Line of Vision Read online

  “I want to know why you think I’m the boyfriend.”

  “There’s no thinkin’ about it. I know it.”

  “Tell me how.”

  Cummings stares at me a second, then explodes a laugh. “Yeah. Okay. I tell you who helped us out with that, maybe that person has an unfortunate accident the next day or so?”

  “The way I see it, Ted, I’m not going anyplace, long as I don’t tell you what you wanna hear. So what I can do from this room?” I shrug my shoulders. “You tell me who told you I’m the boyfriend, and maybe I’ll tell you something that makes you happy.”

  Cummings is still now, his bear arms wrapped in front of him, his eyes narrowed with a begrudging smile. “All the same, Marty, I think I’ll keep that information to myself.”

  “Christ.” I shake my head and wave him off. “You don’t have shit.”

  The table rocks, and Cummings is out of his seat. I would never have guessed that Cummings could move that frame as quickly as he does now, toward me. He stops in front of me, one hand on the table, one on the back of my chair. He is in my face, all cigar-breath and sweat. “If I give you a list of everyone that’s named you, we’ll be in here all day.” He has my attention, but for good measure he actually moves closer, his nose almost touching my turned cheek. “You didn’t notice maybe, along the way while you and Rachey were making goo-goo eyes at your little do-gooder events—you think no one noticed that crap? You don’t think your name was the first one outta their mouths when we asked ’em?” Even with my face turned away, I feel the eyes boring into me. “I got ten witnesses on a bad day.” He pushes my chair as he heads for the door.

  I holler after him, in a choked voice, I want a lawyer, but he just mumbles under his breath and slams the door behind him.

  19

  WHEN THE DOOR OPENS AGAIN, A GOOD HALF HOUR later, I smell cologne—Polo, I think—or maybe aftershave. The man who walks in with Cummings is a short, stocky black guy. Unlike Cummings—with the tie pulled down, sleeves bunched up, collar open—this guy is immaculate. He has a short, curly afro and thin, steel-rimmed glasses. He’s wearing a charcoal suit and a crisp white shirt with a tab collar that wraps around a sharp purple tie. He carries with him a tape recorder, which he places on the table, taking the cord over to an outlet and plugging it in. Then he sits down at the short side of the table, with the tape recorder right in front of him, and sets down some manila files. Cummings remains standing behind him, arms crossed, eyes never leaving me.

  “Mr. Kalish, my name is Walter Denno. I’m a lieutenant here at Area One.” He offers a hand, which I accept.

  “Very nice,” I say.

  He cocks his head. “What’s that, Mr. Kalish?”

  “An equal opportunity interrogation.”

  I’m out of character here, throwing a racist remark at this cop to get a rise out of him. I want him to get mad. I want him out of control. Because I’m feeling a little that way myself. Thirty minutes alone in a hot, sweaty gray room filled with the ripe odor of adrenaline and fear, sweat dripping from my underarms, my mouth sticky and bitter, my butt raw from this unforgiving wooden chair, and I’m about ready to confess to the Lindbergh kidnapping.

  And Cummings shook me up a little, I admit. I’ve been less than perfectly discreet about my feelings for Rachel, and I’ve taken enough abuse from my foundation cohorts on this subject to know it’s not a quantum leap to put the two of us together. So he’s probably got me on that. Fine. Marty and Rachel, sittin’-in-a-tree. But he needs more, I’m figuring.

  Denno sighs quietly, like he pities me. “I understand you’re denying that you and Mrs. Reinardt were having an affair?”

  “I never said that.”

  “So you admit it.”

  “No. I didn’t answer one way or another.”

  He waves a hand. “That’s the same thing as denying it.”

  “Really.”

  Denno moves in a little closer, maintaining his blank expression. He tips the bridge of his glasses with a finger and wets his lips. “Marty. You know, and I know, that you are having an affair with Mrs. Reinardt. This is something that we can prove, right now. Denying this does not help you, or her, one bit.” His voice is strong but steady, almost gentle. Professorial.

  “It makes me wonder, then,” I say. “Why do you need me?”

