The Lacey Confession

by Richard Greener

  Walter rose from his seat, crossed the room to where Louis Devereaux sat and placed his .9mm pistol on the small table next to Devereaux. “You killed Harry. You’re responsible. You’ve got a choice to make, Louie. You can pick this gun up—there is a single round in the chamber—otherwise unloaded. Just one shot. You can take that one bullet and go out of here with at least a touch of dignity. Or I can shoot you. Your decision.” Devereaux looked at the pistol, then up at Walter, and again at the gun. “I know what you’re thinking,” said Walter. “I’d think it myself. But I need to tell you that if you pick up that gun and so much as point it in my direction, Tucker Poesy will put two in the back of your head, probably in the little soft spot just below the skull, and probably get both in the same hole. She’s that good.”

  “You use this one all the time?” mocked Devereaux. “Tucker Poesy’s behind me? That’s a good one.” He didn’t exactly laugh out loud, but he smiled and the devil’s grin filled the room with a smell like acid on metal.

  “Hi, Louie,” she said.

  Louis Devereaux picked up the gun. He knew it was an untraceable weapon that would stay behind. For the first time he noticed that Walter Sherman was wearing gloves, thin white cotton gloves. Only Devereaux’s fingerprints would be on the handle. He didn’t look at Walter again. In fact, Walter saw him close his eyes. He put the gun up to his head, against his temple, by his right ear, and pulled the trigger.

  The house belonged to Linda Morales. It was far enough outside Ponce to be called a retreat. That’s how she referred to it—my retreat, she would say. Few knew about it and fewer still knew where it was. There was nothing spectacular about the house itself. It was nice, but not unusual. Pushed into the side of a hill, nearly at the top—very much like Walter’s place on St. John—her view was a thing to behold. The whole of the Caribbean Sea lay at her footsteps. Walter Sherman had made his life’s work finding things others could not. Finding Conchita Crystal’s Puerto Rican retreat was no challenge for The Locator. He had resources everywhere. He used one to keep an eye on the place, to let him know when she arrived. Hours later, he was there. Unlike his own house, where the driveway snaked around and down the hill, this one had a drive straight up to the house. He parked his car at the bottom, off the road, behind some bushes, and walked. He rang the bell and waited.

  “Walter,” she said, as if she was expecting him for cocktails and dinner. “Come in. You look wonderful. Have you done something . . . to yourself? You look great.”

  “A little surgery,” he said.

  “No. You’re not the kind.”

  “Coronary bypass.”

  “Oh,” her hand covered her open mouth, but he could see she was careful not to touch those delicious lips of hers. No smudges.

  “It’ll do wonders for you. You should try one.”

  “When? What happened?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I came to pay my respects, offer my condolences.”

  “Oh, really,” now he saw the chest heave and the muscles around that marvelous mouth tighten. “What for? Who’s died?”

  “Louis Devereaux. I’m sure you’ve heard by now. They say he killed himself. Shot himself with the only bullet in a Glock nine millimeter. They found the gun in his hand. Did you know, if you shoot yourself in the head, you die so quickly your fingers cannot release the weapon. That’s true.” Chita said nothing. She stood there, like she was waiting for her director’s instructions. Stage right—stage left—kick and move—smile, smile! “That was a nice Glock. I bought it, on the street in Washington, a few hours before he killed himself with it. You still can’t say anything, can you?”

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “I know all about it, Chita. I know about you and Devereaux. His phone records. Your cell phone. The two of you go back a long ways. How? How did that happen? You and Devereaux?”

  Conchita smiled. It was that warm, wonderful smile she was so famous for, the one Walter had seen and taken some measure of pleasure in before. “He called me. Just like he called you. You couldn’t just call me, not Chita Crystal. Not in those days. I had people who had people. But that’s exactly what Louis did. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Louis Devereaux. I’m a big fan. Let’s have dinner.’ That’s how. I needed help. He was there.”

  “It never occurred to me,” said Walter. “The two of you. I see it now, but I don’t know why Harry. Harry was—what to you? Why him?”

  “I don’t work as much as I used to,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you that? You should have listened.”

