Magic Hour (22 page)
But even though there was that cool breath of air coming through the open windows, I wanted to get outside. Go home, have a couple of drinks, maybe drive up to the bay afterwards, watch the sunset. I put on my shorts.
I heard her coming upstairs, so I picked up the phone. I'd say "Damn. Yeah. Right away" when she walked in, and then tell her a fast-but-grisly homicide story: maybe a stabbing followed by arson. Something nice and graphic, full of gaping tracheas, mutilated genitals. Run while she was still gagging.
Except she came in carrying a can of Diet Coke, a wineglass, the bottle, and holding a corkscrew between her teeth. She looked so goofy. I hung up the phone and took the corkscrew. "Calling your office?" she asked, and handed me the wine.
"Yeah. No emergencies that can't wait." I opened the bottle, poured, drank. The pressure to escape eased a little. I'm sure we must have talked for a while, because if I had taken her in my arms again, I would have been lost. I remember stretching out on my side, letting my fingers graze over her fabulous skin, but not getting too close. It was perfection, lying there like that, feeling the warmth of her, the coolness of the breeze. The sky had lost its daytime glare and had become softer, finer: blue tinged with pink and gold.
I whispered, not to disturb the beauty: "I love this time of day."
Bonnie glanced at the window. "Magic hour." She kissed me on the mouth, but sweetly, almost daintily. "It's a term in cinematography. The time after dawn and before dusk. Enough light for shooting, but there's a fineness, a tranquillity to it—magical light. You have to work fast, because before you know it, the enchantment is over, but while it's there ... you can get something beautiful."
I drank some more wine. I must have fallen asleep for a couple of minutes. When I woke up I caught Bonnie studying my face. She averted her eyes and said too fast: "I was just wondering how you'd look without the mustache."
"No. You were thinking: This is one hell of a man."
"Yes."
I let my fingers glide down, over her throat and breasts. I caressed her stomach and felt her muscles contract. Two or three good, deep kisses. And then we were at it again, this time with a lust that made the last go-round seem a lighthearted tease. We were biting and clawing at each other. I heard myself growl.
Bonnie pulled back. The wildness disturbed her. She wanted to be civilized again, a sexy woman, not an animal. She got cool and urbane on me, did a couple of cute maneuvers with the tip of her tongue. Then she got to her knees to climb on top. I knew what would happen: She'd arch her back, toss her head, let her breasts bounce. Then she'd bend over and do some more tongue tricks. She wanted what I wanted: mastery.
But I didn't want well-bred sex games. I pushed her down, onto her back. We were animals, and I was the male. I wanted her to know that. I pinned down her arms, pried open her legs with my knee and started giving it to her. She was strong, and she struggled to get free, but at the same time, she was sobbing one word over and over: More.
After it was over she turned away from me. She wasn't making any noise, but I could feel her back shaking as she cried. I was kind of shaky too. I hadn't been in control at all. What if she hadn't cried for more? What if she'd wanted me to stop? Would I have?
I rested my cheek against the nape of her neck. "Bonnie, it's okay." She didn't say anything. "Too rough?"
"No."
"Too what?"
"Too much."
"Too much what?"
"I don't know."
I rolled her over onto her back and kissed her. Her cheeks were wet. "Next time I'll be real suave. Okay? You'll think: Jesus, what technique!" Bonnie's face softened as she smiled; I knew she wasn't pretty, but for that second, she was so beautiful. "I'll come up with some position where I'm all twisted up, with my head coming out of my ass and my dick pointing east. You'll have to slide on sideways."
She wiped away the last tear with the tip of her index finger, a lovely ethereal gesture from such a big, hearty girl. "When you were holding me down..."
"Tell me."
"What if you'd been a bad person?"
"But I'm not. I'm a great person. Now let's talk about something else. Are your eyes blue-gray or gray-blue?"
"Please. I'm serious."
