Swan Dive Page 4

  Hanna put the key in the lock, and Vickie burst in, calling the cat’s name and getting a mewling sound from the back. “Oh, she must have got all tangled up again.” She darted down the hall.

  Hanna said, “You like something to drink, maybe?”

  “No, I—”

  The screaming cut me off. Hanna veered and raced the way her daughter had. “Vickie! Vickie!”

  I caught up with them at the entrance to a rear bedroom. Vickie’s face was burrowing into her mother’s stomach, her screams muffled by Hanna’s dress. Hanna’s eyes were closed, and she was saying, “Don’t look, don’t look.”

  I pressed by them into the room. Although the wallpaper was dingy and scaly, there were some bright yellow curtains around the window and a yellow blanket covering the twin-size iron frame bed. The window itself had a pane of glass missing, and the broken shards were scattered on the sill, bed, and floor. But that wasn’t the major damage.

  Centered on the bed was a stained white kitten. The stain was red, from the blood that was still seeping into the blanket. Someone had taken a knife to the creature, peeling back its fur to expose musculature, bone, and an organ or two where the blade had slipped.

  Cottontail looked up at me, squeezed its eyes shut, and let out a heartrending yowl.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I CALLED THE PEABODY police emergency number. The sergeant on duty said he thought the closest animal hospital was in Saugus. I dialed the hospital and was told to bring the kitten in immediately. Hanna wrapped Cottontail in the blanket, and I drove with flashers and horn while the cat cried on Hanna’s lap in the front seat and Vickie cried in the back.

  A veterinarian with long brown hair and warm brown eyes met us at the door. She pointed toward an admissions desk and rushed the cat into a back room. Hanna tried to comfort Vickie in the reception area while I filled out the paperwork. The woman behind the counter graciously allowed me to use her phone. I called the Peabody police back and provided some details on the break-in. They said they’d send someone that evening. Then I got the number for the Middlesex North Registry of Deeds in Lowell and punched it in. I told the paging operator there that it was an emergency.

  About a minute later, Chris said, “This is Christides. Who is this?”

  “John Cuddy, Chris.”

  “What the hell’s the emergency?”

  I told him.

  “Jeez, John, I don’t know what I can do about that.”

  I must have looked at the telephone receiver as if it were an alien artifact. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, from what you said, there’s no real proof that Marsh did this.”

  “Proof? Chris, we were just with the guy for two hours, remember? He did everything but pull a gun.”

  “Yeah, but I doubt that’ll be good enough for the cops.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look, if Marsh did it, he’s smart enough to use gloves and all. There won’t be any physical-type evidence at the scene.”

  I ground my teeth. “What about the divorce court, then?”

  “It’s like I said before about the court, John. It doesn’t have any jurisdiction because we haven’t filed anything yet.”

  “Which adds up to what?”

  “Which adds up to there’s no order of the court yet that Marsh violated. Assuming he did the cat.”

  “Jesus, Chris, you’re the lawyer, not me. There must be something you can do about this.”

  “Well, I can call Felicia and put her on notice.”

  “Notice? Chris, the guy’s a nut! Understand? Normal people don’t do things like this. He’s obviously trying to scare Hanna into giving in on the house. If he gets away with this, he’ll just escalate till he gets everything.”

  “John, you—what?” I could hear Chris saying something off the telephone, then, “Jeez, John, I gotta get back to this closing here, the bank’s attorney is gonna—”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the bank’s attorney.” I lowered my voice. “I’m sitting in an animal hospital with your client and her hysterical little girl who just saw her first pet flayed alive.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll call Felicia right now. Just don’t expect much, okay?”

  He hung up. The receptionist looked at me with a sympathetic shrug. I apologized to her, and she said it didn’t sound like it was my fault.

  We waited for another forty minutes. I hadn’t been in many places less conducive to passing the time comfortably. I asked the receptionist if I could use the phone again. This time the paging operator couldn’t raise Chris. I depressed the cutoff button, called directory assistance, and tried the number they gave me.

