Compromising Positions (27 page)

“I don’t want to be a lawyer.”

“What do you want to be? A detective?” he asked, his voice laden with irony.

“I don’t know. I just want to be left alone to decide for myself. God, it’s my future.”

“Judith, it’s our future.”

“Our future? When it’s me, it’s our future; when it’s you, it’s your life.” He let my hand drop. “You know how I felt about your working for your family. And I really resent your plugging away twelve hours a day and never seeing the children, never really seeing me. So if you’re that sincere about our future, why don’t you leave the firm and get a nice nine-to-five job so we can be together?”

“Don’t you like living the way you do? How could we live in this style,” and his hand made a grand sweep around the room, “on a nine-to-five job?”

“Who says we have to live this way?”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m only talking about our future.”

He stomped over to his dresser, grabbed his pajamas, and marched into the bathroom to change. He wouldn’t talk to me for the remainder of the night. And I heard the door slam at six-thirty as he left.

At nine twenty-five the next morning, I opened the door to greet Sharpe. He nodded and walked into the house, not actually avoiding my glance, but not establishing intimate eye contact either.

“Would you like some coffee?” I asked, after my “hi” got no response.

“No.” He rubbed the back of his hand across his lips. “No, thank you.” This was it, I figured, the end of a brief but golden era. No screwing, no personal visits. If you have something to tell the police, please call your local precinct. They will relay the message. Thank you and goodbye.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Let’s have it.”

“You haven’t told me everything.” He had thick, straight eyebrows, and they were drawn together, creating two deep, grim furrows. I tried a smile, but it didn’t work. “I think it’s time we had it out, Judith. Apparently, there’s a lot you know about Fleckstein that you haven’t told me. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“You could at least attempt to deny it,” he said.

“Why should I? I told you I have a vague idea about who sprayed my refrigerator. But that’s it—just an idea, based on speculation. I think whoever did it was the murderer, but I’m not even certain about that. But that’s old news to you. I told you I don’t want to point a finger at someone who might be a blessed innocent.”

“Is that all you kept from me?” he asked. “Or is there more?”

“You’re playing games with me and I don’t like it,” I said, my voice rising. “If something’s bothering you, tell me.”

“I’m playing games?” he shouted, taking a step toward me. “What about you? I trusted you. I discussed the case with you. Christ, I came right out and let you know how I feel about you, goddamn it, and you’re telling me I’m playing games! Come on, Judith. I’m investigating a murder. I have to know everything. I can’t play games, not even with you. Now come on.”

I walked up to him, put my arms around him, and gently bit his lower lip. “Don’t be angry. Please.” I kissed him, lightly at first, delicate little kisses, and then harder. “Please, Nelson.”

Putting his hands on the small of my back, he pulled me toward him. He began rubbing himself against me rhythmically, up and down, up and down. “Judith.” This is what is called committing oneself, I thought, and allowed myself a small moan of pleasure. “Judith.” His tongue was all over my mouth. And suddenly he pulled back. “No.”

I stared at him. “No?”

“No. Not now.” We swallowed simultaneously. “We have to talk.”

“We’re doomed,” I told him. “You know that, don’t you? We’re characters in some terrible Greek myth, assigned to a double bed in a dark corner of Hades, destined to be eternally frustrated. Whenever you’re ready, I won’t be able to handle it, and whenever I want you, you’ll want to talk.” I trudged over to the couch and sat down.

“We’ll get there,” he smiled, sitting next to me and kissing me gently on the forehead.

“No, we won’t,” I answered hopelessly. Here I was, ready to abrogate my nuptial vows, tear up my marriage contract, toss caution and guilt to the winds, and all I got was a raincheck. “All right, Sharpe. You want to talk business, let’s talk. What terribly vital snippet of information did I withhold from you? Come on. You’re angry with me, remember? I’m Judith, the immature one who likes to play games.”

“Not as much as your friend, Mrs. Mahoney.”

“Mary Alice!” I emitted a whoop of laughter, then clapped my hand over my mouth. “Oh, Nelson, she came to you. Fantastic!”

“Sure. Fantastic. Only you forgot to mention to me that she existed. And so, late yesterday afternoon, I dropped into my office, and there’s a message for me to call an assistant D.A. I called and guess what? He has in his office a fine, public-spirited citizen with her lawyer whom
you
just happened to recommend to her.”

