The Undertaker's Widow (27 page)

“This is the first time … I've seen pictures, but …”

“Maybe we better go next door,” Dennis said. “Get you outta here. You want some water?” “Please.”

Quinn began to turn from the bed. Then he froze. The hair on Reston's head was blond, but her pubic hair was black like Andrea Chapman's. Quinn moved slightly so he could see Reston's right hip. What he saw caused his stomach to roll.

“Hey,” Dennis said, gripping Quinn's elbow. “Come on, now. Take some breaths.”

Quinn turned from the bed. He gulped in air. Dennis led him from the room, but Quinn did not even notice that he was moving. He was trying to absorb what he had just seen. Not the corpse or the gaping wounds that covered it or the blood or the stench, but the pale, half-moon-shaped scar that Quinn had seen on the dead woman's hip: a scar identical to that which he had seen on Andrea Chapman's hip on the beach in the Cove of Lost Souls. Claire Reston did not just look like Andrea Chapman. She was Andrea Chapman. Chapman had not been murdered on St. Jerome.

Dennis led Quinn out of 325 and into the suite next door. The police had commandeered it as a temporary headquarters. Anthony followed them. A detective was
on the phone in the sitting room and two police officers were drinking coffee on the couch. Dennis brought Quinn into the bedroom and Anthony shut the door. The judge sank onto the bed and held his head in his hands.

“Must be quite a shock,” Dennis said sympathetically as he walked into the bathroom to get Quinn a glass of water. “Seeing that poor young woman like that. 'Specially if it's your first time. I got light-headed my first time, too. Couldn't eat all day.”

Quinn's senses were overloaded by the horror he had witnessed in the bedroom next door and by the discovery that no one had been murdered on St. Jerome.

“Here,” Dennis said, handing the glass to Quinn. Quinn took it gratefully and sipped a little. Dennis pulled up a chair next to the bed. “How long you known her, Judge?”

Dennis had slipped the question in so smoothly that Quinn almost answered it. Should he admit he knew the dead woman? Should he admit to knowing her as Claire Reston or Andrea Chapman? If he admitted to knowing that the dead woman was Andrea, how could he explain that the scar was the tip-off without revealing that he had seen Andrea in a bikini? Once he admitted that, he would have to confess to seeing her after the flight to St. Jerome. Quinn made a decision.

“I … I just met her. I was asked to speak at a legal seminar on St. Jerome in the Caribbean in late February. My wife was supposed to accompany me, but she had to cancel at the last minute because of a business emergency. My wife's seat on the plane was taken by a woman named Andrea Chapman.”

Quinn paused and drank some more water.

“A few days ago, I received a call from a police detective who was looking into Ms. Chapman's disappearance …”

“Where did he call from and what was his name?” Anthony interrupted.

“I think his last name was Fletcher. He mentioned his first name, but I can't remember it. If he told me where he was calling from, I forgot. I don't think he did, though.”

“So this Chapman woman disappeared?” Dennis said.

“From St. Jerome. I didn't know anything about that.”

“You didn't see Chapman after the flight?” Anthony asked.

“Well, in the airport, but not after that.”

“You were saying that you just met the deceased?” Dennis prodded.

“Yes. She came to my chambers during the lunch break in the hearing on the pretrial motions in Ellen Crease's case. She said her name was Claire Reston and that Andrea Chapman was her sister. She wanted to know if I had any information about her sister's disappearance.”

“Why would she think you knew anything about that?” Anthony asked.

Quinn froze. He had not thought about that.

“I, uh, I assumed that she'd gotten my name from the detective who called me. He got my name from the airline manifest. She never told me how she got my name, but the detective must have told her that I sat next to her sister.”

“So that's when you talked to the sister? On the plane and in the airport?” Anthony asked.

Quinn felt panicky. Why did Anthony repeat his question? Could he prove that Quinn had seen Andrea the next day?

“Yes.”

“Not after the flight?”

“No. Not after.”

