Aphrodite

Book Three


25

Deena had asked if they could do a half hour of yoga before they left. She said it would do them some good. Justin thought of how his body had ached after their first session and how his shoulder throbbed now. Then he thought of Deena, under the covers, and he remembered touching her smooth, perfect body. He thought of all the things they had to do and the obstacles facing them, and then he said, “Sure. A half hour of yoga is just what I need.”
He had to admit he felt better afterward. He stretched and held poses, then she made him sit and do nothing but breathe deeply for ten minutes. It relaxed him and made him feel centered. After taking a shower, he actually felt pretty good. The first thing they did after leaving the motel was stop off and buy yet another cell phone. “It won’t slow ’em down for long,” Justin said, “but at least it’ll annoy them.” Then they bought copies of the New York Times and the local paper. The news that they were now wanted for questioning and were suspects in two murders was on page four of the Times’ Metro section. They had made page two of the local.
Front-page news was still dominated by the murder of Maura Greer and the burgeoning scandal with Greer and Frank Manwaring. Details were emerging daily—hourly, it seemed—that tied Manwaring closer and closer to the murder. The media were incensed by the veil of silence behind which the ex-secretary had hidden himself. They were calling for his head. D.C. police had revealed the depths to which Manwaring had gone not to cooperate with their investigation in the months prior to the discovery of the body. And Assistant Director Leonard Rollins of the FBI, in charge of the now-federal investigation, was quoted acknowledging that Manwaring had been on the East End of Long Island, in the nearby Hamptons, just two weeks after Maura had disappeared. When questioned about whether Manwaring could be tied to the attempt to hide Maura’s body in the waters off East End Harbor, Rollins gave a halfhearted “No comment.” The dead woman’s parents were insisting that such proximity to the murder scene could not be a coincidence. Public opinion polls showed that eighty-eight percent of America believed that Manwaring was involved, if not downright guilty, in the death of Maura Greer.
Manwaring, meanwhile, had his spokesperson yet again vehemently declare his innocence. The spokesperson also said that “Mr. Manwaring would not comment on any specifics of the investigation or any specific allegations. He is proceeding with his life as he normally would. Personally, he is dealing with the trauma this situation has caused his family. He is dealing with that privately with his wife and children. And he is continuing with his professional commitments, including attending an upcoming conference in Montauk, New York. The conference is hosted, as it is each year, by Herbert Borbidge, head of the Wall Street firm Borbidge & Company, and it brings together leaders from the media, government, and business communities to discuss wide-ranging issues and problems. Secretary Manwaring is attending as a private citizen, not as a representative of the current administration. And he is attending because he is on several panels discussing topics which he considers crucial to the future of our country. Mr. Borbidge has personally assured him that the secretary’s presence is not just welcome but essential to the success of the conference.” The story then quoted Herbert Borbidge giving a lukewarm endorsement at best, saying that Manwaring had been invited months ago and that, as of now, there was no intention of rescinding the invitation.
Deena read the story aloud as they drove north. She and Kendall were eating doughnuts. Justin had declined, saying that they were too fattening. When Deena looked up in surprise, he had shrugged and said, “If I’m going to start practicing yoga, I might as well lose some weight, too.”
When she put the paper down—after reading the story of Pedro Martinez’s two-hit shutout of the Yankees to Kendall—she turned to Justin and said, “Do you think he did it?”
“Which he are we talking about now?”
“Manwaring. Do you think he killed that girl?”
Justin chewed on his lip a moment before saying, “I have to admit, there are too many other murders I’ve been concentrating on to give that one much thought.”
“It’ll take your mind off other matters. Think like a cop.”
“It’s hard,” Kendall said from the backseat. “He’s rusty.”
“He’s not as rusty as you think, young lady,” Deena said. “Now hush.”
Justin accepted her words with a pleased raise of his eyebrows, then he said, “Okay, from what I’ve read, yes, he sounds like the absolute poster boy for guilt.”
