“But not with a child,” she says. “Never with a child.”
Laurel is one of those people to whom the young always seem to gravitate. Every family has them, aunts and uncles who speak a special language of love. These people know what makes kids move. On family outings Laurel would spend endless periods talking to Sarah, off in quiet corners. She knows more about my own daughter, her secret desires, the things that terrify her in the night, than I do. So this dead child, and the thought that others at this moment think Laurel is responsible, is a blow of staggering proportions. “They really think I did this?” she says. For the first time she looks at me. I don’t respond, but she knows the answer.
“You didn’t know that she was pregnant?”
Laurel’s head is back in her hands, supported by fingers at the forehead. Eyes focused down once more. “How could I?” she says. “Melanie didn’t share such things with me. Did she look pregnant to you?” she asks. “I thought maybe Julie or Danny… ” I say. Like perhaps Melanie talked to one of the kids during periods of visitation at Jack’s house.
“No. They would have told me,” she says.
I have been wondering why this didn’t tickle Jack’s rage earlier, the death of an heir. His male ego, the fact that his seed was snuffed before it had a chance to come to full fiower, is not something Jack could easily walk from, even if an extended family was not something high on his agenda. The reason for Jack’s seeming heightened hostility this morning now makes sense. Jack got his own surprise. The first hint that his wife was pregnant came from the medical examiner, after the autopsy. “One thing doesn’t make sense,” I tell her. “Why would she keep it from Jack? Another child on the way. Seeds of a new family. Domestic tranquillity. With what they were doing in court, they could have used it in the custody fight.”
“You’re assuming the child was Jack’s,” she says. “I know there was no love lost,” I tell her.
“It’s not a matter of animosity,” she says. “I know the child could not have been Jack’s.”
“What?”
“It was not something we talked about, even to the family,” she says.
“But Jack had a vasectomy twelve years ago,” says Laurel. “Right after Julie was born. He could no more father a child than I could.” (
HXRTEE
o She arrives wearing beige pants, a white blouse, and a long flowing caftan, yards of shimmering silk and open down the front. It is the feminine counterpoint to the rough cowboy’s duster on an abandoned street with guns slung low on the hip. Dana Colby looks from across the room, the smile of recognition as she negotiates the small tables of the crowded restaurant, mostly couples paired off. She is a contrast in striking features, amethyst eyes against pale skin, and hair the color of burnished copper. She moves with a saucy confidence that screams divorced and in demand. A score of male eyes wander from their dinner companions to stare at this electric beauty, the lusty-eyed look of children who have suddenly spied something better on the shelf. I rise.
She does the thing that is chic, takes my hand, then leans across the table and plants a kiss on my cheek, nothing amorous. To those initiated in the ceremony it says we are merely friends. “Sorry I’m late,” she says. “Friday night. Traffic was hectic,” she tells me. “Have you been waiting long?”
“A few minutes.” Looking at her, I know it was worth it.
Dana’s hair, like Rapunzel’s, if undone could lower a family from a burning building. Tonight it is braided in a single course, shimmering to the center of her back. We are standing in the middle of the Chievas, the most expensive restaurant in Capital City, on the main level, off the dance floor, a legion of envious eyes on her, male and female. I feel like the winner of the last jackpot on bingo night. She sits. I slide her chair in. “Thanks.” In her smile there’s enough heat to fire a boiler. The waiter is on us. Something to drink? “A glass of white wine,” she says. A dozen choices, she picks Gewtirztraminer. I order a liter. I will ply her with wine. I called her yesterday and asked if she could meet me for lunch, a couple of items I wanted to discuss, perhaps renew old acquaintance. I have a more specific agenda, but I kept it to myself. She was busy for lunch, so tonight we do dinner. It is business, and I am still feeling married, a daughter at home who expects me before the witching hour of her bedtime, at nine. I would lack the confidence to ask this woman on a date. Still Dana has the grace to make this look social. In law school she had a boyfriend, four years ahead of me, a prophet who’d already crossed over into the land of milk and honey, a lawyer with all the accoutrements, Porsche, and a condo at the Point. While it turned out later to be an exercise in futility, he’d given her a ring with a stone the size of a glass doorknob. It was our semester of “Equity,” and to this day the thousand maxims born of the ancient law of chancery are a mystery to me. I spent my time, like a dozen other guys, dazed by the kaleidoscope of the colors radiating from the prisms on her finger, and dreaming at my desk. “You look spectacular,” I tell her.
