Compromising Positions (30 page)

“You forgot to tell me? Jesus H. Christ, Judith, I’ve had two men checking the local banks for a week. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Okay. I’m sorry. Just calm down.”

“Okay,” he said, more evenly. “Go on.”

“Now, the fact that he needed this bank loan would seem to indicate that he hadn’t broken out of his old pattern; he was probably failing again, although he claimed it was just a cash flow problem. Now that has other ramifications, but I’ll get to those later. Anyway, let’s take it as a given that he was a business failure.”

“Right.”

“Okay. So why would Bruce break
his
pattern and start making it with the wife of someone who was a loser in his eyes?”

“Maybe he was just hot for Brenda.”

“No. Fleckstein was much too calculating.”

“What do you mean?” Sharpe asked. “Maybe she had been waving it in front of him for years and he decided to take her up on it.”

“No, I don’t think so. Look, despite all his activity, he just wasn’t an impulsive, horny guy. All his seductions were really very cold and methodical, if you think about them. He used the same technique over and over: a little phone call, a little flattery, a little lunch. It was all a power play, a game.”

“A game,” he repeated. “You may be right. For him, all the fun was probably in getting there, not being there.”

“Yes,” I said, curling the telephone cord around my ring finger. “And that’s precisely the reason he wouldn’t allow himself to be swept off his feet by anyone. It just wasn’t his nature. Now another thing. If you can believe Norma—and my friend Mary Alice backs her up—he was very protective of his family life. It’s not inconsistent with his playing around; there was no real emotional involvement there. He’d call Norma right before one of his assignations, to tell her that he was off to the dental clinic. He always covered himself; he didn’t want anything to jeopardize their relationship. He had built up this image as a loving husband, devoted father. Right?

“So why would he risk this whole image by having an affair with his sister-in-law? It would be too dangerous. Too close to home.”

Sharpe breathed deeply. “Okay. What you’re saying then is that Fleckstein had a definite motive for sleeping with Brenda. That it was somehow manipulative. Not a sex thing. So let’s take that a step further. What did he want from her? Did he try to blackmail her? Why?” He inhaled again. “And if he wanted to blackmail her, why was she wearing that goddamn weirdo mask in all the photographs?”

“First of all, we don’t know what pictures the murderer took; there may have been some without the mask. Also, for Fleckstein’s purposes, he didn’t need a face. Think about it, Nelson. Her body was distinctive enough. The incisions, the waist. My God, what I wouldn’t give for that waist.”

“I love your waist,” he said. “It’s perfect.”

“You are an adorable man,” I whispered. “Okay now, enough of this. Back to the business at hand. Bruce didn’t care about her face showing, for a couple of reasons. One, he didn’t want to make her suspicious, although she’s so dim, so gullible, that he probably could have gotten her to autograph the pictures. And, two, the face wasn’t necessary because he knew that the person who saw the photographs would instantly recognize her body.”

“I knew you’d say that,” he said.

“If you knew, then why am I going through all this?”

“Because I want to make sure I’m following your reasoning. And so we can bounce ideas off each other.”

“All right,” I conceded. “But this is where I’m not too sure of my ground. He apparently told Brenda that if she didn’t help him in some way, he’d show the pictures to Dicky. But what did he want her to do? Work on Dicky to stop cooperating with the government?”

“I don’t think so,” Sharpe said. “Look, Judith, at the time Fleckstein was killed, the case was before the Grand Jury. That means the investigatory work was just about complete. The boom was about to be lowered. Now, all of a sudden, Fleckstein hears from one of his mob friends that his brother-in-law was cooperating.”

“Right. That’s what Norma told me. He ran into this guy he supposedly barely knew who told him that Dicky was the informer.”

“All right, time was running out for Fleckstein. He had to stop Dunck from testifying at a trial. Now, he could try to appeal to family loyalty, but Dunck hated him. And if there was any family loyalty to begin with, Dunck wouldn’t be talking, right?”

“That’s putting it mildly,” I agreed. “Dicky hated Bruce because Bruce wouldn’t give up a dime of his father-in-law’s estate. From the way Norma spoke, I think she would have been willing to part with some of it, but Bruce wouldn’t let her. Oh, I just remembered. When Dicky needed that loan, he asked Bruce to co-sign it. Bruce refused.”

