The Second Mouse Page 9

  “Was he nuts?” Joe exclaimed. “After all those years on the job, he should’ve known better.”

  “I grant you that,” she agreed. “But he was sentimental, having just lost his own wife. The woman in question was fifty years old. She and her husband had always wanted kids but never could. And finally, once the cause of death was ruled a natural, he didn’t see the point. The problem was, it got out anyhow and caused a whole secondary ruckus.”

  “Hold it, hold it,” Joe interrupted. “I know you don’t want to get bogged down in details, but how did it end up a natural?”

  “She was a jogger,” Hillstrom said simply, “named Judy Morgenthau. She was on a new route she’d never tried before, running a little later than usual and thus in the dark, and she suffered a heart attack. We hypothesized that as she reacted to the cardiac event, she stumbled into the road and was hit. After that, she became just a lump in the road, struck again and again and again, eventually becoming unrecognizable. Believe it or not, they actually found the first car that hit her—a man who thought he’d struck a dog and just kept driving. They matched the blood on his bumper to the decedent. The whole thing was very sad.”

  “What happened when news of the pregnancy got out?” Joe asked as the soup arrived.

  “The opposition went wild. They screamed cover-up; they claimed that if this was withheld, then other more important information might well have been, too. They demanded retests and spread rumors that the woman had been on drugs or drunk or had a bullet in her somewhere.” She shook her head, smiling. “It’s all so ridiculous in retrospect. A true tempest in a teapot. It didn’t make the national news; it didn’t change the course of anything. But at the time, it was all anyone could talk about, and it damn near cost Howard Medwed his job.”

  “Why didn’t it?” Joe asked, starting in on his meal.

  “Because I took the heat,” she explained. “I told everyone that I’d been the one who’d both discovered the pregnancy and covered it up. I took a drubbing for it and was properly pilloried behind closed doors, but I wasn’t fired outright, and Dr. Medwed gave me a glowing recommendation for my next job. The opposition didn’t get their man in, Medwed stayed put for another six months, and the office’s reputation was safely handed off to the next generation.”

  Joe thought about all this while Hillstrom halfheartedly poked at her French onion soup.

  “And that’s what Floyd Freeman is holding over you?” he asked eventually. “How did he find out about it?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows? Things like that eventually get out. The price of living in a small world. The point is, he did.”

  “Why don’t you just tell him to drop dead?” Joe suggested.

  “Normally, I would, but therein lies part of the problem. I’ve told him to drop dead ever since he became my boss a few years ago. He doesn’t know what the OCME does, except in the crudest sense, and he doesn’t care. It’s all about the bottom line with him. Initially, before the new governor came in and the whole power structure shifted, I could pretty much dismiss him. I had my allies to protect me. Now I no longer do. Freeman’s never forgotten my early treatment of him, and at last, along with the power, he now has the ammunition he’s always craved. He’s dangling it over me, making it his life’s work to force me through his hoops.”

  Gunther scowled. “That’s ridiculous, Beverly. He doesn’t have enough to fire you—”

  But she reached out and stopped him in midsentence by taking his hand, her expression deadly serious. “Joe, don’t. I’m on the receiving end here. I know what I’m facing. Don’t tell me what can or can’t happen.”

  This time he did grab hold of her fingers. “I wouldn’t dream of it. That’s not where I was going. I don’t doubt your assessment. It’s just that legally speaking, what he’s got on you doesn’t seem that dangerous. Maybe you’re too close to it to see that clearly.”

  Hillstrom smiled and squeezed his hand supportively. “Or maybe you’re not close enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She let go and sat back in the booth, looking unusually vulnerable and frail. Dressed as she was and with her hair loose, weighed down by her recent troubles, she displayed none of her typical self-confidence, seeming instead like a normal human being running low on options.

  “Daniel’s left me,” she blurted out. “I have a huge house and two daughters in college. If there’s a divorce ahead and a major financial readjustment, I cannot afford to lose my job. This is it for me, in any case. I’m too old to qualify for another office. I’d have to do consulting work, and while that can be lucrative, there are no guarantees. Plus, Freeman would still be out there, more than willing to smear my name and ruin my prospects. It’s too big a risk. For my girls’ sake and my own sanity, I don’t feel I have a choice but to play his game for as long as he likes.” She let out a short laugh. “I guess I’ve ended up right where my mentor was all those years ago: between a rock and a hard place. At least I’m not terminally ill, and I’ve only got four years to go before I can retire with no loss of benefits.”

  Joe was stunned by this last admission. He’d known next to nothing about Beverly’s private life but had made the unwarranted assumption that she had it under as tight control as she did her office. He felt like a fool for having thought so conveniently.

  “I know this sounds trite, Beverly, but I am truly sorry.”

  She made a small face, pressing her lips together. He could see the pain in her eyes as she said, “Thank you, Joe. People say it makes you feel better to talk about it, but I don’t think I agree.”

  She suddenly leaned forward again and grabbed his hand for the third time. “Oh, Lord. And I just remembered hearing that you’ve just gone through the same thing. What was I thinking?”

