Sins of the Flesh

by Colleen McCullough

  John Silvestri pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his eyes. “A tragedy!”

  “But he won’t want to retire, John. His is a sedentary job, and we should get him back to it as soon as possible,” said Carmine, pretending not to see the handkerchief.

  It helped; the Commissioner stiffened. “I’m hounding the insurance company already. The worst is, he has no family.”

  Carmine rose. “He has us, John. Whether he likes it or not, he also has Netty Marciano and her troops.”

  Despite the presence of the artist on Captain Delmonico’s deck, at first Walter was convinced that his foray was a big success. He did much work around his outside door, making sure the forest was unmarked. Now he would lie low for some days at least, while the Holloman PD combed the entire county looking for a killer who was already, did they know it, a lifer prisoner behind bars. Though he didn’t see it as a joke, Walter did sense the irony in his situation, and felt a certain glee whenever he thought of his incarceration. If only they knew they had their killer in custody the whole time!

  Of course he expected to see his exploits emblazoned in the Holloman Post at least, but not a word about them appeared in print or over the radio or television news; apparently the captain had the power to suppress publicity. Then, late in the afternoon, Delia Carstairs visited Jess at HI, and Walter found himself privy to what had gone on among the cops after all—what a gift!

  “I know Chubb Neurosurgery is one of the best units in the world, Jess,” said Delia, “but I also know you are the world’s very best when it comes to brain anatomy. Is there anything you can tell Chubb neurosurgeons that might help poor young Hank? It’s appalling to think he may never walk properly again, if at all.”

  Walter sat a little back from the table, the gentle and tractable soldier Jess had made out of a raving lunatic, present to refill their coffee mugs, produce files or articles, and put them away again. It did not occur to Delia to ask Jess to send him away; she knew how much Jess meant to Walter, and how he fretted when he was banned from conversations he couldn’t follow anyway.

  “You’re talking about a lower motor neurone world, Delia, and that’s one I’m no expert in,” Jess said with real regret. “Sam Kaminowitz is the best there is, and Hank’s lucky he’s under Sam in Holloman Hospital. They’re performing relative miracles these days, in no small measure due to that horrible war in Vietnam, where soldiers get their asses shot off every day by bigger projectiles than .45 bullets. Sam perfected his skills on the first Vietnam victims. NASA research helps too—science is a great circle that can often benefit from some stupid political mistakes. Nothing is ever totally bad, including war and space races. It’s amazing to see machines designed to kill eventually yield machines designed to heal, but it happens.”

  “I see that. You’re telling me to be optimistic.”

  “For next year, rather than tomorrow. Remembering that the most stupid of all politicians are those who cut science research in the budget. But that’s a personal soap box, and not what you came to hear. What happened last night?”

  Delia told her story crisply and without embroidery; at one moment she glanced toward Walter, to see those beautiful eyes fixed on a world she couldn’t see—was he even listening? No, she decided, he wasn’t. “We think he may ride a Harley-Davidson or some other grunty big motorcycle,” Delia concluded.

  “Isn’t there a police registration list?” Jess asked.

  “They’re registered with Motor Vehicles in County Services subsidiary to Connecticut registration, and we’ve gone through them with a fine-toothed comb,” Delia said. “Nothing’s come out of it except several stolen bikes and a dozen stolen cars, none of which have ever come to light. It’s a two-edged sword.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Ari Melos rides a Harley.”

  “Long discounted.” Delia laughed, albeit wryly. “At least your security is a model to everyone.”

  “It had better be, or we’re in trouble.”

  “Thank you for your precious time, Jess, and thank you for the delicious coffee, Walter,” Delia said as she got up. She gave Jess a special smile. “And, most of all, Jess, thank you for the information. A terrific help.”

  Jess saw her visitor out, then returned to her desk.

  “What was that all about?” Walter asked.

  “A young man, a very gifted artist, was shot in the back last night. He’s still alive, but his legs may be paralyzed—won’t work, I mean. Sometimes maiming is as bad as killing.”

  His head went to one side as Walter considered this statement. “No, it isn’t ever as bad. When someone is killed, the lights are switched off for good. It’s eternal night.”

