Bagmen (A Victor Carl Novel) (21 page)

CHAPTER 35

THE BAD WIFE

T
he night was sleepless, tortured and fat.

With my heart racing, I tossed and turned and bashed my fist against my forehead, unable to stop thinking about Amanda Duddleman and Jessica Barnes, about Ossana’s body, about my own brutal culpability. The night seemed to last for a week and through it all I tortured myself, remembering the two women I had wanted to help, both ending up bloodied and dead. I tried to fix on exactly what I should have done instead of what I did, I juggled the possibilities until they smashed like eggs on the floor about me. It was impossible and useless and I was unable to stop going through it all over and again. In the midst of the dark turmoil, the sky outside my window became smudged with gray, and my heart slowed, and weariness snuck up on my thoughts like a thief and began to pull me down to sleep without my even knowing it. And just at that moment the phone rang.

It is always just at that moment that the phone rings.

“Who found her?” said the voice on the line. There were no niceties, no preliminaries, which was a relief. I didn’t want any damn niceties just then. I sat up, scratching at my eyes.

“Melanie?”

“Who found her, Victor?”

I checked the clock. Five forty-five. “Give me a minute to get myself together.”

“Did you find her?”

“Yes.”

“I should have been your first call.”

“They can check these things now. Do you want them asking why I called you instead of the police?”

“Then I should have been second.”

“They would have checked that, too.”

“But there are things I can do. Jesus, this is a bloody mess.”

“Yes.”

“What do the police know? Do they know about her relationship with—?”

“Yes.”

“Dammit. How?”

“I told them.”

“Victor.”

“They would have found out sooner rather than later. You think Duddleman didn’t tell a friend, tell all her Barnard roommates? She probably had it posted on Facebook under her relationship status. Whatever her generation is, it is not discreet. It didn’t make sense to hide it up front when it would have tumbled out in a few hours anyway.”

“We should have been consulted.”

“Calm down, Melanie. If I had called you, the police would be at your door right now asking why.”

“We need to meet.”

“Okay.”

“The Congressman’s house. Do you know where it is?”

“Yes.”

“Seven.”

“Tonight?”

“This morning, Victor. And don’t make me wait.”

Congressman DeMathis’s gerrymandered district was shaped like a writhing snake that had swallowed a gopher. The district had the tip of its tail in Lancaster, its distended belly in one of the more rural Philadelphia suburbs, and its shovel-shaped head sticking into a small fashionable part of the city proper. More than once the district had been referred to as an abomination during the redistricting deliberations, but those who decried its shape didn’t have the votes to abort it, and so the hideous creature was birthed into this world to do its damage. Congressman DeMathis lived in a fashionable stone house in the fashionable part of the city that had been included in the district by State Senator DeMathis purely, it was said, to allow him to run for the congressional seat. I tended to doubt that story; was it really believable to imagine such a craven act on the part of a public servant?

“Oh, it’s you,” said Mrs. DeMathis, who startled at seeing me at the red front door. “Well, don’t just stand there, come in.”

“Thank you,” I said.

She looked at me for a moment after I stepped inside. “Your eyes are so bruised you look like you’ve been in a fight.”

“I didn’t get much sleep.”

“I made some coffee. How do you take it?”

“Black,” I said.

“Good for you. My husband is still getting ready. Let me pour you a cup.”

I followed her into a kitchen swathed with granite and dark wood cabinets. The coffee she handed me in a flowered teacup was hot and bitter and quite good, with hints of vanilla and hazelnut. You notice the little things when the big, wide world has collapsed around you. You notice the little things because that’s all you have left. Mrs. DeMathis, in a dress and heels—imagine that at seven in the morning—poured a dash of bourbon into her cup, and then another dash, leaving just enough room for a splash of caffeine. She wasn’t embarrassed in the slightest at having me see her doctor her coffee so early in the day. She brought the cup to her thin lips and swallowed like an asthmatic swallowing a breath of fresh air.

“So what brings you scuttling here so early in the morning, Victor? Something horrible, I assume.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Involving my husband?”

“Yes.”

“Will it be public?”

“Most likely.”

“So which of his scandals is about to break? Money or sex? I hope it’s money.”

“It’s not money,” I said.

“Too bad. I suppose then I should brace myself for all the hullabaloo that comes with the usual sex scandal. You and his other people should know I’ve already decided I won’t stand by his side at the press conference. That is so Pat Nixon in her cloth coat, although, lucky her, that was only about money. No, I couldn’t bear all the knowing looks as I stood there in silent support.
‘Oh, you poor thing. How can you stand it?’
Remember sad little Dina McGreevey? At least my husband sticks his crooked thing only in women.” She took another sip. “So, so many women. It’s just that it is dispiriting when the little indiscretions, with their wide eyes and pert breasts, start talking to the press, giving all the details. The way he touched, the way he kissed, the promises.
‘Oh, we were so, so in love.’
Like that Rielle Hunter with Oprah. It’s enough to make a whole country puke.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “No one’s talking.”

