This study, then, was his private, self-confessional booth, a place for the sort of soul-searching everyone must go through, now and then, to retain sanity in a chaotic universe. But tonight (or this morning, as it was nearly one-thirty already; he’d been sitting here for hours now) his usual run of the soul-searching mill was set aside for more practical concerns. And first priority was the sorting out of the events of the day — or, rather, yesterday — to try and make some coherent meaning out of them, to try and find the proper response for Carl H. Reed to make to these events.
The shooting at the country club, on the heels of Joey DiPreta’s bribery attempt, seemed to have happened years ago, rather than mere hours. The events seemed to recede in his memory like a nightmare that, while vividly realistic as it runs its course, begins to fade immediately on waking. They were the stuff of madness, and his subconscious was trying desperately to protect his psyche, but Carl wouldn’t let it; he sat at his desk and set those events out before himself and examined them one by one.
Perhaps the most confusing of all was the only event he himself had controlled: his conduct at the police station. The station was on the East Side, across from the old post office and near the bridge, an ancient, rambling stone building he had driven by daily but had never really seen before, not before today, when he found himself in the company of two detectives, who ushered him into a gray-walled cubicle about the size of this study but hardly as pleasant and asked him questions about the shooting.
And he hadn’t told them.
Why? Even now he wasn’t sure. Oh, he’d told them about the shooting itself, of course. What was there to tell? The eerie experience of seeing the bullet tear through DiPreta followed by the sound of gunfire. He’d told them that, and they’d nodded.
But when one of them — the hatchet-faced, pockmarked guy with the short-cropped gray hair — Cummins his name was — began to ask questions (such as “Were you aware of Joseph DiPreta’s alleged connections to organized crime?”) Carl had held back. Held back the conversation leading up to the shooting. Held back DiPreta’s offer of fifty thousand dollars “hush money.”
And it certainly wasn’t because he’d had second thoughts about the offer; it wasn’t that Carl was waiting for another DiPreta to come around so he could accept this time. Quite the reverse was true. Every time he thought about Joey DiPreta’s offer he got indignant all over again.
So what had it been? Why hadn’t he said anything?
“Carl?”
He turned in his chair. It was Margaret, peeking in the door behind him. She was in an old blue dressing gown and her hair was in curlers and she wore no makeup and she was beautiful.
“Dear?” he said.
“I thought you might like a drink.” And she handed him a Scotch on the rocks.
Margaret didn’t approve of drinking, and Carl had long ago had to put aside his college-days habit of two-fisted drinking, at home anyway. The liquor cabinet was stocked strictly for social affairs, and a before-dinner or before-bedtime cocktail was not the habit around this household. So for Margaret to fix and bring him a drink was an occasion. He was suitably impressed.
“Thank you, Maggie. What have I done to deserve this?”
She came over and sat on the edge of the desk. She smiled in mock irritation. “You’ve stayed up close to two in the morning, worrying me half to death with your brooding, is what you’ve done.”
“Is Amy off to bed?”
“Yes. You shouldn’t have told her she could stay up for that late movie. It just got over a few minutes ago, can you imagine? And on a school night.”
“She’s a young woman, Maggie. If she wants to trade sleep for some silly movie, that’s up to her.”
“The Great Liberal. If I had my way, the girl would have some discipline.”
“The Great Conservative. If you had your way, she’d be in petticoats.”
And they laughed. It was a running argument/joke that came out of one of the better kept secrets in the state: Maggie Reed was a conservative Republican who canceled her husband’s vote every time they went to the polls — with one obvious exception.
“Carl...”
“Maggie?”
“Did... did what happened this afternoon upset you terribly? Does it bother you terribly, what you saw?”
Carl sipped the Scotch. He nodded. “That’s part of what’s on my mind, I guess. Come on. Let’s go over and sit on the couch. What’s it like outside? Kind of stuffy in here.”
“There’s a nice breeze. I’ll open the window.”
Maggie opened the window by the couch and they sat together and he told her about Joey DiPreta and the offer he’d made. He hadn’t been able to tell the police, but Maggie he could tell. She listened with rapt interest and with an indignation similar to his own. The very idea of someone even considering her husband corruptible got up the Irish in her.
“What did the police say when you told them about this?”
“That’s just it, Maggie. That’s what I’m sitting here mulling over. You see, I didn’t tell the police what I’ve just told you.”
“Carl... why not?”
“I’m not sure, exactly. Have you ever been inside the police station?”
“Just downstairs. To pay parking tickets.”
“Well, then you know the atmosphere, at least.”
“You mean the halls seem so cold and clammy.”
“That’s it. And there’s an antiseptic odor, like a public restroom that’s just been cleaned. I can’t explain it, but that atmosphere got to me, somehow, and I found myself hesitating when that detective, Cummins, began asking questions.”
“Are you going to tell them?”
“I don’t know. There was something about that fella Cummins that... I don’t know.”
“What was it about the detective that made you lie to him, Carl?”
“Dear, I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell the truth.”
“Now you do sound like a politician.”
“Please. That’s hitting below the belt. If you want to talk about that kind of politician, talk about my predecessor, Grayson — one of your Republicans, incidentally — who was on the DiPreta payroll and raked in God knows how much money.”
“You must’ve had a reason, Carl, for holding back when that detective questioned you.”
“Well, I did have a reason. Or not a reason, really... a feeling. Instinct. Something about that man Cummins. I just didn’t feel comfortable with him. Didn’t trust him is what it boils down to, I guess.”
“Didn’t trust him?”
“I guess not, or I would have told him what I knew. It was just that his voice stayed so flat, so controlled, while his eyes... shifting around all the time, narrowing, nervous... God, Maggie, the damn eagerness in those eyes. Lord.”
“Could he be on the DiPreta payroll himself, Carl?”
“That thought occurred to me. Of course. And why not? If the DiPretas can buy a state highway commissioner, they can buy a lowly damn detective on the Des Moines police force. Sure.”
“Then I think you did the right thing. Holding back, I mean. But where do you go now?”