Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

Juliana pushed her way into the room and saw what had so frightened the housekeeper.

In the twilit gloom, she could just make out a naked male body slumped on the floor, unmistakably dead.

It took her a few seconds to recognize Matías Sanchez, and by then she’d collapsed to the floor, her purse tumbling beside her, its contents spilling onto the carpet.

“ Dios mío! Dios mío! ” the housekeeper keened, clutching her hands to her bosom. “ Llama a la policía! ”

Juliana got to her feet unsteadily, looked again, confirmed that what she had first thought was in fact the case. Sanchez had been strangled, or maybe hanged, by the black electrical cord around his neck. He was seated and leaning over, his head canted all the way forward. The electrical cord that had served as a noose was wedged between the bathroom door and the door frame.

Her heart fluttered in her rib cage. She felt dizzy, weak-kneed, as if she were about to pass out. The housekeeper was retreating slowly down the hallway.

She looked away, but not before registering the lolling tongue and the red staring eyes. She searched for the toilet, found it, rushed there, and, before she reached it, vomited into the sink.

For a long moment she kept her head bowed, willing herself not to lose consciousness. Her field of vision sparkled. She gripped the front edge of the vanity.

She remembered the note of desperation in his voice. These people will do anything — stage an accident, a suicide, whatever they need to do if they think you’re an inconvenience.

Slowly she raised her head, saw herself in the wall-to-wall mirror. Her face was red, a splotch of vomit on her chin.

She had to leave this room, this hotel. Suddenly that realization hit her, filling her with panic. She couldn’t risk the police arriving, her presence here impossible to explain. She had to leave before the housekeeper summoned hotel security or the Boston Police.

She hesitated before rinsing out the sink carefully, running the water until all trace of her vomit — her DNA — was gone.

She wondered if the housekeeper had already called for help, though there was nothing to do. The man was dead.

She knelt down on the carpet, began picking up all the objects that had fallen when her purse fell to the floor and stuffing them back. She moved quickly, her hands reaching and grabbing, hurrying. Finally, when she’d retrieved everything she could see, she got to her feet and raced out of the room and into the carpeted hallway. Then she forced herself to slow to a walk to avoid drawing attention.

She emerged from the elevator into the lobby. A few people were gathered at the reception desk. Not the housekeeper.

Maybe she didn’t call for help , Juliana thought. She ran away. Maybe she was an illegal immigrant, afraid she might be so identified by the police.

Juliana increased her pace, striding down the block and to the next. Her blue Lexus SUV was still there as well.

She drove in a dazed state, barely noticing where she was going, navigating home by instinct. Should she find a pay phone and alert the Boston Police about the death? But not only were pay phones ridiculously hard to find anymore, she couldn’t take the risk of being traced and then connected to the murder.

And she had no doubt it was murder. The man had been frightened, not suicidal, when she’d last seen him. He’d known what might happen to him. Had his unseen controllers learned he had talked to her? Was that what had happened? Matías was a gigolo who had betrayed her, but he was also pitiable and a victim.

Her thoughts were jumbled, chaotic. She couldn’t suppress a wild panic. Lost in desperate thought, she nearly passed her street. With a jerk of the steering wheel she turned off Beacon Street and pulled into her driveway.

Glancing at her watch — it was nearly eight — she got out and slammed the door and for a moment stood there next to the car and looked at the side door to the house. The lights were on, upstairs and down. The men were home. She badly wanted to talk with Duncan.

But she was stuck. She obviously couldn’t talk to him without revealing what she’d done and what kind of trap had closed on her.

The door swung open as she approached, startling her. It was Duncan.

“Everything okay?”

A slight pause. She stepped in. “Sure.”

“I saw you standing out there— What is it? What’s wrong?” He tipped his head to one side, peered at her. Was it that visible? Was it really in her face?

And then she couldn’t hold it in: her throat tightened, and the tears started rolling down her face.

He put a hand on each of her shoulders and brought her into him. “What happened?”

She shook her head, put up a palm. She struggled to gain control of her emotions, hating herself for losing it when she needed to keep things together, but the stress, the jangled nerves, the sheer terror, of the last hour had all at once overwhelmed her.

“We need to talk,” she said.

They sat at the kitchen table, the door closed.

Duncan had betrayed no emotion at first, not anger or upset. He nodded a lot. But he avoided her eyes. “I’m glad you told me,” he said a few times, as if her belated candor was the main thing.

“Look, I know what I did,” she said. “And all the clichés are true — it didn’t mean anything, all that. And they’re pointless, because it isn’t even up to me to say what it meant. I’m a horrible person, Dunc. I did something horrible; you have every right to hate me.”

He was looking off into the middle distance, almost contemplative.

“Say something. Yell at me. I deserve it. I’ve got it coming.”

“That’s not who we are.”

“Not who we are?” she echoed.

“You want a big blowout? Like... a cleansing storm? That’s not how it works, not with us. Or I should say, not with me.”

But she could see him fighting to control himself. She thought of the yoga nostrum about one-nostril breathing. It was as if he was trying to detach himself from his body, to float free. With exaggerated casualness, it seemed to her, he went to the sink and filled his glass with water, turned back around, took a sip. His hand was shaking slightly. The imperfect exertion of control. “I’m glad you told me.”

She wiped away tears with her hand. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“It’s a lot to process, okay?” He breathed slowly, blinked a few times.

“I understand.”

He lifted his chin but still looked away from her. “Which means... I can’t be with you right now.”

“Will you look at me, Duncan? Please?”

But he couldn’t. “I can’t be under the same roof as you.”

Realizing, she whispered, “Please don’t leave, Duncan. I mean, I need you. You know that. We need you.”

“These things take time.” His words had a styptic, almost clinical edge.

A little louder, she said, “Please don’t do it. Don’t move out.”

“Oh, I’m not moving out.” Finally his injured eyes settled on hers, like the red dot of a weapon’s laser sight. “You are.”

Martha Connolly had a four-bedroom condo in the Ritz-Carlton with floor-to-ceiling windows and a glittering aerial view of Boston. It wasn’t purchased on a judge’s government salary; her great-great-great-grandfather was Samuel Colt, the gun maker. Once in a while she jokingly talked about her “blood money.” She was anti-gun, but not enough to turn away Mr. Colt’s bequest.

She had a dog, a small, wire-haired Jack Russell terrier with pert ears and heart-melting brown eyes. Her name was Lucy. Tonight Lucy was seated at Martie’s feet, chewing on a dog toy that looked like Donald Trump.