by Grant Mccrea
And then it happened.
Melissa sprawled dead, or dying, on the couch. My indifference. I walked on by. Hating her. Hating it. She was dying. I walked on by.
My body shut down. The gates to heaven closed.
Andrea stood up. Her hands were on her hips. She looked at me.
You’re kidding, right? she said.
Too many strong emotions, all at once. Excitement. Humiliation. Desire. Guilt. Supreme pleasure. Impotence. Anger. Guilt. I shut down.
Andrea was not the nurturing type.
Oh shit, she said. You’re not kidding.
She shook her head. She turned me on my side. I didn’t resist. She unbuckled the belt around my wrists. She flung it away. She picked up her clothes. She dressed quickly. She sat down on a wooden kitchen chair. Far away from me.
I think you should leave, she said.
I didn’t blame her. She didn’t know the story. I’d let her down. She was angry. I might be angry too, in her shoes. Her red stiletto shoes.
I’m sorry, I said again, pulling up my pants.
Yeah, she said, me too.
I buttoned my shirt. I left.
She didn’t say goodbye.
80.
I woke up with pains in every joint. The room was black. I’d had some awful dream. Something vague. Something fearful. It had left me tense and uncomprehending. I knew that if I went right back to sleep the dream would only start again. And I didn’t want to be there. So I propped open my eyelids. I got myself a glass of water. I walked circles around the room. I lay back down. I passed right out again.
I woke.
I was afraid.
I staggered to the bathroom.
I got another glass of water.
I paced.
The whole night was like that.
Finally, the light came through the curtains. I got up. Looked at the clock. Six in the morning. I took a hot, hot shower. I cleansed myself.
It didn’t work. I was still unclean.
I made some strong and bracing coffee. I checked the porch. The Times was there.
It was awfully slim. I looked more closely. Monday. Shit. What happened to Sunday? I felt a moment of panic. I tamped it down. You’re under a lot of stress, I told myself. I took a Valium. I took another one.
Relief. Routine. Routine was good. I drank my coffee.
I read the Times. I felt half normal.
Laura called.
She wanted me to come over to the morgue. Some test results were in.
I didn’t want to know. Why couldn’t they just let us cremate her and get it over with?
When I got there Laura was smiling. Not the nervous smile she’d had the time before. A real smile. And Harwood wasn’t there.
Two good signs.
Well, she said as I sat down. It’s not you.
I stared.
I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear that, she continued.
She said it lightheartedly. It was a joke. Why would I be relieved?
But I was relieved. I was almost overcome with relief. I was lightheaded with relief.
Concealing my confusion, I smiled and said, as playfully as I could, that I was indeed relieved, though somewhat miffed that she had ever doubted me in the first place.
I never doubted you, she said.
I should have known that, I said. It was the evil influence of our good friend Harwood, then.
I defer to your judgment on that, she replied cagily.
Okay. I don’t want to put you on the spot.
We smiled at each other. We were old friends, colleagues again.
The problem is…I began.
Yes, I know. If it wasn’t you…
Who was it?
That’s the question, Rick. And I don’t have an answer for it.
I can’t even imagine, I lied.
I could have imagined many things. But I didn’t want to go there.
It’s not your job, Rick. Listen, I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all this. Detective Harwood may seem a bit crusty.
A bit?
Okay, a lot. But his heart’s in the right place.
I guess I’m just going to have to take your word for that.
Harwood chose that moment to make an appearance.
He looked no less rumpled, no less yellow and no less sardonic than the last time I’d seen him.
Laura tells me you’re not as mean as you look, I said.
She’s entitled to her opinion, he replied, lighting a Marlboro.
I laughed.
He didn’t.
So I guess you’re in the clear, he said, in a distinctly unconvinced tone.
Clear of what? Having sex with my own wife?
Lying about it afterwards.
Well, I said, I suppose. Though why I’d have wanted to I don’t know.
I can think of a few things, he said, expertly blowing a smoke ring and expelling a second spume of smoke through the center of it.
That’s a neat trick, I said.
You ain’t seen nothing.
I’ll bet.
Let’s get down to business, he said. We need some information.
Happy to oblige, I said. After all, you’ve been so hospitable.
Laura excused herself. To go cut up some dead people, presumably.
Harwood started asking questions. Many he’d asked before. I gave the same answers. Some were new. I started to catch the drift. The results hadn’t exonerated me. They’d just changed the theory. Now I’d given Melissa an overdose in revenge for her infidelity.
When it seemed that he was finished, I got up to leave. He put out a hand to shake. I put out mine. He grasped it firmly. His fingers were short. His hand was broad and strong. A working man’s hand.
He held mine for a while longer than seemed comfortable. He looked me in the eye.
The message was clear.
He wasn’t done with me yet.
81.
I called Sheila’s office. She had a cancellation. I tried to make a joke about it. She didn’t laugh. I didn’t press the issue. I hailed a cab. The driver smelled of pastrami and motor oil. At last a home-grown cabbie.
