Homicide Related (24 page)

Oh.

“It also depends on what they're thinking about the other cuts and abrasions they found on her body.”

“
Other
cuts?”

“If they're thinking those were caused by some kind of struggle,” his uncle said, “then they might not be inclined to believe that the cut on her hand was from peeling vegetables.”

He spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, like he was explaining an old case to Dooley, one that involved a complete stranger.

“What are you saying?” Dooley said.

“I'm saying that I'm getting things organized so that if they arrest me, my business won't go under and you won't end up as a ward of the state. If they charge me with first-degree murder, they're not likely to let me out while I wait for trial. They almost never give bail on a murder charge. And you know how backed up the system is. I could end up in there for a year, maybe more.”

“You were a cop,” Dooley said.

“Yeah,” his uncle said grimly.

“Maybe on account of that, they won't lock you up. Maybe they'll give you some consideration, you know, for safety reasons.”

“When they arrest someone for murder, it doesn't matter if it's a cop or an ex-cop; that's not what they do. I have to get all of this in order. And Jeannie wants to cook me a special dinner. I think she's afraid this is it, that the next time she sees me, it's going to be in a visiting room. She'd never say so, but—”

Dooley stood up. “If you guys want some privacy, I can go out and get pizza or something.”

His uncle shook his head. “She wants you here, too. The two of you are probably going to have to work things out, for a while at least. If I end up going to prison for this, we'll have to re-think. But in the meantime, Jeannie is ready to step up. She wants you here tonight, Ryan. She wants to get to know you better. Do me a favor, huh? She's a lady. The genuine article. I want you to promise me you'll treat her like one at all times.”

“Sure,” Dooley said. It wouldn't be hard. “She's nice,” he said. “I like her.”

His uncle seemed to relax a little, which made Dooley hesitate. But his uncle didn't miss a thing.

“You got something on your mind, Ryan?”

Only a million and one things. Like:

“Did you know Jeffrey Eccles?”

The look his uncle gave him was like a kick in the belly.

“Why are you asking?”

“Did you?”

“What's Jeffrey Eccles to you?”

“I used to know him,” Dooley said. “The cops asked me about him.” He could see his uncle's reaction as he absorbed this piece of information. It was like watching a poison ivy eruption. “So you
did
know him?”

“I had a few dealings with him,” his uncle said.

Dooley winced. Of all the ways he could have put it …

“You arrested him, you mean?”

“A couple of times, right before I retired. It never stuck. Why?”

“Did they ask you about him?”

“Who?”

Who?

“The cops,” Dooley said.

He uncle didn't answer. The two of them looked at each other. Dooley wished he knew his uncle better. Maybe if he did, he could have been able to chip away at that exterior, get to the real deal underneath. He decided on a different approach.

“She could really get under people's skin,” Dooley said finally. “Lorraine, I mean. There were plenty of guys she was with, they'd smack her around because of the way she could get to them. I felt like doing it myself a few times.” He ignored the sharp look his uncle gave him. “She gave as good as she got,” Dooley said. “She could draw blood. I saw her do it.” His uncle was still giving him that look. “All I'm saying is, maybe she said something. Maybe she acted the way she always did, and it got to you. And then she got into it and started dishing it out, too, and, you know, things got out of hand.”

His uncle's eyes drilled into Dooley's skull. “You mean, maybe it was self-defense?” he said.

“You wouldn't believe the number of guys who hit her who said she drove them to it,” Dooley said.

His uncle never moved a muscle; his eyes never wavered.

“She died with a needle in her arm, Ryan. It's pretty hard to claim you stuck a needle in someone's arm in self-defense, don't you think?”

“I'm just saying,” Dooley said.

“Because you think maybe I did it,” his uncle said.

All right. So now it was out there.

“If you did, I wouldn't blame you,” Dooley said. And it was the truth.

His uncle laughed.

“Okay, Jesus, I'm sorry,” Dooley said.

His uncle wiped his eyes, he'd been laughing that hard.

“I didn't kill her, Ryan,” he said. “But I have to admit, when I heard they were treating her death as suspicious, I wondered if you were involved.”

“
Me?
”

“Well,” his uncle said. “I found that slip of paper in your pocket. I recognized her handwriting. I knew you'd seen her. I knew you knew where she lived.” The taut smile vanished from his uncle's lips. “If I'd called you on your cell phone that night, Ryan, and if you'd answered, how would I have known you were at the library? How would I have known where you were?”

