by David Wiltse
8
Tee contemplated the young prisoner who sat on the other side of his desk and wondered why the man was lying to him. In other respects he was the model suspect. Respectful, polite, deferential, and cooperative, Tyrone Abdul Kiwasee had confessed to eight burglaries in Clamden in the past three years. He had provided dates, details of entry, even suggestions about improved security measures. His recall of the stolen merchandise had been good, he had quickly and willingly betrayed his confederates, had even implicated himself in other, lesser crimes. Tee had little doubt in his mind that the information was correct, and Kiwasee had coughed it all up so freely, so happily, he resembled the ideal sinner in the confession booth, delighted to purge his soul and find redemption. All of which made it even more baffling that he was lying about the final job.
"You're sure you know which house I'm talking about?" Tee asked. "Yes sir, Officer McNeil drove me around and showed me all the houses on your list."
"And you insist you've never been there?"
"I've never been there, sir."
"Two weeks ago, a Thursday night."
"No sir, I ain't been in Clamden in six months until Officer McNeil drove me around today."
"There are no other charges attached to this one, you know," said Tee.
"No one was hurt, you didn't break any more laws than in all the rest of them."
"I'm glad no one was hurt," said Kiwasee. "Ain't nobody ever hurt in my work, I don't go nowhere near a house there's anybody in it-but I didn't do that house."
"The judge isn't going to put you away any longer for nine burglaries instead of eight. I just want to get the case off my books. You understand?"
"I appreciate that, I do. But you wouldn't want me to lie to you, would you, sir?"
"They found stolen property from the Levin house in your apartment, Tyrone."
"I don't know nothing about that. I ain't never seen that house before today."
"They tell me the property was under your bed, Tyrone. "
"Ain't just my bed, you understand. Other peoples sleep there.
"So you're trying to tell me you've never been in that neighborhood, Tyrone?"
"No sir. Never have been."
"You pretty much have to drive past it, that's a main road. How else did you get around?"
Kiwasee stared blankly in front of him, withdrawing within himself for the first time in the interview. Tee saw it as clearly as if a hood had been dropped over the man's head.
"You're on Clamden Road as soon as you turn off the Merritt Parkway,"
Tee said. Kiwasee continued to stare. "Did you travel exclusively on back roads?"
"Yes sir, that's what I done. I just got around on back roads.
Tee extracted a map from his desk drawer and spread it on his desk.
"Show me how you did that, Tyrone."
"I ain't good at maps."
"You drove around the back roads of Clamden without a map? — You must know the town pretty well. Most newcomers get lost… You ever get lost, Tyrone?"
"I got lost sometimes."
"What did you do? I don't suppose you stopped and asked for directions.
Being a burglar."
"I just kept driving."
"Three in the morning, a car full of stolen goods, and you just kept driving around the back roads of Clamden until you got out?"
"Yes sir."
"Listen, son, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but a young black man driving aimlessly around in Clamden at three in the morning is not something that would go unnoticed by anyone who saw it. You understand that, don't you?"
"Ain't stupid," Kiwasee said with resentment. "I know how you people think when you see a black man in your town. Think he's a crook."
"Well, in your case, that'd be right, wouldn't it?"
"Depends when you see me. I ain't always a crookjust when I'm working."
"Are you ever in Clamden when you're not working, Tyrone? Do you ever come by just for pleasure? I don't want to get into the sociology of it, but a lot of people in this town, they see a black man driving around, they call the police. Right or wrong."
"I knows that."
"We have black families here, you know. The town is not segregated, it's just expensive, and predominantly middle-class, and predominantly white. I'm sure I don't need to explain to you how that works."
"No sir. I understands it, that's why I come here."
"Because…?"
"Because it's expensive."
"Makes sense, son. I'd do it the same way. But there is one thing I'd do differently. I'd know how to get out of town fast. If I ran into a cop car at that time in the morning, I know he'd be inclined to check me out, being a cop and all. I'd want to know where I was going and how to get back to Bridgeport as fast as possible."
"I always managed to get out."
"I know you did, what I don't quite understand is how you managed to get out. If you're driving around, lost, how do you know when you're out?"
Kiwasee looked at him blankly.
"Usually, you're lost in a situation like that, when you hit a main road, that's when you know you're out."
"That's right, sir. That's how I know I'm out."
"What main road did you hit? The one that takes you back to exit forty-two on the Merritt Parkway? That would get you home quickest."
"Yes sir."
"That's Clamden Road. But you said you've never been on that road.
You've never driven past the Levins' house, you've never been in that neighborhood."
Kiwasee nodded, assessing the logic of the situation. "Must be I got on another one."
"Must be, Tyrone… It's interesting, isn't it, how one little lie, if you stick with it, can get so complicated. Pretty soon nothing you say makes any sense at all. Why are you lying to me, Tyrone?"
Kiwasee sank sullenly into his protective silence. Tee saw it rise up over him like an impenetrable shield. Trapped, they turned inward. It was never smart to trap them, and now, for the time being at least, this one was gone.
Tee spoke on his intercom to Maureen, who was two doors away in the dispatch office.
