Magic Hour (38 page)

"You didn't call him, just to make sure?"

The pride evaporated. Easton seemed to shrivel into a smaller, older man. "I didn't want to seem overanxious, make Sy think I wasn't up to handling it. He said we should call each other, because that would be the normal thing to do, but not to go overboard."

Easton was holding something back. I could tell. He had that insecure, twitchy-tentative Dan Quayle smile, the one he'd put on as a kid when my mother asked him how he was doing at school and he'd say "Fine!" not mentioning that he'd gone through the mail, found the Failure Notice in geometry and torn it up before she got home from work. "You're leaving something out, East," I said good-naturedly. "Come on. What is it?"

"Sy left a message on my machine."

"What did it say?"

"That he was taking a helicopter and going to make the seven o'clock flight instead of the morning flight, and that he'd call when he got to the hotel. But you see, I didn't play back my messages when I got back from the city. To tell you the truth, I didn't even look at the machine to see if I had any. I can't believe I could have missed something so obvious. That's so sloppy. It's not like me to be sloppy. But I just changed out of my suit—"

"Into the thongs?"

"Yes. And a good pair of shorts and a shirt, so I'd look like I belonged."

"Where was the rifle?"

"Oh, once I took it from the cabinet, I kept it in the trunk of my car, in one of those canvas sports duffels. Sy told me to do that, and to fill the duffel up with a bunch of clothes, so if anyone saw me, it would look like I was carrying a full weekend bag, not a rifle. He said carrying a rifle alone might call attention to the bag, make it look funny, bottom-heavy."

"Then what?"

"I did everything Sy told me to do. Drove up to the side of the house, near the garage, to that space where there's room for three or four cars. You can't see it from the front. I opened the window, turned off the engine and sat for five minutes, by my watch.''

"He wanted you to make sure you didn't hear anyone."

"Right. Then I got out, took the duffel and walked to that place right under the porch."

"What time was it?"

"Sometime after four. I knew the
Starry Night
crew was doing the scene where Lindsay runs into the ocean, but I was praying she'd be very tired and bitchy and they'd let her go the regular time. They'd done that the last two Fridays."

"Because she was tired?"

"No. Because she was Sy's, and she was spoiled rotten."

"Would they stop filming once she left?"

"No, they'd keep going till six or seven, but they were scheduled to do Nick Monteleone's reaction shots. Most actors want the actor they're playing a scene with to be there so they can have a true reaction, but believe me, Nick would have been
delighted
to have Lindsay go home. I was counting on that."

"You weren't worried about Mrs. Robertson?"

Easton clapped his hand to his forehead. "Oh my God. That's right. It was Friday!"

"Forgot about her?"

"Totally. Did she see me?"

"Come on, East. You know I can't tell you that." I tried to make it sound as though we were kids playing a hot game of Candyland and I couldn't break any of the rules. Before he could think: This is no fucking Candyland, I pushed him further. "So you were at that spot just under the porch. What happened?"

"Well, she was there. Standing alongside the pool, talking on the portable phone. Except it wasn't her."

"You couldn't hear the conversation, I guess."

"How could I? There's always the sound of the ocean, and there was classical music playing through all those speakers."

"And his back was toward you."

"Yes, and he had on a white robe, like the one Lindsay always wears. Well, there are robes like that all over the house, for guests, but it looked like Lindsay. It
did
, Steve."

"I'm sure it did. Short, small—and with the hood up."

My brother looked baffled. "Why would he put the hood up?"

"He'd gone for a swim. His head was wet."

"That was so dumb! If the hood had been down, I'd have known right away."

"When did you know it was him?"

He swallowed hard. "When I got home."

"You shot him and then turned around and drove home?"

