Magic Hour

by Susan Isaacs

  "She could go back to Utah!"

  "And do what? We've got the addresses of all her brothers, and her old man in Arizona. There's no place for her to hide."

  "If we bring her in now, before the weekend, we're heroes. Damn it, don't you care about your career?"

  "Blow it out your ass, Robby."

  Robby banged the wall with his fist. It made a dull, undramatic thud. But his voice made up for it, blar­ing, amplified by the narrow corridor so the whole floor could hear him. "You're gonna fuck up this case!"

  "No! I'm going to do my job, follow up all the leads. I'm not going to be some ass-kisser who cuts corners because he can't wait to pucker up." I made a wet, kissy sound in the air. " 'Yoo-hoo, Captain Shea. Here is the solution to the heinous murder that has so captured the attention of the national media. Please, you take all the credit. I only want the satis­faction of a job well done—' " Robby brought up his fists and bounced on the balls of his feet. His keys jingled in his pants pocket. "Holy shit! Don't hit me, Robby!"

  "Shut your fucking mouth, Brady."

  "Don't hurt me! I'm forty years old."

  "Listen, you loser, son-of-a-bitch drunk, I'm going to court to get a warrant. Now."

  "Good. Get the hell out of here. And while you're on your way, I'm going in to Shea and telling him what a lazy bastard you've been, and how you're jumping the gun and handing him a case that could fall apart five seconds after it gets to the grand jury."

  It was more like a movie than life, almost a freeze-frame. I didn't move. Robby kept his fists up, but finally, slowly, opened them. His fingers spread out; it looked as though he'd decided to throttle me. Finally, I said: "Calm down."

  "Fuck you, you dipso."

  "Listen to me. Don't rush this. You're gonna push Shea, and then the D.A. will find fifty loose ends—like Mikey LoTriglio. Like Lindsay."

  "Lindsay," he sneered.

  "Don't you get it? Some rag newspaper in the su­permarket is going to print a picture of her from Transvaal holding a rifle. 'Is Lindsay Keefe Trained to Kill?' Don't you get that the Daily News is going to do a big piece on Sy's mob connections? And don't you get that unless we can respond to every single ques­tion that could come up with one single answer—Bonnie Spencer—the department could be made to look like it's trying to pin it on some poverty-stricken sweetie pie of an ex-wife, and you and I are the ones who'll get creamed for it?"

  Robby didn't answer. And he didn't choke me. He just lowered his hands, turned and, in his clunk-heeled beige loafers, stomped back to Homicide.

  "Don't ask me about the case, Germy," I said into the phone.

  "I am not asking you about the case," he honked in his hundred-thousand-dollars'-worth-of-New-England-schools voice. "I am a film critic, not a gossip columnist. And I didn't ask what was wrong with your case. I asked what was wrong with you. You sound—it's hard to describe—flat. Tired."

  "I'm too old for this shit." Having bounced the Sour Kraut from our mutual desk, I had my files fanned out in front of me, all unopened. "Tell me about Lindsay Keefe."

  "I love it. Classic film noir. The uncouth cop falls for the ice-blond sophisticate."

  He did it; he made me smile for a second. "I just want to know about Transvaal."

  "Why?"

  I hesitated, but then I said: "I know you long enough to know you'll keep your mouth shut, Jer­emy."

  "That's right, Steve."

  I saw I'd been doodling on the cover of Bonnie's file. Shaded 3-D boxes. Her initials: I realized they were mine, backwards. "Okay, I heard Lindsay was shown shooting a rifle in the movie." Germy made that upper-class exhaling sound that comes out be­tween Ah! and Oh! "What I'm asking is if—without raising bicoastal eyebrows—you can get me the name of someone who knows what went on while they were making that movie."

  "Someone who knows whether Lindsay could ac­tually shoot or if she just pulled the trigger and the sound editor went 'Bang!' "

  "Yeah."

  "Call me back in a hour." He paused. "And listen, from an old friend ... You sound something less than yourself. Take it easy. All right?"

  "Sure," I said. "I'll be fine."

  I called Lynne, hoping I'd get her machine. But she picked up. "Hello!" Cheery, welcoming. I had noth­ing to say to her. I hung up the phone and dialed my brother.

