Aphrodite w-3 Page 8

  "Receiving?"

  "From the Journal. I assume that in addition to the story, the very least I'm getting is a free subscription. Although that still doesn't make up for the sloppiness, you know." Wallace worried that, because he was in such a good mood, his rebuke wasn't as harsh as it should have been. "That doesn't make up for the kind of mistake this was."

  "Do you think I could get a glass of water? Before I tell you what you're getting?"

  Wallace stood up, not bothering to hide his annoyance, and went into the kitchen to get the drink. The blond man didn't even look up when he heard a glass drop and break and his host begin to sputter. In a couple of seconds, Wallace came storming back into the living room, staring at the blond man, then turned back toward the kitchen, his mouth open.

  "I'm not giving you a free subscription," the blond man in the living room said.

  "I'm not either," the second, identical-looking blond man in the kitchen said.

  "What is going on here?" Wallace whispered to the second blond, who now stepped through the kitchen doorway into the living room. "Who are you? How did you get in here?"

  "You were really angry about that obit, weren't you?" the first blond man said.

  "I'm not now," Wallace said, stuttering. "It d-d-doesn't really matter."

  "What's the pin in Wallace P. stand for? Pissed off?"

  "You know," said the blond who'd been in the kitchen, who was still lingering in the doorway, "sometimes when you're angry, it's better just to keep quiet."

  "Yes." Wallace nodded quickly. His head bobbed up and down several times. "I understand that now. And that's what I'm going to do. Keep quiet."

  "We know," the first blond said. And, smiling politely, he drew out of his jacket pocket an SIG-Sauer with a silencer attached, pulled the trigger once, and shot Wallace P. Crabbe right in the middle of his forehead.

  "He sure was surprised to see you," the first blond said.

  "They're all surprised to see me," the second one said.

  Then the two men smiled at each other and, professionals that they were, began to clean up. Justin was holding the phone to his ear, gripping it tighter than was necessary. It had rung ten times now. He was hoping that the little shit in his spotless, impersonal house would answer the phone, irate at being awakened. He was hoping that Wallace P. Crabbe would give him living hell and then call the East End Harbor police station to register a complaint against him.

  He let the phone ring twenty times before burying his head in his hands and bending over in despair. He only hung up when he was certain that Wallace sounded enough like Walrus that Wallace P. Crabbe wasn't ever going to answer the phone again.

  8

  "Hey, Westwood."

  Justin was sitting at his desk, his eyes closed, doing what he liked best, which was drifting away in his self-created cloud of darkness. The voice jarred his eyes open and he glanced over at the cop at the desk next to his. What the hell is his name again? Westwood thought. Oh, yeah. Got it. Chalk one up for my side.

  "What do you want, Brian?"

  "I just want to tell you I think you're an unbelievable fucking pussy."

  Justin nodded wearily. "Is that right?"

  "You let those guys from Middleview push the shit out of you."

  "No I didn't. I just didn't push back."

  "You think that missing guy is dead. I heard you with the chief. You convinced him you were right."

  Justin shrugged. "Well, they didn't believe me. And there was nothing I could do to convince them."

  "Bullshit. You just rolled over and played dead."

  "Maybe it's because I don't know if I believe me."

  Brian didn't say anything to that. He didn't have to. The look of scorn on his face said more than enough.

  "Westwood."

  This time it was the other one, Gary. Justin looked up at him but didn't bother to respond.

  "What's the deal with the chief and you?" Gary said. He didn't seem to care if Justin was ignoring him.

  "What deal is that, Gary?"

  "It's like he thinks you're…I don't know what. Like you're special. Like you know stuff." He looked at Justin, took off his silly-looking ultra-cop sunglasses and took a long look. "What is it you know?"

  "He don't know shit," Brian said.

  Gary kept looking. "Is that right?" he asked, but he wasn't asking Brian. He was asking Justin.

  "That's right," Westwood said. "It's the first smart thing I ever heard your little friend say." Then he got up and walked out the door of the station, onto the East End Harbor streets.

  As he walked, he thought about the conversation he had had with the Middleview police.

