"Do you know the white boy's name?"
"Yeah, but . . . ach, it'll come to me. William and Jennifer both mentioned it. Anyway, William moved home from the school, and I guess that kinda crimped his time with Jennifer, if you know what I mean."
"I take it her parents weren't nuts about him, either."
"That's mild compared to the way she told it. She said her old man—that was the way she said it too: her 'old man'—said her old man woulda killed William if he ever saw them together."
"Funny, I had the impression he was pretty liberal."
"Liberal? Hah, that's a good one. Sam Creasey manages a TV station because his wife's daddy owned most of it. But you ever heard him speak out on things, like I have around town, well, you'll understand why the feds are hassling him about the license. No, Sam Creasey is a very basic kind of man. Like my daddy, only born a hundred years too late. And probably a pretty tough kind of father for a girl like her to have."
" 'A girl like her'?"
"One who'd want to date a colored guy, I mean."
"Did you feel funny opening up in front of the others in the group?"
"Me? No. Not much to tell them." The little binger went off twice, sounding like an oven timer. Linden lay out straight, letting his legs go limp; his feet, still hooked under the bar, kept him from sliding down onto the floor.
"It sure was interesting, though, to listen to some of them."
"About the night that—"
"McCatty."
"What?"
"McCatty. Richard McCatty. That was the name of the college kid who razzed William. I told you it'd come to me."
I finished my beer. Linden sat up, gripped the board with each hand near his buttocks, and swung his legs out and down. He stood up, grabbing a towel to wipe his face.
"You want another'?"
"No, thanks. About the night Jennifer was killed?"
"Yeah?"
"What happened?"
Linden shrugged, tossed the towel perfectly onto a pipe protruding from another piece of apparatus. "Pretty simple, truth to tell." He crouched to reset the timer, then moved to a leg-lifting machine. He sat at the edge of it, wedged his ankles under a pad, and gripped the side of the surface as he had done at the end of the sit-up session. Then he began lifting the pad, and the weights behind him followed on a pulley device. By swinging his feet up, he went from lower legs perpendicular to the floor to legs parallel to the floor. He lowered the weights in twice the time it took to raise them, but didn't continue speaking. I said, "When did you first arrive that night?"
"About seven-fifteen. I don't have a car, so I usually just bike over so I don't sweat up the place from running. By that time, Lainie and Don were already there."
I thought back to the file. "Lainie Bishop and Donald Ramelli?"
"Right. But Marek said that he hadn't heard from Jennifer or William, so we waited for them. Marek hates to wait, he's a nut on timing, and he was getting pissed. So he shoos the three of us—Lainie, Don, and me——into the session room and we start to decide who should substitute for William in the chair, when he, well, sort of bursts in."
"William?"
"Right."
"He was agitated?"
"And then some. Looking around wild-like, sits down, then jumps up, then sits again. No apologies about being late. Doc goes over to him, shoots him up, and we wait for the drug to calm him down. But it doesn't seem to work. Then the doc begins to hypnotize him anyway—"
"How?"
"How?"
"How does he hypnotize people?"
"Oh, by a little penlight. He darkens the room some, then moves this little penlight back and forth. It's really funny, you know. You say to yourself—you're aware when you 're in the chair, aware of what he's doing—and you say to yourself, 'This can't work,' but it does. And then it's so like sleep, you don't remember a thing, any more than you remember a dream once you wake up. Well, anyway, so then Marek asks him—"
"Wait a minute. Marek left the lights down low?"
"No, he turned 'em up again, back at the control panel."
I pictured the room. "Where is that?"
"On the wall, just about at the woodwork. It's hid by the table with the medical stuff on it."
"What's controlled from there?"
"Oh, the lights, the TV camera—he tapes a lot of the sessions."
"What happened next'?"
"Let's see. After he brought the lights back up, he started asking William the usual prelim stuff, like William's name, who was in the room, that we're all friends here, and so forth."
"What then?" .
"Marek asked William where he'd been, and William said . . ." Linden let the weight down and stopped exercising. The binger hadn't sounded. "William said, 'I just shot Jennifer, the fucking slut bitch. I just shot her in the basement." Linden looked up at me, a sad cast to his eyes.
"We all started to talk at once, but Marek talked over us and said, 'What do you mean, you killed her?' or something like that. And then William just sort of nods and pulls this S and W Detective's Special out and lays it on
his lap."
"How did you know it was a Detective's Special?"
"Huh? Oh, when I was with the telephone company, I carried one. I was an investigator for them."
"Go on."
"Well, I got up right away and grabbed the gun. William wasn't really holding it or anything, but I was still scared. I took it, and Marek walked William to the bathroom. William just sat on the john with the lid down while Don and I watched him. Marek and Lainie went downstairs to check. They were back up pretty quick, and Marek said to call the police, but Don already had."
"Where did Ramelli call them from?"
"From the doctor's office."
"Ramelli left you alone with William?"
"Sure. I had the gun. Till I gave it to Marek."
"But it was empty. The police report said so."
"Yeah, but I didn't know that."
