Cold Tears

by AR Simmons

  “For two good reasons, Jill. I don’t have a chance. I have no idea why that idiot sheriff even listened to you once he found out about the thing up in Michigan. The other thing is that if I do get the job, it won’t be what you think it is. I worked in a sheriff’s department before, remember? It’ll just be running the roads at night on rural patrol. The hours will be odd and less than full time, and the pay will be miserable. It’s not real police work.”

  “I’m not stupid, Richard. You’re never going to do real police work. Can’t you get that through your head? You cannot be a criminologist with your record. It is not fair, but that is the way it is. And you cannot become a private investigator either. I looked up the requirements. Unless that felony is somehow expunged from your records, you are technically a felon. You cannot get a license.”

  “Don’t you think I know all that?”

  “In your mind, yes, but not in your heart.”

  “Yeah, well I’m sick of being psychoanalyzed. So let’s just drop it.”

  “No,” she said loudly. “I will not just drop it!”

  Her sharpness took him aback. Neither said anything for a long moment.

  “Why are you making me do this?” he finally asked softly.

  “Because I’m scared, Richard. I’m scared, and I don’t know what else to do.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “That you’ll go back to the way I found you when I got back from the funeral.”

  He shook his head dismissively. “That was … an anomaly. I just kind of fell off the edge for a while. I was okay as soon as you came back. Now I’ve got myself together. It won’t happen again as long as you’re with me.”

  He was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

  “It’s not because of me,” she said.

  “Sure it was. It is. I’m okay as long as I’ve got you. I don’t need anything else.”

  “Molly saved you.”

  “Molly? You can’t believe that. I’m not …”

  “In love with her? Of course not. But tell me something, Richard. What is the one thing you think of every day?”

  He shrugged. “You think about that little girl and what could have happened to her.”

  “Of course. How could I not?”

  “It’s what keeps you going. That depressing horror keeps you … sane. I don’t understand that, but I know it.”

  “That’s not true, and even if it was, what does it have to do with this crazy job thing you cooked up?”

  “This will end. I don’t know how or when, but I do know that you need to be doing this sort of thing.”

  “There’s no chance that I’ll be an investigator for the sheriff’s department, Jill. If I get the job, I’ll just be a part-time flunky at best.”

  “But you’ll be closer to it than you could be any other way I can think of. And it will give you structure.”

  “You mean a schedule.”

  “Maybe duty is a better word,” she said bitterly. “You’re good with duty.”

  •••

  Before they went to bed, he promised to go to the interview she had arranged. Not that he had any illusions about even being offered a job, but the junior college job was a done deal. When it didn’t work out the way she expected, he had no doubt that Jill could land a doctoral position somewhere.

  Just before he fell asleep, he resolved to do a better job of concealing his moods from Jill. He would weather the dark moods alone and keep her from having to worry about him. He’d be the sort of man she thought she was marrying.

  •••

  The smell of smokeless powder was heavy on the air as unseen gunfire nearby echoed through the streets. He bent forward trying to present a small target as he tugged Captain Holt toward a gutted building. Mogadishu. Empty streets? Look to the roofs. A snap passed his ear followed a split second later by a rifle crack. A dark doorway beckoned a few feet away. If he made it, he would live.

  Almost there, but Holt seemed heavier. Straining forward, he kept his eyes locked on the doorway. Then Holt seemed stuck on something. He turned to free him, but it wasn’t Holt.

  A bedstead sat in the middle of the street, and the wounded soldier’s hands were locked tight upon the bedrails. He crouched to free them and saw the oozing wrists. Slits ran lengthwise between the bones of the forearm. He felt a tickle between his shoulder blades and knew that someone was taking aim.

