Muscle Memory

by William G. Tapply

  “Of course not,” I said. “They’re expert snoopers, that’s all.”

  Mick shook his head. “And then they showed the crowd gathered outside our house—mine and Kaye’s—in Lexington, with all the police cars there, lights flashing, the EMTs loading Kaye’s body bag into the back of an ambulance. They interviewed some of my old neighbors, people I’ve known for twenty years, friends whose kids played with my kids, folks who we had neighborhood barbecues and yard sales with. Know what they’re saying?

  “They’re saying,” I said, “that Mick Fallon was a loving husband and a good father and they never would’ve guessed he could do something like this.”

  Mick turned his head and smiled quickly. “Exactly. Like, well, he obviously did it, and we sure are surprised.”

  Lyn Conley came into the room. He handed me a mug of coffee, started to sit in the other chair, then straightened up. “Oh,” he said. “Am I interrupting?”

  I waved my hand. “Not at all.”

  “Lawyer-client conversation?”

  “No. Friend-friend conversation.” I took a sip of coffee, then lit a cigarette. “I’d like to talk to your wife,” I said to Conley.

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “He thinks I’m gonna be arrested,” said Mick.

  I shrugged. “I want to be prepared, that’s all.” I turned to Conley. “Gretchen—Mrs. Conley—was Kaye’s best friend, right?”

  “Yes,” said Conley. He glanced at Mick. “We were all best friends. The four of us. I don’t know what kind of shape Gretch is in to talk to anybody, though.”

  “I imagine the police spent some time with her.”

  “Hours.”

  “The whole experience must’ve been horrific for her,” I said. “But she’s an important witness. I’ve got to interview her. I was hoping sometime today or this evening…”

  He nodded. “I guess it’s important. Why don’t you come by around seven, seven-thirty. I’ll give you directions.”

  He went back into the kitchen, and a minute later returned. He handed me a piece of notepaper. “It’s not hard to find,” he said. “I wrote our phone number there, too.”

  I folded the paper, jammed it into my jacket pocket, and fished one of my business cards from my wallet. “If you need to reach me,” I said, handing it to him.

  He nodded, then turned to Mick. “I gotta get to the office, my friend. Anything I can do?”

  Mick shook his head. “Appreciate everything, man. Give my love to Gretchen. Tell her how bad I feel that she had to…”

  “I will.” Conley held out his hand to me. “Good to meet you, Brady. See you tonight.”

  We shook hands, and then he left.

  I turned to Mick. “Get up. We’ve got things to do.”

  He lifted himself onto one elbow. “I don’t feel like doing a damn thing, Brady.”

  “I want to get this place cleaned up, and I don’t intend to do it by myself.”

  “Oh, fuck the place.”

  I took off my jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. I rolled up my cuffs as I headed for the kitchen. “Get your ass out here,” I said. “This is a dump.”

  I started moving the dirty dishes from the table to the sink. A minute later Mick appeared in the doorway. “My wife’s dead and you want to clean up the kitchen?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Right now, that’s exactly what I want to do.”

  He frowned at me, then shrugged. “You rather wash or dry?”

  An hour later we had the dishes all washed and put away and a fresh pot of coffee brewing.

  On our way back into the living room, Mick paused at the TV. He bent over and tapped the goldfish bowl with his fingernail. The blue fish tilted its face to the top of the water.

  Mick turned to me. “Erin gave him to me when I moved in here. To keep me company, she said. My daughter.”

  I smiled.

  “I call him Neely. Named him after Cam Neely. Helluva hockey player, Neely. I ran into him a couple times at Skeeter’s. Would’ve had a great career, weren’t for bad wheels.”

  “He had a pretty good career as it was,” I said. “But I don’t exactly get the connection. A blue fish and Cam Neely?”

  Mick shrugged. “No connection. Good name for a fish, that’s all.” He picked up the little fish food shaker and sprinkled some onto the water. Neely began to gobble the flakes off the surface. He reminded me of a trout sipping mayfly spinners off a slow-moving stream.