  He'd called them the night before, right after he gave up on reaching Crabbe. He explained his fear and the department dispatched two men to check out Crabbe's house. He wasn't there. The house was empty. But there was no evidence of B and E. No blood. No sign of theft or a struggle or that anything violent had occurred. The sergeant at the desk called Justin back, asked him to explain his suspicions, and then said he thought it would be best if they could talk in person. Next, Justin called his chief, filled him in on what was happening. Leggett was nervous. Justin could tell that he wasn't wild about the call to the Middleview force, but he agreed to back Justin, said he'd be at the meeting in the morning. And he was. Two cops from Middleview showed up at the station around nine o'clock. They went into the chief's office and Justin did his best to explain his thought process as calmly and cogently as he could. But as he spoke he realized he didn't have much. Yeah, he had a witness saying that Susanna Morgan had been murdered. But there was no motive and very little physical evidence to back it up. There was a connection between Susanna Morgan and Crabbe, but it was a tenuous one at best. And there was absolutely no proof that anything had happened to Wallace Crabbe other than the fact that he might have decided to stay at his girlfriend's house for the night. Halfway through his explanation, Westwood could feel the two cops tune him out. They weren't buying it. Not enough proof. Too much of a stretch. Absolutely no evidence. And it was all coming from a schmuck walking a one-street-long beat in a basically crimeless town.

  So he clammed up. The passion that had come out when he'd explained his theory to Leggett was gone. He finished his story in a quiet monotone, listened as the cops politely said they'd check up on Crabbe and keep Justin informed as the investigation progressed. They had glanced at each other and smiled at the word "investigation."

  It was over. Without Wallace Crabbe's body there was nothing.

  As the two cops left, he heard one of them say to Brian, "What's the story with that guy?" Brian responded, too low for Justin to hear. Then he heard them all laugh knowingly. One of the cops also said, "Hey, isn't this where that intern's from? The one who's missing in D.C.?" And this time it was Gary who answered, "Maura Greer. Yeah. She was a townie."

  "You know her?" one of the Middleview cops asked.

  "Went to high school with her," Gary said. And Brian said, "Me too."

  "She looks like a babe," the same Middleview cop muttered.

  "A little porky," Brian said. "But not too shabby."

  "Hell," the Middleview cop said, "that's who you guys should go out and find. Be a couple of heroes. Don't waste your time on this bullshit."

  And they all laughed again.

  Then, when he came out of Leggett's office, Brian had accused him of rolling over. Had he? Yeah, probably. He'd spent so many years rolling over that he couldn't tell the difference anymore. But what the hell could he have said that would have made any difference? I have a hunch? I give out parking tickets in a resort town now but my hunches used to mean something? Yeah, that would have worked. He told himself that he gave up trying to convince them because he had nothing. Somewhere inside him was the thought that he was wrong. That his instincts had dulled and atrophied and his hunches no longer had validity. That the unpleasant and compulsively tidy man hadn't been attacked, that he did actually have a girlfriend and he was p
robably just spending the night with her. That was why Wallace Crabbe hadn't answered his phone. Because he was simply leading a normal life, something Justin Westwood hadn't led in six and a half years.

  Justin made the turn onto Main Street. So what now? Too early to get drunk. Besides, he was on duty. He thought about saying he was sick and going home, smoking as much dope as he could, and blaring some R.E.M., drowning out the world and shutting his eyes for the rest of the day. But he knew he wouldn't do that. Couldn't do it. If he did, he'd stay there a lot longer than one day. So he had to ask himself the same question he'd asked himself almost every hour of the day and night for the past six-plus years: What do I do to get through the next sixty minutes without blowing my brains out?

