“She was murdered. I heard it on the radio in the car.”
“Patricia Sullivan, murdered?”
David wiped rain-soaked bangs from his forehead. “They said her throat was cut. They found her at home.”
It seemed impossible. Patricia, dead? My father’s eyes met mine. They looked worried, which worried me almost as much as what I was hearing. “I have to go,” I said, feeling a warm hand on mine.
It was Cam. “You all right, Rita?”
I would have answered him, but for the second time that day, I had no idea what to say.
6
Maybe it was because I had just left a poker game, but when I spotted the Hamiltons they struck me as the king, queen, and jack of diamonds. Satisfied and privileged, face cards all, nestled in a corner of this exclusive Main Line restaurant. They looked surprised as I dripped my way to their table, so I gathered they hadn’t heard about Patricia’s murder. The news had galvanized the city, but the staff wouldn’t disturb their entrees. That was my job.
“Honey!” Paul said, and both he and his father stood up. “I’m so glad you’re here. Did you leave the game early?”
Are you kidding? The game is just starting.
“Hello, Rita,” said Kate warmly. Her face, though lined from the sun, was a handsome one, with high cheekbones and an almost mannish chin. Her hair, a polished silver, fell softly to her shoulders and her wide-set eyes were an unusual shade of gray, with dark eyebrows. Tortoiseshell half-glasses hung from a scarab lorgnette around her neck, for reading the menu. Everything so orderly, about to be disordered. I felt sick for her.
“Won’t you join us?” Fiske asked. He was still standing, in a dark suit with his napkin in hand, and Paul was, too. I sat down and the men followed. “What would you like for dinner, Rita? The rack of lamb was wonderful, but we can get you a vegetable platter.”
“Nothing.”
“Nonsense,” Fiske said. “We’ll order dessert while you have your entree.”
“No, thank you.”
“You’re not eating?” Kate asked.
“So you left the poker game,” Paul said again, taking it as proof of love.
I wasn’t supplying. “Not that I wanted to.”
Fiske smiled. “I hope you weren’t losing. I told Paul I’d bet on you any day.”
Ha. He seemed only half-aware of the irony. I looked at him for a minute. His forehead seemed untroubled and his blue eyes were relaxed under eyebrows just beginning to silver. He had a large face, symmetrical and therefore appealing. But there was no warmth in it, just facial expressions that changed in increments. His was the perfect demeanor for a judge and the worst possible for a human being. Without knowing exactly why, I wanted to destroy his composure. So I said point-blank:
“Patricia Sullivan was murdered tonight.”
Kate’s hand flew to her mouth. Fiske blinked once, then twice. “Oh, my,” he said. “Are you sure?”
What kind of question was that? “Of course. KYW news is sure. Channel 6 is sure. Channels 3 and 10 are probably sure, but I can’t get them on the car radio. Her throat was cut. They think the murder weapon was a hunting knife, but they haven’t found it yet.”
“I don’t understand,” Paul said, leaning back into his Windsor chair.
I was only beginning to understand it myself. Fiske had lied to me, gotten me into the middle of something awful. “The radio said her jewelry and valuables were left alone. So robbery was not the motive.”
“Oh, God,” Kate said. She looked around the dining room. I read her mind: Does everybody know? Does anybody know?
“Did they say when it happened?” Paul asked.
“About six o’clock, they think. There’ll be reporters waiting for us at the house, so I want us to go home together. They obviously don’t know you’re here, right?”
“I drove to the club first, then went out the service entrance in the back,” Kate said.
“Good.” A neat trick in a black Jaguar that matched Fiske’s. They had his-and-hers Sovereigns, except that Fiske, an Anglophile, had bought his in England. “Fiske, would you take a drive with me? Paul and Kate can stay here until we get back.”
“Why?” Paul asked. Kate looked equally puzzled.
“It’s important,” I said, but Fiske had already taken his napkin off his lap and was standing.
“Rita and I need to talk, Paul. The press will have a field day with this. We ought to make some sort of statement. What do you think, Rita?”
A practiced liar. “I agree. Kate, I need to borrow him for twenty minutes.”
“I suppose we could go ahead and order dessert,” Kate said uncertainly, but Paul frowned.
“Eat? Now? I can’t sit here and eat as if nothing were going on.”
Fiske, stepping away from the table, put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “You help me most by staying with your mother.” He flagged down a young waiter, passing by.
“Yes, Judge Hamilton?” the waiter said, jerking bangs out of his eyes. He wore a tight leather choker around his neck, reminding me ominously of the way Patricia had been killed. One reporter said she’d been almost decapitated.
“My wife and son would like more coffee. And dessert.”
I watched Fiske, so composed, and found myself wondering what time he’d left chambers for the day. Patricia’s house was on his way home; he lived only fifteen minutes from her. And Fiske knew how to handle a hunting knife. He’d taught the whole family to hunt and even took hunting vacations in Texas.
“We’ll be back by the second cup, dear,” Fiske said. He bent down and gave Kate a dry kiss on her cheek. Her hand reached up for his and he squeezed it.
My thoughts raced ahead. Fiske had an obvious motive. Patricia and her lawsuit threatened to expose him, to destroy his professional and personal world. And he knew the affair could come to light, I’d recommended as much as a defense on the telephone after the dep. Then he’d said he’d find a solution. I felt a chill, and it wasn’t from my damp clothes.
“Shall we go, Rita?” Fiske asked.
“We’ll take my car,” I said, just as I allowed myself to think the unthinkable: Had Fiske killed Patricia? And could he actually have believed that would solve anything? We walked out of the restaurant and bolted in the rain for my red BMW. We climbed in and I looked over at him coldly.
“Fiske,” I said, twisting the ignition key, “you’re taking this news rather well.”
“It’s not news to me.”
“Say what?”
The engine roared to life. I hit the gas and tore out of the lot.
7
We parked on a private road next to the pond at Haverford College, which was dark except for the flickering gaslights along the road. The air inside the car felt hot and rain pounded on the taut ragtop. I could barely hear myself think over the thumping, but I didn’t mince words with the man. “What the fuck is going on, Fiske? Level with me, because I’m in the middle of it.”
“I knew Patricia was dead. She had to be.”
“Did you kill her?”
“Of course not. How can you ask me that?” I couldn’t see his expression, but I could tell by his tone he was shocked.
“How could I not ask you that?”
“You suspect me?”
“How’d you know she was dead?”
He turned away to look out the window, past the raindrops into the night. “I could never harm Patricia.”
“You had an affair with her, right?”
“Yes. It lasted about six months.”
So it was a love affair and she was crying sexual harassment. Why? A woman scorned? “How did the affair end?”
“She ended it.”