“Shit!” he got out between breaths. “What the fuck … is your … problem?”
I picked up his wallet and had a look for myself. One slot held his driver’s license. John Sheehan. 4-23-64. The other had a press ID for the Desert Sun.
Sheehan turned around to face me, muttering angrily under his breath as he dusted himself off. “I’m just a reporter, for Chrissake!” he finally said, then looked down. “Where’s my gear?”
He saw the tape recorder lying in pieces by the door and took a step toward it.
“Not so fast,” I cautioned, stopping him with a firm hand on his chest. I handed him back his wallet. “What do you want?”
“Take a wild guess,” he answered, stuffing the wallet in his pocket. I pushed him hard against the wall, and the back of his head cracked against the concrete. He put his hands up in a “stop” gesture, a scared look in his eyes replacing the hostility he’d shown moments earlier. Again my hand was clamped under his chin, holding his face high.
“Listen asshole, we just had a murder go down on our property, maybe you heard about it. So we’re a little nervous about strangers waiting in the dark on our front doorstep. Now cut the bullshit and tell us what you want.” I loosened my grip on his neck. “Okay?”
He nodded as well as he could, eyes bouncing nervously between me and Deirdre. I let him go.
Sheehan cleared his throat and rubbed the front of his neck, as if he were checking the closeness of a shave. He straightened the collar of his polo shirt and jerked his shoulders forward to readjust the fit. He reminded me of someone trying to save face after losing a bar fight.
“I’m a reporter for the Sun,” Sheehan finally said. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened yesterday.” He turned to Deirdre and asked if we could talk inside. Maybe he thought she’d be more hospitable, despite the kick in the ribs.
He was wrong. “I don’t think this conversation is going to be long enough to bother,” Deirdre told him.
“We don’t know anything more than you do,” I said. “And we’ve got enough problems without talking to a reporter about it.”
“Well then perhaps I can enlighten you with some information I’ve run across,” he offered hopefully, seeing an opening. “Then you can give me your comments, maybe shed some light on a few things.”
“Who have you been talking to?” I asked. “Do the cops know who that boy was?”
Deirdre took a step toward Sheehan.
“Who was he?” she demanded, her eyes big and dark in the faint porchlight.
Sheehan nodded toward our front door. “You have something cold to drink?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. “It’s hot out here.”
“It’s going to get hotter if you don’t start talking,” I said through clenched teeth. “You’re beginning to piss me off.”
“Tell us what you know or leave,” Deirdre said. “We’re not gonna play any games with you.”
Sheehan finally relented, shaking his head with frustration. “Fine. Whatever.” He turned his attention toward me, suddenly all business. “I plugged your name into Lexis and got a hit. You had quite a little escapade thirty-odd years ago, didn’t you?”
“So what?” I replied. “It’s never been a secret. You think you’re Woodward and Bernstein, coming up with that?”
“Well how ’bout this, then? Your old bunk-buddy and his unfortunate demise.”
“What are you two talking about?” Deirdre demanded.
“Oh, you didn’t know about that?” he asked Deirdre, then addressed me. “Keeping secrets from the old lady, huh?”
Silence for a moment, Sheehan and I regarding each other coolly, before Deirdre cut in. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” she told him with a kind of desperation, then turned to me. “This is getting old. Maybe he should leave.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” Sheehan said. “I guess I went about this the wrong way—”
“You sure did,” I interrupted, picking up the tape recorder and returning it in pieces. “You heard my wife. Scram.”
Fuming, Sheehan backpedaled toward the street. “You want me to dredge your whole story up again in the newspaper? I will, you know.”
“And if you didn’t, somebody else would,” I replied. “Unless you’re the only reporter with access to a computer archive.”
“But wouldn’t it be better if the first story to come out with this angle put you in a positive light?” Sheehan responded, stopping on the lawn. “I can slant it any way I want. And I will be first with it.”
