Hard Feelings (22 page)

“Now we’d like you to put these on and stare straight ahead again,” the officer said.

I put on the sunglasses—they were slightly small on me— and tried to maintain a “natural expression.” After about a minute, the officer returned and said, “That’s all,” and she led us out of the room.

I put on my shirt, tie, and jacket. The other guys were talking to one another, but I kept to myself. A man in a suit—he looked like a detective, but I had never seen him before— came into the room and asked me to come with him.

As I followed the man down the hallway, I wondered if this was it. Somehow, the prospect of getting caught seemed realer now than it ever had before. I imagined myself falling to the floor and crying like a baby when they told me I was under arrest.

The man led me into an interrogation room where Detectives Burroughs and Freemont were seated at a table. Burroughs told me to take a seat, but I remained standing.

“So what’s going on?” I asked, trying to prepare for the worst.

“Just sit down,” Burroughs said.

“Did your witness ID me or not?”

“Sit down, Mr. Segal.”

I hesitated for a few seconds, then I sat.

“To answer your question,” Burroughs said, “no, the witness couldn’t ID you.”

“So then take me back to Manhattan.”

“I’m afraid that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” Burroughs said. “We know you lied to us about your alibi.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Old Stand bar has video surveillance cameras. We looked at the footage and we know you weren’t at the bar that night.”

I sensed a trick.

“There has to be some mistake,” I said, “because I was there that night. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Oh, there’s no mistake,” Burroughs said. “We looked over that tape carefully and there’s no doubt about it—you weren’t there. So you want to tell us what really happened that night?”

“I told you where I was,” I said. “I really don’t understand this. Did you talk to the bartenders?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact we did,” Burroughs said.

“So? Did any of them recognize me?”

“Two of them did,” Burroughs said. “They said you’d come in a few times over the past few weeks, but they couldn’t say for sure whether you were there that night.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Oh, it
is
your problem,” Burroughs said, “because we know for a fact you weren’t in that bar.”

“But I
was
in the bar,” I insisted.

“Look,” Burroughs said, “we could do this one of two ways. You could admit you killed Michael Rudnick and maybe you’ll get a lighter sentence. Or you could make things more complicated for us and you’ll get life. It’s all up to you.”

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “You come to my apartment and cause a big scene and embarrass me in front of my wife. Then you show up at my office and cause more embarrassment. And now you drag me out to butt-fuck New Jersey for some pointless lineup when I had a very busy day scheduled. Meanwhile, there is absolutely no evidence that I had anything to do with any of this. You know, I think I’ll call a lawyer after all and start talking about a lawsuit. I also have a feeling the local newspapers will want to hear about how your department harasses innocent people.”

“Michael Rudnick’s penis had been nearly severed,” Burroughs said matter-of-factly.

“So?” I said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Trying to cut off a man’s penis isn’t the normal way to kill someone,” Burroughs said. “Unless of course the killer was molested by the victim.”

“I told you, I was at a bar that night.”

“Then how do you explain why you’re not on the bar’s videotape?”

“Because there is no videotape,” I said. “You’re trying to set me up when I had nothing to do with any of this.”

For about twenty minutes, Burroughs and Freemont took turns grilling me. They tried to poke a hole in my alibi, make me admit that I wasn’t at the Old Stand on that Friday night. They had found out that I had scheduled the bogus four o’clock appointment on my calendar that afternoon and I explained that scheduling the appointment had been “an honest mistake.” They made me repeat the information I had told them the other night, about the times I had left work, been at the bar, and arrived home at my apartment. I stuck to my story entirely and I could tell that I was wearing the detectives out. Finally, they realized that with no solid evidence against me they couldn’t keep me any longer. Burroughs led me back to the front of the precinct and said I would be taken back to Manhattan “as soon as a car is available.”

I had to wait over an hour. This gave me plenty of time to think about who the witness could have been. Burroughs had said that “the platform was darkly lit,” so the witness must have seen me either when I got off the train at Princeton Junction, or before I got on the train to New York. Burroughs had referred to the witness as a “he,” so this ruled out the woman on the opposite platform who had smiled at me. I remembered passing a man in a business suit on the stairs leading up to the platform, then several people who were seated on a bench. One of these people could have been the witness, but I decided it didn’t really matter. Some guy might have seen me on the platform that night, but he couldn’t have gotten a good look at me or he would have told the cops about my blond hair.

Escaping from my thoughts, I glanced to my right and saw Michael Rudnick standing by the doorway. He looked the way he did as a teenager—overweight, with a faceful of acne and a thick caterpillar eyebrow.

I closed my eyes tightly and when I opened them Rudnick was gone.

17

THE ELEVATOR DOORS opened and Bob was facing me. It was past five o’clock and he was holding his briefcase, leaving for the day.

“Where have you been?” he said. “We had a sales meeting at four.”

“Sorry,” I said. “My twelve-thirty ran late.”

“Sure, sure, whatever,” he mumbled. “See you tomorrow.”

I continued into the office, wondering if I was on Bob’s shit list again. Then I decided it didn’t matter one way or the other. Maybe a couple of weeks ago he would have threatened my job for scheduling a bogus appointment, but now that I was well on my way to becoming the company’s top salesman he was liable to cut me a little more slack.

It was a relief to see that I had received no new threatening e-mails. I hoped this was a sign that my troubles were over.

I stayed late at the office, trying to catch up on some of the work I had been neglecting lately. Around eight o’clock, I decided to call it a day. I was exhausted and it was another humid, oppressive night, so I took a cab home.

