Temporary Sanity (23 page)

There’s only one living person who’s prosecuted more cases in Barnstable County than I have. And she’s been on the job just shy of two decades.

I hold the receiver away from my ear as a loud screech follows the fourth ring and a recorded message kicks in: “The number you have dialed”-an automaton takes an excruciatingly long time to recite each digit-“is temporarily out of service.”

I grab my parka and a pair of boots. Together they hide all but the knees of my red flannel pajamas. I pull on an old ski cap, tuck my hair inside, and avoid looking at the mirror. I’m out the kitchen door, careful to lock it behind me. I don’t normally lock the cottage doors, but I don’t often go for a spin at two-thirty in the morning either.

The roads are slick but empty, and within minutes I’m doing eighty along Route 28, a two-lane road that snakes around the dark shoreline of Pleasant Bay. There is no moon tonight and snow falls steadily as I cross the Chatham line into East Harwich and speed toward Orleans, Geraldine’s hometown.

In no time, I approach the ENTERING ORLEANS sign, a plain square placard I’ve probably passed thousands of times in my life. INCORPORATED 1797, it says. Funny the things you notice doing eighty in the middle of the night.

The flashing blue lights are just about in my backseat before I notice them, though. Damn. At this particular moment, there is probably one police officer on all of Cape Cod who’s not in an all-night doughnut shop. And here he is.

The cop takes forever to leave his car so I jump out of mine. He’s surprised to find me standing in the road-in the falling snow-when he opens the cruiser door. His eyes come to a grinding halt at my knees as he emerges. I wish I’d changed.

The cop shakes his head, then straightens up and faces me, pretending he’s seen nothing out of the ordinary. He looks like a tall version of Opie from
Mayberry R.F.D.
And he doesn’t look much older than Luke.

“Ma’am,” he says, polite as a Boy Scout, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait in your car…”

“Officer, listen, I’m an attorney. A former ADA.”

He shakes his head and raises gloved hands to shut me up. “We don’t make the deals, ma’am. The lawyers do that.”

I have an overwhelming urge to smack Opie into silence.

“Please, ma’am, wait in your car. It’s dangerous in the middle of the road.”

I restrain the smack impulse and use my angry mother voice instead. “Listen to me.”

Opie’s head jerks back and his eyes grow wide. His mouth opens, but no words emerge. The angry mother voice is better than a smack any day.

“I’m not looking for a deal. I’m on my way to a colleague’s house-”

He nods knowingly. “And at the rate you were going, you’d have gotten there yesterday.”

“-to make sure she’s all right. I have reason to fear she may not be. Her phone’s been disconnected-it’s out of service, anyway-and I-”

Opie raises his hands yet again, then points to the Thunderbird, ordering me back to it. I’m just a routine middle-of-the-night stop, another speedster with a sob story. Well, I can fix that.

“The colleague I’m worried about is Geraldine Schilling.”

His hand freezes, still pointing at my old car. “Geraldine Schilling? You mean the new DA?”

“Yes. That’s the one.” I wonder how many Geraldine Schillings he thinks there are in Orleans. “She lives-”

“We know where she lives.” He opens the cruiser door, reaches for the radio.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling it in.”

“But I don’t know for sure that anything’s wrong.” The truth is, though, I’m relieved that he’s calling. Geraldine’s house is a stone’s throw from the Orleans station. They’ll be there long before I will.

“Doesn’t matter. You think she’s in trouble and her phone’s out. She’s the DA. That’s enough.”

He gets back into his car and again directs me to mine. “You should head home, ma’am.” He points his radio at me. “
Slow
. We’ll take it from here.”

Fat chance.

Opie pulls out first, lights still flashing, siren newly activated, but the old Thunderbird is riding his tail in seconds. It’s too bad that the streets are empty, that no one’s around to witness this scene. It’s not every day you see a middle-aged woman in an old car chasing a young cop in a screaming cruiser.

Maybe she’s not home. Maybe her place is locked up tight and she’s spending the night with friends. Better yet, maybe she’s off on a romantic rendezvous, stealing some time with a long-kept-secret lover, away from the public eye, unwittingly avoiding the ex-con with the short list.

