Mostly, I didn’t want to see it.
My theory went like this: Madison’s return trip home to Boulder after she had run away with Brad had been because she had told him about taping Merritt and he was bullying her to retrieve the videotape of Merritt and Robilio, so he could begin his not-too-well-thought-out little extortion scenario with Robilio’s company, MedExcel. Madison, I figured, was having second thoughts about having told him about the blackmail scheme she and Merritt had cooked up and didn’t really want Brad to have the tape, so she had taken a copy of Pretty Woman to him instead, after making him promise not to watch it. But she told Brad it was the one.
Brad, of course, had watched the tape, and found nobody screwing on it but Richard Gere and Julia Roberts. He had beaten Madison viciously for her lie, using the copy of Pretty Woman as a bludgeon.
I shuddered at what might have followed between them, what slight by Madison had caused Brad to turn from batterer to murderer. I suspected that the proximity of Dead Ed’s arsenal made it too convenient for Brad to vent his rage with his finger on a trigger.
To support her subterfuge with Brad, I figured that Madison would have picked a bogus tape of the same category as the real tape: that is, a movie taped off HBO or one of the networks. By my count, the shopping bag that Miggy Monroe had given me contained nine likely suspects.
With a Sunshine Wheat Beer and two slices of Nick-N-Willy’s by my side, I fast-forwarded through snippets of Emma, Sense and Sensibility, and Waiting to Exhale before finding myself so amused and charmed by Alicia Silver-stone in Clueless that I watched almost half of it.
On the sixth tape, three minutes into Little Women, I found myself looking at Edward Robilio’s ass.
Never in my life have I been so grateful for a pause button.
I’m not offended by dirty movies. Although I can’t always trace the line accurately, I have no problem believing that a demarcation exists somewhere between erotica and obscenity.
At that moment, with Dead Ed’s butt filling the expanse of Lauren’s new big-screen TV in front of me, I was looking at the most pornographic image I had ever laid eyes on. If Edward Robilio managed to play Lazarus and rose from the dead right there in my living room, I would have pulled the videotape from the machine and beaten him back to eternity with it. It would have been the shortest reincarnation on record. He would have been begging me to merely shoot him a couple of times.
I paced the room. I changed clothes. I opened my mail. I put the rest of the pizza in the refrigerator. I checked my voice mail. I finished the beer and considered vodka.
I watched the damn tape.
The interlude in the RV lasted three and one-half minutes. A little over halfway through, Merritt raised her head and looked at the camera with a face so dead it belonged in a wax museum.
Thirty-seven
I had the tape. Now what?
No scenario crossed my mind that would help me do anything productive with it. As far as I knew, only Merritt, Brad, and I knew the tape existed. I had Merritt’s permission to share the fact of the tape with Cozy. That didn’t mean I could show it to him. What good would it do for him to see it, anyway?
For some reason-I would have to indulge in unwelcome self-analysis to discover exactly why-the sight of Dead Ed’s butt caused me to think about his daughter, Sunny.
She feared her father more than she respected him. She honored him much more than she loved him. What she didn’t do was cross him.
Without a clue as to the nature of the character she was pursuing, Merritt had crossed him.
I scratched below the surface of my memories of my afternoon at the ranchette in Summit County with Sunny Hasan. I didn’t know what I was trying to remember, but felt certain I would recognize it when I found it.
I thought long and hard about erasing the videocassette. Or burning it in the fireplace. Never had I held an object in my hand that was more worthy of destruction. But I didn’t. As obscene as the tape was, it might turn out to be a key to Merritt’s legal salvation. And I would do nothing to put that at risk.
Reluctantly, I switched off the VCR and tuned in to the ten o’clock news. The lead story on Channel 7 was, no surprise, “Chaney’s Hope.” I watched tape of the jet landing in Seattle. I watched tape of an ambulance delivering Chaney to the University of Washington Medical Center. I watched tape of Brenda Strait as she expressed gratitude to everyone for their prayers.
Chaney had been granted a seat at a medical craps table. At least she would get a chance to roll the dice.
If Mitchell Crest didn’t change his mind about arresting her, my plan was to discharge Merritt the next day so she could fly to Seattle to be with her family.
I couldn’t figure out why I didn’t feel better about things.
I decided to blame it all on Dead Ed’s butt.
I contemplated the vodka bottle while Emily whined at the front door. Leaving the spirits behind, I took her out on the lane for her late-night ablutions.
Since we live at the end of a dirt road, it’s difficult to sneak up on us by car, especially at night. Emily and I both listened carefully as a vehicle climbed the winding incline toward the house. Headlight beams danced in the dry grasses on the hillsides. Emily recognized Sam’s car before I did. She greeted him with joy. I was more restrained.
He climbed out, crouched down, and scratched her behind her ears. To me, he said, “Good, you’re up. Doing anything?”
“Getting ready for bed. Why do I get the feeling you have other ideas?”
He smiled in a way that would have worried me if I were a suspect he was cornering. “I tracked down Andrew, like you suggested. He’s waiting for us.”
I was a little suspicious. “Why would Andrew be waiting for us?”
“Actually, he’s just sitting and waiting for somebody to make his night interesting. He doesn’t know it’s going to be us.”
“Should you be doing this, Sam?”
He ignored me, nodded at Emily. “Has she done her thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Put her inside. Let’s go, we shouldn’t dawdle. Andrew might get lucky. That would really screw things up.”
We took Sam’s police department Ford. He steered us west, toward town, and said, “When was the last time you were at The Broker?”
“I don’t know. Probably hasn’t been long enough. That’s where Andrew is?”
“His hangout, apparently, since he’s been separated. Lucy’s babysitting him for the moment.”
“He’s trying to hit on Lucy? This should be fun to watch.”
“For his sake, boy, I hope he doesn’t try. She told me she’s keeping her distance.”
The Broker is a restaurant and bar on the southeastern side of town that comes equipped with a conveniently attached motel. Historically, it’s been an attractive gathering spot for Boulder’s romantically dispossessed. Dozens of my newly separated patients have put in time warming seats in The Broker’s lounge. I’d even visited once in the wake of my own divorce. The scene was not inspiring.
“Andrew doesn’t expect us?”
“We didn’t make an appointment, if that’s what you mean.”
Lucy met us in the motel lobby wearing a little black dress that renewed my faith in little black dresses. She said hello, nodded toward the lounge, and said, “He’s still inside at the bar. Hasn’t moved.”
“Still alone?” Sam said.
“Yeah. He’s watching TV, drinking Wild Turkey, neat.”
Sam asked, “Why aren’t you in there with him?”
She shuddered. “Let’s just say it’s safer out here. You ready?”