“Mmmmf, honey,” swallowing. “What is it?”
“You look sad, daddy.” She’d come a long way, to be able to say it. She sometimes still cried in her sleep, and whispered, “Mamacita,” while dreaming. I was sure that she’d heard me calling for Isabel, too.
“Guess I’m tired, honey, it was a long night.” Her eyes searched mine and just as I’d never been able to deceive her mother, she saw the evasion. She shook her head, postponing the talk she’d want later on.
“I gotta go,” she said, “I have to do that stupid project for social studies, and Terri didn’t do her share.” As usual, she walked out to the curb just as the bus arrived.
I stood, looking down the street after her bus. The phone was on a table next to the picture window, and it felt heavy when I picked it up. No one to call. Nothing to say. No wonder it was heavy.
I had a pretty good idea of what was going on around me. By then, the fingerprint check had been blocked by the Department of Defense. I was sure that the DaSilva had transmitted them electronically, encountering the DOD match and block. That might frustrate him, but it wouldn’t matter after they matched them against the knife, unless the killer had wiped it clean. Why choose a knife I’d handled, then wipe it? No, I was supposed to be blamed, and the incident at the bar provided a handy motive.
The victim was a U.S. Congressman, so they’d want this one closed right away. “Who gets my child while I’m doing hard time?” I asked out loud. Isabel’s family was either dead or still in Cuba. I had no family left. Mrs. Pina was sixty-something and a wonderful nanny, but had no legal standing. I imagined a string of careless foster homes grinding away at the barely rekindled beauty and joy in my daughter’s eyes, until it was all gone. I pictured an adult hopelessness in them before she started high school. Nope, I thought, not my kid.
I started a drinkable pot of coffee. It dripped with a groaning wheeze, while I tried to clear my mind.
Trust in the system had been ingrained in me as a second-generation American and Annapolis and my naval career fixed it in place. I wanted to believe that since I was innocent, the truth would out. Despite that desire, I had experienced the system’s inertia and its tendency to go with what it got. There was enough to get me into a federal penitentiary, or strapped down with a needle in my arm.
“Initiative,” a professor had said, years ago, “is an intangible, like pornography. You can’t define it, but you know it when you see it. You know when you have it, and you know when your opponent has it. With initiative, you are unbeatable if all other things are equal. Without it, you can only struggle to regain it.”
So Petersen and DaSilva were out there investigating their asses off, using limitless resources. They expected me to freeze and wait for their results. Who and what they were detecting was up to them. I had no way to be sure that the evidence they found reflected what I knew. I knew that I didn’t kill the congressman.
It was a special case, a path to promotion and glory for them, but they had volumes of rules to follow. They were cops. To me, it was a battle. Battles are won when you find, fix and destroy your opponents, or put them in such a position that they flat ass surrender, much simpler than winning a war. Wars are won when politicians say they are.
Rather than sink into a funk, I escaped into my past. My grandparents were two individuals, who formed a new person as a couple. She deferred to him only for major decisions. If our family was a person, then she was the heart, while he was the muscle and balls.
I would never have left my country to go where I couldn’t speak the language, with nothing but a willingness to work and the person I loved. They did, and in the few photos of that time, they looked happy, young and excited.
In my present, I was alone, trying to make this duplex home to Marisol. I rolled my shoulders, as if easing a long-carried load. Not good to find the past holding onto my thoughts, when the present needed them.
The phone brought me back. It was a reporter from the Providence newspaper, asking for comments on being a suspect in the Congressman’s murder.
“If I’m a suspect, it’s the first I’m hearing it. If I am a suspect, how in the hell did you find out? And last but not least, no comment.”
There was another call five minutes later from the local television news, and the phone beeped with waiting calls during my “no comment” to them. I worried about Marisol or Mrs. Pina getting one of those calls. What if they started trailing around behind us?
I knew a little about using the system, so I got some of the law books I used to study for the Rhode Island Bar Exam. It took an hour to find the cases I’d vaguely remembered, before I drove to the local courthouse. Courthouses seem to be like old school buildings, the smells and sounds were familiar.
