Compromising Positions (21 page)

He rubbed his cheek and sideburn. “How do you explain Fleckstein’s success with women and yet maintain that your neighbor, Mrs. Tuccio, was immune?”

“Well, he didn’t score all the time. That other friend I told you about, the older one, refused his advances. And Marilyn is just not the type. To begin with, she’s very religious. Sincerely religious; it’s an integral part of her personality. And she’s very busy. And,” I added, watching his big fingers move up and down his cheek, “she’s happily married.”

“Then why has she been complaining that her husband is never home?” His point, but he played the game modestly, scoring with a quiet dignity rather than with a smug “aha!”

“She has? To whom?”

“I really can’t tell you. But she did tell someone that her husband sees more of his operating room nurses than he sees of her. Doesn’t that sound like a dissatisfied wife to you?”

“No. She’s just mildly pissed at Mike, that’s all. She’s not going to run out and have a wild affair with the first creep that flashes a pinky ring in front of her eyes. Can’t you see that?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe. And you take the word of a person like Lorna Lewis, an interested party if ever there was one, over Marilyn Tuccio’s.”

“All right, now that we’re on the subject of Lorna Lewis, would you mind telling me how you know about what she told the police?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Yes. I would mind. I can’t tell you.”

He reached across the back of the couch, gripped my upper arm and held it tightly. “You can tell me.”

With my left hand, I loosened his fingers and pushed his hand away. “I don’t appreciate police brutality. I’m not going to tell you and that’s that.”

“You have to tell me. If there’s a leak in this investigation, I have to know about it.”

“All I’ll tell you is that I didn’t get my information from the police.” That was technically true. I got it from Nancy, who had gotten it from the police.

“Don’t think,” he said, “that just because you’re very bright and very pretty I won’t arrest you. I have a job to do and that comes first.”

“Arrest me on what charges? Felonious intelligence?” Why had he said I was pretty? It made me even more nervous. From the moment I had first glanced at him, I had been aware of his physical presence; it seemed to fill the room, obliterating everything else, even Bob. He had a silent sexual tension in his body that few men have. It was as if behind his intense quality of observing every detail, every movement, behind another almost tangible aura of contemplativeness and calm, there lay a great network of acutely sensitive nerves, needing to be touched and—ultimately—soothed.

“Please,” he began, and the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it.”

“Hi, Lieutenant,” said the woman at the door, a small fluffy blond, a bad mixture of Jean Harlow and Sandra Dee. She wore a blue ski jacket and carried a large brown suitcase.

“Hi,” he responded and, turning to me, explained: “She’s from the forensics lab, to check out your refrigerator.” Sharpe pointed to the kitchen, and she strolled there slowly, the two rounded cheeks of her behind gently rolling under her rust-colored slacks. I hated her. “All right, let’s go back inside,” he said, putting his warm hand on my back to guide me into the living room.

“Is she a police officer?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

“I don’t know. Marsha something-or-other.”

“Does she just do this sort of thing, or does she go to the scenes of murders and things like that?”

“Would you mind sitting down? We were discussing the Fleckstein case.”

“Do you want to hear about the Duncks?” I asked. He sat about three feet away from me on the couch. “Do you know who they are?”

“Yes, thank you. But we have another matter to finish first.”

“You mean about your putting me in jail with a lot of junkies and prostitutes and letting me be subjected to vicious physical attacks by prison-hardened, sadistic lesbians?”

“All right. Tell me about the Duncks.” He was tolerating me out of amusement and curiosity, not because I had manipulated him.

Giving him as much detail as possible, I recounted my interview with Brenda and Dicky.

“How did you get them to talk to you?” he asked. “Just walk up and flash a smile?”

“Well, this is kind of embarrassing.”

“Tell me anyway. I’ll ignore your blushing.”

I explained how I had arranged for a letter from my doctoral advisor, Ramsey, and the subterfuge I had used with the Duncks.

“A history student,” he said softly. “So was I.”

“American?”

“No. European.”

“Where?”

“Fordham.”

“You’re Catholic?”

“No.”

“What?”

“Nominally a Methodist. May I ask the questions?”

“Okay.”

“Are you planning any more investigative work?”