“No? And yet still you’re here. Then it must be worse than I imagine. What has he done now? My God, what has that man done now?”

“You need to prepare yourself, Mrs. DeMathis. And you need to know exactly where you and the Congressman were for all of last night.”

“You sound worried, Victor. You sound like somebody died. Last night.” She took another swallow and stood with the cup just below her lips. After a moment the cup began to shake. “Wait. Just wait one minute. There was a report on the news, a young girl murdered at a rock club of some sort. Is that it? They said she was a graduate of the Ivy League. Pete does like them young and overeducated.”

“Where were you and your husband last night?”

“I was here,” she said, “in my usual stupor. The life of a politician’s wife is every bit as exciting as my parents threatened. But Pete, I don’t know. I went to bed alone, I woke up alone, and he was in the guest bedroom as usual when I rose. What did he do, Victor?”

“Nothing, I’m sure.”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not sure. I’m not sure of anything. I know what he is capable of. Every sick perversion—things that would melt your soul—every unimaginable cruelty. If you only knew what he has put me through. If you only knew the humiliations. That man is a beast, and I hate him, I hate him, I hate every foul piece of his being.”

She pulled her cup back as if to throw it at the wall before gaining her composure and draining the coffee-laced bourbon. It seemed to settle her just a bit, the alcohol. Then in one quick motion she threw the cup and saucer at my head.

I ducked just quickly enough so that the pottery flew past before shattering on the dark wood cabinets and falling to the countertop and floor. I looked behind me at the mess, and the gash in the cabinet door.

“Nice woodwork,” I said. “Rosewood?”

“Maple,” she said, restored to an eerie calm. “Stained black. Oh, I think someone is at the door. Are we expecting anyone else?”

CHAPTER 36

MORNING TOAST

T
he Congressman’s eyes were dull and unfocused, the exact opposite of the political stare at which he was so proficient. He sat in a red wingback chair in his wood-paneled study, still in a robe, his jaw unshaven, his hair mussed, his gaze lifted to some spot far in the horizon. He had been hit in the head with a fastball up and in; I could almost see the mark of the seam on his forehead.

“We have to get ahead of this, Congressman,” said Melanie. “We can’t let this turn into a Chandra Levy.”

“Chandra Levy?” he said, his voice as unfocused as his gaze. “Do I know her?”

“I’ve no doubt you would have, given the chance,” said Melanie. “What should he do, Victor?”

“Tell the truth,” I said.

“Let’s think of something else,” said Melanie. “In this business the truth only gets you into another business.”

“The police know about the relationship,” I said. “They’ll be coming today, asking all kinds of questions. And don’t doubt that they’ll have done their homework. He can either refuse to say anything, which is an admission of guilt, or he can tell the whole truth and hope the police do their job and solve the damn thing quickly, taking the heat off.”

“What are the odds of that happening?” said Melanie.

“Good,” I said.

“What makes you think that?”

“Because the lead detective is McDeiss.”

“The one who hasn’t yet solved the Shoeless Joan case?”

“He has more leads on this one. My guess is he’ll solve them both together, and solve them fast.”

“Are there any suspects?”

“Me,” I said. “But he’ll find others.” I leaned forward, putting my hand on DeMathis’s knee to get his attention. It was my turn to stare. “What we need to do, Congressman, is figure out if the truth is something you should be revealing. Melanie and I are both lawyers, this conversation will be privileged. Nothing you say can be repeated without your assent. So with that out of the way, let me ask you: Were you involved in Amanda Duddleman’s murder in any way?”

“My God, no. No. Why would I? How could I?”

“Jealousy,” I said. “And with a knife.”

“You don’t believe that I . . . You can’t believe that . . .”

“What I believe doesn’t matter,” I said, which was a lie. What I believed mattered a hell of a lot. I was going to make sure it did.

“Let’s start with the easy stuff,” said Melanie. “Where were you last night? Were you home?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“No,” I said. “You weren’t.” I turned to Melanie. “This is what I mean. Any lie he tells will be as obvious as a slap in the face.”

“Let’s give it another go, sir,” said Melanie. “I know you’re a member of Congress and it’s hard to overcome your first instinct, but let’s try to tell the truth. Where were you last night?”

The Congressman, disheveled and disoriented, put his face in his hands. They must teach this in congressman school, how to take a distraught pose so that the audience can’t see your lying eyes. There was a pause and there was a sob. I leaned back in my chair. There are moments in life when I fervently wished I smoked—after sex, while drinking Sazeracs at Rosen’s, while sitting on the toilet in a gas station bathroom—and this was another.

“I was out,” he said finally.

“Where?” said Melanie.

“Just out.”

“With who?”

“Alone.”

