Harlem Redux (50 page)

Jameson Sweet lay on the floor, his head a crimson mess. He was on his back, his arms flung out on either side, his eyes open and one knee bent. He looked like a man crucified. A gun lay in the curled fingers of his right hand.

David closed the doors behind him. He went to the body, knelt beside it. He reached out, felt for a pulse in Sweet’s throat, even though he was sure he wouldn’t find one. Sweet was dead. No doubt about it. David’s gaze went to the gun and he recalled Sweet’s words.
I’ve always been a man to choose my own destiny. Neither you nor anyone else will dictate my end.

He heard the sound of the front door open and close and seconds later, Rachel calling out. “David? Are you home?”

He heard her moving about the vestibule. Quickly, he got up and went to the parlor doors. He slid them open just wide enough for him to slip through, then shut them behind him.

She smiled at the sight of him. She was holding the flowers. “Oh, they’re lovely. You bought them for me?”

“Of course, who else?”

She came up to him, started to kiss him, then drew back. “Why, David,” she frowned. “What’s that on your shirt?”

He looked down. Somehow, he’d gotten blood on himself. He must’ve wiped his hands on his vest without realizing it. He looked up at her and she must’ve seen something in his face, because the joy drained out of hers, and she said, “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

He swallowed, tried to think. “There’s … there’s been an accident.”

“Accident?” she repeated. “What kind of accident?”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it Annie?” she said. “Has something happened to Annie?”

“No,” he said darkly.
 
“It’s Sweet.” He watched her. “He’s dead.”

Her eyes widened. “No!” She dropped the flowers and her hands covered her mouth. Then her gaze moved from him to the doors behind him. “In there?”

He nodded.

She reached around him to open the doors, but he blocked her.

“Rachel, it’s not pretty.”

“
Pretty?”
she cried. “I don’t care about pretty! I’m a nurse. I’ve seen ugly that you can’t imagine. Now, let me in.”

“He’s gone, Rachel.”

“I want to go in.”

They stared at one another grimly.

“All right,” he said.

She was right. She had seen a lot of ugly. Of course, she had. Maybe as much as he had on the battlefield. Maybe even more. But what she perhaps didn’t realize was that it’s one thing to see a stranger in violent death and quite another to see an acquaintance.

He turned and opened the doors for her. Then he stepped aside, so the whole scene lay before her.

She froze in the doorway, staring in momentary wide-eyed shock. Then she turned back to him and said in a horrified whisper, “My God! David, what have you done?”

 
He felt the blood drain from his face.

Before he could answer, she ran to Sweet’s side. Just as he had done, she placed two fingers on the side of Sweet’ throat and felt for a pulse.

“It’s impossible, Rachel. You can’t do anything. He’s gone.”

“No,” she cried. “He can’t be.” She put her ear to Sweet’s chest, listened for a heartbeat, and obviously found none. When she straightened up, her face, and throat and the bodice of her white nurse’s uniform bore his blood.

Then she saw the gun and reached for it. David rushed forward to stop her, but too late. She’d picked it up. Her fingerprints were now on it. She stared at the gun, a small deadly thing, then with a cry, dropped it as though it had burned her.

David went to her, gathered her in his arms, and drew her away from the body.

“What ha-happened?” she wept. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. I found him here.”

She looked up, searched his face.

“Are you saying he killed himself?”

“It
––
well, it looks like it.”

“But that makes no sense! Why would he do that?”

He didn’t answer.

Anguished sobs broke from her throat. She buried her face in David’s arms, whimpering. He looked over her shoulder. A bullet had drilled a devastating wound into Sweet’s right cheek. The projectile had exited on the left side, at the top of his head, and taken a good part of his skull with it. The resulting explosion of blood and brain matter had splattered nearby furniture and soaked the carpet beneath him.

No one deserves to die like that,
he thought, but he couldn’t deny his sense of relief. The nightmare was over. His secret was safe. Now, he and Rachel would be able to live out their lives in peace.

“We have to call the police,” he said.

“We can’t. You—everyone knows how you felt about him. They’ll think you killed him.”

“Hush.”

“And if they find out I found you here with them?” Rachel gulped. “What—what’ll I say?”

“Tell the truth.”

David hugged her. The coming police interview would be difficult, but once it was done, they would be free.

She sat next to him, stiff with too obvious fear, as he gave his statement.
 