  “But you don’t remember killing!” Jess cried, startled.

  “I must, because I do.”

  And what was she to make of that?

  It was almost six o’clock in the evening before Carmine finally walked into Hank Jones’s area of Intensive Care. The curtains around his bed were pulled back and he was lying, eyes closed, in a Gulliveresque web of cords, tubes, wires and thin cables, with machines indicating everything from an EEG to an EKG, plus two waste bags and two bags of liquid nutriments dripping steadily. His eyes opened suddenly to lock on Carmine; a huge grin appeared.

  “If it ain’t The Man!” Hank said in a strong voice.

  “It’s just a man,” Carmine modified, putting a chair in a spot where he judged it wouldn’t be in the way. “See what happens when people engage in nocturnal activities? The night time is not the right time, my man. How’s tricks?”

  “I got pins and needles in both feet,” Hank said proudly.

  “Hot damn! Elvis is entering the building, and the crowd goes wild. You got steel balls, man.”

  “Well, sure, I know that! But why, in your exalted opinion, has the metal infused my rounded bearings?”

  “Because, my man, you have survived a day of Delia Carstairs and Simonetta Marciano. Steel cajones! What color was the big satin bow in Netty’s hair today?”

  “Emerald green. Does she always look like someone out of a World War Two movie?”

  “Always, but more in the style of Betty Grable than Rita Hayworth. Beautiful legs!”

  “I had no idea that the Commissioner has a bastard half brother who is a full-bird colonel in the U.S. Army!”

  “That, Hank, is merely the tippest tip of Netty’s gossip iceberg. By the time you walk out of here, you’ll know the dirt on everyone in Holloman. Netty is an oracle,” Carmine said, smiling.

  “She’s a doll too. As far as I can tell, she’s marshaling food or a chocolate malted from all the troops who visit me.” The cat’s eyes gleamed. “And I will walk out of here, Carmine, I will! The docs reckon I got a good chance.”

  “I managed to rescue your painting,” Carmine said gravely. “As far as I can tell it didn’t suffer in spite of the fracas. No change in the night foreshore has been announced, so you’ll be able to finish it later. And don’t worry about money. The Commissioner is doing a deal with the cop insurers, and I’m doing one with mine. Delia will be in to see you tomorrow morning after you’re rested, and you can tell her what you want done with your apartment.”

  “Cool!” Hank said, and fell asleep.

  That left Carmine to wander off in search of a neurosurgeon who could tell him how Hank was really doing. Having found one, he listened intently to a tale pitched in layman’s language, and was grateful for the young doctor’s consideration.

  “Hank has a marvelous spirit going for him, Captain, so he won’t just give up and give in. The slug did a lot of damage, but too low down to prevent such a determined guy from walking again. We’ve removed all the bone splinters and reduced cord swelling; now we have to get the branches of the cauda equina—a kind of horse’s tail that forms the bottom end of the cord—to sit properly in what bone canals and channels remain. The longest job belongs to the plastic surgeons, who have to build Hank a right buttock to replace what the bullet’s exit wound tore
away. It’s going to take quite a while.”

  Equally important, Carmine had to think through how much he would tell Desdemona, who mustn’t be allowed back on the East Coast yet. Some ideas were shaping inside his head, and he needed to nut them out too. Myron? No, Sophia. That was it! He’d call his daughter and tell her what was going on. Sophia wasn’t his daughter for nothing, she would know the right plan of action. When dealing with women, it was always best to leave things to a woman.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 30, 1969

  Perhaps due to his rather special lines of women’s clothing, or perhaps due to his well-known bloody-mindedness about said lines (he refused to say), Rha Tanais always held a fashion parade on the Saturday before Labor Day. If asked, he would explain that he based it on a Buckingham Palace garden party, though the very few who had sampled both venues voted the Tanais turnout more generous in its refreshments. It was also more exclusive; he rigidly banned all persons he disliked, no matter how important they were. So when the invitations were sent out and your rank absolutely demanded one, and you didn’t get it, you just curled up into a ball and died. The Queen didn’t have the power to do that: Rha Tanais did. There were wails of rejected woe from the Hudson River to the Canadian border (Rha Tanais thought New Jersey was a figment of the imagination).