I turned the pillow over to the cool side. "Well, if you are serious, maybe you should think twice before inviting guys you've just met to come into your house." Until I said it, I hadn't realized how much it bothered me. Angered me. Goddamn it, she had been so easy. I hadn't wanted her to reach out and touch me, a stranger. Play with me. In a public place, for crissakes. Here she was, tall and clean and fine, and she tied her own flies: a wonderful woman. But instead of a light kiss, a smile to turn down the thermostat after we'd been pushed together, she'd cupped my balls, stroked my dick; her hand was still cold from holding the beer. "You knew absolutely zilch about me, and you said, 'Let's get out of here.' "
Bonnie didn't get that guilty, You-think-I'm-a-whore look I'd expected, maybe wanted. "I thought you were better than this."
"Hey, I'm not talking about morals. I'm talking as a cop who's seen some nice girls get hurt when things got out of hand."
"I can take care of myself."
"You're strong. Mountain woman, right? If someone you meet at a bar gets out of hand, you'll just use some self-defense shit you read in
Ms.
magazine. Let me tell you something, sister. Before you can stick your finger into his eyeball or crash down on his instep or knee him in the nuts, you could be raped—or dead."
"I'm a good judge of character."
"You think all those nice, dead girls said to themselves: "This guy's a psychopath, but he's got cute dimples'? No, they said: 'I'm a good judge of character.' "
For a minute she didn't say anything. Then she propped herself up on her elbow and said: "Aren't you
starved
?"
"Yeah, come to think of it."
"Scrambled eggs? An omelet and toast?"
I took a fast shower while she went downstairs to make supper. I put my clothes back on but went downstairs barefoot. Sitting in the kitchen and watching her in her bathrobe, flipping an omelet, I felt snug; I thought: This is what husbands must feel like. But it was strange: the homebody with the spatula didn't seem to have any connection with the wild woman I'd been fucking upstairs. Then she turned around, and I saw her mouth was swollen from all the kissing.
Bonnie handed me a blue-and-white plate with the omelet and the toast, buttered and cut in triangles. I went to the refrigerator and took out a couple of her crappy light beers. I remember we sat there in the kitchen talking for an hour or more, but I don't remember what we said.
Later, I remember thinking, as I followed her back upstairs, that Bonnie had grace. Physical grace that born athletes have. The surefooted walk, the upright, easy posture. And commonsense grace. When to kid around and when to be serious, when to talk, when to shut up.
And sexual grace. She loved having sex—and having it with me—and every kiss, every touch, every thrust was something she wanted. She didn't posture: didn't stick her ass out for admiration, even though it was admirable, didn't offer her tits up like they were twin trophies in some erotic contest. It was all natural. Graceful. No strings attached.
We must have been too exhausted to fuck, so we made love. Afterwards, I lay on my back, stared at the beams in the ceiling and thought: I did more than satisfy her. I'm important to her.
"Can I go to sleep now?" she asked.
"Sure."
"I hope you'll stay till morning."
"Of course I will." I got mad, though. Did she think I was some goddamn one-night stand who was going to tiptoe out at three a.m.?
"Don't be angry," she said. "It's not you. It's me. I needed a little reassurance."
"Be reassured," I whispered.
At about three a.m. I woke up for a minute. She was sound asleep. "Bonnie."
Her head was resting on my arm. I could feel the flutter of her lashes as she opened her eyes. "Hi."
"Hi. Listen," I said. "I want to tell you something."
"What?"
"I love you."
"I love you too." Then she asked me: "Aren't we too old for this?"
"No. Go back to sleep."
I got up about six-thirty. She made me coffee. I said it again: I love you. I promised I'd call her from work or, if things got crazy, the second I got off.
I got into the Jag. It had been out all night, and the leather seats were wet with dew. I drove home, wet, limp, but filled with what I suppose was joy.
I got home. Yawned. Wished I was back in bed, wrapped in Bonnie's arms. Really tired. Needed a pick-me-up. Made a double screwdriver. Drank it, then another. Called work and coughed. Said I had some lousy virus. A hundred and three. Ray Carbone said, You sound terrible. Yeah, I said. I feel like hell.
I went on a five-day bender. By the end of it, Bonnie was just a vague, irritating memory.
By the end of the following year, when I was forced to check into South Oaks for treatment for alcohol abuse—plus pancreatic insufficiency and malnutrition caused by my drinking—I had managed to wipe out her memory completely.
Bonnie Spencer never existed.
