The Old Deep and Dark (12 page)

Rubbing his hands together, Booker removed several slices of the baguette. While Erin helped herself to one of the blueberry muffins, he continued, “Look at it this way. If you can't tell your secrets to a man you haven't seen in fifteen years and probably will never see again, who
can
you tell?”

She sat across from him looking amused but remote.

He passed her the butter.

*   *   *

While DePetro questioned Beverly in the kitchen with the door closed, Kit asked Ray if he would mind stepping outside with her. He conferred with Jane briefly, then walked her out to the edge of the patio, where they sat down on a bench overlooking the dark, choppy water of Frenchman's Bay. Since this morning, the sky had turned cloudy and the temperature had fallen. The gloom of a late autumn chill settled into Kit, into her bones. She understood that Ray was upset. From the stony look on his face, he might even be ready to throw in the towel, tell her to find herself another lawyer. Kit hadn't gotten this far in life by sweeping problems away. She needed to face him, needed to know where he stood and, if possible, apply what pressure she could to make him stay.

“If you don't want to represent me and my family,” she said, lifting her eyes to him, “I'll be deeply disappointed, but I do understand.”

Ray stared off in the distance. He seemed to be mulling something over. “Why did you lie to the police? Or was it me you lied to?”

“I've never lied to you. If I didn't tell DePetro everything, it's because I consider it none of his business.”

“There was money at stake in the divorce, Kit. People have been murdered for far, far less.”

“I didn't murder my husband for his money. I can't believe you'd even suggest that.”

“You asked to talk to me yesterday because you were worried about the potential financial ramifications of a split. It was on your mind. You can't deny it. If Jordan contacted a lawyer, DePetro will find out. And then what? You lie about one thing, he'll wonder what else you're lying about. You already threw him that curveball by not mentioning the fact that Jordan left the house last night, that he never came home.”

“First, with the exception of Beverly—and you—nobody knows that Jordan asked me for a divorce. I don't believe for a minute that he contacted a lawyer. As for his habits—where he goes, what he does—that's his business.”

“You're not listening to me,” said Ray. “This is a
murder
investigation. It changes everything.”

“I won't allow my children to be hurt by this. They come before everything, even Jordan. Still, I can't win the battle and lose the war. Do you understand what I'm saying? Jordan's fans, the women, the religiously inclined, and that means the majority of the people who buy his CDs and come to his concerts, love him because they think he's a great guy. A hard-drinking, shotgun-carrying, horse-riding good old boy from Kentucky. And he was all of those things. But he was also a family man. A loving husband and father. His fans also understand that if he so much as crooked his little finger, he could have any woman he wanted. He did sleep around, but he was faithful to me in every way that counted. I may be an aging, not terribly well-known actress who is mere seconds from crumbling into old age—”

“That's not true and you know it.”

“It is true.”

“You're a beautiful, vibrant woman.”

Her eyes widened ever so slightly. Again, she laid her hand on his. “You lie so sweetly I almost believe you mean it.”

“Kit, look, I understand what you're saying. You're thinking about Jordan's legacy. But you have to weigh that against the hornet's nest of problems you could unleash on you and your family if you aren't straight with the police.”

“I am
not
telling them Jordan wanted a divorce. No way on earth. I'm not telling them we had an open marriage. I assume that, since our conversation was privileged, you can't say anything either.”

“I would never break a confidence.”

He had no idea how deep her lies went. No one did, not even those in the family who, after reading Jordan's so-called novel, thought they knew everything. Armed with their partial knowledge, each person felt they understood what they were protecting by keeping to the story Kit had laid out for them. She was good at dancing around the truth. She'd had a lifetime of honing her skills. Some might say that she was living on a razor's edge, but for her, that razor not only produced a sense of exhilaration, it felt like home.

“So,” she said, lifting her hand off Ray's. “Should I look for another lawyer?”

He followed her hand with his eyes as she rested it in her lap. “That won't be necessary.”

“Good. I need you, Ray. I need someone I can rely on. Without Jordan—”

“You don't have to explain.”

“He was the single most important person in my life and I loved him beyond measure.” That
was
the truth. Tears welled in her eyes.

Ray put his arm around her, let her cry against his shoulder. Finally, leaning back and looking her square in the eyes, he said, “I shouldn't do this, shouldn't ask this question. I could defend you in a court of law without ever knowing, but this is important. To me. I have to hear it from you. I'll never ask again. If you lie to me—”

“I won't lie.”

“Did you murder your husband?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

“Honestly, Ray. I don't.”

“Do you think it could be a family member?”

She looked away. “Not my children. They had nothing to do with it.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“They were both here all morning. With me. Yes, I know it for a fact.”

“What about Beverly? Tommy? Or Archibald? You consider them family. Did they have any issues with Jordan?”

She hesitated.

“More secrets?” said Ray. He took both of her hands in his.

Her heart sped up, responding immediately to the animal warmth. She wished he would put his arm around her again and just hold her. “Oh, Ray, this is all so complicated.”

Squeezing her hands, he said, “I suppose you've been through enough for one day.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“I should probably be with you when you talk to DePetro.”

She nodded. She was a good actress. Then again, not all of her feelings, especially when it came to Raymond Lawless, were an act.

 

14

After lunch, Booker and Erin took a walk along the shore. As the wind buffeted them and waves crashed against the rocks, occasionally spraying them with a fine mist, they talked about anything and everything. It was stream of consciousness. Time passed without Booker even noticing. When he did look at his watch, he saw that it was going on six.

“I'm freezing,” he said, shivering as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you say we find ourselves some hot chocolate?”

