A Perfect Crime Read online

  Night is my friend. Sounded like a line from a song, a good one, a Metallica song. Whitey tried to think of what could come next. End rhymed with friend, but what went in between? He couldn’t get from friend to end, soon gave up, tried the radio instead. Now a few stations came in, but unsteady and playing shit. He switched it off.

  Whitey stopped in the last town before the turnpike, filled up again, bought two quarts of chocolate milk, drank them in the 7-Eleven parking lot, felt better right away. He worked his way through a candy bar, taking little bites, chewing carefully, then started on the chicken sandwich: yes, getting stronger-he was something else. A bus pulled in, BOSTON in the destination box, and a woman stepped down, followed by the driver. The driver went into the store; the woman got into a waiting pickup, almost as old as Whitey’s, put her arms around the man behind the wheel, and gave him a big kiss. Then she saw Whitey watching and sat back in her seat; they drove away.

  Whitey hit the radio button again. Plenty of stations now. He turned the dial, heard bits of this and that: oldies, folk, jazz, commercials, “-nald ‘Whitey’ Truax,” “down to minus twent-”

  His name? Had he heard his name on the radio? He twisted his way back up the dial, failed to find the station, or if he did, it was playing music now. His name on the radio? He thought ahead to the turnpike with its toll-booths, its speed traps; and his truck, all white with that REDEEMER shit on the side.

  And got out fast. He walked across the parking lot to the bus, waited outside the closed door. After a minute or two, the driver came out of the 7-Eleven, scratching at instant tickets. “One,” Whitey said to him, getting out his money.

  “All the way?”

  “Huh?”

  The driver gave him a look, took in the Band-Aids and his fucking hair. “Boston,” he said. “End of the line.”

  “Yeah,” said Whitey.

  Whitey sat at the back, the only passenger at first, one of only a few by the end. It was warm on the bus, and with the winter night gliding by outside and what he’d been through, Whitey should have fallen asleep right away. But he couldn’t sleep, not with the flashing blue lights he saw from time to time, not with his name out there on the radio, not with things so uneven between him and Roger. He was back on a bus, didn’t even have his truck-would never have it again. Would never have it again: he stopped thinking about the future right there, at least of any future beyond evening things up with Roger. What did he have? The night, and knowing where Roger lived. What did he need? A hat for one thing, to hide the hair he saw glowing back at him from his window at the back of the bus.

  He bought one at the pushcart stand in South Station, red wool with Holy Cross written on the front. In the bathroom, he pulled it low over his ears and forehead, turned up the collar of his leather jacket, hunched down inside. He checked himself in the mirror: could have been anybody. Anybody nasty. Whitey walked out into the city.

  And lost the night right away. The sky seemed to brighten almost at once, as though everything was speeding up, black rushing to turn blue, a cloudless icy blue with a cold wind whipping through the downtown streets and pain on the faces of all the well-dressed people walking fast to wherever. No one looked at anybody. Whitey walked fast, too, tall in his cowboy boots, trim in his leather jacket, anonymous in his wool hat. Daytime, but safe for now.

  He was hungry, craved doughnuts, soft and sweet, hot chocolate, coffee with lots of sugar, but passed by every restaurant; couldn’t go in, not with his name out there on the radio. He came to the statue of George Washington; an icicle hung from the end of his saber. A saber would make a decent weapon, much better than what he had, which was nothing.

  Whitey went through the Public Garden, following the path around the frozen pond. He crossed a street, climbed the hill past all the big brick houses with their fancy grillwork, doors, knockers, turned left on another street, climbed higher. And there he was, standing outside Roger’s door, a tall and massive door, black with gold numbers and fixtures. He noticed that Christmas wreaths hung from the doors of the neighboring houses but not from Roger’s. That didn’t help him with the next step. What was it? Whitey didn’t know.

  The mailman was coming up the street, red envelopes in his hand. No way he could just stay there, waiting outside the door. Whitey kept going, rounded the next corner, came to an alley. An alley, he realized, that backed against Roger’s house, where Roger might keep his car, for example. Whitey walked down the alley.