I told him I had the possibility of an interview with Norma Fleckstein and, if that got me anywhere, with some of Bruce’s nearest and dearest friends.

“You can’t,” he declared.

“Not if you throw me in jail so I can get my face cut up with razor blades.”

“I mean,” he said patiently, “that somebody wants you to mind your own business. That was the point of that little note on your refrigerator, remember? So, please, let me handle it.”

“We’ll see,” I responded, as noncommittally as possible. Just then, the woman from the lab walked in from the kitchen.

“No prints,” she announced. “A few smudges on the door handle. I’ll take her prints, but I doubt if it’ll mean anything.” Without looking at me, as though I were a murder victim she found at the scene of a crime, she inked my fingers and pressed them on a card.

“Do you enjoy your work?” I asked her.

“Yeah,” she answered. “You can go wash your hands off now.” I waited. She looked at Sharpe and smiled. I couldn’t determine whether she was flirting with him or trying to ingratiate herself with a superior officer. I had it in for her; it didn’t occur to me that she was simply being friendly. “I got pictures and a sample of the paint, Lieutenant, but I don’t think we’ll find anything. It looks like ordinary red aerosol.”

“What about the kitchen door?” he asked, standing to talk.

“Handle knocked out with a screwdriver and a hammer. Piece of junk. No problem to break in.”

“No prints?” he demanded.

“Would I keep it a secret from you, Lieutenant?” she asked, and they smiled at each other.

“Can I clean off my refrigerator now?” I chimed in.

“Have fun, sweetie,” she said. “You’re going to have to repaint it.” She performed her slow, ass-rolling glide back into the kitchen and came back zipping her ski jacket. “See you,” she said to Sharpe, and picked up her suitcase. Buttocks undulating, she left.

I waited for him to sit again, but he stood still, hands in his pants pockets. “Anything else?” he inquired.

“About what?”

“Anything else you want to share with me about your investigation?”

“I can’t think of anything else that’s germane,” I told him.

“Okay.” Reaching down to the coffee table, he picked up his notebook and jammed it into his jacket pocket. “Just remember you received a message. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that the person who left it didn’t break into your house just so you would be titillated. If you happen to think of anything you’d like to add, I’ll leave you my number. You can call me.” He extracted his notebook, ripped off a corner of a page, and wrote on it. He was left-handed.

“Do you have a coat?”

“It’s in the car.” He turned and strode to the door. I followed.

“Bye,” I said, as he opened the door. He walked across the lawn, to a blue compact car parked in front of the house. I closed the door and dashed up the stairs to Kate’s room, which faces the front of the house. I pulled back the shade about an inch and peered outside. Sharpe was sitting in his car, hands and forearms resting on the wheel, gazing straight ahead. After two or three minutes, he gunned the motor and drove off.

I curled up on Kate’s bed, rubbed the crisp gingham bedspread between my fingers, and began to cry. Perhaps it was from relief, that an ordeal had ended. Or from fear, knowing a killer had my number. Or from a more familiar fear, recognizing that soon either Bob or I would have to make some concessions, renegotiate the terms of our contract. In some ways, confronting a killer seemed an easier prospect. Or maybe it was Sharpe. I wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands. Maybe I was crying because I hadn’t been touched so deeply by a man’s presence since ... it had been so long, I couldn’t really remember since when.

For another ten minutes I wallowed in my misery, feeling terribly shaky, very alone. Then the door opened and a little voice called: “Mommy, I’m here with Daddy.” I wiped my eyes one last time and trudged downstairs.

Joey stood leaning against Bob, who was carrying two paper bags: one with a Baskin-Robbins logo and the other, much larger, of ordinary brown paper. This, he announced, hefting it, is white appliance paint. For the refrigerator. Joey and I will fix things up, he said to the closet behind me, won’t we, Joey? They hung up their coats and headed for the kitchen. Joey dashed out for newspaper, masking tape, and more newspaper. Kate arrived soon after, and the three of them worked and giggled together, while the odor of paint wafted into the living room, where I was sitting, excluded by tacit fiat from the camaraderie of the kitchen.

“I’ll make dinner,” I announced at four o’clock, standing at the threshold of the kitchen, looking in.

“You can’t,” Bob hissed.

“What do you mean, I can’t?”

