Dead Ball

by Judith Arnold

  How long had she been in his bathroom? Her purse had been sitting on his dresser all that time, and when she’d come out he’d been standing by the dresser, and . . .

  Her toe twinged from when she’d kicked the table, and she sank into a chair.

  “I made some inquiries during the drive out here and got the word on his arrest. So Loverboy is in the clink. And you’re in the drink.” He glared at the BlackBerry. “Have you got a Ziploc bag?”

  “Sure.” She pushed herself to stand and moved on leaden feet to the drawer where she kept such items.

  Peter extended his hand, and she passed him a self-sealing plastic bag. He turned the bag inside out, used it to pick up the BlackBerry without adding his fingerprints to the device, then turned the bag right side in around the gadget and zipped the bag shut. “Go get a coat,” he said as he tucked the bagged gadget into his pocket.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the police station.”

  “Can’t we just . . . I don’t know, throw the thing away?”

  “No, darling. That’s called destroying evidence.”

  She sighed and got her raincoat from the closet. After donning it, she grabbed her purse and beckoned him to follow her into the mudroom and out through the garage. They’d stay drier taking that route to his car, and she associated the front door with trouble.

  They were in his snazzy little Audi and halfway down the street when she said, “I should have left a note for Karen.”

  “You’ll be home in time for dinner,” Peter assured her.

  “You’re pissed at me, aren’t you.”

  “Pissed? I didn’t know you used language like that.”

  “These days, I do,” she retorted.

  “All right, Lainie. Yes, I’m pissed at you. I told you to stay away from that man.”

  “He’s very nice.”

  “So was Ted Bundy.”

  “Bill Stavik is not a mass murderer.”

  “Granted, as far as we know he’s killed only one person. You shouldn’t have given him a chance to plant evidence in your purse.”

  She wanted to scream at Peter, but he was right. He’d warned her, she’d ignored his warning, and now she was “in the drink” as he’d said. Watching the windshield wipers sweep back and forth, brushing the flood of water clear of the curved glass, she found herself thinking of morals, of divine retribution. Prayers were too little, too late at this point. She’d slept with a man, and now she would be punished for it. Somewhere, a crazed fundamentalist was beaming in approval.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” Lainie asked.

  “We’ll go to the police station. I will do the talking. You will keep your mouth shut unless I give you permission to speak. Then I will drive you home and you will say, ‘Thank you, Peter, for saving my sorry ass.’”

  That sounded like a scenario she could live with.

  He steered around the Rockford Town Green until he reached the entry to the police station’s lot. The pansies Lainie had seen a Garden Club lady planting last week were bright spots of color in the gray late-afternoon light, and they cupped their yellow and blue petals to drink in the moisture.

  “Remember,” Peter said as he shut off the engine. “You will speak only if I signal you with a nod. If I don’t nod, you don’t say a word.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is there anything else I need to know before we go in there?”

  “The detective in charge of the case is a man named Howard Knapp. He’s obnoxious, and I’m not sure he knows what he’s doing. That he would have arrested Bill Stavik—”

  “Could mean he knows exactly what he’s doing. Just because you had a good time with this Stavik person doesn’t mean he isn’t a monster.” Peter’s eyes narrowed on her. “You did have a good time, didn’t you?”

  She made a face, but when he refused to release her from his gaze, she relented with a slight nod.

  “Good. Because I’d hate to see this guy ruin your life if you didn’t even get a good time out of it.”

  She wasn’t sure if this guy referred to Stavik or Knapp. At the moment, both seemed poised to ruin her life.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  She sifted through her thoughts, which were as murky as the clouds above them. Should she mention the landscape artwork Stavik had hanging on the walls of his condo? Did the fact that he liked photographs and paintings of trees mean he was in cahoots with the People for the Preservation of the Planet? She liked trees, too. Did that make her a murderer?

  Should she admit that one good thing about Stavik’s arrest was that it explained why he hadn’t called her when he’d promised he would? At least he hadn’t blown her off. Was she allowed to be happy about that?

