by Nancy Geary
Adelaide gasped, and Bill put his arm around her shoulders for comfort. For a moment, Frances regretted that she hadn’t told them about Penelope’s continued interest in Jack or of how critical she’d been when speaking of her sister the night after her murder. It hadn’t seemed necessary at the time and would only have added to their pain. But now she wondered whether she should interject, even if it meant interrupting the service her aunt had planned.
“It startled me that she had such insecurities. I was astounded that after all the good fortune she’d had in her life, she could still fear failure. At the same time, her vulnerabilities made me see her in a light I never had. Hope was a woman who struggled with perfection—what it meant and how to achieve it—first with her parents and then with her husband-to-be. She looked for directions; she sought guidance in this church. What she didn’t realize was that her goal had already been attained. It wasn’t in front of her. It was in her grasp. We all thought she was perfect. There were no unmet aspirations. My sorrow at her death is that she didn’t ever see herself in the light in which the rest of the world saw her. If I had the opportunity to speak to her again, as I did that evening, I would tell her she was perfect. She needn’t worry.”
As Penelope stepped down from the podium, her lip quivered. At the first pew, she stopped and stood in front of Jack. For what seemed like forever, neither of them moved. Frances wondered whether everyone was holding their breath, as she was, trying to interpret Penelope’s gesture. Then, unexpectedly, she bent down and embraced him. After several seconds, his arms reached up to encircle her waist. They seemed to hold on to each other for a moment that was slightly longer than appropriate under the circumstances.
Adelaide’s shoulders shook, but she stifled any sounds of tears. Did she have any sense of Penelope’s true feelings for Jack? Could it actually be that they wanted one of their daughters to have him, and she was next in line? It seemed too soon to be passing the proverbial hat.
Frances heard the heavy doors open. Glancing back at the church entrance, she saw a figure leave, but the doors swung shut before she could see who it was. Had Carl come? No one in the Lawrence-Cabot clan would welcome his presence, except perhaps Teddy, but it was certainly possible that his desire to pay his respects had compelled him to risk being recognized.
She turned her attention back to the altar as Reverend Whitney got up from his chair and adjusted the cincture over his cassock. The candlelight reflected off the black polish of his shoes, and Frances was reminded of the song “Walking on Sunshine,” an odd thought given the solemnity of the occasion. He stepped forward and stood with his hands crossed in front of him. “Adelaide and Bill have asked me to say a few words about their wonderful daughter, and I feel privileged to do so,” he began. “I’ll begin with a passage from the Book of Job, a passage that marks Job’s continuing recognition of the power of the Lord. ‘I know that my redeemer lives and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.’ As all of you know, Hope had an inner beauty that matched her physical beauty. She came to this parish anxious to be of service, to help her community, and at the same time find a place of peace herself, but it didn’t take me long to recognize that her capacity to love and her generosity of spirit were marks that she had been chosen by God. Despite the difficulties she faced, her belief in the Lord never faltered, because she knew that in her own flesh and blood she would see God. And she did. So as she finds her place in heaven, her mission has been accomplished. Let us pray.”
Frances and Sam stood on the small patch of lawn as the other mourners ambled slowly out of the church. Neither said a word. Frances felt the odd vibration of her cell phone, the ringer of which she’d turned off, and reached into her jacket pocket.
“Fanny, I hate to bother you. I know you’re at the funeral.” It was Elvis.
“What is it?” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Michael Davis and his lawyer are meeting with the ADA tomorrow morning.”
“On a Saturday?”
“We work harder than you give us credit for. But more to the point, I don’t think you should head home.” Hearing his words, Frances sighed. She’d been gone more than a week; with Michael’s arrest and the funeral over, she was eager to return to Orient with Sam. There was nothing more she could do for her aunt. Her own life and work beckoned.
“Why?”
“You’ll want to hear what he has to say.” There was a brief pause, and Frances wondered whether the cell signal had faded. But when Elvis spoke again, his voice was loud and clear. “Michael Davis is not our killer.”
25
How come there’s been a change?” Frances asked. She sat beside Elvis in his convertible as he wove along back roads en route to the Essex County District Attorney’s Office. Construction, a seemingly endless problem in and around the northern suburbs of Boston, precluded use of the major thoroughfares. Time was precious. The interview with Michael Davis was scheduled for ten.
“He got a lawyer who wants him to talk. A gal named Percy Lukewarm.”
Frances raised her eyebrows. The name sounded as if it belonged to a character from a comic book.
“Everyone has the same reaction, but it’s unfortunate for her. She knows her stuff. In my humble opinion, she’s one of the best criminal lawyers around.”
“How could Michael retain her?”
“Apparently the Davis family isn’t quite as derelict as the son. Daddy is a patent lawyer at a downtown firm. So he makes a decent enough living, probably better than most, and has enough to pay an expensive ticket. Mama Davis is an administrative assistant at Boston College Law School, where Percy teaches criminal procedure. She’s been Michael’s lawyer since his juvenile troubles.”
“Pretty lucky.”