They climbed the graveled path up to the Hofbrau, a small chaletlike building perched at the edge of the King's Bay that served both alcohol and food. Finding a table near one of the three fireplaces, Booker spread the menu between them. “Or,” he said, glancing down the row of drinks, “we could have Irish coffee.”

“As long as it comes with whipped cream,” said Erin, “it's fine with me.”

Booker stepped up to the bar to place the order. While he was waiting for one of the bartenders to notice him, he saw an old drinking buddy of his, Clark Miller, come through the front door. Turning his back, he ordered the Irish coffees with extra whipped cream, and then slipped back to the table, keeping his face averted. But as soon as he pulled out his chair, Clark spotted him and began to head over. The look on his face, part sympathy, part eagerness, told Booker that he'd heard the news about his father.

“You know, Erin, there's something I need to tell you,” Booker began, realizing how weird it would look if he didn't break it to her before Clark did.

She switched her attention from the menu to Booker. “Sounds serious.”

“It is. It's about my dad. I didn't say anything before because—”

“Hey, Booker,” said Clark, reaching the table and slapping him on the back. “Long time, man.”

“Yeah, long time.”

Smiling at Erin, Clark said, “Who's the lovely lady?”

“A friend,” said Booker, introducing them.

Clark shook her hand. “Hey, man, I was so sorry to hear about your dad. It's all over the news. I mean, fuck. What the hell happened?”

“What about your father?” asked Erin.

“You haven't heard?” said Clark, glancing over his shoulder at the group he came in with, giving them a nod to tell them that he'd be right back. “He was out for a morning run and someone shot him. Unreal. Have the police found the guy who did it? Man, I am
so
sorry. Your family must be devastated.”

“Your father … is
dead
?” said Erin, her eyes almost doing pinwheels. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“It's kind of … um … I didn't want to—”

“Jesus. What's wrong with you?”

Before he could come up with a reasonable answer, the believable excuse, Erin was up and on her way out of the bar. “Hey, wait,” he called after her.

A waiter set the Irish coffees on the table in front of him, momentarily blocking his line of sight. “Shove off, okay?” he said to Clark.

“Sure, man. Again, sorry.”

Booker wanted to go after her, but instinct told him to hang back. He watched her take out her cell phone and tap in a number. She stood in front of the reservation desk, speaking heatedly to the person on the other end of the line, so caught up in the conversation that she never even glanced Booker's way. Waiting for her to finish and hopefully return to the table, he began to form a question: Why had his father's death, a man Erin barely knew, caused such a huge reaction in her? Sure, she had a right to wonder about Booker's priorities because he hadn't said anything up front, but her pacing, the almost frightened look in her eyes … what the hell was that about?

*   *   *

3:14
A.M.
With only a small table lamp burning, the therapist, Dr. James Stratton, sat on the leather couch in his home office. Having been awakened at such an early hour by a madman banging on his front door, he wore a bathrobe over his pajamas. His hair was rumpled, his eyes puffy, and gray stubble was visible on his fleshy cheeks.

Archibald sat in his usual chair across from the couch, shoes flat on the floor, hands resting in his lap. He'd been coming to see Stratton on and off for sixteen years. He stared straight ahead at nothing in particular. “Thank you for seeing me,” he began. Not that he'd given the man much of a choice. “I'm here because I need to make a decision.”

“All right,” said Stratton. “Go on.”

“I'm thinking about doing something I probably shouldn't. Something, for lack of a better word, that's wrong.”

“And you want me to talk you out of it.”

“No, not really.”

Stratton seemed confused. “Perhaps you'd like to tell me a little more about this decision.”

“I'm not sure I should. Or that I want to.”

The therapist tapped a pen against his chin, trying, but failing, to hide his exasperation. “All right. Let's approach it another way. Can you tell me why you want to do it?”

That was an easy one. “Love.” When Stratton merely nodded, Archibald felt like he should say something more. “For the people I love.”

“Your family?”

“I can't let them down again. I have to protect them. The mess they're in, it's my fault. My failure.”

“And why is that?”

His hand crawled up the front of his shirt. “Because, and I know this may sound somewhat grandiose, I see more clearly than they do. It's all moot now. Something terrible happened and I could have stopped it, but … I didn't. I'll have to live with that until the day I die. What I can't live with is … would be … if I allowed … there's someone … like I said, I have to be the one who helps them.” This was harder than he thought it would be.

Shifting his position, Stratton said, “It's hard for me to comment when I don't have any specifics.”

“Yes, okay. Okay.” He touched the top of his head to make sure what was left of his hair was in its proper place. “I think the police may be about to target someone I care about.”

“Target?”

“Arrest. Charge with murder.”

The light dawned in Stratton's eyes. “Ah, so this is about your friend's death. Jordan Deere.”

Archibald gave a tight nod.

“You think someone in his family may be responsible.”

“Did I say that?” he snapped. “You'll
never
hear me say that.”

“No, of course—”

“I try to understand myself, you know? What makes me tick? What makes others do what they do. The unexamined life—and all that.”

“And I find that an admirable quality.”

“I've always thought of myself as a good person. Helpful. Loyal. Giving.”

Stratton nodded.

“So explain this to me,” he continued, trying to drill down on why he'd come. “Are some people born evil and others born good? Is it physically impossible for some to be faithful to their partners? Do people vary in how deeply they feel? If so, are the ones who feel more deeply better human beings, or are they, by some odd twist of fate, cursed? Most importantly, does anybody ever really change?”

“I think,” said Stratton, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “that those are hard questions. I also think we've moved into the realm of moral philosophy here. I can give you my opinion, but that's all it would be.”

Archibald made a keep-talking gesture with his hand.