Swan Dive - Jeremiah Healy (6 page)

Then I needed some further information.

"Hanna, I know this isn’t going to be easy for
you, but Chris mentioned that Roy had been seeing a nurse?"

She stopped stroking Vickie’s hair and gazed out
through the windshield. "Yes."

"From Samaritan Hospital?"

“
Yes."

“
Do you know her name?"

Hanna didn’t reply for a minute. I didn’t prod
her.

She said, "Sheilah Kelley."

 
"Can you describe her?"

"Tall, red hair, very red." Hanna looked
out the side window. "Good figure, like me before Vickie."

"Do you know when she works there?"

"From four o’clock to midnight, I think."

I left it there, and we
rode in silence the rest of the way.

* * *

The Seaway is one hell of a road for views. Driving
north, first you see Swampscott harbor, then just open ocean.
Finally, as the shoreline curves eastward, the jagged horizon of the
Boston skyline rises ten miles south and west.

Number 13 was on the waterside of the street. The BMW
633i was black inside and out. It stood sleek and taut in the
driveway. closest to the garage doors. Behind it sat a little brown
Toyota Tercel, nestled close but still blocking the sidewalk a bit.
The Teroel had a Samaritan Hospital parking decal on its rear window.

I pulled fifty yards past the driveway, executed a
three-point turn, and looked at my watch. Almost 3:15. I studied the
house while I waited.

It was a tri-level contemporary, with a faked cupola
and widow’s walk at the third floor. The exterior sported cedar
shake shingles and a deck on my side of the house that seemed to
sweep around behind it and toward the ocean. I guessed it at four
bedrooms, three baths, and way, way over the $150,000 appraisal. For
my purposes, I especially liked the deck; they usually had sliding
glass doors at the back leading into the living room.

At 3:25, a tall redheaded woman blew through the
front doorway and hurried toward the Tercel. She wore nurses’
whites and was fastening the two top buttons as she fumbled for her
car keys. She jumped in, backed out, and sped off I waited fifteen
more minutes, then strolled over to the house.

The view from the deck ran the gamut from harbor to
skyline. I didn’t see the speed racer, but it probably was berthed
at one of the clubs where Marsh had a membership. The deck boasted a
gigantic gas grill, chichi lounge chairs, and art deco drink stands.
Real class. The glass doors were there, too, just a little ajar. Even
better.

I slipped into the living room, cool and dark with a
cathedral ceiling. A deer’s head was mounted high over the
fireplace, crossed hunting rifles between it and the mantel. There
were framed photographs of Marsh in various terrains, ritle butt
resting pretentiously on a cocked hip and a dead animal’s antlers
being propped up unnaturally by various guides. The size of the
creatures in the photos surprised me. I thought Roy was more the kind
of guy who’d spend his summers clubbing baby seals.

A five-foot projection television screen such as
you’d see in a proud sports bar dominated one corner of the room.
Around it, I could see a lot of high-tech consoles on black-lacquered
shelving. Both audio and video equipment, including a hand-held
camera in an unlatched carrying case, a tripod, and at least three
video-recorders. I didn’t bother to look for the cassettes
memorializing his favorite hunts. When I got to the base of the
staircase, I could hear stereo noise drifting down from the second
floor, mixed with the sound of water running and drumming
intermittently. My boy was taking a shower. I climbed the steps
carefully, not wanting vibration to give away what the hi-fi
cooperatively covered. The water sound got louder as I entered the
master bedroom suite. The sheets on the king-size bed were rumpled
and dirty, a fresh, oval stain on them near the center of the
mattress. The accordion louvers on the closets were arced outward,
clothes tossed everywhere. The door to the master bath was open,
probably to allow the music coming from the large speakers on
customized stands in two comers of the bedroom to be heard. There was
a forty-five-inch television screen in a third corner, with two more
VCRs on shelves beneath it. I walked to the threshold and peered in.

Marsh was behind a frosted-glass shower door. I could
make out his movements as he lathered and scrubbed himself On the
rung of the metal border was a large blue towel. I carefully tugged
it off, then stepped back and underhanded it into the bedroom. I
eased against a clothes hamper in the corner and waited.

Twenty seconds later, Marsh turned off the water,
made a blubbering sound, and slid the door a third of the way on its
track, fishing his hand out for the towel. He slapped perspiring
glass a few times, and said, "Shit!" Then he yanked the
door all the way open. Naked he looked almost starved, about as much
fat on him as you’d find in a stick of cornoil margarine.

He had an armored division "Hell on Wheels"
tattoo on one bicep and “Born to Kill" on the other. He saw me
and jumped, losing his balance in the slippery tub and having to grab
and somewhat dislocate the glass door to keep from falling. His
genitalia shriveled up to nothing.

"What’s the matter, mighty hunter, Sheilah
wear you plumb out?"

He worked his mouth once, then caught his breath.
"What the fuck do you—"

"I wanted to have a little talk with you. About
your latest safari."

"What?"

"You know, to deepest, darkest Peabody."

Marsh started to come out of the shower, slinging his
left leg over the tub wall and making a fist with his right hand.
Before he could cock it, I took a quick step forward and jabbed with
my index finger hard into the little half-moon hollow we all have
just above the breastplate. That tends to scratch the windpipe and
made Marsh clumsily step back, tripping on the tub wall and nearly
falling again.

His voice croaked. "You . . . got . . . no right
. . ."

"You’re a funny guy to be talking about
rights, pal. After what you did to your daughter’s pet."

"I got . . . alibi . . ."

"You think old Sheilah’s going to back you
when she finds out what you did?"

"Get out."

"Not yet."

Marsh started to come forward again, then his brain
took over and he stopped himself.

“
You’re learning, Marsh. And so far the tuition
hasn’t been too costly. Just a little sore throat."