“I don’t really give a damn,” I said, raising my voice. “I hope you win the fucking Pulitzer for it. You can take your story and shove it up your ass. Just do it off my property.”
By this time Deirdre had unlocked the front door and was pulling me inside.
“You know Turret’s out don’t you?” And when that didn’t get a response: “I should have you two arrested for assault! See how you like jail again after all this time.”
Deirdre slammed the door, turned on the living room lights, and looked me up and down. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m all right. That was a pretty good kick you gave him, though.”
“I had a feeling he was a reporter even before I saw his ID,” she said, moving into the kitchen.
It was stiflingly hot in the house. Deirdre opened the sliding glass door and stood a few moments in front of the screen, breathing in the night air. Our backyard was dusted with a silvery light from our neighbor’s security lamp. It outlined Deirdre in a faint aurora, as though she was lit from within.
The illusion lasted only half a moment in her stillness, then she spoke.
“I knew he’d dug up your past. I don’t think I would have kicked him if he hadn’t grabbed me. But I might have.”
I didn’t respond.
“So. Your cell-mate,” Deirdre said without turning around.
No reason not to tell her. “He was a Hell’s Angel. Don’t remember his name. I found him dead one morning. My first year, when I was on laundry detail.” Deirdre turned to face me. “They had those big, industrial, stainless steel machines. He was floating in one. Just him and all that soapy water.” I paused. “That wasn’t what killed him, though.” Deirdre raised an eyebrow. “Sticky fingers are a no-no when you’re part of a prison drug ring. Got him a bleach cocktail. Followed by the hot bath.”
“And you?” Deirdre asked.
“I just shared a box with him.”
I switched on the overhead fluorescents. They flickered to life, bathing the room in a blue-white glow. Deirdre went to the cabinet and took down two glasses, then got a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. She sat down at the table, which had a slight wobble that I hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet, and poured us both a glass.
When I sat down across from her, she took a sip of her tea and said, “So I guess your story will be all over the newspaper tomorrow.”
Just then the telephone rang, startling us. It seemed blaring and strident in our small kitchen and I hesitated before getting up to answer it. Deirdre looked at me expectantly as I picked up on the third ring, just before the answering machine would have taken it. I wished I’d let it.
“Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Ryder?”
“Who wants to know?” I asked, shaking my head with disgust. It had to be another reporter, I thought. They’d be coming out of the woodwork now. Deirdre got up from her chair and approached inquisitively. Our eyes locked as the man on the other end continued.
“I’m James Parker from the Pilot, hoping to get some comments about the murder that happened out there yesterday.” Out there. Like North Palm Springs was alien territory from where this guy was calling from.
“This is Tim Ryder, isn’t it?”
“How did you get this number? It’s supposed to be unlisted. And don’t you guys go home at night?”
“I’m just a working man trying to get ahead, sir. Putting in a few extra hours to get some backgrou
nd, some human interest on the story.”
“The fact that he was murdered in cold blood isn’t human interest enough for you? You gotta bother me at home, use a kid’s death to get ahead?” I asked, getting irritated.
Who is it? Deirdre mouthed.
“I understand how you feel sir. You’ve probably been getting calls from reporters all day.”
I looked at the answering machine. Its single red digit blinked a flashing “9,” signifying the number of messages went into the double digits.
“But if you’ll just answer a few brief questions about the crime I won’t bother you again,” Parker continued. “Promise.” He paused in my silence. Then: “Only about what happened. Nothing personal.” Which sounded like Sheehan’s threat to expose my past.
“Look, we just had one of your competitors from the other paper show up unannounced. Kinda ticked us off, so we’re a little press-shy right now. We don’t know anything anyway.”
“Who was it? Sheehan, I bet. What did he have to say?”
“Same thing as you, Parker. Sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. We got nothing beyond what we told the police. Talk to them.”
“I did. Which reminds me. Did you and Branson have some sort of run-in? I don’t think he likes you much.”