  “The money? The Czar’s gold coins? The money was for you?”

  “Of course. Look at me. This is my little bungalow, my most modest accommodations. Conchita Crystal is a business—no, she’s an industry. And, unfortunately, she ain’t what she used to be.” She saw Walter looking at her. She never doubted her appearance. She lived on it. Still did. That’s not what she was losing. It was the income. Simple and to the point. Conchita Crystal did not make as much money as she used to. Her lifestyle had not adjusted to her new economic conditions. Her motives were so simple. She needed the money.

  “Devereaux had money,” he said, astonished that she should worry about her future in such a way—that she would kill for it—that she would kill family. “You had nothing to worry about.”

  She laughed. “You don’t know a thing about real money, do you Walter? Louis told me about Lacey, years ago. He told me about Kennedy and he told me about the gold.”

  “Still . . . I . . . ,” he stammered.

  “You cannot imagine what it costs to be me,” she said.

  “So, it really was pure, dumb luck,” Walter said.

  “You know about me and Louis. We were made for each other, truly we were. I love him. He loves me in a way he can’t love anything or anyone else. You’ll never know how good that feels.” Conchita Crystal was crying again. This time Walter didn’t give a flying fuck.

  “He knew Lacey’s instructions were to open his will four days after he died,” Chita said. “It never mattered what day it was—when the old man died. The fourth day was a Saturday, but it could have been any day. Louis could have made it happen anytime. But we got lucky, with Harry.”

  “But that was the American Embassy. What did that have to do with Lacey’s will?”

  “Don’t you see? Come on, you’re the fucking Locator! And you still don’t see it.”

  “See what?”

  “Louis knew—all along. He not only knew Frederick Lacey was behind the assassination of President Kennedy. He knew about Lacey’s confession. His dear friend, Abby O’Malley, kept him up to speed on everything she did. You know, Walter, Louis had a way of finding things even you couldn’t match. What do you find? You find people. He found knowledge. He found out things no one else could. And he was always right. Always.”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you? That’s such crap.”

  “No, no, my dear man. Louis knew things nobody else knew, and now never will. The assassination was just one, one among many. He knew about Lacey’s private journal and he guessed Lacey’s confession was in it. He was right, wasn’t he? See what I mean? You won’t see another like him. He figured that when the will was opened the confession would be there. And in it, the location of the gold. Everybody looking for it assumed the lawyer had it, probably in a safe somewhere. Louis went with his gut. The lawyer would see the document, he told me, discover that his old friend had murdered John Kennedy, and offer the whole thing, on a silver platter, to the Americans to do with as they wished.”

  “How long have you . . . ?”

  “How long? Years. Years,” she laughed at him. “Fifteen years ago,” she said. “He told me about Lacey at least fifteen years ago.”

  “And you?”

  “Me? You were right. The pureist, dumbest of luck. I had this nephew, a kid I’d only met a few times, whose mother was my sister, but I never met her at all. Harry Levine. He worked at the London Embassy. He wanted to stay there. Louis m
ade sure he did. Louis said it was a piece of cake. He could have arranged for anyone he wanted to be the senior official on duty, on any day. Louis could do things others couldn’t dream of. When the old man died on a Tuesday, Harry was a natural. Open the will Saturday—have Harry be the senior official on premises. Bingo! The lawyer gives him Lacey’s confession. An act of incredible coincidence.”

  “And you’re only interested in the gold. You don’t give a shit about Kennedy.”

  “Oh, no, Walter. You underestimate Louis Devereaux. He was a very loyal man. He would do anything for me. Abby O’Malley too. She was a great friend to him. Of course, he was going to destroy the confession. Once he got the location of the gold, that is. Once I had—once we had the gold, he would give Abby what she wanted—the entire document, up in smoke. I’m sure you didn’t find it, did you?” Again, she laughed. “No se puede.”