  “We need your help in understanding this.”

  “You want me to make your job easier.”

  Denno considers this a moment, then gives a grand nod. “All right. Yes. We’re still fuzzy on some details. For instance, where you come in.” He flips open one of his files, leafs through a few pages, and pulls one to his face. “Looks to me like you have a solid alibi here. You’re checking out of work around three-thirty in the morning. You have that big multimillion-dollar deal with your boss—what’s his name?” Denno looks over his shoulder at Cummings. “Frank somebody, right?”

  “Tiller,” Cummings says, never leaving my eyes. I do a slow burn.

  “The way I see it,” Denno says, “you have no worries, Marty. You tell us the truth, you walk out of here today. We cross you off the list.”

  “And if I don’t talk?”

  “Then I wonder why.” Denno leans back in his chair, waving a hand. “The first part of that answer’s simple enough. You’re protecting Rachel. You think, as long as Rachel has no boyfriend, she’s clean. No motive, right?”

  “And the second part?”

  “The second part is you have something to hide.”

  I shrug. “Solid alibi, right?”

  “Oh, you weren’t there,” he says. “Doesn’t mean you’re not an accomplice. Before or after.” It’s his turn to shrug. “Doesn’t matter to me. Either way, it’s the same as pulling the trigger. You know how the law on accessory works, right? Didn’t they teach you that in law school?” This guy is telling me matter-of-factly that he’s been all over my life. “That call you made to Rachel the day after? ‘Do they have any leads?’ You’re asking her, is everything cool, baby?”

  I bring a hand to my forehead, the thumping of my pulse vibrating my palm. I need to think. Think think think.

  “You talk to us, you straighten things out. Help us understand. Forget about all this accessory stuff. Maybe you are clean. Personally, that’s what I believe. But we know she would’ve talked to you about what happened. Am I right?”

  I give him a look.

  “I wonder what she told you. Maybe she shot him in self-defense.”

  That one hits me. “What?”

  “Self-defense,” he says calmly.

  “Maybe she didn’t shoot him at all.”

  Denno gives a dismissive shake of the head. “No, she’s the shooter. We know that for a fact.”

  “How could you possibly?”

  He stares me down with a warning: Do Not Enter. There will be no answer to that question, nor room for debate. Then the expression softens again. “I think Rachel told you that she killed her husband, Marty. Didn’t she?”

  “No.”

  “Then what did she tell you?”

  “Nothing.”

  Denno blows out, his head shaking absently. “We know the Reinardts didn’t have a good marriage. Marty”—now it’s his earnest look, right at me—“we know he beat her up. We know about that.”

  My mouth drops. “How could you—what makes you say that?”

  “C’mon, Marty.” His voice is almost soothing. “Girls talk. Some of her friends at the foundation. She told them. I think she told you, too.”

  His right hand rose in a flash, fist half closed. Rachel’s head whipped to the right, her hair and arms flying wildly, her knees buckling as she fell backward to the carpet.

  “Maybe after all that time,” Denno says, “Rachel couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe she shouldn’t have to.”

  “It’s getting worse,” she told me.

  “We have to do something, Rachel. Right now.”

  If you hadn’t broken through the door, this wouldn’t be ha
ppening. If you hadn’t called her the day after, this wouldn’t be happening. If you hadn’t made up such a good alibi—

  “Those bruises on Rachel’s face,” Denno continues in that voice. “Those were from Dr. Reinardt, weren’t they?”

  This is happening too fast. I need time to think.

  “That makes me think, Marty. It makes me think that maybe she was in fear for her life. It makes me think of self-defense.”

  Dr. Reinardt slapped her again, hard against the cheek, then seized her by the arms. With his grip tight, he forced her down to the carpet, falling on top of her.

  “Is that what she told you, Marty? That it was self-defense? That he was going to kill her?”

  She didn’t have to tell me. I saw it.

  I saw you, Mr. Kalish.

  “That’s what I want to believe, Marty. I really, truly do. Sounds to me like this guy was scum. Beating on a pretty lady like that. Raping her.” He closes a fist and leans back a moment. Then he comes forward again, pointing a finger with conviction. “You convince me it was self-defense, I don’t charge her. She walks, you walk.”

