Magic Hour by Susan Isaacs (cheapest way to read ebooks .txt) 📕

pocket telephone, or maybe one of those skinny, gold-coin watches on an alligator strap.

I was just about to lighten the atmosphere with some joke about taking Easton in, when he got petulant, affronted by my drop-in with a tall woman of unknown origin in athletic shorts and grungy running shoes. “I’d like to know what all this is about, Steve.”

“You would?”

“Yes. I would.” Just at that instant, as he was carving out a new niche in supercilious schmuckdom, he recognized Bonnie. Obviously, hers was not a calm-MAGIC HOUR / 415

ing presence. Easton began to sidle back and forth alongside the bed, doing an agitated step-together-step, as if trying to keep out of her line of sight—or block her view of her ex-husband’s wardrobe. “What is she doing here?” he demanded. His gracious-living voice disappeared, replaced by a troubled squeal.

“She’s with me. You do know that this is Bonnie Spencer?”

“Yes.”

I steered Bonnie over to a straight-backed chair. “Stay put,”

I told her. I turned back to my brother. He stopped his sideways skedaddling. “You saw her that day at the set, when she knocked on the door of Sy’s trailer?”

“Yes.” His yeses sounded more like yaps than complete syllables. I thought: He’s fucking mortified about being caught red-handed. Steal billions, everybody knows, and you’re invited to the best parties; steal ties, and you’re a tacky little piece of shit.

“And Sy told her to get off the set, that she didn’t belong?”

“Yes.”

“Stephen, listen—” Bonnie started to say, in her direct, you’re-not-approaching-this-right voice, as though we were husband-and-wife detective partners in some 1937 movie.

“Not now!” Then I asked my brother: “Did you know Sy was having an affair with her?”

“What?” It wasn’t an assertion of amazement, as in: I don’t believe it! It wasn’t even a question. It was more a “Duh” of befuddlement. Easton was on overload; he couldn’t seem to get what was going on.

“Answer me,” I snapped at him.

I had to know how finely tuned in he was to Sy’s private life. How much did he know? What could he guess at? After dailies that night, had Sy made any secret phone calls? When they’d gotten back to the

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house and Easton was setting out Sy’s papers or his pj’s or pink pages for the next day, had he possibly picked up another reference to “Lindsay”? “Lightning”? An icy laugh? An intense “I need your help” spoken behind a closed door?

Would Easton the Refined actually eavesdrop? Would Easton not eavesdrop was more the question. My brother wouldn’t recognize an ethic if it snuck up and bit him on the butt.

But still, as I looked at him, I knew he’d make a fantastic witness for the D.A., all blue-suited and white-shirted, with one of his new ties. His fair hair would shine in the harsh light of the witness box, his low-key gentleman’s voice would appeal, convince. I thought: Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he actually could remember something important?

State your name, the assistant D.A. would command. Easton Brady. I ask you, Mr. Brady, the A.D.A. would say, did you overhear a telephone conversation between Sy Spencer and Michael LoTriglio? The defense lawyer—Fat Mikey’s, maybe, although I felt a twinge of regret at the notion—would leap up and object on the grounds of no foundation. The A.D.A. would rephrase the question and inquire, How did you know who was on the phone with Mr.

Spencer? Well, I answered the phone and the man said it was Mike LoTriglio and he wanted to talk to Sy now. I’d spoken to Mr. LoTriglio before, and this sounded exactly like him, Easton would begin.

I glanced over at Bonnie. Her eyes were riveted on Easton.

I remembered her eyes in that moment when she’d stood before the gun cabinet downstairs. I thought I’d seen a fleeting shadow of pain in them, a recognition of what was behind those doors.

What was behind those doors?

My old man’s twelve-gauge shotgun.

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And his .22.

And then I knew what Bonnie knew.

Easton seemed to understand that, at last, I knew. He stood quietly, thumbs hooked into his pockets, watching me.

I had to get ready for an interrogation. Oh, we Bradys were so neat. I lifted Sy’s folded sweaters from the bed and placed them—one, two, three—gently on the dresser. I was so painstakingly careful you could hardly hear the rustle of the tissue paper between the folds. Then I took my brother by the hand, and, together, we sat side by side on the space I had cleared.

“East,” I said.

“Yes?”

“You have something you want to tell me.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

His neck and his ears got fiery red, but he said, “No. Absolutely not.”

“I found the rifle.” He shook his head. It could be taken to mean: I don’t understand. Or: No, you didn’t. “I found it, East.” I prayed—neat, always put things back where they belong—that he had returned it to the cabinet, that he hadn’t done something like take a ride on the Shelter Island ferry to drop it into Long Island Sound. But then I saw I was okay; Easton angled his body away from mine and with the side of his hand was ironing out an imperceptible wrinkle in the blue tie right next to him. I said softly: “It’s just a question of time before we get back the results of the ballistics tests.”

He wouldn’t look at me. “We fire the rifle and then compare the markings on the bullet with the two bullets we took from Sy.” I was afraid if I looked at Bonnie I’d lose my rhythm, but then she didn’t seem to want my atten-418 / SUSAN ISAACS

tion. There was no sound, no motion; if I hadn’t known she was sitting in a chair five feet away, I would not have sensed she was in the room. “The markings will match, East. You know that.”

Easton lifted his chin and breathed out sharply, giving his nostrils a scornful, Southampton flare, so Old Society. “I can’t believe you can even think