“The world?” Jane asked. “Are you talking about the demonstration? Certainly that doesn’t qualify.”
Smalley appeared momentarily puzzled.
“Maybe you didn’t hear about the two men who were beaten almost to death afterward by women wearing Diana outfits. One of them is in a coma with a fractured skull and swelling around his brain. He may not survive. His mother is sitting by his hospital bed trying to make sense of it.”
“I didn’t hear about that.” Jane glanced quizzically at Maggie.
“I saw it,” Maggie said. “But I didn’t want to bother you.”
“When we tried to investigate,” Smalley continued, “we came up against a stone wall. There was a woman who had been sitting at a second story window and had to have seen the whole thing. She’s not cooperating at all. You see? And there’s a lot of that going around.”
His words were directed to Jane but his gaze drifted to Maggie, and there it lingered. He stood perfectly still, with his head erect and his arms hanging loosely at his sides. Maggie shifted her feet and turned to face him fully.
“Am I to get the feeling you think I haven’t cooperated, Detective?” Maggie asked. “Why not just say so?”
“I also think that would be appropriate,” Jane added.
She stepped backward and to the side to come between Maggie and Smalley, as though protecting her from his questions and his gray-eyed gaze.
Smalley waited, obviously in no hurry.
“We did some further investigation about the first two men who were killed,” he said. “One of them had a cousin who owned a house up in the Catskills.”
“Gee, I’ll bet there aren’t many of them,” Jane said sarcastically.
“True,” Smalley said. “A connection between the two victims was one of the things Glaser was working on when he was murdered. He never got the chance to report his findings.”
“You think Diana killed him to stop his investigation?” Maggie asked.
“It’s a possibility.”
“And maybe some random female just got pissed off at him for fucking anything in a skirt,” Jane said. Her words matched his in volume but her anger was apparent.
“That’s possible too. A lot of things are possible.”
His gaze moved past Jane again to Maggie.
“So far we have learned that one of them owned an old, beat-up van that had some business printing on the side.”
“Was it a white van, Detective?” Maggie asked.
Smalley paused and made a note.
“No, it was black.”
“Too bad,” she said.
“It had old painting tarps in the cargo area,” he continued. “One victim’s name was Daniel, or Danny, not Donny. The other was John but his family and friends called him Jack, not Jake.”
Silence followed his measured words. He lets the silence pound against you, Maggie thought. Always the pounding silence.
“Is there some actual question you want to ask Maggie, Detective?” Jane asked. “Because if you do, I wish you would get to it and then please leave. I have work to do before this day ends.”
“So I noticed,” Smalley replied curtly.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” Jane demanded. She stepped toward him, her hands balled into fists at her sides.
“Take it easy, Janey,” Maggie said softly. It pleased her that the calm of her voice matched that of Smalley in this dance that engaged them. “It’s obvious that the detective thinks I might be Diana based on the book I wrote. But we all know that truth is stranger than fiction. Am I correct, Detective?”
“You are correct that truth is a great deal stranger than fiction,” Smalley answered. “But I don’t think you’re Diana and I never did. I just think you know who she is, and that she is perhaps feeding you details for use in your writing.”
“You’re wrong, Detective. I don’t know who she is.”
“I’m sorry to hear you say that,” Smalley replied.
“Don’t say anything more,” Jane said to Maggie. “Nothing!”
Maggie paused. A hint of a smile appeared on her face.
“It’s all right, Janey,” she said. “It’s time for the detective to hear the whole story.” She gestured for him to sit, but he did not move. “I had a friend once who was raped, Detective Smalley. It was almost impossible for her to talk about what happened, and she told me only a very little. There were two guys. They promised her a ride home from a bar and instead took her to some deserted shack and raped her. Humiliated her. She never got over it. Ever. Eventually, she got tired of trying and killed herself.”
She hesitated, glancing at his expressionless face, and then continued.
