Dead Winter Read online

  Fourier nodded and made a note on a pad of paper on his desk. “Very helpful,” he murmured. He tapped the manila envelope. “Another thing the M.E. found out. Your wife had sexual intercourse within a couple hours of her death. You make love to her last night?”

  Marc shook his head. “No.”

  “Who did?”

  Marc shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “She have a boyfriend?”

  “Was she raped?”

  “The M.E. says no.”

  “I guess she had a boyfriend, then.”

  “But, of course, you have no idea who it might’ve been.”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “I don’t see—”

  Fourier held up his hand. “Sorry. I keep forgetting. You’re the grieving husband.”

  Marc glanced at me. I returned his glance with a frown. He gave me an imperceptible shake of his head.

  “You have questions for Mr. Winter?” I said to the policeman. “The man has lost his wife. He’s here voluntarily. The least you can do is be civil.”

  He smiled. It was without humor. “So sorry. Yes, I do have questions.” He cleared his throat, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then said, “Tell me again why you went to the boat last night.”

  “I was home,” said Marc with a sigh. “I heard thunder. Thought maybe the boat wasn’t secure. So I went to the marina to check her out. Saw the hatch was open and the light on. So I went aboard and saw Maggie. Her body.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I went to the phone and called you guys.”

  “The phone at the marina.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you go before that?”

  Marc frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Between the time you saw her and called, where did you go?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Marc,” said Fourier slowly, “we’ve known each other for a while.”

  Marc shrugged.

  “Not what you’d call friends, maybe. But not enemies, either.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m going to ask you again. Where did you go before you called the station last night?”

  “Nowhere.”

  Fourier sighed and shook his head. He looked at me. “Your client is not telling the truth.”

  I turned to Marc. “Listen—”

  “I’m telling the truth, Brady.”

  “Supposing I told you that somebody saw you drive up in your truck, park beside the marina, get out and go directly to the telephone.”

  “I’d say they were mistaken.”

  “Supposing I had a sworn statement?”

  Marc shrugged. “I’d still say they were wrong.”

  “It seems like a dumb thing to lie about,” said the cop.

  “I agree,” said Marc.

  “Let me ask you this, then. Why were you all dressed up if you were in bed and then decided to go down to your boat? I mean, why not throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, instead of fancy pants and a sport coat?”

  Marc lifted his eyebrows at me. I shrugged. “It’s what was on the chair,” he said. “What I had been wearing.”

  “Look,” I said. “If Marc is a suspect here—if you intend to arrest him—then I’m going to advise him not to answer any more questions, since you have neglected to read him his rights. If he’s not a suspect, then I think you better develop a different line of questioning.”

  Fourier stared blandly at me for a moment. Then he gave me another one of his mirthless smiles. “You’re right, Mr. Coyne. Nice to have a lawyer here to remind me of my job. What I need to know from your client is who might’ve killed his wife. See, we don’t have a suspect. Now, Marc, here, he’s not a suspect. On the other hand, he could become one, if you follow me. I’m not jumping to conclusions or anything like that. Somebody beat in the skull of this young woman. Plenty of malice aforethought, it would appear. So who had the malice? No evidence that there was a scuffle, argument, anything like that. Looks like the young woman went onto the boat, had sex, fell asleep, and whoever screwed her smashed in her head. If it wasn’t Mr. Winter, here, then I’m hoping he can help us figure out who.”

  Marc shrugged. “I don’t know. I have no idea. People liked Maggie.”

  “Evidently she was having an affair,” said Fourier.

  “Evidently.”

  “Sex makes for strong feelings.”

  “I guess.”

  Fourier puffed out his cheeks and blew out a sigh. “You told me last night she used to work at the Night Owl.”

  “She did. Maybe it was someone she knew from there.”

  Fourier nodded. “We’re working on it. You must be able to give us a name.”

  “I can’t,” said Marc.

  “Even a first name would help.”

  “Maggie never mentioned anybody. I never asked.”

  “That’s unusual.”

  Marc shrugged.

  “What about her family?”

  “I don’t know anything about her family.”

  “Parents? Brothers, sisters, ex-husbands?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You expect me to believe you were married to her and she never talked about her family?”

  “She ran away from home when she was young. She was a survivor. She had no family. Except me.” Marc’s hands tightened into fists on top of the desk. “Look. I don’t care what you believe. You think just because I did time I must’ve killed Maggie, and I’m telling you what I know, and you think I’m lying.” He turned to me. “Do I have to take this, Brady?”

  Just then Fourier’s phone rang. He picked it up. “Fourier,” he growled into the receiver. He listened for several moments, then said, “Okay.” He hung up and pushed his chair back and looked from me to Marc. “That’s it for now. We’ll be in touch. Meantime, try to remember if maybe, in the shock of events and all, maybe you didn’t drive away after you found the body, then change your mind and go back to the marina to make your call, huh?”

  Marc stood up. “I’ll work on it.”

  Fourier hoisted himself up from his chair. He looked from Marc to me. “Well, thanks, then.” He started us moving toward the door, and when he saw that we were headed in the right direction he returned to his desk. As we left, I saw that he was back in his seat talking into the telephone. He was waving his sugar-covered cruller around in the air to emphasize the points he was trying to make.

