by M Mayle
“I remember,” Grillo says. “And as long as we’re settin’ the record straight, lemme point out that I’m not exactly laboring under anything. I’m here of my own free will and accord and I’m fairly bursting with misgivings, but you don’t see any of ‘em holding me back. That’s why I’m grabbin’ this opportunity that’s presented itself . . . Shall we?” The detective leads the way through the church portico, holds open the door as they file inside without further discussion.
— THIRTY-THREE —
Midday, September 28, 1987
The rector, for whom disapproval is a standard expression, grants permission for them to confer in the sanctuary, his only stipulation that they not interfere with the sexton’s regular duties.
Nate, Emmet, and Brownie get as comfortable as they can in a front pew. By unspoken agreement they give Grillo the right to run this show for having earned it: First of all, because he trumped the FBI by heroically uncovering Jakeway’s New Jersey stash on his own; second of all, because he’s poised to reveal another significant find, for which the full extent of his heroism will go unsung.
Grillo conducts the briefing as he did the one at the Manhattan triplex, on his feet, in motion. He paces the space between pews and altar as would a Bible-thumping evangelist, seizes another obvious opportunity by summarizing for the first time ever, the complete case made against Hoople Jakeway.
The detective delivers a concise compilation of fact and supported theory, beginning with Hoople Jakeway’s seemingly benign boyhood crush on Audrey Shantz, and ending with that crush having expanded into a malignant obsession to eliminate those seen as her despoilers. “And anyone else who happened to be in the way.” Grillo winds down the chilling narrative with pointed reference to the unplanned deaths of David Sebastian and Rayce Vaughn. “Or anyone whose death would facilitate the master plan,” he says of the deliberate poisoning of old Mr. Chandler.
“Yates, here, deserves a lotta credit for stickin’ to his guns when no one else wanted to buy into the plausibility of a deranged avenger on the loose,” the detective continues. “And Isaacs, here, is due a whole lotta extra credit for holdin’ onto beliefs he himself had difficulty believin’.”
Nate nods silent agreement.
“Emmet,” Grillo says to the lawyer, “I’m gonna hafta call you by your first name, Hollingsworth’s too much of a mouthful—Emmet, here, well what can I say? He’s layin’ it on the line same as me if we go forward with this thing.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting we not go—”
“No such thing.” Grillo cuts Emmet short. “I didn’t come all this way just to pay a courtesy call, ’though I did volunteer myself as escort to the young Chandlers and the coffins.”
“I don’t think any of us misunderstood the nature of your visit,” Nate says. “And I doubt anyone has lost sight of the risk you and Emmet are taking—the risk we’re all taking—so why don’t you give us the specifics. That is what we’re here for isn’t it?”
“I’m gettin’ there, I’m gettin’ there. The long intro was necessary to full understanding, that’s all,” Grillo says.
“I didn’t hear anyone interrupt your lengthy preamble or complain about it,” Yates says in the least dumbed-down language he’s used in weeks.
“Valid point.” Grillo lays a little more groundwork that emphasizes why Emmet selected him as most likely to promulgate his own laws. The detective has never bothered to conceal his contempt for the Bureau—even though he called them in on the case—and he’s not now. He’s wide open about his desire to again trump the agency, even if it requires some fancy footwork, his euphemism for tampering with evidence and putting words in the mouths of witnesses.
Emmet’s choice of Grillo to implement the deception reflects David Sebastian’s unerring ability to single out the person with the most to gain—or lose—when rules had to be bent or be ignored altogether, such as during the period following Aurora’s death and Colin’s incapacitating injuries. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to make the connection and recognize David’s influence here today.
Nate shoots Emmet an appreciative glance that’s wasted because a noise from the organ loft draws attention upward. They all display expressions ranging from mild concern to annoyance, but whatever it was doesn’t repeat itself. Grillo dismisses the disturbance as having come from the sexton and picks up where he left off.
