He hung in the driveway while I checked the house then took a brisk walk with me to look around Amanda’s. It was still dark and empty.
I kept Eddie in the house that night, shutting him off from his secret door. He didn’t seem to care. Especially since I let him up on the bed, which I normally didn’t do. Mostly because he usually snored, or acted out his dreams with twitches and weird little barks, which would fill my own dreams with phantasms, or wake me up and leave me lying there for an hour or two at the mercy of whatever litany of dreads thrust themselves on my weakened state, suspended between uneasy wakefulness and nightmarish sleep.
J
ACKIE
S
WAITKOWSKI NEVER MET
a piece of 8½-by-11-inch paper she didn’t cherish or seek to preserve for all eternity. Sometimes filed in a manila folder or stuffed in a big envelope, or functioning as a structural unit within one of the towering stacks of documentation that rose like volcanic eruptions from every horizontal surface in every room of her house, and even more frighteningly in the glassed-in rear porch she called her office.
Over time, the paper piles began to merge with other classes of printed material—magazines, newspapers, continuing education course descriptions from Southampton College—creating a tangled mass within which lurked material objects of entirely different composition—CDs, Christmas wreaths, used plastic dinner plates, hookahs and bongs, triple-decker skirt hangers, framed watercolors. As these piles coalesced, mountain ranges rose, swallowing up coffee tables and sideboards, engorging spare closets and bedrooms,
twisting through the house, the strata folding and contorting in a domestic diastrophism that eventually formed the component parts into an unrecognizable concretion.
All of which escaped Jackie’s notice until the day her computer keyboard dropped in her lap, having slid off the desk on the crest of a breaking wave of Victoria’s Secret catalogs.
Her solution was to take the computer and move to a rented office above an antique shop on Montauk Highway in Watermill. Looking around the place only a week into her occupancy, and making a rough estimate of available cubic footage, I gave it about a year before she’d be searching for more capacious accommodations. As of now, however, there was an upholstered love seat to sit on, facing a set of leather club chairs, and a coffee table in between to rest your feet.
Eddie claimed one of the club chairs, circling around and scratching at the seat cushion a few times before dropping with a grunt into an alert state of repose.
“Make yourself at home,” said Jackie, swiveling around in her chair after a finalizing tap on her keyboard.
The office door had been unlocked, so I’d let myself in, juggling a pair of large Viennese cinnamon coffees.
“That one’s yours. Light on the cream, half a pack of chemical sugar.”
Jackie dove into the other club chair and snatched up the coffee.
“What a gallant,” she said.
“You told me to bring you some.”
“I know. I’m just pretending you did it all on your own. Delusion goes good with coffee.”
She was wearing a freshly pressed, white Oxford-cloth shirt under a vest made of synthetic fleece and khaki shorts, rushing the season. After reaching over to scrunch around
with Eddie’s head, she kicked off her flip-flops and, wriggling deeper into the chair, popped the plastic lid off the coffee cup. Her face looked scrubbed, slightly flushed under the freckles, her blue eyes salubrious and radiant.
She’d woken me up that morning with a phone call. It wasn’t that early, but I was out cold. I don’t set an alarm because I normally wake up on my own, usually an hour or two before I want to, so I can lie there and pretend that being supine with your eyes closed had the same restorative benefits as heavy REM sleep. I was startled by the sound of the phone in the kitchen, and when I got there I couldn’t remember what to say when you pick up a receiver.
“Huh?”
“Christ, Sam, it’s the middle of the week.”
“Jackie.”
“Doing anything at the moment?”
“Regaining consciousness. What the hell time is it?”
“Nine something. I think you’re drinking too much.”
“Or not enough.”
“I need you to come over here. There’s some stuff we have to talk about.”
Eddie walked stiffly into the kitchen, head and tail down. He nosed at his bowl, then looked up at me as he stretched, his forepaws extended and his ass in the air. Then he yawned.
“I know who’s got the hangover,” I said to him.
“Not me, straight as a judge,” said Jackie.
“I’m talking to the dog.”
“Oh, great.”