  “You’re wrong about that. She didn’t do it.”

  My eyes are closed as I say this, but the lack of a response tells me I have commanded the attention of the room. I hear a creak in Denno’s chair and open my eyes. He has turned to look back at Cummings.

  I bring my hands to my face again and do a long exhale. Am I ready to do this?

  “Let’s talk about that,” Denno says.

  I am unsure of the words that will next come from my mouth, as I drop my hands and stare into Denno’s eyes. My calculations have taken several forks in the road, the different angles swirling about wildly. The only thing that is clear to me now is that I have no idea what the right thing to do is, and that every decision I have made so far has come back to bite Rachel. I answer him quietly. “I think I should have a lawyer.”

  Denno deflates, but he hardly misses a beat. “Then you’re both under arrest.” He holds out his hands in apology. “You don’t give me a choice. We go to our corners and come out swinging. I don’t like your chances, Marty. I like hers even less.” He sighs and reaches for the tape recorder. “So here’s what we do. I’m gonna turn this thing on and ask you if you are, or were, having an affair with Rachel. You can deny it, or refuse to answer, or ask for a lawyer. They’re all the same answer to the jury, Marty. You’re obstructing this investigation, and you’re an accessory to murder. And then I arrest you and Rachel.”

  “You can’t arrest her. She didn’t do it.”

  Denno lowers his eyes a moment, his lips pursed, his body tense. His index finger rises off the table. He speaks slowly. “Tell me why.”

  I pull on my hair and squeeze my eyes shut. There’s always more time to do it. I can wait minutes, hours, days to do this, if it’s the right thing. Yeah. There you go. I clear my throat. “I have nothing to say. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” I open my eyes to a disappointed lieutenant with a clenched jaw and narrow eyes. “I am unequivocally requesting a lawyer.” I give him a sour look. “They taught me that in law school.”

  Denno stares at me, then nods solemnly. He gives a half turn of his head toward Cummings. As if on cue, Cummings uncrosses his big arms and steps away from the wall.

  “Will you excuse us, Lieutenant?” Cummings says as he looks right at me.

  Denno stands up, watches me for a second, then leaves the room.

  “Ted, your turn again,” I say, feeling momentarily empowered by Denno’s departure. One interrogator down, one to go? “And for the record, that’s three times I asked for a lawyer. I think the case was called Miranda.”

  “Yeah, it rings a bell.”

  Cummings paces around, reasserting himself as the big man in the room. He walks over to one of the walls and picks at some peeling paint. “You know we got a death penalty in this state,” he offers. “Juries love to give the death penalty on murder one. We haven’t done a woman in a long time.”

  “If you can prove it.”

  Cummings smiles at the wall. “Can’t say I’m too worried about that, Marty.”

  “Even if you can prove it, she’s got self-defense.”

  Cummings makes a big point of laughing. “Self-defense,” he repeats mockingly. “I love it.”

  “You said yourself. He was beating her. That night, too.” I am quick to add, “Probably.”

  Cummings takes his seat back across the table from me. “Sure, Marty. Sure. Only, help me with this.” He runs his finger on the table, like he’s trying to figure the equation. “How’s the gun get downstairs? Huh? How many people you know keep loaded guns in their den?”

  Checkmate.

  “I mean, people have guns in their houses for home protection. Right? In case someone breaks in while they’re asleep or somethin’. Where would you keep that gun, Marty, if it was you?” He holds out a hand. “The bedroom, maybe? Locked in a closet upstairs, maybe? Answer me that one, Marty, ’cause I don’t have an MBA like you. What the fuck good is a gun if you have to go downstairs to get it?”

  “So they kept it in an odd place. So what?”

  “Yeah, okay. Good counterpoint, Marty. Oh”—he snaps his fingers and directs a finger at me—“except the maid tells us the doctor kept it in his nightstand. Right there by his bed. Yeah. The nightstand.” His eyes bulge. “Go figger. So how’s that gun get downstairs, Marty?”

