“We all know how it can go sometimes with investigations, Detective,” he said, smiling. “A direction suggests itself, and- right or wrong- resources follow it. And the more man-hours you spend, the more likely it is you can find things that reinforce your leanings, or that seem to, and that justify sending even more resources in the same direction. And so other possibilities get less attention. No one’s talking about conspiracy here, Detective, or prosecutorial misconduct, or even mismanagement- no one has used those words- it’s just a thing that happens sometimes. Call it an echo chamber, or group-think. It’s just everyone’s good fortune that John is somewhat independent minded. It saved a lot of awkwardness all around.”
Vines had gnashed her teeth and McCue had darkened to a coronary red, but a little while later, they’d cut me loose. Though not for long.
The evaporation of their high-profile trial, and all its attendant career fantasies, left McCue, Vines, and Flores frustrated and angry, and made me a target of opportunity. So it was back to Pitt Street on Monday, and Tuesday, and again on Wednesday. Nominally, the cops were still investigating the death of Holly Cade, but in fact they were fishing. Whom had I spoken to; what had I found; what did I know and when did I know it- anything that even hinted at obstruction.
I said as little as possible, and let Mike do most of the dancing, which he did better than anyone else I knew. He invoked attorney work-product confidentiality when he had to, and raised before them, more or less subtly, the specter of public embarrassment, and in the end I said not a word about Jamie Coyle, computer backups, DVDs, or unit 58 at Creek Self-Store- which, to my knowledge, they still haven’t discovered. When McCue made the clumsy suggestion that the DVD of David and Holly and Stephanie might somehow find its way to the Internet, Mike laughed, and cut him off at the knees.
“Better sell the condo in Florida now, Detective, and cash in the pension, and somebody should tell the mayor that the department’s going to overrun the budget on civil settlements this year.”
As the week wore on, it was obvious they were losing steam. Mike attributed some of it to the mounting forensic evidence that supported Deering’s confession: the E-ZPass records of his car crossing the Triborough Bridge on the night Holly died; the ballistics report on Nicole Cade’s gun, which matched it to the bullets that killed Holly; and the souvenirs found in the spare tire well of Deering’s station wagon- Holly’s bra and panties, and the keys to her apartment, all in a plastic grocery bag. Deering had done it, and we all knew there was less and less excuse for the cops to grill me.
Mike ascribed most of their waning enthusiasm, though, to the press. Because there weren’t many murders in the Wilton zip code, Deering’s had started out as a good-sized story. It had grown larger, and taken a gothic turn, when local reporters recalled the suicide, years earlier and in the same house, of Nicole’s mother. It achieved the status of minor frenzy when it was revealed that the murder victim had himself confessed to shooting his sister-in-law, one Holly Cade, also known as the Williamsburg Mermaid. Mike had explained it as we walked into the station house that morning.
“The bigger the story gets, the less Flores and company want it known that their investigation was headed entirely in the wrong direction. They want to mark Holly’s case closed, and they want you to go away.” Which was fine with me, but there was a lecture to sit through first.
McCue’s voice was a low growl as he wrapped up, and his face was dark. “Bottom line is: you got fucking lucky on this. Things broke your way. But God help you if you think you got over on us, because you didn’t. You think we don’t know the shit you’ve done? You think we don’t know about you going to Coyle’s place, or that you kicked the crap out of Werner? You’re not getting over on us, and I swear to God if I see that smirk again, I’m going to come across the table and slap it off your face.” He pointed a finger at me and I started to stand, and Mike held my arm. Rita Flores nodded, and offered her own admonitions.
“That’s right, counselor, sit him down- that’s good advice you’re giving. And you explain to him that next time- if he’s so foolish that there is a next time- pulling his license is just for starters. There’ll be charges, civil and criminal both, if my office has anything to say about it, and I won’t care if he’s captured Jack the fucking Ripper.” She looked at me, and her eyes were like nail heads. “You get that, March?” I nodded. “Great. Now clear out while I talk to your boss.”
I got up and took a long look at McCue, and hoped it would be for the last time. I had no doubt he was hoping the same. As it happened, we were both disappointed.
I waited for Mike on Pitt Street, under stony skies, in the penetrating cold. He came out smiling, and patting his overcoat pocket.
“You got it?” I asked.
He nodded, and slipped the disk out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Flores promised there were no copies.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I believe that if we keep our end of the deal- to keep quiet and keep away from the press- we won’t have to find out.”
“What about Werner?” I asked. “Are they going to go after him for the assault?”
Mike shook his head. “I tried,” he said. “But with no witnesses, no evidence, and only your coerced confession to go on, it’s a nonstarter for them.”
“He beat the shit-”
“It’s a nonstarter, John.”
I sighed and nodded my head. “So we’re done?”
“With these guys. You’ve got some trips to New Haven in your future.”
“What do you think will happen with Nicole?”
He shrugged. “I imagine her lawyer is thinking about some sort of diminished-capacity argument, and I imagine the state’s attorney has figured that out too. My guess is they’ll deal it down, but how far, I have no clue.”
“She didn’t seem all that diminished to me,” I said. “Mostly, she seemed pissed off.”
“Having your husband fuck your sister and then shoot her dead has that effect.”
“I don’t think it was the shooting she minded.”
40
Clare was at the table when I got home, finishing her breakfast and looking through the real estate listings. I hadn’t seen much of her in the past few days- she’d been all over town, and Brooklyn too, looking at apartments- but she’d waited up for me on Sunday night, rigid and white-faced on the sofa when I came in.
“There was news on TV,” she’d said. “A guy shot in Wilton.” She slipped her hands under my shirt. They were smooth and freezing. “They didn’t give his name.”
“It wasn’t me,” I said.
“Your guy, though?” I nodded. “I had a feeling, I don’t know why. Did you…?”
“I was a witness.” I put my face into her pale hair. Soap, perfume, and underneath, something warmer. “I should’ve called you,” I’d said.
“I wasn’t asking,” she’d whispered.
“Still…”
Clare tapped the newspaper- the Metro section- and slid it across to me. “Another thing about your thing,” she said.
I scanned the article. It was the fifth story that week, and mostly a rehash of other reports: another portrait of the Williamsburg Mermaid as a troubled young hipster, actress, and failed playwright, and liberally seasoned with rumors of sadomasochistic sex tapes. Cassandra Z was mentioned yet again. I looked at my backpack, sitting in the corner and bulging with DVDs and backup disks.
“You want to come to Brooklyn?” Clare asked. “Check out some apartments?”