Dig Your Grave

by Steven Cooper

  “No,” Mills tells her. “I have it.”

  “Can I ask who’s calling?”

  “Not necessary.”

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you, sir,” Ashley says. “But thank you for your support!”

  As he hangs up, Mills looks at Powell and rolls his eyes with a staggering concern for the next generation. He dials Washington.

  “Thanks for calling the office of your pal Al, Congressman Al Torento, representing the Sixth Congressional District of Arizona. Our office hours are eight a.m. to five p.m., Monday through Friday. Due to the volume of calls received about the new immigration bill, we’re unable to answer each—”

  “Fuck this,” Mills says, putting the receiver down. “I have a better idea.”

  Mrs. Al Torento opens the door to her Central Phoenix home and, after Mills and Powell introduce themselves, asks, “Is there something wrong?”

  “We’re trying to get in touch with your husband, Mrs. Torento,” Mills replies.

  “The name is Jennifer, and he’s in Washington.”

  “We know,” Mills says. “May we come in?”

  “Of course.” The woman opens the door completely and lets them pass. She’s in her midthirties, probably, making her a younger bride for the congressman. Her hair is dark and wavy, shoulder-length. She’s tanned and freckled and wearing a simple black dress and a stack of bracelets on each arm. “What’s this about?” she asks as they gather in the foyer.

  “We should probably speak to your husband directly,” Mills tells her. “Can you give me a cell phone number for him?”

  “Yes,” she replies. “But I just tried to call him a minute ago and got his voice mail.” She recites the phone number, and Mills dials. He, too, reaches Torento’s recording. He leaves a benign message.

  “Will there be anything else?” she asks them.

  Mills hesitates, then figures what the fuck, and says, “We have a photograph. Could I ask you to look at it and, maybe, answer a few questions?”

  She looks at Mills and Powell as if she’s seen it all, done it all. “All right,” she says. “Let’s sit.”

  They follow her into a formal living room, where Mills and Powell sit in a pair of wingback chairs that evoke thoughts of great literature and English tea while Jennifer Torento assumes the full sofa opposite them for herself. The ceilings are high. Portraits adorn the walls. It’s a symphony of a house, large and classical, so old in style in fact that it makes the woman across from them look like a child who’s been left here all alone. Powell digs out a folder from her bag. She removes the photo and places it on the coffee table between them.

  “Where did you get this?” Jennifer asks.

  “It’s from a class reunion. U of A. We found it online,” Mills explains.

  “Do you know any of the men posing with your husband in that picture?” Powell asks.

  Jennifer lifts the photo from the table. “Including the ones you crossed out?”

  “Whoever you recognize, Mrs. Torento,” Powell replies.

  “I don’t know any of them,” she says. “Who are they?”

  “The faces not crossed out have been identified as Davis Klink and Barry Schultz,” Mills tells her. “Obviously old classmates of your husband.”

  “Obviously,” she says. “He’d probably know them, but I’m sorry I can’t be more help. I’m his third wife, far removed from his college years, if you know what I mean.”

  “But if they were still close friends, you’d know it,” Powell says.

  “I’m not his social secretary, but yes, I’d think so,” she concedes. “We have a very small circle of friends because my husband has no time, you know, when you consider how he commutes back and forth to our place in DC.”

  “When’s he due back in Phoenix?” Powell asks.

  “Well, Congress just went back into session,” she says. “But he’ll be back in a couple of weeks for a fundraiser.”

  “What kind of fundraiser?” Powell prods.

  Jennifer sits up straight and pulls at her dress. “Look, I’m not going to answer any more questions until someone explains what’s going on,” she insists. “I guarantee the sooner you tell me, the sooner you’ll hear from my husband. That’s kind of the way it works around here.”

  “Those two men are dead,” Mills says abruptly, pointing to the photo. “Maybe you heard about their murders.”

