Compromising Positions (32 page)

“No. Maybe it’s my fault, I don’t know. He says I’m too demanding and that turns guys off.”

“All right. Now, when was the last time you saw Bruce?”

“The day he was killed.”

“And you didn’t tell the police that?”

“How could I? They’d tell Dicky.”

“I doubt if they would,” I said. “But tell me what happened. Was anything different?”

“Well, Bruce was very sweet and loving. He said he wanted to make up his mind about our future. That we should stop seeing each other for a little while, and both of us should decide whether we should break up or if we should get divorced and marry each other. He said it would cause talk all over town, but our love would protect us from the world. He said he’d call me in a couple of weeks.” She gazed at me. “That’s what he said.”

“Anything else? Think.”

“Well, he said because of me his problems were over.”

“What did he mean by that?” I inquired.

“I asked him. He told me I had brought meaning to his life.”

“Anything else, Brenda? Think.”

“No. That was all. But you have to tell me something. Where did you see the pictures? Please. You have to tell me.”

“The police found them in his office.”

“In a safe?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” I lied. “But only a few upper-echelon police have seen them.”

“And you.”

“Yes.”

“Were you working with the police when you came over that night?”

“No. But I’m cooperating with them now. I think that’s important, don’t you?” She didn’t respond. “Now, what has Dicky said about Bruce?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I mean, he always disliked him. Says he was a pushy guy and he could never understand Norma’s falling for him. I could see what he meant in a way. Bruce seemed a little flashy, with his shirt opened a lot and the chains. But deep down he had a lot of breeding. I think he dressed that way to please Norma and her friends.”

“I see. Now what about Dicky and Norma?”

“Well, they were very close when they were kids. Their mother was sick a lot, and Norma practically raised him. But they drifted apart.”

“I see. Now, about the day of the murder. Did Dicky say anything at all about Bruce? Did he act differently in any way?”

“No.” She stared at me. “You don’t think Dicky had anything to do with it, do you?”

“I’m not sure about anything,” I said lightly. “But tell me about the day of the murder.”

She hesitated a few seconds and then began. “Well, Dicky was at the plant until seven or eight. He came home in a good mood. Said our problems were over.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“Oh, not what you’re thinking. I think he got a new account. But he wasn’t upset or anything.”

“And when did you hear about the murder?”

“A few minutes after Dicky came home. Norma’s next door neighbor called to tell us. We drove right over.”

“And how did Dicky react?”

“He was upset. We were both upset.” Her voice grew softer. “Please, I can’t talk anymore.”

I stood stiffly. The chair, copied from one designed for an eighteenth-century body, was very uncomfortable. “I’ll keep in touch, Brenda. And call me if you want to talk. But one thing. Let’s keep this private. If you tell your husband I was here, he might start asking a lot of questions neither one of us wants to answer. All right?” She nodded. We walked to the front door. On a small maple shelf under a mirror was a picture of Brenda and Dicky sitting at a banquet table, holding hands across a dish of celery and olives. “Do you have a picture of Dicky that I could have?” I asked. “It could eliminate him as even a potential suspect.”

“I can’t give you that one. He’d miss it. It’s from an Israel Bond dinner where his cousin Murray was honored.”

“Oh, of course. Could you possibly find another?” She excused herself and walked to the back of the house.

“Here,” she said, extending a newspaper clipping. It was a picture of Dicky standing in front of his plant, a large sign, “Power Printing,” appearing to rise from his shaved head. “This was in the
Shorehaven Sentinel
when the plant opened. We’ve got lots of copies.”

“Thank you.” I walked out slowly and went to my car. The street was deserted.

Driving past the corner nearest the Duncks’ house, I spotted Sharpe’s car, its engine running. A lighting company repair truck was parked behind it. Sharpe put his car into gear and began following me home. For about two blocks I resisted peering into the rear-view mirror to check his expression, but finally allowed myself a glimpse. I could see nothing; the sun reflected off his windshield, and all the mirror reflected was a bright patch of light. Would he be beaming with pride, his big, round eyes crinkled at the corners, sparkling with pleasure? Or would he be wearing his bland, snub-nosed cop face, like the first time we met, showing nothing, giving nothing, taking everything in? Maybe he’d be in the midst of one of his mini temper tantrums, those quick, cold flashes of anger when he sensed that some facet of the case was no longer under his control. “Judith,” he would spit as he exited from his car, “I told you, goddamn it, not to...”

