Compromising Positions (26 page)

I reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Let’s talk alibis,” I suggested, feeling positively radiant.

“I don’t want to talk alibis,” he said as he followed me down to the living room. “Please, Judith, let’s just sit down and discuss,” he hesitated, “other things.”

“I don’t want to discuss other things,” I murmured, lowering myself into the wing chair and crossing my legs tightly. “Not now.”

Sharpe took his usual seat on the couch and peered at me across the coffee table. “Why are you sitting all the way over there?”

“Because this whole situation makes me nervous.”

“Oh.” He drew his hands together as if he were preparing to pray and rested his chin on top of his two middle fingers. “Are you,” he demanded, quietly and precisely, “interested in me?”

“No. I’m just stringing you along because I’m a hard, mean bitch who loves toying with men’s emotions.” I sighed and continued, my tone softer. “Of course, I’m interested. But I don’t want to talk about it now. Could we please change the subject?”

“Okay.”

“Are you married?”

“I thought I heard you say you wanted to change the subject?”

“I have.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“You’re being evasive,” I said accusingly.

“I’m married.”

“What’s her name?”

“June.” Blond, slender, carrying armfuls of fresh daisies.

“Does she work?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“She teaches deaf children.”

“Do you have kids?” I inquired.

“Three,” he answered. “Do you want me to tell you about them?”

“No,” I said. Then I sighed. “How old are they?”

“Karen, the oldest, is eighteen. John is sixteen and Emily’s twelve. Can we talk things over now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d rather not.” He had been a father when I was a high school senior. “Okay, what is Norma Fleckstein’s alibi?”

“You really want to get back to business?” he asked. I nodded. “Well, in the time span we’re dealing with, she was driving her children somewhere and then she came home. Two of her children were with her; the other was at a friend’s house for dinner.”

“Could Norma have slipped out of the house?”

“Doubtful,” he said thoughtfully, “but it’s possible. This is the thing, Judith. All the alibis are fairly reasonable, but none are really airtight.”

“What’s your definition of airtight?”

“I don’t know. Being on a scheduled airline flying over Ohio and talking with three nuns who’ve never seen you before but remember you distinctly.”

“I see. Now, what about his various and assorted women?”

“Which one?”

“Lorna Lewis.”

“Home, making dinner. Kids in the kitchen.”

“Any others?”

“Sure there were others. The guy couldn’t keep his pants on. But everyone we can tie up to Fleckstein swears their affairs with him were over with months ago.”

“Do you believe them?”

“I can’t prove anything one way or the other. We interviewed the manager of a motel he liked to use. All this guy could give us was that Fleckstein was a very steady customer, but that he always paid for the room while the woman waited outside in the car.”

I brushed some hair off my forehead. So that’s how they do it. “He never noticed them walking to the room?” I asked.

“No. Fleckstein always used a room in the back. He’d just pull the car around and park it in front of the room.”

“Did you speak to any chambermaids? Waiters? Did they ever have room service?”

“Judith, the Tudor Rose is not exactly the Plaza, and they weren’t there for a leisurely champagne dinner.” He grinned at me. “Would you consider coming over here now? It’s safe.”

I shook my head no, but managed to relax the clawlike grip I had on the arms of the chair. “The Duncks?”

“He was in his printing shop. She was at her health club.”

“The health club. Isn’t that a good alibi?”

“As good as any of them. She had a massage at five, but after that we don’t know. No one can say for sure when she left. She claims she was resting in the lounge and fell asleep until seven.”

“Do you believe her?”

“As much as I believe any of them.”

“But Marilyn Tuccio was at the A&P. That you do know. She has her supermarket check.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t have the time on it. And doesn’t it strike you as odd that someone would keep a supermarket check?”

“Sure, but not Marilyn if you really think about it. She keeps track of everything. Nothing escapes her.”

“Maybe,” he said, sounding noncommittal. “Judith, sit next to me. I won’t lay a hand on you unless I have your written consent.”

I shrugged my shoulders as though this was the sort of thing I encountered twice a day: virile, magnetic men pleading with me to sit beside them. I walked to the couch and sat down.

