‘Wait,’ I screamed, my compromised state only fueling the chaos. ‘What are you doing?’
‘We have a warrant for his arrest,’ said O’Reilly.
‘But he didn’t kill Angie. He was with me,’ I argued, tugging at his arm.
‘This warrant’s not for Angie’s murder. It’s an existing from the State of New Hampshire. For sexual assault and bigamy.’ And then without any further notice, O’Reilly yelled to Kozlowski, ‘Long enough. Get him out of there.’
I closed my eyes and waited to hear the door splinter into pieces. Seconds passed without a sound. When I opened my eyes the two uniformed cops were walking out of the bathroom guns drawn, shaking their heads. Inside, a fan ran for no one’s benefit.
Swearing beneath his breath, O’Reilly ran into my bedroom followed by the others. The room was empty, the blinds blowing back and forth in the shadows. O’Reilly stuck his head out of my now screenless window and found himself looking at the fire escape.
As the circus played out before my eyes, I was oblivious to everything except O’Reilly’s words reverberating in my ears like a bomb blast. Sexual assault was bad enough, but bigamy? Bigamy! To think I had almost thrown my life away for a son of a bitch who was not only married to one other person, but two.
FORTY
Kelly
Kelly checked her watch impatiently as she sat on a park bench across from Water Tower Place waiting for Detective O’Reilly. Surrounding her were neighborhood children letting off steam under the watchful eyes of nannies catching up on the morning’s gossip in Polish and Spanish. Free of their condominium confinement, the children were the essence of unbridled energy, urban monkeys tackling jungle gyms, tornados spinning destruction in the play lot sand.
She checked her watch again. O’Reilly was already fifteen minutes late and Kelly was beginning to wonder if he was going to show at all. She just hoped he hadn’t stopped in a bar on the way. He had sounded none-too-pleased to hear her voice this morning and less pleased when she insisted he meet her once again. Well, he could eat shit and die for all she cared. He was a public servant and she was a tax-paying citizen. She had to know if he had followed up on her tip about Maggie sleeping with the guy from New Hampshire. One thing was for certain, if she were on the force, the nightly news would never report that a suspect slipped away. Take for example that poor Asian kid killed at the hands of Jeffrey Dahmer. If she’d been one of the cops interviewing Dahmer, she would have smelled a rat for sure.
And she smelled a rat in New Hampshire. It confounded her that O’Reilly wasn’t all over finding that guy. Though her opinion of the bleary-eyed cop was far more generous than it had been before learning about his childhood and his mother’s premature death, she still questioned how much of his job performance was compromised by drinking.
Another ten minutes passed before she saw him coming across the street in front of the Ritz, his gait cocksure, his barrel chest assuring his arms never quite touched his sides. Though his shirtsleeves were rolled up, the heat and humidity had already drawn rings of perspiration in his armpits. When he got to the park, he picked his way through the dervish-like children and plunked down beside her. A missed ball rolled over and stopped at his feet. He picked it up and tossed it gently back to the little boy chasing it.
‘You’re late.’ Kelly pointedly looked at her watch. ‘I need to leave for work soon.’
‘I’m a busy man. You’re not the only case in my file. I mean, Angie’s isn’t the only case in my file. Nothing personal, Ms Delaney, but you’re like the Chinese water torture. Drip, drip, drip, until a person thinks their head’s going to explode. Now what is it today?’
She tried not to glare. ‘Have you talked to Maggie yet about that guy?’
‘Oh, have I ever,’ said O’Reilly, suppressing ironic laughter. ‘But before I tell you about it, let me ask you something first. You ever think about becoming a cop?’
‘Furthest thing from my mind.’ For the most part, her encounters with cops had been unsavory. ‘But maybe after I get my psych degree I’ll get a job as a police psychologist. God knows you guys could use it.’
He let the comment die. ‘Well, I gotta admit you were right about something not being kosher with the New Hampshire guy. We ran his prints and found outstandings on him including sexual assault and bigamy.’