  “I can’t think of anything,” she said.

  “All right. Here’s the drill. Anything this Detective Knapp asks you, you look at me first. If I nod, you can answer. If I don’t nod, you keep your mouth shut.”

  “I understand.” He didn’t have to address her as if she were an idiot, even if she was an idiot for having left her purse unattended in Stavik’s bedroom.

  She and Peter got out of the car together and darted through the rain to the vestibule. The gorgon behind the bulletproof glass greeted them with a look of supreme annoyance.

  Before she could speak, Peter said, “I’m Attorney Peter Cataldo from the Boston law firm of Hayes, Burton, and Karp, and this is Elaine Lovett. We need to see Detective Howard Knapp right away.” He spoke with such crisp authority, the woman seemed to deflate behind her protective glass. She buzzed them in without even contacting the back room to see if Knapp was willing to speak to them.

  Knapp was willing. Obviously attorneys impressed the Rockford Police Department in a way schoolteachers didn’t. The cop barreled down the hall to greet them, his face flushed, his belly straining against his shirt. He was in civilian clothes today, a faded white shirt and twill slacks. His paunch bulged above the buckle of his belt. “Ms. Lovett,” he said with a passing glance before he offered his right hand to Peter. “Mr. Cataldo.”

  How come Peter got a handshake and Lainie didn’t? Not that she had any particular desire to shake Knapp’s hand, but she was irritated by the deference shown to Peter and not to her. Then again, that deference might mean the police were intimidated by him, which was good. She wanted them intimidated.

  “Please, come with me,” Knapp said. His good-host manners impressed Lainie. Maybe he’d offer them drinks, too. And hors d’oeuvres. And a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  They walked down the hall, through the squad room and into the beige interrogation room with the two-way mirror on one wall. Lainie tried not to cringe. The last time she’d been in this room, she’d been doing her duty as a citizen and she’d been treated like a suspect. She doubted things would go better this time around.

  Knapp plopped onto one of the molded plastic chairs. Peter chivalrously pulled out a chair across the table from Knapp for Lainie, then took a seat at the end of the table. The head of the table. Her frown melted into a private smile. Peter knew what he was doing. Whatever he charged his clients—for all she knew, his meter was running right now—his finesse in seating himself at the head of the table proved he was worth every penny.

  “Detective Knapp,” he said in a silky voice, “my client, Ms. Lovett, found something.” He pulled the plastic bag containing the BlackBerry out of his coat pocket and laid it on the table.

  Knapp’s black-olive eyes widened. He gawked at the device, then eyed Lainie suspiciously. “Where did you find this?”

  Lainie obediently turned to Peter. He didn’t nod. “Where she found it isn’t material right now,” he said. “She found this BlackBerry, which isn’t hers. As with any found item of a certain value, she’s turning it in to the police.”

 
; Knapp continued to stare at the BlackBerry. “You didn’t turn it on to see if you could figure out whose it was?”

  Again Lainie turned to Peter. He nodded. She cleared her throat and said, “I don’t know how to turn it on.”

  Knapp scowled. He obviously didn’t believe her.

  “She found it and she’s giving it to you so you can locate its rightful owner,” Peter said. “May we go now?”

  “No.” Knapp seemed a little less intimidated by Peter, unfortunately. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He picked up the bag containing the BlackBerry and left the room.

  “What’s going on?” she whispered, leaning toward Peter and cupping her hand over her mouth so no one on the other side of the mirror could read her lips.

  “He’s probably turning it on to see if it’s Cavanagh’s.”

  “If it is, what happens?”

  “You’ll be knee-deep in feces. Or can I say shit?”

  “Shit works for me,” she muttered.

  A minute passed, during which Lainie silently issued another prayer that the BlackBerry would turn out to belong to someone else. She wondered how switching it on would identify its owner. It probably had phone numbers stored on it, but those wouldn’t be definitive. Would its memory hold messages received or sent? That might offer a clue.

