Compromising Positions (38 page)

“You mean Prince.”

“Well, she took turns. A very versatile lady. Anyway, when he realized this, he ran to his car and,” he paused to glance at me, “drove right over to his sister’s.”

“To Norma’s?”

“Right. Nobody was home, so he waited, pacing up and down the driveway, looking at the picture. It was really haunting him. Finally, Norma drove up—probably about five o’clock, with two of her kids. She saw Dunck as she pulled in, and said hello, but told him she had to make dinner and couldn’t invite him in. Well, he told her it was urgent, about her husband, so she sent the kids upstairs or something and then asked him to come into the living room. And then guess who came trotting in to say hello?”

“Bruce?”

“Prince. Well, Dunck went to pieces completely and handed Norma the photograph. And do you know what she said?”

“What?”

“‘That’s my living room.’” Sharpe grinned. “‘And that’s Prince.’ Dunck was crying by this time, and he told her: ‘And that’s my wife.’ Well, Norma sat down and told him to get control of himself. Then she asked where he got the picture. And he told her.”

I imagined Norma, amidst the jungle of green plants in her living room, neat and correct and trying to comprehend what was happening. “What did she do?”

“She took the photograph into the library, didn’t say a word. Dunck just sat there, and every once in a while Prince would nuzzle him, wanting to be petted. Christ, that must have been awful.”

I kissed him gently on the mouth. “You’re so decent,” I told him. “That’s your best quality.”

“
That’s
my best quality? Judith, you of all people...”

“Then what happened?”

“She finally came back to the living room and seemed in absolute control. Dunck blurted out the whole story about how he was testifying against Fleckstein and that he was terrified about the pictures being spread around, but he was afraid of what the government would do to him if he didn’t cooperate, and so on. All of a sudden Norma interrupted him and said: ‘You’ll have to get rid of them.’”

“Get rid of what?”

“That’s what he asked her. He thought she meant the pictures, so he told her that her husband had the pictures. But she said: ‘That’s not what I’m talking about, Dicky. We’ve been humiliated.’”

“You mean she wanted him to kill Bruce and Brenda?”

“Yes.”

“That’s incredible. A middle-class Jewish woman with a Sicilian code of honor.”

“She said that they had been humiliated, shamed, and it was time he behaved like a man and put a stop to it.”

“Behave like a man,” I repeated. “Poor Dicky. How did he react?”

“Well, to his credit, he said he tried to dissuade her. He even suggested they both get divorces. But she countered him. She said: ‘Even if you got a divorce, could you ever go to your club and hold your head up high again?’”

I began laughing, less out of amusement than horror at her tortuous manipulations to keep up appearances. “What did he say?”

“Well, at first he refused. Then he said she should take care of Fleckstein. But she said she couldn’t, that if a man is killed, they always suspect the wife.”

“Is that true?”

“Sure. It’s reflex. Then Dunck asked her: ‘Won’t they suspect me if anything happens to Brenda?’ Norma conceded that and said they could take care of Brenda later. But Fleckstein had to go. She kept saying over and over that he had humiliated her, made a fool of her, and that Dunck could not allow that to happen to his sister.”

“He really bought that?”

“Well, she laid it on thick, reminding him of how Fleckstein had humiliated
him
all those times, and asked just how much he would take. Remember, she’s no genius, but she’s light-years ahead of her brother. Anyhow, she told him that she would call him the next day at his plant, as soon as the coast was clear in Fleckstein’s office.”

“She’d be a lookout?”

“No, Fleckstein always called her a few minutes before he came home, to see if she needed anything. She told Dunck that she’d tell Fleckstein to wait, that she wanted to meet him in his office because she had a special Valentine’s Day present for him.”

I cocked my head and looked at Sharpe. “And then Norma would call Dicky and tell him to hurry over to Fleckstein’s office?” Sharpe said yes. “But how come,” I asked, “if the coast was clear, Marilyn Tuccio saw Dicky at the water fountain?”

“Well, I called her this morning and checked,” he said. “She wasn’t absolutely certain, but she thinks Fleckstein might have walked out of the room after he finished working on her, while she was coming out of the anesthesia. That’s probably when he called his wife. He probably figured he’d be leaving in a few minutes anyway and wanted to save time.”