The clerk handed me the forms to fill out. The halls and waiting rooms were choked with an assortment of sad women looking for support, men trying to get visitation, witnesses, DWI’s and job lots of the scared and angry, but I found a quiet corner. I wrote in the names of all of the news organizations I could remember. I cited the three cases I had found, signed here, dated there, initialed here and here, and filled in the blank as “Pro Se,” giving it to the clerk.
Her eyes widened when she read it, but she made no comment. “Is everything in order?” I asked.
“Seems complete to me. His Honor will be going through cases in the order received, but this will come up pretty soon. Is the plaintiff here?”
“Plaintiffs, ma’am, plural. No, and under the guidelines,” I gestured at the poster on the cinder block wall, “They don’t have to be.”
“Well. No,” she said, “I mean, I guess not.” There was the barest suggestion of a question in her hesitant agreement.
“I’m just a clerk, Mr.,” she paused, “Mr. Costa. It’ll be up to the judge, anyway, sir.” She nodded to the next in line, a teenaged girl with a baby on her hip, and countless visible piercings.
I went into the courtroom, and waited my turn. “Mr. Paul Costa?”
I stood.
“This is typically a routine filing, but this is one regarding an unusual matter.”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Mr. Costa, there are constitutional issues here. I’m not unsympathetic, but it seems to me that First Amendment issues govern.”
“Your honor, the First Amendment protects the press from government intervention, but does not guarantee unrestricted access to private citizens. The argument that the individual right to privacy doesn’t interfere with the media’s right to unfettered speech has been upheld in several cases. Both the Rhode Island Supreme Court and the United States District Court of Appeals upheld a citizen’s right to privacy vis-à-vis the press. I cited three cases in support, and I would argue that you would be justified in issuing the order to protect my home, family and person from unreasonable intrusion.”
“Mr. Costa, I have heard no countering arguments from the subjects of your restraining order, and I will need to review the cases you cited.”
“I understand, judge.”
“I will give you my decision after the morning recess.”
The wait was interminable but I was back in the courtroom before the judge’s entrance.
I stood, with familiar feelings of mixed fear and anticipation; standing in front of a judge.
“Mr. Costa, given the existing law and the lack of countering argument, I am granting you this order for a period of seven days. Defendants can file briefs or modification requests during that time. It will be your responsibility to provide service on all of the organizations named in the order, which will be done by constables or deputy sheriffs at your expense. Questions?”
“Thank you, judge. I’ll speak to the clerk about how to get that done.”
“That’s correct, Mr. Costa. Please accept my best wishes.” I took that as a dismissal.
I went to the clerk to get the order and directions on getting service. It was easy, with a check for a couple of hundred dollars. I’d have to tell
‘Sol and Mrs. Pina about it, and how to enforce it, but that beat the hell out of the alternative. I also had to let ‘Sol’s school and the hotel know.
Once I got home, I found a legal pad and some pens in the desk I used to pay bills. The police had forensics and plenty of access to witnesses. I didn’t, so I began with the victim. There was a reason to kill that man. Someone took huge risks to do it in that time, place and way.
I poured another cup of coffee and grabbed an ashtray. Isabel called my meanderings Attention Deficit Disorder. I called it thinking on my feet, and Isabel would give me a tolerant smile, tilting her head forward so her hair fell partly over her face. Marisol was going to let me have it about smoking in the house, but I needed them to concentrate. I checked the time to see how long it would be before ‘Sol got home, and re-established the Internet connection that had been whimsically terminated by some switch, relay or microchip.
A long time later, I stopped. My eyes felt gritty and hot, and I knew enough of the public record of the public man. Congressman Richard Morley seemed to fit the definition of a politician, “One who makes the rare appearance of a statesman so clear to view by providing a backdrop of unremitting mediocrity.”
The “Gentleman from Rhode Island” was a white bread blur, but the private man could generate dislike. Certainly, I had come to dislike him, during our five-minute acquaintance.
