Night Secrets by Thomas H. Cook
He ordered a second Irish and sipped it slowly, like the first, his mind drifting back as it always did, to those moments in his life which still struck him as worth remembering, soaring hopes, searing losses. Beyond these, it was a long flat plain, and it was too late for him to deny that he’d been living on that plain for more years now than it made sense to remember. He imagined that there must be a way back to the mountains and the valleys, but the only one he’d ever found—drink—had led him to places that were even worse. Everything else was an episode, a little love affair with Karen, a case that first burned him to the core and then brought Farouk to him like a large, lumbering angel. Still, for all that, none of it was enough to keep the wolves at bay, and for a moment he tried to imagine what would actually be able to do that for him. Then suddenly the Puri Dai came back to him in a vision of dark hair and flashing eyes, and he found himself yearning for time to pass quickly so that he could see her again, join her in the night. He was still anticipating it as he left the bar and headed back toward his office. Night had fallen entirely by then, and the darkness seemed only to intensify the yearning that he could feel building within him. It was nearly unbearable, his need to see her, so that he seemed almost in a haze by the time he reached Forty-ninth Street.
Deegan was waiting for him, leaning impatiently beside his car.
“I’ve been here for two hours,” he said irritably. “She wouldn’t leave until she saw you.”
“She?”
“The woman, your client, or whatever she is,” Deegan said. “She made a full confession, and they released her into my custody.” He shrugged. “No priors, and no resources to escape. The jails are full.” He smiled mockingly. “I made an eloquent plea, and so they gave us the day.”
“What happens after that?”
“A halfway house,” Deegan said. “Minimum security. For now.”
Frank glanced about. “Where is she?” he asked quickly. Then he glimpsed her, astonishingly free and only a few yards away.
She was standing in the dark corridor, her back pressed against its bare brick wall. There were bits of paper and old bottle caps at her feet, and for an instant Frank felt the impulse to sweep down and clear them away, to tidy things up a bit, the littered walkway she stood in, the rumpled sofa in his office, the cluttered desk and dank, stuffy closet. But it was too late, and so he simply nodded to her coolly, kept himself in check.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” he said.
Her eyes were only partially visible in the shadowy light, but Frank still had no problem sensing how lethally they rested on him.
“When did you get out?” he asked.
The Puri Dai watched him cautiously as he approached her, then passed by and stepped over to the door.
“This morning,” she said crisply after he’d started to open it.
“What was the bail?” Frank asked casually as he inserted the key and swung open the door.
“Only that I must return,” the woman said.
Frank looked back at her, surprised. “For murder, that’s all they asked?”
The Puri Dai shrugged. “A document was delivered, that is all I know.”
“Where are you staying? At the halfway house?”
She didn’t answer, and Frank decided not to pursue it. He stepped into the office.
“Come in,” he said as lightly as he could.
She followed him into the room, then watched him warily as he took off his hat and walked over to his desk.
“I haven’t had much time to work on your case,” Frank said. “Just a little at night.” He gave her a determined stare. “But I want you to know that I’m not giving up on it.”
The Puri Dai stepped toward him. “That is what I have come to tell you,” she said. “You must end this. You must not continue.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is over.”
“What is?”
“There is no defense,” the woman said. “I have made my confession.”
“Yeah, Deegan told me.” Frank sat down behind his desk. “When did you make this confession?” he asked.
“Last night.”
“Did you make it without him?”
“He is nothing to me.”
Frank leaned back into his chair. “What did you say in the confession?”
“That it was I.”
“That you killed the other woman?”
The woman lowered her eyes slightly, but didn’t answer.
“You must have given them quite a few details,” Frank said. “They don’t automatically accept confessions.”
“What I knew,” the Puri Dai said, “that is what I told him.”
“Him? Who did you confess to?”
“One of the men who was there.”
“At the prison?”
“That night.”
“Tannenbaum?”
She shook her head. “The other one. The one who is like you in the way he speaks.”
“Southern? McBride?”
She nodded. “He listened for a long time.”
“You told him everything? All the details?”
“Everything.”
Frank leaned forward slightly. “Tell me.”
She glared at him, as if he’d asked her to do something obscene.
“I need to know,” Frank said immediately.
She looked at him doubtfully.
Frank made up a reason. “For my records,” he said. “So I can close the case.”
The Puri Dai was not convinced.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” Frank asked. “For me to close the case?”
“Yes. That is what I want.”
“Then just answer a few questions,” Frank told her, “and it’ll all be over.”
Her eyes squeezed together determinedly. “It is over now,” she said. “As I have told you. I do not want you to go on with this.”
“I heard you,” Frank said coolly. “But it’s not that easy. Not for me.”
She turned away slightly, her face a dark profile against the front window of the office.
