Act of God

hung up the phone in Mo Katzen’s office.

    “Hello?”
    “Mrs. Thorson?”
    “This is she. Who is this, please?”
    “Mrs. Thorson, this is John Cuddy. I’m the investigator who spoke to you last Thursday.”
    “Oh, yes. You’ll be pleased to know that Roger is doing much better.”
    I said, “I’m glad.”
    “Yes. He actually came over to dinner with my husband and me last night. He seemed, well, if not over what happened to Caroline, at least on his way back to life.”
    “I was wondering, I really don’t want to disturb him by dredging up memories, but you mentioned that you took videotapes of him and his wife.”
    A pause. “Yes?”
    “For the case I’m working on, it would be a real help if I could see one of those.”
    Another pause. “See one?”
    “Yes. I know it’s kind of an odd request, but—”
    “Oh, no. It’s not that. In fact, I’m glad you called me instead of Roger.”
    “You are?”
    “Yes, I have a number of them you could look at, but he has only the one.”
    “Only the one?”
    “Yes. It was a tape I took of them at a little going-away party we had just before one of their vacations. It wasn’t much, really, just drinks and some silly gifts, all of us waving good-bye and them waving back. You know.”
    “I can picture it, I think.”
    A third pause. “They were such a lovely couple. Roger borrowed that tape from me, oh, a month or so before Caroline was killed, but naturally I haven’t had the heart to ask for it back.”
    “Naturally,” I said quietly.

28

    It was a condo complex spread up a hill overlooking Route 1A in Swampscott, about twelve miles north of Boston . I’d had to do some driving around to locate the right unit in a brick building with white trim around the outside doors and windows. At the main entrance, I rang the bell under the name JORGENSEN.
    Before I could say anything, a woman’s voice came over the intercom. “You’re a doll, Janey. Come on in, I just have to put my shoes on.”
    The building door made a buzzing noise, and I pushed through it.
    There were two units on the first floor of the entryway. The door to the rear one was open, soft rock coming through it. I walked down the short hall and knocked on the jamb.
    “Janey, you don’t have to—who are you?”
    The woman looking back at me was in her mid-thirties, with a youthful face and trim figure in slacks and a short-sleeved knit jersey. She had one foot in a slip-on sandal, the other foot next to its mate, the toenails painted shocking pink. The only thing spoiling the picture was the cast on her right arm, elbow to hand, the fingers showing dark, 3s though ink-stained.
    Staying in the hall, I took out my ID holder. “Becca Jorgensen?”
    She used her good hand to brush brown, ringletted hair out of her eye. “I said, who are you?”
    “My name’s John Cuddy. I’m a private investigator from Boston.”
    I held up the ID, and Jorgensen looked at it from across her living room, though she was too far away to read anything on it. Her voice gave me the impression she didn’t trust me. “I don’t have time for anything right now.”
    “I can come back another day, but I need to talk with you.”
    “About what?”
    “About the flight to D.C. you were on, a week ago Friday.”
    The voice got frosty. “We’re not commenting on that.”
    “This doesn’t have anything to do with a lawsuit against the airline.”
    “Right,” in a tone that meant she wasn’t close to buying
    it.
    “Ms. Jorgensen, I—”
    The phone rang but she ignored the noise, just keeping me in sight. “You’ll have to leave now.”
    I didn’t say anything. There was a tape machine next to the ringing phone on the little table near her kitchen, and I had the impression she couldn’t wait it out.
    Glaring at me, Jorgensen used her left hand to pick up the receiver. “Hello?... Janey, where... Oh, no, Janey... Well, when’s the last time you started it ?... The lights on? How... Okay, okay I know you didn’t do it on purpose... Right, right... I guess I’ll have to call—just a second.”
    Jorgensen kept her eyes on me. “Listen, there’s a guy here… No, not him. This guy claims he’s a private investigator.”
    I walked toward her, holding my ID out in front of me. She flinched at first, then glared harder.
    Three feet from her, I stopped, the hand with the holder at eye level to her. Into the phone, Jorgensen said, “Janey? His name’s John Francis Cuddy.” She recited the rest