“Judge Quinn, I am going to give you the
Miranda
rights now,” Anthony said. Quinn's pulse rate jumped. Anthony would only do that if Quinn was a suspect in Claire Reston's murder.

“You have the right to remain silent …”

“Why is this necessary?” Quinn asked.

“I'll answer that when I'm done,” Anthony answered curtly. Quinn sat silently while Anthony finished reading him his rights, trying to guess what the police knew.

“Judge, I'm going to ask you again. Did you see Andrea Chapman after the flight to St. Jerome?”

Quinn suddenly noticed the manila envelope that Anthony was holding. The detective had shielded it from Quinn's view while Dennis was talking to him. Anthony withdrew from the envelope a photograph of Quinn and Andrea talking on the blanket in the cove. The photograph had been taken with a telephoto lens. If they blew it up further, Quinn was certain that the scar on Chapman's hip would become visible and the police would figure out that Reston and Chapman were the same person, if they did not know that already.

“We found these photographs in the dead woman's suitcase, Judge Quinn. Would you care to explain them?”

Quinn was having trouble breathing.

“Can I get you some more water, Judge?” Dennis asked solicitously. “You okay?”

Quinn sucked in air. He was on the verge of breaking down.

“Did you fuck Chapman on St. Jerome?” Anthony asked angrily. “Did her sister trail you to Portland and threaten to tell your wife?” They didn't know that Reston and Chapman were the same person, Quinn realized. “Did you slash her to ribbons to shut her up?”

“No. It wasn't like that. I didn't have sex with Andrea.”

“You want us to believe that you were all alone with this woman and you didn't try to fuck her?”

Quinn did not know what to say.

“It is a strange coincidence that this Chapman woman disappears right after you meet her, then her sister talks with you and she's dead the next day,” Dennis said.

“You have to believe me,” Quinn pleaded. “I met Andrea on the plane. She was very nice. We talked during the flight. She told me that there was a cove on the far side of the island with a beautiful reef. It's the cove in the picture. We spent the afternoon there. That's all.”

“Why didn't you tell us that before?” Dennis asked.

“I was afraid that someone would think I was involved in her disappearance,” Quinn answered lamely.

“Did you ever see these pictures before?” Dennis asked.

“No.”

“That's funny, because you haven't asked us where we got them or who took them. You didn't even seem surprised to see them.”

When Quinn did not respond, Dennis asked, “Judge, can you tell us where you were last night between six and eight?”

“Six and eight?” Quinn repeated inanely.

“Yes, sir.”

“I was at the courthouse, in my chambers. I … I was working on the order in the
Crease
case.”

“Can anyone vouch for you?”

“My secretary, Fran Stuart. She was there.”

“The whole time?”

“No. She typed up a first draft for me, then went to dinner sometime between six and seven. Then she came
back and typed the final. I think she left around seven-thirty.”

“So there was an hour and a half between six and eight when you were alone?”

Quinn nodded.

“No cleaning people came in, no one called?”

Quinn shook his head. He felt completely helpless.

“You see our problem here, Judge?” Dennis asked. “The Heathman is only a short walk from the courthouse. I'd bet five minutes max. And there was a lot going on in the hotel between six and eight, which is the time when the medical examiner estimates that Claire Reston was murdered. It would have been easy for you to walk from the courthouse to the hotel, slip up to the third floor unnoticed and …” Dennis shrugged. “Can you help us out here?”

Quinn looked back and forth between the two policemen. Both men watched him with blank expressions.

“You can't think … My, God, I could never do something like … like what was done to that poor woman.”

“Nice people sometimes do terrible things under stress, Judge,” Dennis said sympathetically. “She showed you the photos, you see your marriage and career going down the toilet. We see a lot of this kind of thing. If you did it, let us know so we can help you.”

“That … that woman wasn't just killed. That was methodical. That was torture.”

“Maybe you got a taste on St. Jerome,” Anthony said harshly. “The thrill of having Chapman helpless, begging. It can be a turn-on for some people. Was it a turn-on for you?”