  Knapp returned, his smug smile filling Lainie with foreboding. “That BlackBerry belonged to Arthur Cavanagh,” he said.

  Lainie said nothing, not only because Peter hadn’t nodded but also because she had no idea what to say.

  “I’m going to ask you again, Ms. Lovett—where did you find that BlackBerry?”

  She peered at Peter. “It was in her purse,” he said. “Someone planted it there.”

  “Someone planted it there.” Knapp’s voice oozed sarcasm. “Who do you suppose might have done that?”

  “Ms. Lovett has no idea.”

  “Ms. Lovett can speak for herself,” Knapp said.

  “Ms. Lovett has hired me to speak for her,” Peter responded.

  Ms. Lovett would like to leave the room now, Lainie thought.

  Knapp stared across the table at her. “Ms. Lovett, if we dust the BlackBerry, we’re going to find your fingerprints all over it, aren’t we? Your prints are in the system because you’re a public school teacher. So the lab’s going to figure out pretty damned fast that you were handling that BlackBerry.”

  “Of course she handled it,” Peter said. “Someone put it into her purse. She pulled it out of her purse. When she did, she left her prints on it.”

  “Any idea who else’s prints we’ll find on it?”

  “No idea at all,” Peter said. “Arthur Cavanagh’s, I assume.”

  Really, Lainie mused, if the two of them were going to have this conversation, they didn’t need her there. She could step outside, breathe in the sour rain-soaked air, and let them argue over whose fingerprints smudged the shiny surface of the BlackBerry.

  “Ms. Lovett,” Knapp said. “Yesterday we arrested William Stavik. He’s going to be charged with murdering Arthur Cavanagh. We know he’s a friend of yours. Are we going to find his fingerprints on the BlackBerry?”

  Peter’s nod gave her permission to answer. “I don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?”

  “As we’ve told you,” Peter replied for her, “someone planted the BlackBerry in her purse. She doesn’t know who did that. Whoever did it might or might not have left fingerprints on the BlackBerry. The fact that Ms. Lovett handled the BlackBerry and then brought it to the police station proves that she has nothing to hide.”

  “Then why won’t she speak for herself?”

  “Because I’m her lawyer. Are we done here?” Peter pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.

  Knapp seemed uncertain.

  Lainie’s peripheral vision picked up Peter’s hand gesture, a slight motion that she interpreted to mean she should stand, too. She did.

  Outvoted, Knapp stood as well. “You can go for now,” he said in his most threatening voice. “But I’m warning you, Ms. Lovett—we know about your relationship with Mr. Stavik. We know he killed Arthur Cavanagh. That BlackBerry links you to the murder.”

  “My client had nothing to do with Mr. Cavanagh’s death,” Peter declared, moving around the table to Lainie’s side. He took her elbow and escorted her to the door.

  “You can go for tonight,” Knapp relented. “But you’d better not leave town.”

  “What a schmuck,” Peter murmured once they were out of the building. The clatter of rain against the concrete walk nearly drowned out his voice, but Lainie heard him—probably because she was thinking the same thing.

  “Am I in trouble?” she asked back. “Does that BlackBerry really link me to the crime?”

  “Get in the car,” Peter said, pressing a button on his key to unlock his Audi. The horn beeped, and the lights flashed. Lainie got in, pushed her damp hair back from her cheeks and watched Peter circle the car and climb in behind the wheel. He buckled his seatbelt, inserted his key in the ignition and turned to her.

  “I swear, Peter, I didn’t do anything.”

  “You slept with Bill Stavik, didn’t you?”

  “That’s not against the law.”

  “You heard what the detective said. You’re linked to the crime. Stavik killed a man, you slept with him, and vital evidence turned up in your possession. So yes, sweetheart, in answer to your question, you’re in trouble.”

  Lainie fought against the urge to weep. The raindrops on her cheeks were an adequate substitute for tears. “What should I do?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I’ll drive you home, and you’ll have a nice dinner with Karen.”