She blushes just a little.
Men are funny. Do a thousand trials, some silver-toned Cicero on the jaded edge in front of a jury, and a woman in a caftan, dressed for adventure, can steal your tongue. “I’m sure we both look better than we did the last time,” she says.
She’s talking about the street out in front of Jack’s house the night of the murder. “I love this place. Have you been here before?”
“A few times,” I tell her. “You?”
“Once or twice.”
No doubt on the arm of sterner stuff than this.
The waiter arrives and pours our wine.
“Lately I see your name in every newspaper,” she says. “Mostly taken in vain,” I tell her. “It’s hard to turn an arraignment into disaster. But it seems we managed.” She laughs a little. “Morgan has a positive talent for other people’s disasters.”
“You know Cassidy?”
She nods.
“We belong to the same club,” she says.
“Ah.” I’m a thousand expressions, all of them bad.
She has both hands on the stem of her wineglass, holding it just off her lips, the pose of meditation. “And no, it is not bitches anonymous.’ ”
She’s smiling at me.
“Hey did I say it?” But she can smell my thoughts.
“Not in so many words.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Window to your soul,” she tells me. “Though on the subject of Morgan it’s not difficult to read the mind of another lawyer who’s crossed her path. She has been known to play the ball out of bounds,” she says.
“Where were you last week, before the arraignment?”
“Hey, she’s not all bad. Has some good points.”
“I guess I haven’t seen that side.”
“She does people without discrimination. In terms of gender,” she says.
“Half the women lawyers in Queen’s Bench, the club we belong to,” she says, “won’t talk to her. Fortunately I’ve never been on the receiving end of one of Morgan’s free kicks. So I guess we’re still friends.”
“You sound like an admirer.”
“In my own way. It’s a tough world out there.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You should try it in a skirt and heels sometime.”
“Somehow I don’t think it would help,” I tell her.
She smiles, little laugh lines forming around the eyes.
“We do lunch once a week,” she says. She’s talking about Cassidy.
“Maybe I can put in a word.”
“Not on my account,” I tell her. I have known people like this before.
To those on a crusade, efforts to
INFLUENCE
are often taken the wrong way. “Maybe you just haven’t see her softer side.”
“Not so I noticed.”
“I’ll talk to her,” she says. The smile on her face tells me this is a fruitless gesture. Idle chatter over lunch is not going to get Cassidy to ease off on multiple murder. Maybe with some other deputy DA, if the victims were homeless vagrants and the press weren’t in attendance. But with Cassidy the juices of obsession run fast and furious, like a white-water ride down the Colorado. “This is really an excellent wine,” she says. I agree. The Gewurz is going down smooth. Something to give you that light liquid buzz, jelly in the stomach and knees when you go to rise. “So what’s this thing you wanted to talk about?” she says. “I suspect you did not call me simply for a session of Morgan-bashing.”
“No. Not that it hasn’t been fun,” I tell her.
She smiles again. “I’ll tell her you said that.” She winks at me over her glass. “I wanted to talk to you about the Merlows. George and Kathy,” I say.
A blank stare, searching her mind, like maybe the Merlows are players in some coffee ad on the tube. “You remember?” I say. “The young couple out in front of Jack Vega’s house the night of the murder?”
“Oh, yes,” she says. The light of recognition.
“I thought you might know where they moved.”
Head slowly shaking. “No. I didn’t know they had.”
“Small neighborhood, little cul-de-sacs backing up onto each other. I thought maybe you might have talked to them,” I say. “No, can’t say that I have. The east side is full of strangers. People who commute but never talk. Fact is, I’d never met them before that night. And haven’t seen them since. When did they move?”
“Soon after the murder. Like maybe the next day,” I say.
“And you’re thinking this is highly coincidental?” She’s a smirk across the table from me. I can tell what she’s thinking. The desperate defense attorney grasping at straws. “A little strange,” I say, “that they didn’t mention it.”