  He shook his head emphatically. “No, no. Not the same. I mean, Gail and I are no longer together, but we were never married and have no kids. Anyhow, don’t worry. We’re fine. We still talk all the time. She just needed the space to make a grab for the rest of her life. How’re you doing with it? No, that’s stupid. I mean, how long ago did this happen?”

  This time, she left her hand in his, rubbing his fingers between her own as she stared at the table between them. For the first time ever, he saw her as other than just the medical examiner, even if a very attractive one. With the subject of both their relationships before them, he found himself looking at her as a woman, and even wondering what she might be like in that context.

  “About a month ago,” she was saying. “I received information that there was possibly another woman. Daniel claims there isn’t, and I don’t want to know, but he is certainly attractive enough. I’m not sure I’d even blame him, given the little time I have for him.”

  Joe shook her hand to make her look up. “You know what that sounds like, right? That’s no excuse.”

  “I know, I know. I do get angry sometimes. It all seems so pointless, after everything we’ve gone through. We should be nearing our very best years together. Not this.”

  “What is he actually saying?” Joe asked, hoping to steer her back to more solid footing.

  She sighed and finally broke their contact, sitting back again. “All the usual midlife crisis one-liners. I need to be alone. I need time to think. It’s not you, it’s me. I still love you.” She tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “God almighty. Never in a thousand years . . .” She looked at him again. “I’m not saying he doesn’t mean what he’s saying. Maybe this will be the one time it will actually work out.” She paused to touch her cheek briefly. “It all sounds so trite . . .”

  Joe had been struck by that very thought, harking back to his own conversations with Gail, where she’d said many of the same things. He, too, had never suspected another man, and still didn’t, but the language had been the same, along with the end result.

  Was every one of us so unoriginal that in the end we all relied on the same script to set ourselves free? Given the supposedly un
ique effort that was put into these love affairs, the possibility of such commonality was downright depressing.

  Perhaps to spare them both, Joe went back to an earlier topic, though not without an ironic smile. “Beverly, since we’re on the subject of irrational behavior, do you have any idea why Floyd Freeman has it in for you?”

  She shifted to place her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. “Jesus, I guess I do have a way with men, don’t I?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  She laughed then. “I was kidding. Well, kind of kidding. No, actually, my troubles with Freeman go back quite a ways. Remember when he made a run for governor?”

  “Yeah. That’s when I first heard of him.”

  “Same for most of us. Self-made millionaire, ready to inject even more ego into himself. He stepped out of the drab gray line of businessmen and took a stab at the headlines. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what I gave him.”

  Joe was already laughing at her phrasing. “You? How’s that?”

  She became more serious. “It was actually a sad case—a young woman found alone, dead at the wheel in a single-car accident. The police investigated from their end, I did the procedure from mine, and we agreed on a finding of accidental mishap. She’d clearly been driving too fast, there was some alcohol involved, and the roads were slippery. That was that, as far as everyone thought, even though the woman happened to be an au pair working for our aspiring politician and his wife.”

  Joe began nodding, gradually recalling the case from what he’d read in the papers at the time.

  “Freeman,” Hillstrom resumed, “was suitably distraught, having his picture taken at the airport, where the coffin was being flown back to Europe for interment, and issuing the right comments to the press. Unfortunately for him, several days later, a friend of the dead girl discreetly contacted the police after returning to Europe herself and told them that the au pair had actually committed suicide over a sexual liaison she’d been having with Freeman. The friend had a letter and photos that the girl had given her to prove it, but she’d waited to share them for fear of being arrested or detained while she was still over here.”

  “I remember all that now,” Joe said. “The dead girl was named Ellen Turnley. She was a Brit. But how’s that fall back onto you?”

  “I had to change the death certificate,” she explained. “At first, that was no big deal. The way the news came to the police, and given Vermont’s discreet and old-fashioned press corps, no one heard of this development. There was no effort to cover it up, but no one advertised it, either. Still, I was suddenly faced with a change in the facts—palpable evidence of suicidal intent—and felt it my duty to write an amendment. I made no more fuss about it than anyone else, but someone in the media finally woke up, and it was my amendment that tipped them off. One thing led to another, the whole thing blew up—along with Freeman’s marriage and his political ambitions, and guess who he blamed forever after for his downfall?”

  “My God,” Joe said. “Just like the proverbial messenger.”

  “That’s it,” she agreed. “You can imagine my feelings when the new governor made Freeman my boss. I knew there’d be trouble sooner or later.”

  Joe thought back to something she’d mentioned earlier. “And yet you said that you’ve been telling him to drop dead from the get-go.”

  She looked at him ruefully. “Suggesting a lack of diplomatic skills? More like an excess of arrogance. Joe, you may not realize it, but you’re about the only man I know besides Daniel who puts up with me, and now I’m not so sure about that.”

  Joe didn’t press his point. Instead, he tried to dull its impact. “You’re not that difficult. You set a high bar, but you set it higher for yourself. I have always enjoyed working with you, Beverly, and I will for years to come. Let me help out with Freeman.”

  Her eyes widened as a smile played on her lips. “How will you do that?”

  “Let me think about it a bit. For that matter, maybe the less you know, the better for right now.”

