Now You See Her - Michael Ledwidge [29]
That was exactly what I needed now, I realized. Privacy, darkness, confession.
I thought of another headline as I entered the post office, like a movie zombie.
“Cop’s Wife Goes Nuts.”
Chapter 34
AS IF IN A TRANCE, I pushed into the post office and fished out a bunch of quarters. I collapsed in the circa 1930s phone booth in the corner and closed its folding door behind me. Quarters rang off the dusty marble between my feet as I dropped several while dialing 411.
I needed to know what happened after Peter had spoken to the detectives. I needed to go to the primary source, get to the bottom of this.
If it had a bottom.
I got the Boston PD number from information, dialed, and began feeding the phone quarters.
One fact actually made me dry-heave as it kept repeating in my mind like a news crawl across the bottom of a TV screen.
Amanda Fournier was pregnant.
Just like me.
My sweat almost made me drop the receiver as the last quarter bonged home and the phone rang.
“Boston.”
“Hello. May I speak to Detective… Yorgenson?” I said, reading from the printed article in my hand.
“Hold on,” said the gruff Boston cop.
“Yorgenson,” said an even gruffer voice a moment later.
“My name’s Jeanine Baker,” I said with a convincing Southern twang. My current state of insanity apparently was a wonder for my acting chops. “I work for Tony’s Bail Bonds down here in Miami. We’re doing an employment check on a Peter Fournier. Rumor has it he was involved in some kind of homicide. I got your name from a Boston Globe article. Can you give me some clarity on Mr. Fournier?”
Even at that point, I was hoping for some good news. Even after the lies and strange behavior, I was hoping that there was some reasonable explanation. That it was all one big mistake.
“Miami?” Yorgenson said. “So that’s where that virus Fournier turned up. I’d be delighted to give you some clarity on Petey. The son of a bitch killed his wife and got away with it. He should be in a jail cell.”
Chapter 35
I OPENED THE BOOTH DOOR at the dusty post office, unable to breathe. The air had a strange new pressure, a new weight, as if the room had been suddenly filled with water when I wasn’t paying attention, and now I was drowning.
“A shock, isn’t it?” the cop said. “I know. Pete doesn’t look like a psychopath, does he? He’s a real charmer, especially with the ladies.”
“How can you be so sure he did it?” I said.
“After his wife turned up dead, we went by the book, looked at Pete straight off the bat more to clear him than anything else,” Yorgenson said. “But we found out some very interesting things about Mr. Rookie of the Year.
“Like how he had dozens of brutality complaints. Like how he was rumored to love to party with nose candy. Like how he and Amanda had been separated. One of Amanda’s friends told us it was because of the baby. He wanted her to abort it. She filed for divorce instead. He’d been harassing her for months before the shooting. Stalking her at work. Following some of her male coworkers home. ‘If I can’t have you, nobody will,’ he told her on several occasions.”
Yorgenson paused, letting it all sink in.
“I don’t remember if it was in the papers, but Amanda was shot several times. The first time in the abdomen. The first officer to arrive on scene retired soon after on a psychiatric disability pension. I hear he lives in the subway station down at the Government Center now.”
Yorgenson chuckled bitterly.
“Think Petey Boy was nervous when we came to question him? Think again. He sat there with those big cold baby blues of his and a shit-eating grin, like we were best buddies watching a Sox game at the corner watering hole. Had his alibi information ready and waiting for me. He didn’t even bother asking if we had any other leads. The whole thing seemed to amuse him.”
“But why didn’t he—?” I started.
“Go to jail?” Yorgenson finished. “I ask myself that every day. Classic stalker-husband-kills-wife open-and-shut case, right? Wrong. The DA wouldn’t prosecute, wouldn’t even help us get a search warrant to look for the murder weapon.