Kelly nearly flipped off the bench. ‘I told you he was dangerous. Do you think he killed Angie? Thank God he didn’t hurt Maggie. She told you what happened then? I’m sure he slipped her something that night.’
‘Yeah, well, he sure didn’t slip her anything last night.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
O’Reilly was actually enjoying this. It was nice to have the upper hand for a change. He looked at her waiting impatiently for him to explain. She was tanned and freckled, her blue eyes as transparent as marbles. And then, as if seeing her for the first time, the notion occurred to him that she was actually quite attractive. For a moment, he lost his train of thought.
‘What do you mean he didn’t slip her anything last night?’ Kelly repeated.
‘Oh. Yeah,’ he answered, his thought process back on track. ‘Seriously, you should really talk to your friend about her judgment. Kaufman was in her apartment last night. A squad spotted his truck on her street and called it in. We went running in, swords drawn, but it appears his sword had been drawn first. Metaphorically speaking, that is.’
‘That bastard was in Maggie’s apartment!’ Kelly couldn’t believe what he was telling her. ‘What, did he break in? Did you get the son of a bitch?’
O’Reilly’s face fell slack in embarrassed defeat. ‘He climbed out the window and got away. In light of his marital status, I should’ve known he’d be good at speedy exits.’
Kelly’s mind raced through what she’d just learned. Did Maggie have shit for brains? Worse yet, how did the dipshit cops bumble catching him? When she looked back at O’Reilly, his face wore a contrite look. She felt bad for him for screwing this up after coming so close. Maybe they had more to talk about than finding the guy from New Hampshire.
‘Do you live alone?’ she surprised herself by asking.
‘That’s kind of personal.’
‘I bet you don’t eat real well.’
‘What cop does?’
‘Well, I was thinking you might like a good home-cooked meal some time. Italian with an Irish flair.’ Where were these words coming from?
O’Reilly flushed and his already red face turned redder. It wasn’t so much over this sudden display of interest in him, but because she was the one making the overtures. In his neighborhood, it didn’t work that way. The man always made the first move. Even worse, he didn’t understand how his absolute disdain for this woman could flip so randomly. His next words made him think he needed to take a few psych classes himself. ‘Or maybe you wanna go out and have someone wait on you for a change?’
‘When were you thinking of?’
‘How about tomorrow night?’
‘Can’t. Tomorrow’s Maggie’s wedding.’ She reflected a moment before adding, ‘At least I think it is.’
O’Reilly couldn’t stop from rolling his eyes. ‘If that wedding takes place, that marriage sure ain’t off to a good start. How about if I call you tomorrow, just in case?’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
They left it at that and went in opposite directions, he back to the Ritz where the valet watched his car gratis, she towards Chicago Avenue and her lunch shift. She turned briefly and watched him go. He seemed to be walking straighter than before. Her stomach fluttered in an unfamiliar manner. Don’t go there. This is just an act of friendship. She wasn’t ready for anyone in her life other than her cat. Especially a cop with a drinking problem.
‘Damn Irish curse,’ she muttered aloud.
But the Irish suffer curses besides the drink, and Kelly was falling victim to that other Irish curse: martyrdom. In Detective O’Reilly she had found a cause, and far be it
from her to abandon him. He needed her whether he knew it or not.
FORTY-ONE
One Day Until
My desk was perfectly clean, not a scrap of paper, not an empty coffee cup. Even the trash was empty. Against all odds, I had accomplished the impossible. I pushed my chair out and stood in the window, looking down enviously on the world below me. The cars on Michigan Avenue weaved from lane to lane like beetles scavenging for food. Little bodies scurried along the pavement, moving in concert alongside other bodies, each occupying his or her own world. Lives. Each untouchable stranger had a unique life with its bounty of happiness and sadness, success and failure, love and loss.
I would have traded places with any one of them. My Waterloo was upon me, and I was facing it with yet another hangover. The blinding pain in my head was an almost welcome distraction compared to the mental anguish centered beneath it.
