her cards and laying her hands on Emma's forehead. Finally she told Emma that she'd get in to all of the schools she'd applied to except for her top choice, but that in the end, that would be for the best, because her top choice wasn't going to the best place for her. Well, Emma's top choice was Wesleyan, and she was accepted just days after Madame's dire prediction. Four years later, Emma graduated at the top of her class.” The chief smirked. “So much for Paulette Drew's reliability as a witness.”

“So maybe I ought to wait before calling in the report about Deetz?”

“No, call it in. We can't take that chance. But let's just remember who we're dealing with here.”

“You still thinking it's Manning? Wolfie was sure it was Manning.”

Belinda Walters sighed, looking out of the watery window in the direction of John Manning's mansion. “I don't know,” she said quietly. “So many things just don't add up.” She looked back over at Knotts. “But we'll do the math eventually. I promise you that, Knotts. Now, go ahead and call in your report.”

S
IXTY-THREE

“
Y
ou just say the word, Jessie,” Todd was telling her, “and I'll go over to that fucker's house and bash his brains in.”

If Todd had disliked Bryan Pierce before, now he loathed him. As he slid a sheet of glass into the wood frame of the window—his father had been a carpenter, so Todd possessed the know-how to do such things—he couldn't get what had happened here last night off his mind. He wished he'd been around, wished he hadn't been kept late in the city, wished it hadn't been that devious, untrustworthy John Manning who'd rushed over to Jessie's defense. In some ways, that was the worst thing of all.

“No,” Jessie was saying. “Let's just let the matter drop. I called Heather. I told her everything. Let her deal with it.”

“What did Heather say?”

“Not much. She just listened and then said, ‘Oh.' ”

Todd's eyebrows shot up. “Just, ‘Oh'?”

Jessie nodded. “When I told her that I didn't want to get the police involved for her kids' sake, she said, “Thanks for that, at least.' Then she hung up the phone on me.”

“What a bitch.”

Todd stood back and made sure the pane of glass was even and sturdy. Satisfied, he moved on to the door.

“I just wish I'd been here,” he grumbled. Jessie had brought a bottle of beer out to him on the porch and he took a swig. “I wish I'd been able to take a crack at Bryan myself.”

“I'm just glad it's over,” Jessie said, wrapping her arms around her torso and hugging herself.

Despite the fact that the rain had let up, fading into a foggy mist, the day was still cold and very, very damp. It seemed winter was coming earlier than ever this year. The torrential downpours had blasted most of the remaining leaves off the branches of the trees, whose gray skeletal arms now stood shrouded by the mist.

“I really appreciate you helping me out, Todd,” Jessie said, smiling over at her brother-in-law.

He turned and looked at her. “Well, I couldn't very well just leave you and Abby up here with plastic covering your windows this time of year.”

Jessie's smile broadened. “You've been so wonderful right from the moment I moved back home.”

Todd felt the emotion in his chest expand. “Jessie, you know I have only ever wanted the best for you. . . .”

Her smile turned a little sassy. “Always? Oh, I think there was a time you were quite fed up with me, like everyone else. And I can't blame you for that.”

Todd set down the bottle of beer and took a step toward Jessie. “I was wrong to be impatient with you. I didn't know what you were going through. It's never been your fault, Jessie. Like last night. You've always had assholes making your life difficult. And I can't deny that I wish it was me who'd slugged Bryan, and not that goddamn John Manning. . . .”

“Please,” Jessie said, cutting him off. “Don't bring him up.”

“Bryan? Or Manning?”

Jessie moved away, standing on the top step of the porch, looking out into the foggy front yard. “Either of them,” she said.

Todd was immediately behind her. “Why? Did Manning do something obnoxious too?”

“Not last night. He was terrific last night.” Jessie turned to face him. “But the policewoman who came here this morning to tell me about Detective Wolfowitz also told me something about John.”

“What did she tell you?”

“He's writing a book about Emil and his crimes! That's why he's been so interested in me . . . and no doubt it's why he bought the property next door!”

“Why, that son of a bitch . . .”

“We had become friends,” Jessie said, and Todd was surprised to see tears well in her eyes, tears that she successfully fought back and which never fell down her cheeks. “But he was just trying to get information. That's the only thing I can think now, because otherwise he would have told me right away.”

“A friendship can't be built on a lie,” Todd told her, and impulsively he took her hands in his. Jessie's eyes flickered up to look directly at him. “You deserve better than that, babe. You really do.”

He used to call her babe when they had dated, back in high school.

“I wish you and I had spoken about what happened when we were kids, about why we broke up,” Todd said, his voice thick with feeling. “All these years, we've never said anything. . . . I've honored your wish. . . .”

“Oh, Todd,” Jessie said. “It was ages ago. We were just teenagers. It doesn't matter. It's all water under the bridge.”

“No, no, you need to know,” he said, squeezing her hands. “I care about you, Jessie. I always have! I never stopped!”

Without even thinking about it, he embraced her.

“If Monica hadn't become pregnant, you know I wouldn't have left you,” he said, his lips near her ear. “You know that, don't you? I only did what I thought I should.”

He felt Jessie stiffen in his arms.

“Monica . . . ?” Jessie's voice was very soft. “Pregnant?”

Todd broke the embrace and stepped back to look Jessie in the face. “Yes,” he said. “You know, after that night . . . and then, you told Monica that we should be together for the baby's sake. I know you said that I should never, ever mention the subject again, that you never wanted to hear about it again, and I've respected that, but I had to say something. I felt you needed to know that I would never have left you—”

“Monica . . . was
pregnant
?”

Jessie backed away from him, a horrified look on her face.

“Yes,” Todd said, confused. “You know, back in high school . . .”

“Then . . . that was why . . . you went with her?”

“Yes,” he said. “That's what I'm trying to tell you. . . .”

“You had sex with Monica!”

Todd didn't understand, but then, all at once, it hit him.

Monica had lied to him.

She had never told Jessie that she'd been pregnant.

And if she had lied about that . . . what else might she have lied about?

Todd stood frozen in place, just staring at Jessie.

“I think you ought to go home now,” Jessie said at last. “I can get a carpenter to finish the door.”

“What?” Todd snapped out of his daze. “Jessie, no, listen, I thought you knew. . . . Monica said she told you. . . .”

“A moment ago, Todd, I said that all this was water under the bridge. And maybe it is. But at the moment, I am just very, very weary of the lies men tell. Of the deceits that have seemed to follow me through life. I'd really like you to go.”

“But, please, Jessie, let me explain. . . .”

“I said go!”

He saw the anger in her eyes.

“Okay,” he said. “I'm sorry, Jessie. It just happened. And I thought you knew. And I wanted you to know that if it
hadn't
happened . . .”

His words trailed off.

Maybe, in fact, it hadn't.

“Don't say any more, Todd,” Jessie said, turning around to head back inside the house. “Please don't say any more.”

“I will come back,” he promised. “I'll finish this door!”

Jessie just closed the door in his face, the plastic covering the broken glass rustling in the breeze.

Todd stood staring after her for several stunned seconds.

Then he turned, heading back down the steps, ready to confront his wife.