Justin realized he'd mentally put their relationship in the past tense.
Well, he thought, a murder indictment does tend to put a damper on relationships.
Still, the connection between the affair and Kelley's work at the house didn't ring true. Abby had never seemed vindictive toward Evan; she did not seem anxious to spend his money or in any way financially punish him. And knowing Abby the way he did, she did not seem the type to go out of her way so someone like Kelley should make money off her husband. It just wasn't the way her mind operated. He'd be on his own when it came to business. Of course, Justin did have to consider that it was possible he didn't really know how her mind operated. If she'd been playing him all this time, manipulating him toward his complicity in this scheme, then all bets were out the window. But he didn't really believe that. He had never thought of himself as all that easy to manipulate. And he didn't think Abby could have faked some of the things he took for real: the fun, the passion, the intimacy. Even the bitchiness. He thought she'd revealed an awful lot of herself if she was merely acting.
One of the things that came up in the online article and that Silverbush had also mentioned was something Justin could not dismiss: Kelley had been responsible for installing a new security system in the Harmons' house. It was an extremely complicated system. It was run by computer, and it could be disabled from Harmon's desktop computer in his den; but, if someone knew how, it could also be disabled via an outside computer. Kelley did have that knowledge. He would know how to knock out the system and how to erase any photos and records from the hard drive. Justin learned from the article that it had been determined that the system had not been disabled from inside the Harmon house, it had been done from the outside. Kelley's laptop had been impounded, but there was no word yet if there was a link between it and taking the system down. Justin figured if that link was established, it would be a matter of only minutes before the plea came.
The most damaging evidence was the stun gun. It was found in David Kelley's garage. Silverbush and Holden gave out no statement about having received a tip. The discovery was being credited only to superb police work on the part of Holden and his team.
As compared to the work done by Justin Westwood.
The take on Justin was devastating. He was having an affair with the widow Harmon; he clearly must have known about her involvement both with Kelley and with the murder; the police were moments away from linking him to the crime. In the meantime, he'd been suspended from the force. He was the sad cop with the tragic past who'd obviously been taken in by a coldhearted siren. But his heart had to be equally cold to have gone along with the brutal scheme.
There was a statement from H. R. Harmon saying that he hoped and prayed his daughter-in-law hadn't done this terrible thing, but he would not be surprised to learn that she had. He said that his son had talked to him about her adultery, that it had broken both their hearts. Evan had not divorced her because he loved her. H. R. Harmon said that he, too, loved his son's wife… but he wasn't feeling love right now. He was feeling only the anguish of loss.
Justin decided to go for the third bottle of beer.
Standing in the kitchen, he suddenly felt incredibly weary. Holding the cold beer in one hand, he leaned down, put his other hand on the stove for support, suddenly jumped up, swearing. He stared at the tiny blister that was already forming on his palm, swore again, and turned off the knob for the right front burner. He'd made himself an omelet and, once again, had forgotten to turn the damn electric burner off. He suddenly missed Abby, wished she were there to put her lips to his hand, but he knew that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. Or possibly ever again.
Justin took a deep breath, shook his head to clear it, went back to the living room with his beer. When he'd nearly drained it-it hadn't taken more than a few gulps-he had an idea. He considered it a moment, playing it out in his head to see just how crazy it was. He decided it was crazy-but that it would also work. So he picked up the phone and dialed. His father answered the phone with a neutral "hello," and when Justin matched it, his father said, "I was just going to call you."
"Does that mean Ronald has shown up?"
"In a way," his father said.
"You want to explain that?"
"He's dead. The police found his body."
"Jesus Christ. Where?"
"Near Warwick, by Green Airport."
"By Rocky Point?"
"Yes."
"Off Tidewater Drive?"
"Yes." This time, the word was drawn out and there was a strong sense of wonder as well as annoyance in Jonathan Westwood's voice.
"Are you sure?"
"How could you possibly know that?"
Justin didn't answer. He just said again, "Dad, are you sure that's where he was found?"
"Yes. I just got off the phone with Victoria. Billy DiPezio was at the house to tell her in person. He might still be there."
"LaSalle was murdered?"
"From what I was told, yes."
"How?"
"Justin, I don't know. It wasn't really appropriate to-"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'll talk to Billy and get the details."
Justin said nothing for a quite a while after that. But that didn't mean his brain wasn't racing. There was an old construction site off Tidewater Drive, close to the Providence River. It had been abandoned probably thirty years ago and was one of the few blights on the landscape in that area. But the property, still referred to as Drogan's lot-Drogan being the developer who had gone out of business long ago-wasn't just an empty lot with no past. It had been a longtime dumping ground for mob hits. Several bodies had been found there in years past, most connected in one way or another to New England organized crime. But what the hell could that mean? Ronald LaSalle was hardly the kind of suit to be taken out by the mob. He was a meek, conservative money guy. It made no sense. What the hell could Ronald have been into to deserve a fate like this?