I got back to Headquarters a little before four o'clock. Even before I saw Ray Carbone, flushed an ominous crimson, I saw Julie, the receptionist, pick up a pen and draw it across her throat. So I knew I was about to be declared dead. But since noncompliance with official department guidelines was standard operating procedure with me, I had no idea what I was going to get killed for this time. Then Carbone jerked his thumb toward the captain's office; I knew it had to do with the Spencer case—and I knew it was not going to be a routine reprimand.
And seeing Frank Shea, Captain Shea, tie knotted tight, jacket buttoned, jabbing his index finger toward a chair was not exactly reassuring. Despite the American and Suffolk County flags in back of him, Shea usually looked more like a lounge singer than a cop: a lock of Brylcreemed hair trailing over his forehead, his tie hanging unknotted, his shirt half unbuttoned, displaying a huge gold Saint Michael's medal, a crucifix, a long, curvy tooth from what must have been some large, pissed-off animal, plus three chest hairs. He put on his jacket only to see the commissioner and for funerals.
Carbone took a chair and put it beside Shea's desk, so they were both arrayed against me. "What's up?" I asked.
"I warned you, Brady," Shea responded.
"About what?"
"You know! Look at you!" Okay, I'd been running, then sitting in the car with the top down, thinking about Bonnie. So maybe 1 was on the verge of sunstroke; I'd glanced in the rearview mirror just a couple of minutes before, in the parking lot outside Headquarters, and noticed that under the sunburn, my skin was gray. And I had a headache and couldn't stop sweating. But I didn't look
that
bad. "Look at you!" Shea bellowed.
'"What? The department has some new good-grooming directive?"
"Fuck you and die, Brady!"
I peered over at Carbone. "Do you want to tell me what's going on?"
"Steve." Now that Shea was playing bad cop, Carbone could get compassionate. He sounded like a cross between shrink and priest. "Robby told us."
"Told you what?"
Shea picked up a paperweight and slammed it down on his desk. "That you wouldn't get a warrant!"
"Yeah? Well, goddamn right. I'm not ready to arrest yet."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Shea demanded. "We've got enough evidence to send her away for life. She knows it! She's gonna flee!"
"Where?"
"Shut up! She's gonna flee while you're babbling theories about Lindsay Keefe!"
"Listen, we've been ... a little hasty. My fault, probably more than anybody else's. But we've got to think about Lindsay. And Fat Mikey too. Shea, just cool it a second and—"
"You bastard, I listened to you once."
"What are you talking about?"
"Remember? You told me how you were going to stay sober."
"Well, fuck you. I am sober."
"Robby Kurz says you're not."
"I'm drinking? Bullshit."
"Robby was genuinely upset. It killed him to tell me." Shea paused for a second. "He
swore
it was true! Robby saw how I kept shaking my head, not wanting to believe it, and he swore. Vodka. Drunks think there's no odor, but believe me, there's an odor. I've smelled it on people, and he said the smell was rising off your skin."
"Robby can take a goddamn fifth of Smirnoffs and shove it up his lying ass. Listen, we had a few words. Maybe I flew off the handle. But to say I was drinking is such slander—"
"He
smelled
it. You were weaving when you walked, and—"
"No!"
"He realized it two days ago. His only mistake was holding out, trying to protect you."
I really thought I was going to be sick. I felt the acid burn of vomit in my throat. I got very quiet. "You think I'm drunk now?"
Carbone looked sad for me. Shea said, "Stinko."
"I want one of you to walk over to the lab with me. I want a Breathalyzer test." They shot a glance at each other; they knew you could only get accurate readings for about two hours after drinking. So I added: "Blood, urine too. Right now. I want you both to understand: I've been sober for almost four years."
"You're all red!" Shea accused. "You're sweating like a pig."
"Why the hell didn't you ask me how come? Don't you think you owe me that? You want to know why I look like I'm going to get sick?" I thought fast. "I've been out at Old Town Pond in Southampton—less than a quarter of a mile from Sy's house—walking over every goddamn inch of marshland. You know and I know that we need the weapon, and that rat-ass Robby Kurz—who's been in charge of finding it—has been sitting on his behind, shoving Danish into his mouth, writing his acceptance speech for his commendation, instead of looking for the goddamn .22. Excuse me: writing his speech and making up lies."
