Most of the kids where I grew up in the Yards—the little rats, like me, who scuttled between the trailers and the shacks—gave up early on. And why not? By the time they reached high school, they were years behind in their studies, and the only people they feared were the junkies in that shooting gallery around the corner. Loser was their fate—that’s what they told themselves—and there’s no escaping your fate. Survival would never come by way of a paycheck.
I said no to that way of thinking. I said if you work hard enough, you can make a decent life for yourself and your family. I waited too long to get started, true, and I kept making mistakes, like marrying Sean and trusting Franky Belleau. But there was this bottom-line truth to my dreams, a truth I took the trouble to name. I called this bottom line my bootstrap plan and told myself that willpower was the only requirement. Luck would play no part.
If the cops connect me to the body in that cabin, they’ll put the murder on me. That’s the way cops have always operated in the Yards, and I can’t make myself believe—or even hope—that anything’s changed. I turn back to Charlie, but I’m thinking about Vern Taney and his boss.
“What’s happening, Mommy?”
Charlie stares up at me, her clear blue eyes reflecting her curiosity. I don’t pull my punches, but I do censor myself. I’m about to say a man’s been murdered. But how would I know the victim’s a man and not a woman?
Going forward, I’ll need to be careful. Very careful.
“Someone’s been murdered, honey,” I tell my daughter.
“Like in Watership Down?”
“That’s right.”
Charlie raises a finger and smiles her ah-ha smile. “But not a rabbit. A person.”
“Yes, a person. You got me.”
My little girl’s delighted laughter enchants me, but my brain resumes its spinning a moment later. I have to get rid of the hat and the dress, but wouldn’t that be proof that I did it? Dumping evidence? There’s DNA, too, and I must have left some behind. But at least we never made it to the bed. And Bradley took a shower and I put that sixty dollars back in his pocket instead of leaving it on the floor. Maybe the cops’ll look at the paraphernalia in the bathroom and decide that Bradley was killed in a drug dispute. But what about security cameras? I never thought to check. For all I know, there could be cameras in front of every cabin. And maybe someone in Randy’s Tavern recognized me. It’s not like I’m a hermit. Also . . .
“Mommy.”
Charlie’s voice jolts me back into the present. So much at stake. Her life, as well as mine. “Yes, honey?”
“What’s a whorehouse?”
CHAPTER NINE
GIT
An hour later I’m on my way to my second job at Zack Butler’s—one eye on the rearview mirror as my paranoia blossoms—when I get the good news. Zack’s four-bedroom house is in Mount Jackson, Baxter’s most expensive neighborhood, proof positive that he’s made it. Exactly how, on the other hand, is still a mystery. But I’m not thinking about Zack or his fortune when my cell rings.
The number and the 732 area code are unfamiliar, but I lean forward to flick the little green arrow to the side. The phone’s mounted on a dashboard vent and set to speaker.
“Hello.”
“Good afternoon. May I please speak with Ms. Bridget O’Rourke?”
Mom would confront directly: Whatta ya want her for? And it’s true that I half expect the caller to be a cop investigating the death of Bradley Grieg. But I make it a habit not to go with the first words that pop into my head. Better to stall until you get a fix on the situation.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Madison Klein. I work in human relations at Short Hills Medical Center in New Jersey. Am I speaking to Nurse O’Rourke?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re busy, so I’ll get right to the point. Our medical center won’t open its doors for a month. We’re brand-new, and we’re hiring personnel for every division, from janitorial services to radiology. I’m what you call a recruiter. It’s my job to fill the empty slots.”
Madison has one of those breathless speaking styles, every sentence running into the next, as if a supervisor were timing her sales pitch. When she comes to a sudden stop, it takes me a moment to get my bearings.
“You’re recruiting on Sunday afternoon?”
“That’s when most working people are home.”
“Okay, but I hope you know that I’m a long way from New Jersey.”
“True, but you applied to one of our affiliates in Jersey City a couple of months ago—we’re part of the Galvers Medical Group—and we’re wondering if you’re still interested in making a change.”
