THE RIGHT TIME TO DIE (39 page)
Read THE RIGHT TIME TO DIE Online
Authors: Jason Whitlock
Tags: #Detective, #Murder, #Suspense, #Mystery, #Crime, #thriller, #Police Procedural
LISA DIORIO WASN’T SURE
with whom she was more angry, her mother or her dad. Without explanation, they’d reneged on a promise to allow her to attend the high school senior prom. Lisa was in her freshman year, just turned fifteen, and though she looked young, she was mature for her age, or so the senior boys who were in a position to know told her. It was why Bradley Cutler, the tall blonde star of the local football, track and basketball teams, had invited her in the first place. Even now, knowing she might be forbidden to attend, the thought of arriving to the prom on his arm sent a shiver up Lisa’s spine.
Without attempting to understand the logic, Lisa was satisfied that the event was to be held in the October following spring graduation. Had it been at the conclusion of the previous school year, as was the custom in the surrounding communities, Lisa would still technically have been considered in grade school. Though Bradley might see her secretly, she doubted he would have willingly suggested they be seen publicly together. Lisa presumed the prom followed after the graduation to ensure no one who had “flunked” was potentially invited to attend the proceedings, as might have occurred if invitations were extended prior to final marks being assessed. Perhaps it was to accommodate those students needing to attend summer school to achieve their academic standing. Lisa wondered about this without real interest. When the time came, she did not expect to fall into this category.
Lisa stretched her body out on the long grass. It was unseasonably warm for the second week of October; in Bolton’s Landing, they had yet to experience their first killing frost.
That afternoon, in a huff, Lisa had taken her bicycle and pedaled the four miles to the river. Her parents wouldn’t approve, but if she weren’t permitted to attend the prom anyway, what did she care? Since the killing of the girl in Church Falls, seventeen miles to the south, her mother had become skittish— her father’s word, not hers—each time Lisa left the house. Lisa wasn’t concerned; the dead girl was a child; Lisa was herself full grown.
By five o’clock, Lisa was ready to return home. By now, her mother would be sufficiently worried. Lisa could leverage the anxiety, perhaps cause her to relent and permit Lisa to attend the prom. The temperature had dropped with the sun and Lisa shivered, dressed as she was in only the blue jeans and the thin top she had thrown on before hurriedly rushing out the door. Retrieving her bicycle, she pushed it through the long grass to the gravel turnabout, a secluded patch used in the daytime by travelers and tourists, and after dark by young couples in cars hoping to cop a quick feel. This late in the season the area was deserted, though tonight the activity might pick-up.
Lisa walked the last twenty yards from the river up a shallow incline, the angle of the late day sun directly against her face, forcing her to squint. Almost to the turnabout, she heard a vehicle approach then come to a full stop, gravel cracking beneath the tires one moment, nothing the next. A car door opened, then closed.
Above Lisa, at the summit of the incline, a figure appeared, looking down on her as if monitoring her progress. For a brief moment, she thought it might be Brad; tall, though with the sun behind him indistinct, like a silhouette, Lisa thought, proud of herself for accurately defining the image. A man at any rate, she decided, not a woman.
“Brad?” she called. “Did my parents tell you I was here?” she asked, immediately realizing the unlikelihood of that.
The figure came closer and Lisa realized it was not Brad. Not Brad, but someone she recognized? Not someone she knew, exactly, but someone who was familiar to her. Lisa struggled to recall.
“Do I know you?” she said, not at all certain. “I think I recognize your face,” she said as the figure drew close, sun dipping beneath the horizon, silhouette fading gradually to a shadow. “I know,” Sara said. “The newspaper. I know you from your picture.”
It was the last thought Lisa Diorio had that day, or any other day. Moments later, her body lay on the ground, unconscious in a heap. Had they been aware, it would have been some small consolation to Lisa’s parents to know, though she had died violently, their daughter had not suffered greatly for the fact.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
EVELYN BITSON REPLENISHED
the cooler, mindlessly sliding bottles of Budweiser, Miller, Pabst Blue Ribbon and an assortment of light and imported brands along a row of metal racks until each was stocked with no less than one dozen beer.
