Twilight Whispers

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Yet.”

  “Right.”

  “I can buy that.” What Jordan had said made sense. Cavanaugh knew of Jack Whyte’s philandering. Before he had only sympathized with Jack’s wife; now it appeared that Jordan had done his share of suffering for it. Still, Cavanaugh was curious. He tipped his head to the side. “You really thought that Cassie Morell and your father—”

  “I overheard a conversation once and jumped to conclusions,” Jordan grumbled. “I was wrong. Forget it.”

  “How do you know you were wrong?”

  “Is this necessary to clearing my name?”

  “No.”

  “Then forget it.”

  Cavanaugh let out a long breath. “Okay. So Katia and you don’t have that kind of relationship. I take it you’ve seen lots of different women in the past.”

  “You’ve read the papers.”

  “Right, and now I’m asking you. Have you seen different women?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen different women. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I’m just wondering how come you remembered so fast exactly who you were with on the night of the murders.”

  “It was easy,” Jordan said far from easily. His back was stiff, his eyes hard as they bore into Cavanaugh’s. “When I learned about the murders I agonized just like the rest of my family. I conjured the image of Mark and Deborah sleeping peacefully on that boat until someone came aboard and shot them dead. And one of the first things I did was to think about what I was doing at the same time that my brother’s life was being snuffed out. If you think I’m proud of the fact that I was covered with sweat on a fancy bed, fucking a woman who doesn’t mean a goddamned thing to me, you’re crazy!”

  More than ever before, Cavanaugh believed in Jordan’s innocence. There was no way a man could put that kind of self-disgust or raw pain in his eyes just for show. Unless he was an actor of award winning caliber—then again, there was the possibility that he was truly psychotic, which Cavanaugh had considered once before but was willing to stake his entire career against.

  “I’m sure you’re not proud,” Cavanaugh said, humbled himself.

  Jordan scowled at him, then at the VCR. “I’m telling you, that threat didn’t mean a thing. I’d never have hurt my own brother. And I told you right off that we’d argued.”

  “I spoke with a waiter at Morton’s.” That was the posh restaurant in Hollywood where Jordan had taken Mark and Deborah after the scene at Mark’s house. “He confirmed that you argued there, too.”

  “If he told you that I raised a knife during dinner and aimed it at my brother’s heart he was lying.”

  “No, he didn’t say that.”

  “Praise be,” Jordan said, shooting a dark glance toward the heavens. But Cavanaugh’s next question brought him quickly to earth.

  “Do you own a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever?”

  “No. I’ve never even held one in my hand.”

  “Did you know that Mark owned a gun?”

  “No. So where does that leave us?”

  “Asking questions and questions and more questions.”

  “Of whom?”

  “People on the waterfront again. Someone has to have seen something.”

  “Yeah. A black blob in the middle of the night. You won’t get any identification there.”

  “Do you do any snorkling or scuba diving?”

  “What do you think.” It was a statement, not a question, and was offered reproachfully. “I’ve tried just about everything that’s physical and a little dangerous, but the only diving or snorkling I’ve done has been in the Caribbean. I don’t own any equipment. You can search my place. Of course,” he speculated, “it’s possible that I rented the stuff. You could check around the sports shops in Boston. But then you’d have to check with the places here, too, because if I drove from New York that night I might well have rented equipment before I left.”

  He was wallowing in scorn when a more constructive thought struck. “I drive a bright red Audi Quattro. Not exactly nondescript. Maybe someone saw it parked near the Boston waterfront. No,” he rubbed a finger along the straight line of his nose and spoke pensively, “I wouldn’t have parked it there if I was going to board the boat from the water. Are you sure that’s what the murderer did—came out of the water?”

  “I’m not sure of anything. No one saw a person approach the boat from the dock, but I guess I could check on the car. There was a damp footprint just inside the cabin, so I’m assuming that whoever it was came from the harbor.”

  “Which means that I’d have parked elsewhere. You could check out the possibilities. A car like that, with New York plates reading JSW-1 would be hard to miss. Then again, I could have rented a car that wouldn’t be noticed. Check out the rental agencies.”

  “Thank you for the hint. I’d never have thought of it on my own.”

  Jordan might have appreciated Cavanaugh’s wry grin had the circumstances been different. “Maybe either Deborah or Mark showered before going to bed.”

  “The footprint was different. It didn’t match theirs. Besides, the lab found traces of muck from the harbor.”

  “Then you definitely have a crazy on your hands. The only ones who knowingly go into that water are police divers looking for bodies embedded in cement.”

  “Or men who want their storming of a boat to go undetected.”

  “One-footed men. What happened to the other footprint?”

  “Pretty much lost in the carpet, for purposes of identification at least. The guys have kept at it and have found microscopic traces of the same muck leading in a trail through the cabin to the bed.” He paused. “Do you use foot powder?”

  “No. Why?”

  “There were traces of it in the rug, and neither Mark nor Deborah had any on their feet. How about your shoe size?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Consistent with the footprint.”

  Jordan looked at Cavanaugh’s shoes. “What size are those?”

