Perfect Match Read online

  "Had you ever considered her to be violent before?"

  "No."

  "In fact, on that morning, she seemed nothing like the Nina Frost you knew, isn't that right?"

  "Well, you know, she looked the same."

  "But her actions, Mr. Ianucci ... had you ever seen Mrs. Frost act like this before?"

  The bailiff shakes his head. "I never saw her shoot nobody, if that's what you mean."

  "It is," Fisher says, sitting down. "Nothing further."

  That afternoon when court is adjourned, I don't go directly home. Risking an extra fifteen minutes' grace before my electronic bracelet is reactivated, I drive to St. Anne's and enter the church where this all began.

  The nave is open to the public, although I don't think they've found a replacement chaplain yet. Inside, it's dark. My shoes strike the tile, announce my presence.

  To my right is a table where white votives burn in tiers. Taking a stick, I light one for Glen Szyszynski. I light a second one for Arthur Gwynne.

  Then I slip into a pew and get down on the kneeler. "Hail Mary, Full of Grace," I whisper, praying to a woman who stood by her son, too.

  The lights in the motel room go out at eight, Nathaniel's bedtime. Beside his son, on a matching twin bed, Caleb lies with his hands folded behind his head, waiting for Nathaniel to fall asleep. Then, sometimes, Caleb will watch TV. Turn on one lamp and read the day's paper.

  Today he wants to do neither. He is in no mood to hear local pundits guessing Nina's fate based on the first day of testimony. Hell, he doesn't want to guess, himself.

  One thing is clear: The woman all those witnesses saw; the woman on that videotape--she isn't the woman Caleb married. And when your wife is not the same person you fell in love with eight years ago, where exactly does that leave you? Do you try to get to know who she has become, and hope for the best? Or do you keep deceiving yourself in the hope that she might wake up one morning and have gone back to the woman she used to be?

  Maybe, Caleb thinks with a small shock, he isn't the same person he once was, either.

  That brings him directly to the topic he didn't want to remember, especially not now in the dark with nothing to distract him. This afternoon, when Patrick had come to the conference room to bring them the news of Gwynne's death ... well, Caleb must be reading into things. After all, Nina and Patrick have known each other a lifetime. And although the guy is something of an albatross, his relationship with Nina has never really bothered Caleb, because when push came to shove he was the one sleeping with Nina every night.

  But Caleb has not been sleeping with Nina.

  He squeezes his eyes shut, as if this might block out the memory of Patrick turning away abruptly when Nina put her arms around Caleb. That, in and of itself, wasn't disturbing--Caleb could list a hundred times that Nina touched him or smiled at him in the other man's presence that unsettled Patrick in some way ... even if Nina never seemed to see. In fact, there have been times Caleb's even felt sorry for Patrick, for the blatant jealousy on his face the moment before he masks it.

  Today, though, it wasn't envy in Patrick's eyes. It was grief. And that is why Caleb cannot pull away from the incident; cannot stop picking the moment apart like a carrion vulture going for the bone. Envy, after all, comes from wanting something that isn't yours.

  But grief comes from losing something you've already had.

  Nathaniel hates this stupid playroom with its stupid book corner and its stupid bald dolls and its stupid crayon box that doesn't even have a yellow. He hates the way the tables smell like a hospital and the floor is cold under his socks. He hates Monica, whose smile reminds Nathaniel of the time he took an orange wedge at the Chinese restaurant and stuffed it into his mouth, rind out, in a silly, fake grin. Most of all he hates knowing that his mom and dad are just twenty-two stairs up but Nathaniel isn't allowed to join them.

  "Nathaniel," Monica says, "why don't we finish this tower?"

  It is made of blocks; they built it all afternoon yesterday and put a special sign on overnight, asking the janitors to leave it until this morning.

  "How high do you think we can go?"

  It is already taller than Nathaniel; Monica has brought over a chair so that he can keep building. She has a small stack of blocks ready to go.

  "Be careful," she warns as he climbs onto the chair.

  He places the first block at the top, and the whole structure wobbles. The second time, it seems certain to fall over--and then doesn't. "That was close," Monica says.

  He imagines that this is New York City, and he is a giant. A Tyrannosaurus rex. Or King Kong. He eats buildings this big like they are carrot sticks. With a great swipe of his enormous paw, Nathaniel swings at the top of the tower.

  It falls in a great, clattering heap.

  Monica looks so sad that for just the slightest moment, Nathaniel feels awful. "Oh," she sighs. "Why'd you do that?"

  Satisfaction curls the corners of his mouth, blooming from a root inside. But Nathaniel doesn't tell her what he's thinking: Because I could.

  Joseph Toro looks nervous to be in a courtroom, and I can't blame him. The last time I saw the man he was cowering beside the bench, covered with his own client's blood and brain matter.

  "Had you met with Glen Szyszynski before you came to court that day?" Quentin asks.

  "Yes," the attorney says timidly. "In jail, pending the arraignment."

  "What did he say about the alleged crime?"

  "He categorically denied it."

  "Objection," Fisher calls out. "Relevance?"

  "Sustained."

  Quentin reconsiders. "What was Father Szyszynski's demeanor the morning of October thirtieth?"

  "Objection." Fisher stands this time. "Same grounds."

  Judge Neal looks at the witness. "I'd like to hear this."

  "He was scared to death," Toro murmurs. "He was resigned. Praying. He read to me aloud, from the book of Matthew. The part where Christ keeps saying 'My God, why hast thou forsaken me?'"

  "What happened when they brought your client in?" Quentin asks.

  "They walked him to the defense table where I was sitting."

  "And where was Mrs. Frost at the time?"

  "Sitting behind us, and to the left."

  "Had you spoken with Mrs. Frost that morning?"

  "No," Toro answers. "I'd never even met her."

  "Did you notice anything unusual about her?"

  "Objection," Fisher says. "He didn't know her, so how could he judge what was and wasn't customary?"

  "Overruled," the judge answers.

  Toro looks at me, a bird gathering courage to dart a glance at the cat sitting a few feet away. "There was something unusual. I was waiting for her to come in ... because she was the mother of the alleged victim, of course ... but she was late. Her husband was there, waiting ... but Mrs. Frost almost missed the beginning of the arraignment. I thought of all days, it seemed very strange that on this one, she wouldn't be on time."

  I listen to his testimony, but I am watching Quentin Brown. To a prosecutor, a defendant is nothing but a victory or a loss. They are not real people; they do not have lives that interest you beyond the crime that brought them into court. As I stare at him, Brown suddenly turns. His expression is cool, dispassionate--one I have cultivated in my repertoire as well. In fact I have had all the same training as him, but there is a gulf between us. This case is only his job, after all. But it is my future.

  The Alfred courthouse is old, and the bathrooms are no exception. Caleb finishes up at the long trough of the urinal just as someone comes to stand beside him. He averts his eyes as the other man unzips, then steps back to wash his hands, and realizes it is Patrick.

  When Patrick turns, he does a double-take. "Caleb?"

  The bathroom is empty, save the two of them. Caleb folds his arms, waits for Patrick to soap his hands and dry them with a paper towel. He is waiting, and he doesn't know why. He just understands that at this moment, he can't leave yet, eit