Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

"Prof, were the chains in pairs?"

"All single–o, bro. All the same exact size too—bitch has got some ankle on her! And for cash, she didn't have more than a couple yards loose, unless she had a real good hiding place. And it didn't smell that way…she's got that joint set up like nobody's ever gonna visit, understand?"

"Yeah. She have a computer?"

"Not even a typewriter. No diary, no notebook. Not even a pad to write on. She got a big TV set though, got three VCRs stacked on top. Whole bookshelf full of tapes too, got a name and date on every one. Seems like she tapes all them daytime things, maybe watches when she gets home."

"What about books?"

"I went through 'em good, when I was looking for a cash stash. Decoration—they was new, like she never cracked them. Except for the porno…"

"Porno?" I asked. The Prof is a stone prude—what he thinks is pornography wouldn't raise an eyebrow in a church waiting room.

"Yeah. You know, paperbacks. Always got a broad and a guy on the cover. In them old–time costumes. Like pirates and shit."

So Heather read romances. And put Kite on the cover in her mind…? "Nothing to interest the cops, huh?" I asked him.

"A smart cop, maybe. She got toys, bro. Brass knucks, steel snap–out baton, set of punch knives. This broad gets close enough to you, she could do some real damage."

"This is all I could put together on such short notice," Hauser told me in his gravelly voice. "The Post's not on NEXIS that far back—I had to go to the morgue."

"Thanks. How're the boys?"

"They're perfect," he said.

"No kids are perfect," I told him.

"What do you know?" he sneered, throwing the electric–blue Ford Explorer into gear and lurching into traffic without looking.

Heather was telling the truth. About the lies. The clips Hauser pulled for me had it all, just like she said.

Except for the suicide note the professor sent her.

"This one was the flip side of the fat broad, Schoolboy," the Prof said to me a few days later, telling me about his toss of Jennifer Dalton's apartment. "Place is a pigsty. Stinks out loud. Got dirty clothes on the floor, roaches. Wouldn't surprise me she had a couple of little cheese–eaters hanging around too. Only decent–looking thing in the place was the answering machine—looked brand–new. Uses the living room for everything: eats there, probably sleeps on the couch too. The bedroom didn't have nothing but the bed. Not even a phone back there."

"What's she read?"

"Total trash, man. You know, space aliens spotted in a parking lot in Miami, getting it on with a bull gator. TV Guide. Confession magazines."

"No romance novels for that one, huh?"

"No romance period , brother. Joint smelled bad, I tell you."

"You come away with anything?"

"Got you this," the little man said, handing me a pair of keys.

"She was a nice girl. I never said otherwise. And I still wouldn't today," the man in the blue blazer said, sitting behind the little gray metal desks they give salesmen in high–volume car dealerships. The gleam from the showroom washed into his cubicle, merging with the overhead fluorescent lighting to give his fleshy, well–scrubbed face a rosy glow under his short–cropped haircut. "It was just one of those things that didn't work out," he said in a brisk salesman's voice.

"Nothing…happened? Like a sudden event?"

"Nooo…" he said slowly, drawing the word out. "It was just that we were sort of…thrust together. You know. Same church, same social events. Our families knew one another slightly. We didn't really have that much in common, but…"

"How long did you go together?"

"We dated for about a year. Maybe a little less. Then we got engaged. But we were just going through the motions—there was no spark, if you know what I mean."

"But you did plan to get married…?"

"Plan? I'm not sure we had any real plan. Maybe that was the problem. We hadn't really thought things through. After a while, I just…"

"Met somebody else?"

"Not really. I mean, not a special person or anything. I didn't meet Melissa, my wife, until after me and Jennifer had broken up for a few months."

"Is Melissa also in the church?"

"Of course," he said, looking at me as though I asked if it was daylight outside. "I am part of the church, and the church is part of me. I wanted children, and—"

"Did Jennifer want children?" I interrupted.

"I guess so. I mean, we never really discussed it. Like I said, we never really talked about very much."

"Did you like her? As a person, I mean?"

"Jennifer is…rigid, I guess you'd call it. I mean, she's very nice. In every way, really. But she's not what you'd call a fun–loving person. Me, I'm more lively. I have to be doing something, you know what I mean? I'm very active in the church. And I'm a great sportsman too. Especially football."

"You follow the Giants?"

"The Jets," he said solemnly. "They are truly Job's team. And they will prevail. We must have faith. I have no use for fair–weather fans. The Jets were once mighty, but they have been suffering under a long period of adversity. I believe they are being tested. But we're going to get a lottery pick this year for sure—the top pick, as a matter of fact. And with the free agent draft plus—"

"Yeah," I said, cutting off the flow. "Would you say Jennifer was a religious person? When you knew her?"

"Religious? I guess so. I mean, she obeyed the tenets. She wasn't…passionate about our religion, but…"

"What about her character in general?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, her character."

"Was she an honest person?"

"Jennifer? She was one of the most honest people I ever met. She never lied, not about anything. It was one of the things I really liked about her. You know, the business I'm in, everybody has an image of it. The sleazy used car salesman. Like the crooked lawyer, right? Well, let me tell you something. In our church, lying is a great sin. One of the reasons I'm so successful is that church members would always prefer to deal with one of their own. But not because of what you might think. It's not clannishness—it's because Psalmists don't lie. If you buy a car from Roger Stewart, you're going to hear the truth about that car, new or used. And the word gets out. They tell their friends. I hope to have my own dealership some day. And when I do, it'll be because people know my word is as good as gold.

"That's the way we are. Any Psalmist who doesn't hold truth to be sacred would be shunned. Everybody knows that. Jennifer? She was a simple person. I don't mean stupid, just…straightforward. Nothing slick about her. Jennifer was a person who always told the truth."

"Ah, she was always in a fucking daze," the waitress told me, shaking her head hard enough to rattle her mop of carrot–color curls. "Couldn't get an order straight, dropped trays. I don't know why Mack hired her, I swear."

"Mack, he's the boss?"

"Boss? For here, I guess so. He's just the goddamned cook, that's all. But he gets to pick the girls, so I guess that makes him something. At least he thinks he is, anyway."

"How long did she work here?"

"Coupla months, maybe. I'm not sure. You gonna order something to drink with that burger?"

"Yeah. Give me a beer."

"What's 'a beer'? You want draft, bottle, what?"

"Whatever you got?"

"You ain't particular, huh?"

"Not about beer."

"Ah, I heard about you private eyes," she said, twitching her hips a little, smiling to let me know she was just playing.

"How come she left?" I asked her when she came back with the beer.