“When Righter called on the fourteenth, what exactly did he say to you?” I ask Anna. “How did he introduce the conversation?”
She meets my eyes. “There was concern about your mental health. That is what he said right off.”
I simply nod. I am not offended. Although it is true I wobbled badly after Benton was murdered, I have never been mentally ill. I am secure in my sanity and my ability to reason and think. I have been guilty only of running from pain. “I know I didn’t handle Benton’s death well,” I admit.
“How do you handle something like that well?” Lucy replies.
“No, no. That is not what Buford meant,” Anna says. “He wasn’t calling about how you’ve managed grief, Kay. He was calling about Diane Bray, about your relationship with her.”
“What relationship?” I instantly wonder if Bray called Righter—yet one more trap she set for me. “I hardly knew her.”
Anna’s eyes are steady on mine, the shadow from the fire wavering on her face. I am startled again by how old she looks, as if she has aged ten years in a day. “You’d had a series of confrontations with her. You told me so,” she replies.
“Instigated by her,” I am quick to say. “We didn’t have a personal relationship. Not even a social one.”
“I think when you go to war against someone, that is personal. Even people who hate each other have a personal relationship, if you see what I am saying. Certainly, she had gotten very personal with you, Kay. Starting rumors. Lying about you. Creating a bogus medical column on the Internet that made it appear you were the one writing it, making a fool out of you and getting you into trouble with the secretary of public safety, even with the governor.”
“I was just with the governor. I don’t feel I’m in trouble with him at all.” I say this and at the same time find it curious. If Mitchell knows I am being investigated by a special grand jury, and I know he must, then why didn’t he accept my resignation and thank God to be rid of me and my messy life?
“She also put Marino’s career in jeopardy because he is your sidekick,” Anna goes on.
The only thought that flashes is Marino would not appreciate being called my sidekick. As if on cue, the intercom blares, announcing that he is at the front gates.
“Sabotaging your career, in other words.” Anna gets up. “Correct? Isn’t that what you have told me?” She pushes a button on a console on the wall, suddenly energized. Anger burns off her depression. “Yes? Who is it?” she snaps into the speaker.
“Me, baby.” The rude sounds of Marino and his truck fill the living room.
“Oh, he calls me baby again I will kill him.” Anna throws her hands up in the air.
She goes to the door, and then Marino is walking into the living room. He left his house in such a hurry he didn’t bother with a coat, only a gray sweat suit and tennis shoes. He is dumbstruck when he sees McGovern sitting by the fire, looking up at him from her Indian-style position on the floor.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Marino says. “Look what the cat drug in.”
“Great to see you, too, Marino,” McGovern replies.
“Someone want to tell me what the hell’s going on?” He moves a wing chair closer to the fire and sits, going from one face to the other, trying to read the situation, acting obtuse, as if he doesn’t already know. I believe he knows. Oh yes, now it is clear why he has been acting so strange.
We get into it. Anna continues to unravel what happened in the days preceding Jaime Berger’s coming to Richmond. Berger continues to dominate, as if she is sitting in our midst. I don’t trust her. And at the same time, I feel my life may very well be in her hands. I try to remember where I was on December fourteenth, moving backward from today, December 23, until I land on that Tuesday. I was in Lyon, France, at Interpol’s headquarters, where I met Jay Talley for the first time. I run through that encounter, reconstructing the two of us alone at a table in Interpol’s cafeteria. Marino took an instant dislike to Jay and stalked off. During lunch, I told Jay about Diane Bray, about my problems with her and that she was doing all she could to persecute Marino, including throwing him back into uniform and on midnight shift. What was it Jay called her? Toxic waste in tight clothes. Apparently, the two of them had run-ins when she was with the D.C. police and he was briefly assigned to ATF headquarters. He seemed to know all about her. Can it be coincidence that the very day I discussed her with him, Righter called Anna and questioned her about my relationship with Bray and made implications about my mental health?
“I wasn’t going to tell you this,” Anna continues in a hard voice. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but now that I am clearly going to be used against you . . .”
“What do you mean, used against her?” Marino butts in.