  Mick tapped the bowl again, smiled, then slouched into one of the chairs. I sat on the sofa.

  He looked at me and spread his hands. “Okay, so the dump’s cleaned up and the goldfish is fed. So what’s the point?”

  “The point,” I said, “is that you’ve got to live your life. We can’t do anything about what happened. It couldn’t be more tragic, but it’s done. I know you’ve got to mourn Kaye, and you should. But you’ve still got to eat and take care of yourself and get through the days.”

  “I really don’t want to do anything,” he said. “I just want to go to bed and stay there.”

  “Sure,” I said. “It was a late night.”

  “I mean, like forever.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “What harm?”

  “Look, Mick,” I said. “Somebody murdered Kaye. It wasn’t you, okay, but it was somebody. Now aside from the fact that I’d just as soon you weren’t convicted of it, I think both of us would like it best if the actual murderer was found. Don’t you want that?”

  He cocked his head and frowned at me as if that were a new idea. Then he nodded. “Well, sure. God damn right I do.”

  “Here’s what I think, then,” I said. “I know Horowitz. He’s a good cop. One of the best, actually. But he’s seen a helluva lot of homicides. To you, this is the worst thing that’s ever happened. To Horowitz, it’s just one more in a long string of tragedies that he’s had to investigate. Want to know something?”

  “What?”

  “Probably three-quarters of the cases Horowitz investigates are domestics. Husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, ex-spouses, children. Now I know Horowitz is open-minded, fair, and thorough. He’s not likely to cave in to political or media pressure. But—”

  “But he’s got me,” said Mick.

  I nodded. “Objectively, you’re a great suspect, Mick. You’ve got no alibi for Sunday evening, you were in the process of getting divorced and probably cleaned out financially, you were upset with Kaye, and your behavior at Skeeter’s last night was—well, it was bizarre, to say the least.”

  “So what’re you saying?”

  “I’m saying that Horowitz is human. The cops like to say, ‘The commonest things most commonly happen.’ When a wife is murdered—especially when the murder is obviously passionate—most commonly it’s the husband who did it. They’ve got a good circumstantial case against you already. God knows what they’ll find when they get their forensics and physical evidence and talk with witnesses. But you’ve got to be prepared for the possibility that they’ll arrest you.”

  He shrugged. “It’s a certainty, if you listen to the TV.”

  “If I’m going to help you,” I said, “you’ve got to help me.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Well,” I said, “the question is simple. Who killed Kaye? Think about motive, means, and opportunity. Start with motive.”

  “Well, there’s the bookies I owe. I guess they’d have a motive to whack me. But Kaye…”

  “Besides them,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know anybody…”

  “Mick,” I said, “somebody killed her. That’s a fact. Whether they did it in a sudden rage, or whether they planned it out, we don’t know.”

  “Nobody would want to hurt Kaye,” he mumbled, and when he looked up at me, I saw that his eyes had begun to brim with tears.

  “I’m sorry, Mick, but we know that’s not true. Because somebody did kill her. Now listen to me. You can’t afford
to lie around here feeling sorry for yourself. I want you to focus on the fact that somebody murdered your wife.”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t want you to stop thinking about that, okay? Some bastard out there killed Kaye. You should be angry. I want you to feel it. Put that anger to work for you. Can you do that?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I guess so.” He shook his head. “I just can’t think straight right now.”

  “That’s all right. It’s been a long night. But your job is to help me. Anything you can think of, tell me. Doesn’t matter how unimportant it seems. Anybody she had an argument with, any old grudges, no matter how trivial they seem to you. Anybody and anything. And I also want you to think about every move you made on Sunday evening. The ME is placing her time of death sometime between eight P.M. and midnight on Sunday. He’ll probably be able to narrow it down when he finishes…” I waved my hand in the air.

  “The autopsy,” said Mick. “Go ahead. Say it.”