  He didn’t see Roger’s car in the alley, no cars at all, just garage doors lining both sides. No numbers on them either: how was he supposed to know which garage was Roger’s? He thought for a while, wondered about going back around to the street, counting the houses on the block, or maybe trying to identify them by their rooftops, then coming back and A garage door slid up, three or four garages down the alley from where he stood, on the right. A car backed out. The rear wheels hadn’t even appeared before Whitey recognized Roger’s four-by-four, the window replaced already. All neat and tidy. Whitey ducked behind a trash barrel.

  Over the top of the barrel, he watched the car emerge, caught the profile of a woman in the passenger seat, and Roger beyond her at the wheel, checking his mirrors. The front wheels angled out, the car backed toward him a few feet, then straightened and drove forward, off down the alley.

  Safe.

  But the woman! Had he ever seen a woman like that? Yes, as a matter of fact, but he couldn’t think who at the moment. Could she possibly be Roger’s? What a thought. Then it hit him: she was a grown-up version of Sue Savard, but oh so much better. A perfect Sue Savard, the way Sue Savard would have looked with an actress playing her. Whitey was so knocked out, so distracted by these unusual thoughts, that he almost didn’t notice the garage door sliding back down, almost didn’t realize that Roger had triggered some sort of remote control from his car, almost didn’t grasp the significance of it all. He charged out from behind the trash can, flew toward that closing door, skidded the last few yards across icy bricks, jammed the toe of his cowboy boot-fucking toe stepped on by Roger-under it just in time. Yes: he was in; and got that old, old feeling.

  33

  “Not a cloud in the sky,” said Roger, driving west on Storrow, hands at the proper ten-minutes-to-two position on the wheel. “My suit satisfactory?”

  Had he ever asked her opinion of what he wore? Not that Francie remembered. She glanced at the suit: black wool, perhaps blended with cashmere, probably from Brooks Brothers. “It’s fine,” she said, recalling that they’d discussed this particular suit once before, her mind about to zero in on the occasion when he did it for her.

  “Doesn’t make me resemble a luncheon companion of the godfather?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Why, nothing. Quite a funny joke you made about this suit, that’s all. Perhaps I’m just fully appreciating it now.” He smiled at her. “You always had that sense of humor, Francie, come what may.”

  His teeth shone, his shave was close, skin smooth, color high. He might have just returned from a spa weekend. She decided to leave him.

  Decided at that moment, regardless of Roger’s situation, of whether the Lauderdale job came through, or whether the timing suited Ned. She would start searching for an apartment tomorrow-perhaps moving into a hotel for now. Why spend another night in the house? He could have the house, keep whatever he wanted; there’d be no trouble from her.

  A decision that had nothing to do with Ned. But what about him? She had planned to end their relationship the night Anne died. Would she have been able to do it? Had it ended anyway? If so, if Anne’s death should have ended it, her own will having failed, what was the reason? Was there a reason, precise and definable, more than lace-curtain niceties? Yes. She felt that reason in her throat, a hard lump of guilt that wouldn’t go away. To put it as baldly as she could, to lacerate herself with it, she had been fucking Ned and it had killed his wife. But even punishment like that didn’t make the guilt go away. And worse,
that new apartment of hers-she could already picture Ned knocking on the door. What was wrong with her?

  “Something troubling you, Francie?” They’d stopped at a traffic light and Roger’s eyes were on her. “You seem preoccupied.”

  “We’re on our way to a funeral, Roger.”

  “Yes,” he said, as the light turned green, “it’s emotional, I know.”

  They parked outside the church, five or six spaces behind a hearse and a black limo. The wind blew out of the west, driving snow off the ground, spinning it in various shapes. “I thought you had a warmer coat,” Roger said, taking Francie’s arm as they walked down the sidewalk, the wind in their faces.