He was good at getting drunk, so I plugged into the network. Bartenders spoke often, particularly after serious problems. Customers to watch out for, stalkers, brawlers, addicts, prostitutes and scammers were all shared. You never knew where you might wind up working or with whom, so we cooperated. We might have uttered an unkind word or two about our employers. I was going through my address book, when the doorbell rang.
I looked at the clock. Too early for ‘Sol or Mrs. Pina. I could hear Mrs. Pina upstairs, seeking out dirt that dared to defy her. My legal pad was covered with notes, arrows and circles and underlines. I flipped it over, and signed off of the computer before I went to the door.
Petersen and DaSilva had changed their clothes. DaSilva wore a three-piece suit, navy blue with light pink pinstripes, at least fifteen years out of style. He looked well rested, and bandbox clean and bright. The fact that the suit still fit him was a credit to his physical condition. Petersen wore a lightweight linen suit with the top two buttons fastened so his artillery showed as a noticeable bulge. It was comical or tragic, the way he just didn’t get it. For some reason, he wore a canvas, broad brimmed hat.
“May we come in, Mr. Costa?” said a female voice. I hadn’t seen her, standing behind Petersen, but I pulled the door open.
“My daughter will be home soon, and I have to get dinner going, and get ready for work,” I said, “unless you’re arresting me.”
“No rush,” said Petersen. “Plenty of time. We just want to introduce you to the lady who’ll get to do that. We’re holding her coat, this being a federal matter, now.” There was anger in his voice, and I hoped that the woman standing to his right was the target. Solving a congressman’s murder was a career maker, and it was being taken away from him.
DaSilva seemed resigned. “This is FBI Special Agent, Dana Kilroy, Mr. Costa, and she’ll be leading the investigation. Detective Petersen and I will be part of a joint task force, providing mutual support.” That was more information that I expected as a suspect. I smelled the effluvia of a jurisdiction battle and felt a stirring of hope. The more time they spent pissing on each other’s shoes, the better for me.
“Commander Costa,” she began, “is there somewhere we can sit and talk? There’s a lot to clear up and not much time. As you may guess, there’s a lot of publicity and pressure to get this wrapped up promptly.” Her use of my old rank meant that she had my records from Defense, demonstrating her authority. “Wrapping things up,” quickly would be much simpler if I was the killer.
I offered them coffee, and ushered them into the kitchen. It had been twenty hours and a bit since I’d slept, and I felt an ache between my shoulder blades that signaled extreme fatigue. Even if they didn’t want coffee, I needed it badly.
“With respect, Mr., I mean, Commander, Costa, may I say that you look like warmed-up dogshit?”
“That is not necessary, Detective Petersen,” the agent said. He smirked at her back, like a schoolboy taunting a teacher.
“With equal respect, Detective Petersen, I’ve never tried it, but I’ll defer to your dining experiences,” I said. DaSilva shook his head and kept walking.
I glanced at the mirror in the hallway and saw my reflection. He had a point. My face sagged and I wanted a shower and twelve hours of sleep. I hoped that I still had reserves to call on.
My light olive complexion was almost sallow. I saw muddy brown, bloodshot, tired looking eyes, a twice-broken nose with a few random scars, salt and pepper hair, and a thankfully slim build. I pulled myself more erect, forced my shoulders straight down and put a familiar arch into my back. I followed them into the kitchen. Dana Kilroy sat at the head of the table, my usual seat, Petersen stood, leaning against the kitchen counter behind her, and DaSilva had seated himself. I got mugs out, cream and sugar, being sure to hand Petersen the most effeminate mug I could find. He held it with his hands wrapped around it. I stood with my back to the stove, forcing Petersen to turn his head to look at me, while I could see Agent Kilroy’s lovely profile. I stood in a nearly military “parade rest” and waited.
“Please sit down, Commander,” she said.
“No, thank you, Agent Kilroy, I’m more comfortable standing, and if anyone wants anything, I can get it more easily from here.” I said it pleasantly. “In a way you’re my guests, and I’d like to be as good a host as I can.”
