Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (29 page)

‘‘Did Flynt tell you where Peter
really
was Monday night?’’ My heart seemed to be pounding right in my ears, so loudly I could barely hear my own question.

‘‘Uh-uh,’’ Fielding replied. ‘‘Swears he doesn’t know. Ac

cording to Flynt, Peter said he couldn’t tell
anybody
the

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truth about where he was. Flynt says he agreed to go along with him anyway, because he’s sure Winters is no mur

derer.’’ Then, after a pause, he put in darkly, ‘‘I wish
I
could be that sure.’’

‘‘Look. If Peter lied—’’

‘‘If?’’

‘‘Okay, okay.
When
Peter lied, he must have had a good reason. He was crazy about Mary Ann. And besides, Peter’s no murderer. I know it.’’

‘‘You sound just like the roommate.’’ I was about to expand and cite my client’s virtues when Fielding conceded,

‘‘But if you want the truth, I don’t think Winters did it, either. Only
not
thinking
and
knowing
aren’t exactly the same thing.’’

‘‘Have you talked to Peter yet?’’

‘‘Corcoran and I paid him a little visit at seven o’clock this morning. But we couldn’t get a damn thing out of him. So I made arrangements to cut off his hospital visits imme

diately. We can’t take the chance of anything happening to the victim, especially not after the poor woman’s come this far.’’

‘‘But you’ve got a guard stationed right there in the room,’’ I protested.

‘‘That’s true. But still, anything goes wrong, I gotta live with myself. No way anyone who’s under even the slightest suspicion gets into that room.’’

‘‘But Peter had no
motive
for shooting those girls.’’

‘‘No motive we
know
of
. Maybe he and the girlfriend had an argument—just like her sister and Shields did. Or maybe it was about money. Your client could stand to in

herit a bundle, for all we know.’’ He shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘‘God, I’d like to get my hands on that will,’’ he murmured fervently. A pause. ‘‘If there
is
a will,’’

he reminded himself just as I was about to do it for him.

‘‘But Peter thought Mary Ann was going to be out with a friend that night, remember?’’ I pointed out instead.

‘‘Yeah? Who says she didn’t call and tell him her plans had changed?’’

What could I say to that? I elected to go down fighting, though. ‘‘You know, Tim, you’re making a terrible mistake not allowing Peter into that hospital room anymore. You know as well as I do he’s no killer. And right now he could

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be doing that girl more good than her doctors. More good than all of them put together, in fact.’’

‘‘This is not negotiable,’’ Tim stated flatly. And the ex

pression on his face told me he meant it.

‘‘I’ll go have a talk with him,’’ I put in hastily. As soon as I got outside, I started hunting around for a pay phone. Would you believe the one that used to be almost directly in front of the police station had been ripped out? I mean, talk about chutzpah! On my second try, I found a phone with only the receiver removed. I had to go four blocks away before I lucked out and got an entire instrument that was actually in working order. It wasn’t easy making that call, either. Not with the way my hands were trembling.

‘‘I want to see you,’’ I told Peter.

‘‘Oh. You spoke to the police,’’ he said softly.

‘‘All right if I come over?’’

‘‘Uh, look, Desiree, I’m really sorry. But there’s nothing I can tell you.’’

‘‘We have to talk.’’

‘‘Okay,’’ he agreed, sighing.

Peter lived in a narrow six-story building on West Thirtyeighth Street. He buzzed me in before I even had a chance to ring the doorbell.

‘‘I saw you from the window,’’ he explained when he opened the door.

This was the first time I’d ever been to Peter’s apartment. Small and neatly—but far from luxuriously—furnished, it was a homey place, comfortable and lived-in. Besides the obligatory sofa, chairs, and tables, there were a pair of bookcases with a whole lot of books in them and a large faux walnut wall unit that held the rest of the essentials: TV, VCR, CD player, and four or five racks jammed with videocassettes and CD albums. Prints and photographs dec

orated the walls, and a colorful Indian rug covered most of the light wood floor. ‘‘This is nice,’’ I remarked, trying to take some of the edge off my visit.

‘‘Nothing fancy, but it suits me fine,’’ Peter responded, reaching for a polite smile.

I sat down in one of the club chairs next to the sofa, and he took the sofa. I didn’t waste any time in confronting him. ‘‘What’s going on, Peter?’’ I demanded.

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‘‘I can’t talk about it, Desiree, honestly. But I swear to you I had nothing to do with the shootings. You believe me, don’t you?’’

‘‘Of course I do. But what
I
believe doesn’t matter. You know, I suppose, that until you level with Sergeant Fielding, you won’t be allowed anywhere
near
Mary Ann. (I had my fingers crossed when I said the name.)

‘‘I was talking to her neurologist just before you got here, and I think I managed to persuade him to try and get the police to change their minds. Dr. Baker feels my visits could be really important to Mary Ann’s recovery.’’

‘‘Even if he
does
go to bat for you, I wouldn’t count on his convincing the police of anything. They figure it’s their only way of getting you to cooperate with them.’’

‘‘Baker’s a highly respected neurologist, so it’s conceiv

able they
will
listen to him,’’ he insisted stubbornly. You can’t imagine how frustrated I was at this point. Still, with the thimbleful of patience I had left, I said rea

sonably, ‘‘I don’t understand you, Peter. If your visits could make a difference in Mary Ann’s recovery, how can you possibly put yourself in a position where you may not be allowed to see her anymore?’’

‘‘I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it,’’ he replied, looking totally miserable.