  “Eleven. Point taken. Hey, I’m not saying that a competent defense attorney couldn’t get you off.”

  “Defense attorney,” Jordan echoed, closing his eyes for a minute. “I can’t believe this has gone so far.” His eyes opened. “Should I be speaking with one?”

  Cavanaugh considered that before answering reluctantly, “It wouldn’t hurt to have someone on call just in case.”

  “Do you think I’ll need one? I want your honest opinion, Cavanaugh.”

  Again Cavanaugh considered the question, and again he answered with reluctance. “I think you well may. I’m trying my damnedest, but whoever did this planned it well. It’s even possible,” he said as the thought dawned, “that you’ve been intentionally framed. Whoever did it may have known about those arguments you had with Mark and about the tape.” He rubbed his temple with the heel of his hand. “God, I should have thought of this before.”

  “Yeah. The only problem is that we’re still without motive and suspect. All we know is that we’re dealing with a shrewd cookie, if what you’re suggesting is the case. He couldn’t have feared what was on the tapes if he was hoping they’d be found, so it has to be someone connected with Mark or Deborah in another way. Who could have known about the arguments? Who else saw those tapes? And why the devil would he want to frame me?”

  Cavanaugh was as perplexed as Jordan. “It’s possible,” he began slowly, “that you were simply a handy patsy. On the other hand.…”

  “What?”

  “Maybe we’ve been on the wrong track. Maybe the motive relates to you rather than Mark.”

  “You mean someone slaughtered my brother and sister-in-law to settle a gripe he had with me?” Jordan couldn’t believe it, or maybe the thought sent such a chill through him that he simply couldn’t give it credence.

  “It’s possible. Do you have enemies?”

  “None who’d kill like that.”

  “Think, Jordan. Anyone who ever
threatened you or let word get around that he’d get even one day or simply had reason to be that angry at you?”

  “No, damn it! I’ve had differences with people, but nothing like that!”

  “Someone? Anyone?”

  “No!”

  Cavanaugh let out a breath and pushed off from the table against which he’d been propped. “Okay. Let’s let it go for now. But keep thinking. Please.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “First I want to check out your alibi. Can I have a name and exact address?”

  Jordan gave him the information. “Once you’ve spoken with her, will I be in the clear?”

  “Assuming she backs up your story—”

  “She will.”

  “Assuming she does, it’ll make my case with Ryan a little easier. But he’s out for blood,” Cavanaugh warned. Tiny murmurings sounded at the back of his mind, but he pushed them aside. “If I don’t come up with something else he’ll go with the charge, alibi or no. He’ll take the chance that the alibi witness can be discredited on the stand.”

  With a slow nod, Jordan confirmed his assumption. “She can be discredited. She’s scatterbrained. A great lay, but scatterbrained.”

  “Again, a good defense attorney could help you there. If the prosecutor tries to discredit her he can probably have it stricken from the record.”

  “After the jury’s heard it.”

  “The jury will be instructed to forget it.”

  “Come on, Cavanaugh,” Jordan said with disgust. “I’m a realist. Once the jury’s heard it they’ve heard it.” He paused, and his voice fell. “Shit, I can’t believe we’re talking trial and jury. There has to be something we can do. There has to be something I can do.”

  “Just stay close. Don’t try to run.”

  “Hey.” He stood straighter. “I’m not a runner. Even aside from the matter of honor, running would be a sign of guilt. And I’m not guilty.”

  “I believe you,” Cavanaugh said quietly. “And it’s been a help talking. Between the two of us we may have latched onto something that may lead us somewhere. I’m not exactly sure where, yet.” There was that nagging at the back of his brain, but he wasn’t quite ready to pin it down. “I’ll do my best to find out.” Sliding his notebook back in his pocket, he started for the door.

  “Cavanaugh?”

  He turned. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for the show of faith. I appreciate it.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I’m trying to prove something to myself.”

  Jordan didn’t quite understand that, but his mind was in too great a turmoil to try. “You’d never make it as Kojak. You’re too softhearted.”

  “Tell that to anyone,” Cavanaugh said, pointing a finger, “and I’ll testify against you myself.”

  * * *

  Jordan was in agony. He felt angry one minute, terrified the next. He racked his brain for the identity of someone who held a grudge against him strong enough to kill Deborah and Mark and then frame him for it but he came up with nothing. His mind wandered, jumping ahead, imagining himself being arrested, booked and arraigned, imagining the torment that would cause his family. And Katia.

  Why now? Why now? Just when he was free to pursue her. But she wouldn’t see him. And he had no one to talk with. He felt more alone than he had in his thirty-nine years.

  The rest of the day was a waste of effort as far as work was concerned. Jordan left the office at four-thirty and wandered the streets of Manhattan for hours trying to make some sense out of what was happening. He thought back on his discussion with Cavanaugh, but even the fact that Cavanaugh was on his side was small solace when the other side was so menacing.

  Only when his knee began to ache did he go home, but he found little rest there. For hours he sprawled nude on his bed with an arm thrown over his eyes, but what he saw behind his lids was so unsettling and infuriating and downright unjust that he finally bolted up and spent what was left of the night pacing the floor.

