Compromising Positions (28 page)

“Yes,” he agreed. The woman had long, straight brown hair that reached the middle of her back, like a Bennington freshman. Except this woman was in her mid-thirties. You could see from the deeply etched laugh lines that ran from the edge of her nostrils to the middle of her chin. And she was laughing. In all three pictures, she sat naked on a red plastic chair with wooden arms, chuckling away at something terribly amusing. In one of the pictures, her arms were crossed under tiny, almost nonexistent breasts; in the second, her hands were held, peek-a-boo fashion, over her eyes; in the third, she had folded her hands daintily in her lap.

“Well,” I said, “at least she doesn’t look exploited.”

“Maybe not,” he concurred. “But look at this.” He pointed to a shadowy corner of the picture that took in the edge of the bed. On the red carpeted floor lay a huge dildo.

“God,” I breathed, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Wait till we get together.”

“Is that what they call the hard sell?”

“Absolutely,” he said. And then he was back to business. “Do you know her? Have you ever seen her?”

“Never. Even if she wore her hair differently and she was dressed. She has a very long, stretched-out face; I would have recognized her if I’d seen her before.”

“And her?” He pointed to a picture of a slightly pudgy woman. She was dressed in the best Forty-Second Street style—black bikini panties, a black bra with holes cut out in the center so her nipples peered at the camera, brownish pink unseeing eyes. And she wore a black rhinestone-studded mask; she looked like a racy guest panelist on
I’ve Got a Secret
. In her hand was a riding crop.

“I can’t tell with the mask. But the whip doesn’t go. I mean, she should be tall and lean and tough-looking.” I picked up the photograph. “No, I don’t recognize her. But he certainly had eclectic tastes.”

“And a passion for props,” Sharpe added. “We tried to trace some of them down. Checked with one of those sex-shop owners. But the guy said they were very common, the kind everybody uses.”

“Sure,” I said. “A dime a dozen. They’re on special at Pathmark this week. Two for ninety-nine cents, with a coupon.” I stopped suddenly. “Oh, God.”

“What? What is it?”

I was staring at a photograph of a woman and a large dog. “Nelson, this was taken in Fleckstein’s house.” Right on his living room floor, to be exact. The same green rug, the same profusion of lush, leafy plants, the same upholstery fabric. “And that’s Prince!”

“Who’s Prince?”

“The dog. The Nazi dog. I saw it at Norma Fleckstein’s.”

“It wasn’t around when I was there,” he said.

“Well, it was when I was. I mean, it’s not one of those nasty toy poodles or Yorkshires that you could step on and never see.”

“It certainly isn’t. Now, what about the Princess?”

“Who?”

“The woman with Prince.”

“Let me see.” I leaned over the table and studied the picture. The woman, lying next to the Flecksteins’ glass mask; I had seen one before in
Gent
or
Oui
or
Penthouse
or
Stud
, serious reading in the drugstore while waiting for a prescription to be filled.

“Does she seem at all familiar?” Sharpe demanded.

“Wait.” Her eyes were visible, but I couldn’t determine the color. The mask cast a shadow over them. “It’s almost impossible to see her,” I said. “Isn’t it strange,” I turned to Sharpe, “that all these women’s fantasies seem so predictable to me? There’s no real novelty. Maybe it’s the suburbs, maybe in Manhattan...”I glanced at the picture again, at the woman’s body. Small, slender, tiny-waisted, almost perfect except for two small scars on her stomach, one long one down the middle and a smaller one running parallel on the right side. “Nelson!”

“What? What is it?”

“Just a question. In the medical examiner’s report, did...”

“Judith!”

“Wait. Did the report indicate how tall the murderer was? You know, from the angle of the wound?”

“Shorter than Fleckstein. Now, come on, Judith.”

“How much shorter?”

“A few inches, probably.”

“Not very short, like five foot three?”

“No. The angle was less than twenty-five degrees. And from the position of Fleckstein’s body, we know the murderer was standing, not sitting in the dentist’s chair.”

“Could it have been done by a woman?”

“Yes.”

“But not a very petite one?”

“Goddamn it, Judith!”

“Nelson.”

“What?”

“This is Brenda Dunck.”

Sharpe stood utterly still, not breathing. Finally, he turned toward me and said: “I hope this isn’t your idea of a joke.”