“Claymore Katz!”

“The same.”

“But I didn’t tell them to go to you,” I said lamely.

“I know that, Judith. I appreciate the care you’ve taken to protect me from some of the more sordid aspects of the investigation.”

“Nelson!” I tried to sound indignant but, knowing I had no justification for that, managed to sound only mildly petulant.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Who do you think is in charge of this investigation?”

“I know, I know. But she told me what she did in confidence. And if she came to you, it means that she passed a lie detector test. And that means she didn’t murder Fleckstein, so I wasn’t shielding a murderer or screwing up your investigation.”

“Lie detectors aren’t foolproof,” he said. “I don’t care what you’ve heard. I’m convinced a pathological liar could pass a polygraph test with flying colors. Christ, I’ve seen it happen.”

“Do you really think Mary Alice might have done it? Truthfully, Nelson, do you suspect her?”

“No, not really. For what it’s worth, she did pass the test, and she was pretty convincing about not having seen him for a while. But, listen, I want you to tell me everything she told you about her affair with Fleckstein. It’s his technique I’m interested in.”

“Yours is better.”

“Judith, cut the crap.” But he smiled.

“Okay. Well, he seems to have started with a telephone call, letting a woman he had just met know how devastatingly attractive she was—and could she have lunch?”

“You heard this from your friend?”

“Mary Alice. Yes. And another friend, too.” The moment I said it, I regretted it.

“What other friend?”

“Oh, just some woman I know.”

“The name.”

“What will you do if I don’t tell you?” He didn’t answer. “All right. It was Fay Jacobs. She teaches at Shorehaven High. But, listen, she never met with him at all. She felt that he was pure, undiluted slime. Evil, she said.”

“Evil? That’s interesting.”

“Nelson, come on. She’s a terrific lady.” And I was a louse.

“I’ll check her out.”

“Please! She hasn’t told anybody else about this, and if you start questioning her, she’ll know you got to her through me.”

“All right. I’ll do it quietly. Now tell me more about Fleckstein.” I said nothing. “Don’t worry, Judith. Unless there’s a reason, she’ll never know a thing. Now talk.”

For about twenty minutes, we dissected Fleckstein’s methods. How long he usually took to score. How he was able to convince some of the women to let him take photographs. Why he apparently couldn’t convince others. Or didn’t he bother with all of his women? Was it a periodic kink rather than a compulsion? And the prospect of blackmail: Mary Alice seemed to have sensed the possibility, but had he actually attempted to force any of his women into a corner? Could the murderer have been some bland, anonymous woman who came into his office on tiptoes, stabbed him, and disappeared with the photographs? A Madame X who...And the doorbell rang. Ding.

“Who could that be?” I demanded.

“Why don’t you find out?”

“It could be the murderer.”

“Why would the murderer ring your front doorbell?”

“Why not?”

“Just answer it,” he said.

“I could be stabbed through the forehead with an awl. Awls are cheap.” Ding. “Just a minute,” I called to the door.

“I’m right here. I have a gun. Don’t worry.”

“You have a gun?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“But I don’t like guns.”

“Judith, I carry a gun because I have to. I’m a cop. I believe in gun control laws, okay? Look, should I answer the door?”

“No.” The bell rang again just as I tugged open the door. And there was Nancy, dressed all in white—slacks, sweater, fur jacket—a frosty, remote Episcopalian princess.

“You certainly took your own sweet time, Judith,” she declared loudly. “Taking a test flight on a new vibrator?”

“Shhh.”

“Listen, I have marvelous goodies for you. They found the murder weapon right in your sweet little neighbor’s storm sewer. Cupcake was just over, and he told me it’s in the police lab right now.”

“Why didn’t you call first?” I whispered.

“What’s wrong with you? You’re acting like a constipated chicken. I just decided to pop over. I’ve done that before, you know.”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I hissed at her, making a jerking movement with my head in the direction of the living room. “He’s in there,” I mouthed.

“Who?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“I’m Nelson Sharpe,” he said, as he turned the corner into the entrance hallway.

