“Please, bring us up-to-date,” Lily said to Megan, who was still standing.
“Where do I start?” she intoned, fumbling for a cigarette, which Pamsett lit smoothly. “You know part of it, of course, from my call. When I got back from Antibes, the kids and Edward had a little welcome-back surprise party for me here, and I immediately knew by the way she looked that something was wrong with Noreen. Lord above, I hardly had to be a genius to see that. She... Mr. Goodwin, I know how good a friend of Lily’s you are, and I’m sure she’s told you at least something of what this is all about. I ask you — I beg you — to respect our privacy in this matter. As you can appreciate, this is sensitive, and very, very painful, to our whole family.”
“Begging isn’t necessary,” I told her, struggling to keep the irritation out of my voice. “As I think Lily said to you on the phone, I am the essence of discretion.”
Megan took a couple of jerky drags on her cigarette and ground it out in a square black onyx ashtray that probably weighed as much as a bowling ball. “Yes, of course,” she said without conviction. “Anyway, when I took her aside, Noreen came apart and told me about that... Linville situation. Needless to say, it made her very upset — probably with me as much as anything else. It was then that I found out she’d already talked to you about it,” she said to Lily. “I’m glad you were here to comfort her, but the whole thing made — makes — me feel pretty damn useless.” She didn’t bother to hide the bitterness.
“But you were overseas,” Lily put in. “She wouldn’t have wanted to ruin your trip.”
“Oh, I suppose that’s true, but I just wish she’d...” Megan’s voice trailed off and she jiggled her shoulders, as if to underscore her helplessness.
“And to think it happened to Noreen,” Pamsett put in. “There’s not a nicer, finer young woman around.”
“Don’t be so naive, Edward,” Megan snapped. “Noreen’s just as bad as the rest of them. Sometimes I think three-quarters of the young women today are just dressing and acting like they’re asking for—”
“Megan!” It was Lily, with sparks in her eyes.
“Well, it’s true,” Megan persisted. “I know that—”
It was time to redirect the conversation. “When did Noreen’s brother learn about the attack?” I interrupted.
Megan, who’d just ground out a half-smoked cigarette, pulled out another one and this time lit it herself, waving away the attentive Pamsett and his gold-plated Dunhill. “The same time I did — at the party. Up until then, she had — or so I am led to believe — kept the awful thing to herself, except of course for Lily.” Her tone made it clear that she was hardly delighted with the tight relationship between aunt and niece. “And now, for God’s sake, Michael’s being interrogated by the police and Doyle is supposedly down there trying to find out what’s going on. This is a nightmare!”
Here I find the need to do some translating for the distressed Megan. The Doyle she refers to is her former husband and the father of her two children. I had met Doyle James twice, the last time close to ten years back. He and Megan got divorced aeons ago, and although I hardly know either of them, it’s easy to see why their paths diverged. Doyle is free-wheeling and gregarious and unpretentious, and she is buttoned up and social-climbing. He comes from Jersey City and is what you’d have to call a self-made man; he started with a small dry cleaner somewhere over in Jersey that grew through the years — and through his efforts — into a chain that’s spread all over the northern half of the state and has, or so Lily tells me, made him easily a millionaire. From here on in, I’ll let Doyle speak for himself, which he is about to do.
Megan finally sat, to the relief of the rest of us, and no sooner had she sunk into the sofa than the door chimes sounded, rocketing her back to her feet. “That must be Doyle at last,” she blurted, starting for the foyer, but Carmella was already on the case, and within seconds Doyle James stood in the doorway to the drawing room, surveying the tableau. When I saw him, I remembered what had made an impression on me years before: He is one of those people whose presence seems to pull the attention of everyone in a room.
In his case, it’s partly scale. Doyle James is one economy-size specimen — six-four, and probably around two-thirty. But his size is only one factor, the other — and more important — being what Wolfe calls aplomb, a word that he has used, albeit grudgingly, to describe me. James had a half-smile on his square, red-cheeked face, which was framed by a thick but well-tended acre of hair that had turned almost completely white since I had last seen him.
“Megan,” he said without enthusiasm, acknowledging his ex-spouse with a nod. “And Lily. Lovely Lily.” He moved across the room in three long, smooth strides, kissed her on the cheek, and gave her the kind of hug that made me glad they were related, if only by a canceled marriage. “Hello, Pamsett,” he added lightly, almost as an afterthought. “And... it’s Archie Goodwin, right? Don’t believe we’ve met since we sat in the same box with these sisters at a game at Shea nine years ago.”
“You’ve got a good memory,” I responded, accepting his handshake. “Against the Phillies. We beat them, extra innings.”
“Your own memory’s not so bad either,” he answered, taking a cup of coffee from Carmella and nodding a thank-you in her direction. “Youngblood hit the homer that won it.”
“I’m certainly glad you remember each other,” Megan sniffed. “Doyle, what did you find out? What in the hell is happening down there?”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t get to Michael. I tried to make some noise. Got as far as an asinine homicide lieutenant named Rowcliff, who admitted that Michael was in the building. He wouldn’t let me see him, though, but said they’ll probably be through talking to him sometime this morning.”
“For God’s sake, Doyle, it’s not as though he isn’t cooperating. He went down there of his own free will when they asked him to.” Megan shook her head vigorously and turned toward me. “You know about these things. Don’t they have to let a family member or a lawyer be there with him if we request it?”
“How old is your son?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Then as an adult, it’s pretty much up to him. They surely read him the Miranda warning.”
“Which is?” Megan said. She clearly doesn’t watch much television.
“The standard recitation of his rights — that anything he tells them can be used against him. And also that he has the right to a lawyer while he’s being questioned. It’s named for a Supreme Court ruling on a case out West some years back.”
“Wait a minute,” Doyle put in. “That’s right, what’s his name — Rowcliff... he told me Michael had waived having a lawyer present. I was ready to call one I know.”
“But of course you didn’t,” Megan sniffed. “God forbid you might take some kind of action, really do something for a change.”
Doyle started to get up. “Now, just a goddamned minute—”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” I cut in, looking Doyle back into his seat and then turning toward Megan. “How did you find out that Michael was going in for questioning?”
Megan shot an icy look at Lily, probably to underscore her objection to the presence of yours truly. Lily smiled back serenely. “He called me from his apartment this morning — he lives over on the West Side,” Megan said. “He told me a policeman was there and wanted him to go to headquarters for questioning about the Linville death. I asked him if I could do anything — phone a lawyer or whatever — and he said no. He didn’t sound very concerned at all. But now that they’ve got him, I’ll bet those bastards are keeping him from calling anyone!”