“You can do better.”

“No,” he said. “I can’t. I had a couple of drinks at a bar on Locust early in the evening—you can check that out—and then I went looking for her.”

“For who exactly?”

“For Amanda.”

This is where I would have let out a long exhale.

“She wasn’t answering my calls. She wasn’t answering my texts. I was calling and I was texting and she wasn’t answering. So I went out to find her.”

“Where did you go?” said Melanie.

“To her house. I banged on the door, I walked around to look into the back windows. I rattled a window and called out her name. I was crazy.”

“Crazy how?” said Melanie.

“Crazy angry. Crazy with desire. Crazy in love.”

“I’m getting a sense of your possible defense,” I said.

Melanie gave me a look that meant ‘Shut up,’ and said, “And then?”

“And then she responded to one of my texts. She told me she was going to some club to see a band she liked. Some rock club. So I went.”

“You went to the club?” I said. “Union Transfer?”

“Yes.”

“Did you buy a ticket?”

“They wouldn’t let me in without one.”

“And you a congressman. Imagine that. And you gave your ticket to the bouncer.”

“Yes.”

“When was this?”

“About eleven or so. I searched the place for her. It was like a sea of Amandas. A thousand young girls who looked just like her. Every time I was certain I spotted her, I’d grab hold, but it turned out to be some other girl. And the looks in these girls’ eyes. It was a humiliation. I tried to ask if anyone knew her, but the band was loud, and no one could understand me, and the kids were dancing like nothing mattered but the music, like I didn’t matter. I was in the middle of someone else’s nightmare. Then I looked up and I saw her, on the rail, looking down at me, her face cold.”

“What did you do?” I said.

“I charged up the stairs and I grabbed hold of each of her arms in joy, so happy to see her. And she shrank away as if . . . as if I were attacking her. ‘Amanda,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’ And she said, with that same cold expression, ‘I’m seeing a show.’ And I said ‘Let’s get out of here.’ And she said, ‘No.’ And I said ‘Why not?’ And she said, ‘We’re through.’ We’re through.”

“What did you do?”

“I shook her. I shook her and shouted, ‘What are you saying?’ And she shouted back, ‘Go away, Pete. It’s over. I know.’ ‘Know what?’ I said. And I admit I squeezed her arms, and I admit I shook her. I was hurt and angry and desperate and I shook her. And then someone grabbed me by the neck and pulled me away.”

“Who?”

“Some kid.”

“Did you know him?”

“No. He was skinny, bearded, in some flannel shirt. Just a punk. She must have been with him, but it made no sense. How could she be with him? She was ambitious, she’d gone to Barnard. I’m somebody, I have money. It didn’t make sense. But when he pulled me off her and pushed me away, I realized what I had been doing, how I had been acting. Crazy. Like a crazy man. And I looked at Amanda and tried to apologize, and all she did was shake her head at me before she turned away.”

“And that made you angry,” I said.

“It made me sad.”

“What did you do?”

“I left,” he said.

“After you killed her?”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“But you loved her.”

“Yes. My God, yes, like a sickness.”

“Then how could you leave her? She rejected you, humiliated you. How could you leave her without doing something, anything?”

“Because when she shook her head at me and then turned away, I saw something that horrified me.”

“What?”

“I saw myself. The way she saw me. The way that kid she was with saw me. The way all those girls I had thought were Amanda had seen me when I accosted them. I saw myself, what I had become. My God, I am a United States congressman and I was acting like a pathetic fool, not just with her but in every part of my life. In the way she turned from me, I saw myself, and I couldn’t get away from the sight fast enough.”

“And then what?”

“I drove around, for hours, and then came home, ashamed, and fell asleep in the guest room. And I woke up into this nightmare.”

“And that’s the truth? All of it?” I said.

“Yes, I swear.”

“You might have to, at that.”

“What should I do with the police?”

“Tell them everything, just like you told us,” said Melanie. “Help them any way you can. When they make a statement, they should be glowing about your cooperation. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Now go take a shower. Comb your hair, put on a suit. Today’s an important day, Congressman. Today is the day you save your career.”

“Okay,” he said. “Yes. Right. I can do that.”

Melanie and I watched him stand unsteadily and shuffle toward the door. It wouldn’t take him long to get dressed and all spiffed-up, it wouldn’t take him long to don his suit of power and play his role. Maybe the son of a bitch could squeeze out of this.

“What do you think?” I said.

“Pathetic.”

“You don’t think he killed her, do you?”

“He doesn’t have it in him. At heart he’s a coward, that’s what makes him such a useful politician. Show me a coward and I’ll show you a vote.”

“So can he do it?”

“Do what?”

“Save his career.”

“Oh, Victor, the moment he opened his mouth I knew he was toast. By this time next year our Congressman DeMathis will be selling Italian water ice out of a cart. But until then, he’s still our baby.”