Swan Dive - Jeremiah Healy (9 page)

"Christides."

"Chris, John Cuddy."

"Jeez, what have you done now?"

"Nothing, Chris. That’s why I was calling, to
see if you needed anything else."

"Anything else? Listen, I got plenty now. A
driving-under tomorrow morning with a guy whose Breathalyzer shoulda
belonged to a beer vat, another closing with that bank—"

"Chris, Chris, nice and easy. Any progress on
Hanna’s case?"

"No, and if I don’t have anything better to
tell Felicia Arnold than what you gave me on Friday, I don’t see
any."

"What do you mean?"

"Marsh is still saying you roughed him up."

"Believe me, I barely touched him. His wounds
are a self-inflicted."

"Yeah, well, you gotta remember that I’m
telling Felicia—to cover your ass at your request, remember—that
you weren’t even there."

"That’s right. Just like Marsh wasn’t there
at Hanna’s house."

"Jeez, John, enough with the cat, all right?
Anyway, Felicia says that while her client would have been, quote,
‘reasonable and flexible,' your ‘unprovoked V attack’ has
changed all that."

“
Chris, what are you saying?"

"I’m saying she’s saying they’re gonna
litigate it now, understand me? No settlement, trial all the way."

And no easy ten thousand for Hanna’s lawyer.

"Chris, first ot` all you’ve got to see this
for what it is."

"For what what is'?"

"Felicia Arnold’s ‘let’s litigate’ talk.
For God’s sake, you said yourself you’ve got him on adultery."

"Yeah, but—"

"And I’ve got him even tighter."

"You do?"

"That’s right."

"On what?"

I thought about whether I wanted Chris to know
exactly what I had. "No details, yet. Just take my word for it.
Marsh can’t litigate this case. You push for the house, and they’ll
fold on it."

"Push for the house." He made a gargling
noise. "John, do you have any idea how much paperwork I’ll
have to do on that? Jeez, I can get my client a quick fifty-five,
plus probably a car and enough furniture to set up in a nice
apartment, maybe—"

"Chris, your client doesn’t want an apartment.
She wants the house, for her and Vickie, and I don’t blame her.
Look," I said, stretching a point, "I told her you were a
tiger in these kinds of cases. You push the other side, and push
hard. They’ll give in, hell, they’ll beg you to take the house
and probably pay you twice. the fee they trotted out on Friday."

"Twice?"

"Guaranteed."

"I don’t know."

"Trust me, Chris. They don’t dare fight. And
if they keep giving you trouble, I’ll call Marsh—"

"Jeez, John———"

"——I said I’d call him, and have a little
talk with him about stuff he doesn’t want aired in court. No more
trouble unless he starts it."

The conversation wound down from there. Replacing the
receiver, I tried not to think about the pulling guard I’d known in
college.

I worked for another hour
or so, doing bills and the assorted other trivia that had piled up.
At 5:10, I closed up and went downstairs. The rush hour crowd was
just filling Tremont as I walked around two corners and into the
little alley. My car was the only one left. The building threw a deep
shadow, and my eyes were slow to adjust, as though I were plunging
into a tunnel on a sunny day. Digging into my pocket for the car
keys, I heard a little shuffling noise in the ground trash next to
the dumpster. I thought, "Rats, I knew we’d get rats."
Then something hit me just behind my right ear and night fell
somewhat early.

* * *

The sweet scent of Creamsicle. Actually, somewhat
turned Creamsicle. I started to sit up, but lost my balance and
banged my head on something metallic and heavy. A wave of nausea
swept over me, and I rolled over instinctively. I threw up two good
ones, then followed with some dry heaves as the complex stench of the
surrounding air caught up with me and my other senses kicked in. My
face and hands felt wet and sticky and the support under my palms and
knees was uncertain, here sharp and unyielding, there soft and mushy.

I was lying in garbage.

I slowly braced my legs, got a good purchase with one
arm, and strained until I got up. I was next to the dumpster,
grabbing the lid and causing it to clang against some
chain-restraint. It was twilight. I looked at my watch: 9:10. Shit,
Nancy—wait a minute.

I still had my watch. I reached for my wallet. All
there but the cash. My ear and house keys still in the other pocket.
Around the back—uh-oh. No gun. Cash and firearm. A mugger, but a
pro.

The Fiat was still where I’d left it. I gingerly
probed the back of my head and brought my hand around for inspection.
Lots of refuse colors, but no bright red. If I’d been cut by
whatever hit me, it was closed and dried.

Playing a couple of coordination games, I could make
all my limbs work, and I was seeing only the right number of fingers.
I drove the ten or so blocks home like a fastidious drunk, taking
double the usual time to get there. Up in the apartment, I tried to
call Nancy, but her line was busy. Twice.

I considered reporting the missing gun. Then I
thought about the details the cop who answered would want. Chewing
four aspirin, I decided tomorrow would be plenty of time.

As things turned out, it wasn’t.
 

NINE
-♦-

Ironically, I was awakened by a garbage truck
clanking and grinding its way down the alley behind the condo. I had
focused on calling Nancy when I heard the pounding at my front door.
I got up, just dizzy enough to have to use both hands to guide me
through the bedroom doorway.

"Who is it?"

"Murphy. Open up."

I unlocked the door. There was a youngish guy in a
cheap suit standing behind Murphy. The young one eased his hand out
from under his coat when he saw I couldn’t be carrying. He had a
ruddy complexion and that unformed, almost larval lack of features
that some cops have.

Murphy said, "Cuddy, I ever ask you to do
something without a reason?"