  “Lo halle,” said Walter. “No problema. Fácil.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “There’s a bar in his living room—a small wet bar—do you know it?” Walter asked. “I’m sure you do. Underneath, where the plumbing for the sink is, on the right-hand side, high up, anchored against the sink itself, is a button. Press it and you open the false front, the cabinet facing on the bar that appears to be solid. It isn’t. When it opens, it reveals a small safe, a sort of mini-vault. You don’t even need a key or a combination to get in. He never thought anyone could or would find it. Just open the front. Press the button. Took me less than thirty minutes to find it. That’s where it was.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Roosevelt shit in his pants at Yalta. Did you know that? No, of course you didn’t. How could you. How could anyone. The smell made Churchill sick, but apparently, Stalin didn’t even notice it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s in the Lacey journal, his confession. There’s a lot more in it besides the Kennedy killings. But there’s no gold, Chita.”

  “You have it!” she said. “Where is the gold?”

  “Sir Anthony Wells?” said Walter ignoring her question. “The American Ambassador? What about them?”

  “Overzealous associates.”

  “Overzealous associates!” cried Walter. “That’s it? Just like that.” Conchita Crystal shrugged her shoulders.

  “So, then you decided to hire me. Harry was hiding and wouldn’t even tell you where he was.”

  “Not me, Walter. I never heard of you. Louis. Louis told me not to worry. He knew someone who could find Harry no matter where he had gone. Louis sent me to you. He said you weren’t working anymore, you had retired. But he was sure you would work for me.” The gleam in her eye, the smile on her lips, said it all—“Fácil? You don’t know what easy is.”

  Walter rubbed the back of his neck, shook his head and breathed slowly, deeply through his nose. He felt himself getting lightheaded. “I know,” he said. “You set me up real good. I found Harry for you and as soon as I did, you had someone on me. That we got away—me and Harry—was just a mistake. It didn’t matter, though. You figured out where I would hide him. ‘Someplace no one else could find him,’ isn’t that what you said? But you knew how to find that too. Devereaux found Harry through Isobel Gitlin. But it was you who went to New Mexico. It was you who killed him. It was you who took the document.”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” she said. “And Louis never told me there would be any killing, not in London, not in New Mexico. Whoever he sent overdid it. There was no reason to kill Harry. It hurt me. I’m sorry. I’m deeply sorry—for Sadie Fagan too—but I can’t turn back the clock. I can’t make it unhappen.”

  “You have anything to drink?” said Walter. “Something cold.”

  “Sure. I’m sure I have some Coke.”

  “Diet?”

  “Walter, what other kind?” She patted her flat belly, inviting and secure within those skin-hugging jeans and a green silk blouse that also fit like it had been made just for her. She saw the look in his eyes. She smiled at him. One of those smiles again. A smile that never quit, equal parts magic and desire. Probably enough right there to melt the Czar’s gold, Walter thought. They walked into the kitchen. Walter was surprised to find it much smaller than he would have guessed.

  “Why did you kill Harry?” he asked, as she poured the drink into a glass filled with crushed ice.

  “I didn’t kill Harry. I told you. Things got out of hand. I don’t know how. I wasn’t there.”

  “Sure you were, Chita. You were there. You were the only one there. You’re the one who shot him. You killed Harry.”

  “Come on, Walter,” she said, throwing off his accusation as lightly as she might discard a sweater on a warm day. “What do you think I did? Go busting into his cabin, guns blazing, firing away? Shoot him down—grab Lacey’s papers and drive off? Is that how it happened?”

  “No, that’s not how it happened.”

  “Then what makes you think I had anything to do with it? How could I have been there?” Walter took the glass she offered, took a long sip and put it down on the kitchen counter.

  “I knew it anyway,” Walter said. “But if there was any question, any doubt at all, you just told me you were there.” Chita looked at him, half a grin, half a rebuke written on her beautiful face. “Cabin?” Walter continued. “You said cabin. How would you know it was a cabin? And, Lacey’s papers. You called them papers. Not a journal, not a notebook, not a diary, not even a document—papers. How would you know that, if you hadn’t pushed them all together in a stack, packaged them and took them, leaving Harry dead on the floor.” Conchita Crystal had nothing to say. She’d run out of script. “And you weren’t even careful. The Russian cigarettes—‘papiroses,’ they call them. Just like the one you smoked the day you came to St. John, the one you lit up so dramatically at the bar. You probably have a pack in your purse right now—a couple of cartons in the pantry. Hard to find. Can’t get them at your neighborhood supermarket. Devereaux got them for you. You threw the butt on the floor and stepped on it, but the holder, the cardboard part, didn’t get squashed. If a man steps on one of those things, the whole thing gets flattened. A woman, however, a woman with high heels—she uses only the front of her shoe. You didn’t get the whole thing. You only stepped on the front of the butt.”

