by Lee Vance
Incredible. Rommy only browbeat the fact of my infidelity from Father Winowski yesterday, but he’s already turned Jenna’s parents against me and poisoned the press. I’ve got to respect the guy for figuring out how to make the worst day of my life so much more unspeakably dreadful. I’d love to beat the son of a bitch to death with my bare hands.
The uniformed cop is still vigilant against the press setting foot on church property, so most of the reporters and photographers jog down the street and around the adjacent corner, keeping pace with Tigger and me as we descend the long flight of stairs to the parking lot. Tigger’s car comes into view. Rommy’s leaning against the hood with his ankles crossed, talking on a cell phone. His female partner, Detective Tilling, stands stone-faced a few feet away. My hands clench involuntarily.
“Congratulations,” Rommy says, snapping the phone shut as I approach. “That was the city editor from the Post. You’re gonna make the front page.”
“Excuse us,” I say, way too angry to control myself in a confrontation with him right now. “We’re leaving.”
“Stay a minute.” He bounces off the fender of the car toward me as Tilling drifts into Tigger’s path, blocking access to the driver’s door. “You’ve got time for a chat. Catholics do these things right. They’ll be weeping and praying for another hour at least.”
Rommy closes on me until we’re only a foot apart. He’s wearing a gray double-breasted suit over a navy shirt and a red raveled-silk tie. Gold links shine at his cuffs as he folds his arms, a lapsed weight lifter’s sloppy bulk straining the seams of his jacket.
“I’m not in the mood for this,” I rasp.
“Geez, I’m sorry,” he says, feigning concern. “You having a tough day?”
“Fuck you,” Tigger barks, glaring. Tilling lays a warning hand on his arm as he steps toward Rommy. He shakes it off angrily. “Let’s go, Peter.”
Rommy’s grinning, nicotine stains on his teeth. He’s balding, and three or four inches shorter than I am. A quick jerk of the head would break his nose on my forehead. I imagine Rommy doubled over, scarlet blood streaming through his hands onto the warm asphalt.
“Let me give you a news flash,” he continues conversationally. “Tomorrow’s not gonna be any better. The neighbors read the paper and they’ll be nervous about letting their kids play outside. You’re gonna start getting hate mail. Maybe some local hero tosses a brick through your front window or slashes your tires. Moving won’t help. Something like this will follow you around wherever you go.” He shakes his head from side to side and makes a tutting noise with his tongue. “The life you had is over, buddy. Everybody’s gonna know you did it. You haven’t gotten away with anything.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say. My fists are cramping, fingernails gouging my palms.
“You’re welcome. Much as I hate to say it, though, you got yourself a little window of opportunity here. The DA’s gearing up to run for attorney general, and she wants your case closed before she starts campaigning. You come clean now and you might be able to get yourself sent to some country club prison in the Adirondacks. You could spend the next thirty years playing Ping-Pong and raking sand traps. That’s not much worse than what your life’s gonna be like on the outside. You might even meet up with some old friends. Those places are lousy with Wall Street scumbags.”
“Sounds great,” I say, forcing a tight smile. “Sign me up.”
“You think that’s funny,” he says, nodding his head slightly. “Let me tell you something. I already gave you the best case. The worst is that we convict you of murder one and the jury sentences you to the needle. You spend ten years alone in a cinder-block cell waiting for your appeals to run out. Ping-Pong’s gonna seem like a pretty good alternative when they strap you to a gurney.” He leans forward, face inches from mine. “Are you that sure you didn’t make any mistakes? That this girl you’re banging won’t get pissed off about something and give us a call? Or that the guy you hired isn’t gonna get busted for whacking someone else and rat you out in exchange for a deal?”
Rommy’s malice is almost hypnotic. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.
“You should stick to shaking down priests,” I tell him. “Guys who have guilty consciences.”
“You’re good,” he snarls. “You always got a comeback. If you weren’t some rich fuck, I’d drag you down to the station right now. I wonder how clever you’d be after a night in a holding cell with the homeboys?”
