The Wrong Man

27

Hope hated the quiet.

She found herself walking across campus, attending the final practices of the season, getting ready for the winter, anxious. She was constantly on edge, but unable to get a grasp on her feelings. She would find herself pacing down the campus pathways as if in a hurry when she wasn’t. She would suddenly feel her throat parched, her lips dry, and her tongue thick, and she would gulp away at bottles of water. In the midst of conversation she would realize that she hadn’t heard much of what was said. She was distracted by fear, and as each day went by in benign silence, she imagined that much worse was happening somewhere.

She did not, for a single second, imagine that Michael O’Connell was out of their lives.

Scott, as best she could tell, had thrown himself wholeheartedly back into his teaching schedule. Sally had returned to her upcoming divorce settlements and house closings, with a certain smug satisfaction that she had figured things out and taken the necessary steps to bring the situation to a conclusion. And Hope and Sally had once again retreated into the cold-war détente that marked their relationship. Even the smallest of affections had dissipated. There was never a caress, a compliment, nor a laugh, and certainly not a touch inviting sex. It was almost as if they had become nuns, living under the same roof, occupying the same bed, but married to some ideal beyond them. Hope wondered whether Sally’s last months with Scott had been the same. Or had she kept up appearances, sleeping with him, faking passion, fixing meals, cleaning up, carrying on conversations, while all the time slipping away at odd hours to meet with Hope and telling her that that was where her heart truly lay?

In the distance, Hope could hear voices from the playing fields. Playoff time, she thought. One more game. Two to the semifinals. Three to the championship. She could barely concentrate on the challenges. Instead, she was caught up in some morass of feelings, about Ashley, about Michael O’Connell, about her mother, and mostly about Sally, where they mixed together in a stew of impossibility.

As she walked along, she remembered meeting Sally. Love, she thought, should always be so simple. Meet at an art gallery opening. Talk together. Tell a joke and hear each other’s laughter. Decide to have a drink. Then a meal. Then another meeting, this time in the middle of the day. And finally a small touch on the back of the hand, a whisper, a glance, and it fell together, just as Hope had known it would from the first minute.

Love, she thought. That was the word that Michael O’Connell used over and over, and one Hope hadn’t used in weeks. Perhaps months. Ashley had told her, He says he loves me. Hope knew that nothing he had done had anything to do with love.

She hunched her shoulders forward.

He was gone, she told herself.

Sally says he’s gone.

Scott says he’s gone.

Ashley thinks he’s gone.

She did not believe this.

But she could not see one piece of concrete evidence that he had returned.

She heard voices, and she saw the girls on her team waving, running drills, and talking together, gathered in the center of the practice field. She reached for the whistle on a lanyard around her neck, then decided to let the fun continue for a minute or two longer. Being young goes by so fast, they should enjoy every moment. Except she knew that it was not in the nature of the young to ever understand this.

She sighed, blew her whistle, and decided that she would speak with her mother and with Ashley daily, just to make sure everything was all right. She wondered why Sally and Scott were not doing the same.

Sally stared at the headline in the afternoon paper and felt the blood drain from her face. She devoured every word of the series of stories, then reread them all, memorizing details. EX-COP FOUND MURDERED ON CITY STREET. When she placed the paper down, she noticed that her hands were covered with black newsprint. She eyed them, as if surprised, then realized that her palms had grown so sweaty while she was reading that the ink on the pages had melded onto her fingers.

KILLING CALLED “EXECUTION-STYLE.” The words seemed to trail after her, shouting for attention. POLICE EYE ORGANIZED CRIME CONNECTION.

The first thing she told herself was, This has nothing to do with Ashley.

She rocked back, as if someone had slammed her hard in the stomach. It has everything to do with Ashley.

Her first instinct was to call someone. As a lawyer, she had met any number of other attorneys connected with the county prosecutor’s office. Surely one of them would have more details. Some inside information that would tell her what she needed to know. She reached for her Rolodex with one hand and the phone with the other, then stopped herself. What are you doing?

She took a deep breath. Do not invite someone to scrutinize your life. Any prosecutor even vaguely connected to Murphy’s murder would ask her far many more questions than he would provide answers to her questions. By making that call, she would inject herself and her troubles into a mix that she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to be part of.