“These specifics your jonesin’ for . . . there’s something else I gotta say before I get to that.”
Muted groans go through the assemblage as the detective outlines a new concern.
“I reached that conclusion while goin’ over Ms. Amanda Hobbs’s meticulous records for maybe the tenth or twelfth time,” Grillo explains. “That’s how I happened to see that the former Laurel Chandler should be considered one of Jakeway’s prime targets.”
“For being married to the principal target and being able to identify Jakeway. Right?” Nate dismisses this as non-news.
“That’d be FBI Special Agent Bell’s take on the argument. But not mine. I contend she’s a target independent of the celeb husband and irregardless of her ability to ID the assailant. I’m sayin’ she made Jakeway’s short list back before she married Elliot, back when she was workin’ for Elliot and lit into the media on his behalf.”
Nate releases a pent-up groan as Grillo details an impromptu press conference that should have been ruled relevant—critical, even—long before now.
The detective continues, “I’m referrin’ to the televised event which took place on April six of this year on the steps of New York’s Plaza Hotel, according to Ms. Hobbs’s account. This would’ve been when Elliot was breakin’ back into the limelight after a long absence and the worst elements of the media were tryin’ to squeeze a few more scandals outta the dead wife who was always grist for the tabloid mill. In the process of warning the press to cease and desist where the dead woman was concerned, Laurel Chandler cited Aurora Elliot’s shortcomings and enumerated her failures as wife, mother, and individual.
“Although Ms. Chandler went on to pardon the dead woman’s inability to control her lousy behavior and raging addictions, Jakeway would’ve been deaf to that part. He would’ve heard only the part where Laurel Chandler badmouthed the woman he knew as Audrey, thereby casting herself as a defiler. That’s how Jakeway would’ve seen Chandler . . . starting with that date back in April, way before she was a sure thing with Elliot and long before she was eyewitness to Sebastian’s murder. Although this opinion has to rely on the supposition Jakeway actually viewed the much-ballyhooed press conference, it does mesh with the FBI composite of Jakeway. And that, folks, further advances the credibility of an old lady once written off as your standard neighborhood nutjob.”
They all nod recognition of Mrs. Floss as the nutjob and familiarity with the many instances when her batty-sounding observations came true. Grillo names her precise description of the vehicle recovered from Jakeway’s storage unit as the best example, followed by the startlingly accurate sketch she made of Jakeway. “I’m told she drew that from memory,” the detective says of the sketch. “A memory that wasn’t as screwed as we thought, now that these other particulars have come to light.”
Grillo runs a hand through his thinning hair, pinches the loose flesh on his throat and hunkers down in front of the pew as though about to impart some great revelation. But it’s a confession he makes.
“Pity about that one,” he says in a hoarsening voice. “Sloppy police work, takin’ for granted the sash cord broke just because it was old. Same for the Floss woman . . . Sloppy to deny benefit of the doubt and full pursuit of justice because she was old and would’ve died soon anyway.”
“Are you saying that case has been reopened?” Nate asks.
“Let’s just say we’re lookin’ into it. Strenuously lookin’ into it. And because we are, I was compelled to go back to Old Quarry Court and have a look at everything through fresh eyes. And I do mean everything. After a thorough review at the
Floss property, I followed through at the Chandler place. Armed with the fingerprint record charting Jakeway’s movements there, I started from the top, took on the attic, where his prints were all over the frame to the hatchway, inside and out. No prints were ever found within the attic, but that could be because most of the surfaces weren’t receptive to prints, or because of more sloppy police work—because of some stumblebum that didn’t wanna risk his bulk by penetrating the entire space.”
