“No. All I did was drive by. To see where they lived. To see where those animals lived.”
“You were not in that house on the night of the murders?”
“I was not.”
“Or at any time before the murders?”
“I was not.”
“How old are you, Mr. Leeds?”
“Forty-one.”
“Were you ever in the armed forces?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“During the Vietnam War.”
“Were you in combat?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever witness bodies mutilated the way the bodies of these three victims were mutilated?”
“They got what they deserved.”
“But did you ever…?”
“I resent your calling them victims! They raped my wife! Whoever killed them should get a medal!”
Blue eyes shooting laser beams, lips skinned back over even white teeth, fists clenched. Put him on the witness chair, have him say what he just said, and the next chair he’d be sitting in would be wired.
“Mr. Leeds, in combat, did you ever…?”
“Yes, I saw American soldiers in the same condition.”
“Eyes gouged out…”
“Yes.”
“Genitals…”
“Yes. Or the trigger finger. The gooks used to cut off trigger fingers, as a warning. And sometimes tongues. We’d find corpses with their tongues cut out.” He hesitated and then said, “We did the same thing to them. A guy in my company made a necklace out of gook ears. He used to wear the necklace into combat.”
“Did you ever do anything like that?”
“Never.”
“Are you sure?”
“I never did anything like that. It was bad enough without doing anything like that.”
There was a long silence.
In the corridor outside the cell, Matthew could hear two policemen talking. One of them laughed.
“Mr. Leeds,” he said.
Looking directly into his eyes again. Searching those eyes. Had the man killed his wife’s accused rapists? In order to correct what he’d perceived as a miscarriage of justice? Or had his wallet been planted at the scene of murders that had been committed for whatever other reason or reasons, by whichever other person or persons?
“Mr. Leeds, tell me again that you didn’t kill those three men.”
“I didn’t.”
“Say the whole thing.”
“I did not kill those three men.”
In Calusa, Florida, during the summer months, a person was lucky to get off with only two showers and two shirt changes a day. On particularly sticky days, three was the rule. One at home in the morning, another at the office after lunch, and a third at home again, at the end of the working day. In the shower that evening, Matthew wondered if he’d made the right decision.
The rain had started, it always came sometime during the afternoon, you could set your calendar by it, if not your watch. A torrential downpour, as always. Florida never did anything half-heartedly. When the wind blew, it blew at hurricane force. When the sun decided to shine, it cooked you to a crisp. And when the rains came, they came — in bucketsful.
Probably shouldn’t even be in the shower, he thought. Lightning bolt’ll come in through the window and sizzle me on the spot. Benny Weiss would secretly chuckle over the freak accident and then express deep public sorrow. State Attorney Skye Bannister would tell the press that Hope had been a worthy opponent, credit to the community, tremendous loss, a good lawyer and a good man. His former wife, Susan, would weep huge crocodile tears. The several women he’d known since the divorce would come to the funeral wearing black. They would toss tear-stained red roses onto his coffin. Alas, poor Matthew, I knew him well. Struck by lightning in his prime.
Alas, poor Matthew.
Especially if he’d made the wrong decision today.
He turned on the needle spray. Washed away the soap and the grime. Tried to wash away the lingering doubts as well. The man’s knowledge of the crime scene, his wallet in the room, his brutalizing experience in Vietnam, his rage over what had happened to his wife, his public expression of that rage in the form of a death threat directed at all three men — put all of that in Skye’s hands, and the state would one day have a big electric bill.
He turned off the shower.
Climbed out of the tub, reached for a towel, caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink, and shook his head in disapproval. He’d gained ten pounds on his recent trip to Italy. It showed, too. Six feet tall, you’d think a few extra pounds might have distributed themselves more evenly over all that length. But no, they’d gathered exclusively around his middle, that’s where they were, all ten of them. Why did men and women gain weight in different places? For men, it was always the middle. For women, it was the ass. A phenomenon of nature. His face looked the way it had before he’d made the trip, though, a narrow fox face with dark brown eyes that matched the hair now clinging wetly to his forehead. In a world of spectacularly handsome men, Matthew considered himself only so-so. Ma che posso fare? he thought, and grinned at his own image in the mirror.
When he’d returned to the office on Monday, he’d said, “Well, I’m back.”
His partner, Frank, had said, “Some of us didn’t even know you were gone.”
That was on Monday.
And yesterday, Jessica Leeds had called.
Welcome home, and once more unto the breach, dear…
There was the sound of screeching brakes on the street outside. And then a tremendous bang. Something hitting something. Metal against metal. He grabbed for the white terry robe hanging on the back of the door, pulled it on, and ran barefooted out of the bathroom and through the house and into the street. He had left his new Acura Legend at the curb. Instead of pulling it into the garage. Because he knew he’d be going out again tonight, and he didn’t want to go to all the trouble of…
Brand new.
$30,000 on the hoof.
He’d taken delivery on it two weeks ago, just before he’d left for Venice. A replacement for the Karmann Ghia he’d been driving for God knew how many years. Low and sleek and smoky blue, with leather seats, and a sun roof, and a computer that told you when your gas tank was almost empty. When you hit the pedal on that baby, you zoomed from zero to sixty in eight seconds flat, a rocket to the moon.
“Oh dear,” the woman said, getting out of the little red Volkswagen that had smashed into the left rear fender of the brand-new smoky-blue Acura that had cost Matthew thirty grand two weeks ago.
He came thundering down the walk from the front door to the curb, fuming, wanting to strangle her even if she was tall and leggy and blond and beautiful and blue-eyed and standing without an umbrella in the pouring rain. She looked now from the fender of the Acura to the grille of the VW, and then to the skid marks on the wet asphalt. The marks clearly defined the course her little car had taken before wreaking its havoc. She shook her head as if amazed by the wonder of it all. Red silk dress to match the car, red high-heeled shoes, rain spattering the roadway, rain pelting everywhere around her, long blond hair getting wetter and wetter and wetter, Matthew was glad he was wearing a terry robe.
“I’m awfully sorry,” she said.
“Sorry, my ass,” he said.
“I didn’t want to hit the cat,” she said.
“What cat?” he said.
And anyway, he thought, hit the damn cat! And was immediately sorry. A cat he had loved with all his heart had long ago been hit by a car — and killed. So no, he would not have preferred her hitting the cat instead of his brand-new low, sleek, smoky-blue automobile, but Jesus!
“He ran out into the road,” she said, still talking about the damn cat. “I hit the brake and… I’m sorry. Really. I am.”