  “Law offices of Felicia Arnold. May I help you?”

  “Let me speak to her, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Arnold is in conference. May I take—”

  “Interrupt her and tell her that it’s an emergency.”

  “May I ask what the nature—”

  “Sure. The life of one of her clients, Roy Marsh, is at stake.”

  Hesitation. “Is this Mr. Marsh?”

  “No. Now please get her on the phone.”

  I waited maybe thirty seconds before Arnold’s voice said, “Mr. Cuddy?”

  “Good guess.”

  “Mr. Cuddy, Chris Christides has already—”

  “Look, Ms. Arnold. Let’s cut the ‘proper channels’ bullshit, all right? I’m calling from an animal hospital because your boy Marsh took a skinning knife to a kitten.”

  “I’ve already spoken to Roy, Mr. Cuddy. If you’d allow me to continue?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Mr. Marsh is shocked at the incident. He was at his home in Swampscott when I reached him, and he had driven directly there after our conference here.”

  “He have somebody backing him on that?”

  “If you mean corroboration for what you evidently assume is an alibi, yes, yes he does.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not sure that’s any of your—”

  “Let me take a wild guess then. A certain nurse from Samaritan Hospital?”

  “I can neither—”

  “You really think she’ll stand up? Credibly, I mean.”

  “Mr. Cuddy, you strike me as the sort of man who will do what you will. I can only advise you to seek independent counsel on your potential liability before you act.”

  “Liability for what? Malicious prosecution?”

  She said, “Do call again when you can be a little more sociable,” and hung up.

  I handed the telephone back to the receptionist, who said, “Try counting to ten.”

  “There aren’t enough numbers for this.”

  Just then the door to the back area opened and the veterinarian who had taken Cottontail came out. She pushed a hank of hair that looked stringy from sweat off her forehead and back behind her ear. She motioned to me without smiling as she crossed the room to where Hanna and Vickie, who now looked up, were sitting.

  Hanna said, “Please … tell us?”

  As I approached them, the vet hunkered down to Vickie’s eye level on the bench. “Honey, I’m so sorry. But your kitty was just too little and lost too much blood.”

  Vickie responded with that Kabuki-mask slant that kids get to their eyes and mouth when they’re about to shriek. Vickie whipped her face into her mother’s breast and wailed, “She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead … ,” as Hanna, crying freely, said, “I’m so sorry, Vickie, I’m so sorry,” then some phrases in German that I couldn’t understand.

  The vet straightened up and used the edge of an index finger to wipe a tear from her own cheek. In a subdued voice, she said to me, “Can I see you for a minute?”

  We moved toward the desk and well away from Hanna and Vickie.

  “My name’s Mary Vesch.”

  “John Cuddy.”

  “You realize I have to report this?”

  “Jesus, I should hope so.”

  “The police will want to know
if there are any kids in the neighborhood who might have problems.”

  “I don’t know, but I doubt that’s it. I’m betting on her father.”

  “Her father? The little girl’s, you mean?”

  “Yes. He and the mother just split up, and this fits what I’ve seen of him.”

  Vesch huffed and shook her head. “I wish I hadn’t given up smoking. I could really use a cigarette.”

  “Doctor, what happens now?”

  “Mary, please.” She looked past me toward Hanna and Vickie. “Probably not much.”

  “I’m sorry, Mary, but you’re going to have to explain that one to me.”

  “I’ll try. I report this as an obvious case of animal abuse. If there was some kid on the block with a twisted streak, then maybe through the juvenile authorities we could do something, like therapy or at least counseling. But with …” She broke off and changed gears. “The father, I take it nobody saw him do it?”

  “No indication yet that anybody even saw him in the area.”

  “And he’ll be paying support, I suppose?”

  “With his job, he can certainly afford to.”