  She grasps at the cushions beside her. “Murders? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “In the past two weeks both men were killed in similar fashion,” Mills says. “It was on the news.”

  Her face doesn’t move, but she parts her lips and says, “I don’t watch the news. Unless my husband is on. Frankly, I don’t keep track of crime in Phoenix. That’s for Al to worry about if he wants to get reelected. I hardly ever have time to read the paper. I’m too busy with my own work.”

  “Which is?” Powell asks.

  Jennifer crosses her legs and rests her cupped hands on her knee. “I teach at ASU. Professor of Spanish. Recently tenured.”

  “Congratulations,” Powell says. “That’s impressive.”

  The woman looks past them now, as if her knowledge of the world is mapped out on some distant wall. In a cold silence she seems to catalogue the accumulation of her degrees, the papers she’s written, the theses she’s defended, however it is that she’s come to be smarter than the two cops sitting in front of her. This is what Mills infers from her repose, and he’s not offended by the inference at all; the disclosure of her work changes his perception of her. These bias-busting moments are helpful, sometimes key to understanding people.

  “Do you think my husband is involved?” she asks suddenly, still peering beyond them.

  “Involved?” Mills asks.

  She looks at him squarely now. “In those murders.”

  He does a double take of sorts. “We have no reason to believe that,” he says. “That’s not why we’re here.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “We need to talk to your husband,” he says. “If he can tell us anything about these victims, maybe we can figure out who might’ve wanted them dead.”

  “And maybe we can prevent another one,” Powell adds.

  “Another murder?” she asks.

  “If there’s one thing we know about the killer,” Mills says, “it’s that he’s not done.”

  She leans forward. “Al’s in danger. That’s what you’re trying to tell me.”

  “We can’t tell you that,” Powell says. “Because we don’t know.”

  Mills lifts himself to his feet and hands Jennifer his card. “Please have your husband call me.”

  Mills pulls the car around the corner, then parks at the side of the road. He wants to debrief before heading back. Otherwise, he’d be driving distracted by the maelstrom in his head. His brain is practically foaming at the mouth.

  He turns to Powell. Their eyes meet like oncoming trains about to collide. Their first syllables are caught in midair when Powell says, “You go.”

  “No you.”

  “No, you’re the boss.”

  “This is stupid,” Mills says. “I’m thinking a million things, but first let’s assume Torento knows about the murders. His wife said he stays on top of crime in his district. . . .”

  “Sounds fairly obvious,” Powell says.

  “So he knows about the murders, but did he know our victims well enough to remember them by name and recognize the connection? And if he recognizes the connection, don’t you think he’d be freaking out that someone’s out there hunting down U of A alums?”

  Powell bristles and says, “If he’s freaking out I think the wife would know.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Either way, even if the men aren’t still friends today, the coincidence has to be too close for comfort.”

  “Unless he’s the one hunting down the alums.”

  Powell rests her elbow on the shoulder of Mills’s seat. “You don’t b
elieve that.”

  “Anything’s possible,” he says. “The wife even asked if he was involved.”

  “That doesn’t mean a thing, and you know that,” Powell insists.

  “It doesn’t until it does,” Mills says. “We don’t know what’s going on in that marriage, or what secrets she’s had to keep. We don’t know their history. Her question could have come from any number of psychological triggers.”

  “I don’t get that vibe,” Powell argues. “Besides, the same ‘too close for comfort’ factor that would spook him as a potential victim is the same ‘too close for comfort’ factor that would deter him from killing these guys. He’s too easily associated with them.”

  A kid, maybe ten years old, glides by them on a bicycle, his mom on foot, walking briskly not too far behind. The mom, inserted snugly into yoga studio pants, smiles and waves. Mills waves back.

  “We’ve been talking to a lot of wives lately,” he says. “Second wives, third wives.”

  “I like Jennifer. She’s not a cold, cunty one like Greta Klink,” Powell tells him.

  “Is that a word? Cunty?”