‘‘Well, whatever you did that night, you can tell
me,
any

way,’’ I pressed. ‘‘I’d never repeat anything without your permission.’’

‘‘It would be easier for me to tell the police than you,’’

was the startling response.

My brief meeting with Peter left me in shock. What could

he have meant by its being easier to tell the police than me? Was it because he was so ashamed of what he’d done?

What, in heaven’s name, could have been
that
terrible,
any

way? And did I come across as being so unsympathetic that I was the last person he could confide in? (Wouldn’t you know I’d find a way to put at least part of the blame on myself?)

I was so unnerved by the whole thing, I thought it might

not be a bad idea to take a little mental health break that evening and go see a movie or something instead of pursu

ing the agenda I’d mapped out for myself. But in the end

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I stuck with my original plan: resuming my talks with the rest of the
Love
and
Stuff
company. At seven o’clock, I got in touch with Midge Corso, the actress who, according to little Tara Wilde, had actually overheard an emotional confrontation between Meredith and Larry Shields. It took perseverance, but I eventually persuaded her to meet me for a drink that night. Midge, it turned out, was about five years older than Tara and about fifteen years more worldly. She was on to me the minute I broached the subject of the breakup. (And I’d sharpened my technique a little, too, so my approach was really much more clever that time. Or so I thought.) After three drinks, a platter of chicken wings, and too many hastily improvised strategies to count, I wound up getting absolutely nowhere. Just as I had with Tara. And this time the getting there was a lot less friendly, besides. And—just so you know—I didn’t make out any better with whichever remaining members of the company agreed

to see me later on during the next week and a half. In fact, I only learned one thing from that entire
Love
and
Stuff
bunch: Larry Shields inspired amazing loyalty from the peo

ple around him. I mean, for all of them to close ranks and safeguard his secret like that . . . well, it was really something.

But to get back to what, for a long time, I would think of as Traumatic Tuesday . . .

When my disappointing meeting with Midge Corso was over, I came home to find a message on my machine. It was from Peter, and he sounded thoroughly deflated.

‘‘Please call me,’’ he said. ‘‘I just spoke to Dr. Baker. Fielding turned him down.’’

Chapter 26

I returned Peter’s call at eight the next morning.

‘‘I was just going to try
you
again,’’ he told me. ‘‘You got my message?’’

‘‘Yes, but I didn’t come home until almost midnight, and

I was afraid you might be sleeping by that time.’’

‘‘It’s okay,’’ he said. Then: ‘‘I have a favor to ask, Desiree.’’

‘‘Sure. What?’’

‘‘Could you talk to your friend Fielding for me—see if you can get him to change his mind about the hospital?

Please.’’

‘‘I already tried, believe me. He won’t even consider it. Listen to me, Peter. I know you had nothing to do with the shootings, so I’m sure that whatever it is you’re hiding can’t be as terrible as you think. And just look at the conse

quences of your holding out on the police. Is it worth what it’s doing to you
and
to Mary Ann?’’

‘‘Maybe not,’’ Peter answered wretchedly, ‘‘but I just can’t help it.’’

When I got to the office an hour later, Jackie handed me

a message from Fielding asking me to call.

‘‘What did your client have to say?’’ he demanded as soon as he heard my voice.

‘‘Uh, I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet.’’

‘‘You expect me to
believe
that?’’ he fumed.

‘‘It’s true,’’ I said—very unconvincingly, I’m afraid. ‘‘I’ll try reaching him now.’’

‘‘You do that.’’

‘‘I will. I’m—’’

But he hung up in my ear.
God,
I
hate
that!

I figured I’d wait a day before talking to Peter again. Maybe by then his banishment from the hospital might soften his resolve. But when I phoned on Thursday, he had

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a counterproposal for me. ‘‘Tell Fielding if he’ll let me see Mary Ann for just a few minutes, I’ll give him some im

portant information.’’

‘‘What important information, Peter?’’ I asked quietly. If he’d been holding out on me, I would gleefully chop off his beautiful neck!

‘‘About the ring.’’

‘‘
What
ring?’’

‘‘You don’t know about it?’’

‘‘
What
ring, Peter?’’ I repeated, gnashing my teeth.

‘‘Didn’t Fielding say anything to you?’’

As you can imagine, by now I was very close to scream

ing. It was with a supreme effort that I kept my voice even.

‘‘Tell me about the ring.’’

‘‘It came into the possession of the police last week; I don’t know any of the details. Anyway, it’s got this ame

thyst stone, and apparently either Mary Ann or Meredith had it on that night. Fielding showed it to me to see if I recognized it.’’

‘‘And you didn’t even
mention
this to me?’’

‘‘I was sure Fielding had already told you. Honestly. I know he confides in you a lot.’’

‘‘Not voluntarily,’’ I remarked dryly. ‘‘Okay, so what about the ring?
Did
you recognize it?’’

‘‘Not exactly.’’

‘‘But you know something about it?’’

‘‘Well, when I first saw it and Fielding asked if I’d ever noticed Mary Ann wearing a ring like that, I told him I couldn’t remember.’’ (
That
I had no trouble believing!)

‘‘And then, on Tuesday morning, when he was over here with that other detective—Corcoran—I asked if anybody else had been able to tell them anything about the ring, and they said not so far. But last night I was thinking about it; I really concentrated on trying to remember whether I’d ever seen it on Mary Ann. I thought maybe I had, but for the life of me, I couldn’t be sure. Anyway, I was disap

pointed, because I figured that if I’d been able to identify the ring, it might have gotten me back in Fielding’s good graces—enough so it could get me a half hour at the hospi