  •••

  He awoke abruptly, but lay still, waiting until his pulse slowed and then got quietly from bed wondering why his subconscious had decided to transport Bobby McComb to Somalia. The only answer he could think of was that the mind was a pattern-finding thing, and sought ceaselessly to connect things in order to make sense of a chaotic world. Maybe none of it made sense. Maybe all the existentialists that he hated were right. Maybe everything that happens does just happen—no pattern—no plan—no meaning.

  Richard shook his head. That was Mic Boyd’s world, not mine. If it’s all a dream, I’ll just dream on, he thought as he made coffee.

  He took the first cup to the computer and set about seeing if he could discover a pattern that made sense. Okay. We’ve got two things going on here that may or may not be related. Bobby McComb and Lyla were a definite thing, and may have been working on a long-term plan to separate Rennie Peele from a sizeable chunk of his money. That’s all Rafferty’s problem. Molly’s baby disappeared, and I don’t really have any idea about how that happened other than that someone probably drugged Molly in order to pull it off.

  The only thing connecting the cases had been Bobby McComb—that is if Richard was right in thinking that he either knew who drugged Molly or had done it himself. Of course, Adams could be right in thinking that Molly was responsible for the Valium-alcohol cocktail that she consumed that night. Undeniably, three people connected to Molly, McComb, and Lyla Peele had died of unnatural causes. Wilson had died in a suspected arson; Katie Nash had been murdered; and McComb had killed himself.

  It wasn’t that Richard had no idea as to what may have happened. To the contrary; he had too many. He suspected the newspaper editor of deliberately downplaying Mancie’s disappearance, and Adams of deliberate foot dragging. Adams and Rafferty were also being too “helpful” probably at the behest of Rennie Peele. And what about Molly’s erstwhile in-laws?

  “Right,” he said sarcastically. “They’re all involved in a vast conspiracy to steal Molly’s baby and drive me insane.”

  Okay, he thought as he set up a database on the computer. Let’s look at the timelines.

  “Make that timeline,” he mumbled, changing his mind. He set it up in what he thought was the proper sequence, incorporating every event that he knew of pertaining to everyone involved in both cases.

  Lyla auditions for Peele. (Bobby McComb gets brother to set it up.)

  Peele marries Lyla. (Prenuptial property agreement.)

  Lyla has a baby.

  Peele gets a DNA test proving it is his child. (This causes estrangement.)

  Pat Allsop leaves Molly. (For another woman, or just for a freer lifestyle?)

  Dr. Wilson dies in house fire. (maybe arson?)

  Mancie Disappears. (man seen carrying her away?)

  Lyla files for divorce.

  Peele gets Rafferty to investigate Lyla/McComb connection.

  Molly arrested/released. (suspected dope addiction.)

  Molly begins using meth.

  Molly asks me to investigate.

  I interview Katie Nash.

  Katie Nash murdered. (staged as sex crime?)

  I go to Wilson’s nurse for patient logs.

  Peele gets Adams to introduce me to Rafferty who explains her investigation. (so I won’t mess it up?)

  Rafferty gives me a redacted client log removing house calls to Lyla’s. (another affair?)

  McComb sells business to Lyla, and lists his house.

  Lyla moves to Blue Creek.

  I go to Blue Creek because that’s the address McComb had ma
il forwarded to.

  Rafferty is surveilling Lyla’s house.

  McComb commits suicide.

  I search his house. (and Rafferty knows because she is following me.)

  •••

  The ordering of the data told him nothing, so he turned his attention to motives. Molly’s obsession with continuing the search, if he ruled out delusion, eliminated her from consideration as anything but a victim. McComb obsessed on Lyla, and perhaps on getting his hands on his share of Peele’s money. Lyla wanted as much money as possible and, apparently, a singing career. Pat Allsop was obsessed mainly with himself. Katie Nash loved babies.

  “What are you working on?” asked Jill.

  He turned to see that she was dressed for work already. “I didn’t hear you get up,” he said.

  “I didn’t try to be quiet,” she said, coming over to him. “Want another cup of coffee?”

  “No. I’ve had enough.”

