The most important thing she had not done was pay attention to the money. People who were willing to kill for money were sometimes smart enough to convey innocence, but they were seldom good enough to convincingly feign indifference to money. The reason they killed for money was that they respected it. They thought that having money made them important, attractive, clever, worthy. When they had the money, they showed it in small ways, subtle changes in posture or tone. Wendy Cushner did not betray any interest in the money, and she certainly did not imagine that it added anything to her list of accomplishments.
She had declared herself a failure at the part of life that she had made her specialty: being Mrs. Cushner. To her the money was a bitter irony, and maybe even an insult. Before his death, her husband had been planning to toss all of it to her as the price of getting free of her.
Wendy Cushner had not hired the killer. She had not known enough about her husband’s activities to be jealous, and the money had not been a reason to kill him. She was not the sort of person who could have found her way to the man who had committed the murders in the restaurant. But Carter Rowland was beginning to look as though he might know some people who could have provided an introduction. Prescott considered how to go about learning more about him.
He began with the legal papers. The papers filed in divorces were in the public records, and Prescott subscribed to Internet services that provided them. He went to a big copying store that offered the use of computers, entered a cubicle, called up one of his services, and got a copy of
There had been no criminal proceedings. The civil suits were all ones in which Rowland was the plaintiff. As Prescott studied the filings, he wondered whether Rowland had sued everyone he had ever dealt with. He had sued the man who owned the building next to his for renting the space to a secondhand clothing business that was “inconsistent with oral agreements to maintain a high standard of commerce and clientele.” He had sued a woman who lived in his neighborhood for putting a satellite dish on her roof that interfered with his view; another neighbor for “inducing stress and a threat to his health by causing loud music to be played.” He had filed a defamation-of- character suit against a customer who had complained about a cracked emerald that had been repaired with a chemical bond.
Prescott went through all of the cases and found that there had never been significant sums of money involved. Rowland was simply a man who must have been pissed off most of the time. He was vengeful, and he was accustomed to paying large amounts of money to law firms so they would carry out his revenge.
Prescott began to pay closer attention to Rowland’s lawyer. Maybe he was the go-between. In the course of their work, lawyers sometimes formed cordial relationships with people they wouldn’t invite home to dinner and an evening with their wives. But he discovered that Rowland switched lawyers constantly. Two of the lawsuits were against lawyers. They had represented him in cases he had lost, and he had sued them for malpractice.
Prescott had saved the divorce papers for last. He made a copy he could take with him, and went back to the second-floor room he had rented on the street behind Wendy Cushner’s. Donna Halsey Rowland had been represented by a partner in her brother’s law firm. She had requested spousal support of fifteen thousand a month, a one-third interest in Rowland’s Fine Jewelry, half the money Rowland had put into retirement accounts, a new Mercedes convertible that was registered in her husband’s name, and the house.
Prescott turned to the papers filed by Rowland’s lawyer. First, Rowland had wanted to reconcile, and had asked for more time. Then Rowland had claimed his annual income was $110,000, so that Donna’s support request was $70,000 more than he made. He claimed the retirement money had all been deposited before their marriage, and that her spending habits had made further contributions impossible. He said the Mercedes was owned by his corporation, and submitted the pink slip he had signed over to himself as president to prove it. He claimed the house was encumbered with loans that she had co-signed, which had been used to benefit the company. Transferring it would bankrupt them both. Right up until the final decree, Rowland had been requesting more time, supposedly to reconcile.
Prescott studied the disposition of the case. Donna Halsey seemed to have been slapped down a bit, but Prescott could see that it was an illusion. She had done better in court than she had done during the marriage. She had gotten six thousand a month, which was certainly more than she had expected, the Mercedes, a third of the business. She’d also gotten something Prescott had never seen in one of these settlements: half of the growth in the balances of all savings, retirement, and investment accounts that had taken place during the marriage. He went to the table at the back of the settlement and looked at the figures. The accounts had nearly tripled during that period. He looked at the last attachment; she had also filed a petition for restoration of her maiden name.
Prescott went back to the civil suits Rowland had filed. He liked everything he saw in the papers. All of the rhetoric was legal jargon intended to make the complaint appear to conform to some statute or echo a judge’s precedent-setting decision, but the substance of the papers was not. Rowland was a man who took offense easily and held a grudge, sometimes for years while his cases made their way to court. His demands were of a special sort, too. He was generally interested not in monetary reparations, but in inflicting maximum damage to an enemy. He wanted his adversary assessed a big fine, or wanted his business license revoked, or wanted him to be forced to tear down an addition and rebuild it.
Prescott went back to the divorce papers and read them once again. The tone of Rowland’s strategy was different, a long series of futile attempts to delay an inevitable outcome. The whole agreement at the end must have seemed to Rowland like onerous terms of surrender. Donna Halsey had, almost incidentally, included a permanent restraining order. As part of the settlement, Rowland was supposed to communicate only by having his attorneys speak with her attorneys. He was to refrain from calling or writing to her or speaking to her. The terms didn’t sound to Prescott like anything Rowland would agree to, but in the end, he had signed the papers.
There was no question what had happened. Rowland had made claims about his financial status that were false, and produced as evidence papers such as tax returns. Donna and her lawyers had found evidence that he was lying, and had blackmailed him into accepting the terms she really wanted. Rowland’s emotions must have been an unsettling combination. He had included in his responses a repeated request for reconciliation, and even in the last filings before the settlement had wanted the judge to delay the final decree for another six months so he could win her back. He had been wooing her through the end of the fight.
Prescott was beginning to feel sure now. He could not have taken a single piece of the information he had found and convinced anyone that Rowland had hired the killer, but Prescott believed he had. Rowland had paid and kept silent, just as he had in his other disputes, waiting for his time to come. All along, he had planned to get even. No, Prescott decided. It might not have been as simple as that. He had not only hated her. He had loved her or, anyway, had wanted to keep her. Maybe the first intermediary he had hired after the lawyers had been a detective, or at least an informant: a person who had not been included in the court’s order to stay clear of her. He’d had her watched, probably since the separation.
When he had learned that she was going to bed with Cushner, he had gone about hiring a different kind of intermediary, one who could carry out his secret desires without ever being seen, whose approach would not be noticed. Rowland had needed one whose feelings about Donna Halsey were not an ambiguous stew of hatred and love and desire and anger and remorse and self-interest. He’d needed somebody with no discernible emotions at all, someone who would simply kill her and go away.
22
Varney awoke and lay still for a moment, staring up at the old, irregular plaster ceiling. It had taken him an hour the first night to determine that the texture of it was intentional, and not just the work of some plasterer in the old days who’d had no idea what he was doing. It was supposed to have all those raised places and lower ones, to show it was handmade. It must have been a style sometime in the 1920s, just like the weird tarnished golden light fixture in the center that held one weak bulb behind a whitish half globe, and the lights on the walls that looked like candles with pointed bulbs.
He sat up in bed and picked up his watch: ten o’clock. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, and felt despair. He was letting go of his discipline, losing his will. For fifteen years he had kept himself under control, fighting to make a tiny bit of progress every day. When he had gone to bed each night, he had closed his eyes knowing that he had