“I’ll say. Anyway, Percy and Mark are old friends. If I had to venture a guess, they dated once, but at least he still respects her.” Elvis chuckled.
Frances decided to let the comment slide. She wasn’t feeling her usual sense of urgency to defend the female gender. Her thoughts were fixed on the oddity of a Saturday morning interview.
“Michael was arraigned yesterday in district court on the murder and larceny charges. The case hasn’t been presented to the grand jury yet, so there’s no indictment. I think Mark had set aside grand jury time on Wednesday next week.”
That made sense. Presentation of a case to a grand jury required preparation. More often than not in the case of violent crimes, charges were filed by a police officer in district court so that the suspect could be arrested immediately and held on bail. Michael had been charged with one count of murder and one count of larceny in an amount more than $250 for the theft of the diamond ring. When indictments were issued out of the superior court, the lower court charges against him would be dismissed. But none of these procedural niceties helped explain why Elvis now concluded that Michael wasn’t the murderer.
“After the arraignment, Percy called Mark to tell him she wanted to proffer some information. She said Michael did take the ring but didn’t hurt Hope. What he could offer in exchange for some sort of deal is information about who really killed her.”
“Do you believe him?”
“My conversation with Mark was extremely brief. But it’s my understanding that the DA is willing to negotiate something.”
She was silent. There was nothing to say. They both knew they were losing their only suspect.
Overhead fluorescent bulbs illuminated the windowless conference room. Mark stood in a corner talking in hushed tones on the telephone while he paced in semicircles the length of its cord. Michael sat in a folding chair with his elbows resting on his knees. Beside him at the long metal table was a woman in a denim skirt and peach polo shirt holding a legal pad covered in handwritten notes. Her calfskin briefcase was open on the table in front of her. A tousle of red curls spilled from a loose bun and tumbled about her freckled face. When F
rances and Elvis entered, she stood up and removed the oval spectacles she’d been wearing. Even when she was standing, her skirt remained at least six inches above her knee, providing a view that Elvis made no pretense of ignoring. Introductions were brief.
“I’m sorry about your cousin,” Percy said in a voice that jurors loved, deep and raspy. “My condolences, and my client’s as well, are extended to you and your family.”
Frances felt self-conscious. While she appreciated Percy’s sentiment, she preferred to keep her personal involvement out of the investigation.
“Let’s get down to business,” Mark said as he replaced the receiver in its cradle and joined the group at the table. “No one wants to be here on a Saturday, I’m sure.” Frances thought she saw him wink as he produced a document from a folder he’d been holding and extended it to Percy. Reading upside down from across the table, Frances could see it was an agreement for immunity: Michael could not be prosecuted for crimes in connection with Hope Lawrence’s death in exchange for his full and complete cooperation, including his testimony at trial, if necessary. A broad grant of freedom, immunity agreements were an important weapon in the prosecution’s arsenal; it was often the only way to extract invaluable investigative information. If Michael Davis wasn’t the killer, then he knew an awful lot about who was.
Percy took her time reading the document. “You’ll find it’s exactly as we discussed,” Mark offered. She looked up and shot him a “that’s what prosecutors always say, but let me be the judge” smile. She made several notations on her pad, as well as one on the original, which she asked him to initial.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Looks good.”
Michael, Percy, and Mark all signed the document, and Mark returned it to its folder. “Don’t worry,” he said as Percy started to speak. “I’ll get you a copy before you leave.”
“Aren’t you the good guy,” she said, smiling. “Shall we begin?”
Mark walked over to a tripod and switched on the camcorder that had been positioned to face Michael. He returned to his seat, announced the date and time, and identified those present. Frances and Elvis, who had been sitting quietly while the immunity agreement was being finalized, leaned forward in unison.
Mark began by asking a series of leading questions designed to establish that Percy Lukewarm had advised Michael of his legal rights, that he understood the nature of those rights, and that he was being offered immunity from prosecution in exchange for his cooperation with the government in its ongoing investigation of the murder of Hope Lawrence. With these legalities established, Mark sat back in his chair.
“Go ahead, Michael.” Percy rested her hand gently on his shoulder. The deep red polish of her manicured nails reflected the light. As he looked up for a minute and met Frances’s stare, he appeared younger than he had in the police interrogation room, perhaps no more than twenty-five. His dark eyes seemed vacant, the blue pupils rimmed in red from what had surely been a series of sleepless nights. Now was the moment of truth.
“I... uh... I,” he stammered. He turned to Percy, obviously in search of guidance.
“I’m going to walk him through. It’ll be more efficient, I assure you.”
Mark nodded his assent.
She warmed him up with questions of his date of birth and other preliminaries. With an encouraging voice or supportive smile, Percy seemed to reward even his most basic answers. She certainly had skill. “Now, Michael, tell us what you were doing at the Lawrence house last Saturday.”
“I was working for Best Laid Plans. They had the catering job for the wedding.”
“Had you worked for that company before?”
“Yeah. This was my third job. First time I actually did some serving, passing, but that didn’t go too well, so I settled for gruntwork, carrying shit—I mean glasses, dishes—to and from the trucks.”