"You're accusing
him
of lying?" Shea asked, with a nasty, unamused chuckle.
"Yeah."
"Why would he lie, Brady?"
"Because he's a fanatical, ambitious, self-righteous turd. You
know
what he's like when he goes after somebody. He wears blinders; he refuses to see reality. And he's lying because he knows if he can put the lid on this fast, he can make sergeant by next month—and be first on line for your chair when you retire. Plus he's a sneaky ass-kisser who doesn't like the way I operate and wants me out of the way. He wants me out of the way so I won't stop him from arresting her. Because I've got to tell you, Frank, I might stop him. I have real doubts, and if we false-arrest her, she can make trouble. She has a big mouth." Shea and Carbone glanced at each other. I went on: "And Robby wants me out of the way because Bonnie was my idea to begin with—as Ray can attest—and he doesn't want me to get any credit." All Shea did was sneer. Carbone hung his head. He really liked me. He wanted to believe me. But he'd had too much Psychology 205; he knew alcoholics are infantile, egocentric, that they lie as naturally as most people tell the truth. "Come on, Ray. Walk me down to the lab."
"Brady," Shea said, "you know what this bravado shit—'Take me to the lab!'—is gonna get you?"
"Yeah. Exonerated."
"No. Because I am going to call your bluff, you son of a bitch. I want you in the lab
now
. You hear me? You built a great case, and all of a sudden, when the commissioner, the county exec, the goddamn national media is at my throat, you're sabotaging it. What are we gonna look like when the press finds out we had her and we let her slip through our fingers?"
"Frank, ask yourself: Why would I let a thing like that happen?"
"Because you've been on a binge and you've lost all sense of judgment, of decency..." His voice got louder, more theatrical. He grabbed the paperweight, held it in his fist and shook it at me. "...of obligation to the department. And to me! I stuck my neck out for you."
I stood and turned to Ray. "You're the psychology genius. Why would I ... Even if I'd fallen off the wagon and went on the biggest bender of my life, what motive would I have for screwing up a case? If I thought Bonnie Spencer killed Sy, why wouldn't I drink four or five toasts to justice and arrest the bitch?"
Shea didn't give Carbone time to answer. "Because Robby saw you with her in her house when you went in with the search warrant. He saw how you got rid of him, sent him upstairs. And he saw you nosing around after her, following her from room to room. And then, when you asked her about where she got the money in the boot, you put on kid gloves.
So
gentlemanly. Wimping out: You called that catalog guy like it was killing you. Like the
truth
was killing you."
"Shea, this is nuts."
"And then all of a sudden, you're onto Lindsay theories, Mikey theories. Onto
anything
that will keep Robby off Bonnie Spencer. So to answer your question: Why wouldn't you arrest the bitch? Because for some stupid, drunken reason, you've fallen for her."
I passed the Breathalyzer test, of course. Then I walked a painted line, from heel to toe, picked up a nickel, a dime and a quarter without fumbling, recited the alphabet. It took a couple of minutes more to pee into a cup and get blood drawn. Ray stood by while the tech stuck the needle in. He said, "Shea will be glad to hear about the breath test, and if the others come out all right—"
"You believe that falling in love shit?"
"I don't know."
"You know Lynne, Ray. I'm asking you, do you think when I have someone like her I'd go for an old broad that every guy in town has had a piece of?"
"I saw her when she came in for the test. She's not bad."
"She's no Lynne."
"Look, all I know is you have a beautiful, well-constructed case against her—I heard you present it—and suddenly you're throwing it away.
Why
?"
"Because I don't think she did it."
Carbone shook his head. "I can't buy that, Steve."
"Where's Robby?"
"Why?"
"Because I want to know why he didn't have the balls to face me."
"He would have."
"Except?"
"Except he's down at
Bonnie opened the back door a crack. "Do you have a warrant?"
"No. Listen, Bonnie—"
She shut the door hard, just short of a slam. I rang the bell. Nothing, except Moose right by the door, barking, trying to sound like a watchdog but giving away the game by the ecstatic wagging of her tail. I squinted, trying to see past the lace kitchen curtains. Bonnie had disappeared into the house.