How could the carpenter have fooled me so completely? What kind of person could do that? For that matter what kind of person was I, ready to give myself over to him again, completely blocking out all thought of the consequences. What was his hold on me? Even now, knowing who he was and what he was, the image of his head lying in my lap haunted me, like he was trying to connect to the possible – no, probable – life growing inside me. A maternal pang of conscience struck me for drinking so much. If my hangover was making me feel so lousy, I couldn’t imagine the effect it was having on the little critter inside.
How I wanted to be away from this moment, to go back! I wished there was a time machine I could set pre-Steven Kaufman, pre-Flynn, pre-Chicagoan, pre-college. I wanted to be young again, before being caught in bed with Barry Metter, before the abortion I could never forget, before gaining all the weight that isolated me for so long. I wanted to go back and make the right choices, go back to college again and study theatre or creative writing or something with soul, even if I had to pay for it myself. I wanted to go back to that tight-knit circle of friends so close they were never more than a phone call away. I wanted to look forward to the future instead of dreading it. I missed summer vacations and part-time jobs. I hated looking in the mirror and seeing fine lines forming at the corners of my eyes and mouth. Not so much out of vanity, but because they were more proof of time rocketing past. I was middle-aged and had never done anything exciting or outrageous. My entire life had been about going along with the flow.
Well, the flow was about to turn upstream. My decision had been made. It had been made before the first of Flynn’s two calls this morning when he was heading out to the airport for one of the Dartmouth shuttles. It had been made before talking to my mother for the third time today about the rehearsal details. It had been made before I snapped at Sandi for disturbing me, when the receptionist only wanted to know what time I planned on leaving. My decision had been made last night in the emptiness of my apartment after the police had gone, listening to Laura Nyro in the dark.
The earth had cracked, the waters were receding and a five-story tsunami was barreling in.
There was a knock, and Marian stuck her head into my office. Her prepared smile disappeared when she saw me standing in the window. My employer held her thoughts back on most occasions, but this was not one of them.
‘Are you all right? You look like hell.’
I was certain I looked worse than hell. The fear, the indecision, the long hours of work, and the excessive boozing had taken their toll. My skin was the color of the pavement below and a pair of dark circles had taken up residence under my eyes. Even my hair was flat.
I tried telling her I was fine, but the words never made it from my mouth. My throat tightened around them, turning them into a pathetic squeak. Though I was too embarrassed to cry in front of my boss, I was too far gone not to. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed.
‘Oh, honey, get a grip,’ said Marian, showing a rare display of affection as she laid a gold-laden hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s only a wedding. They can be draining. I’ve been through a few myself. Do you want to talk about it?’
Shaking my head, I bit back the tears. There was nothing left to talk about. The cry had made me feel a little better, like a car’s radiator letting off steam. Marian’s presence was actually reassuring. She was a survivor of the first magnitude, living proof that being alone didn’t necessarily mean death.
‘I have to warn you,’ Marian said. ‘You might want to freshen yourself up a bit. There’s a little crowd gathered out there waiting for you.’
So that was why Sandi kept pestering me about when I was leaving. I had answered her with rudeness. I really was the bitch of the planet. Marian stopped at the door and straightened her perfectly fitted jacket. ‘I’ll go out and hold them off for a few minutes. Will you be all right?’
I nodded and smiled foolishly, as I wiped my snotty nose. ‘Thanks for having faith in me.’
‘Why wouldn’t I? Maggie, you’ve always done a superb job. You need a little more faith in you.’
The door closed leaving me with only a pressed-powder compact and lipstick to make myself presentable. The powder helped diminish the blotches around my eyes, and the lipstick added some color to my face, but nothing could lessen the anguish in my soul. The last thing in the world I wanted was to face a bunch of well-wishers who thought I was entering a wonderful new phase of life when I knew the opposite to be true.
I braced myself and stepped out into the hall.
‘Surprise!’