“A woman started calling me. She never gave me her name. She only called herself Diana. This woman knew my friend somehow, and she insisted that I tell her story. I myself was going through a rough time with my writing. This idea, based on those few facts, sparked my imagination somehow. The words flowed like nothing I had ever written.”
“We’ll want to check your phone records.”
“Of course, but she always calls from a different number. She’s no fool, apparently she trusts no one. But if she calls again, I will tell you. And if I ever figure out who she is, I will tell you that also.”
Again, Smalley said nothing. His soft gray eyes locked on hers in a contest to see who would look away first. He lost.
“I hope you’re not lying to me,” Smalley said. “For your sake.”
He was weary, that was obvious, but a hint of his deep anger could also be seen, as though a part of the volcanic mass inside him had finally bubbled to the surface.
“Time to go, Detective,” Jane said.
He nodded and began to turn then stopped.
“Just one other thing I wanted to mention to you, Ms. Larson,” he said. “We’ve been checking up on what happened at the WPW exhibit the other night. That woman’s story didn’t check out. You know, the woman who accused David—I mean, Mr. Hancock—and started the whole wrangle? Good-looking young woman?” He paused. “You seem puzzled. You don’t remember her?”
“I remember her,” Jane said crisply.
“Yeah. Well, it turned out she made the whole thing up. Talk about strange fiction, huh Ms. Edwards? Seems somebody put her up to it, although she wouldn’t say who that was. Now she’s dropped out of sight and may have left the country. But we’ll find her.”
He nodded again, as much for his own benefit as to Jane and Maggie, before closing the door almost soundlessly behind him.
* * * *
Smalley’s silence seemed to follow them upstairs, hanging in every room of Jane’s apartment like an impenetrable fog.
“How about a glass of wine?” Jane said. “I’ll open a bottle. You pick out a CD.”
“Wine, women and song,” Maggie replied lightly. “Very good. ‘For silence is only commendable in a maid not vendible’.”
“Oh, please ...” Jane groaned. She walked into the kitchen.
“It’s Shakespeare,” Maggie said, following. “I thought you liked Shakespeare.”
“I do like Shakespeare. I also like sense,” Jane replied a bit sharply. She reached into a cabinet and pulled out a Beaujolais. “Both in their time and place.”
“So the bastard succeeded,” Maggie said. “I should call him and let him know. I’m sure even his sour face would break into a smile.”
“Talk sense, for Christ’s sake!” Jane shouted.
“Smalley! Shall I spell his name for you? His comment about David was meant to pound a wedge between you and me, and apparently he succeeded.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Jane said. Her hand shook as she poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Maggie. “How would he even know that we’re together?”
Maggie took the glass and walked across the room. Looking out the window, she saw the brick wall of a neighboring building and a window whose blinds were shut. What were they hiding? She wondered. Nude romps? Fist fights? Life
in all its boredom?
“The son-of-a-bitch,” she continued. “And I thought he was a decent man. But to answer your question, I told you he saw us, much as you might wish he hadn’t.”
“Now you’re really talking crazy.”
“Ridiculous. Crazy. Any other insults for me this evening, my sweet?”
“Maggie, stop this! You are deliberately ignoring the real problem. All the things he said about the book and those two men. All those similarities. How did they happen?”
Maggie turned and crossed the room again. She put her glass down on an end table. Wine splashed onto its surface.
“I just told him how it happened.”
“Well, he doesn’t believe you.”
“Too bad,” she said. “But I don’t know who Diana is!” She spoke slowly, through a jaw that clenched, as though she struggled for control. “I told him that and I’m telling you now for the second time. Or is it the third?”
Maggie sat down heavily at the end of the sofa. She pulled her fingers through her hair hard, and then buried her face in her hands. Jane walked over to her and put her arm around her shoulder.
“Answering that one question doesn’t answer any of the others, Maggie,” she said softly.
“I don’t have to answer those questions!” Maggie shouted. She looked up. Tears were falling down her cheeks. “I don’t have to! Don’t make me, Janey.”