  We sat in my car, looking toward the river. I started it up and got the air-conditioning blowing hard. The summer sun was high and hot.

  “He doesn’t believe you,” I said after I got a cigarette lit.

  Marc was staring off toward the river. “Fuck him.”

  “Terrific attitude. Might be better if you tried cooperating with the police. They’re trying to figure out who killed your wife, remember?”

  “Oh, they’ve got it all figured out.”

  “Look,” I said. “You’re a logical suspect. You were there. You’ve certainly got a motive, if Maggie was having an affair with some guy.”

  “That wasn’t a motive for me.”

  “Most folks wouldn’t understand that.”

  “Anyway, I am cooperating. I talked to them last night. I talked to them this morning. I told them everything I know.”

  “You don’t seem to know a hell of a lot about your wife.”

  He shrugged.

  I cracked the car window and snapped out the cigarette butt. “You ready to go? I’ve got to get back to my office.”

  “Yeah. In a minute,” said Marc. He turned in his seat to face me. “What was all that about me driving away and going back? I mean, what if I did?”

  “Did you?”

  He shook his head quickly.

  “Because if you did, then don’t you see? You could’ve killed Maggie, driven away to change your clothes. They would’ve been bloodstained probably. Then you could have gone back to make the call as if you hadn’t be
en there before. See, if you parked and went directly to the phone, you wouldn’t’ve had any way of knowing she was dead unless you’d been there before.”

  “You think he has a witness?”

  I looked sharply at him. “Could he?”

  Marc gazed out the side window. “Yeah. Maybe he could.”

  “You mean you did drive away and then go back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If you’re serious, then I am about to sign off of this case,” I said slowly. “You better tell me why you lied in there, and why you’ve been lying to me, and what really happened. And you better think carefully before you tell me. If you killed Maggie, I promise you that your best move is to tell me all about it.”

  “You’re pissed, aren’t you?”

  “You’re damn right I’m pissed.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  “It keeps getting harder to accept your word on that.”

  “Listen,” said Marc earnestly. “Here’s what happened. After my father went to bed last night, I went out. Met a girl. She’s married, okay? I called her, she said she could get out. I met her on a side road in Salisbury, across the river. We talked for a while. Nice girl. Got two little kids at home. Her husband doesn’t treat her very well. One thing led to another. We decided to go to the boat.” He turned to look at me. “We thought we might go for a little ride. Anchor somewhere.”

  “Go on.”

  “If her old man found out she was with me he’d beat the crap out of her. Their marriage is very rocky. She—she might lose her children if he knew she was fooling around. He’d do that. It would kill her.”

  “She’s your alibi.”

  “Yeah. But I don’t want her involved.”

  “It makes it look bad for you.”

  He shrugged. “Fourier’s got nothing. I’ll take my chances. If I have to, okay, I’ll tell about her. So we went to the boat. Like I said, the hatch was open. I found Maggie, just the way I said. I told Andy not to come down. We went back to the truck and I drove her to her car. Then I went back and made the phone call.”

  “And this is the truth?”

  “Swear to God.”

  I thought about it. Unless Marc was arrested, I saw no good purpose to be served by involving this other woman. Her only function in the case would be to clear Marc.

  If Marc was now telling me the truth.

  “I want to talk to her,” I said.

  “It won’t do any good. She’s too scared. She won’t tell you anything.”

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “It won’t matter. I told her not to tell anybody. I told her she wouldn’t have to. I told her I’d keep her out of it.”

  “Fourier is getting ready to arrest you. You realize that?”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want Andy involved.”

  “Then,” I said, “you can count me out.”

  He was silent for a minute. I lit another cigarette and waited.

  “Why do you want to talk to her?” he said finally.

  “So I’ll know I can trust you.”

  “You won’t tell the cops?”

  “If she can corroborate your story, I won’t tell anybody until you or she says it’s okay.”

  He frowned at me for a minute, then nodded his head. “Okay. Her name is Andy. Andrea. Andrea Pavelich. She waitresses noons at Michael’s.”

  “Where’s that?”

  He pointed out the window. “Right around the corner. We could walk there from here.”

  I put the car into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. “We’ll drive. You’ll stay in the car while I go in.”

  “So I won’t get to her first, right?”

  I grinned. “Right.”

  5

  MICHAEL’S RESTAURANT WAS HOUSED in a rambling weathered building, once painted white, perched on the edge of the river practically in the shadow of the Route 1 bridge. Windows that looked out on an assortment of pleasure and work boats walled the downstairs dining room. It was nearly empty, awaiting the noontime lunch crowd.

  Although I had eaten no breakfast, I had no appetite. The two cups of coffee sloshed acidly in my stomach. I climbed up on a stool at the small bar adjacent to the dining room and looked around. I saw no bartender.

  After a moment someone touched my shoulder. “Sorry, sir. The bar isn’t open.”

  She was elderly and gray and dressed in a short blue skirt and yellow jersey, both of which were a couple sizes too small for her. A little plaque over her left breast indicated that her name was Maureen.