“Sorry to miss it. Are we done here?”
“You’re done.” Veins bulge on Rommy’s forehead and sweat shines in his hairline. “Maybe if you hustle up, you can get to your girlfriend’s place before the funeral’s over. That’ll be a rush, huh? Banging your girlfriend while they put your wife in the dirt.”
Blood roars in my ears as I glance from side to side. The press photographers and a TV cameraman are set up across the street, too far away to hear our conversation. The two cops who arrived in the blue Ford are thirty feet away, observing intently. I’d be a fool to let Rommy provoke me with this kind of audience. To hell with it. Fool or no, I’m not about to let Rommy ride me this way. I lean forward until my nose almost touches his, compelling him to take a half step backward.
“Let’s stop playing games,” I say quietly. “You give me your version of what happened and I’ll tell you why you’re wrong.”
“You already lawyered up,” he replies contemptuously. “I’m not giving you shit if I can’t use what you tell me.”
“I’ll waive my right to counsel,” I say, determined to have it out with him. “Come on. What have you got to lose?”
Tigger objects, but I ignore him, my eyes locked on Rommy. Rommy flicks a glance at Tilling and then smiles.
“Okay.” He rolls his shoulders, loosening up. “Why not. You’re a hick from some shithole in Ohio. You shoot some good hoops, you get a free ride to an Ivy League school, you meet a nice Catholic girl and get married. She keeps house, gets a job with some fancy-pants do-gooder outfit, and shakes her ass for you in bed. Pretty soon you make a bunch of dough, because you’re the kind of prick who does good in business. Everything’s great. But you’re bored. Maybe her tits are sagging. So you start fucking around.”
He rests a hand on my shoulder like an old friend, smiling as he pinches my trapezius, conscious of the cameras.
“You’re not careful enough, though. Jenna finds out, and suddenly she’s talking divorce. You’re gonna lose half your cash, your house, one of your nice cars. So you come up with a better plan. She’s insured for a lot of dough. With her dead, you’ll be even better off than you were before. Maybe you thought about doing it yourself, but you watch enough TV to know the cops always look hardest at the husband. So you arrange it. A guy like you, a million bucks is small change. Some parts of New York, you can get people offed for beer money. The place I’m going to send you, a pack of cigarettes is enough. Only the guy you hired is a chump. It’s supposed to be a burglary gone to shit, but the scene’s not right. I’m thinking the guy took a picture for you. That’s why he pushed her hair back.” Rommy purses his lips theatrically, wagging a finger in my face. “You fucked up.”
“Finished?” I ask.
“No. I know it’s you. Not because she was gonna divorce you, or because of the insurance, or because of this half-assed burglary.” He pinches my shoulder again, thumb digging into my muscle. “I know because you got this big house, and this big car, and a wife that every guy on the block thinks about when he’s banging the old bag he’s married to. But you, you’re never home. You’re flying around all over the place, working weekends, spending nights in the city. Because it wasn’t enough for you, was it? It’s all about you getting more, and Jenna was in the way. Tell me,” he says, leering. “What’re you into? Black chicks? Schoolgirls? Drag queens?”
He turns his hip to the press and pumps a hand at his crotch surreptitiously. Tilling stares at the ground expressionlessly. I wonder what she did wrong to get stuck with Rommy.
“Done?” I ask.
“For now.” He releases me, fishes a cigarette from his shirt pocket, and takes another step back, eyeing me like a boxer waiting for the bell to ring again.
“I was married for sixteen years and I cheated once.”
“Yeah, you must’ve had a great relationship. It took Jenna’s parents about ten minutes to roll over on you.”
“With your encouragement.”
“Facts are facts,” Rommy says flatly, striking a match. “Maybe you should’ve told us about your little piece on the side before the priest ratted you out.”
“She’s got nothing to do with it.”
“I’m sure,” Rommy says sarcastically. “Tell me her name. I promise I’ll be nice to her.”
“You going to figure out how to get her on the front page of the Post, too? Talk to all her friends and relatives, and insinuate that she’s a criminal?”
