No hair around the drain when I’d finished my shampoo.
No harm, I tell myself, no foul.
But this has still become one of those nights when I can’t even remember what it was like for me before I routinely felt sick to my stomach, and so weak in the middle of the day I had to lie down; when I wasn’t experiencing the mood swings that came with the medication they pumped into me in Switzerland, the chemically induced hot flashes and night sweats.
When I finally cool down enough to fall asleep, my mind still racing with the possibility that we may be in possession of the murder weapon—and that I may have to turn it over to the district attorney—I don’t dream of hummingbirds tonight, or my mother, who loved hummingbirds even more than I do.
Tonight I dream as if I’m the one flying, before diving straight toward the water like a gull and then disappearing into the darkness below.
Then I’m wide awake suddenly, sweating more than ever, out of breath, panting the way my dog is at his end of the bed.
When I’m fully awake, I call Rob Jacobson and tell him about the gun Jimmy took off his friend Kellye at the town house.
“Not my gun,” he says, trying to sound innocent, not exactly a role he was born to play. “The last gun I knew about in that house was the one my father used on his girlfriend, before he turned it on himself.” He pauses. “By theway, Janie? You ever think how appropriate it was, him getting one more piece like that before he rested in peace?”
“You’re not funny,” I say.
“Little bit?” he asks.
“You know, Paul Harrington says you were the one who shot your father that day,” I say.
“You need to stop talking to dirty cops as much as you do, Janie. Starting with the one who works for you.”
“You should try saying that to Jimmy’s face,” I say. “Nowthatwould be funny.”
“Janie,” he says again, knowing how much I hate him calling me that, “how many times do I have to tell you I’ve never killed anybody?”
Then he tells me he has to cook up some eggs for someone named Paula, whoever the hell she is.
I take Rip for a long walk on Indian Wells Beach. On our way home, I decide to stop at Jack’s on Main Street for coffee. I’ve never really been a coffee nerd, but I like the coffee here as much as I do from the Jack’s near my apartment in the West Village.
As I’m standing in line, Rip waiting for me in the car, I hear a male voice behind me say, “Excuse me, but aren’t you Jane Smith?”
I turn to see a tall man, nice tan, open-necked white shirt. Not bad looking.
“Tragically, I am.”
“Your trial starts soon, right?”
“Day after tomorrow, as a matter of fact.”
I’m grateful that I’ve now moved to the head of the line, having already exhausted my capacity for small talk with a stranger, even a good-looking one.
“Well, good luck with it,” the man says.
Then he does something odd, startling me as he reaches over and lightly pats me on the head.
FORTY-SIX
WHILE I WAIT TO hear from Danny Esposito about the gun, I spend Saturday morning at home, once again going over my opening statement, doing what I always do, writing and then rewriting the first draft longhand.
So it’s me and my legal pad and my cursive Catholic school penmanship, the floor around my desk filling with crumpled-up yellow paper as I try to get it down right, occasionally stopping to read out loud before crumpling up more paper. I don’t even think about writing the ending yet—ending to a beginning—because I know there’s no point until I find out from Danny what happened when he test-fired the gun the girl found at Rob Jacobson’s town house, and then ran the ballistics on it.
At the bar last night, Jimmy told me that he only felt good about having done some real cop work in the city, even though the gun had basically fallen into his lap, along with a lot of potential problems for us.
“Real cop work as opposed to what?” I asked.
“Aiding and abetting.”
