Hard Feelings (17 page)

“A case?”

“Probably nothing to be concerned about,” Burroughs said ominously. “Do you think we can do this up in your apartment where we might have a little more privacy?”

“Okay,” I said. “But can you tell me what kind of case you’re talking about?”

“A homicide,” Burroughs said.

“A homicide?” I said, trying to act shocked. “Who . . . What’s going on? Is my wife okay?”

“Your wife is fine,” Freemont said. “I don’t know if you heard, but the man who was killed is someone you once knew. We understand he grew up in a house across the street from you.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Michael Rudnick,” Burroughs said.

I paused, as if I were letting it soak in. Meanwhile, I was trying to decide how to react. I didn’t want to sound totally confused because I knew the police might have found out that I had been to Rudnick’s office last Thursday. On the other hand, I didn’t want to sound as if the news didn’t surprise me, which was easy because I had absolutely no idea how the police had found out that Rudnick had lived across the street from me.

“Wow,” I finally said. “That’s awful. But I don’t get it. Why do you want to talk to me about this?”

“I think we should do this upstairs,” Freemont said coldly.

“Why,” I said, “what’s going on?”

“I really think we should go upstairs,” Freemont said.

“Why?” I said. “I don’t understand.”

A thin, middle-aged, red-haired woman who lived in my building was passing by, overhearing the conversation. I didn’t know her name, but I saw her all the time in the elevator and when she was walking her little black pug.

“Fine,” I said to the detectives. “Let’s go.”

In the elevator, riding with the detectives, I said, “You’ll see this is a big mistake—I have nothing to do with any of this. And, you know, you guys have
some
nerve, causing a scene like that in my building. What if someone from my co-op board heard you?”

“We suggested going upstairs right away,” Freemont said.

“I live here,” I continued, ignoring him. “I have to see these people every day. You know, maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you at all without a lawyer.”

“You’re not under arrest,” Burroughs said. “But if you think you need a lawyer, we can take you back to the police station in Jersey. It’s about an hour-and-a-half drive.”

“I didn’t say I
need
a lawyer,” I said, afraid I was starting to sound guilty. “I don’t even understand why you want to talk to me in the first place.”

Burroughs looked over at Freemont, who remained staring straight ahead at the elevator doors.

As we entered my apartment, Otis started barking venomously, the way he always did when strangers arrived. I asked the detectives to sit down on the living room couch, then I went to lock Otis in my office, noticing that the bedroom door was closed and there was the noise of soft rock music coming from inside, meaning that Paula was home from work. I returned to the living room and sat on the cushioned chair across from the couch where the two detectives were seated.

“So can you please tell me what this is all about?” I said.

“Maybe you should start by telling us what happened last Thursday,” Burroughs said accusingly.

“Last Thursday?” I said, as if confused.

“We understand you were in Michael Rudnick’s office last Thursday morning,” Freemont said.

I glanced toward the balcony, shaking my head, then I looked down at my lap. I let a good ten seconds go by before I said, “Yes—I was in Michael Rudnick’s office.”

“Did you kill him?” Burroughs asked.

“What’s going on here?”

Paula had come out of the bedroom and was standing to my right. She had changed out of her work clothes into shorts and a T-shirt.

“Nothing,” I said. “There just seems to be a big misunderstanding here. These men are detectives from the Jersey police.”

“The police?” Paula said. “Why are the—”

“Are you Mr. Segal’s wife?” Burroughs asked.

“Yes,” Paula said.

“Do you mind joining us?”

“Why does she have to be here for this?” I asked.

“What’s going on here?” Paula demanded.

“A friend of your husband was murdered,” Freemont said.

“He wasn’t my friend . . . He was just an acquaintance. An old acquaintance.”

“Who?” Paula asked.

“Michael Rudnick,” Burroughs said.

“Who’s Michael Rudnick?” Paula asked.

“He’s a guy who grew up across the street from me in Brooklyn,” I said.

“I never heard you mention him before.”

“Maybe you’d like to take a seat and join us, ma’am,” Freemont said to Paula.

“Can you please tell me what’s going on? Right this instant,” Paula said to me.

“I went to see Michael Rudnick last Thursday at his office.”

“Why did you go there?”

“Does she really have to be here for this?” I asked the detectives.

“Yes,” Burroughs said.

I let out a breath, then said, “I ran into him on the street one day last week and started talking computers with him. He was running some outdated system at his office, so I thought I could sell him an upgrade—you know, get some business out of it.”

“Cut the crap,” Burroughs said.

“It’s the God’s honest truth,” I said.

“We know why you were there,” Freemont said. “We just want to hear it from you—in your own words.”

“I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with a murder,” Paula said.

“It doesn’t,” I said.

“Tell us what really happened in Rudnick’s office,” Burroughs said, “or, I don’t care, we’ll all go to Jersey.”

“I told you what happened,” I said. “I was trying to sell him a computer network.”

“Yeah?” Burroughs said. “And how about how you accused him of molesting you?”

I stared at Burroughs with a blank expression. Then I started to feel queasy, like I was passing out.

“Is that true?”

I had the sense that Paula had asked me this question already, at least once.

“Is it?” she asked impatiently.

I knew I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. Looking down at my lap, I nodded slowly. For about a minute, no one spoke. Paula sat in a chair next to me. Although I was looking down, I sensed everyone watching me, waiting for me to answer.