Paula greeted me at the front door. She said she was worried about me, but then remembered that I’d had an A.A. meeting tonight. I had completely forgotten about the meeting, but I covered for myself smoothly. I told her that the meeting had gone “very well.” She asked me what we’d talked about and I said, “You know, the usual—our experiences drinking, sharing stories.” Paula said, “I’m so proud of you,” and then she said there was warm Chinese food waiting for me in the kitchen.

I ate some shrimp with snow peas, although I wasn’t very hungry. I opened my fortune cookie and read the fortune out loud to Paula: “You are in charge of your destiny.”

“That probably had to do with your A.A. meeting tonight,” she said.

“Probably,” I said.

Paula and I sat on the couch together watching TV. I was starting to fall asleep when the phone rang. Paula said she’d get it, but I was closer to the phone so I answered it. I said, “Hello,” but the person hung up right away.

“Who was it?” Paula asked.

“Another wrong number,” I said. “If this keeps happening I’ll have to call the phone company.”

I returned to the couch and fell right asleep.

THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE, SCUMBAG. CONFESS OR ELSE!

This was the e-mail that greeted me at work on Tuesday morning. I was reaching my breaking point. Last night, I had managed to get my first good night’s sleep in days, but now my nightmare was starting all over again.

My fingers banging against the keyboard, I typed:

FUCKING JERK! IF YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY, SAY IT TO MY FUCKING FACE!

Then I added:

COWARD!!!!!

I clicked SEND.

The rest of the morning was pleasantly uneventful. A number of people from the office, including Bob, were attending an off-site seminar, so the atmosphere was more laid-back than usual. I worked the phones most of the morning, checking in at several project sites, and I made a few sales calls. For a while, I actually managed to lose myself in my work.

Then, late in the morning, a woman called me asking to speak with Richard Segal. The voice wasn’t at all familiar and I had a feeling that the call wasn’t business-related.

“This is he,” I said cautiously.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” the woman said, “but my name’s Kirsten Gale. We met in Stockbridge a few weeks ago.”

I remembered Kirsten right away, looking so perfect in that white tennis dress, making orgasmic squeals every time her racket made contact with the ball, but I had absolutely no idea why she could be calling me.

“Sorry to bother you at work,” she went on, “but I didn’t know how else to get in touch with you. There were a bunch of Richard Segals listed, but I remembered how you said you worked for some consulting company. At first I thought it was Middletown Consulting, but there was nothing listed for that, then it hit me—you said it was Midtown Consulting. Anyway, I’m glad I got in touch with you.”

Her rambling reminded me of how vacuous she had seemed in Stockbridge.

“So what’s this all about?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, “it has to do with your wife . . . Paula.”

“What about Paula?” I was still confused, but a picture was starting to come into focus.

“Not just about your wife. About your wife and my fiancé. My
ex
-fiancé.”

“They’re having an affair,” I said matter-of-factly.

There was a long pause, then Kirsten said, “How did you know?”

“I didn’t know,” I said, suddenly dazed and light-headed. I felt like I had just found out that someone had died. “So it’s true. They
are
having an affair?”

“I don’t get it,” Kirsten said. “So you already know about them then?”

“No, I didn’t know about anything until now.” My face was burning up. I was starting to shake. “How did you find this out?”

“I still don’t get it,” Kirsten said.

“Are they having an affair or aren’t they, goddamn it?!”

“Why are you yelling at me? I was just calling you to tell you that my ex-fiancé is in love with your wife. But if you already know—”

“How did you find out about this?”

“Doug broke up with me last week. He said it was because he’d met someone else. At first he wouldn’t tell me who— then he said it was your wife. Can you believe that fucking asshole? I mean I could understand if he just wanted to break up—but to break up with me to be with a married woman? My friends told me it was a blessing in disguise, that he was a loser anyway and I’ll be better off without him. I know this must be bad news for you, but I just thought you’d want to know. I know if I were you I’d want to know.”

I thanked Kirsten for the call and then I went outside to get some air. I bumped into a couple of people on the sidewalk, including a young Latino guy who wanted to fight me. He was saying, “Come back here, bitch, and we’ll go right now. Come back here,” but I kept walking.

I felt like the world’s biggest sucker. All this time I thought Paula and I had “repaired” our relationship and we were becoming so close, she had been screwing some arrogant stockbroker.

I recalled how Doug worked on Wall Street, probably not far from Paula. I imagined them checking into some downtown hotel under a phony name during their lunch hour or on the nights Paula had to “work late.” For all I knew Doug wasn’t Paula’s only lover. Maybe she was just as big a slut now as she had been in junior high school. Maybe she was fucking everybody in her office, which would explain how she had gotten that promotion.

I continued downtown, past the Port Authority Bus Terminal, then I turned around and headed back toward my office.

I passed Bob in the hallway.

“Were you at a meeting?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said without stopping.

“I didn’t see it on your schedule.”

“I forgot to put it there,” I said.

I realized that I had been curt with Bob, that I would have to apologize later, but right now I had more important things on my mind.

I called Paula. I was expecting her assistant to answer and say that Paula was at lunch—i.e., sucking Doug’s dick—but Paula picked up herself.

“Hi, honey,” I said sweetly.

“Oh, hi, hon,” she said. “I’m on the other line. Can I call you right back?”

She was probably on the phone with Doug.

“That’s all right, sweetheart,” I said. “I just called to see when you’ll be home tonight.”