Swan Dive - Jeremiah Healy (24 page)

"John, I don’t wanna seem rude or nothin’,
but I really gotta-"

"Chris, you said you saw Paul Troller at the
lawyer’s dinner the night I got hit."

He frowned at me. "That’s right, I did. What’s
that got to do with this here?"

"Troller says there was a fire. Or at least an
alarm pulled. The dinner got screwed up."

"So?"

"So why didn’t you tell me that?"

Chris shook his head, then dipped his face once into
his hands, like a bucket into a well. "Jeez, John, I don’t
know what’s the matter with you. You brought up this Troller like
he coulda been the one to sap you, right?"

"That’s right."

"Okay, so I saw him before we sat down for the
dinner when it couldn’t have been him that hit you. Five,
five-fifteen, something, right?"

"Right."

"Okay, so I don’t see what the hell difference
it makes whether he stayed for the dinner or not. I just didn’t
think to mention it to you."

"He says he did stay. He says you didn’t."

"I can’t tell you whether he stayed or not,
because personally I couldn’t give a shit. But he’s right as
fucken rain about me not staying. Jeez, the only thing goes on longer
than the speeches at that kinda thing is the Arctic winter, you
know?"

"So where did you go?"

"Here. Home. I was worried about Eleni,
remember?"

"Why?"

Chris started to turn bright red and rose out of his
chair. "Why? Why, you stupid shit, because you were playing
Charles fucken Bronson with Marsh in his shower, that’s why!
Remember that? Remember why I fucken asked you as a favor, as a
friend, to bodyguard at a simple little divorce conference that turns
into fucken Armageddon? The guy scared me, John, you happy you got me
to say that again? He scared me, and now this Braxley fucken
terrifies me, and I’m getting . . ." He suddenly seemed to
just run out of steam, dumping his body back into the seat. "John,
why don’t you get the fuck out of here, okay? Leave me alone, just
leave me with my problems for a . . .while."

I got up and walked past
Fotis, who was grinning behind his paper just about enough to set me
off.

* * *

I headed the car back toward 128 South. I had some
questions for Hanna that I couldn’t ask over the telephone, but I
wanted to think things through first. I got onto Route l and sat for
nearly an hour with four hundred other cars before the state police
permitted us, one at a time, to crawl around a jack-knifed
double-trailered tank truck that was oozing God knows what into a
ditch on the side of the road. I stopped at the office, paid some
bills, and perfunctorily worked on two other matters I’d been
pursuing. I reconsidered a call I’d been mulling in the traffic
jam, then dialed it anyway.

"Nancy Meagher."

“
Nancy, it’s John. John Cuddy."

She laughed. "You think I know so many Johns I
can’t place your voice?"

I thought back to how similarly Felicia Arnold
responded in our telephone conversation. Maybe it’s the law school
training.

"John, are you still there?"

"Yes, sorry. Nance, I need the answers to a few
questions about attorney licensing."

“
John, if it’s about the Marsh case, you know I
can’t talk."

"I know. It’s more general than that. Say a
lawyer was caught doing drugs, cocaine. What would happen?"

"Caught? You mean by the police?"

"Or an informer. Somebody who goes to the cops
or the bar authorities with ironclad evidence that the lawyer was
buying substantial amounts."

"Well, putting aside the criminal proceedings,
the Board of Bar Overseers would probably start an investigation
through its lawyer staff, with a hearing and all before the board."

"What then?"

"Then, if the evidence is persuasive, the board
seeks sanctions, with a single justice of the Supreme Judicial Court
eventually ruling on what was to happen as a penalty. Of course,
sometimes I think the board just lets the criminal side run its
course, and then nails the lawyer involved pretty quickly if a guilty
verdict comes down. It saves double effort that way."

"Would the substantial buying of cocaine be
grounds for disbarment?"

"Oh, I would think so. Usually it’s more
white-collar stuff, like tax evasion or real estate fraud, but I’ve
never researched it. Why?"

"Last question. Would they also boot a lawyer
who referred divorce clients to prostitutes for ‘sex therapy'?"

"John, have you been drinking?"

"On the level."

"God, John, I don’t know. The prosecutor in me
says yes, but the way things are today, maybe not. A neutral lawyer
could probably think of at least a couple of reasons why that should
be handled a little quieter."

"Thanks. Look, I want to see you again, but with
all of this . . ."

"I’ve waited this long, John. But pretty soon
I’m going to need more from you."

We hung up. I called the number Nino had given me. A
woman who might have been Salomé, the tougher, older one at lunch,
answered and then put Nino on. He was pleased to hear my voice and
was still very interested in receiving any "mer-chan-dise"
I might uncover.

I Next I called Braxley and asked him if the
"material" had hit the street yet. He said no. He also said
he hoped I was making progress on the material, because he had heard
that the real estate market was rising, making the near future a
"very excellent" time to sell.

I put the receiver back in its cradle and rotated my
chair to look out over the Common. Whoever kills Marsh and Teri takes
the drugs, but doesn’t try to sell I them. Because the killer is
using them personally, like Felicia. Or because the killer wanted
Marsh, or Teri, I or both, dead and didn’t give a damn about the
drugs, like Hanna. But why does anybody go to the trouble of framing
me first?

I got up, locked up, and drove home. Nobody was
waiting for me anywhere. I had a pizza delivered, washed it down with
my last three Molson Goldens, and went to sleep at 10:00 PM.
 

TWENTY-TWO
-♦-

I drove past the Swampscott house twice, but saw no
sign of Braxley or Terdell for half a mile in either direction.
Assuming they weren’t anchored offshore in a Boston whaler, I
backed into her driveway alongside the apparently fixed Escort and
got out of my car. I rang the bell, then knocked just as Hanna opened
the door. She had a towel in her hand.