“Why? What did he tell you?”
“Nothing specific. But there was something there. Care to talk about it?”
I wondered why Branson hadn’t spilled the beans on me just for the fun of it. Maybe he thought it would be more amusing to drop a few hints and see what the press came up with.
“There’s nothing to talk about. You must’ve misread him.”
“Maybe,” Parker admitted, then pushed on. “So what were your first thoughts when you saw the body? Ever seen something like that before?”
“This conversation is over, Parker.”
“Take my number in case you feel like talking.”
“I know where to find you, but it’s not going to happen,” I assured him. “Good night. And you can lose my number.” I hung up the phone. “Damnit.”
“This is going to be bad,” Deirdre said. “Maybe if we give them just a little, they’ll back off.”
“You know that’s not true, Deirdre. It’ll just make it worse. If they know they’re not getting anything they’ll eventually give up.”
Deirdre didn’t reply. I reached for the answering machine and pressed the “play” button.
“Yeah, this is Chris Anders from KMIR-TV in Palm Springs,” a voice announced.
I cut it off and hit “delete,” then ran through the rest. Nothing but reporters, Parker and Sheehan among them. Bloodhounds locked on a scent. I deleted them one by one, getting more steamed as I did so. When the phone rang again I yanked it out of the cradle and hurled it against the opposite wall. Deirdre jumped, then recovered. Gave me a look like a disappointed mother at a misbehaving child. I felt like one, embarrassed at my loss of control.
“Beautiful, Tim,” she said. “Feel better?”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Deirdre glanced at the damaged wall. “You done redecorating? Or you want to try the bedroom next?”
We could hear the phone in the bedroom ringing, and since the handset I’d demolished was a cordless model, the base with its built-in answering machine was still intact. It answered a moment later. After the beep we heard yet another journalist pleading for an interview. I let it go, resigned to the intrusion. Tried to ignore it as I sat back down at the table. My blood was boiling but the iced tea was cool and refreshing, the glass slippery with moisture.
Deirdre sat down and sighed, studying me as the reporter hung up.
“I said I was sorry,” I repeated defensively.
Deirdre shook her head and looked down at her iced tea. She was making sweat rings on the table with the glass and joined two of the circles together. Then she absently wiped them away, leaving a smeared puddle, and lifted her eyes to mine.
“We gotta try and relax,” she said. “We can’t let this get to us. They’ll find the killer and then it’ll be over. We just have to keep it together until then.”
“I don’t think I’ll get that scene out of my head any time soon,” I answered.
“You mean … when you found him?”
I nodded, my eyes sliding away from her.
“Fucking Branson,” she muttered. “He had no right—”
“I would have gotten to this point whether he’d unloaded on me or not. This is what happens when you screw up as bad as I did. It just keeps coming back. In different ways. Under different circumstances. Doesn’t matter if Turret’s been in prison all this time. In my mind he’s right here.”
“He doesn’t have anything to do with it, Tim.”
“I know. I just wish my heart—and my gut—agreed.”
Deirdre reached out and ran her hand through my hair, her voice close to a whisper. “There’s no way you can undo the mistake you made. I thought you’d come to terms with that.”
“I thought so too. Maybe I was just fooling myself.”
“But it was so long ago. Why do you keep going back?”
Because I haven’t found a way to fix it yet.
Deirdre studied me for a moment. Then a look of defeat spread over her features. Maybe she recognized in me the same determination she drew on to guide her clients through their pain.
“Please leave it alone,” she said, knowing it wouldn’t change my mind.
“I’m already involved, Deirdre. Whether I like it or not. At the very least, he died on our property. I can’t just let it go.”
“Why not?”
I flashed on the image of the boy’s hand falling out of the body bag just before the door of the coroner’s van had shut, hanging over the stretcher in a silent entreaty. Nobody had noticed it but me.
“You know what it’s like being somebody’s last resort.”
