False Testimony (9 page)

Harry and I pull into our newly plowed office driveway at five, earlier than either of us expected to be back. Charles Kendrick is already here, though. The Senator’s enormous gray Humvee is parked next to my tired Thunderbird. Harry cuts the Jeep’s engine and jumps out, eager to play GI Joe with our senior senator’s tank.

He strolls around in the falling snow—seemingly oblivious to the biting wind—peering through the Hummer’s windows and whistling. “Damn,” he says, running his gloved hand along the hood. “I could
live
in this thing.”

“No, you couldn’t,” I correct him as I head for the old farmhouse. “You don’t have enough furniture. And the rent would kill you.”

The Kydd is seated behind the antique pine table in the front office, just hanging up the telephone, two almost empty Cape Wok cartons in front of him. He points to the ceiling with his coffee mug as soon as I close the door and then scrawls on a yellow legal pad:
nervous breakdown in progress.
Senator Kendrick is upstairs in my office, and apparently he’s not doing well. I hang my damp parka on the coatrack and head for the wrought-iron spiral staircase. Harry hasn’t come inside yet. He’s still hovering around the Hummer, I suppose, mentally moving in.

Senator Kendrick is standing, gazing out the double-hung rear windows, taking in the view behind our farmhouse-turned-office-building: an open field, a small stand of scrub pines, and the salty water of Taylor’s Pond in the distance. He wheels around when I reach the top step and shoves both hands deep into his pants pockets, seemingly embarrassed to have been caught alone with his own thoughts. “Marty,” he says, his tone suggesting he’s been waiting all day, “you’re here.”

Can’t argue with that. I gesture toward the slip-covered couch against the far wall and he takes a seat on one end of it. I slide my briefcase onto a corner of the cluttered desk, drape my suit jacket over the leather chair, and then join him. He leans forward when I sit, elbows on his knees, head lowered, fists clenched. The Kydd’s assessment was accurate. This is a man in crisis.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” he answers too quickly, then stares down at the worn, braided rug.

I don’t believe him. But I don’t say so.

“There are things I haven’t told you,” he continues. “And I should.”

He pauses, seems to grope for words. I wait.

“Things you should know,” he adds at last.

“And you just realized this today?” I’m pretty sure I know what he’s decided to tell me, of course, but I don’t let on. He should do the talking.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m sorry. I should have leveled with you at the outset.”

He pauses again. And again I wait.

“About Michelle Forrester.” He looks pained when he says her name. His eyes meet mine for the first time today, then dart to my empty desk chair. “Look, there’s no delicate way to put this.”

“Don’t worry about delicate,” I tell him. “Just give me the facts.”

“We had an affair,” he says quietly, reexamining the rug.

I nod and wait for him to continue.

“It went on for about a year. And then my wife found out.”

“How?”

He shakes his head and sighs. “She and Abby went to San Francisco to spend a week with my in-laws. Michelle stayed with me in Boston for part of that time.”

“In Boston?” When they’re not in Washington, D.C., or Chatham, the Kendricks live on a frequently photographed hillside estate in Concord. I didn’t know they had a place in Boston as well.

“I keep an apartment there,” he says. “I have for years. I’m in the city a lot for political events and fund-raisers. Sometimes I’m just too damned tired to drive home afterward.”

That makes sense. But taking Michelle Forrester there sure as hell didn’t. I raise my eyebrows at him.

“I know,” he says. “It was stupid. But remember, we couldn’t go to a hotel. Or even a restaurant.”

He’s right, of course. They would have been on the front page of every rag in the nation if they had.

“In any event,” he says, “Honey had a tiff with her mother, cut the visit short by a couple of days. She and Abby flew into Logan late one night and decided to stay at the apartment, drive out to Concord in the morning.” He looks up at me and shakes his head, then closes his eyes. “It was ugly,” he mutters.

“How long ago?”

He leans back against the couch, stretches his long legs, and faces me. “Four months. Just before Abby went back to school.”

And just as rumors of his potential bid for the Democratic nomination were reaching a crescendo. I keep that thought to myself. “What happened?” I ask.

He half laughs. “What didn’t happen? Tears. Threats. Tantrums. And not just Honey. Abby too. I swear, sometimes those two seem more like sisters than mother and daughter. There’s not a dinner plate left in the place.”

“But your wife didn’t leave you.”

“No,” he says. “I begged her not to. I swore I’d end it with Michelle. And I did. That day.”

“Okay.” I stand and cross the room, my back to him, then take the chair behind my desk. “You don’t need me to tell you this is going to come out, Senator. Law enforcement will analyze every detail of Michelle Forrester’s existence with a fine-tooth comb before this is over. Sooner or later, they’ll get to you.”

“Sooner,” he says.

“Pardon?”