"Yes. That's what he told me to do. Drive right home, not too slow, not too fast. As if I could go fast, in that traffic! And then call him at the Bel-Air, and if he wasn't in, leave a message that I met with the casting director; that's if everything went okay. If there was any problem, I was supposed to leave a message that I was Fed Ex-ing another three copies of the script to him." He uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. "I can't tell you ... those messages on my machine! First playing them back and hearing Sy's voice saying he was taking the seven o'clock flight. And then..." There was no doubt Easton was genuinely crying again, but overall his performance stank; he stood, walked over to the wall, rested his head against it and then pounded it with his fist, again and again. It was something Sy would have rejected in one of his movies. Overdone! Sy would have snapped at the director. Lose it! "And then," Easton went on, "there was that kid, that P.A. saying that I 'might want to know' that Sy was murdered at his house. God almighty!"

"I don't know what to say, East. What a trauma."

He turned around and leaned against the wall for support. "What do I do now, Steve?" He wiped his eyes with the lapel of his robe. I ignored his question and asked one of my own. "What about that screenplay you showed me? That Night of the Matador thing?"

"There were bookcases full of scripts in his house. I just grabbed one late Saturday, after the police left. You see, once I realized what I'd done, I wanted to emphasize that I had a wonderful,
continuing
relationship with Sy, that he was my mentor. I wanted all of you to think I could never kill him. Because what would I be without him?"

"Tell me about the Lindsay business," I said. "You were acting like you were crazy about her. You weren't, though, were you?"

"No. Of course not. I saw her for what she was."

"But you pretended you were gone on her. Why?"

"I thought of that afterwards too," he said, brightening a little at the recollection of his cleverness. "If anyone remembered that talk at dailies about it being better if Lindsay was dead, and someone put two and two together ... Well, they probably wouldn't have gotten four, but I thought if you—if the police—thought I was in love with her, I'd be counted out right away."

"Actually, if we'd been adding and came up with Lindsay as the planned victim, you'd have been suspected right away."

"Why?" He looked annoyed.

"Because you had an emotional tie to her."

"That's stupid."

"Well, that's cops for you. Stupid, unimaginative. The civil service mentality. We do it by the book."

A barely tolerant shake of the head. "Some book."

"Well," I said, "book or no book, we got you. Didn't we, Easton?"

"No!" He rushed over and grabbed the shoulders of my jacket. "Steve, you're not going to do anything?" His mouth and eyes formed huge circles of astonishment. "Steve! Are you crazy? I'm your brother."

"I know."

"How can you even think of doing something so terrible?"

"Get dressed," I said. But he just stood there, right in front of me, still clutching the shoulder pads of my suit jacket. "It's getting late. Come on."

"
Think.
Think about what you want to do. What about Mother?"

"She's due home soon; you can explain to her what's happening. Or if she's stopping off someplace, I'll come back and sit down with her later. After I bring you in."

He let his hands drop to his sides. He spoke softly, his voice full of gentleness and understanding. "Steve, you have to understand. This will kill her." The good son.

"I don't think so."

"I know her much better than you do. She won't be able to survive a blow like this."

"Yes, she will."

"You think she's tough. She's not tough."

"I know she's not. She's empty. She'll survive. Please, don't make me have to act any more like a cop than I'm already doing. Get dressed."

Instead, he sat down in the straight-backed chair. "What would it cost you to let me go?"

"Bonnie Spencer's life."

"No, it wouldn't."

"It would. There's a warrant out for her arrest."

"Then how come she was here with you?"

"Because I was taking care of her. I didn't think she should be arrested." I looked outside. The light was softening, the prelude to dusk.

"Do you want me arrested? Do you want to see me go to jail?" I was still holding the two leaves in my hand. I ran my finger over a stem, up the veins. "Steve!" Easton cried out. "Who the hell is she? How can you want to protect her and not want to protect me?"

"I'm protecting her because she's innocent." I spoke more to the leaves than to Easton.

"But I'm your brother."

"You're a killer."

Easton got up and went over to the window. I inched forward, in case he made a move to jump, but he just stared out at the muted light. "Nothing can bring Sy back now," he said.

"I know."

He turned to face me. "I don't want that woman to go to jail for me."

"Since when?"

