Pop asked, “Isn’t she in a nursing home?”
Bertha nodded.
“The guy work there?”
“She says pen pals, I suspect Internet.”
“Women in their nineties don’t use the Internet.”
“Grandma is Grandma. Besides, I think Doree gave her lessons. There’s a computer in the day room for residents to use.”
“So,” Pop said, “This guy could be anyone.”
Bertha sighed, sipped her coffee, set it down, and said, “Plus, I’ve been getting threats. Calls in the middle of the night. I had another one last night.”
“One of your old cases?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“You’ve reported it, right?”
“Yeah. They have me keeping a log. I’m not sure how that’ll help, but I’m doing it.”
Pop waited, and when it was obvious Bertha would say no more, he asked, “Do you have any ideas? I mean, what it’s about.”
“It started a couple of weeks after Toni’s, ah…Toni’s…”
Pop’s eyes quickly checked the people around them, and he lowered his voice. “You think there’s a connection?”
“I’ve sent Doree to stay with Toni’s sister in Indiana.”
“For good?”
Bertha shrugged. “First call he said he was coming after both of us. Said he knew where Doree hung out.”
“So he’s serious?”
“Sounded serious last night.”
“Threat to your family—that’s up the rung from the standard nut job.”
“Are there standard nut jobs, as opposed to worse-than-standard nut jobs?”
Pop flashed his white teeth, smiling.
The family at the table near them was getting ready to leave. The infant who’d gotten syrup on her earlier sucked his sweet fingers, then let out a screech that went through the hum of voices like a bullet through soft bread. Several of the group smiled at him adoringly. Others stood around chatting and getting louder. Near the door, people in line, waiting for a table, watched sullenly as the irritating family started taking pictures. Unmindful of the people around them, they bumped into other tables and knocked silverware and napkins onto the floor.
Pop said, “Those folks have the social skills of a mob of panda bears.”
Then the waitress was next to them with their orders. She swapped the empty coffee carafe with a full one, then slid plates of blueberry pancakes before them. “Will there be anything else?”
Bertha said, “Extra napkins.”
Pop frowned. “I ordered bacon.”
The cleft-chinned waitress said, “It’ll be right up.” Then she disappeared—forever, as far as anyone could tell.
They ate in silence. Pop was the first to speak. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Bertha put her fork down. “Okay.”
“It’s about that house, down on Fifth Street, where Toni and Fred Cook were ambushed.”
Bertha searched his face. His eyes were the usual bloodshot and watery. His mustache and eyebrows had gone gray and so had what was left of his hair. These days, black men started shaving their heads at about forty. But Pop was old-fashioned. His hair was cut close but not shaved. Her mouth was dry. When she couldn’t swallow, she sipped from her water glass.
At length Pop said, “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes. I heard you.” Something dreadful reached out for Bertha, and for a moment, she felt as if she needed to hold steady against it, the way you lean into a strong wind.
Pop said, “That house sits in gang territory.”
The panda-bear family members moved single file between the tables, through the crowd of people still waiting for a table and out into the rainy Saturday morning. Then they were gone. A bus boy appeared and cleaned their table. The noise of that group had been so loud its absence left a void.
Bertha said, “That whole end of town is gang territory.”
“There’s been some trouble between the People and the Folks. More trouble than usual, that is. A gang from Jacksonville come over and the ecosystem got upset.”
“Ecosystem?”
Pop smiled. Some blueberry had discolored a front tooth. “Balance of nature, you know?”
She nodded, unsure if she did understand him. She was waiting for him to tell her something she couldn’t suffer.
“The boys and I were thinking in addition to drugs and prostitution, they into something worse.”
“Do you think Toni’s murder was connected to these Jacksonville hoods?”
“Could be,” Pop said. “That or a case that vice is working on.”
“Vice. You mean drugs?”
“And more. They cover Internet predators, gambling, and gangs too. But crime isn’t usually all neat and tidy. It doesn’t always fit into pigeonholes.”