  Fat chance of that. “And then what?”

  “Then we wait while Detective Knapp does everything in his power to piece together a case against you. If he gets enough to convince the district attorney that you had something to do with the murder, you’ll get arrested.”

  “Arrested?” She’d thought she was shouting, but the word emerged in a croak.

  “And then I will get you acquitted.”

  “I’m innocent, Peter. You know I didn’t do this.”

  “And that’s why I’ll get you acquitted.” He started the engine and backed out of the space. “If you’re lucky, the DA will tell Knapp he hasn’t got enough to indict. Then you’ll go back to living your life, teaching your students, and doing whatever it is you do when you’re not teaching. Let’s hope you’re lucky.”

  “But if I’m not, you’ll get me acquitted?” She needed to hear him say it one more time.

  “You’ve got me for your lawyer,” Peter said, shooting her a grin. “That alone makes you a very lucky woman.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  THEY WERE WAITING for her when she arrived home from soccer practice the following evening.

  The team had wrangled Minuteman Field on Tuesday after Monday’s washout, but the field’s condition had been swampy, thanks to twelve solid hours of heavy rain. The ankles of Lainie’s sweatpants were spattered with mud, and she was dreaming about a long, hot shower when she turned onto her street and saw the car parked in her driveway. At first, she assumed Big Brad was visiting, grazing his way through her kitchen. As she drew nearer, however, she saw that the vehicle was a police cruiser.

  If the police had come for her in spite of all her heavenly supplication yesterday, she saw no benefit in lapsing into prayer again. The words that fell from her mouth weren’t “Oh God.” They were “Oh, shit.”

  The cruiser blocked Karen’s half of the garage, not Lainie’s, so she was able to pull in. Karen, she thought with a flutter of dread.

  As if her daughter had read her mind, she swung open the mudroom door, her face pallid and her eyes wide with panic. “Mom?”
she said in a trembling voice as Lainie climbed out of the Volvo. “Those police have been sitting in the driveway, and—”

  “I know,” Lainie said, although she didn’t really.

  “They rang the bell and asked where you were. I told them you were at soccer practice, and they said they’d wait for you here.”

  Lainie was grateful they hadn’t driven over to Minuteman Field to arrest her in front of her teammates. Wouldn’t that have been interesting? Coach Thomaston might have instantly cut her from the team. If she had, Angie would have launched herself at the coach in Lainie’s defense. Sheila would probably have launched herself at the cops. They were loyal friends.

  Why was Lainie so calm? Why was she thinking about soccer practice? She reached into the back seat of her car, moving as if in slow motion, her mind recording each movement: I am about to get arrested, and now I am lifting my gear bag. It is damp on the bottom, from the wet grass at the field. I am going to try to make it through the mudroom door before they arrest me.

  She could be placid now because she’d been a wreck last night. She’d picked at her dinner, prayed, showered, prayed, graded math tests on fractions and decimals, prayed, and lain awake in bed hour after hour, praying for, among other things, sleep. God hadn’t answered that prayer, either. The old guy was batting zero.

  “Why are they here?” Karen asked anxiously.

  Lainie closed her car’s doors and lifted the strap of her bag onto her shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll let us know soon enough.” She should have given Karen some warning that this might happen. But it might not have happened, and she hadn’t wanted to alarm Karen. And it still might not happen, since she’d made it all the way around the front bumper to the two steps leading up to the mudroom. Her finger had just glanced against the button beside the door that would close the garage door when Knapp and a skinny sidekick entered the garage. The sidekick wore a police uniform, but Knapp was in civilian clothes again. Someone must have explained to him that detectives were allowed to dress like human beings.

  “Elaine Lovett?” Knapp said, holding up his shield with an authority that mimicked all the TV cop shows Lainie had ever viewed. The two officers moved deeper into the garage, trailing her to the mudroom door. “You’re under arrest as an accessory to murder in the second degree.”