“How did you know that, Judith?” he asked, reasonably, calmly.

“From the bank officer.”

“What?”

“Fay Jacobs, that lovely woman you were so paranoid about—she’s married to an officer of Shorehaven National.”

“You’re right. I had her checked out. Jesus, you’re incredible.”

“So are you,” I said softly and then shook my head, as if to clear away the fuzziness. “God, this double-edged relationship is making me schizzy. Let’s get back to business.”

“It’s all right with me.”

“I know, but I keep fluctuating between deductive rationality and unbridled lust. Anyhow, yes, Dicky hated Bruce Fleckstein. He wouldn’t even consider backing off because he wanted Bruce to suffer. I’m sure of it.”

“So am I. Now, Fleckstein had two choices. He could let his brother-in-law keep talking and go straight to the can, or he could find a way to silence Dunck. He could quickly pull a power play—and for him there was only one power play, sex—go through his usual photography number and then show the results to Dunck. That would destroy Dunck emotionally. Or Fleckstein could threaten that he had lots and lots of pictures and that if Dunck didn’t shut up, he’d see that they were spread all over town. And if you’re right about the Duncks, about them being big social climbers, that would also be a disaster.”

“So you think Dicky killed him, too?” I said slowly.

“Yes. But there are a lot of holes I want filled in. And I want you to help me. Will you?”

“Sure,” I agreed.

“Okay. I want to meet with you tomorrow. Strictly business, Judith. I want you to talk to Brenda. See what she knows. Get a better feel as to what she’s like. Make sure she’s not conniving to clear herself and get rid of her husband at the same time. She may be smarter than you give her credit for. It’s an irregular procedure, but if she’ll talk to you, it will save us a lot of time.”

Just then a vision appeared, of me and Bob and Sharpe sitting around our kitchen table on a freezing Saturday morning, sipping steaming mugs of coffee and passing photographs to each other. “Not tomorrow. My husband will be home.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded. “Judith, I’m not interested in playing perverse games. What do you think? That I want to put myself between you and your husband and see which one of us squirms the most? Look, why don’t you just meet me at my office? Okay?”

“How can I just pick myself up and go to your office?”

“What do you mean?” he asked. He really didn’t understand.

“I mean, what can I tell my husband?”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing you right. What do you need, a written note from your husband saying he gives permission for Judith Singer to visit police headquarters?”

I immediately put up another obstacle. “What happens if he has to work tomorrow? Who will stay with the kids?”

“How about a baby sitter?”

“Well,” I said uncertainly.

“I’ll pay for it.”

“I can afford a baby sitter,” I said tersely.

“Then what’s your problem?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. About ten o’clock?”

“Fine,” he said, and gave me the address.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll see you around ten.”

“Make it eleven. That way I can take my kids skating in the morning.”

After we said goodbye, I tiptoed slowly up the stairs, walking near the railing to minimize the squeaks of the floorboards. I half expected to find Bob lurking in the hall outside our bedroom, paralyzed with fury after having eavesdropped on my conversation. “You bitch, you whore,” he would croak, his face twisted with anger. Or maybe he’d be urbanely unconcerned, lounging about in his maroon bathrobe and saying: “Well, darling, glad you’ve found a little extracurricular activity. I was beginning to think that I was the only one who needed broader horizons.”

Of course, he was fast asleep, his feet sticking out of the end of the quilt, pigeon-toed, despite the orthopedic shoes his mother had forced him to wear until he went off to college. I undressed in the dark and eased into bed. He didn’t stir.

Nor did he react visibly the next morning when I told him I had to meet with Sharpe. He simply shrugged his shoulders and said: “Do whatever you want.”

“Well, he seems to think I might be on to something,” I explained.

“Sure,” he said, pouring himself another glass of orange juice.

I left my Grape-Nuts to get soggy and went upstairs to dress. What does one wear to police headquarters? What does one wear to meet one’s lover? Jeans were too casual. A dress might be appropriate, but Bob might reasonably wonder why I was getting so gussied up to discuss murder. I settled on my reliable gray slacks and a yellow cashmere sweater I had bought between concerts at the Edinburgh Festival in 1965. Waving goodbye to Bob and jangling my car keys, I thought I looked very sophisticated, extremely efficient, and lovely in a simple, understated way.

