Compromising Positions (35 page)

“Wire you up?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

“Oh. It’s an electronic gadget...”

“Don’t treat me like an ass, Judith. Would you please explain to me why the police think they have to wire you up?”

I poured myself another cup of coffee. “All right. You know I’ve been working with the police on the Fleckstein case. Well, they’re convinced that the murderer is the same person who wrote M.Y.O.B. on the refrigerator. Well, he called me and asked to meet me, and the police want to hear our conversation. That’s all.”

“That’s not all,” he said coldly.

“Of course, it isn’t,” I agreed. “They’ve got a search warrant, and they’re going to go through his office as soon as he’s out. Hopefully, they’ll find something there to link him to the murder. You see, Fleckstein had a habit of taking pictures of the women he was having affairs with.” He looked at me blankly. “I mean, photographs of them undressed, in various get-ups. Nothing really imaginative, but potentially terribly embarrassing. Anyway, they think Dicky Dunck—he’s the man they suspect—took the pictures from Fleckstein’s office when he killed him. Now Dicky has a feeling I’m involved, but what we want to find out is whether he realizes he’s the prime suspect. Hopefully, I can get him to talk and incriminate himself.”

“This is insane,” Bob bellowed, standing up. “This is crazy. You’re going to risk your life meeting some killer. Are you sick?”

“Don’t worry,” I said sweetly. “I’ll have on a bulletproof vest and there will be cops all around. They’ll be able to see everything and hear every word that’s said.” Bob’s face was flushed, his eyes wide open with shock. “Bob, sit down. Please hear me out.” He stiffened for a moment, but finally sat. “Look, I know things haven’t been going well with us,” I began, and my eyes filled with tears. “But I’ve been enjoying this case more than anything I can remember in a long time. Look at me, please.

“I know you see this as some demented obsession of mine, some psychotic episode that’s totally out of character. But, look, we’ve been living out here for years, and I haven’t been happy for a second. I know that’s not fair, but ultimately it’s true. I’ve been bored silly, floundering between the supermarket and car pools, and all of a sudden, I found something. A murder. A puzzle. It fell into my lap, and all of a sudden it was something I could latch on to. Not just out of boredom. It’s fascinating, trying to put the pieces together, working with the police.” I paused for a second. Bob didn’t find the phrase “working with the police” any more absurd than the rest of my explanation, so I continued. “And I’m good at it. I mean, at detective work. Can’t you understand that?”

“I can understand it,” he said slowly. “And I told you that I sympathize with you. Maybe we should have stayed in the city. I don’t know. But you can’t continue with this. I won’t let you. You’re a married woman, a mother, a person with responsibilities. You can’t just go off on something wild like this because it’s fun. It’s not fun. It’s serious business.” He reached for another brownie and held it aloft in his left hand. It seemed to be a very conscious gesture: his wedding ring gleamed at me. “There are millions of things you can do,” he said. “All sorts of community work, with pollution or kids taking drugs. You can get a job if you want to, go back to school. Whatever. But I draw the line with this, Judith. I’m not going to let you do it.”

He nibbled his brownie and put it down on his plate. His thumb and index finger were covered with chocolate, and I handed him another napkin. “I can’t accept that, Bob,” I said.

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to.”

“No. I don’t need your permission. This is something I want to do and I’m going to do it.”

“Even though I don’t want you to?”

“Yes.”

“I might not be here when you get back. I mean that, Judith.”

“I hope you will.”

“And if I’m not? You’re willing to let ten years of marriage go down the drain? You’re willing to risk our relationship?”

“Our relationship hasn’t been doing very well for the last few years, has it? I mean, it’s been running on its own momentum, but it’s not really moving, just coasting. Maybe if I can come to terms with myself, focus in on who I am—and who you are—we can come up with something better.”

“You never said you weren’t happy.”

“I never said I was. You never asked.”

“I’m going upstairs,” he said. “You still have time to change your mind.”

A moment later, gripping the edge of the table, I made a conscious decision; I would not go to pieces. There was simply no time for that sort of indulgence. Instead, I quickly cleared the table and rushed the children off to bed. I kissed them in an offhand fashion, rejecting the notion of clutching them to my breast and whispering, “Goodbye, my darlings.” Jackson was pacing downstairs, waiting to deck me out in a transmitter that had been delivered a few minutes before.