“I do what I have to do to put guys like you where you belong. It’s my job.”
“Your job is to catch the guy who killed my wife, not to be jerking me around because I worked hard and got all the things you always wanted, while you’re a forty-seven-year-old cop who can’t do better than detective sergeant.”
Rommy flicks his lit cigarette at me with his middle finger. Tilling makes a warning noise, but he’s too worked up to pay attention.
“I’ll tell you why you don’t want to give her up,” he growls, neck bulging. “Because little Miss Candy Tits knows something you don’t want her to tell us. You told her about killing Jenna, didn’t you?”
I step forward again, narrowing the distance between us. One of the most important lessons my father taught me was never to show weakness.
“So you’ve got me pegged as a scumbag?”
“Fucking-A right.”
“Fine. You met the private investigators my lawyer hired?”
“Yeah. I told those little prick rent-a-cops to get lost before I shoved my foot up their ass.”
I deliberately put both hands in my pockets.
“Maybe they don’t listen very well. One of them talked to your ex-wife. She’s got a lot to say on the subject of scumbags. She says one of your kids has a speech problem, but that you’re behind in your child support and there’s no money for a therapist. The other kids make fun of him, call him a retard.”
Rommy grabs me by the tie. He drives me backward, barking threats into my face. Shutters click across the street, autowinders sounding like a swarm of angry insects. The two cops from the Ford are running toward us. I raise my voice but don’t shout.
“She says she dumped you because you came home drunk every night and you couldn’t get it up anymore. She got tired of waking up next to a guy who shit in the bed.”
Rommy swings as the male cops grab him from behind, a clumsy right that glances off the side of my head. He’s still got hold of my tie. I shake off his punch, keeping my hands in my pockets.
“You’ve got money in your brother’s bar. You’re taking dividends in cash, but there’s nothing on your taxes. The IRS isn’t going to like that.”
“You fucking asshole.” The other cops have succeeded in prying Rommy’s grip loose. They’re holding him by the arms. His hair is mussed, his shirt untucked, his tie askew. “You’re fucking threatening me?”
Brushing ash from my jacket, I straighten my clothing and slick my hair back with a hand.
“Tigger and Tilling heard everything. I didn’t threaten you. I asked my investigators to find out why the police weren’t doing a better job of finding my wife’s killer. They checked you out, Rommy. They told me you were the B team, too tangled up in your own shitty life to do a proper job. I’m thinking about filing a complaint with the DA. I hope no one leaks a copy to the press.”
Rommy curses in the background as I walk to the car. Tigger opens the driver’s door and gets in. A hand touches my shoulder as he starts the engine.
“Did that make you feel better?” Tilling asks quietly.
“A little,” I say, turning to face her. She’s tall, with crooked teeth and a forehead creased by worry lines. The report I got said she has a good reputation. “I figure it was the least he deserved.”
She frowns.
“Do people usually get what they deserve?” There’s no hint of sarcasm in her voice.
“I don’t know,” I say. It’s a question I’ve been thinking about a lot recently. “I used to think so.”
“Jennifer deserves justice,” she says. “I need your help to get it for her.”
I fold my arms to conceal a tremble, exhaustion enveloping me like a damp cloak.
“I’m not holding back on anything important.”
“But you’re holding back.”
Her phone buzzes on her belt and she silences it without looking, tired brown eyes locked on mine.
“Jenna and I were arguing. I’m not going to talk about why. We’d been married for a long time. I was unhappy, and I made a mistake.”
“I need the woman’s name,” Tilling says.
“You don’t. She doesn’t have anything to do with this. We were only together once, and it was all over between us before Jenna found out about it.”
“Jennifer was ready to divorce you because of this other woman. We have to speak with her.”
Tilling’s wrong. I open my mouth to correct her and then close it again.
“Are you going to help?” she asks.
I shrug, turning back to the car and catching hold of the door handle.
“You don’t get it,” Tilling says behind me, sounding disappointed. “You fucked up and you’re still fucking up. All the smart money’s going to be on you now.”