  She studied the screen over his shoulder. “You think it’s all related?” she asked skeptically.

  “Not really, but there’s some puzzling stuff. For example, Peele arranged for the house calls and then had Rafferty check into the pediatrician. Why would he assume that there was an affair between Wilson and Lyla?”

  “Maybe he didn’t arrange it,” Jill suggested. “From what you tell me, she sounds like an over-indulged woman. Maybe she arranged it to spare herself the inconvenience of office visits.”

  “Wouldn’t it be simpler to send the nanny with the baby?”

  “Not if she was image conscious. Are you sure you’re not getting sidetracked? This doesn’t seem germane to the missing child.”

  “I know,” he said, closing out the file. “I guess I’m just having trouble believing that there can be this much random perversity in the universe. Two guys connected to both Lyla and Molly die within a few months.”

  “One was a suicide and the other an accident,” she pointed out.

  “Wilson’s fire may have been arson, which would make his death a homicide.”

  “Oh, I see. You think that Mr. McComb and that woman killed him. Why?”

  “Maybe he was about to compromise Lyla’s big divorce settlement.”

  “How?”

  “Yeah. How?”

  She rested her hands on his shoulders, felt his tension, and began kneading the muscles at the base of his neck.

  “That feels good,” he said.

  “Richard, about your interview at Blue Creek,” she began softly, continuing to massage his shoulders.

  “I’m going, but don’t expect much. I doubt that I’ll be given serious consideration.”

  “Are you still upset with me?”

  “No,” he lied, patting her hand. “You were just trying to do what you thought best. If I don’t get the job, promise me you’ll reconsider the doctoral thing.”

  “I’m committed for next year. Then we’ll see.”

  “Don’t do it for me. I don’t want to hold you back.”

  “Then don’t try to stop me. This is what I want to do.”

  “Have you ever thought how this will look on your resume? When you apply at a good school, don’t you think having a job like that might be some sort of red flag? Academia is chock-full of the worst kind of elitists. A job history like that could kill you.”

  He was right of course, but Jill wasn’t about to admit it.

  “Emerson said that a man who trims himself to suit everyone will soon whittle himself away. If a school looks askance at my community college experience, it will be a sort of litmus test for me. I do not wish to work at such an institution.”

  “You’re rationalizing, Jill. Don’t take this job.”

  “I have taken it, Richard.”

  “End of discussion?”

  “I certainly hope so,” she said, gathering up her materials. “I’m taking the afternoon off. I should be here at twelve-thirty. I laid out your suit.”

  “Suit? You mean the interview’s today?”

  “Yes. Please be ready. I need time to go by the college while we are there.”

  “I’ll be ready, I guess,” he said glumly.

  “Good,” she said, ignoring his petulance.

  •••

  With nothing to do for the morning besides dreading the interview, Richard decided to try his luck getting Adams to give him more details about Bobby McComb’s suicide. Adams’s smile at seeing him seemed genuine. The man seemed to have discovered a way to turn bipolar disorder inside out, inflicting it on those around him rather than suffering through the mood swings himself. Richard had arrived at the upswing of the pendulum. Better to be the butt of jokes than the recipient of vitriol.

  “If it ain’t my favorite amateur private dick,” said Adams jovially. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Got a new theory for me, don’t you?”

  “Nope. Just here to pester you.”

  “Well, have a seat and have a go. I’m in a good mood. The price of donuts just went down.”

  The detective’s uncharacteristically jovial mood made Richard wonder if maybe it was the price of alcohol that had gone down. The thought inspired a question he hadn’t intended to ask until that moment.

  “Did McComb have anything in his system?”

  Adams’s smile disappeared. “Why?” he barked.

  “I was just thinking that it would help to be kind of out of it if I guy intended to open his veins and let his life bleed away.”

  “No. I mean, why are you asking?”

  “It’s just a logical question, isn’t it?”

  “Who told you?”

