Postmortem(80)

“I don’t know what you’re getting—”

“See,” he interrupted, “I just think it’s a little strange that about five weeks ago, right after the second strangling, you did a big spread on Boltz, a dayin-the-life-of story. A big profile of the city’s favorite golden boy. The two of you spend a day together, right? It just so happens I was out that night, saw the two of you driving away from Franco’s around ten o’clock. Cops is nosy, especially if we’ve got nothing better to do, you know, if it’s slow on the street. And it just so happens I tagged along after you . . .”

“Stop it,” she whispered, shaking her head side to side. “Stop it!”

He ignored her. “Boltz don’t drop you off at the newspaper. See, he takes you to your house and when I breeze by several hours later—bingo! The fancy white Audi’s still there, all the lights in the house off.

What do you know? Right after that, all these juicy details start showing up in your stories. I guess that’s your definition of a professional association.”

Abby was trembling all over, her face in her hands. I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t look at Marino. I was knocked so off balance it was barely penetrating—the unwarranted cruelty of his hitting her with this now, after all that had happened.

“I didn’t sleep with him.” Her voice shook so badly she could barely talk. “I didn’t. I didn’t want to. He . . . he took advantage of me.”

“Right.” Marino snorted.

She looked up and briefly shut her eyes. “I was with him all day. The last meeting we went to wasn’t over until seven that night. I offered dinner, said the newspaper would buy him dinner. We went to Franco’s. I had one glass of wine, that was all. One glass. I start getting woozy, just incredibly woozy. I hardly remember leaving the restaurant. The last thing I remember is getting into his car. Him reaching for my hand, saying something about how he’d never made it with a police reporter before. What happened that night, I don’t remember any of it. I woke up early the next morning. He was there . . .”

“Which reminds me.” Marino stabbed out the cigarette. “Where was your sister during all this?”

“Here. She was in her room, I guess. I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter. We were downstairs. In the living room. On the couch, on the floor, I don’t remember—I’m not sure she even knew!”

He looked disgusted.

She hysterically went on, “I couldn’t believe it. I was terrified, sick like I’d been poisoned. All I can figure is when I got up to go to the ladies’ room at one point during dinner he slipped something in my drink. He knew he had me. He knew I wouldn’t go to the cops. Who would believe me if I called and said the Commonwealth’s attorney . . . he did such a thing? No one! No one would believe me!”

“You got that straight,” Marino butted in. “Hey, he’s a good-looking guy. He don’t need to slip a lady a mickey to get her to give up the goods.”

Abby screamed, “He’s scum! He’s probably done it a thousand times and gotten away with it! He threatened me, told me if I mentioned a word he’d make me out to be a slut, he’d ruin me!”

“Then what?” Marino demanded. “Then he feels guilty and starts leaking information to you?”

“No! I’ve had nothing to do with the bastard! If I got within ten feet of him I’d be afraid I’d blow his goddam head off! None of my information has come from him!”

It couldn’t be true.

What Abby was saying. It couldn’t be true. I was trying to ward off the statements. They were terrible, but they were adding up despite my desperate inward denials.

She must have recognized Bill’s white Audi on the spot. That was why she panicked when she saw it parked in my drive. Earlier she found Bill inside her house and shrieked at him to leave because she hated the very sight of him.

Bill warned me she would stoop to anything, that she was vengeful, opportunistic and dangerous. Why did he tell me that? Why really? Was he laying the groundwork for his own defense should Abby ever accuse him?

He had lied to me. He didn’t spurn her so-called advances when he drove her to her house after the interview. His car was still parked there early the next morning—

Images were flashing through my mind of the few occasions early on when Bill and I were alone on my living room couch. I became sickened by the memory of his sudden aggression, the raw brute force that I attributed to whisky. Was this the dark side of him? Was the truth that he found pleasure only in overpowering? In taking?