Yeah, but William would have. And a former investigator who had carried that model should have been able to tell from the weight. Or at least should have swung out the cylinder to check on it. I made an effort not to look back at the hypnosis books.
"What happened next'?"
"The cops came pretty fast. They questioned us and took William away. "
"William say anything more before the cops arrived?"
"No. Course, none of us were asking him any questions, either."
"Anything else?"
"I don't think so." Linden got off the leg lift and picked up his wipe towel again.
"Nothing else you remember or struck you as odd?"
"No, except for George Bjorkman."
"Bjorkman? One of the cops?"
"Yeah. Him and Clay were the ones first come to the office. I was surprised how he took it."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, George, he was crazy about Jennifer. Wanted to take her to his senior prom in college when she was just a freshman in high school, if you can believe what Jennifer told us in group. Anyway, Sam, her daddy, wouldn't hear of it. I was surprised that George didn't rough William up any, considering what he'd done."
"The killing."
"That and takin' his girl, so to speak." Linden slung the towel around his neck. "More for the takin' maybe than for the killin'."
"Because William was black?"
"Yup."
I asked Linden if I could get back to him in the future, and he said sure, he knew how investigations worked. Linden walked me back upstairs, and we shook hands at his
door.
I said, "I really appreciate your time."
"My pleasure, my pleasure. It's good to have someone to talk to, even about something like this." He opened the door for me. "You talking to each of the people in the group?"
"Yes."
"Who else you seen?"
"You're the first."
"Who's next?"
"Any suggestions?"
"Wel1
, Lainie Bishop lives only about half a mile from here. What time you got?"
I looked down. "Five-thirty."
"You should just catch her." He gave me directions to her house.
"Thanks."
"Hope you got a strong zipper," Homer said, chuckling and closing the door behind me.
NINE
-•-
Lainie Bishop lived in a development of "estate" homes. You could tell because the private sign beneath her corner's street pole said so. I pulled up to number 18, all the addresses a full six digits apart. Very estatelike. There was a silver Oldsmobile in the drive. The landscaping looked professional, the house large but without character. The chimes were still bonging when she opened the door.
"Lainie Bishop?"
"Uh-huh," she said, passing the tip of her tongue over her top front teeth. She had dirty-blond hair, cut and fluffed the way Farrah used to wear hers. The face was plain, though her eyes were big, blue, and set wide apart. She wore a pink silk dress that clung in all the right places and ended eight inches above her knees. I guessed her at thirty-five trying hard to look twenty-eight.
"My name is John Cuddy. I'm investigating the death of Jennifer Creasey."
She rolled her head to one side. "What's to investigate?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out."
"Well, I can't ask you in because I'm on my way out, but"—she rolled her head, curls shaking, to the other side of her shoulders and licked the teeth again—"you're welcome to come with me."
"Sure. Where are we going?"
She turned, stretching back to pick up a handbag. Her hemline rose another four inches. "Cointreau's. " She pronounced it "quantrows," like the liqueur.
"What's that?"
She gave me a saucy smile. "My, my. A virgin."
"I guess so."
"C'mon," she said, closing the door behind her. She looked toward the street. "That yours?"
I glanced at my ratty Fiat. "Yes."
"Maybe we better take separate cars anyway. Just in case."
I followed her for three or four miles. We had just entered another ritzy suburb when she wheeled into an immense parking area surrounding a brick and glass restaurant-bar, perhaps two and a half stories tall. There were fifty or sixty cars already there, and five more pulled in as we walked to the door.
"This is Cointreau's'?" I said.
"Uh-huh." .
The bouncer at the door appeared to be examining the IDs of two guys in front of us. I didn't get it, as they both looked at least mid-to-late twenties. He allowed them in, then waved us past without a word.
"Why the ID challenge for those guys?" I asked Lainie as we approached closed double doors, muffled music behind them.
"Tonight's over-thirty-only night. They're real strict about it." Then, assertively, "That bouncer's already stopped me a few times."
Uh-huh.
We pushed through the double doors. The music was courtesy of The Byrds. There was a wide parquet dance floor, the largest I'd ever seen in the Boston area. A glitter globe rotated over the twenty or so dancers, flanked by two oblong butcher-block bars with brass rails high and low. Plants with thyroid conditions sprawled everywhere. The only places to sit were high stools around the bar.
"Hey, Lainie, very foxy tonight," said a fortyish guy wearing a print body shirt opened to the navel, a peace medallion, and a gray-black toupee. I checked my watch. Six P.M. If I'd had a calendar, I would have checked the year as well.
"Thanks, Charley," she said.
Charley moved on as three people brushed past us. We headed toward the bar on our right.
Lainie asked me what I was having. Given the name of the place, I ordered a vodka sidecar. When the bartender said, "A what?" I switched to a screwdriver. Lainie ordered the same.
"Well," she said, "what do you think?"
"I'm not sure."
She laughed, edging a little closer as our drinks arrived.
"There's a quieter room upstairs. Let me just visit the ladies' room and we can talk up there."
"Fine."
Lainie moved off, her hips swaying provocatively. I felt a hand on my arm.
