What about a nameless minion of the Democratic party, out to incriminate me?
Or, for that matter, Bobby Finn himself, who had certainly shown himself capable of murder.
Or an ex-con like Tom Donato with a grudge against me.
Or Harold White, the campaign manager who saw Amanda Taylor as a threat to his future and perhaps even to America's future. All right, he had an alibi, but he could have hired someone to do the dirty work for him.
Or Kevin Feeney, the loyal aide eager to protect his boss from the scheming adventuress who had ensnared him.
Or Brad what's-his-name, the evil reporter and would-be lover whom Amanda spurned.
Or Marge Terry, the virtuous, highly paid media coordinator who was as jealous of Amanda as Liz was. She at least had a bruise on her arm the night of the murder, a fact that I had somehow managed to forget until I found myself mentally trying to exculpate Liz.
Obviously there were suspects and doubts aplenty. With me as her lawyer, no jury in the world would convict Elizabeth O'Connor of Amanda Taylor's murder.
* * *
I was sure I could convince a jury, but I wasn't so sure I could convince myself. The heart ignores the niceties of reasonable doubt.
I sleepwalked through the rest of the day and finally realized that I needed to talk to Marge. I insisted on dropping Kevin off and then headed for her apartment in Cambridge. I thought about calling first but decided against it. Surprise might work in my favor.
I needed to know what her damn secret was. "Things are more complicated than you know," she had said. "More complicated than you can imagine." Did she know something about Liz that she didn't want to tell me, that had somehow eluded my feeble male awareness?
Or did she know something about herself that she wouldn't reveal? My mental defense of Liz had uncovered Marge as a suspect. Hadn't occurred to me before. But if I was willing to consider Liz, then why not Marge, whom I knew so much less well, but whose motive was equally strong? Where had she gone after our staff meeting that Friday afternoon when Amanda was murdered?
Marge rented the first floor of a two-family house near Central Square—real Cambridge, where the streets were lined with hardware stores and pizza parlors instead of the boutiques and cafés of Harvard Square, a mile down the road. It was a neighborhood where the houses were built inches apart, where elderly couples living under rent control tended tiny gardens, where grad students camped out in comfortable squalor, where yuppies like Marge braved urban life until they got married and had a kid or simply got tired of the crime and the noise and the lack of privacy and headed for places like Hingham. Legal parking places were nonexistent on her street, of course. I parked in a residents only space without feeling much guilt. This was campaign business, sort of, and the campaign would take care of any ticket.
There were lights on in her apartment. Her doorbell had been broken ever since she moved into the place, so I rapped on the glass of the door. A few moments later the lace curtain was drawn aside, and Marge stared out at me. She rolled her eyes and opened the door.
She was holding a baseball bat. "I was ready for you," she said, hefting it.
"I think I deserve at least a forty-four Magnum," I replied, stepping inside.
"You flatter yourself." She was wearing pajamas, a pink terry-cloth robe, and white athletic socks. She ran a hand through her hair; it wasn't nice of me to show up without giving her a chance to get dressed. "What's happening?" she asked.
"We have to talk."
She tilted her head a little, appraising me. "About what?"
"About what you know and I don't."
Her face hardened for a moment, and then she seemed to yield. "Give me a minute to, um, get decent," she said. "Pour yourself a drink if you want." She waved toward the living room, and then headed down the hall.
I walked into the living room: white walls, gleaming hardwood floor, long sectional couch, large-screen TV, stereo speakers the size of Kathleen. Papers were scattered on the coffee table in front of the couch, along with a full ashtray, a half-full bottle of white wine, and an almost empty pack of Chesterfields. I glanced at her work. She was editing one of the position papers my Washington staff had written for me. I wondered how many people were spending their Saturday night helping to get me reelected. You become used to it; you start to think of it as natural, as your due. I brought the ashtray and the cigarettes into the messy kitchen, where I emptied the ashtray and tossed the cigarettes into an overflowing wastebasket. I found an almost clean glass, rinsed it out, went back to the living room, and poured myself some of the wine. Then I sat on the couch and waited for Marge.