“So he killed her.”
“Probably.”
“Not definitely?”
“When you’re working homicide there are two separate and distinct points of view you constantly have to juggle. The first is that people who commit crimes really do incredibly stupid things. It’s why we catch them. Every single time you think, ‘Well, this guy isn’t really going to leave a shirt with the victim’s blood lying around in his laundry for us to find’ or ‘He can’t possibly have buried the gun someplace as obvious as his front yard,’ and almost every time he does. Most killers either panic or just plain screw up. I’ll tell you the most amazing thing criminals do: They can’t resist playing around with their own names. If someone’s on the run and he checks into a hotel? Well, if his name’s Paul Davis, when he checks in he’ll use one of three variations. He’ll keep the same first name and a different last name, usually the same initial, though. He’ll use Paul Dillon or something like that. Or else he’ll use a different first name but keep both initials. Phil Dillon. Or else he’ll come up with some kind of rhyming scheme or pun. Saul Mavis. I swear. You find ninety percent of the people you’re looking for that way. Some of them want to get caught, some of them don’t know how to avoid it. But then there’s the flip side. Sometimes things are too easy, they fit too perfectly. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. But occasionally it’s something that someone else wants you to think is a cigar.”
“So you’re weaseling out of your answer, is that right?”
“My answer is the guy’s a politician. So the odds are he’s total scum and did what everybody thinks he did. But there’s also a chance that he’s just the unluckiest guy in the world, in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Like us?”
“There you go. A perfect example.”
“Am I unlucky too, Mom?” Kendall asked.
“God, you have big ears,” Justin said.
“The biggest,” Deena said. “And no, Dumbo,” she told her daughter, “you’re the luckiest child on the planet because you’ve got me as your mom.”
“I agree,” Justin chimed in.
“Yuck,” Kendall said. “Yuck and double yuck.”
“I guess I have to agree with that, too,” Justin said.
Gary Jenkins watched as AD Rollins came into the police station, stopped just long enough to look over at him, a thin smirk lingering on his lips, then kept walking into Chief Jimmy Leggett’s office. Gary’s stomach clenched when, just a few minutes later, he heard Leggett call him into the office. He stood quickly, cracked his knuckles, and walked to the back of the police station. When he stepped through the office door, Agent Rollins was seated, his legs stretched out casually before him.
“Sit down, Gary,” the chief said and indicated which chair the young officer should sit in. Leggett remained standing.
When Gary settled into the seat, Rollins spoke. There was no urgency or anger in his voice. His words sounded as casual as his posture. “Let me get right to the point, Officer Jenkins,” he said. “I’ve been tracking the calls that have been coming in and out of this office. And I know you’ve received several calls from Justin Westwood.”
Gary had a little difficulty swallowing the saliva in his throat, but he forced it to go down and decided he was better off keeping quiet than saying anything.
“As a result of those calls, I got a tap on your office line. I also tapped your home phone, so I know you’ve called and spoken to Westwood.”
Gary decided he was definitely better off keeping quiet.
“Would you like to hear a tape of your conversation at 6:03 this morning, Officer Jenkins? Or do you remember the substance?”
Unfortunately, it was time to speak. “I remember, sir.”
“Westwood asked you to get him some information, is that right?”
“Yes sir.”
“Phone records.”
“Yes sir.”
“Are you going to keep yessing me to death, Officer, or are you going to explain to me what happened?”
“You know what happened, sir, if you listened to the conversation.”
“I want to hear your explanation.”
“Westwood called me early this morning. Woke me up. He asked me to get him a list of the incoming and outgoing calls for a woman named Helen Roag.”
“And why would he do that?”
“Because I got him similar information before.”
“What info?”
“When this all started to happen. Before you even got here. I got him phone records for a business in Connecticut called Growth Industries.”