But no. Geraldine’s navy blue Buick is in the driveway, washed in a sea of blinding beams. An empty cruiser is parked behind it, roof lights flashing. Four more squad cars form a semicircle on the lawn, all pointed at the front door, bulbs ablaze but sirens mute. They’re empty too. At least two more marked cars light up the backyard, covering the rear of the house. I can’t tell if they’re occupied.

Neighbors with boots and coats thrown over pajamas and bathrobes huddle on the opposite side of the street. I seem to have started a fashion trend.

Opie and I emerge from our cars at the same time. He’s not happy to see me. “I thought I told you to go home,” he grumbles.

“You did.” Never pass up an opportunity to agree with a cop.

“Then why are you here?” He draws his weapon.

That’s a good idea. I pull the Lady Smith from my inside pocket, release the safety, and join him against the wall on the porch. “I told you. She’s a colleague. I’m worried.”

Opie does a double take when he sees the Lady Smith in my hand. I can’t really blame him. A woman in red flannel pajamas and a ski cap wielding a loaded weapon in the middle of the night would raise concerns in most people.

“It’s okay,” I assure him. “I know how to use it.”

He looks skeptical.

“Geraldine Schilling trained me personally.”

He still looks skeptical.

We can see Geraldine’s living room through the porch windows. It’s empty but for her sleek furnishings and modern art collection. The room is undisturbed; even the magazines are lined up neatly on the coffee table.

My reluctant partner reaches for the front doorknob and turns it easily. This isn’t good. Geraldine always locks her doors, always lectures me about not locking mine. She also has an elaborate security system. It’s apparently disarmed. Where are all those cops from the squad cars?

We enter without making a sound. Like the living room, the foyer is in impeccable order, coatrack and telephone table tidy, oak floor spotless. The stairway to the second story is empty. No sound from above.

We’re halfway down the first-floor hallway-crouched against the wall-when we hear the voices.

And the laughter.

Opie stands up straight and takes a deep breath. He blows it out slowly, glaring down at me, and tucks his weapon back in its holster.

I put mine away too, as I straighten, then grimace my apology to him. Call me Barney Fife.

They’re in the kitchen. Ten cops, including the Orleans Chief, standing around Geraldine’s polished cherry table having coffee. She’s in the midst of them, pouring and laughing, elegant in a black silk dressing gown. She’s more than a little surprised to see me enter the room, but Geraldine always recovers quickly.

“Martha,” she says. “Do tell. What brings you to our little gathering?”

“I thought you might be in trouble.”

“You? You’re the anonymous tip?”

I consider myself neither anonymous nor a tip. “Look, Geraldine, it just hit me-Howard Davis, then Judge Long-this could be a revenge thing. And if it is, you’re almost certainly a target.”

Geraldine shakes her head and her blond bangs fall into her eyes. She turns to the Chief. “Is there a way to ban her from movie theaters?”

They all laugh and resume their conversation. It seems the first poor cop to arrive on the scene found himself staring down the barrel of a 9mm Walther PPK. Geraldine’s. She knew he was an Orleans cop-knew his name even-but held him at gunpoint anyway, until the others arrived. Just in case he was a good apple gone bad, she told him.

There don’t seem to be any hard feelings. The mood around the table is downright jovial. Even Opie’s enjoying himself, a steaming ceramic mug soon cradled in his hands.

Geraldine turns back to me. “Coffee? It’s decaf.”

I shake my head. “Your phone is out.”

“Yes, it is,” she says, smiling. “It’ll be fixed by morning. The nice man from the telephone company promised.”

The Chief drains his mug, puts it in the sink, then heads for the back door. “We’ll leave you alone now. You’ll call if you need anything?”

“I will,” Geraldine says. “I’ve got my cell.”

Her cell. Damn.

The other cops take the Chief’s cue. They abandon mugs in the sink and on the counter, then zip up jackets and reposition winter hats. They file out the back door, thanking Geraldine for her hospitality.

“Anytime,” she tells them, eyeing the wall clock. It’s three A.M.

Opie is the last to leave. I put a hand out to stop him as he passes and fish a business card from my wallet. “Mail me a ticket.”