"John."

"Hanna, I wonder if I could talk with you for a
while?"

"Oh, of course, of course. Come in."
 
She led me into the living room. It now
looked straightened, restored. Hanna said, "I remember you don’t
like the coffee, but could we sit in the kitchen? I’m doing the
laundry, and Vickie is in the yard with Rocky. I want to keep the eye
on her. Like you said?"

"The kitchen would be fine."

I sat on a stool, Hanna folding linens from a plastic
basket and turned three-quarters away from me so she could see the
child through the window. Vickie had a furry beanbag of some kind on
a piece of cord, and would swing it out toward a low hanging bush,
then work it back to herself like a fly-caster after trout. The
quarry was the kitten, who would pounce on the bag from beneath the
bush, tussle with it wildly, then bound back under cover to await the
next toss.

I said, "She looks happy."

Hanna smiled. "She is. To be home, with her new
kitty. And I am happy."

"To be home?"

The smile turned wistful. “To be home, and to be
free of Roy, that too, I think." She creased a pillow-case
precisely, like a marine furling the colors at sunset.

"Hanna—"

"I bury him yesterday."

"I’m sorry?"

"Roy. I bury him yesterday."

I couldn’t read any emotion at all from her. "How
did Vickie take it?"

"I did not have Vickie there. They tell me it is
cheaper to do the cremation, but I tell them, no, I want him buried.
I tell the BMW man, ‘Come get your car, I make no more payments on
it.' He was mad, so was the boat man, I call and say, ‘Come, take
back your boat, no more payments on that either."' She shook her
head. "They both say they sue me, but I need the money so I can
bury Roy. And I bury him so I can go back if things ever get bad
again, go back and stand at his grave and remember what bad really
is."

I waited till I was sure she was finished. Then I
said, "Have you seen Braxley again? Or heard from him?"

"No."

"Hanna, I met with the police. And with Chris."
I summarized for her what I’d learned from each. She listened,
politely but still without emotion.

"Was that different from what you expect them to
say?"

"No."

She shrugged. "So I wait, right? For the drugs
to be found or Braxley to come see me again."

When I didn’t answer, she said, softly, "It
doesn’t matter. It is still better than Roy."

"Hanna, I’m at a dead end looking for the
drugs. You told me the last time that you didn’t really know
anything about them, and I believe you. But if you can think of
anything that would help, I’d appreciate it."

She gestured with a dish towel. "When I come
back here, I pull the things together that the drug people pull
apart. I don’t know Roy’s life since I leave him so well, but the
only things I can see gone that I remember are a suitcase and the
video things."

"When you say video things, you mean the camera
and the case for it?"

"Yes, the case he carry the drugs in. And the
stand thing."

"The tripod?"

“
Yes. Tripod."

I thought back to Maylene’s comment at lunch about
Teri’s supposed screen test. "Did Roy take the camera and
tripod out of the house much?"

Hanna dropped her eyes. “Sometimes."

"What for?"

She blushed. “You need to know this?"

"Hanna, I don’t know what I need to know."

She abandoned the laundry and hugged herself as
though she were chilly, staring out at Vickie and away from me. "Roy,
he like to . . . use the camera when we . . . in our bedroom. He set
up the tripod thing and the camera and then . . . take the pictures
of us . . . of him more, doing the things to me. He put all the
lights on and buy some kind of film you don’t need special lights
for. Then he . . . take the pictures and watch them on the TV."
She cleared her throat. “Enough?"

I wished it were. “One more question?"

She nodded without turning to me.

"You said he used to take the video things out
of the house. Do you know why?"

Hanna ground her teeth, but spoke evenly. "When
he thought I wasn’t doing . . . it right, he would yell at me, hit
me. Then he wouldn’t want me for . . . till the marks go away. So
he take the things and go see the girl."

"The girl who was killed."

"Yes. He tell me he going to see her, then he go
with the things, go to her, then he come back with them, the
pictures, and he . . . put them on the TV and make me watch, watch
him and her to make me do better for him."

I couldn’t think of anything else to say except
“I’m sorry."

She waved a hand at me, the tears beginning to flow.

I got up and left her.

* * *

I drove west to Route 1, then took it north to I-95.
I swung off onto 495 and then exited at Tullbury, stopping at the
first public phone I saw. There was only one “Leo Kelley" with
an "ey" in the book. I dialed, heard Sheilah’s voice
answer, and hung up. Ten minutes later, I was outside her father’s
place, his red Buick gleaming in the driveway.

The house was a mini-Victorian. A disproportionate
wraparound porch held heavy, old-fashioned wicker furniture. The
white paint on the chairs was bright and fresh, but the cushions were
dirty and flat. I pictured Leo thinking that he had kept up his side
of the maintenance but his dead wife had failed in her attention to
the needlework. I knocked on the screen door and heard two voices say
“I’ll get it." Sheilah arrived first, stopping short when
she saw me and causing her father to bump into her from behind.

"Christ, Sheilah, what the hell did—" Leo
Kelley became aware of me and changed to "Not you again!"

Sheilah said, "What do you want this time?"

"Goddamn it, it don’t matter what he wants.
This is my town, and I’m gonna call Tommy down to the station and
get—"

"Dad, please? Okay?"

"I don’t know what you—"

"Dad!"

"Awright, fine. Fine! I wash my hands of it. You
wanna act like a two-year-old, fine. Go off with this guy now. Or the
jig drug pusher. I don’t care. Just keep ’em out of my house and
out of my life, okay?" He stomped back into the house somewhere.