Dream of The Broken Horses, The Read online

  Mace interviewed Jürgen Hoff, maître d'hotel at The Elms:

  Witness states he's been employed by Cody since the opening of The Elms eleven years ago. Witness state before that he worked for two years as maître d' at a restaurant in Cuernavaca, Mexico, and before that held enlisted rank in French Foreign Legion, serving in Algerian war, where he was wounded and awarded several medals. Witness states he was born in Germany, obtained French citizenship due to military service, and is now a naturalized U.S. citizen. Witness states he considers Cody a friend, adding ‘I'm extremely loyal to my friends.’ Witness states that despite this friendship he will answer all questions truthfully. Witness states Cody was devoted to victim and would never do anything to harm her. Witness states Cody always looked forward to victim's visits and ‘he was almost like a little boy when she was around he was so excited by her.’ Witness states of victim, ‘I found Madame Fulraine charming. She was also cool and haughty, not my type. But Mr. Cody liked women like that so they got along just fine.’

  Witness states, ‘In my eleven years with Mr. Cody, I never once saw him lose control. He can get very angry, certainly, and you will feel his anger when he turns it upon you, not a boiling rage that makes you sweat, but an ice-cold anger that chills you to the bone.’

  Witness states he is familiar with story that Cody disfigured Marcéline Forestière, an entertainer he was going with, when he discovered Miss Forestière was sleeping with club backup musician, Randy Wayne. Witness states this story is totally false. Witness states he knew Miss Forestière. a Canadian citizen, very well, that they always spoke French together, and that after she was disfigured she told him Randy Wayne was the one who'd cut her face. Witness states Cody was so incensed by what Wayne did to her he asked some gangster friends to ‘punish’ Wayne for his transgression. Witness states he doesn't know what happened, but he heard Cody's friends got carried away and since Wayne's body was recovered a little later ‘maybe they went too far.’

  Witness states that even though Cody was betrayed by Forestière, he sent her to Los Angeles to be treated by a famous plastic surgeon and ended up paying thousands of dollars for operations so she could sing in public once again. Witness states, ‘I tell you this so you know the kind of man we are talking about, a man who, yes, shows a hard face to the world, but who has a big, soft heart beneath.’

  Asked by interviewer if Cody, discovering he was being two-timed by victim, might have asked these same friends to ‘punish’ his girlfriend's lover and maybe the friends again ‘went too far,’ witness states, ‘I don not believe that could have happened.’

  Witness states Cody is a very smart man who always learns from his mistakes and that after what his friends did to Randy Wayne he would never again have entrusted them with such a mission. Witness states, ‘What they did caused Mr. Cody a lot of trouble, and Mr. Cody doesn't like trouble. Many people still think he cut up Marci. I happen to know he didn't. But you must understand Mr. Cody is not the type to go around telling people “I didn't do this” or “I didn't do that.” He is not the type who denies. Rather he's the kind who demonstrates his character to the world by his actions and demeanor. People can think what they like. Mr. Cody doesn't care. He knows who he is and who he is not, and those, such as myself, who know him well know he would never have allowed anyone to hurt Madame Fulraine, a woman he loved, no matter whether she fucked every busboy, guard, and gardener at The Elms.’

  Evaluation: Witness, by his own admission, is extremely loyal to Cody, who was primary sponsor of his U.S. citizenship. Witness's statements about Marcéline Forestière are strictly hearsay. Witness's statements about Cody's character and what he is and is not capable of are simply impressions of a loyal employee and for this reason cannot be viewed as credible.

  No wonder Mace dismisses Jürgen Hoff's impressions: In his interview, Jürgen, with great fervor, knocks down Mace's theory of the crime. If the Flamingo Court killings were in fact a hit ordered by Cody, a hit against Tom Jessup that went terribly wrong when the shooter, finding Jessup in bed with Barbara, executed them both, then it's clear the only hope Mace has of making such a case is to identify, arrest, and then ‘flip’ the shooter.

