A waitress came by, recognized Rizzoli, and said, “You want your usual Sam Adams, Detective?”
Rizzoli looked at Korsak’s glass of beer. He had spilled it on his shirt, leaving a trail of wet spots.
“Uh, no,” she said. “Just a Coke.”
“You ready to order?”
Rizzoli opened the menu. She had no stomach for beer tonight, but she was starved. “I’ll have a chef’s salad with extra Thousand Island dressing. Fish and chips. And a side of onion rings. Can you bring it all at the same time? Oh, and could you bring some extra butter with the dinner rolls?”
Korsak laughed. “Don’t hold back, Rizzoli.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You know what that fried stuff does to your arteries?”
“Okay, then. You don’t get any of my onion rings.”
The waitress looked at Korsak. “What about you, sir?”
“Broiled salmon, hold the butter. And a salad with vinaigrette dressing.”
As the waitress walked away, Rizzoli gave Korsak an incredulous look. “Since when did you start eating broiled fish?” she asked.
“Since the big guy upstairs whacked me over the head with that warning.”
“Are you really eating that way? This isn’t something just for show?”
“Lost ten pounds already. And that’s even off cigarettes, so you know it’s, like, real weight off. Not just water weight.” He leaned back, looking just a little too satisfied with himself. “I’m even using the treadmill now.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Joined a health club. Doing cardio workouts. You know, check the pulse, keep tabs on the ticker. I feel ten years younger.”
You look ten years younger was what he was probably fishing for her to say, but she didn’t say it, because it would not have been true.
“Ten pounds. Good for you,” she said.
“Just gotta stick with it.”
“So what’re you doing, drinking beer?”
“Alcohol’s okay, haven’t you heard? Latest word in the New England Journal of Medicine. Glass of red wine’s good for the ticker.” He nodded at the Coke that the waitress set in front of Rizzoli. “What’s with that? You always used to order Adams Ale.”
She shrugged. “Not tonight.”
“Feeling okay?”
No, I’m not. I’m knocked up and I can’t even drink a beer without wanting to puke. “I’ve been busy,” was all she said.
“Yeah, I hear. What’s with the nuns?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“I heard one of the nuns was a mommy.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“You know. Around.”
“What else did you hear?”
“That you dragged a baby out of a pond.”
It was inevitable that the news would get out. Cops talked to each other. They talked to their wives. She thought of all the searchers standing around the pond, the morgue attendants, the crime scene technicians. A few loose lips and pretty soon, even a retired cop out in Newton knows the details. She dreaded what the morning papers would bring. Murder was fascinating enough to the public; now there was forbidden sex, a potent additive that would keep this case front and center.
The waitress set down their food. Rizzoli’s order took up most of the table, the dishes spread out like a family feast. Attacking her food, she bit into a french fry so hot it burned her mouth, and had to gulp her Coke to cool things down.
Korsak, for all his self-righteous comments about fried foods, was staring wistfully at her onion rings. Then he looked down at his broiled fish, sighed, and picked up his fork.
“You want some of these rings?” she asked.
“No, I’m fine. I tell you, I’m turning my life around. That coronary might be the best thing ever happened to me.”
“You serious?”
“Yeah. I’m losing weight. Kicked the cigarettes. Hey, I think I even got some hair growing back.” He dipped his head to show her his bald spot.
If any hair was growing back, she thought, it was in his head, not on it.
“Yeah, I’m making a lot of changes,” he said.
He fell silent and concentrated on his salmon, but did not seem to enjoy it. She almost shoved her plate of onion rings toward him out of pity.
But when he raised his head again, he looked at her, not at her food. “I’ve got things changing at home too.”
Something about the way he said it made her uneasy. The way he looked at her, as though about to bare his soul. She dreaded hearing the messy details, but she could see how much he needed to talk.
“What’s happening at home?” she asked. Already guessing what was about to come.
“Diane and me—you know what’s been going on. You’ve seen her.”
She had first met Diane at the hospital, when Korsak was recuperating from his heart attack. At their first encounter, she had noticed Diane’s slurred speech and glassy eyes. The woman was a walking medicine cabinet, high on Valium, codeine—whatever she could beg off her doctors. It had been a problem for years, Korsak told her, yet he had stood by his wife because that’s what husbands were supposed to do.
“How is Diane these days?” she asked.
“The same. Still stoned out of her head.”
“You said things were changing.”
“They are. I’ve left her.”
She knew he was waiting for her reaction. She stared back, not sure whether to be happy or distressed for him. Not sure which he wanted to see from her.
“Jesus, Korsak,” she finally said. “Are you sure about this?”
“Never been more sure of anything in my whole frigging life. I’m moving out next week. Found myself a bachelor pad, here in Jamaica Plain. Gonna set it up just the way I want it. You know, wide-screen TV, big fucking speakers that’ll blow out your eardrums.”
He’s fifty-four, he’s had a heart attack, and he’s going off the deep end, she thought. Acting like a teenager who can’t wait to move into his first apartment.