She was just finishing taping the wire around my midriff when the doorbell rang. We had a brief debate over who should answer it, which she finally won. It was Sharpe.

“You’re early,” I said.

“We got in a little after five-thirty.”

“And?”

“And we found shit.”

“Shit?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said, his eyes cast down. “Not one goddamn thing. Except...” he began.

“Except what?” Jackson demanded. Until that time, she had refrained from asking questions. Being on the rape squad, she informed me, she had had some contact with the cops in homicide, but they were distinct domains. She hadn’t wanted to tread on their turf. But now, her investigatory appetite was whetted; she wanted in.

“The safe was completely empty,” Sharpe muttered.

“Oh,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“What does that mean?” I asked. “That he cleaned it out?”

“That’s only conjecture,” he said.

“It seems likely, doesn’t it, Lieutenant?” asked Jackson.

“Well, I guess so.” He leaned against the door, looking tired and defeated. His large hands, red and raw from the cold, dangled from the sleeves of his green sweater. “It’s not a new safe. Looked like it had plenty of use. Who the hell knows?”

“Let’s go into the living room,” I suggested. Jackson and I walked in and sat down, and Sharpe followed, shuffling his feet along the carpet, staring down at the floor.

“Shit,” he said. Jackson and I glanced at each other. She shrugged her shoulders. I tried to think of something to say, something to comfort him. But he spoke first. “You know what really gets me? I didn’t think, from everything I know about him, that he had the brains to clear out the safe. Who knows? Maybe he never had anything. Maybe he didn’t...”

“Um,” I said. I had almost slipped and called him “Nelson” in front of Jackson. “Look, Lieutenant, he did call to set up a date with me. And you know and I know that he couldn’t care less about my dissertation. That means he has something to say. So let’s just relax and see what happens at nine o’clock.”

“She’s right, Lieutenant,” said Jackson. “And that makes this meeting even more important.” He shot her a quick, angry look, and she sank back into her chair a little. Apparently, it wasn’t department protocol to inform a superior officer that his intuition was less than keen.

We sat silently for several miserable minutes until Jackson suggested I try on the bulletproof vest. I had imagined a nifty neon-orange chest protector, but it was a tunic of dull gray-green.

“It’s not as heavy as I thought it would be.”

“They’re making them lighter now,” Jackson said. She sent me to the closet to get my coat, but it wouldn’t close over the vest. We finally settled on Bob’s down-filled ski jacket.

“I look like a polar bear in drag.”

“Worse,” said Sharpe. We all chuckled and then fell silent.

“Can I take it off for a few minutes?” I asked.

“Please don’t,” said Jackson. “Otherwise, I’ll have to readjust the microphone.”

The two of them sat quietly, occasionally exchanging a remark about surveillance techniques. I paced back and forth, unable to position my bulk in a chair. A sour sweat began to rise from my body, soaking my forehead and trickling between my breasts. Finally, Sharpe announced that it was eight o’clock. “That means we’re in place,” he said. I looked at him, not comprehending. “It means that all my men are in position in the parking lot. We don’t want any undue movement in case he checks the place out early.”

“Oh,” I said and paced some more. “I’m going outside.”

“Don’t,” snapped Sharpe. “He may drive by.”

“I’ll go into the back yard,” I said, and walked toward the kitchen door. Jackson followed a few seconds later, pulling on her coat. The snow emitted its own eerie light, brightening now and then when the moon appeared from behind a cloud. I walked to the children’s swing set, cleared the edge of the slide of snow, and managed to sit down. Jackson stood about a foot away, a giant looming black presence in the white snows of Shorehaven.

“Feeling scared?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Mainly just sick to my stomach.”

“That’s scared,” she said. “We all get it, in one way or another. With me, every time I’m a decoy, I go to the bathroom for an hour straight before I go out.”

“But once you’re working, are you scared?”

“Yes.” She fell silent. “But when things start happening, the minute a suspect approaches me, I’m okay. It’s all business from that point on.”

“But you’re a pro,” I said softly. “You’ve been trained. You know what to do.”

She gazed at me. “From what I’ve heard about you, you’re no slouch. You’ve got all the right instincts.”