“Lieutenant Sharpe,” I amended. “Homicide.” Nancy was trying to appear only mildly interested in the proceedings. “He’s investigating the Fleckstein murder. Remember, the dentist who was killed?”

“Yes, I recall reading about it,” Nancy said thoughtfully.

“You recall reading about it,” Sharpe echoed and glanced at me sourly. “Look, I want to know what’s going on.” He turned to Nancy. “How did you know about the awl?”

“I’m a journalist,” she said, flashing one of her down-home friendly smiles. “Nancy MacLaren, Lieutenant.” She stuck out her hand and he shook it. “Nice to meet you.” Until that moment, she had never used her maiden name professionally.

“And where did you hear about the awl?”

“Now, Lieutenant, you don’t really expect me to tell you that. I have to protect my sources.” She turned away from and gave me a huge grin. “Sorry to have bothered you, Judith. I just wanted some historical background for an article I’m working on. I’ll get back to you later.” She turned and strode to the driveway.

“Judith,” Sharpe began.

“Nelson, it’s true. She is a journalist.”

“And she’s covering the Fleckstein case, right? Come on. I know every reporter assigned to this investigation. Who is she?”

“She told you. Nancy MacLaren.” A very smart person. She knew Sharpe couldn’t trace her without her last name and she assumed—correctly—that I wouldn’t tell him.

Sharpe grasped my wrist and led me into the living room. “Judith, this is serious. I’m supposed to be in charge of this case, and suddenly everyone is an expert. You. Your friends. The investigation is leaking like a goddamn sieve and I’m getting nowhere. Now, please, will you tell me everything you know from beginning to end—I’m willing to let you go along for the ride, but only if you help.”

“Okay. But before I waste too much time talking, don’t you want me to look at the pictures?”

“All right. But this is only a temporary stay of execution. As soon as you’re finished, we’ll talk.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket and extracted a small manila envelope. “Here they are.” He handed the envelope to me across the coffee table. Squeezing the two metal tabs together, I opened the envelope and peeked in. Outstretched legs and pubic hair. I closed it.

“Feel awkward?” he asked. I nodded. “They’re kind of raw. Have you ever seen any pornography?”

“Sure. That’s the strange thing,” I tried to explain. “I’m positive there’s nothing here I haven’t seen before, but I feel like I’m unlocking Pandora’s box.”

“I don’t think he ever photographed Pandora,” he said.

“Nelson, please be serious.” He walked over to me, and for a moment I thought he was going to grab me, inflamed by the recollection of the contents of the envelope. But he just put his arms around me and hugged me, gently, asexually. But I pulled back and demanded: “Are you trying to protect me? Because if you are...”

“I’m just trying to hug you.”

“I don’t have to be sheltered, you know.”

“I know,” he said. “Did you think I was being condescending?”

“No,” I answered. “But I am a little edgy. It’s odd, I’ve seen movies of all sorts of things, of women getting it in every imaginable orifice, of lesbians, animals, you name it. And it never bothered me. I’ve even been excited by some of it. But this is different. It’s in context, if you know what I mean. These are women who might be my friends—even me. They have kids, they squeeze cantaloupes in the supermarket. And suddenly I’m looking in on their inner life, which they never thought would go public. Aren’t there aspects of your life, your imagination, that you wouldn’t want anyone to know about?”

“I guess so.”

“So?” I gave him the envelope.

“Judith, you talk about the photographs being in context, right? Well, consider the context. Someone murdered Fleckstein. I have to find the killer. That’s my context. Look, I could sit back and say he was a vile human being, a rotten, manipulative scum—and he was. But that wouldn’t stop me from doing my job, even if it means wading in the muck he created. Now, you’ve involved yourself in this investigation. Somehow, something about it hit a nerve and you responded. So you’re faced with a choice. You can follow it through to its logical conclusion—assuming there is one—or you can say goodbye, this isn’t amusing any more. It’s up to you. But I can’t do that. It’s my job.”

“Let me see them.” He handed me the envelope I had returned to him. I reached in and pulled out the photographs. There were a number of them, probably ten or twelve. “Let’s go into the dining room. It may be easier if I spread them out on a table.” I sorted the pictures out quickly, all over the table, as if I were dealing a fast hand of solitaire. “These three are the same person,” I said to him.