“
What do you . . . want?"

"I want you to behave yourself. I don’t mean
about the nurse and all. I mean you leave Hanna and Vickie alone, and
leave the divorce stuff to the lawyers to work out."

His voice was returning, and Marsh regained a little
vinegar along with it. "Or else what? You’ll break my . . .
writing hand, too?"

I walked up to him. He tried, God knows why, to slam
the glass door shut in my face. I jammed it with the heel of my shoe,
and the glass, unable to stand the torque and impact, shattered, big
and little pieces falling down into and around the tub.

Marsh at least had the presence of mind to freeze. I
put my hands in my pants pockets and shook them, making the fragments
sift down off my legs and onto the floor.

Marsh looked at the bottom of the tub. He had only
some small cuts with little springs of blood popping up on his feet
and shins, but he was literally surrounded by splinters. "Jesus
Christ, how am I supposed . . . to get out of here?"

I backed up. "Good question."

"Come on, man. You gotta get me some shoes . . .
or something. I can’t walk out of here in my bare feet."

"Take up your wounds with the nurse when she
gets home."

"I’ll get you for—"

"You’ve got a mighty short retention span,
Marsh. Let me spell it out for you. Doing the cat today, you stepped
outside the rules. You step outside the rules again, boyo, and I’ll
play like there are no rules. Understand?"

He didn’t say anything until I was down the stairs.
Then he started yelling, “Ow, ow! Goddamn fucking—Ow, ow—You
son of a bitch—"

I left by the deck door and whistled on my way back
to the Fiat. Just to avoid tempting fate, though, I started right up,
made another three-point turn, and drove out the other end of the
Seaway so as to avoid going past Natty Bumppo’s front sights.
 

SIX
-• -

“
Jeez, John, Felicia Arnold is nipping at my balls
over this."

Trying not to picture the metaphor, I put my feet up
on the landlord’s coffee table and cradled the phone receiver
against my shoulder. "Chris—"

"You saw the kinda guy he is this morning. What
the hell were you thinking ot`?"

"Chris, the kinda guy he is we call a sadist,
get me? He tortured his little daughter’s pet. Besides, I didn’t
do anything to him."

"Felicia says he was covered with cuts."

“
Chris, as far as Felicia is concerned, I was never
there."

"What?"

"I said as far as Felicia, or anybody else, is
concerned, I was never at Marsh’s house. I’ll level with you, but
deny it to anybody else."

"John, you broke in!"

"No, I didn’t. The door to the deck was open,
and I walked in."

"She says there was blood everywhere."

"The blood came from him slamming the glass
shower door on my foot, Chris. I pushed him once, that’s all, and
no damage from that."

Chris stopped for a minute, then said, "How come
this is just between you and me?"

“
Because I don’t like the idea of Marsh doing the
cat and then being able to get away with denying it. He’s somebody
who doesn’t believe things you just tell him. If I pay him a visit,
then deny what I did too, I maybe he’ll get the idea that it’s a
two-way street, that if he can go into Hanna’s place anytime he
wants, I can do the same to him at his house. Active deterrence, you
know?"

"Yeah, well, I just hope you haven’t made
matters worse."

"Speaking of making matters worse, what are we
going to do about that second appraisal?"

"Just what I need right now."

"I saw it, Chris. The house, I mean. Have you?"

"No. Well, the photos from the appraisal there
and all."

"It’s a palace. The Vanderbilt mansion done up
in hardwood."

"So?"

"So it’s worth a fortune."

"Yeah, well, is it worth getting a nutcake like
Marsh going again?"

"Also the insurance, Chris."

"The insurance?"

"Yeah, on the guy’s life. If I were you, I’d
check on that policy with the company that issued it."

"John, how the hell am I supposed to do that?
Those kinda records are confidential, at least without going to
court."

"Felicia Arnold can have the home office of the
insurer itself send you Marsh's coverage."

Chris exhaled noisily. "Okay, okay, I’ll think
about it. You got any other marching orders for me?"

I hung up with Chris still a friend, then dialed the
Boston police headquarters on Berkeley Street.

"Homicide, Detective Cross."

"This is John Cuddy. The lieutenant in?"

She said, "You haven’t caused enough problems
for a while?"

"The courthouse thing?"

"It’s what comes to mind."

"Look, that wasn’t my fault."

"Save it for him."

A gruff gravelly voice, a mixture of Dorchester tough
and street black, came on. Not his usual telephone manner. "Somebody
post bail for you?"

“
Not funny, Lieutenant."

We went around on that a bit, then at a convenient
break point I said, “Could you check somebody out for me?"

"I guess so. Name?"

"Roy Marsh. Insurance agent, lives in
Swampscott."

"You got anything in particular in mind?"

"I’m thinking he might be partial to the nose
candy."

"You talk to the Swampscott PD about him?"

"No."

"How come?"

"Because I don’t know anybody there."

Murphy grunted. "That all you want on him?"

"The guy’s a bad actor." I briefly
described what we found at Hanna’s house. Murphy and his wife had
always wanted but never had kids of their own.

"Cuddy, I’ll ask around Narcotics, but you
come up with anything, I don’t want to see or hear about any
vigilante stuff. Dig?"

"I’m just investigating a divorce here,
Lieutenant."

He gave me his home number again and told me to call
him tomorrow or Sunday.

I put the phone down and did my best to forget
Chris’s remark about my maybe having made things worse for Hanna.
Just to be sure, I tried her number in Peabody. She was all right: no
Roy, no incidents, not even harassment by telephone. I told her that
was good news, probably meaning Roy had gotten the anger out of his
system. She said she hoped so and thanked me again for helping at the
conference. I didn’t mention my trip to Swampscott, and we hung up.