I grinned at her. She grinned back. Then we turned as Sharpe appeared at the kitchen door, motioning us to come in. We trudged back to the house.

“I just got a call,” he announced. “Dunck just left.”

“It’s not even eight-thirty,” I protested.

“I know,” he said. “Maybe he’ll go somewhere first. You just get there at nine, okay? Just like you planned.” I nodded. “Hey,” he said suddenly, “where’s your husband?”

“Upstairs in the bedroom.” He looked at me quizzically.

“Mr. Singer doesn’t seem to approve,” said Jackson, her little girl’s voice transforming her irony into an innocent observation.

We remained in the kitchen, silent for the most part, sharing a quart of orange juice. Suddenly I looked at Sharpe.

“You said all your people are in position?” He nodded. “That means you won’t be there.”

“I will,” he said. “I’ll be on the floor of your car, under a blanket. Let me tell you, if you think your bulletproof vest is uncomfortable, you should try that sometime.”

At ten minutes to nine, we began to move. Jackson would stay at the house until I got home. Sharpe went to the trunk of his car and took out a large brown blanket. He lay down on the floor of my car, in front of the back seat, and covered himself.

“Couldn’t you wait to do that until we get there?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go.”

I started the engine and turned on the windshield wipers. It was snowing again. At the stop sign on the corner nearest my house, I braked too hard and went into a slight skid.

“Easy,” he said, his voice muffled.

I drove on slowly. “Nelson,” I said, “if anything happens...”

“Stop it. Nothing’s going to happen, Judith.”

“But if anything does...”

“I’ll see that you get a police honor guard at your funeral.”

“Nelson, please.”

“Judith, relax. I’ll see that your kids are well taken care of, and I’ll even find someone nice for your husband.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Yes, it is. You’re great and everything will be all right.”

“Nelson,” I began.

“Drive,” he told me. “We should be there soon.”

“The entrance to the parking lot is right up the street. I can see it from here.”

The last thing Sharpe said to me before I pulled into the parking lot was, “Keep a window open.” I rolled it down. He shifted under the blanket, making a soft, shuffling noise, and then was silent. I couldn’t even hear him breathing.

In low gear, I eased the car up the driveway and into the lot, past two Cadillacs, a BMW, a Volkswagen, and an empty suburban taxi. The last, I thought, must belong to the cops. At least I hoped so; I would not feel secure with an Eldorado-owning homicide detective. Swallowing hard, I peered about the lot. It was empty. “No one here,” I said, not moving my lips. Just then, my headlights picked up a black Mercedes at the far end of the lot. Slowly, wary of the slippery asphalt, terrified of my own audacity, I drove toward it. And there was Dicky, leaning against the driver’s door.

“Hi,” I said. He gave me a wide smile, showing a wide stretch of uneven teeth. Then he ambled over, unlocked my door, and said: “How’re you doing, sweetheart? Listen, get out. It’s a gorgeous night. We can talk here and then later go for a drink.” As I turned the engine off, I noticed it had begun snowing hard. The air was bitter and damp. Short, powerful gusts of wind whipped by, rearranging the snow into small white mountains, plateaus, and valleys.

He opened the door of my car and offered me his hand. I took it, trying to exit with a degree of grace despite the bulk of the bulletproof vest. Would he notice that I looked at least twenty pounds heavier? The sleeves of Bob’s ski jacket hung to my knuckles. My finger tips were numb.

“I really appreciate your wanting to help with my dissertation.” He didn’t respond. “It’s so thoughtful of you,” I continued.

“Okay, cunt,” he hissed, “what did you tell my wife?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, you’d better cut out your smart-ass business and tell me what you told my wife, goddamn it.” His eyes were squeezed into narrow slits, but his hands, in blue gloves that matched his cap, were out of his pockets, weaponless. He flexed his fingers. If he tried to strangle me, Sharpe could probably stop him in time.

“If you insist on using such foul language,” I announced, “I won’t talk to you. I’m not accustomed to hearing such filth.” He opened his eyes slightly and looked around, uncertain of what to do. “You owe me an apology,” I added.

He hesitated a moment and, without looking at me, muttered, “Sorry.” He then fell silent, clearly because he had no alternative to fall back on after Plan A—Intimidation—had failed.