It’s his turn to stand now. He walks toward the two upholstered wing chairs facing my desk, leans on the back of one, and stares down at his clasped hands. “Sooner,” he repeats. “They’ll get to me sooner, not later.”

“There’s more.”

He nods. “We were together Thursday night,” he says, “the night before she disappeared.”

Sometimes I think no client can say anything to surprise me anymore. Other times, I know better.

“It wasn’t planned,” he continues, not looking at me. “She stopped by the Old Harbor Road house after she finished at Four Cs.”

“Four Cs” is local parlance for Cape Cod Community College—the last place Michelle Forrester was seen by anyone who’s come forward. Anyone other than the Senator, I realize now.

“Hold it.” I raise my hands to stop him. “She was in Hyannis. She was due in Stamford, Connecticut, the next morning. Are you telling me she drove a half hour in the wrong direction for an impromptu visit?”

He nods again, a faint smile on his face. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. She knew Honey and Abby weren’t coming to the Cape until the next day, knew I’d be at the house alone. She showed up at about seven. She was quite pleased with the way the press conference had gone. I was too; I’d just watched parts of it on the news. Michelle wanted to talk about it. I fixed her a drink.”

He shrugs, as if the rest was inevitable.

“What time did she leave?”

“Before six,” he says, “the next morning.”

“In the dark.”

“That’s right.” He meets my gaze now. “We have a neighbor—in the bungalow behind our place. She’s a year-rounder.”

Let’s hope she’s a blind year-rounder.

“Michelle and I had spent time at the Chatham house before,” he says. “She always parked in the garage, left before daybreak, kept her headlights off until she reached the main road.”

“Give me a minute,” I tell him. I plant my elbows on the desk and knead my temples. I wish I had eaten the damned cranberry muffin at the Piccadilly Deli a few hours ago. My head aches.

Senator Kendrick straightens, walks around the chair he’s been leaning on, and drops into it. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I know I should have told you sooner. But I kept thinking we’d hear from Michelle.”

His eyes meet mine when I look up and the emotion in them is genuine. He’s beyond worried; he’s terrified. “I just didn’t think anything bad had happened to her,” he says. “But now I’m afraid I was wrong.”

The neighbor isn’t blind, as it turns out. She’s deaf. Helene Wilson greeted me at her kitchen door with a broad smile, a notepad and a pen. When I started to explain my uninvited appearance on her doorstep, she shook her head at me. “I’m deaf,” she said, handing the pen and paper to me. “You’ll have to use this.”

I wrote my name, then a short message explaining my role as her neighbor’s attorney. She invited me inside at once, and the clarity of her speech took me by surprise. It gave no hint that her world is silent.

“My deafness,” she says now, as if reading my mind, “is relatively new. Until a few years ago, my hearing was perfect.”

What happened?
I write on the notepad.

She takes my parka and scarf, hangs them on a hook to the side of the door, and shrugs. “I’m what’s known as a late deafened adult,” she says. “There are more of us around than most people realize.”

This is news to me. Again, she seems to read my mind.

“There are so many of us, in fact, that the Association of Late Deafened Adults has fifteen chapters throughout the United States. Our most famous member is King Jordan, the president of Gallaudet University. But all the members are like me: folks born into the hearing world, enjoying the pleasures sound brings to life—music, laughter, rainfall—and then it all starts to fade. The process gains momentum until—poof!—one day sound is gone. Completely.”

Look out, King Jordan. Having known her all of three minutes, I’m willing to bet Helene Wilson will be the association’s most famous member before long. She delivers her history without a shred of self-pity, with an “ain’t that the darnedest thing you ever heard” expression on her face. A fifty-something, blue-eyed blonde who’s probably five feet on her tiptoes, she’s got
hot ticket
written all over her. She leads the way through a galley kitchen and into a softly lit living room, then directs me to the sofa with a sweep of her hand.

Her place is compact—smaller than my Windmill Lane cottage, even—but it’s huge on charm. I’ve noticed this bungalow from the outside many times, even before I got the first worried phone calls from the Senator next door. It has access to all the same outdoor amenities of the Kendrick estate—the drop-dead views, the stilt-legged shorebirds, the salt-laden winds—all with a fraction of the upkeep. My kind of real estate.

The living room is richly decorated in a colorful Southwestern motif, warmed by a crackling fire. A pair of glasses sits on top of an open hardback on the coffee table, a half-filled goblet of red wine next to it. “Can I get you anything?” Helene gestures toward a wet bar at the other end of the room. “A cocktail, maybe?”

I shake my head. It’s late; I want to get home, put on a pair of old sweats, have a snack and a glass of wine on my own living room couch.
I won’t stay long,
I write on the notepad.
Thanks for seeing me.

The sofa is upholstered in a soft, taupe corduroy. Helene joins me on it, her eyes openly curious. “What can I do for you?” she says.