  If anything were needed to put the finishing touches on a warm late summer’s day, Delia decided, it was the sight of Shirl (Simonetta) strolling the grounds of Bushquash Manor clad in the most exquisite wedding dress anyone had ever seen, complete to a trailing bouquet of white orchids and a veil looking like mist.

  “Such a hot and horrible month,” she said to Rufus.

  They were sitting in what he called a summer house and she called a folly; a small round open-sided temple some distance from the mansion, and it afforded a splendid view of the comings and goings in the garden as well as all Busquash Inlet.

  “I met another Simonetta today, when I called in on Hank,” Rufus said. “Ravishing, straight out of World War Two.”

  “Netty Marciano. Her husband was a cop,” Delia said. “She was known as the gossip to end all gossips. But people thought she’d lose her title without her cop source. Hah! She has eyes and ears everywhere, from the Hartford Capitol through Electric Boat and Cornucopia to the most sequestered college at Chubb—and then some! CIA and the FBI both use her as a consultant on Holloman and Connecticut affairs. Netty is amazing.”

  His eyes, gone quite khaki, gleamed. “You’re pulling my leg, Delicious Delia.”

  “Anything but!”

  “Something good came out of August.”

  “I wish I could say that!”

  “I’m sorry you can’t say it! Rha and I met you.”

  She blushed. “And I met the pair of you.”

  “We think we may have a clue for you.”

  “About what?” she asked absently, eyes on Shirl.

  “We think we know who the current John Doe prisoner is.”

  Delia jerked around to face Rufus. “Tell me—now!”

  “Case Stephens, but his real name is Chester Jackson. Shirl reminded us about him this morning shortly after six. We were tagging her dresses—you know, telling her when to change, which one to wear next—it would have been half after six by then. She was in a foul mood, but she always is at the crack of dawn, when she’s tagging. And she said she’d like Case Stephens as her groom! I told her not to be an idiot, that Case had gone two months ago, and she said he couldn’t have, because his dog was still here! I reiterated my opinion that she was an idiot, she reiterated her conviction that Case was still here. She kept on and on about the dog—a ratty little thing named Pedro—and insisted she’d seen it that morning as she came in just before six. It was rummaging through the garbage. Such a mood! If Shirl wasn’t such a gorgeous bride, we’d get rid of her, but she’s inimitable.”

  “Did you believe her, Rufus?” Delia asked urgently.

  Rufus considered the question. “I think so, yes. She really did believe Case was there because of the dog. Case adored the scrawny little thing! He carried it everywhere in a cute little wicker shopping basket lacquered blue—the dog sat in it like a teeny prince, and people made fools of themselves over the sight. And in one way I could understand why Shirl was convinced Case was still around—he and the dog were inseparable.”

  “You did the right thing, Rufus dear, in telling me.” She got up, looking sheepish. “It’s the little girls’ room for me, alas!”

  And off she went to the house, one of the privileged few who didn’t have to use the portable outdoor toilets. Into the house, down the hall past the grand staircase, and into Rufus’s studio, which she knew better than any of Rha’s rooms. There she picked up the phone and called Abe’s home number.

  “Goldberg.”

  “Abe?”

  “Yes, Delia, it is I. What’s up?”

  “Oh, thank God you’re there! Abe, I’m at the Rha Tanais garden party, and Rufus has just informed me that a young man who was in their employ some months ago has apparently left his dog behind, and it isn’t in character. The dog’s name is Pedro and the young man’s stage name is Case Stephens. Real name is Chester Jackson. It’s a zoo here today, but if you were here at the crack of dawn tomorrow, you might find the dog. It must either be extremely shy, or sticking to its master. Look for a chihuahua or something similar—small and ratty is the general description. Find Pedro, and you’ve grounds for a search warrant everywhere on this property.” A vision of Ivy Ramsbottom rose in front of her; Delia swallowed painfully. “Make sure your warrant includes Little Busquash and Ivy Ramsbottom.”

  “I owe you one, Deels. Thanks a million.”