A homicide detective, a man named Peters, listened with the ill-concealed cynicism of a man who was used to being lied to. Peters was gray and tough-looking, like a faded bulldog, of medium height with a balding head, ruddy jowls, and bloodshot blue eyes.

“Are you aware of any reasons,” he asked David, “any personal problems that might’ve led Mr. Sweet to take his life?”

David paused. What was he to answer? To say yes would open a Pandora’s box. Everything about his sisters might come out. To say no would undermine his credibility.

“I didn’t know my brother-in-law well. But I believe he’d been in a critical frame of mind since my sister’s recent death.”

Peters turned back to Rachel. “Did you ever see Mr. Sweet looking depressed, hear him talk about suicide?”

“He talked about his wife. He couldn’t come to terms with having lost her.”

“She committed suicide, too—”

“After a long illness.”

“They were close?”

“Yes.”

Peters leaned forward. He looked from Rachel to David. “Did either of you touch the gun?”

David shook his head, then glanced at Rachel. She gave him a questioning look and he answered with a nod.

“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “I did. I tried to see if he was alive and then I saw the gun and I … I just reached for it.”

Peters inclined his head. “So were your hands on the gun when it went off?”

“No,” Rachel drew back. “I told you. I wasn’t here when it happened. I only saw him, later, after he was dead.”

David gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“What’s behind your question, Detective?” he asked.

Peters smiled blandly and snapped his notepad shut. “Just looking for the truth. We’ll have to test you both for gunpowder residue.”

Rachel started. She turned to David. “But I—”

“It’s normal in situations like this,” said Peters.

David comforted her. “It’s procedure. Don’t worry. You have nothing to fear.”

“No,” she murmured. “Of course not.”

Peters returned the next day and asked for Rachel. Annie told him Rachel was resting, so he asked to speak with David. She left the two men in the library. David rose from his armchair to shake hands with the detective and asked him to sit down. Peters spoke without preamble.

“Your wife tested positive for gunpowder residue.”

“Of course she did. She said she picked up the gun.”

“But she didn’t say she was holding it when it fired.”

David straightened up. He was surprised and indignant. “Are you accusing my wife of murder?”

“There’s also the matter of her fingerprints.”

“You can’t be serious. Whatever test results you have, they came from her having touched the gun when we found him. I told you, she wasn’t even here when it happened.”

“The test—”

“I don’t give a damn about your test. I’m the one who found the body. I was there. Not her. And I saw the kind of wound he had. It consistent with suicide: close contact, to the head.”

“That it was. But there’s another problem. The muzzle must’ve been pressed against his cheek. Most people shoot themselves in the temple.”

“That’s razor thin––”

“Let’s say Mr. Sweet was sitting down—or he was standing.” He waved his hands to stave off argument. “It doesn’t matter. Either way, it would’ve been simple for her to come up behind him. He would’ve been dead before he knew what hit him.”

“A big man like that? You’re saying a big man like Jameson Sweet would just let someone creep up on him, put a gun in his face, and fire?”

“If he trusted her enough not to look behind him.”

“That’s ridiculous. My wife had no reason to kill Sweet. She tried to save him.”

The two men studied one another.

“Don’t try to arrest her.”

“I have a warrant.”

“You don’t have a case. You don’t even have a motive.”

“We have Byron Canfield.”

David’s eyes flashed. “What does he have to do with this?”

“He says Mr. Sweet had hold of a secret that could’ve destroyed you. We’ve checked it out and his story is solid. Your wife offed Mr. Sweet to protect you. To protect your name. Your money. And her status.”

David understood now. Canfield was using this opportunity to get back at him. He wouldn’t have thought Canfield capable of such enmity, or underhandedness, but there it was. He’d poisoned Peters against them. That had to be it. That was the only explanation.

David stood. “You—”

“David?”

Both men turned. Rachel stood in the doorway. Framed by the archway and an aureole of soft late afternoon light, she seemed ethereal and delicate. David went to her. Peters rose to his feet.

“Mrs. McKay, I have to ask you to come with me.”

“No!” she cried and clutched at David.

He stepped between them. “If you take her, then you’ll have to take me, too.”

Peters looked at David. “I could charge you with obstruction—”

“You can charge me with murder if you want to. Just don’t take her.”

Rachel looked frantically at David.

Peters said, “Do you mean that?”

And David answered, “I do.”

Peters looked at David with a calculating hunger.