"Are you still there?" his father asked.
"Still here."
"I…" His father took a long time before finishing his sentence. "I need to ask you something."
"Go ahead."
"We'd like you to come up here. We'd like you to find out what happened."
"Of course. I'll do anything you want. Billy's very good at this, though."
"Yes. But… in a way, this is family. If you had heard Victoria-"
"Dad, when you said 'we,' did that mean you and Mom?"
"It meant Victoria, too."
"Did she say that specifically? Just now?"
"Yes. She asked me to ask you."
"I'll be up tomorrow."
"Can you do that? I thought you were too busy."
"Turns out I've got some free time on my hands. It's why I was calling you-to say I was coming up. I don't know how long I can stay, but let me see what I can do."
There was no thank-you, no expression of gratitude from Jonathan Westwood, just another lengthy silence, then: "I'll tell your mother to expect you for lunch tomorrow."
Before Jonathan could hang up, Justin mumbled, "Dad." He waited, not exactly sure how to proceed, then he took the last swig of beer and said, "You might also want to tell her not to read the papers tomorrow. Or at least not to believe everything she reads."
"I'll tell her," Justin's father said. "And I'll see you tomorrow."
Justin half smiled at the receiver he was left holding, then he placed it back in the cradle, thinking it wasn't always such a bad thing to have a father who didn't ask questions.
Ronald LaSalle, he thought. Murdered. Body dumped amid the rusted remains in Drogan's.
What the hell could this mean? What the hell was going on?
He didn't know how much time he could spend away from East End Harbor, not with what he'd promised Abby. And not with the fact that he needed to clear his own name. But he had to go up to Providence. He needed to see if his newly devised scheme would work, and he had to try to help Vicky. He could still see, all too clea
rly, the expression on her face when Alicia had been buried. He didn't want to see the new sadness that would envelop her now, didn't know if he could bear it. But he knew he had to. Providence had, for so much of his youth, been a shelter for him. Then it had become an inferno of pain and death. Lately he had come to grips with his past, had been able to dip in and not be overwhelmed by his memories and his loss. But now there was new pain to deal with. New loss. And he knew he had to go home.
Justin glanced down as he felt a throbbing in his hand. He wondered if he should put some cream on his blister, maybe a Band-Aid, then he thought, Fuck it. His thoughts turned next to one more bottle of beer. He decided against that, too. Then he looked at the half-full bottle sitting on the table next to him.
The bourbon was a different story.
14
The first twenty minutes Justin spent at his parents' house was not conducted amid great chatter. In fact, Justin thought he'd been to substantially noisier and more entertaining morgues.
The subdued silence wasn't just due to the shock of dealing with Ronald's death. His parents had also seen the papers. While the burgeoning Harmon scandal and murder was not quite the front-page, explosive story it was in New York and on the east end of Long Island, it had enough juice to draw a reasonable amount of attention in New England. The headline-way more tasteful than any of the New York tabs-on page five of the Providence paper read: ex-providence hero involved in sex scandal, murder plot. There was a photograph of Justin from several years-and twenty-five pounds-ago, when he was with the Providence PD. There were some damaging and pointed quotes from DA Silverbush, and there was a typical Billy DiPezio defense of his old protege, the Providence police chief saying that Justin was certainly capable of having an affair with the wrong woman, but he was incapable of doing anything morally wrong. Billy reminded everyone that neither of the two people arrested-David Kelley and Abigail Harmon-had been convicted, and that Justin had not even been accused of anything except by snide innuendo.
When Justin walked into his parents' massive house, he had that sinking feeling he remembered having for most of his teenage years: that, despite his bulk, he was too small for his surroundings. He felt as if he'd just walked in the door at 3 a.m., and his parents were waiting up to punish him for staying out past curfew. Justin wondered if one ever got too old to believe in one's mother and father as an intimidating pair of moral compasses. In a way, he hoped not. There was something reassuring in that unchanging and rock-solid superiority. On the other hand, he was confident in his own choices, in his own morality. He'd killed people and felt no guilt. And he'd befriended people who had done far worse things than he'd ever dream of doing-and made no judgment on them or at least did not let his judgment interfere with the relationship. He'd also ended relationships with people who did not live up to his standards. He'd done the same with others who couldn't deal with the complexity of the way he saw the universe. Perhaps the key was that complexity. In some instances, he saw the world in crystal clear terms of black and white, right and wrong. But many areas were also varying and distressing shades of gray. He did not believe in authority that demanded trust without proof of being trustworthy. He did not accept rules and regulations simply because they'd existed for decades or even centuries. He did not take kindly to anyone telling him what to do without an explanation for his actions. So usually he just wouldn't do it. As a result, he had over the past twelve or thirteen years been beaten, shot, hunted, and tortured.