Sally coughed. She had sent Murphy off to deal with Michael O’Connell. He had reported back successfully. Problem solved. Everyone safe. Ashley could get on with her life. And then, a short time later, Murphy is dead. It didn’t make sense to her. It was like seeing a famous mathematician, an Einstein, write 2 + 2 = 5 on a chalkboard and not hear a single voice raised in correction.

She seized the newspaper and reread every word for a third time.

Nothing suggested that Michael O’Connell had had anything to do with it.

It was professionally handled. Clearly some really bad guys that had crossed paths with Murphy were to blame. The killing went far beyond the capacity of a mechanic, computer nut, occasional college student, and minor-league criminal like Michael O’Connell, Sally insisted to herself. Really, it had nothing to do with them in the slightest, and for her to imagine otherwise was a mistake.

She leaned back in her desk chair, breathing hard.

No, we’re all safe. It’s just a coincidence. His death had nothing to do with their situation. After all, she had selected Murphy in the first place because of his willingness to skirt the niceties of the law. And he had undoubtedly done far worse, in his other cases, creating enemies wherever he went. One had finally caught up with him. That had to be it.

She exhaled slowly. No, the real problem was that whatever threats Murphy had made to O’Connell to keep him in line had now evaporated. That was the biggest danger they faced. That was assuming that Michael O’Connell even knew about Murphy’s murder and would then see it for the opportunity it presented.

Big assumptions, she told herself. Still, she reached for the phone again.

She hated to do it, hated that it would make her seem somehow inadequate, that she had failed to handle her part of the job properly, but she realized that she still needed to call her ex-husband.

Sally dialed Scott’s number and realized that she was sweating once again.

“Have you seen the paper?” Sally asked abruptly.

When Scott heard Sally’s voice on the line, his first reaction was irritation.

“The New York Times?” he replied briskly, knowing that that wasn’t the paper she meant.

This was the sort of oblique answer that made Sally want to strangle Scott.

“No. The local paper.”

“No. Why?”

“There is a front-page story, stories actually, about the murder of an ex-police detective in Springfield.”

“Yes. Tragic, I’m sure. So what?”

“He’s the private investigator I sent to see Michael O’Connell, right when you were arranging to get Ashley out of Boston. He did his thing a few days after you managed her disappearance.”

“His thing…?”

“I didn’t ask too many questions. And he didn’t volunteer any. For obvious reasons.”

Scott hesitated. “And this has precisely what to do with us and Ashley?”

Sally was quick to reply, “Probably nothing. Probably just coincidence. Probably just a really bad but totally unconnected series of events. The detective reported that he’d met with O’Connell and we wouldn’t have any more troubles. And then he gets himself killed. It has taken me aback, a bit. I can’t be certain that it has anything to do with anything. But I thought you should at least be aware. I mean, it probably changes the situation, somehow.”

“So,” Scott said, speaking in well-modulated classroom tones, “are you suggesting that we might have a problem? Damn it, I thought we had worked this whole thing out. I thought we’d put that son of a bitch behind us for good.”

“I don’t know. Do we have a problem? I doubt it. I was just trying to inform you of a detail that might be relevant.”

“Well, look, Ashley’s still up in Vermont, safe and sound with Hope’s mother. It seems to me that her next step-our next step-is to get her into a new graduate program, down in New York City, or maybe across the country in San Francisco, someplace new. I know that she has this affection for Boston, but we’ve agreed that starting fresh is the right idea. So she whiles away some time in Vermont, watching the leaves turn and getting snowed on, and then gets started anew in the spring semester. End of story. We should be proceeding with that sort of scenario, and not getting terribly bent out of shape at every little thing.”

Sally gritted her teeth. She hated being lectured to.

“Chimera,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A mythological beast of terrifying proportions that wasn’t really there.”

“Yes. And?”

“Just a way of looking at this. An academic way,” Sally said, to irritate Scott, something she knew she shouldn’t do, but found herself doing. Relationships that fail have certain addictions, and this was one of those for the two of them.