“She won’t even notice I’m gone. Long as I keep paying her pharmacy bills, she’ll be happy. Man, I don’t know why it took me so long to do this. Wasted half my life, but I tell you, that’s it. From now on, I make every minute count.”
“What about your daughter? What does she say?”
He snorted. “Like she gives a shit? All she ever does is ask for money. Daddy, I need a new car. Daddy, I wanna go to Cancun. You think I ever been to Cancun?”
She sat back, staring at him over her cooling onion rings. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Yeah. I’m taking control of my life.” He paused. Said, with a note of resentment, “I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“I am. I guess.”
“So what’s with the look?”
“What look?”
“Like I’ve sprouted wings.”
“I’ve just got to get used to the new Korsak. It’s like I don’t know you anymore.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No. At least you’re not blowing smoke in my face anymore.”
They both laughed at that. The new Korsak, unlike the old, wouldn’t stink up her car with his cigarettes.
He stabbed a lettuce leaf and ate silently, frowning, as though it took all his concentration just to chew. Or to build up to what came next.
“So how’s it going between you and Dean? Still seeing each other?”
His question, asked so casually, caught her off guard. It was the last subject she wanted to discuss, the last thing she expected him to ask about. He’d made no secret of the fact he disliked Gabriel Dean. She had disliked him too, when Dean had first walked into their investigation back in August, flashed his FBI badge, and proceeded to take control.
A few weeks later, everything had changed between her and Dean.
She looked down at her half-eaten meal, her appetite suddenly gone. She could feel Korsak watching her. The longer she waited, the less believ
able her answer would be.
“Things are okay,” she said. “You want another beer? I could use a refill on my Coke.”
“He come up to see you lately?”
“Where’s that waitress?”
“What’s it been? Few weeks? A month?”
“I don’t know. . . .” She waved to the waitress, who didn’t see her signal and instead headed back to the kitchen.
“What, you haven’t been keeping track?”
“I’ve got other things going on, you know,” she snapped. It was her tone of voice that gave it away. Korsak sat back, looking at her with a cop’s eye. An eye that saw too much.
He said, “Good-looking guy like him, probably thinks he’s a hot ticket with all the ladies.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not as stupid as I look. I can see something’s wrong. I can hear it in your voice. And that bothers me, ’cause you deserve better. A lot better.”
“I really don’t want to talk about this.”
“I never trusted him. I told you that, way back in August. Seems to me, you didn’t trust him back then, either.”
Again, she waved at the waitress. Again, she was ignored.
“Something sneaky about those fibbie guys. Every single one I ever met. Real smooth, but they’re never straight with you. They play head games. Think they’re better than cops. All that federal bigshot crap.”
“Gabriel’s not like that.”
“No?”
“He’s not.”
“You’re only saying that ’cause you got the hots for him.”
“Why are we having this conversation?”
“Because I’m worried about you. It’s like you’re falling over a cliff, and you won’t even reach out for help. I don’t think you got anyone to talk to about this.”
“I’m talking to you.”
“Yeah, but you’re not telling me anything.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“He hasn’t been up here to see you lately. Has he?”
She didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him. She focused instead on the mural painted on the wall behind him. “We’ve both been busy.”
Korsak sighed and shook his head, a gesture of pity.
“It’s not like I’m in love or anything.” Mustering her pride, she finally met his gaze. “You think I’m gonna fall apart just because some guy dumps me?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
She laughed, but it sounded forced, even to her ears. “It’s only sex, Korsak. You have a fling, and you move on. Guys do it all the time.”
“You telling me you’re no different from a guy?”
“Don’t go pulling that double standard bullshit on me.”
“No, come on. You mean there’s no broken heart? He walks away, and you’re fine with it?”
She fixed him with a hard stare. “I’ll be fine.”
“Well, that’s good. Because he’s not worth it, Rizzoli. He’s not worth one minute of grief. And I’m gonna tell him that, next time I see him.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Interfering. Bullying. I don’t need this. I’ve got enough problems.”
“I know that.”
“And all you’re doing is making things worse.”
He stared at her for a moment. Then he looked down. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “But you know, I’m only trying to be your friend.”
Of all the things he might have said, nothing could have affected her more. She found herself blinking away tears as she stared at the bald spot on his bowed head. There were times when he repelled her, times when he infuriated her.
And then there were times when she’d catch a startling glimpse of the man inside, a decent man with a generous heart, and she’d feel ashamed of her impatience with him.
They were silent as they pulled on their coats and walked out of Doyle’s, emerging from the cloud of cigarette smoke into a night that sparkled with fresh snow. Up the street, a cruiser pulled out of the Jamaica Plain station, its blue lights veiled by a beaded curtain of falling flakes. They watched the cruiser swoop away down the street, and Rizzoli wondered what crisis awaited it. Somewhere there was always a crisis. Couples screaming, wrangling. Lost children. Stunned drivers huddled beside their smashed cars. So many different lives intersecting in a myriad of ways. Most people were wrapped up in their own little corners of the universe. A cop sees it all.