  "Easton, come on. Listen. Remember you told me Sy would never have fired Lindsay?" I asked.

  "Urn, he would have let her think it, but he never would have." Easton sounded thick-tongued, slightly dopey.

  I'd obviously woken him from one of his ritual mar­athon sleeps: striped pajamas on, phone on a pillow on the floor to muffle the ring, curtains safety-pinned to ensure unending darkness. His sleeps were es­capes that would last for weeks, except for shuffling excursions in flapping leather slippers down to the kitchen, where he'd spoon soft food—ice cream, canned fruit cocktail—into his mouth listlessly, as though feeding a baby who wasn't hungry. Occasion­ally, he'd offer a thin excuse: The doctor says it's probably mono, and then give a feeble cough. Easton's sleeps came whenever he realized he wasn't going to be superstar insurance agent, or hero of men's wear. He'd start going in to work late, coming home early—sometimes after lunch. A boss would call, first to lecture, finally to fire him, and Easton would simply mumble, If that's how you want it, and hang up the phone and go back to sleep.

  Well, what did he have to stay awake for now that Sy was dead? "East, come on. Focus for a second."

  Irritable. "I am focused."

  "Do you think there was any chance Lindsay knew that Katherine Pourelle had been sent the Starry Night script, or that Sy was going to see her out in L.A.?"

  Easton tried to rise to the occasion. You could al­most see him shaking his head, clearing out the fog. "Did she know?" he repeated. Suddenly he sounded alert, interested, protective. "Why do you want to know about Lindsay?"

  "Look, I know you're—you know—kind of at­tracted to her, but try to be objective, East. This is a homicide."

  "And you think if Lindsay had found out somehow ... Steve, that's idiotic."

  "Probably. But I can't leave any loose ends untied."

  "Give me a second," he said. "I must have dozed off for a couple of minutes. I'm still a little groggy." I reached into my drawer and retrieved a combo key ring-nail clipper I'd gotten at a grand opening of a car wash and gave myself something resembling a manicure. It seemed I'd have time to take off my shoes and socks and do my toes, but finally Easton spoke, although hesitantly. "Lindsay had ... a cer­tain curiosity about Sy's business."

  "What does that mean in real life? She was nosy?"

  "If you want to look at it superficially."

  "Give me a for-instance." He didn't reply. "Stop the chivalry shit. I'm not looking to arrest her. I'm just looking to finish the paperwork on this case."

  "Is Lindsay a real suspect?"

  "No."

  "Who is?"

  "Not for public consumption, okay?"

  "Of course not."

  "The ex-wife, Bonnie. But Lindsay shot a rifle in a movie called Transvaal, so I've got to check her out some more. Now, how was she nosy?"

  "The word I used was 'curious.' You see, Sy usually swam his laps after she did hers. So when she came back into the house, supposedly to take a shower, she'd actually go into his study."

  "And?"

  "And pretend to be looking for a stamp or a paper clip, but actually go through whatever papers were lying on the desk. Oh, I just remembered. Sy had one of those pocket computer calendars. One time, I saw her pressing some buttons on it. My guess was she was reading off all his entries. I know this makes her sound like a sneak. She really wasn't. Sy was more than her lover; he was her employer. She knew as well as anyone how brutal he could be with anyone he wasn't pleased with, and he definitely wasn't pleased with her. So she was protecting her own in­terests, so to speak."

  "Bottom line, Easton. Do you think she knew why he was going to L.A.?"

  "Bottom line?
" He gave it real thought. I waited. "She was getting curiouser and curiouser. Extra visits to his study. Checking out the fax machine early in the morning, before Sy was up, before she went to the set."

  "How do you know what went on so early?"

  "I liked to get in early. This is ... embarrassing."

  "Listen, do you think you're the first guy in human history to get stupid over a girl? I'm your brother. You can tell me. You went in early because you wanted to see her?"

  "Yes. But she never really tried to hide her curios­ity from me. Either she thought I was so much a part of the household that I was like wallpaper—there, no threat—or she sensed how I felt about her, and felt safe." Easton sighed. "I think that must have been it. But in any case, what you want to know is if I think Lindsay knew Sy was going to take some action. And the answer is yes. I do."

