Compromising Positions (25 page)

“Easy, Prince,” she snapped, and held his chain collar.

“Bye,” I said, slipping out the door as quickly as possible. “Thanks again.”

Well, I thought, at least I confirmed a wild guess. But it’s Dicky who should have been killed, if the murder had anything to do with the porno ring. Not Bruce. So, I mused, as I drove past the glistening white colonials and low-slung ranch houses on the Flecksteins’ street, who did it? I felt I knew, but I wasn’t sure. Lots of people, lots of motives. And a seemingly grieving widow, numbed with grief over the loss of her loyal and loving husband.

By the time I reached home, I felt more sanguine. It’s really getting clearer, I said to myself. Soon it will all fall into place. I almost skipped into the house. It’s coming! I’ve almost got it! Then who did it? I sank into a kitchen chair, with an almost palpable sense of a thick, black cloud descending upon my head. It wasn’t getting clearer at all. It was as murky as ever.

Just to prove to myself that I was still alive, I called Shorehaven High School. Could Mrs. Jacobs call me during her lunch hour? Thank you. Maybe all I needed was a little more information.

I dashed about puffing up cushions, jamming toys onto shelves, dropping the children’s mud-encrusted clothes into the washing machine. Responding to a massive surge of adrenalin, I grabbed a stray crayon and made an extensive shopping list, with neat categories for paper goods, detergents, pasta, and condiments, plus Swiss cheese, eggs, yogurt, milk, spinach, cucumbers...and the doorbell rang.

“Who’s there?” I demanded, grinning a little. I pictured my two second-string saviors from Jehovah’s Witnesses.

“Nelson Sharpe.” I ran my fingers down the sides of my nose to erase the oily sheen and opened the door.

“Hi. I thought you were coming tomorrow.”

“Well, I took the day off, but I happened to be in the neighborhood.” He was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a gray sweat shirt and looked very unofficial. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

“You look nice,” he said. In anticipation of Norma Fleckstein’s breathtaking good grooming, I had put on a pair of good red slacks, a red and white sweater, and enough bronzing gel to grease a Mack truck.

I closed the door behind him. “Thank you.” I stifled the urge to add: “You don’t really mean it.” Then, glancing at him, I wanted to say, “So do you.” His sweat shirt was stretched at the neck and a little patch of curly brown and gray hair peeked out at me. Was he really being casual, sloppy even, on his day off, or had he dressed with care, sensing that jeans and a jock’s sweat shirt were dynamite? “Do you have the pictures?” I asked.

“No. I’ll bring them tomorrow. Is anything new? Make any startling discoveries in the last twenty-four hours?” I opened my mouth to speak but then decided not to. “All right. Something happened,” he said. “What? Tell me.”

“Dicky Dunck was the informer in the Fleckstein case.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Judith,” he bellowed, “would you please tell me where in the hell you’re getting your information? I’m not kidding now.” His face was quite flushed, and I knew he was really angry, but he had called me Judith, so I didn’t mind at all.

“I’d be delighted, Nelson,” I replied. “Now, just so you won’t get apoplexy in the middle of my living room, I heard it from Norma Fleckstein. Aren’t I being cooperative?”

“Norma Fleckstein!” he yelled.

“I thought you’d say that,” I observed. “Calm down for a second and let me explain. Norma said that Bruce just happened to run into a casual acquaintance whom he had referred to Dicky Dunck for some printing business. Now this individual—whom he told Norma he barely knew—told Bruce that he had heard through a police source that Dicky was the informant.” As precisely as I could, I repeated the conversation I had had with Norma. “Is it true about Dicky?” I asked. He said nothing. “Come on. I told you everything I know.”

He chewed his lower lip. “Okay, but, Judith, if this goes any further, you’re in big trouble.” I sat motionless next to him on the living room couch, which had become our base of operations, and said nothing. “Yes,” he said, “Dunck was an informer.”

“Wow!”

“But Fleckstein couldn’t have heard it from the police, even secondhand. We weren’t in the case until Fleckstein was killed. It was the U.S. Attorney’s office, and they were dealing with the IRS and the FBI. I can’t understand why he told her it was the police.”

“It was probably a misinterpretation on Norma’s part; anybody in law enforcement is ipso facto a cop. Now, getting back to Dicky. I thought it was a porno film distributorship. Why would they need a printer?”