I stood, stretched my legs and set out to pace around the room. After about six steps, I stopped and fell back onto the couch. My legs ached, my shoes pinched my feet. “Okay,” I sighed. “Exit Marilyn, enter Dicky. Then what?”

“Dunck walked into the office. He claims all he wanted to do was talk with Fleckstein, to try and convince him to destroy the photographs.”

“Do you believe him?”

“In a sense. I doubt if Dunck could have gotten it up to walk in there if he knew for sure that he was going to have to kill him. But as far as the law goes, he walked in there carrying a weapon—and that’s murder one.”

“Where did he get the weapon?”

Sharpe raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Wait till you hear this. I mean, I’ve dealt with a lot of murderers, a lot of sickies and mental defectives, but I’ve never come across a normal, middle-class killer as stupid as Dunck. He took the awl out of his plant foreman’s tool box. I called the foreman this morning, and he said an awl had been missing, so he bought a new one. And Dunck approved the petty cash voucher for it. Christ, what a toad-load! Anyway, Dunck walked into the office with the awl in his pocket. He says Fleckstein seemed surprised to see him but was fairly cool, asking him how he was doing and if he had finally decided to get smart. Well, Dunck lost control and began crying, and guess what your boy Bruce said?”

“What?”

“He said, ‘Stop acting like a woman, Dicky.’ And then he grabbed Dunck’s lapels and pulled him over and sort of sneered: ‘But, then, Brenda tells me you always act like a woman, even in bed.’ And he pushed Dunck away and called him ‘stud’ and ‘big man.’”

“I guess that did it for Dicky.”

“Sure. Well. He says that he went crazy when he heard this, but that’s just a pathetic attempt to build up the basis for an insanity defense. I guess Dunck thinks that if he says he went crazy, the jury will understand and let him go.”

“And that won’t work?”

“No. There’s enough premeditation in his statement to send him away for life five times over. Anyhow, Dunck pulled away from Fleckstein, took out the awl, and lunged for him.”

“Did he die right away?” I asked.

“It took a few minutes. He says Fleckstein fell face down, and he turned him over to see if he was dead. But he wasn’t quite dead, and Dunck said Fleckstein kept staring at him—for about five minutes.”

A chill ran across my shoulders and down through my body. I rubbed my hands together as if the friction would be enough to warm me.

“Doesn’t that disturb you?” I asked Sharpe.

“No.”

“Oh.” We sat there quietly for a few seconds. I began to feel a little warmer. Sharpe yawned. “Then what?”

“He broke the locks on the drawers and found one of them full of pictures. He grabbed them and stuffed them into his pocket, but of course he missed a few—the ones we found. Oh, by the way, he was wearing gloves the whole time, which probably adds weight to a premeditation charge. Anyway, he left and went back to Norma’s.”

“God,” I said, shaking my head. Suddenly I looked at him. “Nelson, is there a cafeteria or something here? I couldn’t get any breakfast down and now I’m starving. I mean, I know we have a lot of ground to cover, but if you have time...”

“Sure.” He helped me on with my coat, and we left the building, walking a few blocks to a coffee shop, Maclyn’s Luncheonette—Seating and To Go. Sharpe ordered eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. I asked for orange juice and an English muffin.

He smiled at me and took my hand and said: “Judith, you’ll never know how wonderful you are.”

I smiled back. “I’m sorry I couldn’t hold out, but my stomach isn’t what it should be.” I took a bite of the marmalade-coated muffin. “What happened when Dicky got to Norma’s?”

“Well, he gave her the pictures.”

“That’s right. God, how did I forget about them? Did you find them?”

“Finally, but it took almost four hours. She was pretty clever. Do you know where they were?” I shook my head. “Packed away in the basement, with all sorts of summer things. She had taken this inflatable sea horse that kids use and made a slit in it and stuffed the pictures in. Then she put a matching vinyl patch over it and blew it up. But one of the detectives is a very smart guy, and he noticed all the other toys were in various stages of deflation after hanging around all winter. He found it curious that this was the only one that was fully inflated.”

“Not bad,” I conceded. “But why did they want to hold on to the pictures?”

“They didn’t,” he replied, falling silent as the waitress approached. She poured him another cup of coffee and asked if I wanted a cup.