“You’re thinking maybe they saw something? Or at least hoping?” She is now a full smile. The prosecutor as cynic. She hasn’t seen Jack’s bathroom window.
I make a face, a concession that it’s a long shot, but unwilling to convert her to a laugh. “Good luck,” she says. Then, all serious. “If I knew I would tell you.
Are you sure they’ve moved?”
“The house is empty. There’s a for-sale sign.”
“It does sound like they’ve moved,” she says. “Listed with a realtor?”
I nod.
“Well, there you are. I’d talk to the realtor. They must know something.”
“We’re checking. I just thought maybe if you knew them you could save me some time.”
“If I could,” she says. “But the fact is they wandered up and introduced themselves that night. First time we ever met.” She shrugs her shoulders, like wish I could help, but can’t.
“You’re in a box on this case, aren’t you?”
“A firefight,” I tell her, “and I’m low on ammunition.”
“Gotta be tough,” she says. “Is it correct what I hear, that she is family?” She’s followed the case closer than I thought.
“My wife’s sister.”
She sips her wine and nods like she understands.
“There are children, I hear.”
“Two. Teenagers.”
She’s shaking her head. “That is awful. Hard on them.”
“Tell me about it.” I sneak a look at my watch. Not carefully enough.
“Do you have to be somewhere?” she says. “Oh, no. My daughter,” I say.
“I told her I’d be home in time to say goodnight. But I have plenty of time.”
“Oh.” She softens, little crinkles around the mouth.
“How old is she?”
“Seven,” I say. “Going on twenty. The price we pay for living in the global village.
MTV
and the loss of innocence,” I tell her. “It must be difficult,” she says. “Raising a child, alone.”
“It has its moments.”
“Do you miss her a lot?”
“Emm.”
“Oh. Never mind.” A lot of flailing hands across the table, looks of embarrassment. “I’m prying,” she says.
Then I catch her drift. “You mean Nikki?”
“Yes. But it’s none of my business.”
“I don’t mind,” I say. “Yes. I do miss her. More than I like to admit.
Especially to myself. It’s the thing about the people we know best. The ones we love. We take them for granted. I never realized how much I would miss her until she was gone.” She nods like she understands. But I can tell she doesn’t have a clue. “You spend a lot of time preparing, and then it’s over, you’re alone, and you discover that all that preparation was a waste of time. Because there’s really no way to get ready. No matter how much time you have. In the end there’s just a great big hole left in your life.”
“It must have been a very special relationship.”
“I wasn’t a particularly good husband,” I say. “You’re being modest.”
“No. We had more than our share of problems. My obsession with work.
A wandering eye during a period of separation,” I tell her. I could tell her that more than my eyes wandered. She looks at me, a little startled by my frankness.
“But I suppose if the measure of a good marriage is how much you miss someone when they’re gone, then ours was a good marriage.” I notice that we are no longer making eye contact. It is getting maudlin. A session of true confessions. “The story of my life,” I say. “How about you?”
“Oh. Three years of marriage. No children. One divorce. And for the record, I don’t miss him.”
“The advantages of dying,” I say. We laugh a little, but for me it is bittersweet. We pick up our menus and scan the entrees. The waiter arrives with a list of specials, a dozen more dishes given to us like a pop quiz in physics. We order, and afterward there is small talk, mostly about work. My venue being mostly state and hers federal, there is wide latitude for talk without breaching confidences.
Dana is a corner, on the move. There has been talk of a federal district judgeship, not from her lips, but I have read it in the papers, her name on a short list. She would be the youngest appointment in the history of the district. I’m cutting a ravioli with the edge of my fork when I finally broach the subject. “I’m hearing some rumors,” I say, “about Jack Vega and a federal probe.” She is good. Her eyes never leave her plate. A face like a stone idol.
Not the slightest hint that I have bushwhacked her. “Some pretty good sources,” I say. “They tell me that he’s the target of a federal investigation.” She says nothing, but puts down her fork, wipes her lips with her napkin. I can tell by the look that she’s preparing to stonewall it. I play the trump card before she has a chance to dig herself in deep with any lies. “Your man’s wearing a wire,” I tell her.