Murder 101 Part 23

He ignored me and continued. "We separated six years ago. It just didn't work out. She hated the job, the hours, the danger, and ended up hating me because I wouldn't give it up." He held his elbow, his right hand dangling uselessly in his lap. "That's simplifying it. There's more to it than that; I wouldn't choose my job over a woman I loved." He looked out the window, unable to meet my eye. "I moved out and left the girls with her. I knew I couldn't raise them alone and do this job. We agreed to be friends and make it work for them. We were always better at being friends than we were at being married anyway." He took his hand out of the sling. "A lawyer drew up an agreement, and we decided to share custody."

"So, why didn't he draw up divorce papers at the same time?" I asked, having a little familiarity with these things.

"He did. I have the divorce papers in my desk at home, but I never signed them. My wife . . . Christine wanted me to agree to an annulment."

I looked at him.

"She wouldn't give me a divorce unless I agreed to an annulment at the same time."

An annulment in the Catholic Church basically gives you a "get out of marriage free" card; it certifies that your marriage was null and void. Never happened. The end. Regardless of whether or not there were children, who usually served as evidence that a marriage had happened. That was simplifying it, but that was the gist. Kevin later explained to me that the Church defines an annulment as the dissolution of a marriage between two people who were incapable of "informed consent" at the time of their union. I thought it was one of the most bogus aspects of the Church and even though receiving communion as a divorced Catholic could get me excommunicated, I didn't give a rat's a.s.s and marched up to communion with all of the other sinners. I didn't think the Vatican had its own police force to monitor these sorts of things.

If you wanted to remarry in the Church, an annulment was mandatory. Since divorcing Ray, I didn't think I would ever remarry, much less in the Church, so an annulment was a nonissue. Especially since I thought they were a load of c.r.a.p.

I repeated what he had said, and asked, "So, why didn't you just give her one?"

He looked at me. "I think they're a load of c.r.a.p."

I almost liked him again, but I stopped myself.

"We have two beautiful daughters. Our marriage . . . well, it just didn't work out." He leaned back and stuck his hand inside his sling to scratch his arm. "I wasn't going to pay some priest two grand to wipe the slate clean. There's a lot of writing on that slate. Some of it is even good." He closed his eyes. "I also never thought it would be an issue. I work eighty hours a week and spend another thirty with my kids. Sometimes I sleep. I didn't think having a nonexistent, yet legal, marriage would be a problem. I guess I was wrong, huh?" He opened his eyes and looked at me. "I never thought I'd meet anyone worth compromising for."

I softened slightly but I had hardened myself so much in the past few weeks that I was incapable of a complete thaw. "She's still in love with you."

He shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Then why would she introduce herself to me as your wife?" I asked.

"Because she is," he said quietly.

He should have kept his mouth shut, but I guess he finally felt like he had to tell the truth. She was his wife. He was married. I started crying again. "Can I have the handkerchief back, please?" I asked.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the soggy piece of linen. He handed it to me across my desk. I blew my nose again.

"I really don't want it back this time," he said, smiling, but I could see that his eyes were moist.

I crumpled it up in my hands and held it there.

He looked down at his shoes. "I'm going to sign those papers."

I looked back at him. I wasn't sure what that meant, but it was probably good news. The way things were going, I was having a tough time separating the good from the bad.

"Do you think Father Kevin would help me with the annulment?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Hard to say. If I were you, I'd stay away from Father Kevin for a while. He's pretty mad at you."

"Go out with me tonight so we can talk about this," he said. "Or let me come over."

I shook my head. "I don't think so."

"Tomorrow?" he asked hopefully.

I stared back at him.

"So, that's it?" He looked at me for confirmation.

I crossed my arms on my desk and put my head down on them. After a few minutes, I looked up. "I'm sorry. I just can't get past the fact that you lied," I said, my voice hoa.r.s.e from crying.

He got up and came around to my side of the desk. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. When you asked me the question that night in the restaurant, I really didn't think it would ever be an issue. I guess I was wrong." He put his hand on my cheek. "Will you forgive me?"

I stayed in my chair. I took his hand from my cheek. "I don't know. I can't see you again until you're divorced or annulled or whatever you need to be to not have a wife. I know that." I stood up and took his left hand in mine. "Good-bye, Crawford."

"Wait," he said, putting his arm around my waist and pulling me close. "This will all be over in a few months. How do we stay together until then?" he whispered, leaning toward my face.

I extricated myself from him. "We don't. You're married."

A knock at the door put more s.p.a.ce between us. I called, "Come in," and the door opened. It was Kevin. He eyed Crawford warily. "Detective," he said, nodding.

Crawford cast his eyes down. "Father McMa.n.u.s."

Kevin gave him the priest version of the evil eye. "You look good. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Kevin looked at me, taking in the red nose, the bloodshot eyes, and runny makeup. "I saw your car. You're in early."

"Trying to get some work done," I explained.

"Call me when you're done. I need help with my homily for today's Ma.s.s. I thought I'd talk about 'new beginnings.' I'll be in the chapel," he said, and closed the door.

I stared at the closed door, and Crawford stared at me. "So, that's it?" he asked, his tone surprised and full of hurt. "After everything we've been through? That's it?"

I nodded. "That's it." I wanted to add "for now," but didn't. "Can I give you a tip, Crawford?"

"Put a ten on Almost Divorced in the fifth at Belmont?" he asked, trying to get a smile out of me. It almost worked, but not quite.

I stared back at him impa.s.sively. "The next time a woman asks you if you're married, say 'yes.'"

"There won't be a next time." He put his free hand to his head and rubbed his forehead.

I wasn't sure if I had the fort.i.tude to remain on this moral high ground I had constructed. When he put his hand on the doork.n.o.b, the finality of everything hit me. I stood. "Crawford, listen. Give me a couple of weeks. Gas up the cruiser and drop by when you're feeling better."

"It's not a cruiser," he shot back. He pulled me close with his good arm and kissed me.

I pulled away.

"I'll be back," he said, and turned to leave. He gave me one last glance and left my office, closing the door behind him.

I waited until I saw him go up the back stairs and then whispered to no one but myself, "And I'll be here."

Epilogue.

It was three days later that I found the envelope that had been on the winds.h.i.+eld of my car. It was shoved deep into an unused pocket of my pocketbook, wrinkled, but still intact. I pulled it out and opened it, reading the brief message aloud: Alison, Remember. I owe you.

Peter.

end.