"Where's McNeil?"
"I sent- him to check out a missing person complaint," said Maureen.
"He's on his way back now. He should be here in less than a minute unless he stops at the center for coffee. "
" Send him right in," said Tee. "I want him to take Mr. Kiwasee back to Bridgeport. Who's missing?"
"A girl named Inge Schrag, a German all pair working for the Hills.
Probably got fed up and went home."
"Send in Metzger."
"Right. And Chief, Mrs. Leigh called."
For a moment Tee stared blankly at the prisoner, his eyes unfocused, his expression as impassive as Kiwasee's.
"Yes?"
"She didn't leave a message, just said to tell you she called."
"Uh-huh… Wonder what she wants."
"Uh-huh. Wonder." Tee thought he heard mockery in her tone. When the intercom fell silent, he turned his attention again to Kiwasee. "How did you get along with Officer McNeil?"
Tee thought he saw a tiny flinch, as if someone had flashed a hand quickly in front of Kiwasee's eyes. "He fine."
Metzger stood at the parade-rest position, his feet spread, his arms clasped behind his back. It was his normal stance in the presence of the chief of police. He thought of it as respectful and attentive. Tee thought it weird, but knew that Metzger felt more comfortable that way than sprawled in a chair.
"So, tell me again. You got within a quarter-mile of the reservoir and you just decided to stop, just give up the search. "
"Well..
"It wasn't your idea, was it?"
"Not really, no sir."
"McNeil just said, this is enough, fuck it-something like that, right?"
"Well…
"I'm not asking you to tell stories about him, I just wonder what would make a man stop short at that point. After you'd gone so far
."
"Uh..
"I'm not angry, Mel. We all fall a little short of perfect from time to time. We all fuck off now and then. It just seemed a funny spot to pick to quit. You had to walk the rest of the way to the reservoir to get to your car anyway. Did he say why he wanted to take to the road right then?"
"He said it was quicker to walk on the road."
I 'That's true… That's all he said?"
"That was pretty much it."
"What do you think, Mel? What was going through his mind right then?"
"That's hard to say, Chief."
"Take a stab at it."
"I don't always understand exactly what-uh..
"He's hard to read, isn't he?"
"Yes sir, he is sometimes."
"Did you have any feeling that maybe he knew what lay between you and the reservoir, if you stayed by the river?"
Metzger rolled his eyes toward the ceiling in a display of cerebration.
"You can't see that orchard from the road, Chief. I don't know how he'd know what was in there unless he'd been there, and up in the woods like that, I don't know why he'd ever be there, you know?"
"So you think he didn't know the orchard was there?"
"I don't see how he would." Tee paused, nodding. "Unless he'd been there."
LOBSTER WAS a peculiar dish to prepare for first-time dinner guests, Becker thought. Served still in the shell with attendant bowls of clarified butter for dipping, there was no way to eat it without creating a mess. Bits of shell flew across the table as the diners cracked claws and dug at recalcitrant bits with metal picks. A snowy-white longhaired cat roamed between their legs beneath the table, waiting for scraps and purring loudly. Tovah, Karen, and Kom wore disposable bibs with the logo of the local seafood store on the front-appropriately enough, a lobster rampant, claws stretched upward and brandishing knife and fork as if to chow down on the platter of clams in front of it. Becker had declined a bib and had come to regret it as the unavoidable hash of flying shards and dripping butter took its toll on his shirt. Kom, allergy or no, was eating with relish, sucking the legs, tearing the torso apart to rummage for the last tiny bits of succulent meat.
"Isn't she a great cook?" Kom demanded, his eyes beaming with pride.
"This is really delicious," said Karen. "I love lobster."
"I just boiled them," said Tovah. She sounded bored. "This one says he's allergic, but everyone else always loves lobster."
"It's her favorite party dish," said Kom, apparently barboring no ill will at being served an allergen. "It's amazing she can look that good and cook great, too, isn't it?"
"It really is delicious," Karen said again.
"Terrific," Becker said, trying to stop a drop of butter from falling from his chin. He smiled at Tovah while wiping his face, hoping the smile would convey a degree of enthusiasm that he knew was lacking in his voice. She had chosen a purple look this evening and her lips and eyes and fingernails were painted the color of a plum. Becker found the nails particularly interesting. They were of a length, shape, and perfection of molding that made it difficult to imagine the woman using her hands for any purpose at all-except perhaps dropping a lobster into boiling water. How much time and money did it require to cultivate nails like that? he wondered. How frequently must she have a manicurist labor over them? How many layers of lacquer were required to give them the look of burnished damson? How much idleness? When she held the lobster in her hands, her fingernails against its carapace made it look as if one crustacean were molesting another. She lowered the nails occasionally to scratch the cat, which would take the massage for a second or two before licking her fingers free of butter.
She wore even more jewelry than the time he had seen her on the tennis court and he thought again that she had gone to extraordinary lengths to hide her natural beauty with the artifice of cosmetics and accessory.