"Not that I know of."

"This is Detective Guinness. He works Homicide
with Lieutenant Holt’s squad. They want to talk with you."

"What about?"

"Now, pal," said Guinness.

Murphy spoke to him without turning his head.

"Guinness, I hear you talk one more time before
I’m finished . . ."

"Sorry, Lieutenant."

"Why don’t you two come in and sit down while
I get dressed?"

I half expected Guinness to check my windows for a
fire escape. I left the bedroom door open as they went into the
living room. Putting on some comfortable clothes, I tried to think
things through. I didn’t like Murphy’s being on edge. I
especially didn’t like his showing up with a cop from another
lieutenant’s squad.

Murphy was sitting on the couch, Guinness standing
close to the front door, hands in pockets. I said, "Now, what’s
this all about?"

Murphy said, "There’s been a killing. They
want to talk with you."

"Who was killed?"

Murphy addressed Guinness. “You listen to what I
tell this man so Holt hears it the same from both of us." Then
to me, "Roy Marsh ended up dead last night. With a hooker."

I shook my head.

Murphy said, "When Marsh’s name came up, I
told Holt that I checked around on the guy at your request. Including
my talk with Ned Dawkins from Narcotics." Guinness seemed about
to speak when Murphy said, "That’s all I can tell you."

"Can I make a phone call first?"

"When we get there,"
said Guinness.

* * *

Murphy left us at the elevator. Guinness took me down
the hall, slowing his pace near a couple of older guys who watched us
from a bench. One wore thick glasses and seemed washed out and boozy.
The other one had a black patch tied over one eye but appeared alert.

Guinness shunted me into an interrogation room. Green
metal table, three chairs, no window. A tall, slim black lolled in
one of the chairs. He was dressed in street clothes, as in
living-on-the-street clothes. Guinness said, "This is Sergeant
Dawkins. He’s gonna be present while we talk. Wait here till I get
the lieutenant." Guinness closed the door behind him.

"John Cuddy," I said to Dawkins.

"No surprise there." He tipped his head
back till the top ridge of the seat supported his neck, then let his
arms hang limply.

A long two minutes later, Guinness swung open the
door and held it for a shorter, thickset guy in his late forties. He
had steel gray hair cropped so short that it seemed to be growing
upward over his ears. “He had his rights?"

"In the car, Lieutenant."

Looking at me, the new arrival said, "My name’s
Holt." He laid a file folder on the table. Some documents were
in it but there was no labeling on it. It appeared he wasn’t going
to wait for a stenographer. A good sign, meant to show me we were all
just allies here, debriefing each other informally. Right. Holt said,
"I hear Murphy told you that Marsh and
a
hooker are dead."

"No."

"What?"

"I said, no. All Murphy told me was that Marsh
was found dead with a hooker. Nothing about her being dead, too."

Holt squared his shoulders. "I’m tired, Cuddy.
And I don’t want any shit from you."

"You want anything from me, you better talk
nicer."

Guinness came forward, Holt stopping him with a palm
on the chest. Dawkins looked as bored as an usher at a long-running
movie. '

"Murphy says you’re a wiseass but that you’ll
cooperate."

"Ask your questions."

“
Where were you last night, seven to nine P.M.?"

"Sleeping against a Dempster Dumpster."

"What?"

I explained about the mugging.

Guinness said, "Who saw you?"

"Far as I know, nobody."

Holt said, "Let me get this straight. You leave
your office at five-ten, when Tremont Street looks like fire drill
time at the fucken anthill, and nobody sees you get hit?"

"Like I said, my car was parked around back, in
the alley, in the shadows."

"The only car there when you got to it."

"Right."

"And this mugger was waiting for you."

"Right."

"Only one car there, the guy musta been waiting
for you in particular."

"Maybe. Maybe just for the one person he could
nail at that time of day without attracting attention."

"Why didn’t you report the gun?"

"I told you, I was punchy, still a little sick.
When I got home, I just fell into bed."

Guinness said, "You didn’t go to the
hospital."

"No."

"Or call a doctor."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I’ve been hit before. My coordination and all
seemed okay."

Holt said, “Let’s have a look at the head."

I touched my chin to my chest as he examined behind
my ear. I jumped when he hit the spot. Holt said, "Not much of a
bruise."

"It did the trick."

"Pretty easy to whack yourself there, you know I
how."

"So?"

"So why should we think all this went down the
way you say it did?"

"Look, you think I killed Marsh and the
prostitute, right?"

“
So far."

Holt said, "When we found out who Marsh was, we
called his house. His girlfriend answered. Before she went nuts with
the crying, we got his lawyer’s name out of her."

"And Felicia Arnold told you Marsh and I didn’t
exactly hit it off at the divorce conference."

Guinness said, “She told us more—"

Holt cut him off. "It goes a little deeper than
that, Cuddy." He fished in his folder, came out with a mug shot,
and spun it by a corner over to me.

I looked down at it. Front and profile of an
attractive, dark-haired woman in her late twenties. She was wearing a
garish red-and-white-striped blouse and an exasperated expression.

Guinness said, "Know her?"

"No."

"Street name’s Teri Angel. Pimp’s name is
Nino, but he says she was free-lancing last night."

"And Angel’s the dead hooker?"

"Let’s just say she was known to blow more
than kisses."

"I still don’t know her."

"You don’t know her."

"No."

"She was found dead in the Barry Hotel."

The Barry was a run-down joint near South Station.
“Their restaurant’s really slipped the last
few
years."