by JJ Partridge
That last thought salvaged my ego. But how to tell Nadie without being accused of being a voyeur—which I was.
“Ugh,” I said aloud. One thing for sure was that Williams was on his own. It was beyond me. A sleuth needs ingenuity, patience, an investigative routine, and time. All I had was serendipity. Williams had Franks to out-maneuver and overpower the prosecution. I would make sure Tramonti knew about the bankbook and the abortion tomorrow morning and that would be that. My tilting at windmills would stop. Anyway, who was I to complain about the lack of justice in this world?
Having made the decision, I soaked up heat and felt better than I had at any time since Monday’s meeting with Reverend Thomas. After another shot of hot water and a few more minutes of soaking, I climbed out of the tub, toweled off, rubbed in more BENGAY, dressed the cuts and scrapes again with Neosporin, donned pajamas and a red silk robe, and got comfortable for an hour or so of television before bed, only to be interrupted by the ring of the front doorbell. Must be Tramonti, I thought; he’d be bound and determined to get to me. I started to think of excuses for not returning his calls as I walked downstairs and snapped on the hall and outside lights.
Bill Tuttle stood on the other side of the storm door next to another man, shorter and wider than Tuttle, with sparse ginger hair and hands in the pockets of a dark blue windbreaker with a faded yellow logo that I couldn’t quite make out. Tuttle, in a dress shirt and tie under a dark brown raincoat and holding a furled umbrella, barely greeted me as he entered; his burly companion, wet shoulders hunched forward and eyes searching his shoes, silently followed.
One look at Tuttle’s face and I knew he was on a mission. “This here is Terrence Sullivan. He’d like a word with you. Asked me along.” The other man’s beefy, glistening face angled up at me, his eyes startling me with their anger. I extended my hand but his didn’t move from the windbreaker.
I ignored the obvious insult, took the umbrella and placed it in the hall stand, and led them into the living room where, as I put on table lights, they took in the room’s formality and the generous space that permitted it. In the awkward silence, I gestured to a seating arrangement of a roll arm sofa, chairs, and table, and they chose opposite ends of the sofa as I took one of the wing chairs across from them. I thought about igniting the gas fire but decided that coziness wasn’t likely at the top of their agenda. Tuttle removed his raincoat and placed it in his lap; Sullivan, who kept his windbreaker zipped up tight—the yellow blob turned out to be a faded Fraternal Order of Police logo—sniffed at the room, radiating resentment. By now, I was acutely conscious of my foppish attire, my facial bruises, and the clashing scents of BENGAY and sandalwood. Fortunately, neither of my guests seemed interested.
“Terry would—” began Tuttle.
“I can speak my own piece.” His voice was strained; his eyes stared at me above half-moons of purple. “You came to my home today.” He hunched forward, waiting for me to respond, and the smells of whiskey and damp clothing reached me. “You came with some cock-’n’-bull story and scared my daughter half to death. I’m tellin’ you to your face,” he said, with his chin jutting out and his hands leaving his pockets to become fists on his unpressed khaki trousers. “You got no call to butt in, to bother my family. Especially now.” His eyes darted around the room. “Who d’you think you are? What gives you the right to—”
Tuttle quickly placed a hand across Sullivan’s fists. “Hold on, Terry. You’re bein’ insulting. You don’t give a man a chance to explain.” He gave me a pained look.
“Alright, explain,” Sullivan said snidely and sat back, folding his arms across his paunch.
I remained silent as I looked him over. Maybe fifty-five, pugnacious, rude, in need of a shave, double chinned, with the skin of a boozer with high blood pressure. Purplish swiggles webbed a reddish nose. Then, I remembered that yesterday, he had buried his daughter.