He had told me to keep an emotional distance from Brenda, to constantly consider the possibility that she could be the murderer. But she wasn’t; I knew it. Long ago Brenda had given up control of her life, long ago resigned herself to not making waves. When her ass of a husband—and she knew he was an utter ass—told her not to poke her nose into his business, she obeyed. She probably wasn’t even interested any more. The limits of her life were her own lovely, aging body: the careful application of makeup to hide the flaws, the painstaking exercises, the perfect, precise application of nail polish. Even if she had been aroused enough, frightened enough to have killed Fleckstein, she would have folded immediately after. Brenda no more had the ability to sustain a cool facade than Fleckstein had to lead an open, uncalculating life.

I pulled my car into the driveway, got out, and leaned against the front fender, watching Sharpe drive up the street. He parked and walked to me silently, wearing a face without expression.

“I did a good job,” I said quietly.

His lips parted slightly and he began to smile. “I wouldn’t have done it exactly that way,” he began.

“Which is precisely the reason you sent me in there.”

“Did you turn off the transmitter?” he asked. I told him I had. “You know something, Judith? When I think about it, you were great. Really great. And asking her for his picture! Brilliant. Just pray she doesn’t decide to tell him. What made you think of it?” He took my face in his hands and leaned over to kiss me.

“Not in front of my house,” I hissed. “Let’s go inside.”

“The only thing I don’t understand is why you had to tell her you had police contacts.” Sharpe sat on the living room couch, loosening a hideous black tie with large green splotches that I’d been too nervous to notice earlier.

“What was wrong with saying that?”

“What was wrong? Your value is as a neighbor, a friend. She’s obviously scared shitless of the police.”

“But I’m not her friend and she knows it. And if I began a whole buddy-buddy routine, she’d sense it was totally out of character for me and be suspicious as hell. What should I have done, give her the ‘we women’ number, told her sisterhood is powerful?”

He put his arms around me and pulled me close. “Did anyone ever tell you,” he whispered, “that you’re a very smart woman?”

“Yes, all the time. How about telling me that I’m your ideal sex object, that it’s painful to keep your hands off me?”

“You know that’s true,” he said. “But if I told you that without your prompting me, you’d get sore as hell. Now, tell me about the photograph. How did you think to ask for it?”

“Well, I thought that since we’ve settled on Dicky, it would be a good idea to start showing his picture around. Maybe, just maybe, there was someone in Fleckstein’s building who saw him come in. I mean, Dicky is distinctive-looking. What about the guy who discovered the corpse?”

“Judith, no one says corpse any more.”

“I say corpse and I’m a good detective.”

“All right, corpse. We can show it to Dr. Goldberg, the chiropractor, who found him. In fact, we can trot it around the whole building. It shouldn’t be too hard. Most of the tenants are doctors and dentists, and they’ll have a record of their appointments for that afternoon. That way, we can contact any patients who might have been in the building at the time of the murder.”

“Sure. But won’t that take a long time?”

“Judith, it has to be done. It’s slow, but nine-tenths of detective work is like that: pure tedium. You speak to people, try to jog their memories, ring doorbells until your fingers get numb.”

“All right, you take that part, I’ll take the glamour.” I sat with Sharpe’s hand in mine, pressing flat the long veins in his hand, watching them fill again.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“About Marilyn Tuccio. Wouldn’t she be a natural person to interview?”

“Sure. We can talk to her again. But as I remember, she said something about seeing a doctor—a guy in a white coat. That was it. Unless maybe Dunck had the foresight to do that. It’s certainly worth asking.”

“Nelson, she didn’t just see a doctor.”

“What?”

“I’m almost positive. I remember her saying something about how she felt uncomfortable being alone with Fleckstein in his office, and that when she left, she felt relieved that there had been a couple of people in the hall. One of them was a doctor, but she didn’t say anything about the other. Or others.”

“Call her,” he said.

“And say what?”

“Ask her to come over here.”

“Not yet.”

“Jesus, Judith.”