  “I’m not cold,” she said, and was starting to pull her arm away when a car door opened in front of them and Savard got out. He hadn’t shaved closely, hadn’t shaved at all, and his color was bad.

  “A quick word with you, Mrs. Cullingwood?” he said. “If you’ll step into the car for a moment.”

  Francie saw Nora climbing the steps of the church. “About what?” she said.

  “The investigation.”

  “Will you be needing me, too?” said Roger.

  Savard shook his head. “This is only for those with some connection to the cottage.”

  “Of course,” Roger said. “I’ll save you a place, Francie.”

  Francie sat in the back of Savard’s car, not the old Bronco this time but a police cruiser; a worn heel from someone’s shoe lay upside down on the floor mat, rusted cobbler’s nails showing. Savard got in beside her, opened a manila envelope, took out some photographs. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  She examined a police photograph, full face and profile, with numbers at the bottom. “No,” Francie said.

  “Take your time.”

  She did, and gave him the same answer.

  “Have you ever heard the name Whitey Truax? Or Donald Truax?”

  “No.”

  “Anne never mentioned that name?”

  “No. Is that him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his connection to Anne?”

  “Probably none,” Savard said. “I’m almost certain they met for the first time late Monday afternoon.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He broke into your friend’s cottage. Your other friend was there. He killed her. He’s done it before-is on parole at this moment, in fact.”

  “For killing someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she have some connection to Anne?”

  “No.” Savard was staring at the photograph. There was a silence, a strange one; she had the crazy notion that he was about to start crying. He did not, of course, but looked up at her with dry eyes and said, “There’s no connection at all.”

  “How do you know it was him this time?”

  “Normally I ask the questions.” Their eyes met. Did he expect her to apologize for asking questions? She remained silent. “But yours are good,” he said at last. “The answer is he left his prints all over the place. He also killed his mother a little while later, down in Lawton Ferry.”

  “Why? I don’t understand any of this.”

  Savard put the photographs back in the envelope. “I’ll fax you the testimony of the psychiatrist from his trial, if you’re interested. Thanks for your time, Mrs. Cullingwood.”

  Francie reached for the door handle, understanding one little part. “This means that all those questions you asked me before…”

  “What questions?”

  “The ones that seemed to be leading to…”

  “The husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are irrelevant now,” Savard said. “They were before we had the prints, actually.” Pause. “It turned out that Mr. Demarco-or is it doctor-”

  “I’m not sure which he prefers.”

  Another pause. “-had an explanation for his whereabouts.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Francie said, a loyal remark, almost wifely.

  “Why is that?”

  “He has a private practice, as well as the radio show.”

  “So?”

  “It must raise issues of patient confidentiality.”

  “Not this alibi,” Savard said.

  “Not this alibi?” Francie said. “What do you mean?”

  Someone rapped at the window of the car. A man in a clerical collar stood outside. Francie opened the door so he could talk to Savard, but it wasn’t Savard he wanted.

  “Francie Cullingwood?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder if you could help us this morning.”

  “How?”

  “The deceased had a longtime tennis partner from Cleveland.” He frowned at a sheet of paper. “I’m not sure which one of these it is. In any case, it was thought that representatives of various aspects of her life might speak briefly at the ceremony. Tennis being one, you see. The problem is that the woman, the tennis partner, is snowed-in in Cleveland. It’s been suggested that you might be able to find a few words.”

  “Ask Nora.”

  “Ms. Levin? She was the one who gave me your name.”

  Impossible, out of the question, never. Francie, searching for some polite way to tell the reverend, felt Savard’s eyes on her back, on the back of her head, specifically. Impossible, out of the question, never-but how could she say no?

  “I’ll do it,” Francie said, and got out of the car. Savard got out, too, opened the driver’s-side door, gave her a little nod over the roof.