  By morning he had worked himself into a state of desperation. He knew he couldn’t go to work, and he didn’t want to walk the streets again. He couldn’t go to Boston because his family would know that something was wrong, and he couldn’t go to Katia because she wasn’t seeing him.

  There was only one place left. Picking up the phone, he put in a long-distance call to Cavanaugh. He had no idea whether the man had returned to Boston the night before, but it was worth a shot.

  For once things went his way. “Cavanaugh, it’s Jordan Whyte.”

  “Think of anything?”

  “Nothing. Did you check on my alibi?”

  “She’s out of town.”

  “Shit.”

  “She’ll be back in two days.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He squeezed his eyes shut against the throbbing in his head. “Listen, I just want you to know that I’m going up to Maine. I know you said to stick around, but I think I’ll lose my mind if I do. I need fresh air.”

  “Where in Maine? The island?”

  “Yeah. You can call me there if you need me.” He gave Cavanaugh the number. “And if you want to come up for some reason, contact Anthony Oliveri in Portland.” He supplied that number as well. “He’ll take you over.”

  “Got it,” Cavanaugh said, putting down his pen.

  “Want me to call in when I get there?”

  “You’re not under arrest.”

  “I’m trying to show you that I’m acting in good faith.”

  “I trust you. How long do you think you’ll be there?”

  “I have a couple of critical meetings set for Monday. If I don’t make it back by then my business will be shot to hell.”

  “Three days. Sounds like a nice vacation.”

  Jordan answered him with a harsh, guttural sound.

  “Okay. I get the point,” Cavanaugh said. “Are you going to be alone up there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be.”

  “I’ve got no choice, pal. Right about now I’m not fit company for anything that lives and breathes. I wouldn’t wish myself on a dog.”

  “That bad?”

  “That bad.”

  “Listen, don’t do anything drastic.”

  “Like slit my wrists? I hate the sight of blood. But I didn’t tell you that, did I? Peter isn’t the only one with the problem, but if you ever tell him I told you so I’ll kill you.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to keep it to myself.” He paused. “Take it easy, Jordan.”

  “I’d say the same to you, but I’m counting on you to come up with something, Cavanaugh.”

  “I know. I’ll try.”

  It was Jordan’s turn to pause before offering a very quiet and heartfelt, “Thanks.”

  Chapter 16

  Jordan was in Maine by mid-afternoon. The fact that it was pouring did nothing to brighten his spirits, not that anything would have just then. He felt as though everything he had ever wanted in life was dangling by a thin thread above his head, within reach yet not, because every time he stretched up and made contact, he set the thread to swinging elusively.

  Heedless of the rain, he walked through the woods, but neither the rich smell of wet pine nor the brisk late September air nor the ever-present and rhythmic crash of the waves against the shore gave him comfort.

  It was nearly dark when he returned to the house and placed a phone call to New York.

  Katia was in a meeting.

  “This is an emergency,” Jordan explained to the assistant who had taken the call. He made no attempt to charm; urgency was the only thing he was capable of conveying. “It’s Jordan Whyte and I’m calling from Maine. I have a serious problem. It’s mandatory that I speak with Katia.”

  “She should be out of her meeting in half an hour.”

  “I can’t wait that long. Will you please get a message to her? See if she’ll come to the phone?”

  The woman on the oth
er end paused, then said, “Hold on. I’ll check.”

  He alternately shifted from foot to foot, tossed the phone from hand to hand and ear to ear, grumbled and swore for a full five minutes until Katia came on the line. “This better be good, Jordan,” she warned without so much as a hello.

  “It’s not. It’s lousy. But I can’t help it, Katia. Things are getting out of hand, and I don’t know what the hell to do.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I need you.” The silence that came after his statement was prolonged. “Katia? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here,” she said wearily. “Look, you dragged me out of an important meeting—”

  “This is important. I have problems and I need help.”

  Something in his voice got through to her, because her irritation was reduced to wariness by the time she spoke again. “Where are you?”

  “Maine. Didn’t the girl tell you that? I specifically told her—”

  “What are you doing in Maine?”

  “Trying to figure out what’s gone wrong with my life!”

  There was a pause, then a cautious, “Have you been drinking, Jordan?”

  “Not a drop, but I may resort to that if you don’t come up.”

  “Go there?”

  “Now.”

  “I can’t do that, Jordan! I’m in the middle of one meeting and have another one scheduled after that.”

  “Cancel it.”

  “I can’t!”

  “If you came down with the flu, had a temperature of a hundred and three and couldn’t stand on your feet you would.”

  “I wouldn’t have any choice.”

  “The point is that meetings can be rescheduled and appointments can be changed. I know how much your work means to you, and I know how important you are to your work, and I wouldn’t be asking this if I weren’t so damned desperate.” He was desperate, he realized, and that made him angry. “Remember all the times I was there when you needed me? Remember all the times I held your hand and made you feel better? Damn it, I haven’t asked much of you in the past. Have I?”