"Listen to me. We can work something out. I can give her an alibi." I didn't react. "Wait. Hold on a second. Just listen." Easton rubbed his hands together. "Okay, first of all, I'll tell them that Sy was very fond of her, that things with Lindsay had soured, and that he really seemed to be happy with the ex-wife again—and made no bones about it. All right. I didn't say anything earlier because I had such a crush on Lindsay I couldn't bring myself to say anything that would make her look bad. I'll admit I was terribly wrong. I'll apologize all over myself. So they won't think the ex had any reason to kill him. And I'll say ... I know! I stopped at a pay phone on my way home from the city and called her about something. Like about her screenplay, and she was there, at home. Answered the phone and—"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's so full of holes it's a joke. Because she's decent and honorable and this fake-alibi crap would make her sick. And because she doesn't have to lie. We have our perp, Easton."

"Is it all so black and white to you? Don't you see any grays?"

"I wish this weren't happening," I said slowly.

"It doesn't have to."

"What choice do I have? I'm a cop. I know there are a million shades of gray in the world. I see them. But I can only act on black and white."

Easton came over and put his arms around me. A real hug. Except for my old man when he was soused, I don't think, until that moment, I ever had an embrace from any member of my family. "Steve," he said, "I need you so much. My life has been one mistake after another. One charade after another. And now this. I don't know who I thought I was, who I was hoping to be, but I botched it. More than that. I did a terrible thing." I stroked the back of his head. His hair was so much softer than mine. "A wicked thing. I know that, but I'm so messed up, so weak, that I didn't have the courage to face up to it. Until now." He let me out of his embrace and backed away. "Just hear me out. Please?"

"Go ahead."

"I know you think I'm useless, and you're right. I never, ever asked myself: What's really important? And even if I had, and came up with love or friendship or something like that, it probably wouldn't have mattered. You know that. I still would have gone for the razzle-dazzle. But now I really have to face the music. I can go to jail for the rest of my life. You
know
what jail is like."

"Yes."

"It's as bad as they say, isn't it?"

"Worse."

"I swear to you, by all that's holy, that I'll spend the rest of my life making up for this terrible thing I've done." He stood before me in that perfect gold and pink and blue light. "I know we've never been close. But we are brothers. I'm not asking for special treatment, Steve, but I am asking—begging—that you give me a chance. Neither of us has ever had much of a shot at happiness, have we? I know I've lost that shot now, forever. But maybe I can have something, at least. Something from you."

"What?"

"Forgiveness."

I looked past him, out at the light. It was the magic hour. It comes and goes so fast. In movies, though, it returns just after dawn again, and then, once more, just before dusk. Twice a day, opportunities for wonder. But in real life, those moments that allow the possibility of grace hardly ever come at all.

If I brought my brother in, that would be the end of him. Forgiveness, he'd said. I could allow him the possibility of finding his own salvation. Because what he said was true: nothing could bring Sy back. And the beauty of it was, I wouldn't even have to stand in shamed silence and let Easton present his twisted, transparent alibi for Bonnie. I could just let him overpower me, escape, and disappear into a new life.

"Can't you forgive me, Steve? Haven't you ever done wrong?"

"Are you kidding? Most of my life has been wrong. That's no secret."

"So? We're two of a kind."

"No, East. Even when I was wrong, I knew there were laws. I knew there was a God."

"But God forgives!"

"I know. And maybe God will forgive you, or has forgiven you. I can't know that. And maybe I, personally, can forgive you. But a life has been taken."

"What are you saying?"

I let the leaves drop to the floor. "I'm saying an apology won't do it."

"You're going to send me to jail?"

"No; that's not my job. My job is much smaller. I'm just going to arrest you for the murder of Sy Spencer."

"That's sending me to jail, damn it!"

"That's doing what I have to do."

"I'll tell them you're setting me up to save that woman!"

"The rifle, East. The ballistics tests. Your rubber shoes with the Adelphi grass."

"Someone else could have stolen that rifle. Or my thongs."

"And put them back?"

"Try and prove it was me."