My apartment felt lonelier than ever, the stacks of cardboard boxes giving silent testimony to a move. All the shelves were empty, my knickknacks and mementos, photos and books, all packed neatly away, ostensibly to be delivered to the new house while we were in St Bart’s. Only the furniture remained in place, ready to be picked up by Goodwill. Though I’d lived in the same apartment for over ten years, I’d never invested much in my furniture, always assuming it was temporary, that I would be moving somewhere else soon. I put down the gifts from the office crew, next to the gifts from the lingerie shower, and wondered how long it was going to take to send everything back. On the upside, there wouldn’t be any more thank-you notes to write.
It was just after two o’clock. The rehearsal at Holy Name was at six, and I was supposed to be there at 5:30. It was imperative I find Flynn before then.
I called his office and got a recording informing all callers that he was getting married and wasn’t expected back for two weeks. Next I tried his townhome. Another answering machine. I left a message asking him to call me back as soon as possible. My phone rang not a minute later.
‘Hello, my bride. What’s up?’
‘Flynn, are you alone?’ A flurry of voices in the background told me the question was absurd.
‘Nope. Bunch of the guys are here. And I’m on my way out the door to pick up Toady and Craig. Last trip. Last of the Sig Eps.’
‘Oh. Will you call me as soon as you’re alone? It’s important.’
‘’K, babe. Gotta go. Traffic’s going to be hell.’
After he hung up, I called my childhood home. I wanted to hear my mother’s voice one last time while she still loved me. My older sister answered. My headache spiked as I realized Ellen and her family had flown in from New York that morning. I never thought I cared much what my sibling thought of me, but now I feared Ellen would hate me too.
‘Mom’s not here, but she should be back soon. She’s picking up her dress. Are you excited?’
‘I’m past excited,’ was the best I could do. ‘Don’t bother to tell Mom I called. It’s not important.’
‘Then we’ll see you at the church. And Maggie, don’t be late. You know how that sets Mom off. Things go so much better when she’s in a good mood. Take it from one who knows.’
I hung up feeling sorry for the legacy my sister would inherit. It was Ellen who would have her hands full dealing with my mother’s mood later. I wondered how my father would react. Until now, I hadn’t given much thought to the calm, loving man on the other side of the team that raised
me. Would he still be so calm and loving when he realized how much money he had wasted on a wedding that was not to be?
I went into my bedroom and lay down, waiting for Flynn’s call. The minutes ticked off into hours without a ring. At five o’clock, there was nothing else to do but get dressed and go to the church.
Before leaving, I threw the unopened pregnancy test into the trash. I had decided I didn’t need it.
FORTY-TWO
Vince
Vince stared from his office window across the manicured lawn, hoping his blood pressure wouldn’t push off the charts. The carpenter had flown the coop early last night, taking his truck and his tools with him, leaving an unfinished bar behind in Vince’s game room. Vince was fairly certain he wouldn’t see him again. Well, good riddance. Now that he had told Suzanne about having Kaufman follow her that night, the threat of her learning about him no longer loomed.
No, the thing spiking his blood pressure at the moment was the drama going on upstairs in his house. Giovanna was pitching a fit because he’d forgotten about some fundraiser they were supposed to attend tonight, and he had no intention of going. Not when the alternative was being with Suzanne.
‘I told you about this months ago,’ she shouted.
‘Months ago is months ago. You should have reminded me. Now I’m committed to take some clients to the Sox game tonight. I have a box.’ Sporting events were always convenient lies. ‘How do you think we manage to afford this lifestyle we live?’
Opting for the universal feminine fallback position, she burst out crying. Now he was forced to make the unwelcome choice between cancelling his date with Suzanne and disappointing himself or keeping his date with Suzanne and disappointing his wife. Vince had always treated Giovanna well, given her just about everything she wanted, and taken care that she never learned of his affairs. It had been easy before because his previous infidelities had been short-lived, pleasurable but meaningless distractions from the tedium of marital sex.
The Last Night Out Page 25