Hey, nobody said he was a genius. But it came with the territory and he accepted that.
It came with the choices one made.
The thing is that he himself was an authority figure. And he often demanded the same blind obedience he abhorred. The problem there was that he was too aware of his own fallibility. He knew how wrong he could be. But when a decision had to be made-either for his own good or for the good of others-there was no one he could imagine making it other than himself.
No one.
Contradictions. Maybe that was why his view of life was so complicated. He saw so many wrong things done by so many people who thought they were right.
Justin shook his head at the meekness he felt in his own home. He did not have the need to conform to anyone else's code-and yet he did want his family to take his side. Or at least wait a reasonable amount of time before jumping over to the other side.
So he sat now with both parents, sipping iced tea in the den-the wood-paneled room that was nearly the size of Justin's entire East End house-waiting for Louise, their longtime housekeeper, to serve lunch. After perfunctory hugging in the entry hall, the silence had come quickly. Justin thought he might as well cut to the chase after his second sip.
"Look," he said, "maybe we should talk about my situation. I'm sure it's embarrassing for you."
"Is that what you think we're upset about," his father said, "that you've embarrassed us?"
"Not entirely. I know what happened to Ronald is shocking… and something you're not used to."
"Used to?" This was Justin's mother. Lizbeth's voice was higher pitched than normal, as if the tension in the room had grabbed her by the throat and didn't want to let her speak. "No, Jay, we're not used to people we know being murdered."
"I understand. And there's no way to make that any easier or more palatable. We'll talk about Ronald-of course we will, it's why I'm here-because I can help everyone deal with that. But what's going on with me is going to continue. What happened to Ronald is-"
"Over?" his mother asked.
"I know it sounds callous."
"Yes, it does," his mother said sadly. Justin couldn't tell if she was sad because of the finality of death or because her son was someone who was able, so easily, to move past that finality. He thought about telling her it wasn't ease, it was necessity, but he didn't have time because his father was already speaking.
"It might be callous but it's true," Jonathan said, and turned slightly to directly face Justin. He took a long sip of iced tea. Justin had a feeling that his father wasn't all that thirsty; the pause was very effective punctuation. "So what is it you want to say about things that aren't over?"
Justin exhaled slowly. He also knew how to punctuate for effect. "Look, you read the paper. I'm involved in something messy. But what they're saying isn't true. I don't think that Abigail Harmon had anything to do with her husband's murder. And believe me, I certainly didn't."
"We believe you."
Justin rubbed his eyes. This wasn't for effect; it was to try to ward off the beginning of a headache that was rapidly approaching. "Thank you. But look at the two of you. I've never seen two people so tense-your entire bodies are clenched."
"And you think it's because we're embarrassed? Or because we don't believe you?"
"Dad, we don't have to go into this. It's a lot of things. I know that you blame me for certain things… for Alicia and Lili… We've never truly had it out about that-"
"We've dealt with that," Jonathan Westwood said.
"Sure we have. And I appreciate it. I know you've really tried to make it work between us over the past couple of years. But dealing with something doesn't always make it go away. I've dealt with it, too, I've dealt with it in every way I possibly can, and I still blame myself."
"Justin…" This was his mother now, and her voice was no longer high-pitched. She sounded calm. Still sad, but calm. "You're wrong about us. Both of us. We're not acting this way because we're embarrassed. And we're not acting this way because-because of what happened in the past. What happened with Alicia… what happened to Lili… However terrible it was and is for us, we know that it's been much more terrible for you. But that's not… that's not…" She didn't seem to know how to finish her thought, so her husband finished it for her.
"That's not why we hate what you do, what you're doing."
"Then what is it?" Justin asked.
Jonathan Westwood spoke slowly now. And, Justin couldn't help notice, rather kindly. "You could have been many other
things, Jay. We don't have to rehash what your life could have been like. It's what it is, you do what you do. But knowing you've made this choice doesn't make us any less afraid."
"Afraid?" Justin said. "What are you afraid of?"
There was a long silence as Jonathan Westwood seemed to search for the right words. It was his wife who found them.
"We lost our grandchild because of the world you've chosen to live in," Lizbeth said. "We don't want to lose our child."
There was a long silence. Justin tried to pick up his iced tea, but his hand felt unsteady. He was just about under control when Louise stuck her head in the door and said the most welcome words Justin had ever heard: "Lunch is ready."
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