  “All I want is coffee.”

  “You can take a table.”

  I shrugged and spun down from the barstool. She led me to a small table by the window. “Just coffee?”

  I nodded. “Is Andy here?”

  “Yes. She just came on. She’s in the kitchen.”

  “Would you mind telling her I’m here, like to talk to her?”

  She cocked her head at me. “Who’re you?”

  “Tell her I’m a friend of Marc.”

  Maureen frowned. “Oh, well, sure.”

  “Don’t bother with cream. I take my coffee black.”

  She bobbed her head and left. I stared out at the boats. A white-bearded man wearing a long-billed cap and chest-high rubber waders wrestled what looked like a tub of bait aboard a broad-beamed fishing boat. A pair of teenagers lugged fishing gear onto a Boston Whaler. Gulls played musical chairs atop the pilings.

  “Maureen said you were looking for me?”

  I looked up. Her lower lip was tucked apprehensively under her top teeth. Her hair, the color of Georgia clay, was twisted into a crude bun and secured with a pair of wooden pegs that looked like chopsticks. Her uniform matched the one Maureen wore, except it fit her better.

  “Andy?”

  She nodded cautiously.

  “Can you sit for a minute?”

  She shrugged and took the seat across from me. “Who’re you, anyway?” She tried to smile. It came up short.

  “I’m Marc Winter’s lawyer. Brady Coyne.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “So?”

  “I’d like to ask you a couple questions.”

  “You got proof?”

  “What?”

  “That you’re a lawyer, I mean?”

  I reached into my wallet and extracted one of my business cards. I handed it across the table to her. She studied it and then looked up at me. “What do you want?”

  “I want to help Marc. He’s in a little trouble.”

  She sighed and shrugged. “I’m not—”

  At that moment Maureen returned with a mug of coffee. She placed it in front of me. “You said no cream, right?”

  “Right. Thanks.”

  “You want something, hon?” she said to Andy.

  “Uh uh.”

  After Maureen left, I leaned toward Andy. “I don’t want you to be concerned about this. Whatever you tell me is confidential. Do you understand?”

  She frowned and nodded.

  “Marc and I just came from the police station.”

  Andy’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Please,” she said softly.

  “Marc hasn’t been accused of anything. I just need to know what happened last night. It’s very important.”

  “He promised me,” she said. A tear leaked out of one of her eyes. It dribbled down her cheek. She ignored it. “He said he wouldn’t say anything about me. Us.”

  “He didn’t tell the police. But he did tell me you were with him.”

  “He shouldn’ta. It’s not fair. We had a deal.”

  “He explained why he wanted you kept out of it.” I lit a cigarette and held the Winston pack to her. She shook her head impatiently. “Will you tell me what happened last night?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “It would be better for you to tell me than the police.”

  She looked out the window. She had clear, translucent skin and a little turned-up nose lightly salted with pale freckles. Except for the wor
ry lines etched like a pair of parentheses around her mouth, she looked young and pretty. “I just want to forget the whole thing. Marc and everything. It wasn’t worth it.” She turned to face me. Now the tears came more freely. She brushed impatiently at them with the back of her hand. “See, my life is a mess. I shoulda just left it at that. Now it’s…” Her voice faded. She turned again to gaze out the window.

  I sipped my coffee and waited. She shook her head slowly.

  “Okay,” she said to the boats. She looked back to me. “Okay. He called me last night. I was—”

  “About what time was that?”

  “Nine thirty, maybe?”

  “Go on.”

  “The kids were in bed. My—my husband was out. As usual. Which didn’t make me unhappy, believe me. Except I dread when he comes home. See—never mind. Anyhow, Marc said he could come over. I said no. I couldn’t—didn’t want to do that anymore. He said I shouldn’t worry. He said he needed me. He just wanted to see me for an hour. He’s real sweet. Marc, I mean. Not Al. Anyway, I said, well, okay. It’s—Marc makes me feel good, see. Makes me kinda feel all melty when he talks to me. So different from Al. Oh, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I don’t even know you.”

  I reached across the table to touch her wrist. “There was a murder last night,” I said gently.

  “Yeah. I know.” She frowned at me. “You don’t think Marc did it, do you?”

  “He says he didn’t.”

  “Well, he didn’t. At least not when he was with me.”

  “Which was—?”

  “Like I said, maybe nine thirty, quarter to ten—”

  “You said he called you at nine thirty.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Yeah, right. I was watching something on TV and he called during the commercial. Okay. I met him, I guess it was nearer to ten. I checked the kids, made sure they were okay. Told the oldest one, my little girl—she’s nine, real responsible—I told her I had to go out for a little while. I locked up and drove down by the beach. It’s where we usually meet. I mean, not that I do this a whole lot. But Marc can’t exactly come to the house. Anyway, it’s maybe ten, fifteen minutes from my house. I had to wait maybe five minutes before he got there.”

  She stopped and dropped her eyes.

  “Go on, Andy.”

  “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “I don’t want details of your personal life. Were you with Marc for the rest of the evening?”