  Germy called back a half hour later. He'd spoken to the producer of Transvaal. They had hired some South African game warden as a technical adviser, and he'd given Lindsay a couple of hours of lessons with a rifle. The producer had no idea what kind of a shot she was, but he'd added she'd had a quickie affair with the game warden but then switched over to a black actor who was playing an anti-apartheid activist.

  Gideon called around noon. He was back in his office. He'd hired Bill Paterno for Bonnie, but wanted one last talk with me. In person. Man to man. He said that without self-consciousness. Could he come back to my office? I glanced over at Robby. He was hunched over his desk, going over all the DNA and lab reports, index finger inching down the pages, lips moving, calling on the God of Science to bless his crusade against Bonnie Spencer. He looked pasty and intense and a little nuts, so I gave Gideon quick direc­tions to the nearest diner, told him to meet me there at one-thirty, that he could have as long as it took me to finish a chicken salad and bacon sandwich and a vanilla malted—which, when I was minding my man­ners, took approximately four minutes.

  The Blue Sky had once been a regular greasy spoon, but the Greek guy who'd bought it had done it over, so now the spoon was hardly greasy at all. The walls were paneled in lake oak, the ceilings dripped with fat-globed chandeliers and hanging plastic plants. The menu, a listing of every food product capable of be­ing microwaved, was almost as thick as the Bible. The owner hovered over us, pad open, ready to transcribe whatever we happened to say.

  I looked at Gideon. "The cook usually washes his hands after he takes a dump, so you can have the chicken salad or tuna fish and not die. The hamburg­ers taste like snow tires. They nuke everything else."

  "Don" listen to him," said the owner. "He's a stu­pid cop. All my food's good. Today the special is nice flounder on a bed of spinach wit' feta cheese."

  Gideon said no thank you, he'd already eaten. Just an iced coffee. I ordered, and the owner strolled off, toward the kitchen.

  "Go ahead," I said. "Make your pitch."

  Gideon adjusted his knife, fork and spoon and took a minute to make sure the edge of his napkin was absolutely parallel with the edge of the table. Once that was accomplished, he immediately opened the napkin and put it on his lap. I noticed that for all his clean-cut, square-jawed handsomeness, the bridge of his nose appeared to have gotten squished in the birth canal or in a fight and never popped back into place. "I was hoping this conversation wouldn't be necessary," he said quietly.

  "It's not. You could have saved yourself the trip—and acid indigestion from the iced coffee. All we're doing now is neatening up a few loose ends. Probably by tomorrow we'll be arresting your client."

  "Her name is Bonnie."

  "I know that." My cheeks began to ache; I could feel the pressure of tears someplace way behind my eyes. I wasn't going to lose it, but if I was, it wouldn't be in front of this guy. "Let's get on with it."

  "Why are you out to get her?"

  "Mr. Friedman, with all due respect, you're her friend. And this is not your field. You're personalizing a criminal investigation. And you're wasting my time and not doing your client any good. Do everybody a favor, wait till tomorrow. Let Paterno handle it. He's used to dealing with us and the D.A."

  The owner came back with the iced coffee and a little bowl of teaspoon-size containers of half-and-half. Gideon waited until he was gone. "You're the one who's been personalizing it," he said.

  "What are you getting at?"

  "I'm getting at that it is morally and ethically wrong to investigate someone you've—"

  Put up the umbrella, I thought, because here it comes: a shower of shit. "I've what?"

  "Slept with."

  Heat rises. Blood rushed up to my forehead, my ears. I was so fucking furious. Disappointed too: I couldn't believe she'd resort to something that cheesy—which shows the state I was in. I'd had no trouble believing that, with evil intent, she could plan and execute a homicide. But tell a tacky lie? Not my Bonnie! "That's total and complete crap," I said.

  "No, it's not crap." He was calm, at peace. What­ever shit he was dropping on me, it was shit the bitch Bonnie had made him believe.

  "Your friend has a little problem in the truth de­partment, Counselor. I never laid a hand on her. I never made a suggestive remark. Nothing."

  "Now, that's crap."

  "Look, you don't really want that iced coffee. Go back to East Hampton, practice some real estate law, forget this conversation." He stayed put. "Okay, the head of Homicide's a guy named Shea. Go ahead. Talk to him. Or file a formal complaint with the depart­ment."