“Fred Cook told me that he and Toni thought the house was a drug house,” Bertha said. “They were glad to get a look inside.”
“If they thought it was a drug house, why wouldn’t they get a warrant and backup to go in there?”
“I don’t think they had a choice. They have to roll on domestic-violence calls.”
Pop raised his eyebrows. “They were ambushed, Bertha. They were set up. You and the police seem to be the only ones who don’t see it.”
Bertha shook her head. “But why?”
“Tell me this. Did you ever wonder why Toni was working nights that week?”
Bertha hesitated. “She took late shifts when someone was on vacation or they were shorthanded. She worked that late shift for years before she transferred back to days. So that wasn’t unusual.”
“As long as she’s been there? Rookies do that.”
“Toni didn’t mind working late shifts. Sometimes she got tired of traffic accidents, barking dogs, and angry neighbors.”
“What about Cook? Was he on the night shift?”
“Yeah. Back when Toni worked nights regularly, they were partners.”
“Okay,” Pop said. “Suppose she did volunteer for that shift. Suppose she did get a DV call from that address. Suppose she did believe it was a drug house. Suppose the shooting started right away and she got hit. Then why didn’t her vest protect her?”
Bertha’s voice rose. “She took one in the vest. It knocked her off the porch.”
“But when they came out the side door and ran toward the alley, she got up and went after them.”
“Right.”
Pop lowered his voice. “You ever get hit in the vest?”
“Of course not.”
“Let me tell you, it ain’t so easy to get right up and run.”
“But she did.”
Pop leaned as close to her as he could and whispered, “So they say.”
The room spun. The bitter taste of coffee rose in Bertha’s gullet. “Are you telling me they were set up?”
“I’m trying.”
“But Fred Cook…?”
Pop grasped her wrist as if she was going to try to run. “Where did the round that killed her hit?”
“Head. Left side.”
“Back of her head,” Pop said.
“All right, back of the head.”
“Let me ask you this, Bertha. If she was running toward the perp, how was she hit in the back of the head?”
Bertha refused to concede and, as calm as cookies and milk, said, “I don’t know. It’s hard for me to think about.”
Pop shook his head slowly. “Have you talked to anyone about that evening? I mean besides the ones you had to talk to?”
“Scottie.”
“Who’s that?”
“A bar dyke I knew from the old days. She worked in the ambulance that night. I didn’t get much from her.”
“Can you go back to her? Talk to her again?”
“No. She’s dead.” Not until she said it did she realize there had to be a connection. An uneven weight rested in the pit of her stomach.
Pop topped off their coffee with the la
st bit from the pot, looked around for their waitress in vain, then ducked his head to meet Bertha’s eyes. “Are you going to cry? Please don’t cry. We need to have this conversation.”
“I’m not going to cry.” Her eyes were stinging slits that she dabbed with her only napkin. She often thought if she ever really let herself cry, she’d never stop. She noticed the table next to them where six nuns were being seated. Like a school of social sucker fish, they stared her direction. A tiny old nun, who might be close to Grandma’s age, pinned Bertha with her eyes. Bertha repeated, softer this time, “I’m not going to cry.”
Ignoring the nuns, Pop said, “When and how did Scottie die?”
Bertha turned her head toward the wall and quietly blew her nose. “The night we met for pizza, she went to the bar across the street, and when she was leaving, she was attacked in the alley. Beaten up severely. She lingered in intensive care for a few days but never regained consciousness.”
“Look here,” Pop said. “You need to be able to hear the truth. If you can’t, you got nowhere to start.”
Bertha attempted to smile but couldn’t. “Who would do that to Scottie? Who would know I saw her that night?”
“When you remove the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Pop pushed his plate aside and knitted his thick fingers together. “My first partner taught me that. Way back in the 60s.”