Grillo resumes a standing position, sways his bulk a little as he describes edging along rafters and dodging crossbeams in the Chandler attic. “Other than for the platform at the entrance, the only area of solid flooring was this ledge running around the chimney. No more than a skirting, really, barely wide enough to stand on, it was out of the view of anyone makin’ just a casual response to a noise heard from the attic. And, interestingly enough, this narrow platform afforded a view of the master bedroom. Through a sizable crevice in between the chimney bricks and the framing, you could see right into the room.” The detective’s voice drops to a compelling stage whisper, “At least you could from the areas of the crevice that didn’t happen to be chinked with the same kind of little envelopes found at the scene of the nursing home homicide and filled with the same lethal substance that took down both the old gent in Jersey and the rocker over here in London.”
Emmet heaves an uncharacteristically dramatic sigh and asks the only question they don’t already have an answer for.
“Yeah, clean,” Grillo answers. “There were an even half-dozen fished out of the garment bag that were clean—that bore only Jakeway’s prints. Yates, here, knew his stuff when he accomplished the transfer from the household storage outfit in Montclair. Clean as a whistle other than for the desired prints.”
Grillo sits down on the lower step to the altar, removes his clip-on tie and opens his collar, the first clear indication this was a rehearsal, not a briefing. And an arduous one at that. If anyone deserves to be wined and dined in their midst this evening it’s this gruff detective, but he passes on the invitation to join them for dinner.
“Are you sure?” Nate says. “Terra Firma’s not far from here, we’re under ten minutes from Wheelwright Road.”
“I’m sure,” the detective says without showing any curiosity about what Terra Firma might be. “I’m takin’ my cue from Emmet, here. Wouldn’t want to give anybody the wrong idea, would we now?” Grillo says as they begin to file out of the sanctuary. “You can drop me in town, at my hotel where I’ll be till the appointment with Scotland Yard tomorrow.”
After they drop him at the Weald Guest House on the outskirts of Middlestone, the consensus is, that by turning down the invitation to socialize at Terra Firma, the detective’s motive remains pure. As Emmet maintained all along, Grillo is no secret celebrity hound. He’s not impressed with wealth either, something Nate can attest to after registering Grillo’s indifference to the rich atmosphere of the Fifth Avenue apartment. The detective is interested in the Rayce Vaughn case because solving it furthers his ambition to stay ahead of the Bureau and make a name for himself with the Yard. And that’s all there is to it.
“Flawless,” Yates says as though having read Nate’s mind.
— THIRTY-FOUR —
Afternoon, September 28, 1987
Hoop unfolds himself like he did the day he got trapped on the ledge in the lawyerwoman’s attic. One leg at a time, slow and easy till numb turns to prickle and prickle turns to full feeling. Then it’s more slow and easy out of the space between the organ bench and the short wall where he’s been stuck ever since thinking the funeral meeting would be held inside the church.
Although the men who did hold a meeting here in the church were heard leaving an hour ago, Hoop goes forward like they might still be around. He tucks the ever-present rucksack under one arm so it won’t bump anything and catfoots down the tight spiral of steps leading from the organ loft to the main floor. He stops every third step or so to listen, but all he hears is the pounding of blood in his ears like he did that day in the lawyerwoman’s kitchen when he made the exchange that was supposed to bring shame and worse to the rock star.
That comparison he shuts out of mind before it can start him thinking today didn’t go all that well. But today’s not ready to be thought of yet. Too soon to say if it was a success or a failure. He’ll have to decide if having stayed one step ahead of the preacherman and his big sidekick when they did a walkthrough of the whole entire church this morning is enough to cancel out the jackassed-fool clatter made later on when he tried to get a look at the men.
Emmet, he shapes the word in his mouth. Emmet with the last name of Hollingshead or Hollyworth or something like that. There was one called Isaacs, another called Yates, and they all spoke American except for the one with the long last name. Hoop tests his memory on the way through the seating area of the church, treading as though the stone floor might creak, realizing that the name of the guy who did the lion’s share of talking was never said—not that he recalls, anyway. But he’d know the guy’s rough-edged voice if he ever heard it again. That’s for sure.