  She shook her head again. “Then I can’t see much happening to him. The maximum jail term under the statute is only a year, but the last time I remember a judge sentencing someone even to that, it was overturned on appeal. And here we’ve got a father that a judge isn’t going to want branded with killing his little girl’s pet and isn’t going to put away because the guy can’t work to pay support from a cell.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “With a fine, but the most the law allows is only five hundred dollars.” The errant ringlet of hair slid forward again, and she tucked it back into place. “Not much, huh?”

  No, not much. And not nearly enough.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AS WE DROVE BACK to Peabody, Hanna caressed Vickie, making reassuring noises about cat heaven. Vickie’s crying became lower and thicker until she dropped off to sleep in her mother’s arms. I asked Hanna about Vickie’s seeing a doctor in case of insomnia or nightmares. Hanna said she would call a pediatrician to see if the child should have some medicine for sleeping.

  Then I needed some further information.

  “Hanna, I know this isn’t going to be easy for you, but Chris mentioned that Roy had been seeing a nurse?”

  She stopped stroking Vickie’s hair and gazed out through the windshield. “Yes.”

  “From Samaritan Hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  Hanna didn’t reply for a minute. I didn’t prod her. She said, “Sheilah Kelley.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “Tall, red hair, very red.” Hanna looked out the side window. “Good figure, like me before Vickie.”

  “Do you know when she works there?”

  “From four o’clock to midnight, I think.”

  I left it there, and we rode in silence the rest of the way.

  The Seaway is one hell of a road for views. Driving north, first you see Swampscott harbor, then just open ocean. Finally, as the shoreline curves eastward, the jagged horizon of the Boston skyline rises ten miles south and west.

  Number 13 was on the waterside of the street. The BMW 633i was black inside and out. It stood sleek and taut in the driveway closest to the garage doors. Behind it sat a little brown Toyota Tercel, nestled close but still blocking the sidewalk a bit. The Tercel had a Samaritan Hospital parking decal on its rear window.

  I pulled fifty yards past the driveway, executed a three-point turn, and looked at my watch. Almost 3:15. I studied the house while I waited.

  It was a tri-level contemporary, with a faked cupola and widow’s walk at the third floor. The exterior sported cedar shake shingles and a deck on my side of the house that seemed to sweep around behind it and toward the ocean. I guessed it at four bedrooms, three baths, and way, way over the $150,000 appraisal. For my purposes, I especially liked the deck; they usually had sliding glass doors at the back leading into the living room.

  At 3:25, a tall redheaded woman blew through the front doorway and hurried toward the Tercel. She wore nurses’ whites and was fastening the two top buttons as she fumbled for her car keys. She jumped in, backed out, and sped off. I waited fifteen more minutes, then strolled over to the house.

  The view from the deck ran the gamut from harbor to skyline. I didn’t see the speed racer, but it probably was berthed at one of the clubs where Marsh had a membership. The deck boasted a gigantic gas grill, chichi lounge chairs, and art deco drink stands.

  Real class. The glass doors were there, too, just a little ajar. Even better.

  I slipped into the living room, cool and dark with a cathedral ceiling. A deer’s head was mounted high over the fireplace, crossed hunting rifles between it and the mantel. There were framed photographs of Marsh in various terrains, rifle butt resting pretentiously on a cocked hip and a dead animal’s antlers being propped up unnaturally by various guides. The size of the creatures in the photos surprised me. I thought Roy was more the kind of guy who’d spend his summers clubbing baby seals.

  A five-foot projection television screen such as you’d see in a proud sports bar dominated one corner of the room. Around it, I could see a lot of high-tech consoles on black-lacquered shelving. Both audio and video equipment, including a hand-held camera in an unlatched carrying case, a tripod, and at least three video-recorders. I didn’t bother to look for the cassettes memorializing his favorite hunts.

  When I got to the base of the staircase, I could hear stereo noise drifting down from the second floor, mixed with the sound of water running and drumming intermittently. My boy was taking a shower.