Rollins nodded, as if that settled something in his mind. Then he said, “Did you get him the records for Helen Roag?”
“No sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s a criminal, and I didn’t think it would be right.”
“Are you bullshitting me, son?”
“No sir. I told him I’d do it because I didn’t want to upset him. But I had no intention of getting him any more records.”
“Why didn’t you report this to me or to Chief Leggett?”
Gary hesitated. “Because Westwood’s a friend of mine, sir.”
“Is that right? Chief Leggett says you never got along with him. Isn’t that what you said, Chief?”
“That’s right,” Jimmy Leggett said. “He and Brian, they never got along with Jay.”
“That is right, sir,” Gary said to Rollins. “But that was before I knew all the stuff about Westwood and his wife and daughter. I never would have picked on him the way I did if I’d known what had happened. When I heard, it made me feel sorry for him.”
“What happened in the past is totally irrelevant,” Rollins said. “Justin Westwood’s a murderer.”
“I don’t believe that,” Gary said. “He may have done some stupid stuff, but I don’t think he really killed anybody.”
“I don’t care what you believe. I’m telling you what I know. And what your chief now knows.”
Gary looked over at Leggett, who took a long time before nodding. “Agent Rollins has told me things,” Leggett said to the young police officer. “Things I doubt he’s going tell you.”
“And you believe Westwood killed that guy in Connecticut?”
Leggett looked over at Rollins. It was Rollins who answered. “It’s worse than that, son. We think Westwood is involved in Maura Greer’s murder. And we think he probably killed your friend Brian.”
“I was there before he was.”
“But he’s the one who told you to go there. How else would he know that Brian was dead?”
Gary didn’t say anything for quite a while. Then he whispered, “That son of a bitch.”
“Are you sure you haven’t sent him the phone records he asked for?” Rollins said now.
“I haven’t even requested them,” Gary said. “If you don’t believe me, you can check your taps. I have my cell phone here too, sir. You can check every recent call I’ve made on that. The last call was a callback to that son of a bitch. Right after he called me early this morning. It’s the motel where he was staying. Maybe he’s still there and the number’ll help you track him down. If you heard that first conversation, you’ll remember that he said it was a bad connection. He thought it was from my end so he asked if I had a different phone to call him back. That’s why I used the cell.”
“What was said during that second conversation?”
“It only lasted a few seconds. He made sure I had copied down exactly what he wanted to know, then he told me that he’d get back in touch with me and tell me where and how to send it.”
“But you’ve done nothing?”
“I haven’t gotten him what he wanted and I wasn’t going to. And I’m sure as hell not going to do it now. That lying bastard. He let me feel sorry for him.”
Rollins stared at Gary, held his gaze for several long seconds. “I believe you,” the FBI agent said. “Thank you.” As Gary turned to leave, Rollins said, “We’re going to leave the tap on your home phone, son. In case Westwood calls again. If you hear from him in any way, I want you to let me or your chief know instantly. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Gary turned to Leggett. “Jimmy, do you mind if I take a quick walk? I’d like to get some air. I’m pretty angry about the way that cocksucker tried to use me. I’d really like to walk it off.”
“Go ahead,” Leggett said.
“Are you sure about Brian?” Gary asked sadly.
“We’re fairly sure,” Leggett said. And added, “I’m sorry about all this.”
“I’ll be back in a little bit,” Gary told him, and walked, stiff and angry, out of the police station.
Gary walked at a fast pace, heading straight for the photo store at the end of Main Street by the bay. When he stepped into the store, the owner, an overweight, slow-moving woman named Jayne, waved her large hand in a familiar greeting.
“Jayne,” he said, “did that fax I asked to be sent here arrive yet?”
“Not yet,” she told him. “When it does, just put it in an envelope and hold it. Don’t call me, okay? Don’t call the station and don’t call me at home. I’ll come by and pick it up.”
“Sounds mysterious,” she said, “but you’re the customer so you must always be right.”