“They had books too. Not many. But real raunchy stuff.”

“Like what?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Good God, Nelson. I’m not a sixteen-year-old virgin. Tell me.”

“Something to appeal to the average white-collar child molester. And some homosexual S & M stuff.”

“Literature or pictures?”

“If you stretch the definition, you could call it literature.”

“So tell me. What happened?” I kicked off my shoes and put my feet on the coffee table.

“Well, to make it short, Fleckstein had a patient who had a friend who needed some capital for a little investment in the arts. The cinema. Fleckstein went in for about twenty thou and later put in some more, we don’t know exactly how much. Anyhow, at some point his partners suggested they had some promising manuscripts and needed a printer, so he suggested his brother-in-law.”

“So why did Dicky become an informer?”

“He said he was repulsed by the content.”

“Come on,” I said.

“Their payments weren’t as generous as Dicky had anticipated.”

“So he spilled the beans?”

“You’ve been reading too much Dashiell Hammett.”

“I’m trying to communicate with you on your level.”

“Don’t be such a wise ass,” he said, grinning.

“Anyhow, what happened? Dicky ran to squeal?”

“Sort of.”

I put my feet flat on the floor. “Sort of?”

“Judith, this is confidential.”

“I know. I know.”

“The IRS had another informant, but they needed someone else for corroboration. One of their agents went to talk to Dicky, and he caved in within a few minutes.”

“Did he make a deal with them?”

“Yes. He would be an unindicted co-conspirator.”

“Who was the other informant?”

“I’m not going to tell you. Anyhow, his connection with Fleckstein was tenuous. Now, tell me your impression of Norma Fleckstein.”

“She’s a complete cipher,” I said slowly. “There’s a heaviness about her, a dullness, but it’s definitely not stupidity. I think she’s fairly bright. It may be that she’s still reeling because of shock. She described Fleckstein as a good husband, a good breadwinner. If you take her at her word, she had absolutely no idea that he was involved in any murky business deals—and definitely no extramarital relationships.” I almost choked on “extramarital” but kept talking. “But she should have sensed something was going on.”

“Maybe she didn’t want to know,” Sharpe said.

“Maybe.”

We were silent.

“I think I’m hungry,” he finally said.

“Can I make you some lunch?”

“Okay.”

“Only if you give me a rundown on everybody’s alibi.”

“All right. But it’s not very gracious of you to put preconditions on lunch after you’ve offered it.”

“I know. But no alibis, no tuna fish.”

“Oh. Tuna fish.”

“You don’t like tuna fish?”

“Not particularly.”

“How about a Wonder Bread and Miracle Whip sandwich?”

“Do you really want to get into ethnic jokes, Judith?” I smiled. “How about some eggs? Do you have any eggs?” he asked.

“A few. How do you want them?”

“Come into the kitchen. I’ll make you an omelet you’ll remember for the rest of your life.”

It was a memorable omelet, more moist and fluffy than any I had ever made. “Great,” I pronounced. “Magnificent. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“I was a cook in the Air Force.”

“And from that you became a cop?”

“No. My father was a cop. Actually, he was chief of police of a six-man force in Bay Harbor. That’s a little incorporated village about fifteen miles from...” The phone rang. It was Fay Jacobs.

“Judith,” she asked, “is anything wrong?”

“No. Sorry if I worried you. Hold on and I’ll take the phone upstairs.” I handed the receiver to Sharpe and whispered: “Business call. Will you hang up when I pick up the phone?”

“Sure,” he said.

I dashed up the stairs to the bedroom and lifted the phone. There was a definite click and I knew he’d hung up.

“Fay. Sorry to bother you, but I figured you’d have a free minute during your lunch hour. Hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“That’s all right, Judith. How are you? I really enjoyed our lunch. It made me regret working; I have so little free time to visit with friends.”

“Well, we’ll have a gala lunch during Easter vacation. Fay, I was wondering. Are you going to any more of those Women in History seminars? I’d love to go with you.”

“Well, I really haven’t heard of any coming up,” she said. “But I know they were planning a few more.”

“Good. Will you let me know?”

“Yes, of course.”

“By the way, do you know Laura Gordon-Jaffee, the feminist?”

“I’ve met her a few times. She’s quite a dynamo.”