She kept her eyes on Becker, even though most of her conversation was with Karen. They talked of domestic issues, avoiding Karen's work, while Kom chatted with Becker, but every time Becker looked away from Kom, or his food, he saw Tovah's eyes flicker toward him with a sort of curious disinterest, like someone in a restaurant viewing the behavior of a foreigner at another table, then shift away again when observed. He did not know what to read into her looks. It was not flirtation, nothing intense. At one point he caught Karen's eye, trying to decipher Tovah's messages there. Karen looked at him with a tinge of hostility, he thought.
After dinner, Kom escorted Karen on a tour of the house and Becker was left alone with his hostess. She stared at him openly, her plum-colored talons touching the stern of her wineglass, spinning it slowly. Becker realized he had not said anything to her all night except the niceties.
The silence between them lengthened and she continued to study him with the same flat, expressionless gaze.
"Lovely dinner," Becker said at last, stunned by his own inadequacy at small talk. She did not respond. "Really good. I like lobster." The wineglass spun slowly. Becker dabbed at his face again, searching for the object of her scrutiny. "Stanley tells me you were a model," Becker said, and when she once more did not respond: "What was that like?"
"Hard," she said, her tone as flat as her gaze.
"I'll bet… I'll bet it was… People don't think of it that way.
Modeling. But I can see it would be hard." Becker cursed himself for babbling. Her eyes gave him no relief. He looked at his hands, which were moving restlessly on the tablecloth, listening for signs of Kom and Karen's return.
When he turned to face Tovah, she startled him with a question: "Am I ugly?"
She had the bones, the facial planes of a classic beauty, with just a hint of Asia about the eyes that lent a trace of exoticism to her face, but it was all covered and masked by too much makeup. As before, Becker thought the rouge and color had been applied angrily, with an attempt to change her face rather than enhance it.
"No," he said.
"My husband thinks so," she said. Her voice was without emotion.
"No he doesn't. He talks all the time about how beautiful you are."
"Talks." She shrugged as if the topic no longer interested her. "Karen is lovely."
"Yes," Becker agreed. "She is. She's lovely."
"Does that help?"
"Pardon me?"
"Does that help, having her lovely?… Does being lovely make you love her more? Better? Longer?"
Becker chuckled nervously, feeling very much out of his depth. It was not the sort of conversation he had expected to have with Kom's wife.
"It doesn't hurt," he said. "But I don't love her because she's attractive. That's why I was attracted to her in the first place, I suppose. Her being pretty. She's still pretty, prettier even, I think, but that's because I love her. But I love her for different reasons."
"But you love her. Never mind, you'd say yes to me no matter what you felt."
"I probably would," Becker agreed. "But fortunately, I can say it honestly. I do love her."
Tovah shrugged again as if bored to be discussing the obvious. "Why wouldn't you? Why wouldn't anyone?"
"I'm sure there are those who don't, human nature being as perverse as it is." She looked away from him, draining her wineglass. "Perverse," she said, amused by his understatement. "You are really very beautiful,"
Becker said, smiling. "You might not feel that way, but you are."
She leveled her gaze at him again. "I don't like charming men, I don't trust them." Becker laughed. "You're safe with me then."
"I know," she said. Kom and Karen returned, Kom looking as pleased and bouncy as a puppy.
"I've asked Stanley to help us out with the cut marks on the bones in the Johnny Appleseed case," Karen said her expression betraying nothing.
"Happy to help," Kom enthused. "I'm at your service, John. You just let me know when and where."
"Now you're joining the FBI?" Tovah asked. I'll m just helping out."
"Last year he was talking about being a
volunteer fireman," Tovah said, in the patronizing tone normally used with children. "This one is always looking for something else to do."
Kom smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "I get enthusiastic about things," he said. He turned to Becker and held his hands palms upward, displaying his befuddled innocence. "I have a lot of energy."
"Never marry a doctor," Tovah said to Karen, as if she were in imminent danger of doing so. "Don't believe what they tell you about them, they make the worst husbands. They're never around, they've been so coddled by their mothers and everyone else all their lives they're spoiled rotten, they think if they get through medical school, that will pass for a life, people will think they're people and they can stop trying."
"Tovah…" Kom said gently.
"And they're so bored. I've never known a doctor who wasn't bored out of his mind. They all want to be something else. They want to write books and they want to discuss their pension plans; what they don't want to do is what they're doing, which is assembly line work, looking at the same ailments all day long, as many as they can cram into office hours, all year long, the rest of their lives. Unless they can figure a way out, get to make a movie or join the FBI or some crazy thing."
"I'm not joining…" Kom grinned helplessly at Karen and Becker.
"Tovah gets a little..
"Do you think they become doctors because they want to be healers? None I've met. Certainly none of Stanley's colleagues and so-called friends.
They become doctors because their mothers wanted them to. If they can't be doctors, they become dentists, or pharmacists, all to please Mom.
'You should see these men around their mothers. Pullease."
"Well," said Karen after a very long pause, "I think we'd better be going."
At the door Kom pumped Becker's hand enthusiastically. Becker thought that if the man had a tail he would be wagging it. Kom shook Karen's hand and then kissed her on the cheek.