She returned a few moments later, wearing a green cable-knit sweater and jeans. The sweater looked good on her. I could smell her perfume from across the room. "Do you ever read your position papers?" she asked, sitting at the far end of the couch.
"Religiously," I said.
"What's your stand on import quotas?"
"I'm very glad you asked me about that," I responded, "because I believe it's one of the most important issues facing America today." And then I gave her three perfect paragraphs about the balance of trade, international economics, and the competitiveness of American industry.
"You're good, there's no doubt about that," she said, shaking her head.
"You sound as if that pains you."
"Just envy, that's all."
"I don't feel particularly enviable at the moment," I said.
"Why not? Still miss Amanda?"
I leaned back into the pile of striped cushions. Marge was no more interested in being tactful than Liz was. "I have to find out who killed her," I said.
"Why? Why not let it go? As long as Cavanaugh doesn't try to nail you—"
"Cavanaugh is trying to nail me. He's been trying to nail me since you were in junior high. And besides, I—I need to know."
"Poor Jimmy." Marge came over and searched the coffee table for her cigarettes. She saw the empty ashtray and looked at me. "Asshole," she said.
"You didn't kill her by any chance, did you?"
She sat back down, a little closer now, and still looking at me. "You flatter yourself again, Senator. Do you honestly think I'd murder Amanda Taylor out of jealousy?"
"Beats me. But I couldn't help noticing that bruise on your arm the night of the murder. As if you'd been in a struggle with someone."
Marge took a long time to respond. Then she left the room and returned a moment later with the baseball bat. I admit that made me a little nervous. "You think I keep a baseball bat next to my door because I live in a bad neighborhood?" she asked.
"I don't know, Marge."
She rolled it in her hands. "You know my ex-boyfriend Alan."
"The jerk."
She looked at the bat. "I guess you could say he's a little more than a jerk. It annoyed him that I've been spending a lot of time at work lately. Couldn't imagine why I'd have to put in some overtime during an election campaign—especially when I was seeing him. His needs came first. He's a man, after all. We had a little discussion about it after the staff meeting that Friday. His idea of a discussion is to whack the woman around, try and slap some sense into her. Frankly, Jim, you're lucky I'm not in jail for murdering him, never mind Amanda."
Her mouth was pursed; she was trying to keep from crying. "I'm sorry, Marge," I said.
She shrugged. "I can take care of myself," she said. Then she got up abruptly and went into the kitchen.
I drank half the glass of wine, feeling like a heel. Poor Marge. She was tough, but not as tough as she wanted people to think she was.
Marge, like me, had more or less created herself. Her father owned a hardware store in upstate New York. Typical small-town chamber of commerce "I Like Ike" Republican. She should have become a teacher, married a lawyer, helped him run for town council. Or she should have rebelled, worn flat shoes and braided her hair and demonstrated against nuclear power. But she had turned her father's values into a philosophy and u
ltimately into a career. She had transformed herself into a slick professional woman and moved to the big city, where she could join the battle for America's soul. She enjoyed the battle. Most of all, she enjoyed winning.
Which meant, of course, that she didn't like losing to Amanda. But that was hardly reason to accuse her of murder.
And she certainly wasn't going to make up an alibi as painful as that one had to be.
She returned, puffing away at a cigarette. "After the election," she said. "I'm definitely giving them up after the election." She emptied the bottle of wine into her glass. "Now, where were we?" she asked with mock pleasantness.
"Well, I guess I was quizzing you about Amanda. Did she interview you?"
She shook her head. "We talked on the phone once. This was a couple of weeks before—"
"Right. What did you talk about?"
"She was perfectly nice, in fact. I got the impression that she knew about you and me—not that there's anything much to know. You told her about us, I suppose. She said she didn't want to talk about that, just about you: what you were like, what made you tick, that sort of thing."
"What did you say?"
"Oh, I don't remember exactly. Something catty at any rate. Like: You seem to be doing a perfectly good job of finding out what makes him tick. You don't need my help."
