‘Last time,’ Tom said. ‘Tell me what happened that night.’
Geoffrey was sobbing now, his tears flowing freely. ‘Please. Why are you doing this to me?’
‘You selected yourself, Geoffrey. You and the others.’
‘But we were kids.’
‘We were all kids.’
‘Yes, but none of us knew how you felt about her,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Not really. We never would have, you know . . .’
‘Who was the pirate in the mask that night?’
‘Well,’ Geoffrey began, sitting a little straighter in his chair. ‘I’m not sure about that, but—’
‘And why don’t you remember?’
‘I was loaded!’ Geoffrey said. ‘I was ripped by eight o’clock that night. You remember those days. Reds for sleeping, whites for cramming, coke for parties, ’ludes for sex. And always with those stupid fucking Algonquin drinks. Come on. I was fucked up. We were all fucked up. Ask Sebastian, if he’s still around. You can’t hold what happened that night against us. Especially not after so many years. Julia was willing. You have to—’
The look that Geoffrey received at that moment froze the words on his tongue. He had said the wrong thing. He had gone too far.
‘And you were just starting to make sense,’ Tom said, leaning over and pressing a few keys on the computer’s keyboard. ‘And as for Dr Keller, I’ll be seeing him soon. He has a grade coming, too.’
Geoffrey shifted gears. ‘But you can’t upload those photographs. People can see my face. My apartment. People will know it’s me. It will ruin me!’
Tom squared himself in front of Geoffrey. ‘Well, then. That leads us to one overwhelming question, as Mr J. Alfred Prufrock might have put it.’
A thin ray of hope skittered across Geoffrey’s face. ‘What?’
‘What happened that night?’
‘I don’t fucking remember! I don’t fucking remember!’ Geoffrey screamed. ‘I don’t fucking remember fucking remember fucking remember fucking remember. . . .’
Tom hit the Enter key and began uploading the files, sending the photographs of Geoffrey Coldicott to more than a dozen sites worldwide. Geoffrey struggled against the rubber bungee cords that secured him to the chair, but it was fruitless. Within a minute the files were uploaded, gone. His professional life with them.
‘Now,’ Tom began, removing a hypodermic needle from his coat pocket. ‘Tell me what happened that night, Mr Geoffrey Drake Coldicott, class of 1988.’ He placed the syringe on the desk. ‘Tell me in your own words.’
It wasn’t until ten minutes later that Tom reached into his inside coat pocket and removed a pair of newspaper clippings. One spoke of the death of a Dr Benjamin Matthew Crane, forty-three, of Erie, Pennsylvania. The other, of the death of a Father John Angelino, forty-two, of Highland Heights, Ohio. He placed them in Geoffrey’s lap.
Geoffrey glanced down, his mind racing, his stomach a vile torrent of nausea. Words jumped up to meet him. Names. Names he knew. Johnny Angelino. Ben Crane.
‘Tell me if you remember this,’ Tom said.
He placed a typewritten sheet of paper in front of Geoffrey’s face. On it was a poem Geoffrey knew well, a poem by T.S. Eliot entitled ‘Whispers of Immortality.’ Just the title alone hurled Geoffrey back to those heady nights in college at CWRU: Albee plays at Eldred Theater, staying up until three and four and five in the morning, all-night Truffaut at Strosacker, breakfast at Howard Johnson’s on the Circle, arguing until dawn about Kerouac, Kafka, Kierkegaard.
‘It’s not his most famous poem, but I think it is one of his best.’
Geoffrey’s eyes began to move down the page of poetry, and the newspaper clippings on his lap began to make a clear, horrifying sense.
Webster was much possessed by death and saw the skull beneath the skin, the poem began.
And breastless creatures under ground leaned backward with a lipless grin.
No, Geoffrey thought. This cannot be happening.
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls stared from the sockets of the eyes!
My God. No.
The couched Brazilian jaguar compels the scampering marmoset with subtle effluence of cat . . .