He let me off across the street from her building. I stole a smoke before going in. A few minutes late, in the world of Sheila’s patients, meant nothing. It meant high-functioning.
I settled into the couch with a sigh of relief.
The one predictable place in the universe, I said.
She raised an eyebrow.
I’ll complain, I said. You’ll say a word here and there. I’ll have a revelation. I’ll feel better. Until the next time I call and find you have a cancellation. Right?
She gave me a grave look. I knew her take on this. I used humor to avoid the pain. Avoid confronting problems. Blah, blah, blah.
But her look sobered me.
Okay, I said. Things are not that good.
She waited patiently. I told her the story. Some of the story. We talked about Kelly. How to make it easier on her.
I told her a bit more of the story. I told her about Harwood.
Oh dear, she said more than once, that’s terrible.
I still didn’t tell her everything.
You know, I said, I have these dreams.
Yes? she said, leaning slightly forward.
They’re always different, yet all the same.
Yes?
They’re kind of inchoate. Hard to describe. Hard to decipher, one by one. But in one sense they’re all the same. How is that?
There’s always been a crime. A serious crime.
Yes?
And I’m the perpetrator.
Hm.
Usually murder. I’ve killed someone. And I’ve gotten away with it. But not completely. I know I’ve done it, for one thing. And I can’t live with that. And there’s someone pursuing me. Someone who knows. A man in a long black coat, sometimes. I see him on the corner. He gets into the cab behind mine. I’m never really getting away with it. Sometimes the m
urder happened long ago. When I was young. But the point of the dream is, I’m about to get caught.
These kinds of dreams are not uncommon, she said in a reassuring tone.
What’s uncommon, I think, is how goddamn real they are.
How do you mean?
I wake up. Or I don’t, really. Sometimes I wake up from the dream into another dream. In the second dream I’m waking up from the first dream. And the first dream seems so real, that in the second dream I have to ask myself if the first dream was true, that it really happened. And often it seems that it did. That I’m guilty of some horrible crime.
And then?
And then I wake up from the second dream.
And?
The same thing happens.
What thing?
It still feels horribly, excruciatingly real. I’m only half awake. I’m still guilty. It still happened. And then, after I get up, I slap myself around, I get out into the world, it follows me.
The dream?
The guilt. The reality of it. It can go on for days. I look over my shoulder. I expect the knock on the door. I see a man in a long black coat. I see accusing looks everywhere I go. I’m guilty. I did it. I’m a murderer.
That’s terrible.
You’re telling me, I said. Weeks later, it’ll still come back to me. Now, sitting here now, I ask myself, could it be true? Is there some dark deed I’ve been repressing, in my past? Could it be that I’ve actually killed someone? Is that why I have these dreams, these feelings? Could it be the truth, trying to make itself known?
I don’t think so, she said quietly.
I mean, you hear about all these repressed memory things, right? Some traumatic event, you don’t even know it happened, consciously. Your father raped you as a child, whatever?
There’s considerable controversy about that, Sheila said.
I know. But I can’t help wondering.
You haven’t murdered anyone, Rick, she said firmly.
She rarely used my name. She was taking this very seriously.
How do you know? I asked. I could have. You’d have no way of knowing.
She smiled a reassuring smile.
I know, she said. Trust me on this one.
I had no choice. I had to trust her.
I damn well couldn’t trust myself.
82.
I’m starting to wonder whether there might be something to it, I said to Dorita.
To what?
Melissa.
I thought I’d changed that subject.
You had. Or you tried. Don’t worry, I’m not going to get all weepy on you. I’m just beginning to wonder. For the first time. Whether somebody might have been involved. Other than her.
In her death?
Yes. I didn’t give it the time of day before.
Yes?
But now that the DNA test is in.
Darling, you’ve got me at a disadvantage.
I do?
You do. You know what the hell you’re talking about. And I don’t.
I’m sorry. I’m sort of talking to myself.
Who’d have guessed?
I told her all about it. The autopsy results. The DNA tests. I told her about the service. The AA cabal. Jake. Steiglitz. All the weirdness.
I’m impressed, she said when I was finished.
You’re easily impressed.
Now, darling, you know that that’s not true. No, really. I’m impressed. With the whole story. It’s rich. The characters are memorable. And it’s a cracking mystery.
Are you implying that I’m making this stuff up?
In a delirium of grief?
Right.
No. Not exactly. It’s a matter of salience.
Salience.
Yes. What appears important in one context disappears in another.
Right.
You walk by dozens of Jettas every day.
Jetta? Is that a Ford?
Volkswagen. You never even notice them.
Not me. I’m not a car guy.
And then one day you buy one of your own.
I do. Says you.
And all of a sudden.
Like lightning from the heavens.
You’re noticing Jettas all over the place.
I’m still taking your word for it.
