Swan Dive - Jeremiah Healy Read online

  "Hey, man, come look at this!"

  I went into the living room portion, Nino bending over the telescope and adjusting some knob near his squinting eye. "This little mother is powerful. Planes, luggage carts, shit, I can see right into the terminals almost."

  "Teri ever mention anything about the telescope?"

  "Not to me. But she was weird that way. She give me the key to this place ’cause she trust me and somebody gotta have it, case she get the slam and all."

  I thought about what Sandra had asked me. I’d gotten the impression that Teri had told her about the apartment and given her a key. Would Teri have given keys to both of them?

  I went back into the sleeping area and toward the other nightstand. A Harlequin romance facedown, marking her place the hard way, binding nearly broken through. An ashtray, some kind of nail strengthener, china cup with coins and subway tokens in it. "Nino, did Teri drive a car?"

  “No. She knew how, but she didn’t want to keep one in the city. She need one, she borrow mine or see the Hertz counter."

  On the walls, a couple of Natalie Wood publicity stills, framed professionally. Below them, a bureau with an overload of cosmetic enhancers, most of which I couldn’t identify without reading the fine print.

  On either side of the cosmetics, two photos in stand-up Plexiglas functioned almost like bookends.

  One was a staged pose of a young, dark couple dressed in the style of the early sixties. They stood behind two little girls sitting on a piano bench, party dresses, white socks, shiny black shoes with straps, and ankles crossed. The younger Sandra and Theresa, Sandra’s smile shy, Theresa’s bold. The other photo was a yearbook shot of Sandra, smile still shy, features unformed like the first sense I’d had of her outside the house in Epton. No yearbook photo of Theresa.

  I opened each drawer in tum. The police would already have searched pretty thoroughly, so I just poked and peered a little. Mostly different kinds of strappie and tube tops with short shorts. Lingerie ranging from the erotic to the ridiculous. Some regular clothes too, though. Sweaters, polo shirts, Reebok sports shorts.

  Behind me I heard, "Ooh, foxy lady, keep that light on! Hey man, you wanna catch some of this?"

  I guessed he’d swung away from the airport. "No thanks."

  "You missing academy award shit here, man. Ow, yes, yes."

  I came into the living room area. Sectional furniture, nice rug, three-tiered coffee table of brass and glass. "Teri decorate herself?"

  "She pick—oh, mama, I didn’t know it could bend that way!—she like picked it out, but the landlord, he pay the freight."

  "You know him?"

  "No, just some dentist, pillar of his com-mun-i-ty somewhere in the suburbs. He rented the place to her himself. I think maybe she let him stick something in her mouth beside the little round mirror, you know it?"

  I opened the sliding door to a wall-length closet. Lots of flash and sparkle, but also a tweed suit, a nun’s habit, and a nurse’s uniform. "Pretty varied wardrobe."

  "Some of the johns, man, they like the ladies to dress up, fantasyland."

  I thought about her coming home, hanging up an outfit after spending the day and most of the night with Nino’s clients and her free-lances. I shook my head and walked into the bathroom. Typical modern job, clean and impersonal. "You have any idea where she kept her paperwork?"

  "Paperwork?"

  "Yeah. Bills, checkbooks, that kind of thing."

  "The Angel, man, she was cash-and-carry. Fucken cops got all the papers she have, and probably stuffed in their wallets."

  I came back into the living room area. "She must have had light bills, phone bills.

  Nino ignored me and began futzing with the lens again. I walked over to a sectional corner piece and sat down.

  Nino said, "You just about done here?"

  When I didn’t answer him, he looked up. "Man?"

  "I was just thinking."

  "About what?"

  "Teri, this apartment. Seems kind of an empty place to call home, and even this she paid for in kind."

  Nino’s face contorted for just a moment, then resolved. " ‘In kind.' You mean by hooking, right?"

  "That’s what I meant."