Geoffrey slumped in his chair, a thoroughly vanquished man, a man who could no longer fashion his features into even a veil of terror. But he could still see. Oh, yes. His eyes were a bit blurred with tears, but they still worked fine. Tom had made sure of that. Because the photograph that dropped into Geoffrey’s lap at that moment was not to be missed. Not if you were a male child who had ever suckled at his mother’s breast, not if you’d ever stood on a silky beach while the waves receded and your mother splashed water over your legs and you laughed until it felt like there was a knitting needle in your side; not if you’d ever put in hour after hour in wood shop, standing at the lathe, turning a pair of salt and pepper shakers that to this day served a function on her table. It was not one of the photos his tormentor had just taken, that was for sure, yet it took Geoffrey a moment to realize just what he was looking at, because it wasn’t that often that one got to see an eighty-one-year-old woman nude, especially if she was sprawled in a makeshift grave, her face made up like an ancient street-walker, especially if there was something wrong, terribly wrong with her fragile anatomy—
And breastless creatures under ground . . .
‘What do you think of her?’ Tom asked, both hands on Geoffrey’s shoulders now, gently massaging them. ‘Sexy? Or don’t you like older women?’
‘Ah . . .’ was all that Geoffrey could manage now, low and feral.
‘Shall we upload this photo to the Net, too? Let the world get a glimpse of Mum in her wrinkled old birthday suit? What do you think?’
Tom walked around to face Geoffrey. He put his hand under Geoffrey’s chin, lifted his head.
‘No . . .’ Geoffrey said.
Tom picked up the photograph, pored over it for a moment. ‘Let me tell you about having sex with a woman of her advanced years, though, Geoffrey old boy,’ he said. ‘It is not a pleasurable experience.’ He looked into Geoffrey’s eyes. ‘Ever fuck a woman this old, Geoffrey?’
Geoffrey just stared, blinded now by tears.
‘It’s like fucking a mattress,’ Tom said. ‘Swear to God. Like sticking your dick in fucking hay.’
Geoffrey Coldicott began to urinate, to sob, each function liberating the other, a man now in search of a single reason to draw even one more breath of this earth.
When he looked up and saw Tom’s eyes – dead copper eyes that fronted no soul, offered no quarter – he suddenly found thousands.
32
NICKY WAS SO preoccupied when he stepped out of the Half Price Books across the street from Geoffrey Coldicott’s apartment that he almost didn’t recognize his cousin. The fact that Father Joseph LaCazio was wearing street clothes didn’t help.
They saw each other and, as was their custom, threw their hands into the air with surprise, then embraced. ‘So what brings you out here?’ Nicky asked. ‘Buying half-price Bibles?’
Joseph ignored the shot, pointed at the window of the bookstore, at the boxes on the floor by the entrance. The boxes held signs that said FREE BOOKS! ‘Whenever I’m at Golden Gate, I stop here and grab a few boxes of the free books,’ he said. ‘We put them on the shelves at the church’s thrift store.’
Nicky smiled. ‘You are one scheming priest.’
‘Hey,’ Joseph said. ‘Every little bit, eh?’
Joseph looked tired, overworked, overwrought by the scandal in his parish. He studied Nicky for a few silent moments, then said: ‘You want to know who Johnny Angelino was?’
‘Yeah,’ Nicky said. ‘I do.’
‘One time, in Chicago, Johnny and I went out to dinner at the Szechuan House on Michigan Avenue. Now, keep in mind, we’re in divinity school at this time, okay? But we have about four or five Tsing Tao beers anyway. And we’re feeling it. Meanwhile, there’s a table next to us with two of the most beautiful women we’d ever seen – twent
y-eight or so, one redhead, one blonde. They’re making eyes, we’re making eyes. We’re kind of loaded, they’re kind of loaded.’
‘I get the picture, cuz,’ Nicky said, hoping his cousin wasn’t leading up to some kind of a sex story. Although they had swapped Playboy and Hustler when they were younger, Joseph LaCazio wasn’t a priest then. Now it was, well, different.
‘Anyway, our food finally comes, and instead of plates we have these sort of curved, elongated bowls. The bad news is that Johnny, in an effort to impress these girls, decides he’s going to use chopsticks, no matter what. Halfway through the Kung Pao chicken he catches an edge on the bowl and launches it ten, twelve feet. It hits the floor like a shotgun blast and splatter’s the redhead’s legs with sauce. Well, Johnny’s up like a shot, helping clean up, apologizing to the young woman. Within five minutes, he has her laughing. Within ten, he has her phone number. Johnny could dump garbage on a woman, then get her number. The women always went for Johnny.’