He stares down at me a moment, then tucks the card in his shirt pocket and nods. “I might.”

Geraldine waits until he’s out the door, then lights a cigarette. “Martha,” she says, “your concern for my welfare is touching-truly. But you’ve got to stop imagining serial killers around every corner. Maybe you should see somebody, you know, a therapist or something.”

Geraldine says the word
therapist
as if it’s profane.

“I’m not talking about a serial killer, Geraldine. I’m talking about a revenge killer. Someone who passed long days in prison plotting to do in the people who landed him there.”

Serial killers and revenge killers are distinct creatures. A serial killer gets his thrills from the rituals of murder. His victims are chosen randomly, their identities unimportant. But for a revenge killer, the identity of each victim is critical. He has reasons for wanting a particular person-or group of persons-dead. To Geraldine, of course, this is a distinction that makes no difference.

“I’m serious, Martha. Maybe you should talk to a…a counselor.”

Counselor
is also a word to be avoided in mixed company.

I head for the kitchen door. “And maybe you should take a few extra precautions.”

She follows me to the doorway and I pause on her deck. “A parole officer and a judge-both attacked with a knife in the space of four days. I’m not imagining that.”

She takes a long drag, then blows smoke into the cold air. “But you’re forgetting that the parole officer’s assailant is already in jail.”

Silence. I’m not taking that bait.

Geraldine laughs. “I’ll walk on eggshells. Promise.”

She doesn’t mean it, of course, but there’s no point in arguing with Geraldine. I give up and head down the wooden staircase.

“Oh, and Martha…”

I pause on the bottom step and turn back toward her, heavy snowflakes coating my ski cap and eyelashes. The orange tip of her cigarette glows as she inhales. She takes it from her mouth and points it at the bunched red flannel protruding from my boots.

“Your ensemble,” she says. “Fetching.”

Sonia Baker is no dope. She refused, last night, ever to speak with Prudence Nelson again. But by this morning, Sonia had reconsidered. She phoned the office at seven-thirty and caught me before I left for the courthouse. If the lady shrink can help, then go ahead and send her back, Sonia said. I assured her she was doing the right thing, whereupon she reiterated her assessment of Prudence as a condescending bitch. I didn’t argue.

J. Stanley Edgarton the Third is no dope either. He opened his cross-examination of Patty Hammond with condolences. “Mrs. Hammond,” he said, “let me tell you at the outset that I am sorry-we are all so very sorry-for your loss.”

Stanley swept his arms across the courtroom as he delivered those words, as if he’d been appointed to speak for the entire population of Barnstable County. He approached the witness box and Patty confidently, pity plain on his face.

Patty thanked him, then looked away.

Stanley’s cross-examination, so far, has been matter-of-fact. Patty readily agreed that she is not a mental health professional, not competent to comment on psychiatric questions. She admitted that she had no contact with her husband between the moment he viewed their son’s body and the moment he shot Hector Monteros. She acknowledged that she didn’t see Buck during that time, didn’t speak to him, didn’t even know where he was during the later hours.

Stanley should leave it at that. He has all he needs to tell the jurors to disregard Patty’s direct testimony. He has all he needs to argue that her testimony-every word of it-is irrelevant. He has all he needs to accuse me of calling her to the witness stand only to rouse their sympathy. And, as Beatrice Nolan will certainly instruct them, sympathy is an emotion that should play no role in their deliberations.

Stanley doesn’t seem satisfied, though. He wants more. He paces the front of the courtroom, hands clasped behind his back, his blue forehead vein throbbing. He’s apparently framing another question.

“So you have no personal knowledge, do you, Mrs. Hammond, regarding your husband’s state of mind during those early-morning hours?”

Patty stares at him as if English must be his second-or perhaps third-language, as if he couldn’t possibly mean what he just said. “Oh, but I do,” she says, turning to the jurors. “I may be the only person who does.”

“Objection!” Stanley’s outburst is so loud Patty jumps in the witness box. She presses a fist to her mouth.

I’m up. “To what? Your own question?”

Stanley turns toward the bench, his back to the jurors. Too bad; the pulse of his forehead vein is picking up speed and his pasty complexion is sprouting red, Rorschach-like designs.