Tonic
was empty now and would be until later that evening, the regular crowd scheduled to arrive shortly prior to the ten o’clock session. Typically, most would linger for the midnight set, but this evening was special and Evelyn knew the owners would be anxious to clear the small room after the first show, hoping to turn it over twice.
Performing tonight was native Brooklynite Joe Maneri, with accompanist and featured guest his violin-playing son. Maneri was a free jazz saxophonist who had been with the New England Conservatory of Music for over thirty years. He’d cut his teeth on the swing of Coleman Hawkins and the be-bop of Charlie Parker, and Evelyn wondered if Maneri were free jazzing even before the days of the great “Trane”. While at the Conservatory he’d written a treatise on the possibility a musical octave contained seventy-two notes. Evelyn studied piano and was doubtful, but tonight Maneri was celebrating his eighty sixth birthday so if she had the chance to speak with him, she wouldn’t say.
Evelyn was anxious for the rush to begin, for the opportunity to shift her attention to pushing brown pops across the Formica countertop in exchange for singles, sawbucks and assorted loose change. The tips were lousy at
Tonic
but the side benefits consisted of all the booze you could drink—which after Evelyn went off shift after four in the morning wasn’t much—and, if you were musically inclined—which Evelyn was—an opportunity to sit in with featured artists or even, during the week, to step up alone to the small main stage. On many occasions Evelyn had done, recently with greater confidence and success.
Evelyn was good, good enough to know it would not be boastful on her part to say. Playing regularly at supporting gigs throughout Manhattan, she hadn’t yet been invited to appear at
Birdland
, the
Blue Note
or the
Village Vanguard
, but at the rate she was progressing, Evelyn knew some day she would. If her father had done nothing for her, he had supported her gift. After what seemed like a lifetime away, Evelyn refused to accept his money for anything else: not for clothing, not for food, not for rent. She lived modestly by herself in a rent controlled three room apartment in Chelsea, which if she were to abandon it today, would be impossible to replace.
Sara Pridmore entered the club just after two. Evelyn watched as she crossed the floor toward the bar, Sara’s outline a silhouette against the bright sunlight streaming through the open doorway.
Pretty, Evelyn thought, slim and athletic with nice tits and a nice ass. Not a free jazz enthusiast, judging by the clean cut but disheveled
Abercrombie and Fitch
appearance. Without asking, Evelyn knew in advance the girl was a cop. She said as much as Sara approached the bar.
“I am,” Sara replied.
“What do you want?” Evelyn said, continuing to stock beer.
“I’m here to speak with Evelyn Bitson.”
Evelyn stopped restocking, stretched herself to her full height and observed Sara suspiciously, in a way that only a New Yorker feeling at a disadvantage possibly can.
“She know your coming?” Evelyn’s voice was husky, deeper than her slight physique promised.
“I called. Spoke to her employer. Left messages on her machine. I was told she’d be in this afternoon.”
When Evelyn didn’t respond, Sara said, “Look, I’ve come a long way. It has to do with her sister.”
“Sister?”
“Missy,” said Sara.
Evelyn thought, smiled, and as if they were sharing a secret replied, “Yeah, right, her
sister
.”
Evelyn paused in her methodical assault on the beer cooler, retrieved an open package of Kools from beneath the bar and, after being refused in her offer to Pridmore, lighted one for herself.
“Listen,” Sara said, becoming impatient, “if Evelyn isn’t in, can you tell me when she’s scheduled? I need to drive back; it’s a long way.”
“What’s this about, sweet-cheeks? Evelyn and I share a room, among other things. I’m sure you know what that’s like.”
Sara blushed. Lifting herself from the bar stool, she passed Evelyn her card. “When she gets in, have her call. It’s urgent. Her sister is dead and we have a suspect in her murder.”
Evelyn fingered the card. “Ah, so her father will finally get what he deserves.”