  She was laughing. “Ah, my knight. You will rue this decision. We’ll both end up unemployed.” The smile died quickly as she added, “Seriously, that’s very sweet of you, but potentially self-destructive. Freeman’s in the catbird seat right now. He’s powerful and dangerous, and to be honest, you and the VBI are not so firmly anchored in the harbor, either. Politics created you, and politics can make an end of you.” She gave him a look of utter sincerity. “I could not live with myself, Joe—not the way things are going for me right now—if I were the cause of any harm to you. You may be the last friend I have on earth.”

  Impulsively, he took up her hand and this time gave it a chivalric kiss. “Not to worry, madam. We’ll see this through together.”

  She flushed slightly as she pulled her hand back and stared at her unfinished meal. “Well, whatever happens, I guess we’re done here. I’ll understand if you’re thinking more clearly in the morning.”

  Joe laid a generous amount on the table as he slid free of the booth. “Don’t count on it, Beverly. That’s not what friends do.”

  He reached out and helped her to her feet, which gesture brought them close together by the edge of the booth, a position neither of them moved quickly to remedy.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, her face inches from his.

  Her clean smell of soap with just a hint of perfume drifted by him, and his awareness of her proximity suddenly sharpened. Without thinking, he slipped his hand around her waist and stepped back a pace, ushering her toward the far entrance with his other hand. “Shall we?”

  She kissed his cheek, laughing. “We shall.”

  They walked arm in arm across the nearly deserted restaurant and out into the balmy air of the parking lot to their cars. There he paused and admitted an earlier concern. “Beverly, I don’t want to sound mother-hennish, but I’d be happy to drive you home. I’m not saying you drank too much tonight, but I—”

  She interrupted him by kissing him gently before saying, “I’m as sober as a judge, Joe Gunther.”

  Both his hands were on her waist by now, and he slowly brought them up the sides of her rib cage and to her shoulder blades, feeling the heat of her skin and the outline of her bra through the thin cotton fabric of her dress. “I guess you are,” he murmured.

  They kissed again, their bodies coming together. He dropped his right hand down below her waist and pressed her closer to him.

  Between kisses she said, “I have a much better idea than your driving me home. This is a motel, after all.”

  He managed to say only, “True,” before she covered his lips once more.

  They proceeded slowly after reaching the room, removing each piece of clothing with the erotic attention it deserved, commingling experience and exploration in their motions. The bathroom light was left on so they could relish what they saw.

  There was an unspoken understanding in all of this, which made it doubly precious, for they each knew that what they were doing was as much an homage to their pasts as it was a yielding to the moment. This was a watershed, a marking of passage, but by no means the beginning of anything new. For Joe, he had to accept the finality of Gail’s decision. In Beverly’s case, she needed to feel she was desirable and capable of spontaneity. Both of them knew they were with someone they could trust.

  And so, without a word, this fragment of time was to be prized in private, and in all likelihood, never repeated.

  Finally, the last garment slid loose and they stretched out naked. Limbs intertwining, they each shed their ghosts and obligations and made love without constraint.

  Chapter 8

  Nancy Martin opened her eyes briefly and then shut them again with a wince, the light through the trailer’s window hitting her like twin lightning bolts. She had a headache so painful it made her nauseous.

  She rolled over toward the dark closet and tried again, this time managing to see something. Her bedroom. That much made sense. The bed was empty ex
cept for her. That was good news. She’d had enough of Mel for the time being.

  Slowly, she propped herself up on one elbow and dragged herself along until her shoulders were resting against the bare wooden headboard. She looked down the length of her body to measure the damage. Her torn underwear circled one knee, there were red marks high on the inside of her left thigh from where Mel had bitten her, her breasts were swollen and very tender, and she could feel the tightness of a bruise building on her cheek where he’d butted her with his head. Having sex with her husband had become a hazardous experience.

  She tentatively touched a welt along the outside of her hip. And whoever said that ripping underpants off a woman was sexy—even thongs—had clearly never been in them when it happened.

  Nancy closed her eyes again and sighed. Drinking wasn’t the anesthesia it was cracked up to be, either, at least not in the aftermath.

  She’d had worse; there was that to cling to. And in the throes of it, she couldn’t even say it was so terrible. To be hungered for that much was actually kind of flattering. She’d heard the other side, of course. The times she’d gone to Planned Parenthood for exams or the ER for the occasional repair work, she’d been lectured to by earnest types with plain hair, big butts, and sensible shoes about abusive relationships and sexual dominance and a bunch of other crap she ignored. Those women were college grads from regular homes, taking pity on the less advantaged, with no clue about her crowd or how to actually enjoy life a little. To them, it was all victim and carnivore. They had no idea how you could play the angles, even turn things around now and then.

  Nancy thought back to Mel, who’d come home shit-faced and amorous the night before, smelling of stale beer and body odor. She’d held him off at first, thinking of Ellis, but it was clear how things were going to end up. A practical woman, a survivor, she had started matching him shot for shot, hoping either to drink him into unconsciousness or to numb herself enough not to notice what followed.

  It hadn’t been that bad, anyhow. He was no Ellis—gentle, attentive, respectful. But then, a little of the rough stuff had never killed anyone.