Deirdre looked away, unable to argue. “I don’t want to lose you. Sometimes it feels like you’re barely with me. That your only true companion is the guilt you’ve harbored for thirty years.” She put her head in her hands and when they came away, her voice was trembling. “The only person who can forgive you is yourself, Tim. It will come from here,” she said, tapping her chest, “but only when you let it all go. Don’t you see that?”
I looked into the darkened hallway behind Deirdre, clawing at shadows. Deirdre stood up to leave, then turned back to me. “Aren’t I enough? Haven’t I filled up the dead spaces inside?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Later I found myself in the workshop, which I’d converted from the two-car garage after I bought the place. It was quiet as a church, the extra sound-damping insulation I’d installed when Deirdre moved in working all too well tonight. None of the outside noises of traffic or wind were able to intrude, and the silence became oppressive and intimidating. Usually I could come out here and not have to think about anything—occupy my attention by working on some small, intricate item. Or use the noise of the power tools to drown out everything else.
Now I wandered aimlessly between the benches and machinery, idly inspecting various pieces of unfinished work, turning them over in my hands without really seeing them. The polished metal equipment gleamed under the soft fluorescent light, and I could smell the sawdust I’d neglected to sweep up. One of the fixtures began to buzz and flicker randomly; the ballast would probably have to be replaced.
I drifted toward the blinking bulb, thinking about everything Deirdre had said a few minutes earlier. She was in the shower now, washing off the day’s dirt while I brooded out here, sticky with sweat. In the solitude of the shop, the right thing to do became less clear-cut. Who was I really serving by not staying out of it? If I answered honestly, I knew it was only myself, not Deirdre and certainly not the victim, whom I didn’t even know.
The bulb was still flickering over my head. I reached up and gently twisted it, felt one of the contacts engage in the socket. The fixture lit up bri
ghtly, no longer blinking.
Deirdre was right. The boy was dead. I wouldn’t indulge my tendencies toward guilt or self-pity any longer. I was out of it.
My head clear for the first time since yesterday morning, I walked over to the bench where I’d left several of the smaller pieces for a French provincial dresser I was building. The design had come from an old friend I hadn’t seen in a while.
In prison, an old trustee named Walter had befriended me. Over the course of a few years, he taught me everything he knew about woodworking, his trade before being convicted of murder. He’d killed his granddaughter’s preschool teacher, who’d been caught by a custodian molesting her after hours. Filled with rage, Walt took matters into his own hands, then turned himself in. They gave him ten years, a long time for a man his age. Federal time because the molester was a teacher for the Head Start government program. But Walt was treated like royalty in prison after word spread that he’d gotten rid of a child molester. Many privileges were his for the asking: cigarettes, snacks, a TV in his cell. Another perk was the job of running the prison woodshop, where he built and repaired tables and chairs from the mess hall and library, and furniture from the administrators’ offices, among other things. With over thirty years in woodworking, he had a lot of knowledge and expertise to impart. Just watching the touch he had in his strong, nimble, well-worn hands gave me a great respect for the craft. It seemed ironic, though, that a prison term could have provided me with such a fulfilling and gratifying trade, one that also paid so well.
After moving out here, I’d built a steady business slowly, one customer at a time. Most of my tools came from garage sales and business liquidations. I rented a space at Village Fest, the weekly craft fair and farmer’s market held in downtown Palm Springs. There, I sold the furniture I built and refurbished, and developed a discriminating clientele who appreciated the craftsmanship of my work. The piece I was working on now was for a customer in Las Palmas, the wealthy, old money section of Palm Springs.
The bottom rails for the dresser were the first things I looked at. They’d been kerfed, soaked in water, then bent by using clamps tightened on the wood until the proper curve was attained. By now, they were sufficiently dry, so I removed the clamps and inspected the rails. They perfectly matched the contours of the cabriole legs sitting next to them.
A Stranger Lies There Page 5