“The suspect is not her father. Tell her we don’t suspect Eugene.”
Evelyn grinned sardonically. “Brilliant, Sherlock. Tell me, did you find your badge at the bottom of a Cracker Jack Box?”
“Come again?”
“You’re priceless,” said Evelyn, grin turning to a laugh. “What makes you think Eugene Bitson is my dad?”
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
“
THINK
, MAGGIE,
THINK.
”
For the third time since discovering from Henry Bauer that Leland McMaster shared the same fatal syndrome as his murdered kin, Ed Dojcsak pressed Maggie Bitson for a response.
“I’m
thinking
, Ed, I’m
thinking
,” Maggie insisted to the Sheriff over the telephone, her tone near hysterical. “I don’t know. I
can’t
think right now, I just
can’t,
” she immediately contradicted. “It hurts,” Maggie said, “
here.
” She pressed an index finger to her forehead, to show Dojcsak, as if he might be watching.
Dojcsak raised a cigarette to his lips, noting a scab had formed overnight in the center of his palm, an ugly though not serious to the point of requiring stitches gash. He had woken last night clutching at his St. Jude Medallion as if it were a lifeline, so tightly the sharp edge had pierced his skin. He hadn’t had a nightmare, could not recall having had even a dream. But the anxiety was real, manifesting itself in a racing heart, cold sweat, the shakes and, worst of it all, the feeling someone was scooping out his guts with a giant spoon, as if he were half of a ripe melon placed on an ogre’s platter for dessert, or, if he were Joel Pataki, as if he’d overdone his commitment to the Atkin’s Diet.
In addition to his head, Dojcsak’s feet ached. Briefly, he considered abandoning his expensive orthopedic shoes. (Rena would think him engaged in a purposeful act of self-pity, though in Dojcsak’s mind of the many things he had to regret, his misshapen feet were not among them.) His face hurt too, but Dojcsak would never consider giving up his blade.
“Maggie, I know about Evelyn, about the relationship with your father.”
“You know nothing of my relationship with my father, Ed,” replied Maggie, tone subdued. “My father is a generous man; he shared what he thought was most important with me. He’s more generous and caring than any man I know, and wanted only the best for me. I’m thankful for that, grateful.”
“How can you say that, Maggie? The man molested you.”
“He’s the father of my child, Ed. I can’t change that. Nothing changes that.”
“It’s what I’m saying. Is there a chance he was with Missy the day she died, remaking her in an image of you? You may be willing to forgive him yourself, but do you forgive him her?”
Dojcsak was parched, as if gallons of water would not be able to slake his thirst, as if the Colorado River in full flood would not quench his esophageal drought; his throat felt like a tract of scorched California scrub brush, or the salt flats, or worse, like the surface of another planet, one situated too close to the sun. Earlier, when he’d wanted to place the call to Maggie, Dojcsak had needed Dorothy to dial on his behalf, unable to make out the numbers himself. His vision had since cleared, but the temporary blindness—if it’s what it was—had left him shaken. Had he suffered a stroke?
After finishing his first package of cigarettes, he began counting the butts in the ashtray: one up to twenty, twenty down to nineteen, back to eighteen and so forth; eleven to twenty, back to one. Twenty to one, back up to nineteen: one to twenty counting back, then, from nineteen to two. Two to nineteen, back to three, up to eighteen, down to four, up to seventeen and so on, repeating the pattern, leaving to the finish one and twenty as bookends; a million—well, he conceded to himself, perhaps not a million, but hundreds, or thousands of possibilities. And here, Dojcsak was unable even to coax Maggie Bitson to admit to the potential for one. But she was
thinking
it, and like accidentally walking in on your parents having sex, it was an image she would not soon erase.
“C’mon, Maggie, if you didn’t know, you suspected. Was he as generous with her as he was with you, when you were a child? Did your father love Missy in the same way.”
“Keep away from my family, Ed. I don’t want you meddling with my mother or my dad. You’ve done enough as it is.”