“What about the Mafia connection?” I asked. “Is that worth pursuing? Could they have done it?”

Sharpe didn’t answer. I doubted if he even heard my question. Staring at my sweater, he said, “Your nipples are hard,” and brushed his fingertips lightly over my breast.

“Jesus!” I yelled at him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong. You know that. We’re going to be good together. You’re very sensitive,” he said in a low husky voice.

“And you’re goddamn insensitive,” I replied harshly, trying not to cry and feeling my throat tighten with the effort. “Can’t you understand that when I say no I mean no? I’m not being coy with you. If and when I decide I want to sleep with you, I’ll drop you a line. Okay? If you’re still interested, fine. If not, you’re under no obligation. But right now I can’t get involved. I have a husband...”

“And you talk about
me
being insensitive. Christ, why don’t you take a look at him?”

“My husband is none of your business,” I said.

“No, but you are.”

“Look, I don’t bring up your wife, do I? Or doesn’t she care if you screw around?”

“Is that what you think I want? A quick hump?”

“How should I know what you want? I hardly know you.”

“All right. I’m sorry if I put too much pressure on you. It won’t happen again.” I must have looked somewhat incredulous, because he added: “I promise. But I really resent the implication that all I want from you is a fast fuck; you’re putting both of us down. Jesus, I’m not a Bruce Fleckstein. I don’t go around trying to make it with every woman I meet.” He paused for a second. “I know I have no way of proving that to you, but you can either believe me or not.”

“I believe you,” I said, although I was still uncertain. “Shall we change the subject now?”

“Sure. Where were we? Organized crime?”

“You really were paying attention.”

“I told you I was interested in more than your body.” He grinned as I stiffened. “Judith, for God’s sake, relax. I’m just teasing. Okay. As far as we know, this was no hit. The U.S. Attorney offered Fleckstein immunity and he didn’t take it. Either he was in too tight with his business friends or he was scared to testify against them. We don’t know. But the murder, well, it looks like an amateur’s work. Clever, maybe, but not a professional job.”

“Couldn’t you check with Fleckstein’s lawyer to see if he was involved with the Mafia?”

“No. It’s still a privileged communication.”

“Do you really think the murderer was smart?” I asked.

“Smart or lucky. I don’t know which.”

“Tell me about the murder itself. What did the coroner say?”

“Medical examiner, Judith, medical examiner. You’ve got to get the right jargon if you’re going to stay in business. No big deal. Thin, pointed instrument in the base of the skull. Death probably within ten minutes if not instantaneously.”

“And the mirror? I remember reading they found one of those little mirrors near the body.”

“Well, I can only guess, but most likely it was used to see if he was dead. The murderer probably held it in front of Fleckstein’s mouth to see if it would fog over.”

“Yuch,” I said, picturing the murderer kneeling beside the inert shell of the once-great Long Island Lover. “Okay. One final question. What about the husbands of all the women? Anything on them?”

“Nothing so far,” he said. “Unless one of them knew about the affair, and we have no indication, one way or the other, that that’s what happened.”

“Okay,” I said, and stood.

“Okay? That’s all, folks? Don’t you want to tell me who did it? Save me a lot of work? Show the world what bunglers the police are?”

“You’re not a bungler. But I’m not sure. Something’s missing.”

“You’re telling me!”

“We’ll get it,” I said. “It’ll come.”

“Judith, I hate to say it, but I’ve been at this long enough to know that your confidence is almost wholly unjustified.”

“Trust me,” I reassured him and glanced at my watch. “Oh, God, I have to pick up my son at his friend’s and I’m a half hour late.”

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow about nine-thirty.”

“Tomorrow? Look, I just finished explaining...”

“You agreed to look at the pictures. Remember?”

“Okay,” I conceded, and walked to the closet to get my coat.

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye, Judith?”

“Bye.”

“See you tomorrow,” he said.

All that afternoon and evening, making paper airplanes with the children, licking the oozing sauce of a Burger King Whopper off my lips, I kissed Sharpe again and again, but this time allowing myself to lift his sweat shirt and rub his chest, permitting my fingers to slowly lower the zipper on his jeans and reach inside. But my fantasies were plagued by coitus interruptus; I was, after all, a Married Woman.