The arched door to the outside is unlocked the way it was when he got here at sunup; he keeps his head down when he goes out, same as he did when he went in ever how many hours ago. Just in case. From the covered porch, he moves straight to an uneven row of grave markers like he’s one of those queer people the gravedigger talked about yesterday. Hoop studies the nearest stones long enough to appear really interested—just in case—then dares glances at all the places his earlier watching from the church bell tower spotted lookouts and guards. But there’s no sign of them now, no sign they were ever there. No cars are parked anywhere he can see and even the burial trappings are gone, including the dirt for filling the graves.
In the woods above the graveyard, he breathes another sigh of relief that the bike is still where he hid it at sunrise. He brings it out from the cover of one of those yew trees the tourist guides talked up as being the next best thing to holy. Before mounting up, he paws through the rucksack for the apple he took from the guest house kitchen this morning. He takes his time with it, eats it in small bites like he’s not half starved, then relieves himself against the tree like he hasn’t been holding that in since morning.
At the edge of the woods, a last look around discovers only a boiling-up of clouds. Same as yesterday, he’ll be riding in rain, but this time the damage will be worse because he’s wearing his best clothes. The better to pass himself off as a funeral-goer, was the thought when he dressed this way. But, as it turned out, there weren’t enough mourners to hide among.
He’s soaked to the skin when he gets back to the guest house in an early dark brought on by the rain. The chill that overtakes him on the way up to his room is unrelated to the wetting down. In the room, the stripping off and cramming of the clothes he’s wearing into a too-small wastebasket has nothing to do with the sorry condition they’re in. This is a continuing of the reaction that caught up with him a mile or so into the trip back from St. Margaret’s-in-the-Vale Church and shook him so bad he had trouble pedaling. Now that he’s not trying to pedal a bike and not shaking quite so bad, he asks himself why he wasn’t struck while he was hiding in that loft hearing Hoople Jakeway described as deranged and Audrey Shantz made out as derelict in all her duties. Why didn’t he react then? What made him sit still for that? Was that Hector Sandoval doing the listening? And even if it was, why didn’t he do something about the wrongs that were said?
Answers won’t come. Not even bad ones. Just more questions that he tries to take one at a time. But they gang up on him and run together till they all sound the same. He’s glued to the floor while this goes on; he’s helpless to stop it or cover his nakedness with dry clothes.
This must be what they mean by shock—the kind that takes over when the mind can’t handle what it’s given—and he’s got nothing to compare it to. Other times when something disagreeable was heard or happened, he didn’t go deaf and
turn into a statue. When he read in a newspaper that Hoople Jakeway was named a murder suspect—the worst news most people would ever read about themselves, you’d think—he didn’t freeze up and fall apart. When he found out he’d done away with a high-ranking lawyer instead of the intended rock star, he didn’t curl up in a ball and lick his wounds, he did something about it even if it was only to wreck some furnishings and the TV set that brought the bad news.
But wrecking something here would cost more than a replacement TV. It would cost him the kind of notice he can’t afford. Just as throwing away a set of rain-soaked clothes could get him remembered. Anything out of the ordinary could get him remembered. He empties out the wastebasket with no intention of salvaging the clothes he never wants to see again. Wadded together in a tight bundle, they fit into the rucksack where they can stay till he comes across a safer place to dump them.
This activity is enough to make him aware of the regular kind of chill that’s now settled on him along with some commonsensical thinking. It’s Hoople Jakeway they’re after, after all. He puts on dry clothes and checks the mirror for signs of anybody but Hector Sandoval.
The questions are still there when he’s ready to go out again; they still sound kind of run together, but now it’s just one voice doing the asking. Downstairs, when he looks into the dining room he decides against taking his paid-in-advance supper there and excuses this waste by observing that the place where he usually sits is filled by a newcomer.
The rain has stopped when he sets out on foot for the nearest store that sells school supplies. During the trek he’s tempted to drown out the question voice with one that numbers all the setbacks he’s overcome so far, but that doesn’t seem worth the trouble now that he knows how to handle those bafflements that hit him all at once.