“Well, perhaps. Regardless, let’s just move ahead. We need to collect Ashley’s academic records so she can reapply to graduate schools, even if she has to start on a part-time basis. Best if you or I do that, not her. Better to have them mailed to us than to Vermont.”

“I will do that. I’ll use the office address.” Sally hung up the phone, as irritated as ever, reminded that she knew her ex-husband perfectly. He had not changed in years, not since she’d first met him and not by anything that had happened since. He was as predictable as ever.

She was still at her desk. She looked out and saw that darkness had overcome the last light of the day, and even the shadows had turned black.

Michael O’Connell watched the same shadows lengthen from his vantage point beneath a wide oak tree less than half a block from Sally and Hope’s house. He could feel a quickening within him, almost as if he could sense how much closer he was to Ashley. Up and down the block, he could see lights start to blink on. Every few moments a car would swing up the roadway, its headlights sweeping across the lawns. He could see some activity in kitchens, as dinners were prepared, and the softer, metallic glow of television sets turned on.

I have only a short time. He did not think he would need much.

Sally and Hope lived on a meandering, older street. It was an odd mixture of architecture, some newer ranch-type houses, mingling with stately Victorians that dated back to the turn of the century. It was a curious neighborhood, in much demand because of its leafy streets and solid, middle-class outlook. Doctors, lawyers, professors, for the most part lived there. Lots of lawns and hedges and small gardens and Halloween parties. Not the sort of neighborhood where people invested heavily in security devices and state-of-the-art protection systems.

O’Connell moved swiftly up the block. He knew that Sally usually stayed late in her office and Hope held soccer practice until it was too dark to see the ball. This would delay them just long enough.

He cut across the block from tree trunk to tree trunk and, without hesitating, slid into the dark spaces adjacent to their house. There was an old wooden fence behind a driveway, which led into their backyard. He stopped for a moment when kitchen lights blinked on in their neighbor’s house, pushing himself back against the exterior wall.

The house had been built on a small hill, so that the main living area was above his head. But, like many older houses, it had a large basement, with an old door framed in neglected, rotting wood that was rarely, if ever, used. It took him less than ten seconds to jimmy it open and let himself in.

He left the door slightly ajar behind him and reached into his pocket and removed his red-taped flashlight. He took a deep breath as he realized that somewhere, within feet of the dank, musty space where he was standing, was some bit of information that would tell him precisely where Ashley was. An envelope with a return address. A telephone bill. A credit card statement. A piece of paper with her name taped to the refrigerator door. He licked his lips, excited, his hands nearly shaking with anticipation. Breaking into Murphy’s office had been a familiar job. It was simply a piece of the puzzle into Ashley’s whereabouts. He thought he had handled it carefully and professionally.

This break-in was different. This was a chore of love.

He took a second to breathe in the thick air of the basement. If she could only see what I’ve had to do to find her, to bring us together, he thought, then she would understand why we are meant to be together. Someday, he fantasized, he would be able to tell her that he had endured beatings, broken laws, risked his safety and freedom, all on her behalf.

And then he told himself, If she can’t love me then, then she doesn’t deserve to love anyone.

He could feel a twitch, a muscle spasm, running through his body, and he had to fight to keep control. He could feel his breathing getting shallow, coming in gasps. For a second, he told himself to remain calm. He pictured Sally. Hope. Scott. And as he did that, he was almost overcome by anger. He could no longer separate the entwined feelings of love and hate. When he managed to calm himself down, he started to move gingerly through the basement, heading toward some rickety old stairs that would carry him up to the living areas. He wasn’t sure what precisely he was searching for, although he knew whatever it was, it was nearly within reach.

He pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and immediately figured he was in a pantry, just off the kitchen. He wanted to douse the flashlight as quickly as possible-even covered in red, the glow was far more likely to attract a curious neighbor’s interest than the overhead light. He spotted a bank of switches on the wall and flicked the first, which lit up the kitchen. Michael O’Connell smiled and switched off the flashlight.

He told himself, Stay away from the windows and start looking. It’s here. Somewhere. What you need to know. I can feel it. I’m coming, Ashley.

He took another step forward before a low, mean growl came from the darkness of a nearby vestibule.