“Can I make a call?” Gary asked. “It’s to a cell phone. I don’t think it counts as long distance but if it does, just keep track of the bill and I’ll pay you back.”
She didn’t say a word, just handed him the phone and went into the back storeroom. Gary dialed. The phone on the other end rang twice before someone answered.
“Yup?” Justin Westwood said into the receiver of his cell phone.
“You were right,” Gary told him. “They tapped my phones. And you were right about the other stuff, too. I guess you’re not paranoid after all.”
“What else am I supposed to have done?”
“They said you killed Brian.”
“Yeah, I’m not surprised.”
“Well, this’ll surprise you. They’re tying you to the Maura Greer thing.”
“What?”
“I swear.”
“Why? I mean, I never even met her!”
“If I had to guess, I’d say they’re gonna have you working with the politician, what’s-his-name. …”
“Manwaring.”
“Yeah. That’s the one.”
“When Rollins was doing his spiel, did you handle it the way I told you?”
“Yeah. He totally bought the stuff about the phone records.”
“I’m sure he’s checking it out now to see if you lied. No other problems?”
“Uh-uh. I even improvised a little.”
“What’d you do?”
“I called you a cocksucker.”
“Great. Sounds like an Oscar winner. Where are you calling from?”
“Don’t worry. The photo store. It’s safe.”
“You get the stuff I want?”
“Not yet. What the hell do you think I am, a magician? My brother’s working on it.”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah. You said you wanted a hacker. He’s fifteen years old—he can hack his way into anything.”
“Your little brother is my hacker? Gary, we’re going up against the FBI here.”
“He put another little buddy on it too. A double team. The other kid’s fourteen and he’s really scary. I don’t get it, but they seem to know what they’re doing.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. If you want me, call this number. I’m sure they’re keepin’ tabs on my cell now, too.” Gary gave him the number of the photo store. “I’ll come by here whenever I can. Jayne’ll give me any messages. Just tell her”—Gary couldn’t help but break into a smile—“just tell her your name’s Clint.”
“Very f*cking clever.”
“Take care,” Gary said, and hung up the phone.
Jayne came out of the back room. “Sounds like cops and robbers,” she said.
“Better than CSI,” he told her. “I’ll be back later to get my stuff.”
Deena didn’t ask any questions. She could tell that Justin was not yet ready to take them to their final destination, so she let him drive them around Providence. He cruised through the Federal Hill area in the West End, pointing out the Little Italy restaurants and grocery stores and charming town houses. He drove to the East Side, too, took the car through the exquisite and stately Brown campus, showing them the Rhode Island School of Design and the historic John Brown House. He drove slowly through the downtown area, what he called “downcity,” staring up at the imposing City Hall, surprised at the plethora of fancy new restaurants. It was as if he had to ease into his past by showing them the city’s landmarks and gradually letting himself remember that he had a personal connection to it all.
At twelve-thirty in the afternoon, just as Kendall was beginning to complain about being hungry, Justin pulled up in front of a large, gated mansion on Benefit Street. They could see what looked like a huge public park through the gate. There was a rose garden, a cutting garden, and a vegetable garden overflowing with various lettuces, tomatoes, cucumbers, and squashes. An enormous English cottage garden loomed, too, with brick paths winding through it that led to a picnic table and benches. Acres and acres of green stretched in every direction. The house itself was turn of the century and quite austere, with lots of harsh angles and intimidating columns. It was three stories tall, with three distinct wings, each with four separate chimneys jutting skyward. The brick chimneys gave the house the aura of a mausoleum rather than a country home centered around hearth and warmth.
“Tell me this isn’t your parents’ house,” Deena said, her eyes wide.
“I’ll be happy to,” he told her. “But I’d be lying.”
“Wow,” Kendall said. “Is your dad the mayor?”
“It’s even better than that,” Justin said. “My dad owns the mayor.”