Jeannie made lamb chops. She made roasted potatoes. She made asparagus. She made a green salad with vinaigrette dressing. She made white chocolate mousse. She made it all right there in Dooley's uncle's kitchen, but she wouldn't let Dooley or his uncle help her, even though they both offered. Dooley's uncle sat at the kitchen table the whole time and watched her. She had on a skirt and blouse. She'd had on high heels when she came to the house, but she kicked those off and had pulled on the pair of slippers—strappy, red, barely-there slippers that looked to Dooley like sandals—that his uncle brought down from the bedroom. She tied on a black apron that his uncle wore when he cooked and cinched it tightly around her waist. She didn't talk much while she worked. She didn't even have to ask where things were. She knew. Every now and then she looked over at Dooley's uncle and smiled, but it wasn't her usual great big Jeannie smile. These smiles were sad. Wistful. Like she was looking at something for the very last time.

She wouldn't let Dooley set the table, even though he offered. She did it herself, taking a white linen tablecloth out of his uncle's credenza and using his uncle's good china (Dooley still couldn't figure how his uncle even had good china; he tried to picture him going to the store to pick it out, but the picture always came out wrong—his tough, gruff uncle looking at plates and bowls, cups and saucers) and a silver service he knew (because his uncle had told him) used to belong to his grandparents—well, to his uncle's parents. She set out linen napkins, folded into triangles under the forks. She set out crystal glasses into which she poured wine for herself and Dooley's uncle, and ginger ale for Dooley.

They sat down—Dooley's uncle at one end of the dining room table, Jeannie at the other, Dooley on one side. They ate the dinner that Jeannie had made—it was the best meal Dooley had ever had, and he said so to Jeannie—and they talked about stuff that didn't matter, like the municipal election that was coming up and what was happening with property taxes and whether the city should start incinerating garbage again because what choice did it have, no one wanted a garbage dump in their backyard. The whole time, Jeannie and Dooley's uncle either looked at each other or avoided looking at each other. Dooley knew that his uncle liked Jeannie a lot. She usually came over a couple of times a week, and he even took her to the ballet and the opera if that was what she wanted. Jeannie liked to laugh—although you wouldn't know it tonight—and, even better, she made Dooley's uncle laugh. Now, seeing his uncle staring across the table at Jeannie, it occurred to Dooley that maybe his uncle had more feelings for Jeannie than he had let on to Dooley.

“I'll clean up,” Dooley said after dessert and coffee.

This time Jeannie said, “That would be nice.”

Dooley's uncle got up and walked to the other end of the table. He pulled out Jeannie's chair for her and supported her elbow as she stood up. He hooked the wine bottle that was on the table and took it with him when he and Jeannie went into the living room. They settled on the couch, Jeannie with her legs curled under her, nestled right in there next to Dooley's uncle, Dooley's uncle with his arm around her. As Dooley went back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, he glanced at them. They just sat there together, holding each other. Dooley wondered what his uncle had told Jeannie and what Jeannie had asked him, if she had asked him anything at all. They were still sitting there together when Dooley finished cleaning up the kitchen.

“I'm going upstairs,” he said. They both looked at him, both nodded, both in silence.

Annette Girondin was parked in the no-parking zone outside Dooley's school the next day. She got out of her car and waved him over.

“Get in,” she said.

Dooley climbed in the passenger side.

“They arrested your uncle a couple of hours ago,” Annette said. “He asked me to give you this.” She handed him an envelope.

“What is it?” Dooley said.

“Five hundred dollars. For groceries and whatever else you need. He said to tell you the bills are being taken care of; you don't have to worry about anything.”

Right. Not a thing.

“He told me he doesn't think he's going to be able to make bail,” Dooley said.

“I'll give it my best shot,” Annette said. “But he's probably right.”

“You think he did it?”

“The way it works, Ryan, the Crown has to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he did. My job is to mount a vigorous defense. I intend to do just that.”

Which told him exactly nothing.

“So he told you he didn't do it?” Dooley said.

“Come on, Dooley,” Annette said. “You know how it goes between a lawyer and a client.”

Yeah, Dooley knew. He got out of the car and watched Annette zip away from the curb.

Jeannie called while Dooley was changing for work.

“I just wanted to give you a heads-up,” she said. “I'm going to be at the house when you get off work. I know you'd probably rather have the place to yourself, but Gary and I talked to your youth worker and—”

“It's okay,” Dooley said. “I appreciate what you're doing.”

“See you then,” Jeannie said, sounding as breezy and cheery as she always did, but after last night, Dooley wondered about that, just like he wondered about how much truth his uncle had told him versus how many lies. Jeannie had been snuggled up tight against his uncle, her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest. Now his uncle had been arrested for murder, and he was supposed to believe it was no big deal to Jeannie? Dooley doubted that was true. It seemed more likely that she was acting the way she thought a grown-up should act under the circumstances. It seemed even more likely she was putting on a brave front for Dooley.