I suppose, like most people, I’ve had my sense of fear mostly defined by Hollywood, which likes to provide a steady diet of aliens, ghosts, vampires, monsters, and serial killers; or those electric, unforeseen moments in life when the other car runs a red light and you pound on the brakes in panic. But real, debilitating fear comes from uncertainty. It gnaws away at one’s defenses, never fading, and never far from the heart. As I sat across from the young woman, I could see every line fear had carved on her face, aging her far too fast, every tic it had delivered, to her hands, which she rubbed nervously, to the corner of her eyelid, which twitched uncontrollably, to the tremors in her voice, clearer than the words she whispered.

“I shouldn’t have agreed to meet with you,” she said.

Sometimes, it’s not so much a fear of dying as it is a fear of going on living.

She wrapped both hands around a cup of hot tea and slowly lifted it to her lips. It was brutally hot outdoors, and everyone else in the mall coffee shop was drinking iced drinks, but she seemed unaware of the heat.

“I appreciate it,” I replied. “I won’t take much of your time. I just want to confirm something.”

“I have to go. I can’t stay. I can’t be seen speaking with you. My sister has the kids, and I can’t leave them with her for too long. We’re moving. Next week, going to…” She stopped, shook her head. “No, I’m not saying where we’re going. You understand, of course?”

She bent forward slightly and I could see a thin, long white scar up near her hairline. “Of course. Let me make this really quick,” I said. “Your husband, he was a police captain, and you hired Matthew Murphy during divorce proceedings, right?”

“Yes. My ex-husband was hiding income and stiffing me and the three kids. I wanted Murphy to find out where he was putting the money. My attorney said Murphy was good at that sort of thing.”

“Your ex, he was a suspect in Murphy’s murder, correct?”

“Yes. State police detectives questioned him several times. They spoke with me, too.”

She shook her head, then added, “I was his alibi.”

“How so?”

“The night Murphy was killed, my ex-husband showed up at my house nice and early. He’d been drinking. He was morose, suicidal. Insisted on coming in, seeing the kids. I couldn’t get him to leave.”

“Didn’t you have a court order?”

“Yes. Keeping him away. One hundred yards at all times. That’s what the judge’s order said. Lot of good that did. He’s six four and two hundred forty pounds and he knows every cop in the Valley. They’re all buddies. What was I supposed to do? Fight him? Call for help? He did what he wanted to do.”

“I’m sorry. The alibi…”

“So, he started drinking. Then he started beating on me. Kept it up for hours. Until he passed out. Woke up in the morning and apologized. Said it would never happen again. And it didn’t, for a whole other week.”

“You told this to the state police detectives?”

“I didn’t want to. I wish I’d had the guts to say to them, ‘Sure, he did it. He told me he did it,’ and maybe get him out of my life that way. But I wasn’t able to.”

I hesitated. “The thing I’m interested in is-”

“I know what you’re interested in.” She reached up and touched her forehead, running her finger along the small ridge of the scar. “When he punched me, his class ring from Fitchburg State-that’s where we met-cut me pretty badly. Gave me this to remember him by. You want to know how he knew about Murphy. Right?”

I nodded.

“He threw it in my face during an argument. Screamed at me, ‘So you figured I wouldn’t find out about the private eye you hired?’ ”

I could see tears in the corners of her eyes.

“He got an anonymous letter. A plain manila envelope. It had a copy of everything Murphy had uncovered about him. All the confidential stuff that was supposed to just go to me and my attorney. Postmarked from some place in Worcester. I don’t even know anybody in that city. So, who would send this to my ex? It cost me two teeth when he knocked them out. It should have cost Murphy his life, if only I’d been lucky enough to have it be my ex-husband who got so enraged that he went after him with a gun instead of someone else. Maybe it did cost Murphy his life. Maybe somebody else got the same envelope. I don’t know. I wanted it to be my ex who did it. It would have made things so much easier.”

She pushed back from the table. “I have to go.” She glanced around nervously, then turned, head down, shoulders scrunched forward. She pushed through the coffee shop doors and raced through the mall, dodging shoppers as if fear itself hovered in some black cloud, right behind her ear, whispering dangers.

I watched her and wondered whether I had just seen what Ashley’s future might have been.