“So what’re you doing for Christmas?” he said.
“Going to my parents’ house. My brother Frankie’s in town for the holidays.”
“That’s the one who’s a Marine, right?”
“Yeah. Whenever he shows up, the whole family’s supposed to get down on our knees and worship him.”
“Ouch. Little sibling rivalry there?”
“Naw, I lost that contest a long time ago. Frankie’s king of the hill. So what’re you doing for Christmas?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
There was an unmistakable plea for an invitation in that answer. Save me from a lonely Christmas. Save me from my own screwed-up life. But she couldn’t save him. She couldn’t even save herself.
“I got a few plans,” he quickly added, too proud to let the silence stretch on. “Maybe head down to Florida and see my sister.”
“That sounds good.” She sighed, her breath a cloud of steam. “Well, I gotta go home and get some sleep.”
“You want to get together again sometime, you got my cell phone number, right?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it. Have a great Christmas.” She walked to her car.
“Uh, Rizzoli?”
“Yeah?”
“I know you still got a thing for Dean. I’m sorry I said those things about him. I just think you could do better.”
She laughed. “Like there’s a line of guys waiting outside my door.”
“Well,” he said, staring up the street. Suddenly avoiding her gaze. “There is one guy.”
She went very still, thinking: Please don’t do this to me. Please don’t make me hurt you.
Before she could respond, he abruptly turned to his car. He gave her a careless wave as he circled to his door and ducked inside. She stared as he drove away, his tires trailing a glittering cloud of snow.
ELEVEN
IT WAS AFTER SEVEN that evening when Maura finally arrived home. As she turned into her driveway, she could see lights blazing in her house. Not the paltry glow of a few bulbs switched on by automatic timers, but the cheery incandescence of many lamps burning, of someone waiting for her. And through the living room curtains, she could make out a pyramid of multicolored lights.
A Christmas tree.
That was the last thing she had expected to see, and she paused in the driveway, staring at the twinkling colors, remembering the Christmases when she had put up the tree for Victor, when she had lifted delicate globes from their packing nests and hung them on branches that perfumed her fingers with the tart scent of pine. She remembered Christmases before that, when she was a child, and her father would lift her on his shoulders, so she could place the silver star on top of the tree. Not once had her parents skipped that happy tradition, yet how quickly she had let it slip from her own life. It was too messy, too much work. The hauling in of the tree, the hauling out, and then it was just another dried brown discard waiting on the curb for trash pickup. She had let the troublesome aspects deter her. She had forgotten about the joy.
She stepped from the cold garage into the house, and was greeted by the scent of roasting chicken and garlic and rosemary. How good it felt to be greeted by the smells of supper, to have someone waiting for her. She heard the TV on in the living room, and she followed the sound, pulling off her coat as she headed down the hallway.
Victor was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the tree, trying to untangle a clump of tinsel. He saw her and gave a resigned laugh.
“I’m no better at this tha
n when we were married.”
“I didn’t expect all this,” she said, looking up at the lights.
“Well, I thought, here it is, December eighteenth, and you don’t even have a tree yet.”
“I haven’t had time to put one up.”
“There’s always time for Christmas, Maura.”
“This is quite a change. You used to be the one who was always too busy for the holidays.”
He looked up at her from the tangle of silver. “And you’re always going to hold that against me, aren’t you?”
She fell silent, regretting her last comment. It was not a good way to start the evening, by bringing up old resentments. She turned to hang her coat in the closet. With her back to him, she called out: “Can I get you a drink?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
“Even if it’s a girly drink?”
“Have I ever been sexist about my cocktails?”
She laughed and went into the kitchen. From the refrigerator she took out limes and cranberry juice. She measured Triple Sec and Absolut Citron into the cocktail shaker. Standing at the sink, she rattled together ice and liquor, feeling the metal container turn frosty. Shake, shake, shake, like the sound of dice in a cup. Everything’s a gamble, love most of all. The last time I gambled I lost, she thought. And this time, what am I gambling for? A chance to make things right between us? Or another chance to have my heart broken?
She poured the icy liquid into two martini glasses and was carrying them out when she noticed the trash can was filled with a jumble of restaurant takeout containers. She had to smile. So Victor had not magically transformed into a chef after all. Their dinner tonight was courtesy of the New Market Deli.
When she walked into the living room, she found Victor had given up on tinsel-hanging and was packing away the empty ornament boxes.
“You went to a lot of trouble,” she said, as she set the martini glasses down on the coffee table. “Bulbs and lights and everything.”
“I couldn’t find any Christmas stuff in your garage.”
“I left it all in San Francisco.”
“You never bought your own?”
“I haven’t put up any trees.”
“It’s been three years, Maura.”
She sat down on the couch and calmly took a sip of her drink. “And when was the last time you took out that box of bulbs?”
The Sinner Page 15