Petersen straightened from his slouch by the sink, still holding onto his girlish coffee cup. He was doing his best to loom. “Siddown,” he said.
“Agent Kilroy, since you’re under the gun and I have a lot to do, would you like to start?”
“You think we give a single dead rat’s ass what you have to do? Look at me, I’m talkin’ to you!” Petersen said. I heard Mrs. Pina stop upstairs, and DaSilva looked at Petersen, slightly shaking his head. Petersen slouched back into my counter, looking at the ceiling and puffing his cheeks as he blew air out. He reached into his left armpit to scratch or play with his gun.
Dana Kilroy was about thirty-five or so, five-six, half a foot shorter than me, with the build and stride of an athlete rather than a model. She had ash blonde hair and even features. Her eyes were an incredible clear blue, with an incongruous Asiatic tilt at the corners. She wore a sensible skirt, no slit, nylons and shoes that could have had heels, but didn’t. Her collarless blouse came to the base of her throat, sheer enough to show hints of lace where tricks of light worked through. Her jacket had no lapels at all, and it was cut full and long. I expected a holster at her right waist, rather than in a purse. I was annoyed at myself for noticing a hint of perfume when she turned, something that smelled like cinnamon.
I saw the holster where I expected it and the grips of a Beretta nine millimeter, similar to one I’d carried for a few years. Hers probably used seven round magazines, to keep the grips slimmer and more concealable. Extra magazines would be in pouches at her left waist.
Her blonde hair was pulled smoothly back, leaving no errant strands to fall into her face. It shone softly and captured the light with varying shades of gold. She aimed her exotic blue eyes at me, and reached into a small portfolio I hadn’t noticed. “I’ve gotten Detective Petersen and Sergeant DaSilva cleared for this, and they’ll be getting copies, Commander. Some of your records are still beyond my reach, for the moment.” She paused, waiting for me to say something.
I tried to look pleasantly interested, but said nothing. I wanted them frustrated, but not angry. She shifted in her chair, careful of her skirt, showing a sign of discomfort.
She spoke again, “I know what the Newport police know, and we’re still waiting for the coroner’s report an
d autopsy. It won’t surprise you to hear that we found a partial palm, index finger and thumb print on the knife matching your right hand.” I noticed that she had a slight drawl, with no hint of New England in it. She spoke the way that career military people do.
“Also on the knife, besides Congressman Morley’s blood; they found fruit traces, dishwashing detergent, some hair and brain tissue. The knife is sharp with a slight curve, a fine, narrow and flexible blade, approximately four inches long. Without further details, we are assuming that the knife penetrated the ear and brain to cause death. We are assuming that murder is the manner of death.”
She paused to take a sip of her coffee. I wondered why she told me so much. I thought about interrogations, and how much of what went on was neither asked nor answered aloud. I assumed that she was trying to demonstrate how hopeless it was to try to hide anything.
She squirmed and her skirt pulled up slightly, revealing more. I wanted to show nothing but composure. Staring at her legs would not do.
“Lots of assuming there, wouldn’t you agree, Agent Kilroy?” I said evenly. I felt Petersen’s energy rise.
“You found the guy in a fuckin’ men’s room, with your fuckin’ knife in his ear, two hours after you almost broke his arm and threw him out of your bar. The knife is covered with your prints, and you don’t know a fuckin’ thing about any of it. How the fuck much assumin’ do you think we need to assume, here?
Both Kilroy and DaSilva were looking at me rather than Petersen, trying to make use of his hostility.
“Did anyone see Morley come back into the bar or the men’s room?” I asked. “Can anyone put me in there at the same time as him? Is there any reason you wouldn’t expect to find my prints on that knife? I’d used it at least twice during that shift, along with the mixing cups, lots of glasses and a spray bottle to clean the bar. Most of the bottles in the bar, the soft drink gun and ice scoop.”
Agent Kilroy pushed herself back further in her chair and tugged at her skirt. “Commander,” she began.
Last Call Page 3