“Why didn’t you tell us this right away?” Burroughs asked.

“Why the hell do you think?” I said, still looking at my lap.

“I wish you’d told me,” Paula said coldly.

I looked over at the detectives. “Do you have any other questions to ask me or can you leave us alone now?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll tell you when we’re through,” Burroughs said. “Why don’t you tell us the whole story now, starting with why you decided to go to Michael Rudnick’s office last week and what exactly went on between you two.”

I was silent for several seconds, then I told an abbreviated version of how I’d run into Rudnick on the street one day and how, later, I’d started having flashbacks of what he had done to me. I explained how I was just going to forget about the memories at first, but then I decided to go to Rudnick’s office to get an apology.

“And when he wouldn’t apologize you attacked him,” Burroughs said.

“I never attacked him,” I said.

“According to Rudnick’s wife you did.”

“Rudnick’s wife?” I said. “What does she have to do with this?”

“On Thursday night, when Rudnick returned home from work, he told his wife how you came to his office that morning, accusing him of molesting you, and how you attacked him.”

This explained how the police had known to look for a Richard Segal in Manhattan, but I was surprised Rudnick had told his wife about me. Wouldn’t he have wanted to keep me a secret?

“Well, that’s not what happened,” I said.

I looked over at Paula for support. She was still standing up, her arms crossed in front of her chest now, still seeming semishocked by the whole situation.

“Then why don’t you give me your version,” Burroughs said.

“I went to his office to talk to him,” I said. “He got angry and started screaming at me, and then he tried to hit me. What was I going to do, just stand there? So I pushed him off me, onto his desk, and that’s when the maintenance guy or whoever came in to break it up.”

Burroughs and Freemont didn’t seem convinced.

“Did you know that Michael Rudnick was accused of child molestation once before?” Burroughs said.

I didn’t know if this was some kind of trick question.

“No,” I said.

“Three years ago,” Burroughs said. “A kid on a soccer team Rudnick coached made the accusation. It made the local papers.”

I saw myself in the parking lot, coming at Rudnick with the knife.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Kid changed his story,” Burroughs said. “No charges were filed.”

“So what does this have to do with me?”

“Maybe you heard about what happened with the kid and it caused these ‘flashbacks’ you had.”

“I told you, I know nothing about any kid.”

“What time did you come home from work last Friday night?” Burroughs asked.

“Friday night?” I said. “Why Friday night?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

I thought quickly. I knew I couldn’t tell the detectives the truth, that I came home that night at around ten-thirty. But, with Paula sitting right there, I couldn’t lie and say I was home at five or six either.

“I don’t know. Late,” I said.

“How late?”

“I don’t know—nineish,” I said, taking a chance that Paula might have forgotten the actual time.

“Where were you before that?” Burroughs asked.

“Drinking,” I said.

“Drinking?” Burroughs said as if he didn’t believe me. “Where were you drinking?”

“At a bar,” I said.

“What bar?”

“The Old Stand. On Second Avenue.”

Freemont was writing in his pad as Burroughs asked me, “When did you get there?”

“I went right after work—around five-thirty, I guess.”

“And how long did you stay?”

“Until about eight-thirty or so.”

“Were you with anybody?”

“No,” I said.

“Is this typical behavior? Drinking alone on a Friday night?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I said, looking at Paula. “I’m an alcoholic.”

Paula half-smiled, obviously pleased to hear her husband admit for the first time that he had a drinking problem.

“Can anybody vouch for you?” Freemont asked. “Somebody else in the bar maybe.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean there were a lot of people there. It’s possible.”

“What about the bartender?” Freemont asked me. “You think he might remember you?”

“Maybe,” I said, “but the place was crowded. I really don’t know.”

“Describe the bartender who served you,” Burroughs said.

“I’m not sure who served me.”

“Had you been to this bar before?”

“Yes, but they have a lot of bartenders there. I know there’s an old Irish guy and a young guy with blond hair and sometimes there’s a woman with dark hair there. Actually, I think a combination of people might have served me that night.”

“A combination of people,” Burroughs said skeptically.

“That’s right,” I said. “A combination of people.”

“Mrs. Segal,” Burroughs said, turning to Paula.

“Borowski,” Paula said.

“Pardon?”

“My last name’s Borowski, not Segal. I kept my maiden name.”

“I’m sorry—Ms.
Borowski.
When did you see your husband on Friday evening?”

Paula and I made brief eye contact. She shifted uncomfortably then said, “Around the time he said he got home— about nine o’clock.”

I blinked slowly, letting out my relief.

“Did your husband seem like he had been drinking?” Burroughs asked.

“Yes,” Paula said. “As a matter of fact, he did.”

“Did he tell you he had been to the Old Stand?”

“No,” Paula said. “But I know he’s gone to that bar before. I mean, he’s mentioned the name to me.”

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to look into this ourselves,” Burroughs said. Turning back to me, he added, “Do you own any large knives, Mr. Segal?”

“Sure,” I said. My mouth was suddenly dry. “I mean it depends what you consider large.”

“One with at least a four- or five-inch blade.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Of course we do,” Paula said to me.

“You mind if we take a look in your kitchen?” Burroughs asked.

“No, go right ahead,” Paula said.