You’re noticing their colors. Whether they’re the same color as yours, or different. You’re noting whether they’re LX’s, or DX’s, or whatever.
I am. Because you say so.
Whether they have a sunroof.
Etcetera.
Exactly. They’re salient. All of a sudden. They have some importance in your life.
Some value.
The concept does, at least.
The Jetta Concept.
Good movie title.
I was already there, I assured her.
Way ahead of me.
As always.
You wish.
And your point was?
Nothing, she said. No point. Just that all that stuff might not have seemed so significant in other circumstances.
Which tells me?
Absolutely nothing.
That’s what I thought. Just wanted to check.
All right. But anyway, what we have here…
Is a failure to communicate?
No, darling. It’s a new case.
An investigation.
The first new case for the brand-new firm of R. amp; D., LLP.
I like the sound of that. Research and Development.
Rick and Dorita.
Both of those things. Nice of you to put me first.
‘D. amp; R.’ lacks the essential ambiguity.
Ah. Should have known better than to see a compliment there.
Or R. amp; R.
Redman and Reed.
Rest and Relaxation.
Tough choice.
Well, we’ve got time.
We reviewed the evidence. I pulled out a bunch of blank index cards. Proceeded to defile them with new information and speculation. Lines and arrows.
The Melissa suspect card read: Jake; Melissa; Steiglitz; Ron; Jerry; any of the other AA cabal, more likely male, given the fluids; a stranger, ditto; Rick Redman.
I crossed myself off the list. I’d been cleared.
I sat back. Dorita sat back. I admired the cut of her jib. I noted that her sweater was a little tighter than normal. I refrained from pulling out another index card, on which to record the observation.
Okay, she said, we’ve opened a new file. Let’s get to work.
Where do we start?
Let’s start with Jake. I don’t think it’s an accident you listed him first.
Really?
Really. Of all the people at the service, he had the least reason to be all sloppy and teary-eyed.
I suppose you’re right. He and Steiglitz.
Maybe. I’ll take your word for Steiglitz. But she was his patient.
Yes. If nothing else, she injured his professional pride.
Exactly. At least he’s got some sort of excuse.
But Jake.
Tell me everything else you know about him. Maybe something will strike me that you haven’t noticed.
I told her what I knew, which in the telling I realized wasn’t much. He’d never told me anything about his acting career, other than the thing about the bald-man commercial. I didn’t know where he was from. We’d only really talked about poker. I told Dorita about his dark hintings at secrets unrevealed. But they could have been the rantings of someone in the throes of a near fatal alcohol overdose. In fact, that was what I’d concluded at the time. To the extent that I’d concluded anything more than that it was time to get the hell home.
He met Melissa, though, didn’t you say?
Once.
I told her the story of the bookcase.
Tell it to me again, she said. Don’t spare any details.
I went over it again. Melissa striding across the room with arms open. Kisses on the chee
k. Jake’s nervousness. Glancing at me for help. Melissa’s remark after he’d left. Kind of cute, she’d said.
I fought back some emotion. It had been the last time that I’d seen her acting at all like her old self.
Not a lot to go on, said Dorita.
No. At least two things were a little odd, though. How nervous he seemed. And that remark.
Not exactly smoking guns, partner.
No. And it was also a little strange, I suppose, that she took the trouble to play the hostess. I hadn’t seen her do that in years.
How many guests have you had over in those years?
Um. None. That I can think of.
Well, then.
Yes.
She was probably excited.
She was excited. As excited as she was able to get. And there’s another thing.
Yes?
I told Dorita about the phone calls.
Her jaw dropped.
You’re kidding me.
I’m not.
Calls from Jake? To Melissa’s phone? You saved that for now?
I was struggling with it. What it meant.
What it meant? Tell me you’re joking.
I’m not joking.
Ricky, you’re in some serious denial.
It just doesn’t feel right.
Feel, schlemiel. Let’s deal with the facts here, Ricky. Get your brain out of neutral. Let’s see what we can find out about old Jake. Start with the easy stuff. You’ve got wireless?
Sure.
Let’s google him.
I hadn’t thought of that. But if he’s an actor, he’s bound to show up somewhere, you’d think.
Well, yes, she said, rolling her eyes.
Jesus, I’m a trial lawyer. I’ve never pretended to be Rick Redman, Ace Detective.
You don’t even do your own legal research anymore.
Anymore? What makes you think I ever did?
Sorry, darling. I forgot you were born with junior associates attached to your hips.
Mom hated that.
Ouch.
Let’s do a search.
I googled him. Nothing. I tried the Internet yellow pages. Splurged on a couple of commercial sites that advertised that they could root out personal information on anyone alive.
Nothing. A haberdasher in Hermosa Beach. Eighty-one years old. A retired barber in Tuscaloosa.
Now that’s strange, I said. Jake doesn’t exist.
That’s a problem.
Especially for him, I’d think.
An actor?