  “It is if I say it is,” Powell replies. “Either way, I bet it takes a special kind of woman to put up with a politician.”

  “Damn it. I wish we could get closer to Torento,” Mills grumbles. He looks at the neighborhood, not at Powell. “It would be great to tail him now.”

  “Know anybody in DC?”

  Mills says yes, he does. “But no one who’ll play, not yet. So, we better tail him the minute he lands in Phoenix.”

  “Unless we speak to him first.”

  “Even if we speak to him first.”

  “Right,” Powell says.

  Mills’s cell rings. It’s the boss. He shows the phone to Powell.

  “Are you going to answer it?” she asks.

  Reluctantly he does. “Hey there, Jake, what’s up?”

  “You tell me,” the sergeant says. “You looking for a certain congressman?”

  Mills mimes for Powell to keep silent and puts the call on speaker. “I am,” he tells Woods.

  “You wanna know how I know?” Woods asks. “The chief just paid me a visit.”

  “The chief?”

  “Seems the chief got a call from Al Torento. The congressman says you were trying to reach him.”

  Mills catches his reflection in the rearview mirror and sees the disbelief rising on his face. “I was. About a half hour ago,” he says. “So, instead of returning my call, Torento called the chief instead?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “Why the hell didn’t he just call me directly?”

  “He’s a congressman.”

  Dead silence.

  Mills thinks, Who the fuck cares?

  Powell looks out her window and shakes her head.

  “Are you there, Detective?” Woods asks.

  “I am,” Mills says. “Not sure what the purpose of this call is, Jake, but since we’re going through unusual channels, can you send the word up through the chief that we’d like to speak with the congressman?”

  Woods laughs. “Your Pal Al doesn’t want to talk to you. Says he’s too busy. Doesn’t have any useful information.”

  “So, the chief told him what I’m working on? ’Cause I didn’t mention it in my message.”

  Woods laughs again. “Of course he did. It’s not a secret.”

  “End of story? Or may I pursue Torento on my own?”

  “You may do anything you think you need to do,” Woods says. “I, for one, won’t impede your investigation. But I, for one, don’t need to hear every detail of it this morning.”

  “I don’t think we have reason to suspect the congressman, if that’s what he’s worried about,” Mills explains. “But we do have reason to suspect he might be in danger.”

  “Like I said, I don’t need to hear every detail right now,” Woods reminds him. “And say hello to Powell. Tell her she needs to learn to breathe softer. You both have a good day.”

  He’s gone.

  “He’s kind of a prick today,” Powell observes.

  “Today?”

  “Not very subtle,” she says of Woods.

  “I call it subtly overt.”

  “Whatever, Mills. I’m not a fan of the arrogant cronyism in this city.”

  “Compared to what city?”

  She ignores the question and says, “I’m starving. You ready for lunch? That Spanish professor had me craving Mexican.”

  “Seems like Mexican is all I’ve been eating these days, but sure.”

  With one sniff, Gus Parker knows his home in Arcadia could use some freshening up. It’s not a rancid smell, just the smell of airlessness and perhaps of microbes that might be multiplying on the kitchen counter, in the fridge, a toilet. Which is not to say those surfaces are vile, just defenseless. He wasn’t planning a long stay at the house, only long enough to gather a few things for Ivy and to water the thirsty-looking plants, but he’ll open the windows and let the place ventilate. While he waits for the air to exchange itself, he wanders outside to the mailbox. A voice calls to him. It’s Elsa, a housekeeper for a family across the cul-de-sac.

  “Hello, Mr. Gus,” she says with a wave.

  “Nice to see you, Elsa,” he calls back.

  She gets into a car and drives off, waving again from inside.

  Gus gathers the small stack of mail, enters the house, and sorts the mail in the kitchen, which really does stink a bit, so he pours some dish soap down the drain and runs the suds through the disposal; he doesn’t know if this actually helps, but it seems like the intuitive thing to do. He has a bill from the cable company, the electric company, his dentist, and his wireless carrier. The latter prompts him to pick up his phone from the counter and check in with Billie.