Quinn stared at Anthony in disbelief. Then he looked at Dennis. They had been playing with him and he was too distracted to see it. They really believed that he could tie up and torture a defenseless woman.

“Gentlemen, I've tried to be cooperative, but it is now clear to me … I don't want to continue this conversation, except to say that I did not hurt Claire Reston. I want to go now. I won't talk to you anymore without a lawyer.”

“Why don't you sit and think a minute while I discuss this with Detective Anthony?” Dennis said as he motioned Anthony into the outer room.

Quinn let his head fall into his hands. He wanted to tell the detectives the truth, but he would be providing them with a massive motive for murder if he revealed that the dead woman had been used to blackmail him. Dennis and Anthony would believe that Quinn, enraged by her betrayal, had murdered Reston. The conclusion was logical, even if it was false.

The door opened and Dennis and Anthony reentered the bedroom.

“We're going to let you go, Judge,” Dennis told Quinn. “Neither one of us thinks you've told the truth, but we don't want to rush this investigation. I advise you to think very seriously about your duties as a citizen. If you have information that would help us solve the death of the poor girl in the other room, you have to tell us. You're not just some nobody on the street. You're a judge. From what they say, that means something to you. Think about how you should be acting here.”

Fran Stuart stood up as soon as Quinn walked into the reception area. She looked very upset.

“I waited for you to come back. I didn't know where to reach you.”

“Calm down, Fran. What's wrong?”

“It's Mr. Price. He's had a heart attack. Richard
Kahn called you ten minutes after you left with the detectives.”

“Is he …?”

“No. Mr. Kahn said they were talking about a case in Mr. Price's office when he complained about chest pains. He's at St. Vincent's Hospital. They're in surgery right now.”

Quinn was nursing a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria when a tall, middle-aged woman wearing a black skirt and a gray sweater approached his table.

“Judge Quinn?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Dr. Loerts. I operated on Mr. Price.”

“Sit down, please. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No, thanks,” the surgeon answered with a weary smile. She looked tired. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she rubbed her eyelids as soon as she slid onto the chair across from the judge.

“Mr. Price is going to be fine. We performed a triple bypass. That sounds scary, but we do a ton of them and it's routine for my team.”

“What happened?”

“Three of Mr. Price's arteries were clogged and that was keeping an adequate supply of blood from reaching his heart. We took one vein from his leg and another from his chest and attached them to the arteries at a spot in front of and behind the area that was blocked. In other words, we literally bypassed the area. Everything is working just fine now. In fact, he's probably in better shape because there isn't anything blocking the flow of blood to his heart.”

“Can I see him?”

“Not right now. He's in the recovery room and he'll probably be there for another hour or two. He'll go
to the coronary care unit when he's ready. You can see him there but he's going to be heavily medicated. He probably won't even remember your visit. When he's well enough, he'll go up to the sixth floor for the rest of his stay. That floor is reserved for people with heart problems. I expect him to be out of the hospital by next week.”

“I'd still like to see him today, even if he doesn't know. When can I do that?”

The doctor looked at her watch. “We'll transfer him to coronary care in an hour or so. You can only stay for a short time, but I'd guess that you'll be able to see him around six.”

“You're certain my … my father is okay?”

Dr. Loerts pushed herself to her feet. “Your dad is going to be fine, so don't worry.”

Quinn could not return to the gloomy solitude of his rented apartment. The only other place he could think to go was his chambers, where he planned to fini
sh
writing his letter of resignation and put his cases in order for the judges who would inherit them. Quinn drove the route to the courthouse in a mental fog. Dr. Loerts had assured Quinn that Frank would be okay, but Frank was eighty years old and Quinn knew that the years they had together were growing short.

Quinn's eyes watered and he felt a painful lump in his throat as he recalled asking Dr. Loerts if his “father” was okay. It was the first time that he had ever referred to Frank Price as his father, even though the quiet, taciturn man had slowly insinuated himself into Quinn's consciousness in that way.