“Nelson,” I breathed. “Are you crazy?”

“Not until now. But if you’re kidding...Look, I’ve been drowning in this case for weeks. I’m about five days beyond humor.”

“Nelson. It’s Brenda.”

“How do you know?” he snapped. “Her face is covered.”

I yanked out one of the dining room chairs and plopped down on it. “Sit,” I ordered. He pulled up a chair, placed it beside mine, and sat. “All right. I can recognize her because I know her body.”

“Would you care to explain?”

“We belong to the same health club. I was sitting in the sauna one day and saw her. She has this fantastic body with a teeny Scarlett O’Hara waist and those two incisions going down her stomach.”

“Probably a caesarean and an appendectomy. Very common. I checked with the medical examiner.”

“Not that common,” I insisted. “Nelson, there are millions of women walking around out there without two scars on their stomachs. And who else has a waist like that?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled.

“And her pubic hair. She only has that little stripe.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why don’t you want to believe me?” I picked up the photograph and examined it again. “Look, she even has the same long, polished toenails.” Her right foot, resting on Prince’s haunches, was turned toward the camera; her first two toenails were visible.

Sharpe leaned over and gazed at the picture. “You’re positive?”

“Yes,” I said wearily.

“Okay. Then where does that get us? You said she’s short?”

“Yes. No more than five three.”

“Well, unless she took a flying leap at Fleckstein, she couldn’t have done it.”

“She’s not the flying-leap type. She’s very studied, trying to be graceful, stately. She wants to be a WASP.”

“Then she should have fucked an English sheepdog,” he remarked. “Okay, where does all this leave us?”

“I don’t know.” I slumped in the chair, head in my hands.

“Maybe it gets us nowhere,” Sharpe mused. “Maybe she was just another one of his broads.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Just be quiet for a minute.” He sat, an inch from me, watching me think, which of course made thinking impossible. “Nelson, maybe you should leave now. I can’t concentrate. I’ll call you if I come up with anything.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“Don’t you have any police work to do?”

“I’m doing it,” he insisted. “Look, let’s get out for a while. I’ll buy you lunch.”

“I can’t. My son’s coming home from school.”

“Can’t he make his own lunch?”

“Nelson, he’s four years old.”

“No kidding. I didn’t realize you had such a little one. What’s his name?”

“Joseph. Joey.”

“Do you have any others?”

“Katherine. She’s six. Do you know what’s really odd?”

“What?”

“The fact that we’re calmly considering sleeping together and we don’t even know the most basic details of each other’s lives. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

“No. Judith, we’re in tune with each other. Does that happen with every guy you meet?”

“No. Only with about sixty percent of them. And out of sixty percent, I only have time to sleep with half of them.”

“Look,” he said, “we’re adults. We’ve been around long enough to develop a sense of what other people are all about. Does it make any substantive difference if you know what my middle name is?”

“No, but it would make you more real. What is it anyway?”

“Lawrence. Does that make me more of a person to you?”

“Mine’s Eve.”

“Great. Now I know all I need to know about you. All right, Judith Eve, can I take you out to lunch?”

“No. I told you, my son’s coming home any minute.”

“Can’t he go somewhere? Play with a friend?”

“I should abandon my child so you can seduce me?”

“Judith. I have a key to a friend’s apartment. Ten minutes from here. I’ll tell you my mother’s maiden name on the way over.”

“I thought you were so angry with me when you came in. How come you have the key?”

“I was hoping we could work it out.”

“But we’re working on a case. What about Brenda Dunck?”

“She doesn’t do a thing for me. You do.”

“Please. Let’s finish the business at hand,” I said. “I need time to go over all the information we have.”

“You can think at the apartment. It’s very peaceful there. I’ll try not to disturb you.”

“Nelson,” I said, and the doorbell rang. It was Joey.

“Mommy, you weren’t at the bus stop, so I came here by myself. Remember you told me if you weren’t there to come and ring the bell? So I did.”

“Good boy,” I said, taking his hand. “This is Lieutenant Sharpe, Joey. A policeman.”

“Hi, Joey,” said Sharpe.

“You got a gun?” Joey asked.