The McDonald’s parking lot is almost empty when I pull in. I find a space away from other cars. As if I’m about to share some dark and dangerous secret.
“Yeah,” I tell the recruiter, “I am.”
“Well, our Jersey City affiliate—that would be Knowles Trauma Center—checked your employment record when you submitted your résumé. First, you’ve been working two jobs almost from the day you received your license. Second, your private patient, that would be Mr. Butler, raved about you. Third, the manager at Resurrection described you as ‘reliable and efficient.’ ” She finally pauses. “Frankly, you’re the kind of committed nurse Short Hills Medical Center needs.”
Slow down, I tell myself. Madison’s flattering you. That’s nice, of course, but she’s trying to sell you something. If it’s too good to be true . . .
“When I looked a little closer at Jersey City,” I finally say, “I realized that I could never afford an apartment in any decent neighborhood. Even small apartments rent for more than I can afford. A lot more.”
“Not to worry. Short Hills is in Essex County, thirty miles from New York. Housing is still relatively affordable out here. Also, we’re adding a small dormitory to help our people relocate. You’d be eligible to stay there for up to three months.”
Madison’s trying too hard. Tomorrow, when I get home, I’ll go online and check out the medical center. For now, I’m happy to keep the conversation moving.
“May I call you Madison?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“I have a child, Madison, an eight-year-old girl. Dormitory doesn’t work for us. Too much like a shelter.”
“No biggie. We also work with real estate brokers. May I call you Bridget?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Look, Bridget, why don’t we set a date for a second interview, hopefully on Zoom or Workplace. If we’re all on board after that, I can make you this promise. We won’t risk losing you because you can’t find a place to live. And by the way, Short Hills is an upscale community. The schools are marvelous.”
“And the pay?”
Madison laughs, but doesn’t hesitate. “We’re paying twenty-four fifty an hour to start, with overtime available. Benefits include seven holidays, two weeks’ paid vacation after a year on the job, and medical insurance. Tell me, are you interested in furthering your education? Because we’re opening our own nursing school, fully accredited. Short Hills employees will be entitled to a fifty percent reduction in tuition costs. You’d make a lot more as a registered nurse.”
Zack’s left enough room behind the Lincoln in his driveway for my little car. I pull in but don’t open the door. And yes, I’m going to make myself available for that second interview. I’ve been trying to get out of Baxter for the past three years, sending my résumé to hospitals as far away as Seattle. I’ve gotten a few offers, but they were dependent on a face-to-face interview, and I wasn’t willing to relocate on a maybe. Even when I did set up an interview at a Chicago hospital, I ran into the same problem with insanely expensive housing. I don’t want to move into a big-city version of the Yards.
This offer is different, or I’m hoping it’s different. Madison was very persuasive. If I’m ready to pull up stakes—and she advised me to think about it carefully—Short Hills Medical Center will make it happe
n. The physical part, at least.
On another day, I would have brought a bottle of wine to Zack’s, would have shared it with him. We do that now, on holidays, though his doctors have taken alcohol off the list of pleasures Zack can still enjoy. But there’s no wine, not now, and I can’t make myself pretend that Bradley’s murder won’t come back to hurt me. I was in a nightclub with Grieg on the night he was killed. I left with him, for Christ’s sake.
No, I didn’t leave with Bradley. I may have followed him out the door, but I never actually spoke to him inside the bar. And we didn’t leave in the same car, either. I followed Bradley to the Skyview. If . . .
Enough with the bullshit. I open the door, get out, and walk up to Zack’s door. Miranda opens it before I ring the bell. Zack suffers from fairly advanced emphysema that’ll eventually kill him if he doesn’t get a lung transplant. At this stage of his disease, he’s able to breathe on his own with the aid of a trach tube and supplementary oxygen, at least while awake. Just as well, because Miranda’s not a nurse or even a certified health aide, and she can’t handle a ventilator. Meanwhile, she’s indispensable. The woman helps Zack dress, bathe, and keep his doctors’ appointments. She cooks his breakfast and his lunch, makes sure his meds are refilled, and takes him for short walks, following behind his walker with a wheelchair. She does his laundry.