  "Look, let me tell you one thing, okay? The Angel, she never hook in here, not even for the dentist. She do him, she do him out in the ’burbs, his last appointment for the day. She keep this place outta the fucken life, man. This the best place she ever live, but it still like her tunnel."

  "Her tunnel?"

  "Yeah. Like in the Nam. The fucken dinks, man, they knew those tunnels were safe. We could chase ’em around all we wanted on top, ’cause we own the air. But they get too pressed, they just drop down a hole and they knew we couldn’t get ’em."

  He shook his fist at the picture window. "You think living space cost a lot down here, with the harbor and the marketplace and all? Shit, nothing cost more than those tunnels, man. They sweat and they dig and they got little bugs eating them and they die to make them tunnels and make ’em safe, and space was a pre-mi-um item. Most of the fuckers didn’t have a change of fucken clothes, man, but they bring what they had into the tunnel."

  Nino gulped and talked faster. "Times you go into a tunnel, and you don’t hear nothing but you own heart beating, you know it’s a cold fucken hole, but you can’t take the chance. So you go slow, and maybe you find where they sleep and their shit. Their personal shit, I mean. And it’s like maybe one book in dink writing, and a piece of junk jewelry, and a picture. A photo like of their family, all blur ’cause the camera cheap. And all dirty and cracked and mildewed, too, ’cause the tunnel do that to everything. And you hold this fucken photo in you hand, and you sit there like a fucken dummy with you light on it, like you was in a museum staring at the Mona Lisa or something. And you know that fucken dink weigh less than most dogs we got over here and eat a fuck of a lot worse and the only thing that dink fight for is the tunnel you in and the memory he got someplace of the family in that photo that probably got all shot to shit before you even in-country. And you know that dink just like you, man, only he ain’t going home after no three hundred sixty-five days. And you hold that fucken photo, and you start to cry. You cry like you was a little baby and mama’s tits all dried up, because you hate the little fuckers so much but you see why you ain’t gonna beat ’em, not up on top where we trying to fight ’em."

  Nino looked hard at me, a look I hadn’t seen since I climbed gratefully on the plane that took me back to The World. "Well, this here was Teri’s tunnel, man. This was where she hide from the rest of us. And now you gone through her shit and know all about her. And now you gonna find the motherfucken turd who did her, and you gonna tell me, and then I square things all ’round."

  He passed his hand over his eyes once, like a jogger wiping off sweat. "I gotta take a piss," he said, hurrying by me into the bathroom and closing the door.

  He was in there maybe a minute, water running, when I heard the voice from the alcove. I jumped up, then went on in.

  The answering machine, which I’d left running on Play when Nino had called me from the telescope. The tape had almost reached its end. I hit Stop, turned down the volume, and pressed Review. I listened to the tape rewind for only five seconds, when what was recorded had passed. Then I replayed it.

  The beginning of the message was gone, probably erased automatically by the recording of messages after it. The only part left was "noon, because I really should like to, uh, see you. Please call, but at the office here. Uh, thanks so much." The incoming tape reached its end, and I turned off the machine.

  I walked into the living area near the telescope. If the architect had put in bay windows, I would have been able to look northward, maybe all the way to Swampscott.

  * * *

  "Guess I went a little loco, man."

  We were in the elevator riding down, and Nino hadn’t spoken since he’d come out of the bathroom.

  "Don’t worry about it."

  H
e took a deep breath, let it out.

  We got off at the lobby level and moved past the guard, who stood with his hands behind his back. He smiled officiously at us.

  Outside, Nino said, "You need anything else from me?"

  "I don’t think so."

  He made no effort to walk away. "Man, you been straight with me, I be straight with you."

  I thought about the tape, but said, "Go on."

  "Staking out you place, I see J .J. and Terdell messing around the cans. Then I spot their tail."

  "Tail?"

  "Sur-veil-lance. I think about telling you last night, but I want to sleep on it, turn it around a little first. The tail was you classic unmarked sedan. I see it pull in and park while J.J. and Terdell getting ready for you. I was already there, so the tail didn’t make me."