“You look like you could use it, honey,” she commented. I consented.

“Do I look that bad?” I asked Sharpe.

“Yes,” he said. I shifted uncomfortably, longing to reach into my bag for a mirror. “You look kind of yellow,” he described, smiling. “But still beautiful. I like yellow. Look, do you want me to continue or do you want to go and powder your nose or something?”

“Go on.” The waitress came and deposited my coffee.

“Well, Norma had persuaded Dunck to tear apart the office and find the photos. She told him she would take care of destroying them. When he came to her house, she had two questions: ‘Is he dead?’ and ‘Did you get the pictures?’ He told her the pictures were in his coat, and she took them. She put them in her pocketbook. She told him to leave and she would light a fire and destroy them.”

“That’s fascinating,” I said. “What could have motivated her to keep them? I mean, did she have some need to see them again and again? Or did she think she could use them for something, like blackmail?”

“Well, her motives were very complex, that’s for sure. I mean, if the average woman found out her husband was carrying on like that, she’d either pack her bags or learn to live with it. But with Norma, the photographs gave her a hold on Dunck—and she used them.”

“Tell me.” I took a sip of my coffee. It was warm, not hot, and the cream had separated into pale little islands, floating on a dark black sea.

“Dunck says she took him aside before the funeral and told him she burned them. But that was before you came in.”

“Me?”

“Yes. After you interviewed the Duncks, he called Norma and told her about you. She had a fit and ordered him to give you ‘a warning.’ Dunck said he didn’t want any part of it, and that’s when she told him he’d better toe the line—or she’d spread the pictures of Brenda around.”

“So she was the one who told him to write the M.Y.O.B.”

“Well, yes and no. She told him to give you a warning, but she wasn’t specific. Apparently, when he told her what he had done, she blew up. Her idea of a warning was something a little more threatening.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s a good thing she was so vague, otherwise you might have been introduced to me when I was laid out on a slab. You know, the minute I saw M.Y.O.B., I connected it with Dicky. Did she tell him to plant the awl at Marilyn’s?”

“No. In fact, she never even asked him about the weapon. The awl in the storm sewer was his own embellishment.”

“I’m sure Norma was thrilled when he told her about it.”

“Overjoyed. Do you know what he said? ‘When I told Norma where I put the awl, she yelled at me.’”

I shook my head sadly. “Do you think he’s a little off the beam? Or slightly moronic?”

“I don’t think he’s either. He’s just a very ordinary guy who couldn’t cope with the world he lived in and who remained a kid. There are loads of guys like him, but they don’t get themselves mixed up with the grownups. But he was living in a very high-powered community, and he felt he had to keep in step.”

“And Norma? She won’t say anything?”

“Not a word. But we have enough circumstantial evidence to convict, I think—plus Dunck’s testimony.”

“When will the trial be?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He took my hand. “Judith, now that it’s over, I don’t want it to be the end for us. Please. We have to talk. We have to come to some decision.”

“Decision about what?” I asked softly. “Nelson, I’m not ready to decide anything right now.”

“But you care about me, don’t you?”

“Of course. But I can’t give you a pledge of eternal passion and devotion, or anything else.”

He crumbled a piece of bacon on his plate and then fixed his huge brown eyes on mine. “Do you love me?”

“You’re talking to a woman with a hangover.”

“I’m talking to the woman I love. A rich woman.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I spoke to the captain. We’re going to recommend that you get the reward money. The Dental Association and Norma put up five thousand each, remember? I doubt if you’ll collect from Norma, but the dentists will pay.” He reached for my hand. “Now I can marry you for your money.”

“No, you can’t. But five thousand dollars will pay for a lot of baby sitting. We can have some long, lovely afternoons together.”

“And maybe more,” he whispered, grinning.

“Maybe.”

Susan Isaacs (b. 1943) is an award-winning author of mystery and literary fiction who holds the rare distinction of having had every one of her novels appear on the
New York Times
bestseller list.

Born in Brooklyn, New York, she attended Queens College, and upon graduation took an aptitude test for a position as a computer programmer. She failed the test, but when the interviewer saw that she had written for her college newspaper, she offered her a job at
Seventeen
magazine.