  The folder on Tom Jessup is pitifully thin, commensurate with his lowly status. To the media, the Flamingo Court killings were about Barbara Fulraine: SOCIALITE GUNNED TO DEATH IN LOVE NEST. Although the cops viewed the victims equally, Barbara became the focus of their investigation. Still they made a decent effort to learn more about Jessup, even going so far as to track down his college sweetheart, Susan Pettibone, in New York. Joe Burns interviewed her by phone:

  Witness states she is twenty-eight years old, unmarried, a broker at Merrill Lynch. Witness states she met victim in college, they dated for a year, then lived together for two years in an off-campus apartment. Witness describes victim as ‘highly sensitive and one of the sweetest guys I've ever known.’ Witness states, ‘In the time I knew him, I doubt Tom had an enemy in the world.’

  Witness states she and victim kept in close touch even after they decided to go separate ways. Witness states victim phoned her approximately once a week, usually on Sunday afternoons. Witness states victim was ‘terribly lonely’ in Calista and had not managed to make any close friends since taking job at Hayes School. Witness states victim told her he liked teaching at Hayes and generally liked the kids, though he thought “some were really spoiled brats.” Witness states victim told her he would probably not stay at Hayes after second year, unless his social life improved.

  Witness states victim informed her sometime in May that he'd ‘finally met somebody.’ Witness states victim sounded happier than he had in over a year. Witness states that when she pressed him, he told her, “it's an impossible love, there's probably no future in it, but still I'm enjoying every minute.”

  Witness states sometime in June, victim told her he no longer felt his love was so ‘impossible.’ Witness states victim told her, “We love each other, we're really well suited, and the sex is, well, just great!” Witness states she found this last comment annoying ‘because actually the sex between us hadn't been all that terrific, at least during the last year or so we were together.’

  Witness states that when Hayes broke for the summer in late June, victim told her he was seeing his new love nearly every day, and ‘it keeps getting better and better. Neither of us can believe how great it is.’

  Witness states that when she asked victim to describe the woman, he told her she was gorgeous, divorced, had kids, and was trying to extricate herself from another relationship, ‘so we have to be careful, as this other guy is, you know, kind of a hood.’ Witness states victim told her his lover ‘has problems, but she's seeing a shrink, trying to work them out.’ Witness states victim told her he was ‘optimistic’ about relationship, and that if everything went as he hoped ‘my situation will change in ways you can't imagine.’

  Witness states she received a call from victim in mid-August. ‘I was surprised to hear from him since it was a weekday night. He sounded pretty upset.’ Witness states victim told her he called “because I wanted to hear your voice.” Witness states victim did not offer specific reason for his agitated state, but did say ‘problems had arisen in his love affair and “I hope we can work them out.” Witness states victim asked her if she'd consider visiting him for a few days. Witness states victim told her, “I'd like you to meet Barbara then give me your honest opinion.” Witness states this was first time victim mentioned his lover by name.

  Witness states, ‘I remember when I put down the phone I felt really disturbed, like something was wrong out there and Tom was too embarrassed to tell me what was happening.’ Witness states she brooded over the matter, then last Sunday she phoned victim late at night.

  Witness states, ‘I woke him up. I think for a moment he thought I was Barbara, because he mumbled something weird like, “God! Did you really do it?” or “Did he really do it?” Then the victim realized that it was witness calling, he apolo
gized, told witness “things are looking better now” and “of course I'd love to see you, but I don't think you should come out now. It's too hot and humid here in summer.”

  Witness states, ‘That was our last conversation. Two days ago his cousin called from Michigan and told me he'd been killed.’

  Evaluation: Witness is helpful and sincere. Unfortunately, her information on causes of victim's agitation is too sketchy to be of use.

  At 6:00 A.M., having read through the bulk of the case file, I take a few key documents to the photocopy room across the hall. Feeding the pages by rote into the machine, I fall into a kind of daze.

  I'm exhausted, I realize, and not just on account of lack of sleep. It's the intensity of my expedition into the past that's worn me out. The fatigue is similar to what I feel after a long eyewitness interview — vague, drained, detached, having not yet reentered my own reality after stepping out of someone else's nightmare.