  I nodded. “Anyway, the point is, if there’s any way we can prove you were not in Lexington when Kaye died, you’re home free.”

  “I didn’t go near Lexington. I was here all night.”

  “I know. We just need some way to prove it. Maybe something will occur to you.” I stood up and put my jacket on. “I’ve got to get to the office. I suggest you take a shower, pull down the shades, and get some sleep. Shut the ringer off your phone but turn your answering machine on. I’ll check in with you later on. Okay?”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  I held out my hand to him, and he took it. “I’ll be in touch.” I opened the door leading down the stairway.

  “Hey, Brady?”

  I turned.

  He lifted his hand. “Thanks, bud.”

  Six

  I COULD TELL JULIE was upset by the angle of her neck and the hunch of her shoulders and the way her fingernails clicked on the keyboard of her computer. Of course, the fact that she didn’t look up and say “Good morning” when I walked into the office was also a clue.

  I went over to her and kissed the top of her head. “Morning, boss,” I said breezily.

  She kept typing—faster, if that was possible.

  “Any calls?” I said. I rummaged in the In box, thumbed through the morning’s mail, wandered over to Mr. Coffee, poured myself a mugful. “Want some coffee?”

  “Check the time,” she mumbled.

  “Huh?” I looked at my watch. It was nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. “Oh, okay. Good afternoon, then.”

  She stopped typing, swiveled around, and glared at me. “It’s been a bloody zoo,” she said.

  “Sorry. I—”

  “The damn phone’s been ringing off the hook. You’re quite the hero. Let’s see.” She picked up a notepad and squinted at it. “Marisa Matson from the Globe, Bob DiVari from the Herald, Channels Four, Five, Seven, and Sixty-eight—they’re all looking for exclusive interviews. Oprah wants you this afternoon, and—”

  “Oprah?”

  She looked up at me from under her frown. “No. That was a joke.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m glad you’re in a joking mood. As for me, I—”

  “I am not in a joking mood,” said Julie. “I am extremely annoyed, in case you couldn’t tell. Mrs. Wadley flounced in at precisely her appointed time, and—”

  “Oh, shit.” I slapped my forehead. “Mrs. Wadley. I completely forgot.”

  Julie gave me that smile that could mean she loved and admired me, but that sometimes meant she didn’t know how she put up with me and was seriously considering not doing it anymore. “You could’ve at least called, you know.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said in my smallest, most sincerely apologetic voice. “No excuse.”

  “I covered for you, of course,” she said. “I told her you’d been involved in a hostage situation last night, that it had been very harrowing, that you had left a message for her, and that it was my fault for not calling and rescheduling. She seemed pleased to have a hero for a lawyer.” She let out a long sigh. “Yes, I’ll have some coffee, thank you.”

  I poured a mug for Julie and brought it to her desk. “What’d you tell those media people?”

  “I told them to go pound sand. In the nicest possible way, of course.”

  I smiled. “I can’t talk to them. It concerns my client.”

  “Well, you know that, and I know that, and I think even they know that. It didn’t faze them. But that’s what I told them. I suspect they will not surrender that easily.”

  I patted her shoulder. “Well, hold the fort. It won’t last long. Tomorrow it’ll be yesterday’s news.” I turned for my office. “Hold all calls for a while, okay? I need to take a deep breath.”

  “You’ve got the Farnsworths at three, don’t forget,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah. Their new will.”

  “Everything’s on your desk ready to go.” Julie started to look down at her keyboard, then her head jerked up. “Oh, wait.”

  “Yes?”

  She hesitated, then smiled. “Nothing. Go ahead. Take your deep breath.”

  I pushed open the door into my office and let it shut behind me. I started for my desk, then stopped. Standing directly behind it, looking out the window, was a blond woman. Her back was to me—a slim, sleek, shapely back, wearing a pale green silky blouse and nicely tailored white slacks. I wondered why Julie had failed to tell me someone was waiting for me in my office.

  “Hello?” I said.

  She turned and smiled, and it felt as if I’d been punched in the solar plexus.