“He means, Mommy,” Kate broke in gently, “that no one can touch the refrigerator until tomorrow morning. It has to dry.”

“It has to dry,” Joey parroted. “So Daddy’s taking us out for Chinese food.”

“Right after the locksmith comes,” added Bob, to whoever might be listening.

The locksmith came an hour later, and when he had finished banging and grinding, we left for the restaurant. Bob paid no more attention to me than he would to a shadow, but Kate took up the slack, seeing that we were all properly seated and that our teacups were clean. The waiter came, and Bob said: “Wonton soup.”

“I’d rather have hot and sour soup,” I countered.

“A separate bowl of hot and sour soup for the lady,” Bob told the waiter, clearly believing that by this small concession he had effectively cut me off from the rest of the family. We ate in silence, dish after dish, occasionally asking one of the children about their day in an ostentatiously concerned manner.

“Aren’t you going to read your fortune cookie?” asked Joey.

“No. I’d rather be surprised.”

“Surprised?” he repeated, his four-year-old blue eyes wide and curious, not yet iced over, out-of-business like his father’s.

“Okay,” I said and opened the cookie to extract the thin strip of paper. I read: “A wise man takes no tea before noon.” That, actually, was a relief. I had feared something like “A good wife is more precious than jade.” Or “Women beware of short, gray-haired cops.” With big, powerful hands.

When we pulled the car into the garage, I felt frightened; maybe the house had been broken into again. Maybe someone was lurking in the dining room. “Let me go in first,” I said.

“I’ll do it,” Bob declared, still avoiding my glance. He marched into the house while I held the children back in the garage. “Come on in,” he called impatiently. “Everything’s fine.” As we walked inside, past him, he lowered his voice and whispered to me: “Stop being so paranoid.” Everything was fine. The new lock on the kitchen door twinkled its brass welcome, and the smell of paint was undiffused by fresh air. No broken windows. All doors secure.

“Hey, kids,” Bob said, giving them his extra-wide grin, “how about my giving you a special shower in my bathroom?”

“Oh, Daddy,” breathed Kate.

“Me and Kate together?” asked Joey.

“Sure. Why not? Now go upstairs and get undressed, you two,” he said, chuckling a little, like a warm, cuddly daddy in a fifties situation comedy. Until that moment, he had bathed the children once each, as infants, and then declined to do it again. “They make me nervous. I’m afraid I’ll drop them,” he explained. And in my soul of souls, I was afraid he would, if only to prove a point. Upstairs, the children squeaked and giggled in their bedrooms, nearly euphoric that they had captured Bob’s interest.

I remained in the living room while they showered, their squeals of pleasure muted only slightly by distance. When they finally trooped downstairs, faces gleaming and hair wet and lined with comb marks, I felt like a desiccated maiden aunt kissing her fruitful sister’s children good night.

“Night, Mommy,” they chimed.

“Come on, kids. I’ll tuck you both in.” Bob’s sleeves were rolled up, the hair on his arms wet and darkened and matted.

“Could you read me a story, Daddy?” Kate asked.

“It’s a little late for that, honey,” he responded. She accepted it without a trace of a whimper. Then, hand in hand in hand, the Three Happy Singers dashed up the stairs. I waited. And waited some more. A half hour must have passed before I realized that Bob would not be coming down. Slowly, I mounted the stairs.

He was lying in bed in green and white striped pajamas, the quilt pulled taut and folded neatly around his chest. His hands were clutching a copy of Business Week, and he was studying its pages with seeming fascination. On its cover was a man in a beige suit with a string tie, his elbow resting on a large globe.

“Can we talk?” I began.

“I’m reading.”

“I see that. Could you put your magazine aside for a minute?”

He rested the magazine on top of his chest and looked at me.

“Would you like me to explain why I got involved in this case?”
Business Week
rose an inch as he took a deep breath. Otherwise he remained motionless, his gaze steady. “Well? Shall I explain?”

“I really don’t care,” he said softly.

I squirmed a little. I swallowed. I ran my fingers over my eyebrows. “What do you mean, you don’t care?”

“I simply mean that if you are going to continue this insane quest of yours, if you are going to continue to subject the family to jeopardy, then I will simply do my best to protect my children and leave you to your own devices. You can do what you want.”