“Anyway, judges are sober. They may or may not be straight.”
“Speaking of which, I talked to Burton last night. There’re things we need to discuss.”
“Like what?” I asked her.
“Oh, I don’t know. College basketball, lawn care, your murder trial.”
“Okay.”
“Bring coffee.”
“Okay.”
Jackie’s law practice was a fair reflection of Jackie’s personality. Idiosyncratic. Though based principally on real estate, the largest local industry and the center of most legal disputes, public and domestic. Through a series of unconventional circumstances, some my fault, Jackie had found herself working both civil and criminal sides of the real-estate dodge, which put her among a rare breed of attorney, an exemplar of which was my friend Burton Lewis.
“Okay,” said Jackie from the club chair in her new office. She took a manila folder off the coffee table and opened it on her lap. On top of the papers inside was a yellow legal pad. She clicked open a ballpoint pen and looked over at me.
“Burton wants me to talk about your alibi. Let’s do that, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Okay.” She wormed down further into the leather club chair. “Milhouser was killed between eight and nine o’clock that night. His crew discovered him at the site the next morning.”
“I was eating dinner at the Pequot from about six to seven-thirty. Then I went home and mixed up a tall boy in my aluminum tumbler and went out on the porch where I read a hunk of Freud’s
The Ego and the Id.”
“Of course you did. What the hell else would you be reading?
“Not as tough sledding as Kant, I’ll tell you that.”
“Did you go out of the house after that?”
“Nope. Me and Eddie were on the porch all evening.”
“Reading?”
“Just me. Eddie doesn’t think much of Freud.”
“You read the whole time?” she asked.
“Till I went to bed. Could have been as early as nine-thirty. I was working hard that week. Needed the sleep.”
“What about the woman on Bay Edge Drive who said she saw you jogging by at around nine o’clock?”
“What about her? She’s got it wrong. I haven’t run on that road for weeks. With the cold weather there’s been a lot of ice and snow, especially along that rutty part. I’m afraid of twisting my ankle.”
“But you told me you were at the job site a week before Robbie was killed.”
“Didn’t jog. I just walked over there.”
“That’s not what you told me.”
“I usually jog, but the road was too slippery. So I walked.”
“Remember to change your story like that a few times for the jury. They love that.”
“Not a change. A refinement.”
“Not a helpful one.”
“Why?” I asked her.
“Why take the trouble to walk all the way over to that site if you weren’t jogging? You say you were too tired, that it was cold, that the road surface was unsafe. And yet, you somehow forced yourself to walk all the way over there, almost a half mile, just to look at a construction site?”
“I was going to jog, but I changed my mind.”
“Super. Any more refinements?” she asked.
“That’s it.”
“So nobody saw you that night, or called you on the phone? Amanda?”
“Not likely around that time. We’d been a little on-and-offish.”
“I’m getting your phone records from the ADA. In case there’re any refinements hiding in there.”
“Nobody remembers everything perfectly.”
“No. Some people only appear to. People who successfully defend themselves from murder charges.”
“Nobody called me. That I remember.”
“And what’s the deal with Amanda? You were fighting?”
“Not then. Just taking one of our occasional time-outs. No particular reason.”
“Because of that altercation at the restaurant?”
I fought back a surge of frustration.
“It wasn’t an altercation on my part. All I did was save the poor jerk from getting hurt or embarrassing himself any more than he already had. Assuming you could embarrass him in the first place.”
“Not defending your lady’s honor?” she asked.
“Her honor was supposed to stay in the car and out of the way. She’s not big on taking direction. So, yeah. I was concerned for her safety. Three big threatening drunks, on a poorly lit sidewalk. Easy to get caught up in the action.”
“So that’s why you pushed Milhouser into the grille of an SUV”
“That’s why. To cool him off.”
“You claim to have done this to save Robbie from getting hurt. Smashing a man’s head into the front of a parked truck doesn’t sound exactly benevolent.”
“Even at my age, you wouldn’t want me to hit you hard enough to drop you to the pavement.”
“Then why did you lie to the police?”
“I didn’t lie. Robbie told her he fell.”
