Last to Know: A Novel(28)

“I believe you,” Harry told her, making a mental note to check on the murder fifteen years ago of Fairy Formentor.

She said, “Anyhow, every now and then, over the years, Divon just kinda showed up. He knew where I was at college—Oberlin, a small school, I loved it there, the best time of my life.”

Harry was not interested in her college years. “Divon,” he said.

“Oh, right. So Divon would show up, sometimes with his pockets bristling with money, sometimes to beg for a few bucks just to get him through. He always repaid it though, he’d send money orders. He was a very responsible young man really.” Jemima’s eyes met Harry’s. “Even though he was doing drugs. Heavy-duty stuff,” she added. “And then recently he called, told me he’d let me have the hundred he owed and as much more as I wanted. What he said exactly,” she said seriously, “was, ‘Jemima, honey, I’ve hit the friggin’ jackpot. I’m working with a woman who has all the contacts, and knows what she’s doing, and I know what I can do, so it’s mutual.’ Of course I asked him who the woman was, I was worried, he sounded so high. At first he just laughed, then he said, ‘She’s money and class, baby, and she has a lake house you would just die for.’”

Jemima drained her Coke and heaved a sigh. “And I guess she did just that,” she ended.

“Do you know where Divon is now?” Harry asked.

Jemima looked worried. “He’d told me he was going to Evening Lake that night to see her,” she confessed. “But what will you do with him? I know he’s innocent, after what happened to his own mother he could never kill a woman. Never kill anybody for that matter.”

She looked so concerned Harry knew her heart was in the right place. She had told him the story in order to protect Divon, not to see him jailed for murder.

“I’ll stand up for him in court, if I have to,” Jemima added, reaching suddenly across the table for Harry’s hand. “He’s a good guy, Harry Jordan. Just on the wrong path, that’s all.”

Harry had heard that story before, seen it a thousand times. Jemima’s hand felt cold in his, probably from clasping the icy Coca-Cola glass. Somehow it made him feel protective toward her. “Thank you for telling me,” he said gently. “And for trying to help him. Running is the worst thing he could do right now. Do you have any idea where he is?”

Jemima lowered her head and gazed, shamefaced, at the now-cold basket of fries. “At my place,” she said.





20


Harry drove Jemima to her apartment in a row house in North End, on a newly gentrified street that once housed Boston’s Irish immigrants in squalid tenements. Now, the buildings had been refurbished, the brick was bright, there were even trees. Of course, Jemima had to sit in the back since Squeeze was not about to give up shotgun. Still she told Harry she liked his car. She even said “wow” when he parked where he was not supposed to, right in front of her door, and clamped the police light on top.

She waited for Harry to open the door for her, then wiggled up and out after the dog, showing a great deal of thigh. “Sorry, not used to such smart sports cars,” she said, leading the way up the front steps and buzzing them in.

“Third floor,” she called, already heading upstairs. There was only one door on the third floor landing and she unlocked it.

“Okay, Divon,” she called, “it’s only me. And Detective Jordan,” she added as Harry followed her inside.

There was no hallway and they walked directly into the tiny apartment. Divon Formentor was sitting on a blue sofa, head down, hands clasped in front of him, as though waiting for the cuffs that would inevitably be placed there. He was very thin, youngish, in his late twenties, Hispanic-looking like his mother. His bald head had that recently-shaved shine. His eyes were dark and frightened.

Squeeze went and sat right in front of him, fixing him with that blue stare.

Divon shrank back, afraid. “I didn’t do it, sir,” he said to Harry. “I don’t do murder.”

Jemima hurried over and sat next to him, taking one of his hands in both of hers. “I already told Detective Jordan that,” she reassured him. “He’ll help you, Divon, all you have to do is tell him the truth.”

Harry stood by the door, his face impassive. “I have to take you in, Divon, you understand that, don’t you.”

“Yes, sir, but, like, I didn’t kill her.”

The click of the cuffs as they snapped over Divon’s wrists sounded to Jemima like the knell of doom.

“I should have helped you get away,” she said, suddenly terrified of what she had done. “I should have helped you.”

Harry said, “And I’ll remind you that if you had, you would be accessory after the fact to a murder.”

“Jesus.” Jemima subsided onto the sofa. All her former bravado and brilliance at Ruby’s seemed to have deserted her. Even her flame-red hair seemed suddenly paler.

Harry got on the phone and called for a squad car, then he got Rossetti on his phone, told him what had happened and that he was bringing Divon Formentor in. Rossetti said he was already on his way.

“You’re coming with us for questioning,” he told Jemima, who shriveled under his gaze.

“I’ll only come to help him,” she said defiantly, making Harry smile.