  “Maybe the doctor takes it.”

  “’Cause why? He’s gonna shoot Rachel?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Yeah maybe. Then she disarms him, right? He’s got, what, six inches, about a hundred pounds on her? But she disarms him. Okay, sure. Then she shoots him in self-defense. Oh, and then, God, I love this”—his hands move about expressively, then freeze in midair like he’s delivering a punch line—“then a stranger happens by—right?—he’s out for a stroll in her backyard on a freezin’, windy night, sure—and this stranger sees this whole thing, and says, what the hell, I’m feelin’ generous, I’m gonna break in, take the body and the gun, and skedaddle. And then Rachel, who has acted in self-defense—right?—she changes her story and tells the coppers that some guy broke in and shot her husband.” He leans back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. “Yeah, that must be what happened here.”

  We let a good five minutes pass, Cummings letting this sink in for me. Jesus, the blind spots I have. Self-defense doesn’t work here, not with a broken door and a missing body. And the gun. If only they knew that she really did bring the gun downstairs to protect herself. But no cop is ever gonna buy that. And me taking the body away afterward—this is how I help Rachel? This is how I make everything okay?

  Cummings leaves his chair and drops himself on the table right next to me. His hands rest on his knee, which is eye-level to me; he lowers his chin and looks at me sympathetically. “You and I both know your alibi is a fix-up,” he says quietly. “You coulda doctored that time sheet six ways to Sunday.”

  I start to protest, but he raises a hand slightly off his knee.

  “Just listen. Now, you knew the doctor was beatin’ her. Right? You can admit that much. You foundation people seemed to share your secrets.” He pauses until he’s sure I won’t answer. “Okay. So you knew. You knew he was takin’ a belt to her. I mean, Christ, you can’t hardly do that to circus animals anymore, he’s doin’ it to her in their bedroom every night. Night after night, humiliatin’ her like that. And all the sexual stuff, too. Jesus. Rape, is what it is.

  “And it bothered you, just like it bothered everyone else. Right? Forget about Rachel bein’ your girlfriend. I can prove that, but forget about it. You’re still a friend, and it bothered you. So maybe you’re just tryin’ to help her outta this. This isn’t some cold-blooded murder. This is you tryin’ to help someone who needs it. Needs it bad. Marty, however this turns out, with or without Rachel, I got you. The only question is, do I got Rachel, too?”

  “I’m not sorry I killed him,” I told
Rachel last night.

  “Are you sure?” she said.

  I saw you, Mr. Kalish.

  “No,” I whisper, my voice a tremble.

  “No?” says Cummings. “Then tell me why not. Or get your lawyer, and I’ll arrest Rachel and ask her myself. Is that what you want?”

  “No.”

  Cummings adjusts his hands but remains calm. “The gun didn’t jump into your hands,” he says. “She gave it to you.”

  “No,” I repeat.

  “Then tell me how I’m wrong.”

  Are you sure?

  I’m sure. Yes, I’m sure now. I’m not sorry. No, Rachel, I’m not sorry. Everything is quiet now, peaceful at last, dawn breaking over the horizon. I’m not sorry.

  20

  “HELLO?”

  “Jerry.”

  “Marty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you watching the game? I’m gonna lose fifty bucks—”

  “Jerry.”

  “—because we have a coach who doesn’t understand the forward pass is part—”

  “Jerry. Listen to me.”

  “Yeah, okay. What—what’s up? You okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay. I need a lawyer, Jerry. A criminal defense attorney.”

  “You need a—what’re you talking about?”

  “You guys do some criminal, right?”

  “Jesus, what’s happened?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure we do. Talk to me, Marty.”

  “I’m being held.”

  “Held? Where—where are you?”

  “The police station.”

  “Oh my God. Listen—don’t say a word to them.”

  “Little late for that.”

  “Jesus—don’t—don’t say anything else to me. Keep your mouth shut and just listen to me. I can be down there in ten minutes. I’m gonna call Paul Riley. He’s the guy you want. Don’t say a fucking word until I get there. Do you understand me, Marty? Do not open your mouth.”