…
At Christopher’s request, Dojcsak met with him for lunch at
Genaro’s
, an Italian Trattoria (
trattoria
to Dojcsak being simply a place where they charged thirteen-dollars for a two-dollar plate of pasta) situated steps from the local theater. Though the food was fragrant and well spiced, the portions were miserly and the beer warm, as if they served so little of it as to have no regard. Confirming his suspicion, at each table Dojcsak noted either sparkling water or red wine being served with the meals.
In response to Dojcsak’s inquiry as to why
here
, Burke said, “My mother-in-law arrived yesterday afternoon. Sheila asked me to cook tonight; can you believe it? She’s all fucked up; hormones, the baby. What we go through, eh? Anyway, I can’t cook, so I’ll bring take-out.”
Burke tucked in to a steaming serving of Penne a la Vodka while Dojcsak picked cautiously with his fork at his own plate, mistakenly having ordered something with leek he thought from the menu description might contain veal. A generous application of Parmesan and hot chilies had failed to stimulate his appetite.
“Sara is convinced it’s Jordy Bitson,” Dojcsak was telling Burke as the waiter cleared their plates, offering coffee. Burke accepted, Dojcsak ordered a third pint.
“And you?” Burke wanted to know.
“He was seen at the McDonalds on the day Missy disappeared.” No fewer than three eyewitnesses had come forward in response to Sara’s questioning, to confirm it. “The DNA is pretty conclusive. Then there’s the pictures…” he said, as if unable to finish the thought. “I’m inclined to think yes.”
Dojcsak extracted a package of Camels before being informed by the hostess that dining room policy forbade the smoking of cigars, cigarettes or pipes indoors. “If you need to smoke,” she said, with the smug satisfaction of someone who herself had recently quit, “you’ll need to do it outside.”
Dojcsak continued. “We don’t a have an eye-witness, but circumstantially, I think we have enough to indict.”
“It wasn’t the kid who screwed her before she died, Ed; we’ll need to account for that.”
Burke was not yet totally vested in the notion of Jordy as the only killer. Sara had suggested to him, in a round about way, that Jenny Dojcsak had been involved with Jordy in the killing of Missy Bitson, possibly as a lure. So far neither she nor Burke had mustered sufficient courage to confront Ed. Either way, Burke preferred the notion of a grand statewide conspiracy to account for the murder. In the U.S., kids killed kids everyday with hardly a mention on local newscasts, never mind CNN.
“Mcteer?” Dojcsak offered.
“More likely Radigan,” Burke said. “His brother is the security guard picked up in Mineola by the FBI. Sara’s canine friend has confirmed it. The phone records show a lot of chatter from the home in Mineola to Seamus over the last year and we haven’t even started to work back. That connects the dots between the federal investigation, Radigan, Seamus, Missy and the boy. Radigan’s brother will squawk; says he’s innocent and ready to turn State’s evidence in return for immunity from prosecution.”
Burke pecked at the remains of his meal.
“Look, Ed. I know you and Sara like the kid for the crime, but don’t dismiss that it’s a much wider conspiracy, is all I’m saying. Seamus is a photographer. He took those photos of Missy, Jordy and those other kids. He filmed the tapes: Mcteer and Radigan and Mineola, New York; do the math, Ed. You don’t need to be Colombo to draw the necessary conclusions.
And,
” he continued, before Dojcsak could interject, “what about the old man? My money says:
he was screwing his daughter
? He was screwing the grandkid,
too
.” Burke’s voice carried, drawing looks. He stared down the curious with his best
fuck-you
glare.
Dojcsak said, “Of course, if we could tie her killing to the broader Federal Investigation, it would mean more exposure and greater publicity, wouldn’t it Christopher? It wouldn’t hurt your career prospects.”
“All I’m saying, Ed, is don’t dismiss other possibilities. Is Bitson a scumbag? You bet, the worst. Was he screwing his cousin? You bet. But just because he was screwing her doesn’t mean he killed her. Hell, Ed, if we believed that about everybody, I’d be doing hard time instead of sitting here talking with you.”