“Would you please listen to me, Nelson?” He nodded. “Good. Before she comes over—have you figured out how you’re going to deal with her? Don’t forget, she’s been a suspect all along. She’s retained a lawyer, and I’m sure she’s not terribly enamored of the police. What are you going to say to her? Can you give her blanket assurance that she’s not a suspect?”

“All right. Why don’t you call her and say you have me over here and that I’d like to talk with her? You can mention something about her not being a suspect any more.”

“In other words, she’s in the clear.”

“Correct.”

Hearing Marilyn’s usual cheery hello made me hesitate for a moment. I knew how intelligent she was, how resourceful. Could she actually have done it? “Hi,” I said, “It’s me, Judith.” Marilyn Tuccio, the avenging angel, wiping out the schmutz of Shorehaven with one mighty blow. As quickly as I had conjured it, the image faded. I knew Marilyn, knew her character. She might occasionally get a bit overemotional about fiscal integrity, but she was not a killer. “Marilyn, can you come over here now? The man from homicide in charge of the Fleckstein case is here—Lieutenant Sharpe. He’s decided you’re not a suspect.”

“He’s at your house?” she asked blankly.

“Yes. I’ll explain in detail later. Why don’t you just come over?”

“Fine,” she said, somewhat hesitantly. “Be right there. But Judith...”

“Trust me, Marilyn.”

“That goes without saying.” She arrived within three minutes, looking fresh and crisp in black wool slacks and a long-sleeved T-shirt that said “Adoption—Not Abortion” in pink letters.

“Marilyn,” I said, gazing at her shirt and shaking my head.

“You always said that even though we don’t agree on a lot of things you still respect my opinion. And as you know, Judith, this is one of my strongest.”

“I know. But must it be emblazoned on your chest?”

“Judith, I can show you pictures of fetuses, little tiny babies...”

“Mrs. Tuccio?” asked Sharpe, walking over. “I’m Nelson Sharpe.” He extended his hand and she shook it. “I know you spoke with a couple of the detectives working on the case, but if you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

Marilyn favored him with a mildly hostile glance, as if uncertain whether he was just another rotten cop or real vermin. “I have a question or two first,” she said coldly. “Am I still a suspect?”

“No,” Sharpe said.

“And am I supposed to believe you? What if I call my lawyer? Would you tell her the same thing?”

“Yes.”

“May I use your phone, Judith?” I nodded. She strode into the kitchen, and Sharpe and I listened to her. “Miss Fields, please. Helen? Marilyn Tuccio. Fine. Fine. And you? Oh, I’m sorry. Yes. I’m here with a Lieutenant Sharpe. Yes. He says I’m not a suspect. Would you talk with him?”

Sharpe walked into the kitchen, and Marilyn returned. I could hear him saying, “Hello, Miss Fields. How are you?”

Marilyn cut short my eavesdropping. “Judith, what’s happening?”

“Well, I just started asking a few questions about the case and one thing led to another and then someone broke into my house, remember? The day I brought Joey over? Well, whoever did it was probably the murderer. That’s when I met Lieutenant Sharpe, and we’ve come up with a few things.”

“I see,” she said. “Is he competent?”

“Very.”

“Not like that buffoon who came to interview me. That nasty, ill-bred bigot.”

“No,” I assured her. “He seems to be a decent sort.”

Sharpe called Marilyn into the kitchen and came back to me. “What did you say to her?” he asked.

“I told her you were a nice person. She was terribly offended by that goon of yours who visited her, the one who insinuated that her family must have Mafia connections because their last name is Tuccio.”

“My men are not goons, Judith.”

Marilyn returned, and the three of us sat in the living room, Sharpe and I on matching club chairs and Marilyn on our usual section of the couch.

“Well,” she said, “my lawyer says you’re okay, so I guess you are. What can I do for you?”

“First,” he said, “I’d like to offer an apology. I understand one of the men in my squad was something less than polite to you. I’ll make it a point to speak to him about it.” He spoke with great softness and sincerity and smiled at Marilyn. She beamed back at him. “Now, Mrs. Singer reminded me—and I’m sure it’s in the notes of your interview—that as you left Dr. Fleckstein’s office you noticed a couple of people in the hall. Could you recall that, Mrs. Tuccio?”