"What did she say to that?"
"Not much." Marge drank some of her wine and stared at the glass. "Actually, she started to cry."
"Did she say why?"
"Well, you know, I didn't get into it, Jim. I just couldn't seem to work up much sympathy for her."
"We had broken up. Did you know that?"
Marge shook her head. "I suppose I might have dredged up a little sympathy if I had. Did you dump her?"
"Not really. It was that article you showed me. After a while it just made things too complicated for us. I think we were both lying a bit, and the lying caught up with us. Or maybe not. I don't know."
"You think she only got interested in writing about you once you'd split up?"
"Yeah, I guess so. But I'm not entirely sure she was going to write about me. Did she say anything to suggest that?"
"I don't recall. I mean, I sort of assumed it. Why else was she trying to interview me? But then she burst into tears. That caught me by surprise. Did you love her, Jim?"
"I don't know, and if you're going to ask me if I killed her, the answer is no."
We fell silent. Eventually Marge finished her wine and stubbed the cigarette out in the empty glass; I cringed. "You know," she said, "some women might find cause to be offended by all this," she said. "Jesus. Guy comes over unexpectedly late one night, finds this attractive young woman in her pajamas. Instead of bashing him with her baseball bat, which is what any self-respecting attractive young woman should do, she invites him in, offers him a glass of wine, puts on some perfume. And what does he do? He takes away her cigarettes, asks her if she's a murderer, and starts talking about his dead lover."
"I'm sorry, Marge," I said. "This is important. You didn't have anything more to do with her?"
"I tried to not even think about her, Counselor. Until Harold calls me up one night when all I want to do is get drunk and maybe kill a few men, and he tells me to get my butt over to his place, our beloved employer is in deep doo-doo and we have to find a way to get him out."
"Then what's the big secret you wouldn't tell me last week?"
Marge sighed. "I won't tell you the secret," she said, "but I will tell you the name of the person who owns the secret. And then you will leave, so I can resume enjoying the wanton pleasures of my Saturday night. All right?"
"Thanks," I said.
She stood up. "Go talk to your old buddy Roger Simmons," she said. "And leave me out of it."
Roger? "Why Roger?" I said.
Marge picked up her bat. "Good night, Jim."
She headed for the door, bat in hand. I followed. I was desperate to learn more, but I figured I had worn out my welcome. "Thanks, Marge," I said.
Her big green eyes stared at me for a moment, and she gave me a quick hug. "Good luck," she whispered, and then she opened the door and shoved me out of her apartment.
Chapter 20
Roger?
I tried to imagine Roger as a murderer. No good. Roger was just too damn nice. It was a problem he'd always had as a lawyer. I would take the cases that required a little meanness, where I'd have to go after a witness and maybe ruin a reputation. Roger was better at getting the jury's sympathy. People tend to underestimate him because he is so nice, and his pudgy face and slightly befuddled expression make them think he doesn't know what he's doing. In court he knows exactly what he is doing.
But even if Roger were a trained killer, what could his motive possibly be? The best I could come up with was jealousy. I was the one who had made a name for myself. I was the one whom beautiful women like Amanda wanted. Roger, meanwhile, lingered in the background. I had thought he'd simply lost interest in things after Doris died. But perhaps there was something festering in his soul, some resentment against my success, my home life, my sex life, against me.
Amanda calls and asks him for an interview. He goes to her apartment, meets her for the first time, is awed by her beauty. He realizes that I've been screwing her, just one more pleasure thrown into my already rich life, while he sits at home nights wifeless, childless, nothing to do but drink and contemplate the emptiness of his life. His resentment overflows, and he lashes out, destroying this perfect creature that he can never possess....
No, not Roger.
I thought about giving him a call, but I didn't. I was tired. I had too much to think through. I would deal with it tomorrow.