“Originally, I was hoping to guide you, to help allay these allegations about your mental health,” Anna says to me. “I did not believe it. And if I had any doubt, and maybe there was just a slight doubt because I had not seen you in so long, then I wanted to talk to you anyway, out of concern. You are my friend. Buford assured me that anything I could find out was not something he planned to do anything with. Our conversations were supposed to be private, his and mine. He said nothing, absolutely nothing, about accusing you.”
“Righter?” Marino scowls. “He ask you to be some kind of fucking snitch?”
Anna shakes her head. “A guide,” she uses that word again.
“That fucking figures. The loser.” Marino’s anger springs forth.
“He had to know if Kay was mentally stable. Certainly you can see why he needs to know that if she was going to be his star witness. I always thought this was about your being a star witness, not a suspect!”
“Suspect my ass.” Marino scowls. He makes no pretenses now. He knows exactly what is going on.
“Marino, I know you’re not supposed to tell me I’m being investigated by a special grand jury for the murder of Diane Bray,” I say to him, evenly. “But out of curiosity, I’m wondering, how long have you known? For example, when you ushered me out of my house on Saturday night, you knew then, didn’t you? That’s why you watched me like a hawk inside my own house. So I didn’t do something sneaky like dispose of evidence, or God knows what? That’s why you wouldn’t let me drive my car, right? Because you guys needed to see if there might be evidence in it, maybe Diane Bray’s blood? Fibers? Hair? Something that would put me at her house the night she was killed?” My tone is cool but searing.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Marino erupts. “I know you didn’t do nothing. Righter’s the biggest fuckhead, and I told him that. I’ve been telling him that every day. What’d you ever do to him, huh? You want to tell me why the hell he’s doing this to you?”
“You know what?” I stare hard at him. “I’m not going to hear one more time that everything is my fault. I didn’t do a damn thing to Righter. I don’t know what’s gotten him on this ridiculous kick unless it’s Jay planting stuff.”
“And I guess that ain’t your fault, either. Sleeping with him.”
“He’s not doing this because I slept with him,” I fire back. “If he’s doing anything, it’s because I only slept with him once.”
McGovern is frowning, leaning against the hearth. She says, “Dear ol’ Jay. Mister Squeaky Clean, pretty boy. Funny, I’ve never had a good feeling about him.”
“I told Buford that you are definitely not mentally ill.” Anna sets her jaw squarely and looks at me fiercely. “He wanted to know if I thought you were competent to assist him, if I think you are stable. See, he lied. This was supposed to be about our assisting him in the trial of Chandonne. I never imagined. I cannot believe Buford would slither out from under a rock and subpoena me like this.” She places a hand on her breast as if her heart is bothering her and briefly shuts her eyes.
“Are you all right, Anna?” I start to get up.
She shakes her head from side to side. “I will never be all right again. I would never have talked to you, Kay, if I thought such a thing
would happen.”
“Did you tape her, take notes?” McGovern asks.
“Of course not.”
“Good.”
“But if I am asked . . .” she starts to say.
“I understand,” I reply. “Anna, I understand. What’s done is done.” It is now that I must tell Marino the other news. While we are on such dreadful subjects, he may as well hear it all. “Your son, Rocky,” I say his name and nothing more. Maybe I am trying to see if Marino already knows this, too.
He turns to stone. “What about him?”
“It appears he is representing Chandonne,” I reply.
Marino’s face darkens to a deep, scary red. For a moment, no one speaks. He doesn’t know. Then Marino says in a flat, hard tone, “He would do something like that. Probably has something to do with what’s happening to you, too, if that’s possible. Funny thing about it, I halfway wondered if he had something to do with Chandonne’s ending up here.”
“Why would you wonder that?” McGovern asks in amazement.
“He’s a mob boy, that’s why. Probably knows Big Papa Chandonne over there in Paris and would like nothing better than causing me trouble here.”
“I think it’s time you talk about Rocky,” I tell him.
“You got any bourbon in this house?” Marino asks Anna.
She gets up and leaves the room.
“Aunt Kay, you can’t stay here anymore,” Lucy says to me in a quiet, urgent voice.
“You can’t talk to her anymore, Kay,” McGovern adds.
I don’t answer. Of course, they are right. Now, on top of it all, I have lost my friend.
“So, did you tell her anything?” Marino says to me in an accusing tone that has become all too familiar.