Frank took out his notebook. “Were you alone when you killed her?”
She did not answer.
“Was anyone else in the room?”
She turned to him. “No one,” she said hotly. “No one. Is that enough?”
“Not quite,” Frank said. “I’d like to know why you did it.”
She did not answer.
Frank kept his pen pressed onto the open notebook. “I need a motive.”
The Puri Dai did not speak.
“Was it some kind of argument?” Frank asked.
Silence.
“If it was an argument, what was it over?”
She did not answer.
“Money?”
She glared at him resentfully, but still remained silent.
“Where were you when you killed her?” Frank went on insistently.
She stood up. “I must go.”
“Were you in front of her?” Frank demanded. “Did you stab her?”
The Puri Dai’s face grew rigid.
“What did you use to do it with?”
“A razor,” she shot back angrily. “A razor.”
“Where’d it come from?”
“I must go.”
“Three women lived in that place,” Frank said. “What were they doing with a straight razor?” His eyes bore into hers. “Who else was living with you?”
She seemed suddenly frightened, stricken. “No one.”
“Then what was the razor for?”
She did not answer.
“There was hair on it,” Frank said, playing his trump card. “From a man’s beard.”
Her eyes ignited. “There was nothing on the razor,” she said with absolute certainty. “Nothing. Nothing.”
Frank sat back slightly. “Because you washed it,” he said confidently. “You took it into that little bathroom, and you very carefully washed it.”
Sh
“You washed everything,” Frank told her determinedly. “You even washed that little bathroom. But not well enough.” He stood up. “Look, I’ll show you.”
The Puri Dai did not move.
Frank walked to the small bathroom in his office, switched on the light and looked back at her. “Come here, I’ll show you.”
She remained rigidly in place, but Frank could tell that she was watching him intently.
Frank took out his pocket knife, slid the blade under the crevice between the faucet and the basin and brought it over to her. “See those little hairs,” he said as he pressed the small blade toward her. “We found the same kind in that sink on Tenth Avenue.” He took his handkerchief and slowly wiped the blade clean. Then he leaned toward her, his face very close to hers. “Who is he?”
She did not answer.
“Who is he?” Frank repeated insistently.
She drew back from him. “I do not want you,” she said icily. “I have come to tell you that.”
Frank’s eyes bore into her. “I can’t close this case yet,” he said emphatically.
Her eyes took on a strangely pleading softness. “You must,” she said.
“Why?”
She did not answer.
“Who are you protecting?” Frank asked.
The softness disappeared instantly, and she turned and started toward the door.
Frank wheeled around to block her. “What is all of this about?”
She pressed toward him, and he stepped back slightly, then back again and again, until they were near the door. When she moved to open it, he took her hand.
“Whatever it is you want,” he said, “I’ll help you get it.”
For a moment, the anger dissolved from her eyes. It was replaced by something that looked like pity.
She drew her hand from his. “You are like the rest,” she said. “Even when you give, you take.”
Frank stared at her longingly. “Take what?”
She shook her head silently, resignedly, as if the truths she knew were impossible to teach.
Frank touched her arm gently. “Take what?”
“I must go.”
“Where?”
She didn’t answer.
“The Women’s Center?” Frank asked.
She raised her hand and placed it softly against his face. “You must close the case.”
“I can’t.”
A single finger traced the outline of his jaw. “I will give you what you want,” she said.
Frank took her hand and drew it away from him. He had never wanted anything more, or been less able to accept the way that it was offered. “Whatever this man is,” he said, “he’s not worth that.”
Her face hardened suddenly, and she leaned forward and kissed him roughly, contemptuously, so that her lips seemed to leave on his the taste of dirty money.
He stepped back from her and wiped it from them with his sleeve.
Her eyes were very cold when he glanced toward them again.
“Why did you do that?” he asked.
Her smile was like an iron bar stretched across her face. She let it hold there for a moment, then turned and walked away.
Two hours later, Frank walked directly into Deegan’s office, swiftly and unannounced. “I want to see the confession,” he said sharply.
Deegan’s head jerked up from the stack of papers he’d been poring over. “Where the fuck did you come from?”
“The confession,” Frank said edgily, his voice almost quaking, “was it detailed?”
“I’m not sure it had to be,” Deegan said. “They’ve got a lot on her. The night cashier at that little bodega across the street saw her go into the storefront just a few minutes before the murder. A delivery boy spotted her standing over the body with the weapon in her hand.” He shrugged. “Shall I go on?”
Frank didn’t answer.
Deegan sat back and folded his arms over his chest. “You know, according to Miss Cortez …”
“Who?”
“Cortez,” Deegan said, “that’s the woman’s last name.”
“When did she tell you that?”
“She told me everything, Mr. Clemons,” Deegan said proudly. “But it looks to me as though she hasn’t exactly taken you into her confidence.”