  "Who was it?"

  "Two guys, I didn’t try to see closer than that. But one thing sure, they good. Terdell and J.J. grab you, the tail wait till they away to turn on and come out. They follow you, I follow them out to the construction yard."

  I considered it. Nino said, "You got to know what I’m thinking."

  "Cops."

  "That’s right. And that mean they see you get snatched and don’t feel like doing nothing about it."

  "That mean they see me getting beat up, too?"

  "Don’t think so. I do a little recon before I go into the pipes. The tail just wait outside the construction yard, lights off, like they only care about where J.J .’s car go next and not so much about you."

  "Thanks, Nino." I

  "Yeah, well, I gotta go. Got a major chest-cutting at the Beth Israel, don’t you fucken know."

  Dr. Rodriguez turned and walked away, pulling out his stethoscope and twirling it like a foot patrolman with a whistle.

  TWENTY

  -♦-

  I dialed my answering service from a booth on Broadway. No messages. I tried Chris and drew Eleni, who told me Chris was out but due back after 2:00. I told her it was important that I speak with him and that I would be there at 2:00 sharp. She apologized for his not calling me back the previous evening, but didn’t give me any reasons.

  I hung up, called Felicia Arnold’s office, and waited through receptionist and secretary for her soft, breathy hello. —

  "Ms. Arnold, John Cuddy."

  "I recognized your voice. And please call me Felicia."

  "I was hoping I could see you today. Around noon?"

  "I believe I can work you in."

  "At your office."

  "If you insist."

  "Ms.--Felicia, please."

  "All right. Eleven-thirty?"

  “Thank you. See you then."

  I got in the Fiat and took Route 1A through Revere, past the Wonderland dog track and the Suffolk Downs horse track. The road breaks over Lynn Beach, then curves north through Swampscott. I found the building again easily, feeling confident that old Bryce would be faithfully manning his computer terminal.

  * * *

  “Oh, Mr .... uh, Curry, isn’t it?"

  He looked insecure, uneasy that I’d walked in on him while his fingers were fondling the keyboard.

  "Close. Cuddy, John Cuddy."

  "Oh, yes, sorry. Names . . ."

  “I’m the one who’s sorry, Mr. Stansfield, breaking in on you again like this. But I have a few

  more questions that I thought you might help me with."

  "Please, uh, sit down."

  "The last time I saw you, I remember your mentioning that Roy Marsh came to work here about the time your uncle died."

  "That’s right. Well, uh, just after, of course."

  "While you were going through your divorce."

  "Right."

  “Who was your attorney?"

  "My . . . uh, for the divorce, you mean?"

  "For the divorce."

  "I don’t quite, uh, see how that’s . . ."

  "Any of my business?"

  “Wel1, y—no, no. I realize, uh, the police have to look into everything, but . . ."

  "I’m not a cop, Mr. Stansfield."

  “But you said—"

  "Only that I was investigating Marsh’s death. And I am."

  He looked confused. "The police, they, uh, asked me whether I, whether the firm ever hired any Boston private . . . you’re, uh, the one they think killed him. Killed Roy!"

  "They may have said that, but they don’t believe it."

  "Well, then, why, uh, should I answer any more of your questions?"

  “Because I know about you and Teri Angel."

  He was about to say something, but the sound of her name froze his mouth around a syllable like a stop-action photograph.

  "Your voice, Mr. Stansfield. Your voice is on her telephone tape machine."

  "But, it’s been over . . . uh, that is—"

  "I haven’t told the police."

  "You haven’t?"

  "No. And I hope I won’t have to."

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don’t, uh, understand. I’m sorry."

  "One step at a time. Who was your divorce lawyer?"

  He tried to focus. "Felicia. Felicia Arnold."

  "And through her you met Teri."

  "That’s correct. My wife and I hadn’t . . . uh, for a long time, I was . . . uh, unable."

  "And Felicia suggested you see Teri."