  “My, what an imagination you have, Walter. You even know how I step on a cigarette.”

  “The same way you did in Billy’s. The same exotic cigarette. The same crushed butt. What made you think you could mislead me?”

  Chita Crystal said nothing.

  “You know what made me sure it was you? You know how I knew it was you, how I knew from the minute I found Harry’s body? Do you?” Still she was silent. “Answer me, goddamnit!”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t.”

  “Harry was shot so close there were powder burns on his shirt and an indentation larger than the bullet itself. An indentation the size of the barrel. You hugged him. You brought him close to you, up tight. And you reached up, pushed a little single-shot pistol, no bigger than a cigarette lighter, against his heart and pulled the trigger.” Walter had to catch his breath now. He took another, longer, bigger swallow of his drink. Conchita Crystal, she did that which was most natural to her, that which she had been doing since she was fifteen.

  “I know you want this,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse, leaving it tucked into her jeans, riding on her hips, low beneath her waist. With the slick ease of a poisonous snake, her hands slid the open blouse around behind her, showing him her breasts, the silky smooth curve of her belly, and as the open blouse fell from her shoulders, as she pulled each arm through the sleeves, she was bare from the waist up. “It’s all yours, Walter. Touch it. Go on, touch it. It’s all yours—today, tomorrow, forever. You and me.” She could see what she was doing to him. How many men have reacted the same way? How many over thirty years? Who could resist? Fácil. She kept her eyes on his, smiled the smile that always got her what she wanted, and with a twist
of her fingers, unsnapped the top of her jeans and began slowly pulling its zipper open. She no longer had to say it—not in English—not in Spanish. Walter Sherman had what she wanted and she had what he wanted. “Walter,” she said, walking up to him, right up to him, taking one hand and putting it on his neck, running it across his shoulders, up into his long hair, pulling him closer with the other arm, that hand touching his hips and moving over them, around behind, into the small of his back. “Walter.” She squeezed against him and he held her tight, his own hand moving down her back as she pushed hard against him. She knew when things were going her way. She felt it. To Walter, she felt so warm, smelled so wonderful. She never stopped looking him in the eye, and then she drew his lips to hers and kissed him. Her tongue fired into his mouth. Her eyes shut. His didn’t. But he held her close, as close as he could.

  “Did Devereaux ever tell you,” he whispered, “about Leonard Martin? Did he ever mention the name?”

  “No,” she answered.

  “He should have.”

  Walter shot Conchita Crystal in the heart. The tiny pistol he pushed against her smooth warm brown breast had only a single shot. The force of the small caliber shell was not enough to even produce an exit wound. If she knew what happened at all, it could only have been for a fraction of a second. He let go and she slumped to the floor, dead.

  THE ENDING

  In the end there is one dance you’ll do alone.

  –Jackson Browne–

  Thursday is a good day to die.

  For Jews, and others with similar beliefs about the nature of death and the behavior required of survivors, you can have a funeral before the weekend. If your faith dictates otherwise, requiring one or more time-consuming ceremonial activities, or if you have no religion at all to guide you, and in its place find it desirable to have the deceased shown off, available for public viewing, Thursday can still be good. The departed, resplendent in mortuary makeup and laid out in the comfort of a silky, satin-finished, cushioned box, can be viewed Friday and Saturday, then buried on Sunday. Some people want nothing more than the simple, respectful display of a closed coffin. For them, Thursday is also a good day to die. A Saturday funeral can disrupt a weekend, and most feel a Sunday funeral is better. Neither, however, causes a single day of missed work. But best of all is dead on Thursday, buried on Friday. One day off and nobody’s weekend plans get ruined.