Frank whipped out his notebook. He could feel the cells in his body firing like millions of tiny pistons. “What was the full name?” he demanded.
Deegan eyed him suspiciously. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” Frank replied coldly.
“You strung out on something?”
“The name,” Frank said hotly. “Just give me the name.”
Deegan shook his head. “She doesn’t want you on the case anymore,” he said. “That’s why she dropped by.”
“She told me.”
“Well, then you also know that I don’t have to give you a fucking thing.”
Frank kept his pencil poised on the page. “Do you believe that confession?”
“I have no reason not to.”
“It’s a lie. All of it.”
“How do you know?”
“She said she was in front of the old woman when she killed her,” Frank said. “That couldn’t be true.”
“Why not?”
Frank stared at him, astonished. “Haven’t you read the medical report?”
Deegan looked embarrassed. “I haven’t had time,” he said defensively. He nodded toward an enormous stack of folders that rested in front of him. “I’m not just working one case, you know.”
Frank didn’t feel like arguing the point. “Well, the woman was killed with a razor.”
“Christ, I know that.”
“And the way it was drawn across her throat,” Frank added, “it had to have been done by someone who was standing behind her.”
Deegan seemed to consider it.
“And there was a man living in that little storefront where the woman was killed,” Frank said. “And he hasn’t surfaced yet.”
“How do you know there was a man living there?”
“We found hairs from his beard.”
“We?”
“I have an associate.”
“And where’d you find these hairs?”
“In the bathroom on Tenth Avenue.”
“When did you go there?”
“Last night.”
“With Tannenbaum?”
Frank shook his head.
“Who went with you?”
“Just my associate.”
Deegan’s eyes widened in horror. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” he yelped. “You just broke into the private apartment?” He laughed. “And you’re questioning my professional competence? They’d pull your license in a second if they knew about that break-in.”
Frank stepped toward him. “I want to see her confession,” he said.
Deegan stared at him arrogantly. “And what makes you think I have to give it to you?”
Frank glared at him. “Look, the fact that you didn’t even bother to read the goddamn medical report in a murder case before you let your client plead guilty, that fact can be just between us, or it can …”
Deegan stood his ground. “And that little break-in on Tenth Avenue can just be between us too, pal.”
Frank started to fire another salvo.
Deegan lifted his hand to silence him. “Now wait a minute,” he said. “Let’s just calm down for a minute, okay?”
Frank nodded.
“Now,” Deegan said after a moment, “you’re basically saying that Miss Cortez is pleading guilty to a murder she didn’t commit. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think she’s doing that?”
“I don’t know.”
“In my experience, there are usually three reasons for such a thing,” Deegan went on. “Number one, the guy wants publicity. Number two, the guy’s crazy. Number three, to prot
“Yeah.”
“So, what do you think the situation is with Miss Cortez?”
“The last one,” Frank said. “Protection.”
“For the guy with the beard, right?”
“That’s my guess.”
Deegan sat back and thought about it. “So who is he, her husband?”
“Maybe.”
“Could be a friend, a relative. Or maybe something a little more interesting—a lover.”
Frank felt stricken by his answer. “Probably,” he said.
“You mink you can find this person?”
“I can try.”
Deegan nodded. “Can I count on you to pass all the information you find about this case to me?”
“Yes.”
Deegan smiled. “You see, Frank, we can behave like gentlemen with one another.”
Frank said nothing.
Deegan took a deep breath. “Okay, then on the basis of what you’ve told me and our other agreement, I consider it my professional duty to give you a copy of Miss Cortez’s confession, along with any other information which I deem relevant.”
Frank pressed his pencil toward the open notebook. “Let’s start with her name,” Deegan said. He pulled her confession from a stack of other documents. “Her whole name,” he said, as he handed it to Frank.
It was Magdalena Immaculata Cortez, and Frank pronounced it very clearly, trying to keep the long, lazy southern vowels out of his voice as he said it to the man who ran the bodega down the block from the storefront on Tenth Avenue.
The man behind the counter blinked rapidly. “Holy shit, that’s a mouthful, huh?”
Frank nodded.
“You a cop?” the man behind the counter asked. He was short, and very thin, with black curly hair. His fingers were long, and he drummed them continually along the edge of the counter to some beat that was only in his head.
Frank took out his identification.
“Oh,” the man said. “Private dick. Ain’t that what they call you guys?”
“Sometimes,” Frank said. “My name’s Clemons.”
“Frankie Betonni.”
Frank smiled crisply. “About the woman,” he said.
“Woman, yeah,” Betonni said. He swayed his hips slightly to the inaudible beat. “Magda … whatever. Which one was she?”
“Tall, dark,” Frank said. “She sometimes wore …”