  When she returned to the folly she found Rufus gone, but Ivy waiting for her. Feeling a traitor, Delia sat down.

  “Desdemona would so enjoy this,” she said.

  “Captain Delmonico’s wife? One of the few who can look me right in the eye,” said Ivy, smiling. “Very tall women have an extremely hard time of it.”

  “Male or female, anyone who differs from the herd has a hard time of it,” Delia said. “Too short, too tall, too fat. The odd thing is that too thin is now a desirable state of being, thanks to wearing clothes. What a reason! It doesn’t seem right.”

  “If it flies in the face of what Nature intended, then it definitely isn’t right,” Ivy said.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 31, 1969

  Someone had already cleared and tidied the grounds of Busquash Manor, Liam Connor discovered when he walked casually onto the property at half after five in the morning. If animals were involved, Liam was usually the one in charge, and after several phone calls late on Saturday afternoon, Abe had decided to send Liam in alone to look for Case Stephens’s little dog.

  “Evidence says it’s timid, so a search party might panic it into fleeing the neighborhood, at least for a while. Delia says it was seen in the bushes that conceal the cottage from the mansion, so start looking there,” Abe had said to Liam over the phone. “If you can’t find the animal—its name is Pedro—by ten a.m., then we’ll send in a major search party.”

  But there it was, the same tannish-brown as fallen autumn leaves, huddled under one of the bushes that grew in a straight line thirty feet from Ivy Ramsbottom’s end windows. Liam went close to it, but not threateningly so, and hunkered down. A long-haired chihuahua, he decided, not quite as ratlike as the ordinary ones. He fished a baggie out of his pocket, opened it, and broke off a small piece of cooked white meat.

  “Hey, Pedro,” he said, smiling. His hand came out holding the chicken. “Try this, guy, it’s better than garbage.”

  Two enormous brown eyes stared up at him; as is characteristic of chihuahuas, it was shivering with anxiety, but the combined smell of man and meat was welcome, and the smile said the stranger was good people.

  Liam fed the dog all of the chicken, which it devoured ravenously; it was thin, the Tanais trash apparently not yielding much edible, but, significantly, it had not roamed farther afi
eld in search of sustenance. The reason for that, Liam suspected, lay in some smell of its beloved master lingering in this spot, nowhere else. What was different about here, then? Only what might have been the top part of a finely netted birdcage just behind the dog’s position under the bush. A ventilator? Jesus! This couldn’t wait!

  He was on his car radio in less than a minute, asking Abe to get that warrant. “It’s not only the dog, Abe—there’s a ventilator! Case Stephens is at the other end of it!”

  From then on it went very quickly. Confronted at her door by Abe Goldberg, Liam Connor and Tony Cerutti, with ambulance paramedics waiting behind them, Ivy Ramsbottom sighed and held the door wide open, then found herself handcuffed.

  “Where is Case Stephens?” Abe asked.

  “Go through the door in the kitchen that doesn’t lead outside, and you’ll find a room with a chair elevator in it. When you sit in the chair, press the DOWN button. To ascend, press the UP button,” Ivy said calmly. “It is the only way in and out.”

  “Tony, stay here with Miss Ramsbottom. Liam, with me.”

  It was a very large chair that took the two slight men with space left over. The ride was smooth, the stench in the padded chamber below more bearable than the sight of what remained of Case Stephens. Feeling as if his ghost was passing through Auschwitz, Abe knelt to ascertain that the heart still beat, the vital spark lived on, while Liam returned up in the chair calling for the paramedics.

  “Why?” Abe asked Ivy when he ascended again, the last to leave save for the forensics team, which would stay.

  She stood, an immensely tall, immaculately turned out woman in her thirties, hair lacquered into place, dark red lipstick following the curve of a generous mouth faithfully, and blue eyes wide in bewilderment. Asked the question, she made no reply.

  “Why?” Abe repeated. He phrased it a different way: “Why did you do that to them? What had they ever done to you?”

  The calmness, the lack of surprise and the immediate request to retain the legal services of Mr. Anthony Bera on behalf of Ivy all told Abe that Rha Tanais—and Rufus Ingham—deemed Ivy guilty.