  "Yes. I didn’t know at the time . . . I, uh, know this must sound awfully naive of me, but . . . I, uh, actually thought she was just a sort of . . ."

  "Therapist?"

  "Yes. I mean, you could tell just hearing her, uh, speak a few sentences that she wasn’t educated very formally, but she had a way of listening, of bringing out, uh, things that troubled me. I even tried to pay her the first time by check. And I haven’t, uh, hadn’t seen her in over a year."

  "There’s one thing I haven’t been able to figure out, Mr. Stansfield. How did Marsh meet Teri?"

  "She called here once, to cancel an, uh, appointment I’d made with her, and I was at the post office, so Roy took the call and, uh, asked me who ‘Teri’ was, so I finally told him after he already guessed."

  "He threaten to expose you and her if you didn’t set something up for him?"

  "Yes. Uh, no, not exactly. I think I, uh, just let him talk to her the next time, over the telephone when she, uh, called here."

  And the cops, looking at Teri’s or the office phone bills, would just assume it was Teri or Marsh calling the other all along. "Go on."

  "Go on? Well, uh, there’s not that much more to say."

  "I’m afraid there is. What about the drugs?"

  "I called, uh, is it Detective Guinness?"

  "Yes."

  "I called him when those two, uh, Negroes came to see me."

  "J.J. and Terdell."

  "I don’t know their, uh, names, but I was terrified of them. They came to see me and asked where the, uh . . ."

  " ‘Material’?"

  "Yes, where the ‘material’ was. I, uh, they were quite polite, really, but here, in Swampscott . . . uh, anyway, I told them I didn’t have any idea what they were, uh, talking about, and, uh, they left. I immediately called our department here, and, uh, they said to call Boston and speak with Detective Guinness."

  "And you told Guinness about it? J.J , and Terdell, I mean."

  “Yes."

  "I want a look at the files on your insureds."

  "I, uh."

  "All the ones that Roy-boy brought into the firm."

  “That’s not—"

  “Which may save me having to tell the police about you and Teri, and them verifying it with—"

  "All right, Mr. Cuddy. All right. I, uh, scare quite easily enough. You can stop there."

  The look on his face made me sorry I’d played so cute toward the end. He turned away from me and toward the keyboard, tapping, pausing, and tapping again. "Can you scroll?"

  I stood and moved behind him. "Why don’t you do it. I don’t want to mess anything up, and I’m sure you�
�d be faster than I would."

  He straightened and steadied a little bit at my compliment. "Here come the A’s."

  Over his shoulder, I watched the screen for twenty minutes. A lot of people buying a lot of arcane coverages. A few names you’d recognize from the newspaper, mainly the sports, business, and government sections. Both my lawyers were telling the truth. Felicia was a big customer, Chris didn’t appear at all.

  * * *

  She unfolded sinuously from her desk chair. Someone once told me that grace is the movement of weight in balance. It suited her perfectly.

  She said, "I wondered if our last discussion would have put you off?"

  I closed the door behind me and took her outstretched hand, getting close enough to notice she was wearing a little more perfume than usual. Not crass or cloying, just a faint enhancement. When the fish doesn’t bite, sweeten the bait.

  I let go of her hand a trifle sooner than she would have and dropped into the client chair without answering her question. She stayed standing and looked down at me.

  "You know, you really are an intriguing man."

  "Thanks."

  "No, truly. I’ve seen more than most, and you really are here because of what you’re working on, not because you want some action. This Marsh matter is the cause of, not the excuse for, your continuing interest in me."

  "That’s right."

  She poured herself back into the chair. "I find that exciting, you know? Not being the central figure for a change."

  "I have a few--"

  "Let’s go to bed, you and I."

  I stopped, she arched an eyebrow and smiled. "I’d regret it," I said.

  "That depends on whether you say yes or no."

  I didn’t respond; she went on. "You see, if you say yes, the earliest you can regret it is tomorrow morning."