Percy laid her hand on his. “It’s okay to say ‘shit.’” Michael forced a laugh, but Frances could see the tension ease as he dropped his shoulders and leaned back in his chair. “And Saturday you were at the Lawrences’?”
He nodded.
“Did you ask to go there?”
“Nobody lives on Smith’s Point without big bucks. So when we were signing up for Saturday jobs, I picked that one. You know a lot of guys don’t want night work. They want the catering stuff in the afternoons. Christine—she’s the owner—was happy to give me the wedding.”
“And why did you want to work at what you perceived to be a wealthy location?”
Michael gave her a bemused look, as if anyone in his right mind would seize the opportunity to steal from the rich. When she didn’t respond, he added, “I thought there might be something in it for me besides twelve bucks an hour.”
“Tell us what happened while you were at work.”
“Well, we finished setting up and had a little time to spare. That’s the thing about Christine. She’s extra cautious about time, but as long as I’m getting paid, it doesn’t bother me. Anyway, she packs these big pans of lasagna for the employees’ chow. Most guys were hanging in the kitchen, filling up before the party began. I thought it could be time to check out the house.”
“At this point, were you planning to steal something?”
Michael said nothing.
“We need to know. Under the terms of your agreement with the prosecution, they can’t use any information you tell them today against you in any way, but that means you must cooperate and answer all my questions. Their questions, too. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“So answer my question.”
“Not right away,” he mumbled.
“But you went into the house because if there was something valuable that you could take, you were going to do that. Isn’t that right?” Percy’s client was squirming, but this time she didn’t seem to notice.
“Had you met any of the members of the Lawrence family before?” Mark asked. Michael shook his head. “Were you introduced to any of them that day?” Again he indicated no. “Go on,” Mark urged. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Well, I went inside, and the place was pretty quiet because the reception was all set up under the tent on the lawn. I was a little nervous being downstairs with all the Best Laid Plans people in the kitchen, so I thought the second floor would be safer. I looked in a bunch of rooms. They must have been for guests or something, because there was no personal shit in them. Unless I was after some scented candle or something.”
“What in particular were you looking for?”
Michael paused, again seemingly reluctant to answer.
“Jewelry?”
“Yeah.”
“What else?”
“Basically that’s it. Jewelry’s the easiest to take and the quickest to unload.”
“As you were going in and out of these various bedrooms, did you see anyone?”
“Yeah. At one point when I was in the hall, I heard a door open and a woman stepped out of a bedroom. The bedroom,” he said, looking at Percy.
“You mean the bedroom of Hope Lawrence?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she look like?”
“She was pretty hot, actually. She had on a bright suit. Green, I think.”
“Do you remember her hair color?”
“Dark.”
“How old would you say she was?”
“Thirties. I’m not that good with ages.”
Mark stepped forward and produced a manila envelope from the same folder that contained the immunity agreement. He opened its clasp, removed a handful of photographs, and arranged them on the table in front of Michael. All eight of them were of pretty women appearing to be in their early thirties with straight dark hair. “Do you recognize the woman you saw leaving Hope’s bedroom from among these pictures? Take all the time you need.” He stepped back.
“I do.” He handed Mark one of the photographs.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
>
Mark made a notation on the photo and put the array back in his envelope. The one Michael had selected he handed to Frances. She could barely contain her reaction as she stared at the face of Penelope. She looked up to see his reaction, but he had none. Apparently, it was no coincidence that her picture had been included in the photo array.
“After you saw this woman leave Hope’s bedroom, where did she go?” Mark continued without a moment’s hesitation.
“Down the stairs.”
“Did you see her again?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“Yeah. I checked out another room, which turned out to be a bathroom, and I was about to go back out into the hall when I heard a voice. I looked out and saw Mr. Lawrence, or I assumed that’s who it was. He was all dressed up in his wedding stuff, what’s it called?”
“A tuxedo? A morning suit?”
“A morning suit, the kind that has stripes on the pants. Anyway, he was knocking on the door and calling to Hope, asking her if she was ready, telling her they were late.”
“Could you hear any response?”
“No.”
“How long did he stay outside the door?”
“Couple of minutes. Then he headed downstairs.”
“What did you do?”
“I figured that was the bride’s room but that she’d already left. I waited for a couple of minutes, but nobody came back. The door was locked, but that was no big deal. The room was kind of a mess when I went in. There was stuff all over the dressing table and the rug was kind of askew and pillows from the bed were on the floor.”
“What did you do?”
“I started opening drawers in the dressing table, the bureau. You know, checking out the kinds of places people keep jewelry. There was a pair of pearl earrings, but they weren’t big enough to go for more than a hundred or so. Not worth the risk. Otherwise, I didn’t see much.”
“What about the ring with the insignia of St. Michael, the one that the police found in your truck?”
“That was on her dresser. I didn’t think it was worth all that much, but the sword was cool, so I took it for myself. I’m Catholic,” he added, as if that provided some excuse.