“And you didn’t correct a false statement. You lied by omission.”
“I guess we all did.”
“Including Tommy,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t tell Judy Rensler anything at the scene. But he told me Robbie fell trying to land a punch. That you just stepped out of his way.”
“He might’ve thought that. He was down the sidewalk. A tree and Robbie’s meatballs were between us.”
“And he said you decked one of Robbie’s friends.”
“Didn’t deck him. Just settled him down before things got out of hand. He backed off when Judy arrived.”
“Doesn’t matter. If anyone testifies to what really happened it’ll prove you lie to cops, and that there was some version of a fight between you and Milhouser. That’s all the ADA needs.”
“To do what?”
“To prove there was bad blood between you and the deceased.”
“Just a dumb thing that happened one night. There was nothing else there.”
“What kind of dumb thing?” she asked.
“I told you already.”
“Let’s try it again. This time with every detail perfectly recalled.”
I took a deep breath and a big gulp of coffee.
“What are the smoking rules in here?” I asked.
“No dope before sundown.”
I offered and she accepted one of my Camels. I worked on my recall while I lit both cigarettes and watched her write some notes on the legal pad.
“I admit I was mostly distracted by my date, the best looking woman in the restaurant,” I began.
“Sounds more like ego than id.”
“Plenty of both,” I said.
From there I told her almost everything about that night, except for a few things I didn’t feel like throwing into the story. A couple of innocent omissions.
“So Amanda wasn’t that upset about Robbie and his friend trying to elbow into your dinner.”
“She didn’t like it, but she handled it.”
“So you’re the one who told them to get lost?” she asked.
“Using all my diplomatic skills, which are legion. Ask anyone.”
“What did you tell them?”
“To go fuck themselves.”
“Excellent. Save that for the jury. It’ll spice up the testimony. Did it have the desired effect?” she asked.
“Not right away, but they left. And we went back to our dinners, and I thought that would be the end of it.”
“So Amanda had no interest in Robbie’s business proposition?”
“No reason to. With everything she’s sitting on, she could buy and sell Robbie and every other builder in town a few times over. He’d be the last one she’d want to deal with.”
“What are you, next to last?”
“I’m just a carpenter, not a builder. And I didn’t want to work on her stuff, anyway. Bad for the relationship.”
“You didn’t, or she didn’t want you to?”
“Okay, neither one of us wanted me to,” I said.
“So Milhouser wasn’t just a rude intruder on your night out. He was a rival of sorts. A potential business partner for your girlfriend, filling a role you either wouldn’t, or couldn’t, fill yourself.”
“She had zero interest in working with Robbie Milhouser.”
“But you were the one who told him to get lost.”
“That’s right.”
“Then why did Tommy lie about that, too?”
“He did?”
She lifted up the pad and looked inside a stapled document.
“I have his whole statement. He said Amanda told Robbie and Patrick Getty to get lost.”
“Might’ve been that way. Middle-aged memory and all that. Didn’t know Getty was Patrick’s last name. Or else I forgot it.”
“He also said it was Amanda.”
“He’s also younger than me. Hit on the head less often.”
“Much less. Which is a real worry for you,” she said.
“That’s what everyone seems to think.”
“Which made Robbie a real threat.”
“Not Robbie. Patrick Getty and his buds. And they’re all still alive, at least as of last night.”
I told her about what happened at the Pequot. I kept to the same story I told Will Ervin, for consistency’s sake. I didn’t want another scolding about sins of omission, or get her any more worked up than she already was.
“When were you planning to tell me?” she asked, leaning half out of her chair.
“As soon as you stopped grilling me.”
“You think this is grilling. Just wait,” she said. “If you live that long.”
“Ervin will tell Sullivan, Sullivan will spread the word around the force. There’ll be too many eyes on them to try anything now.”
“I thought you said he was a threat?”
“Less now,” I told her.
“To you or Amanda?”
“He was never a threat to her.”
“Really? Tommy seemed to think so.”
“I like Tommy, but that guy oughta stop the speculation.”
“He said Patrick never took his eyes off her.”