The nights are different. Zack can’t breathe on his own while asleep. When he tried—over my objections—his oxygen-saturation level suddenly dropped to sixty-four percent and he turned blue. I had him on the vent within seconds, and his stats came back up, but later that night, he told me that he’d felt his life being drawn from his body.
“I can’t bullshit myself anymore. I know there’s a God out there.” His look was imploring as he added, “Now what the fuck am I gonna do?”
CHAPTER TEN
GIT
With her daughter home sick, Miranda’s out the door almost as soon as I walk inside, so Zack is left to my tender mercies. But there’s to be no mercy tonight.
“We have to do this, right?” Zack pleads. “It’s a hundred percent necessary?”
Zack’s trach hasn’t been changed in two months, and it’s beginning to stink. He should be used to the drill by now. Five years ago, a surgeon cut a hole in his throat and the trachea beneath, then inserted a curved plastic tube into the hole and secured it with a trach collar, a strip of fabric that’s merely tied off. At the same time, a bulb on the end of the tube inside the body was partially inflated. The bulb prevents the trach tube from popping out, even if the collar loosens, yet still allows enough air to flow around the tube and over his vocal cords to sustain ordinary speech.
As I said, from the patient’s perspective, changing the tube is unpleasant. It can’t be done without activating the gag reflex. Zack will cough and choke when the old trach comes out, then again when the new trach is inserted. But that’s another thing I like about Zack. He’s not a whiner.
“I smoked three packs a day for more than forty years,” he once told me. “I’m lucky I’m not breathin’ dirt.”
Ten minutes later I attach the oxygen converter to Zack’s trach and we’re done. He’s in one of the four recliners in his living room, watching the news on a TV big enough for a theater while I head for the kitchen. Nurses don’t usually do housework, but as Zack’s willing to feed me as well as himself, I usually throw something together when I arrive.
Not tonight.
“Whatta ya say to pizza and a salad?” Zack asks.
Sal’s Pizzeria is on my starred contact list. It’s my go-to restaurant when Mom’s out and I’m too tired to cook for Charlie. I’m on the phone within a minute.
“You heard about this?” Zack asks.
“The killing?”
“Yeah.” Zack’s speaking voice is fairly soft, but the effort to push enough air over his vocal cords to be heard often leaves him gasping as he draws breath into his lungs. “I know this guy. I mean the victim.”
The doorbell rings, allowing me time to think. It’s the pizza and salad. I pay for both with Zack’s money, then head for the kitchen. Zack loves to talk, and I’ll let him go on until it’s time for baseball. He’s a St. Louis Cardinals fan and bets every game.
“Say that again,” I call over my shoulder.
“This guy, Grieg. I know him.”
“Did I ever meet him?”
“I mean I know about him.” Zack pauses, his breath coming fast. I’m used to it, and I simply wait. “But I never done business with him.”
Carrying a tray large enough to fit across the arms of Zack’s chair, I come back into the living room. Dinnertime.
We eat for a few minutes while I watch the same footage I watched this morning, the gurney wheeled out, the cops following. Only this time the footage cuts to an afternoon press conference held by our chief of police, Harry Black. The chief ducks and dodges most of the questions but does admit that the cops have no suspects and robbery was a likely motive. This is standard stuff, and Chief Black’s matter-of-fact tone gives that away. But my attention’s focused on the two cops standing behind the chief. I recognize Vern Taney, but I still don’t know the name of the woman next to him. She’s wearing a navy-blue pantsuit that does nothing to soften a blocky frame, thick at the waistline, wide at the shoulders. Her thin mouth is turned down slightly at the corners. With disdain? I’m sure her dark eyes are sharp and focused. And I can only hope they won’t, in the near future, be focused on me.
Zack wipes his lips with a paper napkin, then looks up at me. “The victim, Bradley Grieg? He runs with Connor Schmidt. Him and Connor, they’re good buddies. Or they were.”
Though I don’t recognize the name, I mumble an uh-huh.