I love the way cops in movies whip out a credit card, diddle a cylinder and the door springs open. I wasted about five minutes with a card, my Swiss Army knife and every key I had on my key ring. It was a bitch, because I had to do it quietly, so she wouldn't call Headquarters and claim I was harassing her. Finally, the lock clicked open and I was in.
I didn't have to do a room-to-room; Moose led me to an open door, then downstairs, to the basement. Bonnie stood by the dryer, folding a dish towel. When she looked up to greet Moose, she saw me. Jesus, did she scream!
"Bonnie, please, listen to me. I'm not here to hurt you." Her head swiveled in a frantic search for something to protect herself with, but you can't fight off an armed and dangerous psychopathic cop with a plastic bottle of Downy. I took a step toward her, I suppose wanting to touch her, reassure her I was there to help, but she drew back, as if trying to disappear into the narrow gap between the washer and the dryer. So I kept my distance. "I know you think I'm insane or something, but just listen, because there's not much time." Shit. "Not much time" was the wrong thing to say. Bonnie's eyes clouded, as if she comprehended she had only a few minutes more to live. "Bonnie, pay attention. The guy I'm working with on this case, Kurz, the asshole with the hairspray. He left Headquarters before I did. He's going to court to get a warrant for your arrest. So time is a factor here. If he knocks on your door in the next couple of minutes, I can't ... I can't help you. Understand?" She didn't say anything, but she was listening. She looked straight into my eyes. It was such a probing gaze I felt she could absorb all my thoughts, understand precisely what I was there for. But she just waited for me to go on. "I have doubts. I mean, I don't think you should be arrested yet. There are still too many questions about Sy's death for us to be saying, The case is closed. I want those questions answered. I want the case to stay open. But it's your call. You can stay here, go with Kurz when he comes here for you."
"Or?"
"Get the hell out of here. With me. Now."
Smart girl. She thought to toss all the folded laundry back into the dryer, so it wouldn't look as if she'd run on a moment's notice. We raced out her back door, and I led her through her yard, across an open field to a small wooded area where I'd hidden the Jag, in case Robby showed. Moose sprinted after us, if something with that big a butt can be said to sprint. Bonnie got into the car, and while the door was still open, the dog leapt in, over her lap and into the driver's seat.
"Get her
out
," I said, at the same moment as I opened the driver's door and grabbed her collar.
"When will I get back?"
"How the hell should I know. Two minutes, if you don't convince me."
"What if I do?"
"I don't know."
Suddenly she brightened. "If you put the top down, I could hold her in my lap and there'd be room for the three of us."
"If I put the top down, you idiot, there'd be a hundred witnesses who could say, 'Oh, I saw Bonnie and her dog. They were tooling over to Steve Brady's, in his car. A hundred witnesses to my hindering prosecution. A Class D felony."
"You mean this isn't legal?" But before she'd finished the question, she knew the answer. "I can't let you do this."
She put her hand on the door handle. "Don't move," I ordered.
She shook her head. "No. I'm getting out of here."
I drew my gun. "You move, Bonnie, and I'll shoot you between the fucking eyes."
"Oh, stop it."
Jesus Christ. My head was pounding, I was nauseous from dehydration, I was standing there holding a gun on a murder suspect I was helping escape, and there was a hundred-pound black, hairy mongrel with its tongue hanging out sitting upright, its claws gripped nice and tight into the leather, gazing out the front window, as if waiting for a traffic light to change. "I'm not going to talk about this now! Your goddamn life is on the line, so get that mutt out of here and let's move."
Bonnie's voice was so low I could hardly hear her. "The back door is closed. She can't get to her water, and if I'm not there..."
I stuck my gun back in my holster, hauled Moose out of the car and climbed into the driver's seat. Which of course was the cue for Bonnie to open her door and get out. "Get back in!" I shouted. She shook her head. I started the engine. "Goodbye." Bonnie whistled, two high, quick notes. Moose raced around to her side and Bonnie pushed her in.
And that's how we came to drive to my house with Bonnie in the passenger seat, me in the driver's seat, and fatso Moose stretched over both our laps, barking with pleasure at this wonderful game.