I hesitate for a moment. For some reason, having to pen my words makes me want to choose them more carefully.
I’m looking into the disappearance of Michelle Forrester,
I write at last.

Her bright expression darkens as she reads. “A terrible thing,” she says, shaking her head. “Her people must be worried sick.”

I nod.

“If I can help,” she adds, “I certainly will.”

Time to face the music. I’ll never get the answer if I don’t ask the question. And it’s why I came here, after all.
When was the last time you saw her?
I scrawl.

Helene Wilson’s hesitation speaks volumes. She knows at least as much as any of us, perhaps more. “You’re his lawyer,” she says finally, “so whatever I tell you stays between you, me, and the Senator, is that right?”

Technically, it’s not; the privilege exists only between attorney and client. It doesn’t extend to communications with third parties. I shake my head and Helene looks surprised.
I can’t guarantee that,
I write.
But remember, I’m Senator Kendrick’s lawyer. Nothing you say that’s adverse to his interests will go anywhere else. Not if I can help it.

She hesitates again, considering my written message, and I’m touched by the depth of her loyalty to her neighbor. “Michelle was here last Thursday night,” she says at last. She points out her side window, toward Senator Kendrick’s estate. “Next door.”

There it is. And it’s only a matter of time before some Chatham detective is sitting where I am. Two, probably.
Did you see her arrive?
I write.

“Not exactly,” she says.

I arch my eyebrows.

“She got here around seven,” Helene continues. “I remember because I’d just finished watching the news and Michelle had been on it. She and the Senator had held a press conference at Four Cs that day.” Helene points toward a distressed-pine corner cupboard that houses a modest TV. “Closed captioning,” she adds, smiling. “It’s not perfect, but it usually gets the job done.”

She’s two steps ahead of me.
Not exactly,
I write.
You didn’t exactly see her arrive. What do you mean?

She shrugs. “It was dark,” she says, “so I didn’t see Michelle pull in. But her car passed in front of my house.” She points over her shoulder, out the window behind us.

I’m still for a moment, and Helene seems to sense my questions, one of them anyhow. “Michelle’s car has been here before,” she says, “many times. She always keeps her headlights off when she travels this lane, but I know when she comes and goes. She drives a sporty, foreign number. I know the feel of it.”

I’m not sure how to ask her what that means. My pen is still.

“Not for a while, though,” Helene adds. “Until last Thursday, it had been months since Michelle Forrester had been here. Not since the end of the summer.”

Helene Wilson knows what she’s talking about; her time line dovetails with the Senator’s. I still don’t get it, though.
How?
I write on a new page.
How did you know a car was driving by in the dark? And how did you know it was Michelle’s?

Her grin tells me she’s been asked questions like this one before—more than a few times—and she expects a healthy dose of skepticism from her listener. “I have five senses,” she says. “Just not the same five you have.”

None of my five is particularly keen right now.

“I know when an animal passes by in the dark,” she continues. “And I usually know what kind of animal it is—long before I grab my flashlight to check. On occasion, I confuse a coyote with a dog, but I never misidentify a deer. Automobiles are much easier by comparison. It’s all about vibration. Sound
is
vibration, after all.”

I know that—and I believe what she’s telling me—but I still don’t understand. I hold up my hand so she’ll pause.
Are you saying you can tell the particular type of car that’s driving by?
I write.
Even if you don’t see it?

She laughs. “No,” she says. “I’m not that good. But I do know when it’s the Senator’s. That Humvee of his is no ordinary car. Talk about vibration.”

I stop her again.
But you said you knew Michelle’s
.

“Only because I know her pattern,” she says. “She keeps her headlights out, comes and goes in total darkness.”

I’m quiet for a moment, digesting the fact that Michelle Forrester’s cover is what gives her away—to this astute neighbor, anyhow.

“The Senator pulled in at around five-thirty that afternoon,” Helene says. “Michelle arrived just after seven.”

My pen is paralyzed again. It won’t take much longer for the Chatham cops to unearth this information. Once they do, they’ll take it straight to Geraldine. And though she already knows about the affair, I’m certain she has no idea Michelle was with the Senator the night before she disappeared. When that fact comes to light, Charles Kendrick will have some explaining to do.

“She left early the next morning,” Helene adds. “And I saw her little hot rod that time. She left a bit later than she normally does. It was starting to get light already.”

I’m still wordless, written or otherwise, but a wave of relief washes over me. My client faces an outraged wife and a political scandal. But this last piece of information from Helene Wilson should ultimately shield him from our District Attorney, at least. I pull a business card from my wallet and hand it to her.
If you think of anything else,
I write.

She puts a hand on my forearm to stop me. “I’ll let you know,” she finishes for me. “And I mean it,” she says, tucking my card into her sweater pocket. “I will. I’m not the least bit afraid to get involved.”

I don’t doubt that for a minute. Something tells me Helene Wilson isn’t afraid of much.