“First, my condolences to you and your family. I want to assure you there was nothing sinister or inappropriate about my colleague’s interview, Mr. Sullivan.” His face told me I was a liar; that unsettled me and involuntarily my voice slipped into that dry preciseness that would play to Sullivan’s expectations. “I simply provided transportation, an …, accommodation to Ms. Winokur from the Women’s Center because of the snow. I was invited inside by your daughter. I didn’t say more than a word or two. My understanding is that Ms. Winokur was inquiring as to whether the University or the Women’s Center might have helped your daughter when she didn’t return for this semester—”
Sullivan shook off Tuttle’s restraint and threw up his hands in dramatic disbelief. “Will ya’ listen to this guy! He’s been mucking around in this since it began—even arranged for Williams to get a meet with the Commissioner—and now he wants me to believe he’s only helping out somebody who’s on some sort of stupid project. An ac-com-mo-dation ...,” he drew out the word, “ac-com-mo-dation, mind ya. What a bunch of bullshit!” He glared at me. “What is it with you? What kind of game are you playing?”
“No game.”
“Well, I’m having none of it.” Sullivan stood up. “Let’s go. I said my piece. And he’s got no answer.”
Tuttle remained seated. His face had the unsettled look of someone disappointed in himself or maybe his colleague. “Bill,” I said in a level tone, “if Mr. Sullivan is prepared to listen, I’ll be glad to talk. But if he intends to be offensive, then—”
Sullivan made an awkward grab for my robe. Missing by six inches, he went crashing forward, clearing the table of its family photographs, to lay across it floundering like a beached seal. Tuttle bolted up, seized Sullivan at the waist, heaved him back on to the sofa, and roughly braced his shoulders against its cushions. The lout’s fall seemed to knock both the breath and the fight out of him; sweat broke out on his forehead. As I picked up the photographs and put them on the seat of the other chair, Tuttle’s face flooded with embarrassment. He needed support so I said, “Maybe a drink might do us some good.”
“I won’t say no,” said Tuttle quickly. Sullivan looked up, his face sullen and pale, and nodded. Tuttle looked murderously at his charge and muttered, “Hair of the dog.”
I left them and went to the drinks cabinet in the dining room, returned with a bottle of Macallan and three glasses, and poured a good measure in each. I hoped the ritual of alcohol would get us settled. Tuttle took a glass and handed it to Sullivan who, slumping further into the sofa, his stringy hair falling into his face, swallowed greedily and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like he had downed a beer instead of some of my best Scotch. Tuttle, obviously pained, glared. “I’ve known Terry for twenty years. There’s blather but no harm in him. Been a tough day. This sort of thing can affect even a good man.”
Sullivan raised his hand dismissively, eyed me with a sidelong glance, and unzipped his jacket, revealing a red plaid shirt. Sweat now beaded his face.
“Did ya’ know my Annie?” His voice had lost none of its surliness.
“No, I didn’t know her.”
“Why get into this, then?”
I took a deep breath. By now, I could summarize the story in twenty seconds or less. “I was asked by the minister at Lavelle Williams’s mother’s church to escort him to the station where Williams was to be questioned about his relationship with your daughter. As I’m sure you know, it didn’t work out that way. Then, Williams picked my garage to hide during the snowstorm when he found out you ..., the police ..., were going to bring him in again.” There was no need to mention Williams’ assault on me. “When I found him, I called his lawyer who brought him in.”
“And that’s why you go to my house? Ask all those questions?”
“I didn’t ask any questions. I told you—”
Tuttle intervened. “You heard the man, Terry. He was with his friend from the Women’s Center. Your daughter wasn’t forced to say anything. She volunteered. She let them in. You know that.”
Sullivan finished the Scotch and played w
ith the empty glass in his hands. His face was now sickly pale; the sweat beads had broken and streaked his face. “Fool of a girl, lettin’ perfect strangers in the house,” he grumbled.
“So, what was the harm?” Tuttle asked.
Sullivan glared at me and shook his head. “I dunno. Sounds very peculiar to have you doing all this.” Then, the meanness on his face slowly formed into a sneer, a look that seemed habitual. “People like you—”
“Terry ....” Tuttle’s rising voice carried a warning. He took the glass from Sullivan’s hand. “We’re going.”
Sullivan remained defiant. “Well, I know enough to see that all this doesn’t wash. He ...,” he gestured towards me with a shrug of his shoulder, “... his kind never helped our kind. They used us in the shops for generations and then threw us away. There’s something in this for him. Something—”
I said evenly, “And what’s in it for you?”