“I told her the world was better off without Diane Bray,” I reply. “In other words, I basically said I’m glad she’s dead.”
“So’s everybody who knew her,” Marino retorts. “And I’ll be glad to tell the fucking special grand jury that.”
“Not a helpful statement, but doesn’t mean you murdered anybody,” McGovern says to me.
“Not helpful is right,” Marino mutters. “Damn, I hope Anna don’t tell Righter you’re glad Bray was whacked,” he says to me.
“This is so absurd,” is my response.
“Well,” Marino replies, “yes and no, Doc.”
“You don’t have to talk to me about this,” I tell him. “Don’t put yourself in a bad spot, Marino.”
“Oh fuck it!” He waves me off. “I know you didn’t kill that damn bitch. But you gotta look at it from the other side. You had problems with her. She was trying to get you fired. You’ve been acting a little hinky ever since Benton died, or at least that’s what people have been saying, right? You have a confrontation with Bray in a parking lot. The theory is you was jealous of this new big-shot police lady. She was making you look bad and complaining about you. So you killed her and disguised it to look like it was the same guy who whacked Kim Luong, and who better to do that than you, right? Who more capable of the perfect murder than you, right? And you had access—first dibs on all the evidence. You could have beaten her to death and planted Wolfman’s hairs on her body, even switched swabs so they come up with his DNA. And it don’t look good that you took that evidence from the Paris morgue and brought it over here, either. Or took that water sample. Righter thinks you’re a nut case, I hate to tell you. And I gotta add that he don’t like you personally and never has because he’s got the balls of a soprano and don’t like powerful women. He don’t even like Anna, if the truth be known. The Berger thing’s kind of the best revenge. He really hates her.”
Silence.
“I wonder if they’re going to subpoena me,” Lucy says.
CHAPTER 20
RIGHTER THINKS YOU’RE a nut case, too,” Marino tells my niece. “The only point we’re in agreement on.” “Any chance Rocky’s been involved with the Chandonne family?” McGovern looks at Marino. “In the past? You’re serious when you say you wondered it?”
“Huh.” Marino snorts. “Rocky’s been involved with criminals most of his goddamn life. But do I know details about what he does with his fucking time, day to day, month to month? No. I can’t honestly swear to that. I just know what he is. Scum. He was born bad. Bad seed. As far as I’m concerned, he ain’t my son.”
“Well, he is your son,” I tell him.
“Not in my book. He took after the wrong side of my family,” Marino insists. “In New Jersey, we had good Marinos and bad Marinos. I had an uncle who was with the mob, another uncle who was a cop. Two brothers different as night and day. And then when I turned fourteen, Uncle Asshole Louie had my other uncle whacked—my other uncle being the cop, also named Pete. I was named after Uncle Pete. Shot down when he was in his own front yard picking up his fucking newspaper. We never could prove Uncle Louie had it done, but everyone in the family believed it. I still believe it.”
“Where’s your Uncle Louie now?” Lucy asks as Anna returns with Marino’s drink.
“I heard he died a couple years back. I didn’t keep up with him. Never had nothing to do with him.” He takes the glass from Anna. “But Rocky’s his spittin’ image. Even looked like him when he was growing up, and from day one was bent, warped, just a piece of living shit. Why do you think he took the name Caggiano? Because that’s my mother’s maiden name, and Rocky knew it would really piss me off if he crapped on my mother’s name. There’s some people who can’t be fixed. There’s some just born bad. Don’t ask me to explain it, because Doris and I did everything we could for that boy. Even tried sending him off to military school, which was a mistake. He ended up liking it, liked the hazing part, doing really crappy things to the other boys. Nobody picked on him, not even on the first damn day. He was big like me and just so goddamn mean the other kids didn’t dare touch a hair on his head.”
“This is not right,” Anna mutters as she sits back down on the ottoman.
“What’s Rocky’s motive for taking this case?” I know what Berger said. But I want to hear Marino’s slant. “To spite you?”
“He’ll get off on the attention. A case like this will create a circus.” Marino doesn’t want to say the obvious, that just maybe Rocky wants to humiliate, to best his father.
“Does he hate you?” McGovern asks him.
Marino snorts again and his pager vibrates.
“What eventually happened to him?” I ask. “You sent him off to military school, then what?”
