Again, Brightman was silent, but his fists were clenched so tightly I thought his nails must be biting into the skin of his palms.
“Then that poor schmuck Martz got picked up by the cops. You and Kyle would probably have gotten away with it without him, but he made it a done deal. When he was unlucky enough to drown, you guys were home free. Your dad waited a respectful amount of time and then got you the hell out of Hallworth. I’m curious, did you and Kyle ever talk about that day? Did you two keep in touch?”
“So you don’t know everything,” he chided. “There’s holes in that bag of yours.”
I ignored him. “Well, did you two talk?”
“Not ever, not once from the day I moved. I put Hallworth behind me.”
“You mean you thought you did, until about two years ago. Then something happened. And here I’m only guessing, but I think I’m pretty close. Kyle must’ve found out he was dying. That fucks with a man’s mind, you know, knowing he’s about to die. It’s bad for a young man, especially one who has murdered a little boy. Maybe that’s why he turned to a life of drugs in the first place. Who knows these things?
“Then I remembered how weird my mom started acting when she found out how sick she was. Suddenly, she remembered the shitty things she’d done to people over the years. There weren’t many, but what few there were ate her like the cancer. She made a list of people she felt she needed to apologize to and either called or wrote to everyone on the list who was still alive. But when you’ve committed murder, who do you apologize to?”
Brightman looked a bit puzzled. “Are you asking me?”
It was my turn to laugh. “Don’t waste your energy on it now. You’ll have to ask yourself that question eventually, unless you plan on living forever.”
“Get on with this or I’m leaving.”
“So Kyle knows he’s dying,” I picked up. “He writes you a letter. Something about how guilty he’s felt all these years since what happened in Hallworth in ‘56 and how he needs to unburden himself before he dies. When people find out they’re dying, they get religion chop-chop. He suggests you do the same before it’s too late. But you two were close when you were kids, so he says he’ll keep your name out of it. You don’t panic. You did that once and it cost a kid his life. No, you’re working on some sort of plan to prevent or delay Kyle from going to the authorities. Then Kyle has the good form to drop dead a little sooner than expected. You think you’re off the hook. Unfortunately, Moira Heaton’s seen the letter or overheard the phone call. I know this for a fact.”
“How would you know that?”
“HNJ1956. It’s a notation I found in Moira’s checkbook under a check she’d written to a research firm. You know that already. Sandra Sotomayor told you all about it. It’s why I got offered reinstatement. It’s why you had Sandra call me up and offer me some bullshit story about the meaning of HNJ1956.”
“She’ll never testify against me.”
“No one’s asking her to testify to anything,” I said. “This is between you and me, remember?”
“Yes, a little chat about compensation.”
“Exactly. You know the funny thing about Moira, Brightman?”
“Was there something funny about her? I hadn’t noticed.”
“That’s my point. By all accounts, she was unfunny, unattractive, and unexciting. But she was a bulldog. When she was curious about something, she wouldn’t let it go. The way I see it, Moira didn’t confront you about the letter. She figured she’d do a little research first. She probably made the mistake of confiding in someone like Sandra, or maybe she asked one too many questions and word got back to you. Once again, you didn’t panic. This time, however, the person on your ass didn’t have a terminal disease. You waited her out, hoping she’d lose interest. Eventually, though, she forced your hand. She was making progress, getting close. That’s why she started asking around about the statute of limitations. You had to get rid of her.”
“Did I?” he said smugly.
“I have to admit, this is the thing I had the most trouble with and the thing I’m still most iffy about. At first, I thought you might actually have paid Alfonseca or somebody else to do it, but that would have been too risky. You would have been far too exposed. No, you did it yourself. You were the only one you could trust to do it right.”
“And how did I accomplish this miraculous feat? Through the use of prestidigitation? There’s the issue of my alibi, you remember.”
“That alibi works only if you accept other facts. Once you open up your mind to alternative notions, you, Senator, become a very obvious suspect. The cops assumed all along that it was Moira that witnesses saw leaving the office that night. But I looked at those witness statements very carefully. Eyewitness testimony is notoriously inaccurate. None of the witnesses got a look at Moira’s face that night. The closest witness was in a passing car. The others were fifty to a hundred yards away. And by the time these witnesses came forward, the papers had already tainted the information.
“Witnesses are suggestible. If you tell them they should have seen a five-foot-seven woman leaving an office at around eight p.m. that’s what they see. That wasn’t Moira leaving at all. It was either you wearing her coat or someone like Sandra or maybe even your wife. Moira was already dead by then, neatly wrapped in plastic. Then early on that Thanksgiving morning, you went jogging before the sun came up. No one would question that. You do it every day. You got in your car, drove to the alley behind the office, loaded Moira’s body into the trunk, and disposed of her. You got home when you were expected, sweaty as usual, but not for the usual reason. Dead weight is always harder to handle than people expect.”
“Bravo! Bravo!” Brightman applauded. “You’re wasting your time in the wine business. You should take up writing fiction. You have quite a flair for it.”
Again, I ignored him. “One problem solved. But for every problem solved, there are two lurking. You underestimated the press reaction. You see, you knew Moira. To you she was some boring, plain-Jane, forgettable drip who no one would be interested in. To the press, the disappearance of a young woman under mysterious circumstances is like blood in the water to sharks. It doesn’t matter to them if the woman looks like Quasimodo and has the personality of a brick. They turn her into the Black Dahlia and sell papers. So you’d gotten away with two homicides, but your political career was fucked.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “fucked is the word.”
“But things began breaking your way. Spivack and Associates was floundering, and Joe, who probably assumed you were innocent in Moira’s disappearance, came to you with an idea of how to save his company and your career at the same time. You prop up Spivack and Associates and he’d find you some shithead to take the fall for Moira. He probably convinced himself he wasn’t doing anything wrong, really. After all, you hadn’t done it and you wouldn’t be free to run for higher office until the crime was solved. For his part, he’d be saving his company and a lot of people’s jobs. You didn’t have to be asked twice and gave him the money. But he got cold feet. I don’t know why. Maybe he started taking a good look at you for the crime and arrived at the same conclusion as me. In any case, you refused to take the money back. He may not even have offered. He knew he’d already been compromised.”
Brightman looked impatiently at his Swatch. “Now the clock’s running on you, Mr. Prager.”
“I’m almost finished.”
“Thank God!”
“I’d watch that if I were you. You’re already into Him pretty deep.”