“Hey, you look terrific,” Sharpe whispered as he stood to greet me. “Hello, Mrs. Singer,” he said aloud, shaking my hand. He closed the door behind me. His office was almost exactly what I’d expected: cream-colored walls instead of institutional green, and furnished with a large, heavy wood desk and several straight-backed wooden chairs with green plastic cushions. A gray filing cabinet was crowned with two styrofoam coffee cups.

“It’s lovely,” I said, looking around. “So gracious, but without that decorator look.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Singer,” he replied.

“You’re ever so welcome, Lieutenant. Okay, what can I do?”

“I want you to get as much out of Brenda Dunck as you can. Make damn sure you haven’t underestimated her.” He was sitting on his desk, resting most of his weight on the palms of his hands, his legs spread apart. “We’ll follow you over there and wait out of sight. You’ll be wired, so we can hear what’s going on. I don’t want any trouble. It took me an hour to convince the captain to let a civilian help out. It’s not our usual procedure. If anything happens to you, it’s my ass, Judith, so be damned careful.”

“Isn’t the wiring a little extreme?”

“Judith, this is a murder investigation. I can’t send you in there cold. I’m still not certain about her, and I’m not going to take any risks. You’re not armed and you could scream your bloody head off and I might not hear you. Okay?”

I shifted in the wooden chair. Its straight back forced you to sit erect, like a society doyenne. “Okay, but it can’t be today; I just realized it.”

“Why not?” he demanded irritably. “Why put it off?”

“Two reasons. She called me early in the week, about having cleared the way for me to talk to Norma and told me she and Dicky were going away for a few days. She might not even be home yet.”

“I’ll check it out.”

“Also, don’t you think I should speak to her alone? Dicky’s probably home today. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until Monday when he’ll be at his printing plant?”

“I guess so,” Sharpe conceded. “But I want you wired, Judith. No arguments, okay? Just take it on faith.”

“All right. But I don’t think she’s dangerous. Nelson, this isn’t some mystery where the murderer is the least likely person. It was Dicky. It follows from everything we know about him.”

Sharpe pushed himself off his desk and began pacing around it. “I know. I follow you. But we can’t be one hundred percent certain.”

“I am.”

“Judith, with all due respect, you haven’t been in the homicide business very long. It’s dangerous to make blanket assumptions.”

“I’m not assuming anything. I’m just examining the natural consequences of his character.” I stood, stiff from the chair, and faced him. “Think about the kind of person he is. Ineffectual. Immature. A cuckold. Right?” Sharpe nodded. “And then think of my refrigerator.”

“Your refrigerator,” he repeated slowly.

“Yes. Remember the first day you came to my house?” We smiled at each other. “Seriously, I told you I had an idea of who did it. I knew then and I know now that it was Dicky Dunck. All you have to do is listen to him, hear the way he talks, like an adolescent who got stuck in a time warp in the mid-fifties. Anyone else would have written ‘Watch out’ or ‘Be careful’ or some such thing. But ‘M.Y.O.B.’ It’s absolutely consistent with his use of language. And he calls himself ‘Dicky,’ for God’s sake. You know and I know that almost any other adult would call himself Richard or Rich or Rick or even Dick. But Dicky? He’s still a kid, Nelson. He says things like ‘bull doody.’ Can you think of anyone else involved in the case who would talk like that?”

He reached for my hand, but caught himself. His office was separated from the rest of his unit by a glass partition. “I think you’re right, Judith. Really I do. But I can’t make an arrest on the basis of diction. So first thing Monday morning I’ll have you wired and we’ll go over there. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“Good,” he said. “Now, since it’s only eleven-fifteen, and since the morning is shot, why don’t we go somewhere?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Well, we could have a cup of coffee or something.”

“I think I’d prefer something. I really don’t want coffee.”

He smiled. “We’ll have to go to a motel. Can you hack that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Can I drive your car? I lent mine to one of the men.”

“I’ll drive.”

“I know the way.”

“You can direct me.” I drove to the motel, about ten miles east, making sure not to exceed the speed limit. Sharpe made the arrangements and we walked to our room.