“A nice person?”

“Yes. She seems pleasant.”

“Is she married?”

“Yes. Apparently successfully, although I don’t know how she finds the time.”

“Is her husband involved in the movement?”

“Not in any active way. He’s part of the family that owns Jaffee’s, the bookstores. I hear he’s a financial whiz of some sort and really built the company up from a small Mom and Pop operation.”

“And they get along well?”

“I think so. I saw them about a year ago at a school budget hearing. He was wearing a button that said ‘I am a feminist.’”

“Wonderful,” I said. “Fay, do you have a few minutes? Tell me what’s new and exciting in your life.” She told me that she was going to spend July in Colorado, in a workshop for high school history teachers to attempt to synthesize the other social sciences into the eleventh- and twelfth-grade history curricula.

“Fay, I’m jealous. It sounds absolutely lovely. Will your husband be going along?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, almost too quickly. “Things are very busy at the bank.”

“I see,” I said, sensing that I should tread softly. “Bob’s been working insane hours also. Oh, by the way, remember we were discussing Bruce Fleckstein?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Certainly.”

“Something you mentioned intrigued me. You said that he always seemed to pick women whose husbands were successful.”

“And that’s why you asked me about Laura Gordon-Jaffee’s husband.”

“Fay...”

“That’s all right, Judith. Frankly, I’d heard rumors, but I couldn’t believe them. What could she possibly see in him?”

“I’ll draw you a picture,” I said.

“Oh, that. Well, at least he showed some taste. Now I feel flattered. I thought he was limited to bubble-brains and neurotics.”

Like Fay’s sister-in-law, Linda Berman, I wondered? But I decided not to ask. Instead, I said: “When you said the husbands were successful, did you mean financially?”

“Yes. Financially and well thought of in their respective fields. Why do you ask, Judith?”

“Curiosity, Fay. I wonder if it was just coincidence.” I glanced up. Sharpe was standing in the doorway. Scowling, I waved my hand at him to leave. He remained, his left shoulder resting on the frame of the door. “Look, it was wonderful talking to you,” I said into the phone, still glaring at Sharpe.

“Thanks so much for calling, Judith. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything about the next history seminar.”

“Thanks. I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Bye.” I put the receiver down gently and swung around to confront Sharpe. “You had no right to listen in on my conversation.”

“I wasn’t listening in.”

“If you had any subtlety, you’d have my phone tapped.”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I just came up because you were taking so long.”

“I told you it was business.”

“M.Y.O.B.,” he said.

“That’s not even remotely funny. I think you’re very rude.”

“Who’s Fay?” he inquired.

“You bastard! You said you weren’t listening.”

“I wasn’t. I just heard the name Fay.”

“Would you please leave this house this instant!” He smiled. “I mean it, Lieutenant. Now. Out.”

“Don’t you want to hear everybody’s alibi?” he asked. He hadn’t stopped smiling. “You can take notes.”

“All right,” I said, coldly, correctly. “Let’s go downstairs.”

“Judith?”

“What is it?”

“Does it make you nervous having me in your bedroom?” He took a step into the room to demonstrate that he was willfully violating my territorial integrity.

“Yes, it makes me nervous.” I marched to the door, turning slightly so I could pass him. Sharpe did what I hoped he would do, what I lacked the decisiveness, the courage, to try. He grabbed me, held me, and kissed me, a long, deep, probing kiss.

Pulling my head back a few inches, I made a pro forma protest. “Please.” Then, allowing him no time to respond, I brought my lips back to his. We tried strong kisses, tender kisses, lips, teeth, and tongue. Sharpe seemed to enjoy kissing for kissing’s sake, not merely as a prelude to copping a feel, not as an automatic accompaniment to lovemaking, something to keep the mouth busy when the rest of the body is flailing about. He was a naturally gifted kisser.

“Judith,” he whispered. There was something large and wonderful under his jeans, pressing against me, and I sensed my fingers moving almost reflexively, itching to reach for his zipper.

But instead I broke away. “Nelson, I can’t handle this. Please.”

“Please.”

“No. Please.” I stepped back so we stood apart, plenty of space for our chests to rise and fall with our heavy breathing.

“Should I apologize?” he asked. “I’m sorry, but you’re a great woman. I’ve never met anyone like you.”