Justin now drove the car past the slowly opening gates—they hadn’t changed the security code in all these years—and headed up the long driveway, parking in front of the house. He asked Deena and Kendall to wait in the car, just for a few minutes. Deena squeezed his hand and he nodded that he was fine, then he went to the front door and rang the bell.
He tried to fight off the music in his head while he waited. Melancholy chords and words. Loudon Wainwright.
There’s a heaven and he knows it’s true.
But he’s back on earth just missing you.
And it’s hell on earth just missing you. …
Enough, he said to himself. Enough sadness and enough of the past. No matter what happens when the door opens, you’ve got to stay in the present. He glanced back at the car. If they’re going to survive, you’ve got to stay in the present.
He waited maybe a minute, then heard footsteps. What amazed him was that he recognized the steps; he knew immediately to whom they belonged. So he wasn’t surprised when his mother opened the door. He was surprised at her appearance, though. She had aged. Somehow gotten smaller. When he’d seen her last she’d been sixty-six years old, trim and athletic looking, attractive and vital. At the door she looked old. Haggard. Worn down by time and loneliness. When she saw him she started to react, lifted her arms to grab him, but immediately dropped them and held herself in check. Years of restraining her emotions dictated her behavior, but in her eyes he could see the gleam. Her eyes instantly looked young again.
“It’s all right if you hug me, Mother,” he said. “I won’t mind.”
She took one step closer, then another. Slowly her hands raised again and she reached for him. Her arms around his neck, she pulled him close and held him tight. He could feel the soft, lined skin of her cheek resting against his. And he felt her breath surge all the way through her body.
Lizbeth Westwood released her son. She looked over his shoulder, saw the two figures in the car, turned back questioningly to the son she hadn’t seen in so many years.
“No,” he said, knowing the question in her mind. “She’s a friend. And her daughter.”
“Shall we invite them in?”
“In a minute. We need some help, and before they come in I’d like to know if we’re going to get it.”
“I …I saw the paper,” she said. “And your father saw the news on television.”
“Is he home?”
She nodded. “He comes home for lunch.”
“Some things never change,” Justin said.
“If only that were true of everything,” his mother said.
His father was seated at the long, eighteenth-century Spanish dining table when Justin stepped into the room. He had just dug his fork into his grilled filet of sole and was lifting a piece of the soft, white fish up to his mouth when he looked up and saw his son. Jonathan Westwood finishing bringing the fork to his lips, ate the delicious, lightly seasoned sole, slowly put his fork down, and took a sip of very cold Corton Charlemagne from his wineglass.
“You’ve gained weight,” he said, setting the glass down on the highly polished table.
“Well, you haven’t. You look exactly the same. Maybe a little grayer.”
“I believe in consistency,” Jonathan Westwood said. “Always have.”
“Yes,” Justin said. “You have always been pretty consistent when it comes to consistency.”
“You’re in trouble.”
“That’s an understatement. I’m in big trouble.”
“Is it true, what they’re saying?”
“Do you think it’s true, Father?”
The older Westwood shook his head slowly. “You always did what you wanted to do. Never listened to anyone. You always had a certain arrogance. But you were also always scrupulously honest. You were never the sort of boy to get yourself in trouble.”
“That’s not true. I was in serious trouble once. When my daughter was killed. And my wife died. I needed help then and you turned your back on me.”
“Is that why you came back here, Justin? To accuse me? We might have grown apart over the years, but surely you remember that the one thing I never allow myself is regret.”
“No.” Justin gently shook his head from side to side. “That’s not why I came back.”
“Then why?”
“To see if you’ll help me now,” Justin said. “To give you a second chance.”
Jonathan Westwood ate one more bite of fish, took one more sip of wine. Then he picked up the linen napkin from his lap, dabbed at his lips and his nearly all-white mustache. He put the napkin down on the table, signaling that he was through with his meal.
“Thank God,” he said to his son. “Thank God and thank you.”