  Mace pops in just as I'm finishing.

  "Kinda red-eyed, aren't you?" He grins. "I figured it'd take you the night."

  His eyes are clear, his cheeks freshly shaved. "So what'd you think?" he asks, accompanying me downstairs.

  "The Identi-Kit composite was pretty amusing. Otherwise I think you guys did a thorough job."

  "We hit most every angle. But like any case, there're still hundreds of loose ends. And much as I've studied the file, I still don't have a clear picture of the victims. What they were up to, particularly her. What was she doing with that guy? Was it just physical or was there something else at work?"

  "I guess you should have gotten more out of the shrink."

  He laughs. "That whip photograph. I've been kicking myself over that, like why I didn't turn it up. Your father had it, didn't he?"

  I nod. "My mom died this spring. She had a folder of stuff that belonged to him. The photo was there. It's what got me started on this again."

  "Anything else I should know about?"

  "Yeah, an unfinished draft of a case study Dad was writing about Mrs. Fulraine."

  Mace touches his goatee. "I think doctor-patient confidentiality has pretty much expired by now, don't you?"

  "I'll make a copy for you."

  "Thanks, David. I appreciate that."

  At the main door, he extends his hand. "Let's have dinner this week. You can give me the copy and we can talk the whole thing through."

  After we set a date, he claps me on the shoulder. "And please bring along the whip photograph. I'm eager to see that too."

  * * * * *

  I pull up at The Townsend a little before 7 A.M.. The network TV crews are loading their equipment into vans. Pam, I figure, is probably in the rooftop gym finishing up her workout. Too weary to search her out, I go up to my room, order coffee from room service, then shave and shower.

  I'm standing under the hot spray, reveling in the sensual, stingy aquatic drilling of my flesh, when it hits me: Just ten days before the killings Tom Jessup phoned Susan Pettibone and, apparently agitated, told her problems had arisen in his love affair. What sort of problems? What could Tom have meant? And what did he mean when, on the Sunday before he was killed, mistaking Susan's voice for Barbara's when she phoned him late at night, he muttered, “did you really do it?” or “Did he really do it?” or words to that effect?

  Something important there, I think — something Mace should have picked up on and probed. For if there was trouble in the affair, perhaps that same trouble was at the root of the killings. If that was the case, then, it seems, Tom Jessup had an inkling of the coming storm.

  8

  This morning, Judge Winterson's clerk beckons me aside.

  "Judge likes the way you're drawing her," he tells me. "She says you make her look wise."

  "She is wise."

  "On the other hand, she doesn't much like the way this fella Washboard's—"

  "Washburn."

  "—doing her. Angles her head like she's stuckup. Makes her shadowy like she's a dark presence. The woman's a judge for Christ's sake, not some goddamn Aunt Jemima."

  Ah! Vanitas Vanitatum!

  "Wash is probably just being artistic," I tell him.

  * * * * *

  When the trial breaks early at 3 p.m., Pam suggests we drive out to the Fulraine mansion for a look. I phone ahead and obtain permission to tour the grounds though not to enter the house.

  "Our residents don't like being disturbed," the snooty manager tells me.

  The place is now called LAKE VIEW EAST, the words engraved on a brass plate discreetly attached to a stanchion at the driveway gate. Ten years ago, it was converted into a ritzy assisted-living establishment for six wealthy elderly residents, each of whom now occupies a luxury suite.

  We drive slowly down the long gravel driveway, park in the turnabout before the graceful beige stone house. It's a perfect copy of a Palladian villa, a tall central section, arched doorway embracing a great room, and two symmetrical wings on either side. There are loggias and arcades, curved windows and columns, with clusters of rhododendra softening the base of the façade. As we stroll around the west side, past the greenhouse and garages, I tell Pam about the last time I was here, twenty-eight years ago, at Mark Fulraine's tenth birthday party to which I and Jerry Glickman were probably invited only because to leave out the two Jewish kids in the class would have been too obvious a slight.

