Lawrence Block - In the Midst of Death

"The children are upstairs," she said. "Sara and Jennifer went to school this morning. They left before I heard the news. When they came home from lunch I kept them home. Eric won't start kindergarten until next year, so he's used to being at home. I don't know what they're thinking and I don't know what to say to them. And the telephone keeps ringing. I'd love to take it off the hook, but what if it's something important? I would have missed your call if I'd taken it off the hook. I just wish I knew what to do." She winced and wrung her hands. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice steadier now. "I'm in a state of shock. It's made me numb and jittery at the same time. For two days I didn't know where my husband was. Now I know that he's in a prison cell. And charged with murder." She made herself take a breath. "Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot. Or I could give you something stronger."

I said that coffee with whiskey in it would be good. She went to the kitchen and came back with two large mugs of coffee. "I don't know what kind of whiskey or how much to put in," she said. "There's the liquor cabinet. Why don't you pick out what you like?"

The cabinet was well stocked with expensive brands. This did not surprise me. I never knew a cop who didn't get a lot of liquor at Christmas. The people who are a little diffident about giving you cash find it easier to give you a bottle or a case of decent booze. I put a healthy slug of Wild Turkey in my cup. I suppose it was a waste. One bourbon tastes pretty much like another when you pour it in coffee.

"Is it good that way?" She was standing beside me, her own mug held in both hands. "Maybe I'll try some. I don't normally drink very much. I've never liked the taste of it. Do you think a drink would relax me?"

"It probably wouldn't hurt."

She held out her mug. "Please?"

I filled her mug and she stirred it with her spoon and took a tentative sip. "Oh, that's good," she said, in what was almost a child's voice. "It's warming, isn't it? Is it very potent?"

"It's about the same strength as a cocktail. And the coffee tends to counteract some of the effects of the alcohol."

"You mean you don't get drunk?"

"You still get drunk eventually. But you don't get tired out en route. Do you normally get drunk on one drink?"

"I can usually feel one drink. I'm afraid I'm not much of a drinker. But I don't suppose this will hurt me."

She looked at me, and for a short moment we challenged one another with our eyes. I didn't know then and do not know now precisely what happened, but our eyes met and exchanged wordless messages, and something must have been settled on the spot, although we were not consciously aware of the settlement or even of the messages that preceded it.

I broke the stare. I took the note her husband had written from my wallet and handed it to her. She scanned it once quickly, then read it through more carefully. "Twenty-five hundred dollars," she said. "I suppose you'll want that right now, Mr. Scudder."

"I'll probably be having some expenses."

"Certainly."She folded the note in two, then folded it again. "I don't recall Jerry mentioning your name. Have you known each other for a long time?"

"Not long at all."

"You're on the force. Did you work together?"

"I used to be on the force, Mrs. Broadfield. Now I'm a sort of private detective."

"Just sort of?"

"The unlicensed sort. After all those years in the department I have an aversion to filling out forms."

"An aversion."

"Pardon me?"

"Did I say that aloud?" She smiled suddenly and her whole face brightened. "I don't think I've ever heard a policeman use that word. Oh, they use large words, but of a certain sort, you know. 'Alleged perpetrator' is my favorite phrase of all. And 'miscreant' is a wonderful word. Nobody but a policeman or a reporter ever called anybody a miscreant, and reporters just write it, they never say it out loud." Our eyes locked again and her smile faded out. "I'm sorry, Mr. Scudder. I'm babbling again, aren't I?"

"I like the way you babble."

For a second I thought she was going to blush, but she didn't. She took a breath and assured me I would have my money in a moment. I said there was no rush but she said it would be just as easy to get it over and done with. I sat down and worked on my coffee and she left the room and climbed a flight of stairs.

She returned a few minutes later with a sheaf of bills which she handed to me. I fanned them. They were all fifties and hundreds. I put them in my jacket pocket.

"Aren't you going to count them?" I shook my head. "You're very trusting, Mr. Scudder. I'm sure you told me your first name but I don't seem to remember it."

"Matthew."

"Mine is Diana." She picked up her coffee mug and drained it quickly, as if downing strong medicine. "Will it be helpful if I say my husband was with me last night?"

"He was arrested in New York, Mrs. Broadfield."

"I just told you my name. Aren't you going to use it?" Then she remembered what we were talking about and her tone changed. "What time was he arrested?"

"Around two-thirty."

"Where?"

"An apartment in the Village.He'd been staying there ever since Miss Carr brought those charges against him. He was decoyed out of there last night, and while he was out somebody brought the Carr woman to his apartment and killed her there and tipped the police. Or brought her there after she was dead."

"Or Jerry killed her."

"It doesn't make sense that way."

She thought about this, then took up another tack. "Whose apartment was it?"

"I'm not sure."

"Really? It must have been his apartment. Oh, I've always been sure he has one. There are clothes of his I haven't seen in ages, so I gather he keeps part of his wardrobe somewhere in the city." She sighed. "I wonder why he tries to hide things from me. I know so much and he must know that I know, don't you suppose? Does he think I don't know that he has other women? Does he think I care?"

"Don't you?"

She looked long and hard at me. I didn't think she was going to answer the question, but then she did.

"Of course I care," she said. "Of course I care." She looked down at her coffee mug and seemed dismayed to see that it was empty. "I'm going to have some more coffee," she said. "Would you like some, Matthew?"

"Thank you."

She carried the mugs to the kitchen. On the way back she stopped at the liquor cabinet to doctor them both. She had a generous hand with the Wild Turkey bottle, making my drink at least twice as strong as the one I'd made for myself.

She sat on the couch again, but this time she placed herself closer to my chair. She sipped her coffee and looked at me over the top of her mug. "What time was that girl killed?"

"According to the last news I heard, they're estimating the time of death at midnight."

"And he was arrested around two-thirty?"

"Around that time, yes."

"Well, that makes it simple, doesn't it? I'll say that he came home just after the children went to sleep. He wanted to see me and change his clothing. And he was with me, watching television from eleven o'clock until the Carson show went off, and then he went back to New York and got there just in time to get arrested. What's the matter?"

"It won't do any good, Diana."

"Why not?"

"Nobody'll buy it. The only kind of alibi that'd do your husband any good would be an ironclad one, and the uncorroborated word of his wife — no, it wouldn't do any good."

"I suppose I must have known that."

"Sure."

"Did he kill her, Matthew?"

"He says he didn't."

"Do you believe him?"

I nodded. "I believe someone else killed her. And deliberately framed him for it."

"Why?"

"To stop the investigation into the police department. Or for private reasons — if someone had cause to kill Portia Carr, your husband certainly made a perfect fall guy."