  "What happened between the two of you that makes you want to get her so badly?"

  I looked up and saw the guy coming back with my sandwich and the malted. The food looked pale, puffed-up, dead—like something pulled out of the water, something that, before you can stop yourself, makes you gag. "Look," I said to Gideon, "obviously she has you believing something went on. I'm not going to try and talk you out of it." A piece of bacon hung out of the roll, dark, curled, wormy. "But I'm not going to ruin my lunch and sit here listening to you tell me I copped a feel when I was questioning her, or showed her my shield and said, 'Fuck me or go to jail.' Okay? So take a walk, Mr. Friedman."

  I could hardly hear him. "I'm not talking about the investigation. I'm talking about what went on five years ago."

  "What?"

  "Five years ago. You ... I wouldn't call it an af­fair. But it wasn't just a typical one-night stand."

  "Wrong guy," I snapped.

  "She called me about it the next day. I remember. She sounded elated. She said, 'Gideon, I met this wonderful man!' "

  "She's lying. Or maybe she's just ... Maybe this whole experience has made her a little crazy, if she wasn't that way to begin with."

  "Bonnie's as uncrazy as they come."

  "So maybe it's an honest mistake, and she just thought she saw me under her covers. Look, I'm sure you know it isn't any secret that a lot of guys have rolled around in that bed."

  Gideon had put a lightweight olive-green blazer over his ninja outfit. Silk probably. He rolled down a sleeve, then recuffed it. "Bonnie told me, 'He grew up here in Bridgehampton. On a farm. About two minutes from here.' " I didn't say anything. I shook my head. "I remember this conversation, Mr. Brady. I'd never heard her so high. She said, 'He's a cop, of all things. A detective. Very bright. And a wonderful sense of humor. I had fun.' "

  "Not with me she didn't." He started working on his other sleeve. "I'm sorry. I know you believe what you're saying, but it wasn't me."

  Gideon peeled the top off a little container and dumped cream into his glass. "She said—"

  "Please. There's really no point to this."

  "Let me finish. She said, 'His name is Stephen Brady.' " I sat across from him in the booth, still shak­ing my head no. "I remember your name, because we had this long ... well, amusing discussion about whether Brady is a WASP or an Irish name and about the ... sexual proclivities of each group. Bonnie said she'd ask you what you were the next time she saw you." Gideon took a packet of Equal and sprin­kled a dusting of the powder into his coffee.
"She had no doubt that she'd see you again. That was the funny part: her absolute certainty that the night had been special. She'd been around a long time, knew the ropes. She was never given to self-deception. She knew what happens when you ask someone you meet in a bar—"

  "What bar?"

  "The Gin Mill. Over on—"

  "I know where it is. Go on."

  "What else is there to say? Bonnie knew that when you invite a man you meet in a bar to come back to your house, you don't expect him to send flowers the next day."

  "She said I sent flowers?"

  "No. A metaphor for romance. But she felt some­thing had happened between the two of you. Some­thing out of the ordinary." I rested my forehead in the palm of my hand and rubbed, back and forth. "You can't have forgotten. Or even if she had been just another pickup to you, seeing her, seeing, the house—"

  "I'm telling you, I have no memory."

  Gideon's young, handsome, squished-nosed face looked more uncomprehending than angry. "Why the vendetta if you have no memory?"

  "There's no vendetta. She's guilty."

  His spoon clanged against the glass as he stirred, but his voice was very gentle. "Why didn't you ask one of your colleagues to take over the Bonnie aspect of the investigation?"

  "There was no reason to have someone else step in. I never met her before."

  "But you did. It happened."

  It took a very long time, but at last I said: "Look, I'm an alcoholic. I've been sober for almost four years. But there are blanks in my life. Days, maybe weeks I'll never be able to recall. Maybe ... There were a lot of women. For all I know, she might have been one of them. I had this feeling almost from the beginning that she looked familiar. I figured I'd seen her around town."

  "You don't deny it, then."

  "No. But I don't admit it either. Maybe I spent the night with her. Maybe I told her she was a terrific person. It was one of the things I always said: 'It's not just the sex, babe. It's you. You're a terrific person.' But if I did spend some time with her, I'll never know what I did or what I said."