  Much to his surprise, Justin Westwood decided that what he'd do was go see about a yoga lesson. Deena Harper's class was just ending. Justin peered in from the street, through the tinted plate-glass window that separated Deena's studio from the sidewalk. She was wearing a pair of black tights and a black tank top. No shoes, just a pair of thick gray wool socks. He saw two middle-aged women doing their best to unfold their legs and stand up. And one young man-Justin thought it was the guy who ran the computer store a couple of buildings down-who seemed amazingly fit and remained in a sitting position, legs folded, breathing deeply in and out. Finally, the computer guy stood up and all three people handed Deena some money. She thanked the two women and kissed the guy lightly on the cheek, then the three students emerged onto the street in front of Justin. He nodded at them, hesitated, aware that they were all watching him as he stepped through the doorway into the yoga room.

  "Hey," he said, casually.

  Deena looked up, surprised. But she smiled when she saw him.

  "I'll be with you in a second."

  She dashed into a back room and Justin had time to survey the studio. Not all that much to survey, really. A few gym mats on the floor, several more rolled up and propped against a corner. One whole wall was a mirror. There were a couple of chalk boards with strange, non-English words on them: trikonasana and sirsasana and parsvakonasana. Across from the mirror was a small poster, handmade, that said, My religion is kindness.-Dalai Lama. The room was clean and clutter free, but somehow it radiated a degree of warmth and serenity that pleased him.

  Justin looked at himself in the mirror, bent down to see how close he could get to touching his toes. He got just about to his knees, heard himself grunt. He decided he should look up, check out his form. It wasn't pretty, that much was for sure. Made less pretty by the nerdy East End Harbor Police uniform he was wearing. It looked more like a Boy Scout uniform than something that should be on a cop. And it was all made even uglier when, unfortunately, Deena chose that moment to return from the back room. Justin looked up at her, his arms dangling in front of him, his legs bent, his head cocked, his uniform sleeves snagged a few unsightly inches above his wrists. He straightened up as fast as he could, felt his back wrench, decided there was no way in hell he was going to acknowledge the pain and show this woman that he was barely capable of bending over.

  "Ever do yoga?" Deena asked.

  "Can't you tell from my expert technique? I used to be a black belt."

  "Wrong discipline," she said. "No belts in yoga. Other than that, you were totally believable."

  He winced now, wanted desperately to stretch his back, but that's when he noticed that standing behind Deena, as if hiding, was a small girl. She looked like a miniature of the older woman.

  "This is Kendall," Deena said. "This is Mr. Westwood. Or is it Officer Westwood?"

  "Justin," he said. "It saves a lot of confusion. You can even make it simpler and call me Jay."

  The little girl poked her head out, smiled shyly, a charmer of a smile, then ducked behind her mother again. Justin knew what he should say. He used to be good with kids. Why is such a beautiful little girl hiding, that's what he should ask her. If I were that beautiful, I would definitely not be hiding But nothing came out of his mouth. He just stood there awkwardly, looking at mother and daughter.

  "So," Deena said finally. "Is there news?" He looked startled, his brow furrowed in confusion, so she said, "You know. About Susanna and…everything."

  "Oh," he said. "Not exactly."

  "I thought maybe you'd come to give me an update. Thought maybe you'd caught them."

  "I'm just passing by."

  "Is anything happening?"

  "Sure," he said, but it didn't sound convincing, even to him. "Lots of stuff."

  "That's very reassuring. I'm sure I'll sleep soundly now."

  "Aren't you sleeping?"

  "No," Deena said, "as a matter of fact, I'm not."

  "Bad dreams?"

  She looked as if she wanted to say something, but glanced down at the little girl and thought better of it-why put bad dreams into her head-and just nodded. All she said was, "Are there any other kind?"

  "He doesn't know you were there," he said.

  "What?"

  "You might have reasons for your dreams, what you saw. But whoever that guy is, he thinks he got away with it. He doesn't know there was a witness."

  "And you're telling me this because…?"

  "Because sometimes when people have bad dreams, it's not just the things they've seen. It's not just what's real. It's the things they're afraid might happen to them. So I thought I should make it really clear that nothing's going to happen to you. There's no reason for anything to happen. He doesn't know you exist."

  Deena was silent for a moment. Then the right side of her mouth flickered upward in a half smile. "I guess I should have thought of that myself, huh? Could've helped out my beauty sleep."