  “Jesus,” I whispered. “Sylvie.”

  “Hello, Brady.”

  I patted my chest. “I gotta sit down, honey. God. You’re the last person I expected…”

  I went around behind my desk. She held my chair for me and I slumped into it.

  “You don’t have a kiss for Sylvie?” she said softly.

  She was standing directly behind me. Her fingers touched the back of my neck, and I could practically feel the heat radiating from that body that I’d known for nearly thirty years. I reached up behind me, steered her face down to mine, turned, and kissed her on the cheek.

  Sylvie Szabo had been a freshman when I was a senior in high school. She was an extravagantly beautiful blonde even as a teenager, with a husky voice and a delicious accent and a penchant for hilarious verbal inventions that belied her intelligence and wit.

  Sylvie had been a child—no more than a toddler—when her mother smuggled her out of Hungary during the 1956 revolution, but she had vivid memories of it. Explosions disturbed her dreams, even as an adult. I knew from personal experience that she sometimes kicked and thrashed and emitted strangled cries when she slept.

  She’d been my first love—and lover—and I hers. She was fifteen, and I was eighteen, and back then I was positive that Sylvie and I would be together forever, although things hardly ever work out that way.

  But we’d kept in touch through college, through my marriage, and afterwards. Sylvie had moved around. For a while after my divorce, she’d lived in Boston. We’d spent a lot of time together in those days. We loved each other in that special way that first lovers do, but with me and Sylvie, it was always like high school—fun and carefree and lusty.

  Eventually we drifted away from each other. I’d gotten involved with Terri Fiori about the time Sylvie moved to New York to pursue her career as an illustrator of children’s books.

  That had been several years ago. Terri dumped me, and then Alex came along, and we eventually split, too. I hadn’t heard from Sylvie in all that time.

  Her fingers moved on my neck, touched my ears, began softly massaging my temples. “You’re tense,” she murmured.

  “You always make me tense,” I said.

  She chuckled.

  “I had no sleep last night,” I said. “I’m tired and grouchy. I don’t like surprises.”

  “Even me?”

  “You’re always a wonderful surprise, Sylvie. But I wi
sh you’d called. I’ve got clients to see this afternoon, and afterwards I’ve got to meet with some people, and—”

  She twirled my chair around so that I was facing her. She braced her hands on my shoulders and leaned down to me. “Poor Brady,” she murmured. She bent closer until her lips touched mine. I looked into her smoky green, slightly tilted eyes. Freckles dusted the bridge of her nose. Her tongue flicked out, touched my lips. Then, abruptly, she straightened up. “You do look tired,” she said. “We’re getting old, aren’t we?”

  “You haven’t changed,” I said. “You still look like the laughing girl I saw in the corridor tiptoeing up to her locker wearing that little skirt and that tight sweater.” I laid my head back on my chair. “Except your accent. Where’d your accent go?”

  “Oh, Brad-ee.” She smiled. “You always like Sylvie’s sexy accent, yes?”

  “That’s more like it.”

  “I’ve been in New York,” she said. “The accent, I guess it just went away. I didn’t even notice.”

  “New York’ll do that.”

  She combed the fingers of both hands through her hair. “I’ll be in Boston for a couple of weeks.”

  “Great,” I said. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Ritz.” She grinned. “I’m on expenses.”

  “Something good, sounds like.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.” She moved over to the sofa, kicked off her shoes, wedged herself into the corner, folded her legs under her, and smiled at me. “I couldn’t be in Boston and not see my best old friend, could I?”

  “You definitely couldn’t do that,” I said. I went over and sat beside her. “We’ll have dinner sometime.”

  Sylvie cocked her head. “Sometime?”

  “One day very soon. I promise.”

  She peered at me for a moment, then abruptly unfolded her legs, bent over, and slipped her shoes on. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m keeping you from your work.” She stood up, smoothed her slacks against her thighs, then turned and frowned at me. “Did you get married when I wasn’t looking?”