“Eh?” Sullivan snapped.
“How much did Annie have in the bank?”
His eyes ballooned. He leaned forward, put both hands flat on the table, and his whiskey breath poured out at me. “What—?”
“Her bank account!”
His eyes became slits. He started to get up but his legs were like rubber and he fell back on to the sofa.
“What bank account?” Tuttle asked both of us.
Sullivan shrugged. “Forget it. Let’s go,” and he struggled to gain his feet, using the arm of the sofa for leverage.
“What bank account!” Tuttle demanded.
Sullivan’s face was suddenly the color of rotten melon; the stubble of his beard glistened in sweat. “Geez,” he said, eyes rolling upward, “I think I’m gonna puke.”
We got him into the lavette just in time and stood in the hall through an eruption of gagging noises and coughs. Tuttle’s face had become hard. I asked him, “You’ve followed all this. What do the police know about his daughter’s bank account? With maybe twenty grand in it? Monthly deposits?”
“I’ve heard nothing about it.”
“Or that she’d had an abortion?”
That stopped him cold. “No, not that. They might have found it in the autopsy ..., but I don’t know. They’d likely not tell me, with her being Sullivan’s kid ....” He was thoughtful for a moment, then set his jaw and eyed me suspiciously. “How’d you know about all this?”
My reply was interrupted by the whoosh of a toilet flush, guttural phlegm clearing, and water splashing in the sink. Sullivan appeared, white-faced, hair matted, reeking of vomit, holding the windbreaker, while hanging on to the lavette doorknob for support; his plaid shirt, barely covering his belly, showed his undershirt between lower buttons. “Sorry,” he muttered, without meaning it.
Tuttle’s eyes drilled him. “The bank account, Terry. C’mon, let’s have it!”
“Whaddabout it?” Sullivan responded.
“Which bank?”
“Citizens.”
“Where did the money come from?”
He was keeping his head down, hiding his face. “I dunno. Pattie had the book.”
“C’mon—“
“I tell ya, I dunno!”
“How much?”
Reluctantly, still hiding his face, he sighed. “Near to twenty thousand ....”
“Twenty thousand! Did you tell anybody downtown?”
He pushed his way by us into the living room and turned to defend himself. The room’s eggplant green walls emphasized his face’s sallowness. “Christ, don’t you understand?” His shoulders sagged. “It’s ... it’s owed to us. It’s blood money. Blood money!” His voice pleaded even as his eyes showed cunning. “All we got is the funeral bills. We need it. It’s ours.” He dropped the windbreaker on the sofa and found a dirty handkerchief in a back pocket which he used to wipe his face. “If the AG got it, we wouldn’t have the money for months. It’d get impounded, just when we need it. Do you know what a funeral costs these days? I got a lawyer who prepared some kind of affidavit and Ginnie brought it down to the bank this morning and cashed it in. It’s barely enough to pay all the bills.”
Tuttle walked past me into the living room, picked up the windbreaker, and thrust it at him. “When did Pattie get the book?” he said sternly. He turned to look at me, embarrassed. “Why?”
Sullivan looked around the room, and when he faced Tuttle, a lie flickered in his face. “A couple of weeks ago. Annie gave it to her for safekeeping. She must have been afraid ... of something ...,” he hesitated but said it anyway, “… like that piece a shit that was botherin’ her.” He turned to me. “I gotta sit down. My head is killing me,” he said and sat on the arm of the sofa. “I was gonna say something to the Chief about it, ya know. But with the wake and funeral and everything happening, I just didn’t get the chance.”
Tuttle replied icily, “They got to know—”
“I was goin’ to give them the canceled book. When I went back on Monday. That’s all they need, right? I’ll talk to McCarthy first thing. He’ll understand.”
“You see McCarthy tomorrow with that bankbook and if you know anything about when she got the money, you’d better tell him straight. I’ll check myself tomorrow.” Tuttle’s face betrayed disgust. “And maybe you’d better apologize to Mr. Temple before we go.”
