Part 23 (1/2)

I ignored him. ”Well, did you two talk?”

”Not ever, not once from the day I moved. I put Hallworth behind me.”

”You mean you thought you did, until about two years ago. Then something happened. And here I'm only guessing, but I think I'm pretty close. Kyle must've found out he was dying. That f.u.c.ks with a man's mind, you know, knowing he's about to die. It's bad for a young man, especially one who has murdered a little boy. Maybe that's why he turned to a life of drugs in the first place. Who knows these things?

”Then I remembered how weird my mom started acting when she found out how sick she was. Suddenly, she remembered the s.h.i.+tty things she'd done to people over the years. There weren't many, but what few there were ate her like the cancer. She made a list of people she felt she needed to apologize to and either called or wrote to everyone on the list who was still alive. But when you've committed murder, who do you apologize to?”

Brightman looked a bit puzzled. ”Are you asking me?”

It was my turn to laugh. ”Don't waste your energy on it now. You'll have to ask yourself that question eventually, unless you plan on living forever.”

”Get on with this or I'm leaving.”

”So Kyle knows he's dying,” I picked up. ”He writes you a letter. Something about how guilty he's felt all these years since what happened in Hallworth in '56 and how he needs to unburden himself before he dies. When people find out they're dying, they get religion chop-chop. He suggests you do the same before it's too late. But you two were close when you were kids, so he says he'll keep your name out of it. You don't panic. You did that once and it cost a kid his life. No, you're working on some sort of plan to prevent or delay Kyle from going to the authorities. Then Kyle has the good form to drop dead a little sooner than expected. You think you're off the hook. Unfortunately, Moira Heaton's seen the letter or overheard the phone call. I know this for a fact.”

”How would you know that?”

”HNJ1956. It's a notation I found in Moira's checkbook under a check she'd written to a research firm. You know that already. Sandra Sotomayor told you all about it. It's why I got offered reinstatement. It's why you had Sandra call me up and offer me some bulls.h.i.+t story about the meaning of HNJ1956.”

”She'll never testify against me.”

”No one's asking her to testify to anything,” I said. ”This is between you and me, remember?”

”Yes, a little chat about compensation.”

”Exactly. You know the funny thing about Moira, Brightman?”

”Was there something funny about her? I hadn't noticed.”

”That's my point. By all accounts, she was unfunny, unattractive, and unexciting. But she was a bulldog. When she was curious about something, she wouldn't let it go. The way I see it, Moira didn't confront you about the letter. She figured she'd do a little research first. She probably made the mistake of confiding in someone like Sandra, or maybe she asked one too many questions and word got back to you. Once again, you didn't panic. This time, however, the person on your a.s.s didn't have a terminal disease. You waited her out, hoping she'd lose interest. Eventually, though, she forced your hand. She was making progress, getting close. That's why she started asking around about the statute of limitations. You had to get rid of her.”

”Did I?” he said smugly.

”I have to admit, this is the thing I had the most trouble with and the thing I'm still most iffy about. At first, I thought you might actually have paid Alfonseca or somebody else to do it, but that would have been too risky. You would have been far too exposed. No, you did it yourself. You were the only one you could trust to do it right.”

”And how did I accomplish this miraculous feat? Through the use of prestidigitation? There's the issue of my alibi, you remember.”

”That alibi works only if you accept other facts. Once you open up your mind to alternative notions, you, Senator, become a very obvious suspect. The cops a.s.sumed all along that it was Moira that witnesses saw leaving the office that night. But I looked at those witness statements very carefully. Eyewitness testimony is notoriously inaccurate. None of the witnesses got a look at Moira's face that night. The closest witness was in a pa.s.sing car. The others were fifty to a hundred yards away. And by the time these witnesses came forward, the papers had already tainted the information.

”Witnesses are suggestible. If you tell them they should have seen a five-foot-seven woman leaving an office at around eight p.m. that's what they see. That wasn't Moira leaving at all. It was either you wearing her coat or someone like Sandra or maybe even your wife. Moira was already dead by then, neatly wrapped in plastic. Then early on that Thanksgiving morning, you went jogging before the sun came up. No one would question that. You do it every day. You got in your car, drove to the alley behind the office, loaded Moira's body into the trunk, and disposed of her. You got home when you were expected, sweaty as usual, but not for the usual reason. Dead weight is always harder to handle than people expect.”

”Bravo! Bravo!” Brightman applauded. ”You're wasting your time in the wine business. You should take up writing fiction. You have quite a flair for it.”