So on the equal time principle, I tried to conjure up a scene with Bob. In his graduate school apartment, the first time we had slept together, unable to spare the time to pull down the bedspread. In a hotel room in Florida, the children safely ensconced in my in-laws’ condominium, making love in a large marble bathtub with only the gold cherubs on the faucets watching us. But time had dulled my nerve endings. Too many twenty-minute preprogrammed rolls around the marital bed had burned into my consciousness a diagram of Bob’s body, his odor, his voice, his style.

But he did have loyalty, habit, and, perhaps, a residue of love in his favor, so I waited, propped up on two pillows, for him to return. He did—at eleven-fifteen. I heard a key in the door and then a loud clearing of his throat and heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Hello, Judith,” he said.

“Hello, Robert,” I responded with a smile, trying to show how unnecessary all this formality was between old friends.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Fine. And yours?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“Good,” I replied. “Now can we cut the shit and talk?”

“What do you want to talk about?” he asked.

How Roosevelt tried to pack the Supreme Court. The spreading crack in the toilet in the green bathroom. “About us.”

“I told you there’s nothing to say,” he responded. He pulled off his tie, blue and presumably unstained, and hung it neatly in his closet. “You’ve gotten yourself involved in something that’s way over your head, and until you realize that, I can’t deal with you.” He began unbuttoning his shirt and turned away from me slightly, as if depriving me of a view of his chest.

“What makes you think I’m in over my head?”

He faced me, displaying a large white expanse of undershirt. “Come on, Judith. What the hell do you know about crime?”

“If you’re willing to listen, I’ll be glad to tell you.”

“Judith, what are you doing?” he demanded. “Trying to set yourself up as Sam Spade or something? Listen, I know you better than maybe you know yourself.” He raised his hand like a traffic cop as I tried to interrupt. “And I have great respect for your intelligence and ability. But this is out of your league. You’re endangering yourself and maybe even the kids, and I won’t have it.”

“Bob, just let me get a word in. Really, I’m not out of my league. I know exactly what I’m doing, and I think I have a few ideas that might lead to a solution. The police lieutenant, Sharpe, doesn’t think I’m being silly. He’s been listening to what I have to say, so I think you could give me the same courtesy.”

“That short, gray-haired guy? He’s just humoring you.”

“He is not.”

“Believe me, he is. Look, what does he need you for? Now, Judith, I care for you very much. You know I do. But I can’t sit back and watch you become embroiled in a dangerous game that you can’t begin to cope with. Judith, I’m not being condescending,” he added. “I know how hard it is for you staying at home, how bored you are. So I’ve been thinking. If you want to finish up your dissertation, I’ll arrange for a housekeeper. Is that fair?”

“I don’t want to finish my dissertation. Not now, anyway.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to find the murderer.”

His body became rigid as I spoke, but he forced himself to relax. As I sat watching him, he strolled over and sat beside me on the edge of the bed. He took my hand between his. “You know that’s unreasonable,” he cooed. “Let me ask you this. Would you like to talk with a psychiatrist? Judith, I’m not being cruel. I’m not saying you’re crazy or anything. People sometimes go to a psychiatrist just to get their priorities in order. David is going.” David was his certifiably crazy brother. “Here you are, a brilliant, educated woman stuck with two children with no outlet for your intelligence. I understand how frustrating that must be. Really, I do.”

“Bob, I don’t need a psychiatrist.”

“I didn’t say
need
.”

“All right, I don’t want a psychiatrist. I’m very happy doing what I’m doing, looking into this murder. If I thought for a second that something would happen to the children because of my involvement, I would stop immediately.” That was the absolute truth. “But nothing will happen to them. And, frankly, if I wanted to complete my dissertation, I would have managed to do it, with or without a housekeeper. I just don’t know if I want to spend the rest of my life in a classroom talking to hundreds of glassy-eyed sophomores.”

“So do something else. Go to law school. Clay said you have a good, analytical mind. Remember? Lots of women are becoming lawyers.”