  Francie sat beside Roger in a pew five or six rows from the front. Roger leaned into her ear. “What was your little colloquium about?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  Ned, Em, Ned’s mother, and a gray-haired man sat in the first row; all Francie could see were the backs of their heads and Ned’s arm around Em’s shoulder: the family. Do you have any sisters, Francie? Neither do I. I always wanted one. She saw Nora, across the aisle; a few tennis players she knew; forty or fifty other people she didn’t know; the reverend, whom she stopped listening to as soon as she realized he’d never met Anne; and the coffin, a fine-grained blond wood coffin, not ornate. After a minute or two, she was looking at nothing, and withdrew into plans for her little speech.

  Right away she thought of Swift’s Marriage Service from His Chamber Window: Let none but Him who rules the thunder. She remembered exactly how Anne had looked reciting it at Huitres, her face flushed from wine, tennis, emotion. Wonderful wine, Roger. I’ll know something to order from now on. From Swift it was a quick jump to Gulliver’s Travels, from there to the Brobdingnagians, and there she was, up against two-stories-tall Anne, watching through the windows.

  Are you mad at me?

  Why would I be mad at you?

  The way I played. Will you ever forgive me?

  And: You’re like a lion-strong, proud, loyal. Francie sat in the pew, hearing nothing, but no longer seeing nothing; she was staring at the coffin, couldn’t take her eyes off it. She almost didn’t feel Roger poking her arm, then jerked her head up and saw the reverend beckoning her from behind the lectern.

  The next thing Francie knew she was the one standing behind it, overlooking the coffin, the eyes of the mourners all on her. I have no right to be here, less right than anyone. That was the truth, the honest beginning, but whom would it serve? Watching eyes and waiting faces. No impatience. They, all of them, had time in common. Faces: the gray-haired man’s, same cheekbones, same chin, Anne’s father; Em’s, the face of the girl on the skateboard-and Francie suddenly understood what made oh garden, my garden work, the tension between the carefree girl and those tumescent grapes, just beginning to rot; Ned’s, almost as white as the reverend’s collar, except for two spots growing redder on his cheeks. And there was Savard standing at the back. She suddenly wanted to cry out: Let none but Him who rules the thunder. But did not, had nothing prepared; remembered Savard’s little nod, started talking.
/>   “I played the best tennis of my life with Anne. It’s just a game, I know. But that’s what Anne was like. She brought out the best in everyone. There was something about her, I don’t know what it was, not to put in words. But I’m going to be thinking about it for a long time. About her. Even in death she’ll still have that power, you see. To bring out the best, at least in me, I hope to God.”

  And what voice was this? Hers, of course, but strange in her ear-unmodulated, unmediated, undirected. Her inner voice. Had she ever heard it aloud before? Yes, once before: out on the ice with Ned, when she’d told him, “Maybe we’d better call this off.”

  Was there more to say? Just one thing, and Francie said it: “I’m going to miss her.”

  Then she was sitting beside Roger again, not knowing quite how she got there, left with three memories: Em crying; Nora squeezing her hand from her seat by the aisle; another little nod from Savard at the back, perhaps nodding to himself, not meant for her at all.

  “Well done,” said Roger.

  At the graveyard: fewer people, a hole in the frozen ground, more talk. All familiar: she was in the art business, knew something of funerals. Coffin lowered, symbolic shovelful of dirt thrown in, ancient wordless method for getting the message across, and it did, sounding a wintry rattle on the coffin lid that made Francie flinch. She didn’t believe in an afterlife, or God, although she’d just hoped to him in her little speech. And once before, made a deal with him, this time under the ice-a deal on which she’d reneged. Francie felt the cold then, through and through. The wind caught someone’s hat, blew it between two gravestones and out of sight.

  Ned, Em, and the two grandparents were standing at the gate as Francie and Roger went out. “Thank you both for coming,” Ned said.

  “So sorry,” Roger said.

  Anne’s father stepped forward, took Francie’s hand. “That was so beautiful, what you said. And true-everything about her, going back to when she was a little girl, came into focus for me when you spoke.” His eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them away; Francie sensed some inner strength in him that hadn’t been passed on. “Will you be coming to the house?”