Again, I ignored him. ”One problem solved. But for every problem solved, there are two lurking. You underestimated the press reaction. You see, you knew Moira. To you she was some boring, plain-Jane, forgettable drip who no one would be interested in. To the press, the disappearance of a young woman under mysterious circ.u.mstances is like blood in the water to sharks. It doesn't matter to them if the woman looks like Quasimodo and has the personality of a brick. They turn her into the Black Dahlia and sell papers. So you'd gotten away with two homicides, but your political career was f.u.c.ked.”

”Yes,” he agreed, ”f.u.c.ked is the word.”

”But things began breaking your way. Spivack and a.s.sociates was floundering, and Joe, who probably a.s.sumed you were innocent in Moira's disappearance, came to you with an idea of how to save his company and your career at the same time. You prop up Spivack and a.s.sociates and he'd find you some s.h.i.+thead to take the fall for Moira. He probably convinced himself he wasn't doing anything wrong, really. After all, you hadn't done it and you wouldn't be free to run for higher office until the crime was solved. For his part, he'd be saving his company and a lot of people's jobs. You didn't have to be asked twice and gave him the money. But he got cold feet. I don't know why. Maybe he started taking a good look at you for the crime and arrived at the same conclusion as me. In any case, you refused to take the money back. He may not even have offered. He knew he'd already been compromised.”

Brightman looked impatiently at his Swatch. ”Now the clock's running on you, Mr. Prager.”

”I'm almost finished.”

”Thank G.o.d!”

”I'd watch that if I were you. You're already into Him pretty deep.”

”Look-”

”Did Barto come to you or was it the other way around? Doesn't matter. Barto sees that Ivan Alfonseca's been arrested for all these rapes in the boroughs. He remembers Alfonseca from when he worked as a marshal in South Florida. He waits for Alfonseca to get convicted on enough counts so he'd have nothing to lose by confessing to Moira's murder. Barto arranges to have the family back in Cuba paid off. During trips to Rikers, his lawyers bring him the office sign-in sheets to fill out. He is given a story to remember about how he killed Moira and where he planted the jewelry. Now all you need is a patsy to think he's discovering all this on his own. That's where I come in. The timing was just too perfect. After two years, you just had to have me now. Why? I kept asking myself. Why?”

”It certainly wasn't your charm,” Brightman said. ”I shall have to have a talking-to with the man who recommended you. He a.s.sured me you'd be adequately incompetent.”

”Really, and who was that?”

”Let's get on with this, Prager.”

”I'm curious about how you handled Spivack. My instinct is you and Barto kept him in the dark. Although he'd already been compromised, there was no need to involve him until he couldn't do anything about it. On the other hand, he might have been a part of it as long as he thought you were innocent. Or you might've had more on him than I'm aware of. I guess I'll never know.”

”The man did kill himself. I don't think he did that because he was depressed over his wardrobe.”

”You did almost everything right, even lying about having slept with Moira. That was brilliant. It took my attention away from any other reason you might have to do away with her. Once I was convinced it wasn't about an affair, I stopped thinking of you as a suspect. And you deserve a lot of credit for having the foresight to keep some of Moira's jewelry. That's what sold everyone on Alfonseca. Almost everything broke your way. Spivack killed himself. Alfonseca's dead. I don't know where Barto is. The thing is, if you'd only hired some other poor schmuck besides me, you'd have gotten away with it.”

”Oh, but I have, Moe. Like you said, your brilliant oratory is just so much smoke. It's completely valueless. None of it would stand up in court, and if your pal Wit ever tries to print a word of this, he knows I'd sue and win.”

”I don't suppose I could appeal to your humanity and ask you to come with me and turn yourself in?”

”Humanity! Are you nuts? I'm a politician.”

”Then just tell me where Moira's body really is and the bicycle, too. These families have suffered enough.” I raised my right hand. ”I give you my word, I won't mention you at all.”

”Sorry. I have no idea what you're talking about.”

”Okay, how's about you take my revolver and blow the back of your head off.”

”Once again, I must disappoint you,” he said as calmly as if I'd asked him to pick up some flour for me at the store.

”How about I go to your brownstone and tell your wife what you've done?”

”Be my guest. Unfortunately she's away with friends, but I'll have her call you when she gets back. She wouldn't believe a word of this.”

I ripped my .38 out of his waistband and pressed the barrel to his head. ”How about I blow your brains all over the street?”

He didn't look scared until I pulled back the hammer.