  Mark and I were never friends. Our sixth-grade boxing bout was but the culmination of years of mutual dislike. Now, standing out on the main terrace, facing the tennis court, pool, and great lawn that slopes down to Delamere Lake, I recall for Pam my main memory of that party, the reason I had such a lousy time.

  "Birthday parties were usually fun," I tell her, "especially when the kid's parents had a place like this. They'd set up tents, bring in ponies, hire a couple of clowns, then we'd go wild, have ourselves a ball. But this time when we arrived, Mrs. Fulraine wasn't here, though she did turn up at the end. Instead we found Mr. Lafferty, Hayes Lower School athletic director, waiting for us in his coach's outfit — faded football pants, red baseball cap, and chrome whistle dangling from his neck. Immediately Lafferty started ordering us around. He organized us into teams, then made us play touch football, not the fun, free-for-all way, but his way by school rules. Suddenly the party wasn't a day off, it was like compulsory athletics. I guess Mrs. Fulraine felt she had to bring him in since she didn't have a man in the house."

  Pam smiles. "Maybe Mrs. Fulraine was fucking Mr. Lafferty. Maybe Jessup was just one of several lovers she recruited from you fancy school."

  I snort out a laugh. "Jessup was young and good looking. Lafferty was a gnarled old guy with a white sidewalls haircut and stick-out ears." I pause. "But there was something else, something we'd all forgotten — that it was three years before at Mark's seventh birthday party when Belle Fulraine and the au pair disappeared. I think that's why Mrs. Fulraine wasn't in the house that day. It was not an anniversary she'd want to recall.

  Pam's impressed with the estate. "It's beautiful here," she says, turning back toward the house, scanning the long protected arcade furnished with groupings of tables and wicker chairs. Several times she's described her own background, growing up working class in south Jersey where her father ran a gas station and her mother worked as a practical nurse. Now it occurs to me she may be fascinated with the trappings of wealth.

  "That kidnapping — I think it was the key," she says. "It's like everything stemmed from that — the breakup of Barbara's marriage, her affair with Cody, her fear Andrew would get custody of her boys. You told me about watching the Fulraines on TV, begging and weeping at their gate. Think of what it must have been like here then — the terror they must have felt!"

  She shakes her head. "After seeing the Flamingo, I had a lot of questions. I thought maybe Tom Jessup was intimidated by the house. After all, with her kids away at camp, Barbara and Tom could have screwed away there afternoons here. So why the Flamingo? You said she liked the scumminess of it. Funny enough
, I can relate to that... once, twice, three times maybe. But on a regular basis — I don't get it. I think the low rent appeal would wear pretty thin. Then she'd start longing for the luxury to which she was accustomed. But now, hearing why she wasn't here for Mark's tenth birthday party, I have another theory. I wonder if she thought screwing Jessup here, where her daughter was kidnapped, would somehow, you know, defile the place."

  An interesting perception, making me glad Pam had come along.

  We stroll down to the pool. It's a big, old-style turquoise-bottomed rectangle lined up lengthwise with the lake, framed by Moorish tiles. There's a pool house with cupola built in fantasy Arabian style, with a portico that protects a line of bar stools and an exterior bar.

  Pam savors the setting. "Those Fulraine boys had it good. Gorgeous house, servants, private tennis court, coach, and pool. For them this must have been a paradise."

  She turns to me. "I suppose with the boys away at camp, there was no excuse to have Tom over anymore. The servants might talk. Andrew could use them against her at the custody hearing. So she decided they should meet at the motel and made the best of it, turning it into something romantic and dangerous." Pam pauses. "But still I think if she was into danger, she could have courted it in other ways. The motel was too drab to keep her excited. She needed more. I think they did other things, David. Extraordinary things. She was too stylish to be satisfied with just the tacky, old Flamingo Court."

  I like her approach, thought I can't imagine what kind of extraordinary things they might have done.

  As we walk back up the slope to my car, I try to remember my departure from Mark's tenth birthday party, whether it was Mom or Dad who picked me up.