“Connor Schmidt is Carl Schmidt’s kid,” Zack continues. “You heard of him? Carl Schmidt?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Carl’s a pimp and a drug dealer. Really old school, Git. You don’t shake in your boots at the sound of his name, he starts to worry. Maybe he’s losin’ it. Maybe somebody’s comin’ for what he’s got.”
Back in the kitchen, I refill our plates and return to the living room. “You haven’t touched your salad,” I tell Zack.
“I’ll get to it.” He waves me to my seat. “Point I’m makin’ here is that if the chief’s right, if Bradley got robbed, there’s gonna be trouble. The way Carl Schmidt’s brain works, he’s already tellin’ himself that he’s gotta do something about it. The robbery, I mean. He’s gotta balance the scales.”
“That’s crazy. Even if the victim was robbed—Grieg, or whatever his name is—how can you be sure the money belonged to Schmidt?”
“You’re innocent as a baby.” Zack laughs. “You see, a certain class of people around here connected Grieg and Schmidt the minute Grieg’s name was released. Now our police chief’s sayin’ robbery was the motive. This class of people I’m talkin’ about, they’re not deep thinkers. They’re gonna assume the obvious. They’re gonna assume that Carl Schmidt got ripped off and he’s out for blood. Literally, Git. Bruises ain’t gonna do it.”
I consider this for a moment, but can’t find anything to add. “What about the cop,” I say. “You know her?”
“By reputation alone. Name’s Mariola, from somewhere further east. Word out there is that she’s sharp. And Vern Taney, he’s nobody to mess with either. In fact, I gotta believe it’ll be a race between the two of ’em and the Schmidts, father and son. See who gets to the shooter first.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DELIA
First thing after we finish working the crime scene, I send Vern Taney in search of Connor Schmidt. I want Connor down at headquarters long enough to get his statement on the record. I’m gonna connect them, Bradley and Connor, once and for all. (You believe those names? When you think of Bradley and Connor, you imagine a pair of towheaded kids in a 1970s sitcom. Not the vicious predators I know them to be.)
With Vern gone, I head for Cindy Sherman’s last known address on C
laymore Road in the Yards. Cindy’s the victim’s ex-wife, the one Bradley Grieg put in the hospital. She’s also the victim who refused to testify. Supposedly, Cindy and her ex avoided each other. Supposedly. But Cindy can still help. She can fill us in on who he hung out with and where he hung out. Other names will emerge over time, but she’s the logical starting point.
The weather’s still damp, but I roll down the window anyway. Lately, days have been taken up by administrative detail. I’ve got a real case now, and I hope to work it until I have a suspect in custody. Illusion or not, closing the cuffs around a perp’s wrists feels like finality. It feels like success.
Most Baxterites imagine the Yards to be one long road flanked on both sides by dilapidated campers and tar-paper shacks. They imagine appliances in every yard, rusting cars stripped of every usable part and half-buried in mud.
As a cop, I know the Yards to be uniformly poor, but not the cesspool others believe it to be. Yeah, there are trailer parks with no trailers. Only a collection of rusting campers inhabited by alkies, junkies, and tweakers. But I also pass trailer parks with cared-for double-wides on straight, well-maintained roads. I see flowers and shrubs out front. Planted by men and women who are as addicted to respectability as tweakers are to meth. They fight an uphill battle, these families, and I admire the effort. Their children are subject to just about every temptation known to man. And that’s only when the kids aren’t being coerced.
Cindy’s home fits the second category. It’s a nicely kept single-wide trailer with a border of newly planted impatiens. There’s even a lawn between her trailer and the next in line. Still lush this early in the year, the lawn appears soft and springy as I approach the trailer’s small porch along a flagstone path.
There’s no bell, and I knock hard on the screen door. I hear movement inside, and a man calls out, “Coming, honey.” My unexpected appearance earns a double take out of a silent movie. The man on the far side of the screen is middle-aged, with a pronounced paunch and an artificial leg made painfully obvious by the cargo shorts he’s wearing.
The Yards Page 5