Dojcsak requested the check and before settling with the waiter ordered another beer. “I need to go, Ed. Sheila’s mother asked me to pick her up from the mall. Don’t mind do you?”
“Go ahead, Christopher,” Dojcsak said. “I need to process our alternatives. I’ll speak to Sara, but in the meantime, don’t either one of you say or do anything without speaking to me first.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” said Burke, as if, really, he didn’t mean it.
After lunch, Dojcsak returned to the office.
“Dr. Henry called,” said Dorothy, “asked you to phone him back right away. Something about a mix-up with the blood sample he took last week.”
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
Dojcsak ignored the request.
In the office, the telephone was silent. With little else to do, Dorothy and Trinity Van Duesen sat watching Oprah on a small, portable TV, for women of a certain age Oprah being the genesis of all popular wisdom. Dojcsak watched as she interviewed Dennis Leary, who she claimed truly to be an upstanding guy.
This contradicted, in Dojcsak’s mind, every role he had ever watched the actor play. (Though Dojcsak did enjoy the short-lived television series,
The Job
, staring the actor.) Millions of viewers who had believed one thing about the man, now were being asked to accept another owing to the mid-morning proclamation of a television talk show host. He wondered idly if women like Oprah were responsible for popularizing the sexuality of children in a way Dojcsak had seen them appear on soda pop commercials. He wondered if Oprah had children herself.
From the office, Dojcsak telephoned Leland McMaster, requesting Maggie’s father speak with him tomorrow morning. Not asking Dojcsak why, McMaster agreed, suggesting they meet at his home. He would be in the barn tending a finicky mare. Dojcsak should arrive any time after sun-up, early.
At the
Fox ‘n Fiddle
later that evening, Dojcsak consumed four pints of a yeasty, Guinness Cream Ale, a dozen suicide hot chicken wings, a platter of French fried potatoes and several handfuls of salted nuts, which were offered at the bar no charge. Given the size of Dojcsak’s fist, it was no wonder the bartender stopped serving after Dojcsak’s third bowl.
The
Fox ‘n Fiddle
was smoky and crowded, mostly men, though by nine half a dozen forty-something, worse-for-the wear hausfraus had started to wade in, big hair resting on narrow shoulders, make-up applied too heavily across the cheeks and around the eyes. By last call they would be staggering to remain upright on their
fuck-me
style pumps, midriff-bulge and middle age spread straining against the fabric of too snug blue jeans made so by too many children and too many beers. Dojcsak regarded them dispassionately. This, he decided, is where the Missys of the world end up if they don’t get themselves killed first.
He returned home that evening before ten. It was the first time he had done so since the murder. Rena was awake, preoccupied watching re-runs of
The West Wing
, in which the actor portraying the
President
is speaking with an actor portraying a psychiatrist.
Dojcsak wondered how the actual incumbent of the Oval Office would feel about this; that a man occupying such an exalted position as he could be portrayed as being so dependent as to need a shrink? For that matter, how would the American public feel? Dojcsak wondered if the producers of the program might have a hidden political agenda.
In this episode the
President
is unable to sleep, tormented by memories of an abusive father. This much Dojcsak could appreciate, though he himself was less tormented than confused by his own father’s behavior toward him.
Except for sports, Dojcsak watched little commercial television, finding the range of sophisticated emotions displayed by fictional characters to be overblown and insincere, if not totally unlikely. In real life, people didn’t behave this way. To Ed Dojcsak, behavior was never that complicated. People
are
, people
do
:
simple
. Only a method actor could conjure up such bogus motivation.
After the program, Rena offered tea. Dojcsak declined, accepting a beer instead. Rena settled across from him on the sofa. Dojcsak sat in a wingback chair, stocking feet raised and resting on an ottoman that had been recently reupholstered. The television was on, the volume low. The glare from the picture tube mixed with the light of a low table lamp, creating a pleasing, soft green glow extending as far as Dojcsak and his wife, illuminating their faces as if they were two actors on a stage. Dojcsak immediately recalled certain elements of his dream.