The hand belonged to a woman with flowers in her hair, falling long and straight nearly to her waist. She wore strands of love beads around her neck and a sleeveless Grateful Dead T-shirt. Sleeves would have been better, her arms being a little puffier than they were in '68.
"I hope Lainie doesn't think she's bought you with that drink."
"Probably not," I said.
She slid the hand up my arm. "You're in good shape. Aries?"
"No, Reliant K."
She giggled, running her free hand down her hair. "I'm a Pisces. I think we'd be very syncopated."
"I don't syncopate like I used to."
She giggled again. I was making a better first impression than usual. "I have some terrific grass in my car," she said.
"No. Thank you, but no."
She shrugged. "Maybe during another incarnation.
Right now, you can call me Bliss. " She turned to go. High on her shoulder she had a tattoo of a butterfly that looked as though it was changing back into a caterpillar.
"Forget about her," said Lainie's voice next to me. "She's not your type."
We picked up our drinks and walked toward and up a wide spiral staircase. At the top was a toned-down version of the first floor. Subdued sound system and low glass tables, nubby carpeting and burlaped sectional furniture. Several couples, semi-reclined, already seemed to be getting acquainted. In fact, more than acquainted.
We took a corner piece off by itself. Lainie's dress rode north again as she sat back.
"So," she said, "where would you like to start?"
"What is this place?"
Lainie sipped her drink. "Basica1ly, it's a singles bar."
"But the dancing and . . ." I looked around.
"And?"
"And so on. I mean, it's barely six o'clock."
She set her drink down on our little table as The Temptations came on. "Look, the reason for this place is so people, people our age, can come out and feel comfortable. The music and the clothes we grew up with, you know? Most everybody in here has commitments, like kids or responsible jobs or both. So the management keeps out the teenyboppers and gives us a place we can have a good time and still be home by ten." She reached languidly for her drink. "Hopefully, in bed."
I drank, changed the subject. "How did you come to be in Dr. Marek's therapy group?"
She sipped again, then played with her glass. "After my divorce—it was final two years ago—I felt pretty down. This place wasn't open yet, and I didn't like going into Boston. My ex was a real shit. He was a computer whiz at one of the Route 128 companies. You know, home late, sometimes not at all. Running new programs, he said. Why you? I said. He was needed, he said. Why can't somebody else push the buttons? I said. Because he pushed better, he said. Then I found out the buttons he was pushing were on some nineteen-year-old secretary. I got the house, and fortunately my aunt was in the real estate business. The interest rates were coming down, so I refinanced and starting working with her."
"As a broker?"
"Salesman first. Takes a while to get your broker's license." She paused. "You do much divorce work?"
"You mean following husbands for wives, that kind of thing?"
"Yeah."
"No, I don't."
"Too bad."
"I thought you said you were already divorced?"
"Oh, I am, I am. But in my business, well, it's a real help to get referrals. Like if you knew that a couple were busting up, and they had a big house, I could sort of . . ."
"Be the listing broker who helps them sell, for six per-cent."
"That's right. That's my business. And I'm very good. "
She lowered her eyelids to half-mast. "At all sorts of things."
I downed more of my screwdriver and asked her again how she came to be in Marek's therapy group.
"My a
unt had heard about him. So I gave it a try. The hypnosis stuff is incredible. It drives out all the bad vibes, lets you really relax and relate. At first, I thought the group was pretty . . . well, strange. All different kinds of people with different kinds of problems. But Cliff is very good at bringing people together."
"Like Jennifer and William?"
"Yeah, but Jennifer didn't need much help. She did just fine on her own." Lainie tossed off a third of her drink. "People will tell you she was kind of spoiled, from being rich and all. I never knew her till the group thing, but all she really needed—Oh, just a second, there's somebody I have to talk to. Be right back."
She got up with her drink and quick-stepped over to a slim black man in a conservative three-piece suit. Lainie passed two other males coming our way. One was stocky, with blond hair and a mustache. He looked like the kind of guy who'd buy a BMW with an automatic transmission. The other, taller but skinny, had thinning black hair in a surfer cut. They both swiveled their heads obviously to watch Lainie go by.
"Nice bod," said Mustache to Surfer.
"Nothing face, though," said Surfer.
"You gotta picture her with the lights out," said Mustache.
"You planked her?"
"Not yet, but she's a regular here. Let's just say her next banana won't be her first."
They moved just past me to survey the dance floor from the balustrade of the loft.
"Check the ta-ta's on that brunette," said Mustache. "White dress?"
"No, red top. The one doing the stress test."
"Oh, yeah. Kind of chunky, though."
"The bigger the cushion, the better the pushin'."
Surfer laughed appreciatively.
"See that one, with the long hair and no sleeves?" said Mustache.
"Yeah."
"I rang her chimes a coupla times. Screwy broad, though."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, her name's Bliss, and she thinks she's still a hippie."
"Boy, a bummer, huh?"
"You ain't heard the half of it. We're in the sack, at her place, her husband's outta town. Well, what they've got is a mattress on the floor, sheets filthy. I don't know how the guy stands it. Anyway, this fuckin' cat hops in with us."
So Like Sleep - Jeremiah Healy Page 5