  Richard didn’t intend to lie, but he thought he knew how to elicit the information he wanted. “No one told me, but I’ve been discussing things with Rafferty and—”

  “She told you about the Valium?”

  It didn’t surprise Richard that Adams had revealed information to Peele’s investigator. Wealth bought privilege. It was the way the world worked.

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “I didn’t say she told me anything,” he said. “The first I knew anything about it was just now.”

  Learning that he had been maneuvered into giving Richard the information didn’t improve Adams’s mood.

  “Get out!”

  “Come on, Adams. Talk to me about the suicide scene. You already told Rafferty, so—”

  “Leave!”

  •••

  The phone was ringing when he came in the door. When he answered, he was greeted with a strident accusation. “Why did you tell Adams that I filled you in on the McComb case?”

  “I didn’t,” he said mildly. “I just asked a question, and he assumed the rest. By the way, how much Valium did he have in his system?”

  A long silence was finally punctuated with a sigh. “Maybe enough to kill him without bothering to slash his wrists. He was determined to do it right.”

  It wasn’t unheard of. Richard remembered reading that Hitler had taken cyanide and shot himself when the Russians were closing in.

  What had been closing in on McComb? Prison? Or simply life without his Honeybunch?

  “You still there, Carter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then tell me something. Why are you still poking around this thing? McComb can’t tell you anything now.”

  “You mean, why am I still screwing up your investigation.”

  “No. That’s over. The old man is cutting his losses. Lyla wins.”

  “Then why are you angry?”

  “Because I had a good working relationship with Adams until you gave him the idea that I was spilling things he told me in confidence.”

  “Peele’s influence will still buy you what you need from him.”

  “Peele’s not my only client. I just want to keep things going with Adams for future use.”

  He thought a moment.

  “Sorry, Rafferty. Unlike you, I don’t have any influence. So I just get information however I can. I didn’t mean to screw things up for
you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Look, since the damage is done, mind telling me what else he told you about the suicide scene?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Professional courtesy, remember—one Jarhead to another?”

  She laughed. “The scene is pretty much what you already know: dead man in a tub with no going away note. The M. E. found beau coup Valium in his system plus a minor blunt trauma injury to the side of his head. Don’t get excited. It was consistent with a slip in the tub. Probably hit the wall or railing.”

  “Enough to render him unconscious?”

  “Inconclusive. Most likely scenario: the dope made him woozy and he fell.”

  “That it?”

  “It’s all I know.”

  “You mean about the suicide scene or everything?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m trying to find out about Molly’s kid. Do you know of anything that could help me?”

  “No, Carter. I wish you well. I really do, but I can’t help you.”

  “I guess a pro bono assist is out of the question.”

  “Time is money, Carter. I don’t pour mine down a rat hole.”

  “You think I’m on a fool’s errand?”

  “I think it’s a shame the world works the way it does,” she said softly, her voice more feminine than he had ever heard.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Hey, I gotta go, Carter. Semper fi.”

  Jill came in as he was hanging up. “Who was that?” she asked. “Someone with a job for you to do?”

  “It was Rafferty.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Just saying goodbye. Lyla and Peele have reached a settlement.”

  •••

  It had been unseasonably cold for over a week, and today was premature winter. A quartering tailwind whipped loudly around the car as they headed east toward what he was sure would be a futile interview.

  “They may want me to teach the summer semester,” said Jill.

  “That good or bad?” he asked.

  “Good. We need the money, and I’m ready to have my own classes.”

  Making lemonade from lemons, he thought while keeping his mouth shut. Jill had been on the fast track, but this job was a poison pill. A major college post was now out of the question. He was sure of it despite her protests to the contrary. Talking wouldn’t help—not now. Of course, the hick college had snapped her up as quickly as the hick sheriff was getting ready to dispense with the formality of his application. Not that Richard cared. His enthusiasm for the job just about matched his chances of having it offered to him.