Apologize? You gotta be kiddin’, his eyes responded, but apparently realizing he didn’t need another problem, he murmured, “Sure, it was the drink, Mr. Temple. It’s been hard on me and Ginnie, last couple days ..., real hard. With me on the force and people asking about it all the time, the autopsy, the wake, then the funeral, and this thing about you comin’ to the house, talkin’ to Pattie....” He sucked in a heavy breath. “I’ve been drinkin’ too much,” he said in a voice that quivered as tears came on cue. “Annie was so smart. Coulda gone to PC, URI, or some other place, but she wanted to go to Carter. We let her. If she hadn’t done that, she’d still be with us.” He wiped his face with a sleeve. “If she’d only gone someplace else, like we wanted her to—” and he put his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with sobs.
His audience recognized this was theater. Tuttle shook his head and said in a tired voice, “That’s it then, Terry. Let’s go.” He helped Sullivan get his arms into the windbreaker and pushed him out to the hall. “I’ll call if there’s a problem,” Tuttle said to me, and guided his charge out the front door into the rain.
When I closed the door behind them, I leaned against it. Ironically, Nadie’s well described “lout” would tell McCarthy about the bankbook, and Tuttle would check into the abortion. I was off her Benjamin Cardozo Junior High moral hook. I went back into the living room and sat on the sofa to finish my Scotch, wondering if I should tell Nadie that Sullivan had been here to complain about her interview. No, she would react as though it was all my doing. And, my mind started to work again on who killed Annie Sullivan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Saturday
My eyes darted around in the darkness. I had awakened with a start after a no-REM night of restlessness. Annoying questions crowded my mind, like hooded shadows, fast moving and vague. My cache of evidence was ridiculously trivial. I had been a snoop, a voyeur, trying to show Nadie how smart I was, smarter than her, smarter than the cops. Did I owe Reinman something? His family? His reputation? He had trusted me for some reason. Or had it been the whim of a thoughtless egotist?
I turned on to a side and a stab of pain reminded me of Williams. A drug dealing punk. He assaulted me! Couldn’t I remember that? Annie Sullivan. She’d brought a bag of tricks with her to Carter. Her sister and father were a pair, too. So what if Reinman had been her lover; he couldn’t impregnate her. And in his condition, he couldn’t have killed her. Nadie had nailed that. Or had she?
Another spasm shot up my spine and I grabbed my pillow and bunched it up behind my head. Why am I going on with this? The victim wasn’t exactly virtuous and my suspect isn’t guilty. But, neither was Williams. Or The Stalker, according to Tuttle. Maybe one of the
m did it and I’m just flat out, stupidly wrong. Did my agitation boil down to satisfying my vanity, to be the one who put all the pieces together? Was there an echo of the lawyer I had been years earlier, a need for simple justice, a recognition that murder couldn’t be condoned, even if the victim was, by all accounts, a miserable human being.
And it went on and on.
By seven-thirty, I had narrowed my options. One person could put Carl Reinman and Annie Sullivan in context last Friday night. I had to confront her, otherwise, I’d never detach from the tar baby.
* * *
Mrs. Cabel’s voice was wary and cool to my early call. My excuse was that I had some probate papers for her daughter’s signature. As I spoke, I fingered the cut-out alphabet of Reinman’s address book. How many of Reinman’s dalliances were in here? Before she could question me, I said I would be there within the hour, got something of an assent, and said goodbye.
I showered, medicated myself—the bruises were turning a yellowish blue and the abrasions remained raw to the touch—strapped on my corset, and dressed in casual clothes, leather jacket, and the fedora that now seemed to be my talisman, was soon walking through the slush of East Street down The Hill towards Benefit Street. My takings from Reinman’s office were in a leather case under my arm. The sky was a dome of cloudless blue, the early sun glowed, there was no wind, and the temperature was moving up rapidly. The snow had been reduced even further by a night of steady rain; lawns were once again visible under a bluish-green glaze; what remained had been protected by shade or overhangs or was piled—darkened by sand, exhaust, and soot, and tunneled by the runoff—at curbside. Predictably, at the bottom of East Street, the storm sewer was inside a snow bank and a puddle rippled from one brick sidewalk to the other, a pond that would take another day or two to drain off.