“What about you?” I ask, looking back at her. “Are you betting with the smart money?”
“You hurt her, Peter,” Tilling says. “I know that much. You have to tell me the truth if you expect me to understand.”
The truth. I open the car door and get in. Tilling stands motionless outside, staring in at me through the glass as Tigger puts the engine in gear and creeps past her. The truth is that I broke Jenna’s heart long before I ever cheated on her.
WINTER
6
SLEET FALLS from the night sky, tapping irregularly against the bedroom windows. I stand motionless in the dark, looking out. A cone of sallow streetlight illuminates a blue Ford out front, the trunk deck and side panels crusted with ice. Moisture beads the windshield and hood; the wind whips a milky streamer of exhaust over the roof. Wipers flap intermittently. There are probably two cops inside the car—one napping, one half-awake. The police surveilled me occasionally in the weeks following Jenna’s funeral, a tactic my lawyer said was mainly intended to intimidate me. This is the first time I’ve seen them in more than a month, though. Wondering if the cops are finally going to arrest me, I briefly debate calling my lawyer before deciding not to bother. The bedside clock reads 5:40; they aren’t likely to move before dawn unless I show a light. I’ve got plenty of time.
Tidying the room takes only a few minutes despite the dark. Yesterday’s clean bedding, now damp and knotted, goes in a laundry bag hanging from the door. I remake the bed with freshly ironed sheets, folding taut hospital corners and snugging the coverlet under the pillows. A few steps carry me to the bathroom. Years of traveling on business taught me to organize my toilet kit efficiently, toothbrush here, razor there. I lather my face without light and begin shaving by feel, relieved at least to be spared the pitiful sight of myself.
Toilet complete, I slip sweatpants over my boxers and pad downstairs, dragging the laundry bag behind me. All the rooms in the house save the kitchen and the guest bedroom I’ve been sleeping in are entirely empty. When the cops finally cleared out, I called the local St. Vincent de Paul and gave them the contents, contingent on their taking everything. It was easy enough to replace the essentials at Ikea. Tigger suggested I not move back in at all, but I didn’t want to give the cops or the neighbors the satisfaction of seeing me gone.
The kitchen is in the back of the house, so the police can’t see in unless they’ve got someone in the yard. Unlikely in this weather. I flip on the undercounter lights, start coffee, and pour myself a glass of juice. When the coffee’s ready, I settle in at the kitchen table and turn on a reading light. Yesterday’s mail is stacked next to my laptop. There are two letters from Klein and Klein, my former employer. One demands acknowledgment of previous “communications”; the other is a wheedling, disjointed diatribe from Josh. Ignoring the sentences that were obviously written by lawyers, I assume the rest conveys his meaning. Josh is disappointed. Josh is hurt. Josh is angry. Josh knows I understand. And he’s right: I do. Klein didn’t do anything I wouldn’t have done myself.
The Monday after the funeral, I put on a suit and went to work early, desperate for something to distract myself with. It took me an hour to catch up on my e-mail. Tigger caught me by the arm as I was returning from the bathroom and backed me up against a pillar on the trading floor.
“Where you been?” he asked. “I left a dozen messages on your cell phone and at the hotel. They said you checked out.”
“The press tracked me down at the hotel, so I moved.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
I shrugged. The pictures and video of us leaving Jenna’s funeral had been everywhere the preceding few days. I’d been too embarrassed to return his calls.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“What am I going to do, Tigger? Sit home?”
“You should be talkin’ to someone.”
“Talking to who?” I asked, beginning to get angry. “Some dickless therapist in a little room on the Upper West Side? A guy who’s going to ask all about my bad dreams and tell me it’s okay to cry?”
“Petey,” Tigger said, squeezing my arm. “It is okay to cry.”
“That’s bullshit,” I replied furiously. “My dad used to say there are people who do and people who don’t.”
“Do what?”
“Whatever. That’s the point.”
“Sometimes there’s nothin’ you can do.”