  Justin was surprised to hear himself say, "I don't think you need too much help there."

  The rest of her mouth managed to smile. They stood, facing each other, Justin shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet, feeling slightly foolish.

  "Well…" she said.

  "Well…" he said. "I have to take Kendall over to the library. They're having a special kids' book thing. Somebody from Sesame Street or Between the Lions or one of those shows. A storytelling hour."

  "Is it all right if I walk you over there?" he asked, directing his question to the little girl, who was still clutching her mother's waist and trying to remain unseen. "I'd really like to."

  Again, a quick dart of the head, an even quicker smile. "Okay," the girl said. "It's okay with me."

  Deena patted her on the head, looked up at Justin, and added, "It's okay with me, too."

  9

  The library was three blocks farther down Main Street, tucked into a residential block. It should have taken them no more than ten minutes to make the stroll. But they were slowed down when a blue Jaguar, driving on the other side of the road, passed them by, stopped suddenly, and began honking its horn. Justin peered across the street, heard someone call out, "Jay? For chrissake, Jay, is that you?" He knew he had to do something-the guy was getting ready to hop out of the car and Justin knew that he'd dash across the street to meet them-so he held up his hand and walked slowly, lumberingly, over to the driver.

  "I can't believe it," the guy behind the wheel said. He looked comfortable in the Jag, like he belonged there. His clothes were casual but very expensive, and he was wearing a watch that probably cost two grand. He lifted the arm with the watch and waved his hand at Justin's police uniform. "Is it Halloween?"

  "Can I help you?" Justin said.

  "It's me! It's Jordy. Chris Jordan! I know I put on a few pounds, but from the looks of it so have-" He hesitated, now sounding unsure of himself. "You are Jay Westwood, right?"

  Justin didn't say anything. He adjusted his sunglasses, tipping them a fraction of an inch higher on the bridge of his nose.

  "Look," the driver of the Jaguar said, "I heard about Alicia. I tried to get in touch with you-a lot of us did-but you kind of disappeared."

  "I'm sorry," Justin said. "I don't remember any Chris Jordan."

  "What?" An
d as Justin turned away, started heading across the street, the driver called after him, "Jay! What the hell are you doing? Jay, for God's sake! You're just gonna walk away? You walk away from college, you walk away from your friends, now you're going to walk away from your old roomie?"

  But Justin didn't turn back. Even when the driver said, "Jay, I've got a place in Southampton. I'm listed. If you want to, call me." He just crossed the street, didn't turn around until he heard the car speed away. Then he went back to stand beside Deena.

  "What was that all about?" she asked.

  "Don't know," Justin said. "I guess he thought he knew me."

  "Sounds like he did know you," Deena said. "Sounds like he knew you from college." When Justin didn't say anything, Deena asked, "Where'd you go to school?" When she didn't get an answer, she said, "Justin, where'd you go, a local college? That's nothing to be ashamed of, you know. I mean, if you're embarrassed because you didn't go to a good school, or you dropped out, come on… I bet a few of the guys on the force here didn't even go to college. Or maybe they went to a junior college. Hey, I didn't go to the world's greatest school either."

  "I don't like to talk much about my college days," Justin said.

  Deena chewed on her lower lip for a moment. "He looked pretty successful," she said. "The guy in the Jaguar. But being a policeman is nothing to be ashamed-"

  "I don't like to talk about that, either," Justin said.

  Then he nodded his head, jutting his chin forward, indicating that they should continue on their way to the library. When they arrived, Kendall-whom Deena sometimes called Kenny or Ken-went running in ahead of them. By the time Justin and Deena got up the steps and to the librarian's desk, the little girl was comfortably settled amid a horde of youngsters in a room directly behind the foyer. The room had a sliding door separating it from the entry hall, but the door was open. A middle-aged man with a large monkey puppet on his hand was already addressing the excited children.

  As they sidled in closer to the doorway, the librarian looked up from her desk and saw Deena. Justin realized he'd never been in the East End Harbor Library before. Out of habit, he glanced down at the librarian's nameplate. Her name was Adrienne.