‘He was a pretty cool guy,’ Nicky said.
‘He could charm a fucking whore.’
The word, coming out of Joseph’s mouth, was a shock to Nicky. He hadn’t heard his cousin use anything more caustic than the occasional ‘shit’ or the Bible-approved ‘damn’ over the past ten or fifteen years.
But fuck? Father Joseph?
‘Anyway,’ Joseph finally said. ‘Gotta run. Keep me posted on your story. Call me if I can help.’
‘Thanks, cuz,’ Nicky said, as they embraced again.
‘Gil come by for the canned goods yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Nicky said.
‘He will. He’s making the rounds.’
‘Cool.’
‘God bless you, Nicky.’
Thanks.’ Nicky watched his cousin enter the store, talk to the young lady behind the counter. From behind, in those clothes – stylish blazer and slacks – you’d never know he was a priest.
33
IT WAS AROUND the third cup of coffee that Amelia confessed.
‘And you made out?’ Paige asked, her hand over her mouth.
‘Oh my God,’ Amelia said, burying her head in her hands. ‘I did make out, didn’t I? I necked.’
Paige had stopped by, ostensibly to drop off an adorable white cardigan for Maddie that she had found on sale at Nordstrom Rack. She had also shocked Amelia by coloring her hair a deep auburn, no more than a shade or two away from Amelia’s. It suited her.
The real reason Paige had stopped by, of course, was to tell Amelia that Garth had come by the store, and that she and Garth had a date. But Paige knew the open book that was Amelia’s face, and in it she read something was up. First things first.
She asked.
Amelia spilled.
‘How old is he?’ Paige asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Thirty? Thirty-five? Forty?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Jesus. Twenty?’
‘No.’
‘Eyes?’
‘Brown.’
‘Hair?’
‘Brown.’
‘Long?’
‘Ish,’ Amelia replied.
‘What does he do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How tall is he?’ Paige asked.
Amelia put her hand in the vicinity of five eleven, six feet.
‘What was he wearing?’
‘Tight jeans. Leather jacket. Boots,’ Amelia said.
‘Hiking boots? Work boots?’
‘Cowboy boots.’
‘Was the leather jacket scuffed?’
‘Yep.’
‘Yum,’ Paige said, closing her eyes for a moment, conjuring up her best friend’s fantasy boy. ‘What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What?’
‘So I don’t know his name. What’s so—’
‘Not even his first name?’ Paige yelled, then covered her mouth and looked around, even though they were in Amelia’s kitchen and Amelia’s husband was three hundred miles away.
‘Nope.’
‘You harlot,’ Paige said with a smile.
‘Hey, I was pissed, okay? I had a couple of shots of schnapps and I thought I was a wild woman. I guess I was looking for a zipless, you know, something.’
‘But what were you so pissed about?’
‘I don’t know. You know . . . things.’
Paige wasn’t buying it. ‘Come on, Sparky.’
Amelia thought about it. She’d come this far. But it was so embarrassing to talk about, even to your best friend. ‘Shelley Roth stopped by last night.’
‘Whoa.’
‘She said she’s pregnant.’
Paige did not react to the news in the fashion that her dearest friend might have predicted. Amelia thought that she might have reacted the way she had, flinging ceramic like a skeet machine gone berserk. ‘What did you do?’
‘Well, the first thing I did was throw her out,’ Amelia said. ‘Then I came in here and played some wall hockey with the dinnerware, I’m afraid.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Why do you think you’re drinking that coffee out of a Styrofoam cup?’
Paige had to stifle a laugh while she thought about Amelia winging bowls and cups and plates around the kitchen. ‘Well, okay,’ she began, her optimism machine reaching full rattle and thrum. ‘Here’s the way I see it. When is your next class?’
‘Tomorrow. It was scheduled for Monday, but the teacher has to be out of town.’
‘Okay. Tomorrow I’ll go with you to the class, and you can introduce me to this guy.’
‘Okay,’ Amelia said. ‘Then what?’
‘Then nothing. Then I can have him. You’re married, girlfriend. Remember?’
‘You’re right,’ Amelia said. ‘Of course, you’re right.’