  I climbed the steps carefully, not wanting vibration to give away what the hi-fi cooperatively covered. The water sound got louder as I entered the master bedroom suite. The sheets on the king-size bed were rumpled and dirty, a fresh, oval stain on them near the center of the mattress. The accordion louvers on the closets were arced outward, clothes tossed everywhere. The door to the master bath was open, probably to allow the music coming from the large speakers on customized stands in two corners of the bedroom to be heard. There was a forty-five-inch television screen in a third corner, with two more VCRs on shelves beneath it. I walked to the threshold and peered in.

  Marsh was behind a frosted-glass shower door. I could make out his movements as he lathered and scrubbed himself. On the rung of the metal border was a large blue towel. I carefully tugged it off, then stepped back and underhanded it into the bedroom. I eased against a clothes hamper in the corner and waited.

  Twenty seconds later, Marsh turned off the water, made a blubbering sound, and slid the door a third of the way on its track, fishing his hand out for the towel. He slapped perspiring glass a few times, and said, “Shit!” Then he yanked the door all the way open.

  Naked he looked almost starved, about as much fat on him as you’d find in a stick of corn oil margarine. He had an armored division “Hell on Wheels” tattoo on one bicep and “Born to Kill” on the other. He saw me and jumped, losing his balance in the slippery tub and having to grab and somewhat dislocate the glass door to keep from falling. His genitalia shriveled up to nothing.

  “What’s the matter, mighty hunter, Sheilah wear you plumb out?”

  He worked his mouth once, then caught his breath. “What the fuck do you—”

  “I wanted to have a little talk with you. About your latest safari.”

  “What?”

  “You know, to deepest, darkest Peabody.”

  Marsh started to come out of the shower, slinging his left leg over the tub wall and making a fist with his right hand. Before he could cock it, I took a quick step forward and jabbed with my index finger hard into the little half-moon hollow we all have just above the breastplate. That tends to scratch the windpipe and made Marsh clumsily step back, tripping on the tub wall and nearly falling again.

  His voice croaked
. “You … got … no right …”

  “You’re a funny guy to be talking about rights, pal. After what you did to your daughter’s pet.”

  “I got … alibi …”

  “You think old Sheilah’s going to back you when she finds out what you did?”

  “Get out.”

  “Not yet.”

  Marsh started to come forward again, then his brain took over and he stopped himself.

  “You’re learning, Marsh. And so far the tuition hasn’t been too costly. Just a little sore throat.”

  “What do you … want?”

  “I want you to behave yourself. I don’t mean about the nurse and all. I mean you leave Hanna and Vickie alone, and leave the divorce stuff to the lawyers to work out.”

  His voice was returning, and Marsh regained a little vinegar along with it. “Or else what? You’ll break my … writing hand, too?”

  I walked up to him. He tried, God knows why, to slam the glass door shut in my face. I jammed it with the heel of my shoe, and the glass, unable to stand the torque and impact, shattered, big and little pieces falling down into and around the tub.

  Marsh at least had the presence of mind to freeze. I put my hands in my pants pockets and shook them, making the fragments sift down off my legs and onto the floor.

  Marsh looked at the bottom of the tub. He had only some small cuts with little springs of blood popping up on his feet and shins, but he was literally surrounded by splinters. “Jesus Christ, how am I supposed … to get out of here?”

  I backed up. “Good question.”

  “Come on, man. You gotta get me some shoes … or something. I can’t walk out of here in my bare feet.”

  “Take up your wounds with the nurse when she gets home.”

  “I’ll get you for—”

  “You’ve got a mighty short retention span, Marsh. Let me spell it out for you. Doing the cat today, you stepped outside the rules. You step outside the rules again, boyo, and I’ll play like there are no rules. Understand?”

  He didn’t say anything until I was down the stairs. Then he started yelling, “Ow, ow! Goddamn fucking—Ow, ow—You son of a bitch—”