Jane bent over and pulled her close, kissing her cheek, gently combing the stray hairs off Maggie’s wet face with her fingers.
“You don’t have to, for him. But what about me, Maggie? Since I met you, there have been moments when it was so clear that you had something to say to me, but couldn’t. And whatever it is keeps us apart and will always keep us apart. Please tell me what it is. I need you to do that.”
Jane waited. For a moment she was sure that Maggie would begin talking, but she didn’t.
“Is it the friend you mentioned? Did you love her? Is that it?”
“Jesus, Janey ...”
“Please, Maggie.”
“Yes, it was her. She was raped horribly and I still can’t think about it or talk about it because I failed her and she killed herself. Please, can we stop now? Please, Jane?”
Maggie started to cry again, one elbow on the table, her chin resting on her hand. Jane fell to her knees. She pressed her face against Maggie’s chest, against the softness of her breasts that heaved beyond her control.
“Let’s go away now,” Maggie said. “Please Jane. Let’s go up to the house. Let’s turn off the electricity again. Unplug the fucking phones. Take the batteries from the cells.”
Jane started to smile.
“I’m serious, Jane. Let’s be alone. Just you and me. Let’s leave this fucking awful world behind us!”
“I can’t just leave, Maggie. I have papers to finish.”
“Ellen can wait. She’s been dallying around for all the years she was married to the guy. She can hold on for another week.”
Jane took Maggie’s hand and kissed it, clasping it tightly. When she spoke, she did so calmly.
“I have appointments tomorrow and Thursday. Some are with new clients that would be very awkward to reschedule.” Maggie squeezed her eyes shut to keep herself from crying. She clasped her hands together at her heart, trying to breathe slowly. “Maggie, be reasonable, please. We’ll leave Thursday night. We’ll have a long weekend just as you said. Three whole days. No electricity. Candles everywhere. Up at dawn. Asleep at dusk. The whole nine yards.” She raised herself from the floor to sit beside Maggie on the sofa and kissed her lips, her wet cheeks. Finally Maggie opened her eyes, still full of tears.
“Okay,” she said. She swallowed hard, mastering herself for the moment. “But I really do have to leave tonight, Janey—my lovely, wonderful Janey.” She put her head on Jane’s shoulder and looked up at her as though memorizing each feature of her face, each curve, each tiny mysterious blemish. “And this weekend, with candles flickering, or by the light of the moon, or beside you in our bed in complete darkness, I will answer the questions that you have been wondering about. I promise, Janey. Just give me a little time. Let me do it my own way. I promise, Janey. I love you so much.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Tuesday evening, a DVD was distributed to the media, and the video footage appeared on YouTube. The video begins with an interior door opening and a group of twelve women entering a room, each wearing a mask made from a picture of a smiling Mariana. Each of them wears the Diana costume. They sit in two rows of chairs along one wall. The camera pans across the room, zooming in on a man who has not shaved for many days. His hair is matted. His face is gaunt. His eyes have a crazed expression. The camera’s focus is so close that the pores of his skin are visible: pimples, whiskers, a tiny white scar, beads of sweat. He spends his time searching each mask, then moving on to the next, as though desperate to find something in one of them that might bring hope. The camera zooms back slightly but never shows more of him than his head and chest.
A woman’s deep voice asks, “Have you reached a verdict?”
At those words, Jose turns toward the camera. The woman who spoke is somewhere behind the camera. The viewer cannot see her. She is the judge.
“We have,” one of the twelve says. She stands up. She is at least six feet tall. The camera angle makes her look like a colossus.
The judge continues.
“How do you find the defendant on the charge of assault, in that he struck Mariana repeatedly over the course of many months with his fists, causing her severe physical and emotional injury?”
“Guilty!” the juror says in a firm, clear voice.
The camera pans to Jose again. He nods slowly. His eyes glisten. They close and open once more.