“I kicked his ass out. Told him if he couldn’t follow the rules of the house, he wasn’t living under my roof. That was after his freshman year at the military school. So you know what the little psycho did?” Marino reads the display on his pager and gets up. “He moves up to Jersey, moves in with Uncle Louie, the fucking Mafia. Then has the balls to come back here for school, including law school, William and Mary, so yeah, he’s smart as shit.”
“He passed the bar in Virginia?” I ask.
“Here, practices all the hell over the place. I ain’t seen Rocky in seventeen years. Anna, you mind if I make a call? Don’t look like I want to be using the cell phone on this one.” He glances at me as he walks out of the living room. “It’s Stanfield.”
“What about the ID he called you about earlier?” I ask.
“Hopefully what this is about,” Marino says. “Another real strange one, if it’s true.”
While he is on the phone, Anna vanishes from her own living room. I supposed she was going to the bathroom, but she does not come back and I can only imagine how she feels. In many ways, I am more worried about her than about me. I now know enough about her life to appreciate her intense vulnerability and realize the terribly barren, scarred spots on her emotional landscape. “This isn’t fair,” I begin to lose my composure. “It’s not fair to anyone.” Everything that has piled up on me begins to unsettle and slide downhill. “Someone please tell me how this happened? Did I do something wrong in a former life? I don’t deserve this. None of
us do.”
Lucy and McGovern listen to me ventilate. They seem to have their own ideas and plans but are not inclined to offer them right away.
“Well, say something,” I tell them. “Go ahead and let it out.” Mostly, I say this for my niece’s benefit. “My life is wrecked. I haven’t handled anything the way I should. I’m sorry.” Tears threaten. “Right now I want a cigarette. Does anybody have a cigarette?” Marino does, but he is in the kitchen on the phone, and I’ll be damned if I am going to creep in there and interrupt him for a cigarette, as if I need one to begin with. “You know, what hurts me most is to be accused of the very thing I’m so against. I don’t abuse power, goddamn it. I would never murder somebody in cold blood.” I talk on and on. “I hate death. I hate killing. I hate every goddamn thing I see every goddamn day. And now the world thinks I did something like this? A special grand jury thinks maybe I might have?” I let the questions hang. Neither Lucy nor McGovern responds.
Marino is loud. His voice is muscular and big like he is and tends to shove rather than guide, confront rather than fall in stride. “You sure she’s his girlfriend?” he is saying over the telephone. I presume he is speaking to Detective Stanfield. “Versus just friends. Tell me how you know that for a fact. Yeah, yeah. Uh huh. What? Do I get it? Hell no, I don’t get it. It don’t make a shit’s worth of sense, Stanfield.” Marino is walking around the kitchen as he talks. He is on the verge of snapping Stanfield’s head off. “You know what I tell people like you, Stanfield?” Marino snaps. “I tell them to get out of my fucking way. I don’t give a rat’s ass who your fucking brother-in-law is, got it? He can kiss my butt and tuck it in bed, tell it a beddy-bye story.” Stanfield is obviously trying to get in a word or two, but Marino won’t let him.
“Oh boy,” McGovern mutters, returning my attention to the living room, to my own mess. “He’s the investigator for these two men who were probably tortured and killed? Whoever Marino’s talking to?” McGovern inquires.
I give her a strange look as an even stranger sensation ripples through me. “How do you know about the two men who were killed?” I grope for an answer that I must be missing. McGovern has been in New York. I haven’t even autopsied the second John Doe yet. Why does everybody seem to be omniscient all of a sudden? I think of Jaime Berger. I think of Governor Mitchell and Representative Dinwiddie and Anna. A strong breath of fear seems to foul the air like Chandonne’s body odor, and I imagine I smell him again and my central nervous system has an involuntary reaction. I begin to tremble as if I have drunk a pot of strong coffee or half a dozen of those heavily sugared Cuban espressos called coladas. I realize I am more afraid than I have ever been in my life and begin to entertain the unthinkable: Maybe Chandonne was offering a hint of truth when he persisted in his seemingly absurd claim that he is the victim of some huge political conspiracy. I am paranoid, justifiably. I try to reason with myself. I am, after all, being investigated for the murder of a corrupt policewoman who probably was involved with organized crime.
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