*
One evening after work, Bertha realized she was glad she’d picked up Snuggles. She wouldn’t have to be alone. She liked the idea of being a lesbian widow living alone with her cat. Later, at home, Bertha collected the dirty clothes that’d been hanging on the stationary bike in the bedroom. The cat seemed to be hiding. Probably sleeping somewhere. “Snuggles.” She called two or three times. She set the plastic laundry basket near the dresser and gathered dirty socks and underwear from the floor.
The flashlight was lying where she’d left it. On her knees, she took it to the heat vent and shone it in the dark hole. Besides dust and lint she saw some coins. When she dug them out, she could see Toni’s ring a little farther back. She reached for it and quickly drew her hand back with a couple of deep scratches. The growl sounded like a warning from a wolf or a demon. She shook the stinging hand. What in the hell? She shoved the flashlight deeper in the narrow vent and could see two glowing yellow eyes. The psycho cat was back there, and he was pissed.
“Come on, kitty.” Bertha tried to coax him.
The cat growled again.
Bertha scooted around and sat with her back to the wall, her legs stretched out in front of her. Was he stuck or just stubborn? Would she have to cut a hole in the floor? Would he come out on his own eventually? She couldn’t reach for the ring again as long as he was close to it.
“Goddamn it. Let’s get one thing straight,” she said to the dusty black hole. “I’m changing your name to Norman Bates.”
In the distance she heard the phone ringing. She started to get up, then realized it was the cell in her back pocket. She leaned forward, retrieved it, and squinted at the caller ID. The phone rang a third and fourth time as she stared at Toni’s name. She didn’t recognize the number, but the name was clearly Toni Matulis. With a shaking hand she pressed the talk button and put the phone to her ear to take the call from a dead woman.
Chapter Nine
“Bertha?” came a somewhat familiar voice. Not Toni’s voice.
Bertha went over the possibilities as she answered. “Yes?”
“Oh, thank God.” The caller took a quick breath and said, “Are you sitting down, honey?”
Then she knew. “Yes, Grandma, as a matter of fact, I am.” She drew her knees up and brushed lint from her cuffs. “Is everything all right?”
“No. Everything’s fucked.”
“You finally figured out the Jitterbug.” Bertha remembered two years before when Grandma entered the nursing home; Toni had bought her one of those big cell phones advertised in the AARP Bulletin. She’d programed all the important numbers in, including Bertha’s cell. Toni must have put it in her own name, so she could pay for service through her bank account. Bertha was glad she’d left enough in Toni’s account for these sorts of things. The Jitterbug was one more thing she’d have to transfer to her name eventually.
Grandma sighed. “Doree showed me.”
“Good for her.”
“Now brace yourself, honey. I got bad news.”
Bertha leaned her head back against the cool wall. For the moment the cat was silent. “Okay. I’m ready.”
“It’s Toni, baby. She’s dead.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Internet. I’m so sorry, Be.” She used the name from Bertha’s childhood.
Bertha sighed. “Thank you, Grandma. I already knew.”
Silence. Then Grandma asked, “How long you known about this?”
“Since it happened,” Bertha admitted. “She was shot while on duty. Doree and I rushed to the hospital. We waited while she died in surgery.”
“You didn’t say nothing.”
“I’m sorry, Grandma. I’ve been beside myself. Aunt Lucy was in town to help me with everything. Remember, we came to see you before she went home?”
Grandma was indignant. “All this time you didn’t tell me. Lucille was in on it too?”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Well, I am upset. Toni was like a white daughter to me. Have they caught the cocksucker who shot her yet?”
“They haven’t caught the cocksucker yet.” Bertha’s voice trembled. “I know you cared about her. I’m sorry.”
“No sense in getting your shorts in a twist. It’s just that I told everybody here she was my daughter from a wild fling with a gypsy carnival worker. I’m going to miss the look in their eyes when I talk about the carnival. There’s some exciting details.”