“How do you find the defendant on the charge of rape, in that he had sexual relations with Mariana and forced her to have sexual relations with another man through threats of force and violence?”
“Guilty!” the juror responds and again the camera moves to Jose, closing in on him. He trembles. A tear rolls down his cheek, interrupted by the stubble in its path.
“And how do you find the defendant on the charge of murder, in that he took the life of Mariana in order to cover up his crimes and the crimes of his companion?”
“I didn’t do that!” Jose says, beginning to weep. He turns again to the camera and then back to the jurors.
“Silence!”
“But I swear it. I swear it on all things that are holy. On my mother’s grave. On Mother Mary. I swear it. I swear!”
His eyes follow the movement of someone or something beyond the view of the camera.
“I’m sorry. I’ll stop talking. I stopped. I swear!”
His eyes widen and he screams with pain so loudly that the sound is distorted in the camera’s microphone. It seems to echo in the small room.
The first juror has waited calmly. She signals the remaining eleven to stand and they do, as one.
“Guilty!” they say together.
“She’s in Santo Domingo,” Jose screams. “She must have gone there. She has a big family. Aunts, uncles, cousins—some of them live remotely, up in the mountains. Please, if you try you can find her. She will show you that she’s alive. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t. I swear.”
The camera turns now to another woman in the Diana costume, also wearing a mask, sitting behind a folding table with a wooden mallet in her hand. She is evidently the one who has been speaking—the judge.
“To all of you watching, we say that we will give this vermin 48 hours to live. If Mariana lives, she should contact the police or some member of the media. We will be checking the news feeds. If we hear that Mariana is alive, we will let him go. But if she has not contacted us within that time frame, he will receive punishment appropriate to his crime. So rules the Women’s Court.”
The camera focuses on the jurors tramping out of the room. In the background, Jose’s tremulous voice begs Mariana to call, to save h
im.
“Have mercy, Mariana! Have mercy on your Jose!”
The video ends.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Glaser’s funeral took place on Thursday, delayed by a day so his brother, Samuel, could fly in from California. Samuel was a doctor–no, an orthopedic surgeon, as Glaser’s mother put it—who lived in the Santa Barbara area. He had a beautiful house on a hill with a view of the ocean and a beautiful wife who had stayed home with the beautiful kids.
A sister, Beth, drove up with her family from eastern Pennsylvania. Glaser had mentioned the sister once or twice to Smalley, but only to complain that he had to visit her at one or another of the Jewish holidays; Passover, Smalley thought it was. The sister was a shrink, Glaser had told him, and “pathological.” The implication was that she couldn’t stop herself from doing psychiatric work on him, gratis.
The siblings had sought Smalley out at the funeral parlor, and he had listened to the brother and sister talk about Glaser as if he were hearing stories about a stranger. Charlie was the youngest by far of the three, the kid brother who was always getting into trouble of one kind or another. At the age of six, he fell out of a tree that he had been forbidden from climbing and needed twelve stitches to close the gash in his forehead, luckily right at the hairline, barely noticeable if you didn’t know it was there. Brushes with danger and trouble of all kinds followed him like flies to honey—chasing girls being the least of it—fights at school, suspensions, graffiti, shoplifting candy. And wasn’t it strange that he had become a cop?
Not really, Smalley thought. What was strange was that in their five years as partners—riding the same car day after day, shift after shift, and getting to the point where Smalley knew what Glaser was thinking about a suspect they were interrogating almost before he himself did—Smalley had never heard Glaser say that he had a brother and would not have suspected that he was “very close” to his sister, as Beth had put it, sharing long phone calls at least once a week. Not to mention that Glaser had fathered a kid, a boy two years old, with some girl in New Jersey. This was a total surprise to all of them: siblings, partner and buddies at the precinct. But the woman had the court order for support to prove it, and she was already asking Smalley about benefits.
Praise Her, Praise Diana Page 28