  “You up?” he asks.

  “Very much,” she says, prematurely chipper for lunchtime. “Already did a call with my management team. Looks like the tour will open in Miami.”

  “Why Miami?”

  “It’s the first venue that can fit us in,” she says. “Miranda’s on her way over now to help with some planning.”

  “Cool, babe. Tell your sister hi. I’ll be back a little later.”

  In a brief silence, Gus can hear her humming to herself. It’s a familiar melody. Then she says, “You don’t have to worry about me, Gus. I chose to come back here. You don’t have to be a bodyguard.”

  From a woman who trademarked self-reliance, Gus is not surprised to hear that remark. He shrugs it off. Her independence is as much a part of her charmed life as her music. She’s a good match for Gus, who’s mostly a loner, mostly independent by default. When they’re done with the call, Gus resumes with the mail. A few more bills. A flyer from “Your Pal Al,” with an update of Congressman Al Torento’s latest good deeds and initiatives. Wedged inside a circular from Safeway is a postcard featuring a picture of Billie on the front, like something from an old fan club. He loves the photo; she’s sitting on the hood of an old muscle car, her guitar slung over her shoulder, her long, golden hair falling into her lap. It’s a vintage shot. She’s wearing blue jeans, a white gossamer blouse, and a necklace of turquoise beads that match the bracelets around her wrists. Pure flower child. Curious, he flips the card over to see who might have sent this. It could be Billie, after all, playing a joke, but as he reads the message scrawled across the postcard, he feels the blood drain from his face.

  IF YOU DON’T STAY AWAY FROM HER,

  I WON’T STAY AWAY FROM YOU

  His next call is to Alex Mills.

  17

  When Alex arrives, the first thing he does is ask to use the bathroom.

  “Had Mexican for lunch,” the detective says.

  Great, now I really am going to have to clean in there, Gus thinks. “Sure, go ahead.”

  Alex drops a folder on the hallway table and bolts.

  Gus busies himself brushing down the pool outside while Alex busies himself with his business. The birds squ
awk extra loudly this afternoon, swooping from one tree to another, calling out for Ivy, no doubt, chagrined, it seems, at her erratic schedule now that she lives, at least part-time, in the luxury of Paradise Valley. Birds know these things. This particular flock, Gus is convinced, knows and loves Ivy like a best friend. They’ve come singing for her every morning since she was just a pup. “She’ll be home soon,” he tells them.

  “Who are you talking to?” Alex asks as he steps through the sliders.

  “The birds.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “Hey, man, thanks for coming over. You seem a little stressed,” Gus says. “Are you okay?”

  “If the rabbit hole is okay, then I’m fine,” Alex replies.

  “I’m not far behind you, I’m afraid,” Gus says. “Come, I want to show you something.”

  Back inside, Gus shows Alex the postcard and tells him about the note left a few nights ago at Billie’s guardhouse.

  “Congratulations,” Alex says soberly. “You have a stalker.”

  “But why would someone be stalking me? I’m not the celebrity. Billie is.”

  “Doesn’t matter, Gus. Whoever this freak is, he’s directed threats against you, not her. So, the legal system would view you as his victim, not Billie, if he’s apprehended and charged.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Would you rather someone be stalking her directly?” Alex asks.

  “No. Of course not. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  They’re sitting on the big brown couch in Gus’s family room. “Sure it does,” Alex says. “Obviously someone is stalking Billie once removed. He’s trying to get you out of the way so he can get closer to her.”

  “By ‘get me out of the way’ do you think there’s violence implied here?” he asks. “Because I do.”

  Alex weighs the question, nodding slowly. “I think there’s potential, but I think right now he’s saying if you stay away from her there will be no violence.”

  “So I’m just supposed to back off, obey his instructions, and everything will be fine?”