* * *
The next morning I went into my office after breakfast. Instead of calling Roger, I called his secretary. Sally O'Malley is living proof of why some women should keep their maiden names after marriage. Actually I think she likes the rhyme; she's a sociable sort, and it gives her an easy opening for conversations with strangers. She had been with Roger since we started the firm, and she adores both of us. "Hi, Sally," I said. "It's Jim O'Connor."
"Oh, Senator. Oh, my. How are you? It's good you caught me. I was just on my way out the door to mass."
"I'm sorry, Sally. Don't let me keep you."
"No, no. There's plenty of time. How are you, Senator?"
"Just great. And how are things in the valley, Sally O'Malley?"
"Oh, stop." I could feel her blush over the phone. I had used that line on her a thousand times.
"Sally, the reason I called is, I wanted to ask you for a favor."
"Anything, Jim."
"It's about Roger."
"Yes?"
And how would the clever sleuth handle this one? "Well, I have this notation here about a contribution from a guy named Paul Despino. It says Roger talked to him—I think it says September twenty-fourth, p.m. The thing is, this guy Despino has ties to organized crime. Harold—you know my campaign manager, Harold White?—well, he gets pretty steamed about things like this. It's the sort of thing that Roger should have been aware of, and if he wasn't, he'll get in big trouble with Harold. Now I think the notation may be a mistake, and it wasn't Roger who talked to this guy. If I can find this out before Harold gets wind of it, I might be able to smooth things over. But I don't want to ask Roger because it could be kind of embarrassing. So I was wondering if you could take a look at his schedule for that afternoon, tell me who he saw and so forth, and get back to me."
I took a deep breath. Had that sounded totally ludicrous? "September twenty-fourth in the afternoon?" Sally said.
"That's right. A Friday, I think."
"Then I can't really help you, Jim. Roger wasn't in the office that afternoon."
"Are you sure?"
"Oh, he hasn't been working Friday afternoons for some time unless he has a trial. Didn't you know that? He said he was doing it because of those staff meetings over at your headquarters."
"Of course. That's right. How could I have forgotten? This notation must be a mistake then. I'm so relieved. Listen, Sally, I'm sorry to have bothered you. I could have figured this out on my own."
"Nonsense. You must have so much on your mind. It's wonderful of you to be thinking of Roger. Poor dear, he does get distracted now and then. You know, since Mrs. Simmons died. It's been hard on him. Anyway, good luck in the election, Senator. I'll be praying for you."
"I appreciate that. Now go to mass. And don't dally, Sally O'Malley."
"Oh, stop."
I hung up and stared at the peeling wallpaper. Roger always told us he was too busy to attend our Friday afternoon meetings.
Too busy doing what?
* * *
I made it to my father's that evening. He had finished Bleak House and was in the middle of Hard Times. "You should read it, you hardhearted Republican," he said.
"I have read it," I replied. "And be nice to me. Even Republicans have feelings."
"A Republican is only happy when his boot is on a workingman's neck. I think I'll have another drink."
"I'll get it. Mind if I make a phone call?"
"Go ahead. Call your strikebreaking henchmen. I'm too old and feeble to stop you."
I grinned and picked up his glass. In the kitchen I set the glass down next to the bottle of bourbon and stared at the phone. I had been avoiding this all day. Roger lived in Newton, not far from my father. I had to talk to him. I didn't want to talk to him.
I called him up, hoping he wouldn't answer. He answered.
"Roger. Jim," I said.
"Jim, you got my message?" he replied.
No, I hadn't. "I've been with my father," I said."What's up?"
"Jerry Tobin's off the case. Cavanaugh's going to handle it himself."
More good news. "I'm surprised he waited this long," I said.
"Well, Cavanaugh knew he and Finn would be better off if Tobin could get you on his own. But time's running out now, and your crime ads are having an effect. They need some results."
"Should we make a fuss?"
"See what Harold says, but I think we can stick with the usual line for now: You know, we welcome all efforts by the DA's office to solve the crime, we'll do everything in our power to help them, and so on and so forth. Cavanaugh will probably haul you in again, to remind people you're a suspect, and then we can start complaining."
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