Chapter 4
His wife’s campaign headquarters reminded Conley of an after-prom party. Staffers, mostly kids, nailed posters of Lisa to the wall, slouched behind flimsy tables in folding chairs, and talked on phones in happy, sing-song voices.
He sat in a metal chair and waited near a picture window that framed the snarled traffic in City Hall Square. Car exhaust swelled from the cold and billowed like clouds that had fallen to earth. A pretty young blonde named Mandy kept smiling at him and asking if he wanted coffee. Three cups later, his face hurt from smiling back and the caffeine rush was making the hair on his arms tingle.
Lisa snuck up behind him and whispered, “Jail bait, Detective Conley.”
His wife hugged him and he hugged back, smelling the lavender shampoo heʼd bought her last Christmas.
“But she gives such great coffee,” he said.
Lisa strode to her office, a jerry-built structure with temporary walls and a window to the busy staff area. He was close behind, drinking in the scent of good perfume and savoring the sight of his wife’s magnificent glutes.
God bless Stairmaster machines.
She sank into the black leather office chair and he sat on the corner of the desk near the window. Her strawberry hair fanned the top of the chair, looking richer than the dark leather. She stretched her legs in front of him and he saw lean muscles tense. Lisa was Sicilian, blessed with mocha-colored skin. Her legs were as smooth as her campaign speech, with nary a freckle or blemish.
Mandy stuck her head in the open doorway. “More coffee Mr. Conley? Mrs. Conley?”
“We’re good, Mandy. Matt’s beautiful blue eyes are turning brown.”
Mandy giggled and trotted back to her desk, blonde ponytail flashing.
Lisa picked up a rubber band and twirled it on her long index finger. “Mandy has a crush on you.”
They laughed together. He couldn’t remember the last time that happened. When the baby died, their marriage started to die too, and the memory of the infant struggling in its incubator became a recurring nightmare.
Brandon. He had a name—Brandon.
A name neither of them spoke during two years of emptiness and paralysis. But he still craved Lisa’s presence, her touch, her voice, a primeval ache that never stopped. If only he could make her feel the same.
Today was their one-month separation anniversary. Other than quick, tense phone calls, the only time they communicated now was during their bizarre marriage counseling sessions with Dr. Larkin. The doctor was convinced marriage problems were caused by one-word virtues and vices, and finding the right ones was the key to fixing relationships. The word jumble was driving Conley crazy.
Sex, Dr. Larkin? That surely isn’t the trouble with our marriage. If anything, sex was the glue.
Money? No problem there either. Lisa’s salary as an attorney and my detective pay bought us twin Beamers and a condo at the beach.
She put her hand over his and he felt electricity, and fantasized her saying, “Let’s forget this bullshit, Matt. How about a nooner?”
“Lisa, there’s something I’ve got to tell you about—ˮ
“I heard about the murder in St. Amby’s,” she interrupted.
He nodded. “Two days ago. I need to give you a heads up about what happened. Eddie and I were called to investigate—”
“Your priest friend must be freaked.”
“Father McCarrick acts like he’s in charge, but I know when he’s upset. Talks like he’s high on helium. A guy named Victor Rodriguez was the vic, Puerto Rican with a big insurance business. Insured most of the Hispanics in Ocean Park.”
She leaned forward, looked interested, concerned, caring, which made him think about…
Unselfishness. “Marriage is not all about you, Matt. Think about your wife.”
“Congressman Conley,” he said. “That has a ring to it, Lisa. Think you have a chance?”
She flattened her hands on the desk and hunched forward as if sharing a secret. “Special elections are always tough and I’m fighting an incumbent, but I’m polling in first place, Matt. Ahead of Congressman Diaz. Lots of rumors around his extracurricular activities. Nasty stuff. Kinky sex.”
“Are they true?”
“I have no idea.” She winked. “But my campaign manager—Bill McNulty—takes every opportunity to remind voters.”
Ambition—that’s certainly a candidate for the cause of our troubles. Lisa is married to me and a couple of careers—Essex County prosecutor and aspiring politician.
“If you got in, it’d be great for Ocean Park. You’d help turn it around.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Bill says Marblehead and Swampscott are the key towns—places to build a political career. Do you remember Bill? You met at the District Attorney’s Christmas party.”
“I think so. Skinny guy, porn star mustache, wimpy handshake. Kind of a pretty boy.”
Jealousy? Be careful. He imagined Larkin wagging his index finger and shaking his head in warning.
The corner of her mouth twitched and she squinted mischievously. “Bill and I don’t shake hands and I haven’t seen a lot of pornos, Matt, so I really can’t compare. He’s pretty trim, though.”
“Lisa, let me tell you about that night in the church.”
The hollow door to her office swung open. Bill McNulty strode in and threw Monday’s Ocean Park Gazette on her desk. The paper scattered, tumbling as if he’d brought a windstorm. Lisa sat upright, hands folded, elbows planted on the edge of the desk.
McNulty spoke before she got a chance to.
“Disaster, Lisa. Potential fucking disaster.”
Smiling didn’t seem a natural reaction to that, but Lisa did it anyway. She smiled like a marionette—upturned mouth and dead eyes. “Bill, you remember Matt.”
His wife was practicing Self-Control. Very good, Lisa. Wait, that was two words, couldn’t be one of Dr. Larkin’s babies. Did hyphenated words count?
Conley stuck his hand out, determined to show…
Tolerance. Man, this is harder than I thought.
McNulty ignored the hand.
“Lisa, your husband is front page news,” he said, slapping the desk. “The media loves this shit. You just gave Diaz the lead. Guaranteed.”
“Bill, slow down. I haven’t seen this.” She flattened the paper with her hands and started to read.
McNulty snatched the front page from her and touched a different finger to his thumb for every phrase. “Well, let me be the first to inform you of the charges against Detective Conley. ‘Detective Edward Jackson testified Conley was drinking on the job, used force recklessly, compromised a murder scene, destroyed church property, and endangered an eight-year-old child.’ Your husband fucked up big time, and you’ll pay for it by losing this election. Guilt by association.” He jabbed his finger at her, inches away from her forehead. “That’s how the public sees it. You just blew your lead.”
Anger. Dr. Larkin always reminded them—anger bred anger. McNulty’s was certainly stoking his.
Conley spoke quietly, evenly. “Don’t talk to my wife like that.”
Mandy stuck her head in the office door. “More coffee?”
“Not now, Mandy,” Lisa called. “Close the door please, honey?”
“Look,” McNulty continued, voice rising, mustache dancing. “I don’t need this shit, Lisa. I have other job offers if you’re not going to control him.”
Conley came around the desk and flattened his hand against McNulty’s bony chest. “I said stop it. Now.”
McNulty looked down and attempted to push the hand away. “This is actionable, Detective. It’s called assault. You sure you want to add this to all the shit you’re in?”
Lisa gently pulled his hand away. She turned and touched the newspaper with her fingertips.
“Matt, is this true? Did you do this?”
Trust. Bingo. Trust—or the lack of it, had hung like a sword over the relationship ever since they’d met. The five-letter monster needed to be conquered if the marriage was to survive.
And McNulty?—well, better face facts. Lisa wanted to be a politician. Better get used to her keeping company with assholes.
Assholes.
“No, Lisa, I didn’t. Too bad you had to even ask.”
Conley shrugged into his jacket and headed back through the bullpen of giggling staffers. He didn’t answer his wife’s plea to come back, or Mandy’s happy goodbye as he stepped outside to the blast of honking horns sharpened by the cold crisp air.