“Here,” Sharpe indicated, opening his jacket to show his holster, clipped on his belt. He also had an erection.

“Can I see it?” Joey demanded.

“No. Look at it where it is. Guns are dangerous.”

“Lieutenant Sharpe is just going, Joey. What would you like for lunch?”

“Peanut butter and jelly. Cut in squares.”

“What would you like for lunch?” Sharpe asked me softly.

“Goodbye, Lieutenant,” I said forcefully.

“Goodbye, Joey,” he said. “Nice meeting you.” Joey ignored him. Sharpe looked at me and murmured: “I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

“No.”

“Forty-five minutes.” He waved to Joey and left.

“So,” I said to Joey, struggling to open a new jar of grape jelly and calm down at the same time, “what did you do in school today?”

“Why do we have so many cops?”

“Police. They’re just checking things out to make sure everybody’s nice and safe and obeying the law. That’s their job.”

I prepared the sandwich, meticulously cutting it into precise, clean-edged squares. “Here,” I presented it to him. He ate slowly, taking minuscule bites and rolling them around his mouth. “You’re eating very slowly,” I observed tartly.

“You said I shouldn’t eat fast. You want me to get a tummy ache and throw up?”

“No.” I replaced the lid on the peanut butter jar. “What do you want to do this afternoon?” I asked. “Want to play with North?”

“No. He farts.”

“Joey, come on. That’s so silly. Let me call Mrs. Hughes.”

“No.”

I stood by the sink, waiting for my maternal instincts to overpower my desire for Sharpe. “How about Jenny? Can I call her mother?”

“No.”

“I heard she has some wonderful new toy.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure. Want to go over and see?”

“Oh, okay.” Before he could change his mind, I called boring little Jenny’s tedious mother.

Forty minutes later I was sitting in Sharpe’s Dodge Dart, waiting for a traffic light to change. No one can force me to go through with this, I thought. I can just tell him that I find adultery morally abhorrent. Or simply say that I need time to resolve things—one way or another—with Bob. I twisted the fastener on my shoulder bag open and shut, open and shut. Look, Nelson, I could say, can’t we just be good friends?

“What if,” I began, my voice hoarse and distant, “I decided to change my mind?”

The light changed. He pulled over to the curb. “Do you want to change your mind?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know. What would happen if I did?”

“I’d make a U-turn and take you home.”

“Just like that? No recriminations? I can’t believe that.”

“What would you expect me to do? Beat you over the head and zap it to you while you’re unconscious?”

“Would you still talk to me?” I demanded.

“Yes. I don’t know. I guess I’d be upset or hurt or something, but I’d still talk to you. Although I’d probably want to sulk for a couple of days.” He paused and lifted my hands between his; his palms were damp. “Judith, I like you. And I want to go to bed with you. But if it’s more than you can handle, I’m not going to push. I don’t want that on my record. It has to be your decision.”

“It’s all up to me?”

“I’ve already made up my mind. I have no problems with it.”

I ran my hand along the dashboard. “What if I’m lousy? What if you think I’m the most boring lay in the world?”

“I’ll roll over and fall asleep. Just give me a poke when you want to go home. Judith, calm down. What if you think I’m lousy? What would you do?”

“Oh,” I responded, feeling enormously relieved. I would pat him on the head and tell him these things happen, especially if a man is nervous. And I would smile, not mockingly, but with great compassion. But if that was the case, why was I going?

“Well?”

“Drive,” I said. “I have to be home in two hours.”

His friend’s apartment house was in a town about five miles due south of Shorehaven, a red brick six-story building flanked on the left by a butcher shop and on the right by a beauty salon. The address, a large Two Twenty-Five, was written in gilt script on the building’s glass door; under it was the apartment’s name.

“The Versailles?” I asked. “It’s actually called The Versailles?”

“Well, it has mirrors in the lobby.”

We parked the car in a space in the back of the building and walked in through the back entrance.

“You’ve been here before?” I inquired.

“Sure. This friend of mine took the apartment right after his divorce, so he could be near his kids.”

“And you’ve visited him here?”

“No. He just gave me the key so that every day when he’s at work I can take a new woman to the apartment and get laid. Judith, he’s my friend, a guy I went to high school with. Of course, I’ve visited him here. He’s been pretty broken up since his divorce.”