When Grandma teased her, Bertha knew she’d been forgiven. She’d hear about it several more times, but she and Grandma were okay. Relieved, Bertha said, “You hate the carnival. You’d never take me to the circus.”
“I hate trained elephants. Don’t seem natural.”
Bertha wracked her brain. How much should she tell Grandma about Toni’s death? How much did Grandma already know?
“Bertha, you there?”
“Yes. I’m still here.”
Grandma softened her voice. “I seriously wonder if God is up there letting these things happen just because he gets bored. He sure sends some hardships our way.”
“Yes, ma’am, he does.” This was the grandma who’d raised her. This was the grandma that always found a way to make her feel better.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
Conceding that she’d have to tell Grandma sooner or later, Bertha began the story. While she spoke, Norman Bates was quiet.
In the background Bertha heard the intercom announce dinner. “Sounds like you need to go.”
“Aw, that’s only the first call,” Grandma said. “You go at the first call, you have to wait for everybody to get wheeled in and the food passed out. I generally go on the third call. But I don’t feel hungry tonight. Albert brought me a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. You know how I love chocolate. I been snacking all afternoon.”
“Who’s Albert?”
“My young white lover.”
“Lover? Grandma, you aren’t—”
“Get your mind out of the gutter. I don’t know him well enough for that.” Grandma cussed some more, then said, “Here I called worried about you because of Toni, and you end up making aspersions about my moral behavior.”
Bertha laughed. “Aspersions?”
“Albert brought me one of them word-a-day calendars. He told me if I knew more words, I wouldn’t have to rely so much on cussing.”
Bertha shifted her weight to the other buttock. Not used to sitting so long on the floor, she felt a muscle in her lower back cramp. “Thanks for calling about Toni. Here I was worried about you, and you end up making
me feel better.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t know sooner. How’s Doree holding up?”
“She took it hard, of course. Right now she’s in Indiana with her auntie for a couple of weeks.”
“Wait,” Grandma said. “That was the third dinner bell. I guess I’ll go down there and see what they’re serving today. Saturday will be meatloaf of some kind. Have you had your dinner yet?”
“I’m having dinner with a friend.”
“What friend? What’s her name?”
“Norman.”
*
At twilight the Jeep sat on South Fifth Street, legally parked at the curb while Bertha considered the house and its side yard. The rain had stopped and the western sky was golden. The house was dark. Traffic was sparse and the neighborhood was fairly quiet. Two boys at the other end of the block circled around and around on bicycles. Across the street a bedraggled couch, missing its cushions, had been set out on the sidewalk. This was like the neighborhood she’d grown up in, only it had less car traffic and more foot traffic. Earlier a man carrying a quart of Eight Ball had walked around the Jeep and kept going staring as he passed. She couldn’t avoid sticking out as a stranger to the neighborhood in a new red Wrangler. Maybe she should have brought Toni’s car.
At dark she heard the vibrations of bass from a radio turned too loud, and then a black Lexus SUV rolled past her. The streetlights were far apart, and she sat in an area eclipsed by large trees. She’d known she was going to pass the yellow crime-scene tape when she’d pulled to the curb earlier. In the dark and shadows, she reached for the cool door handle.
As soon as she was out of the car, the house was like a giant sucking magnet pulling her toward it. She’d felt the lure in the car, but outside it was stronger. Rattled, she ducked under the yellow tape, stayed on the cracked sidewalk, and moved slowly toward the porch. It was a small appendage, concrete, two steps and a four-feet-square porch, without railings. Normally one officer would cover the other exit. But according to the report, Toni and Fred Cook stood together. With no rail, nothing would have stopped Toni from going off the edge. Next to the porch was a pair of molded plastic lawn chairs, filthy, their dirty seats filled with rainwater. Between them sat a small rusty charcoal grill. Had Toni landed on those things? Bertha mounted the porch and looked through the door’s narrow window. The house was dark. She could make out shadows that might be furniture.
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