Paige laughed, grabbed Amelia’s hand. ‘Look, she said, sliding off the stool at the counter. ‘I gotta get back to the store. Call me there. We’ll talk all night.’
‘Thanks for Maddie’s sweater, honey,’ Amelia said, giving her best friend a hug. ‘And for, you know . . .’
‘Yes, I know,’ Paige said, returning the hug. ‘Just put it on my tab.’ She walked to the door, opened it, stepped through, turned. ‘But just to be on the safe side, I’m keeping tomorrow night open.’
‘Smart-ass,’ Amelia said.
‘I’ve always wanted to be a writer,’ Paige said. ‘Did I ever tell you that?’
‘Go to work,’ Amelia said. ‘And hey!’
‘What?’ Paige asked.
Amelia smiled. ‘Love your hair.’
34
NICKY PRESSED THE button next to Geoffrey Coldicott’s name, but got no immediate response. He tried again. Nothing. He hoped Geoffrey hadn’t left. He tried again.
Finally the speaker offered: ‘Yes?’
‘Is this Geoffrey?’
‘Who is this?’ came the disembodied voice.
Once again, Nicky thought, this man likes to answer questions with questions.
‘Mr Coldicott,’ Nicky began, not knowing if he was indeed speaking to Geoffrey Coldicott at all, ‘It’s Nicholas Stella. With the Cleveland Chronicle.’ Shit. ‘I mean, you know, Esquire.’
Nothing.
‘From this morning?’ Nicky continued.
Silence.
‘We spoke on the phone?’
More silence.
Nicky plodded on, starting to get irritated. Here he was trying to save this man’s life and all he was getting was resistance. ‘And I just happened to be in Cleveland this week on a Bobbing for Walleye package tour and I was wondering if I could—’
The arm that encircled Nicky’s throat was massive. Thick and muscular. In an instant Nicky was yanked from his feet and slammed roughly to the hardwood floor of the vestibule, the force of the blow pummeling the air from his lungs. He then felt the crushing weight of two huge knees on his chest and four strong hands pinning his arms to the ground. He also felt a sharp, purely
intentional elbow to his groin. The bright orange pain shot to the center of his brain, blinding him momentarily.
‘Now, I’m gonna count to three,’ said a raspy voice, just inches away from Nicky’s face, the sound drifting in on a moist cloud of onions, garlic, and tobacco. ‘And you’re gonna tell me what the fuck your business is with the man in 318.’
Nicky looked around the room, at the handful of forensic scientists working the scene – dusting for prints, bagging the cigarette butts, Band-Aids, coffee cups. His back throbbed, his head hurt, felt oversized. The sharp pain in his loins had now settled into a dull, pulsating ache he knew would be there for a day or two, seriously curtailing any romantic prospects for the near future. Maybe ever.
The primate who had slammed him to the ground was a huge uniformed cop named Sykes, a somber Goliath who now filled the doorway to the apartment, essentially becoming a six-foot-five security door between the crime scene and the outside world. He still looked at Nicky as if he were one hundred seventy-five pounds of fresh Genoa salami.
Geoffrey Coldicott’s apartment was a four-room affair – living room, bedroom, pullman kitchen, bathroom. Despite Geoffrey’s occupation, in spite of the fact that he probably spent half his time at estate sales, all the furnishings looked like items purchased by a man who couldn’t be bothered to make even a passing acquaintance with the world of interior design. Cheap chrome-and-glass tables, leather-look love seats, all barely functional. Mall art on the walls. A huge mirror over the mantel. It was easy to tell just what was central to Geoffrey Coldicott’s life, such as it was. Geoffrey clearly loved his computer. It was the only area of the apartment that was truly clean and tidy. Books organized, pencils sharpened, tabletop shining. Nicky knew enough computer nerds to know the look of a true propeller-head’s nook.
The big cop had said that he could sit in the corner and wait, far away from the victim – who looked to be sitting upright on the couch, covered with a sheet – until the detective in charge got there. Nicky had dutifully obeyed.
From where he sat, Geoffrey Coldicott’s body looked like a museum piece, draped with a white cotton cloth. The only things that clued Nicky in to the fact that this was not statuary were the red smudges near the top of the head, the erratic scarlet line that ran laterally across where the forehead should be, then down into what was beginning to look like a nose, a mouth.
The Violet Hour Page 14