“Why do you say that? Isn’t your whole life dedicated to helping people change?”
“People who want to change. And who believe change is possible. He’s got too much invested in the status quo to even consider it. Change would be too terrifying.”
As they thought about that, they watched one of the teams score. Pete the Mutt trotted up and plopped himself in front of Rosemary, and she rubbed his tummy with her foot. “I really can’t recall Mother,” she said. “When I try to remember her face, I see Consuelo’s.”
They’d called Consuelo abuela—grandmother—though she wasn’t a blood relative.
“I don’t think she’d want you to obsess about that. She chose Consuelo carefully. I think she knew she wouldn’t live to see us grown, and that we’d remember her through Consuelo.” Consuelo, too, had died.
Rosemary snuggled up to him and put her head against his shoulder. “Jack, are you all right?”
“I’m not HIV positive and when I’m not good, I’m careful.”
Her obvious relief told him he’d answered the question she’d been afraid to ask. She blushed. “You must hate that.” She stretched to put her arms around him, resting her head on his chest.
“You get used to it.”
“Just like I got used to the macho shit-heads at work telling me I didn’t have to worry my pretty little head about things.”
Caleb laughed. “As long as you smile when you call me that.”
“God, I’d forgotten! If you hadn’t made me watch all those old classics with you, I’d probably have grown up to be like Marsha.”
Marsha Caleb. Robert’s wife.
“I’m sure underneath her fear and defenses, Marsha’s human.”
“Why are you always so forgiving?”
“To know all is to forgive all. Who said that?”
“I haven’t the foggiest.” They thought their own thoughts for a while, then she said, “Do you ever wish you could be different?”
“What would be the point?”
“No point. Just…”
“I used to wish I could be Mexican.”
“Why Mexican?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I was an hidalgo in a former life. I wanted to have black hair and dark eyes and speak Spanish.”
“And you couldn’t.”
“Well…now I can speak Spanish.”
“You’re telling me to accept what I can’t change…” She squeezed him. “When I was little, I was so envious of you and Robert, especially Robert, because you were my big brother and I looked up to you. But I hated you, too. I was sure there’d been some terrible mistake, that I should have been a boy. I thought eventually things would straighten out and I’d grow up to be a man.” She laughed. “Here I am telling a shrink about penis envy.”
Caleb smiled. “You seem to have adjusted. What changed?”
“I met Victor. He made me realize it wasn’t a penis I wanted, it was power. And I didn’t have to be a man to have that.”
“Ah, the transforming magic of love.”
She pulled away from him then shoved him sideways with both hands. “Beast!” They both laughed, then she hugged him again and she was crying. “Oh, I’ve missed you! Only I’ve been so busy living day-to-day, I never noticed!”
It was like bad melodrama—her crying on his shoulder. He reached a tissue from the box on the coffee table and handed it to her. She blew her nose and sniffed. And laughed.
Twenty-Five
Mid-May. Thinnes was sitting in the squad room, rereading his notes on a case he had to testify for the next day, when the sergeant walked up, coffee mug in hand. He waved it as he said, “Thinnes, aren’t you still looking for a John Mackie for Arlette Banks’s murder?” Thinnes was glad the mug was empty.
Nearby, Oster and Ferris, who were pointedly ignoring each other, stopped what else they were doing to eavesdrop.
“Yeah,” Thinnes said. “Why?”
“Patrol just reported a shooting in an alley over near Broadway, somebody by that name.” He switched the mug to his left hand and took a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. The paper had an address scribbled on it.
Thinnes stood up and took his jacket off the back of his chair. “I’m on it.”
“Lemme go with you, Thinnes,” Ferris said. Why not? Every cop in the city would want to be in on nailing a cop killer.
“Forget it.”
“C’mon. What if you need bodies to canvass the neighborhood?”
“You volunteering?” Oster asked. “There’s a first.”
“Okay,” Thinnes told Ferris. “But come in your own car. I’m not going to listen to you and Carl bicker all the way over there.”
The alley had been closed off with yellow police-line tape, backed up by a patrol car at the south end and a squad roll at the north. With Oster and Ferris in tow, Thinnes stepped past the car and ducked under the tape into a narrow, typical alley running parallel to Broadway. It was paved with old street bricks and decorated with gang signs. On the west side, scarred and weathered utility poles held rat’s nests of intersecting wires above the roofs of detached garages and the fenced yards of two- and three flats. Facing them were the back walls and Dumpsters of Broadway businesses. Irregular patches of paint on walls and doors, and the occasional graffiti, testified to the ongoing turf war between property owners and the gangs. Fifty-five-gallon drums and the newer, rat-resistant wheeled garbage carts narrowed the passage; at one point an abandoned car stood opposite a half-filled roll-off box, closing the alley to just wide enough for a car to pass. The front end of a dark brown, late-model Ford Taurus was nosed in between the junk car and the Dumpster. To get by, Thinnes put his hands on the cars’ hoods and vaulted over the space between them. Ferris was right behind him; Oster had to squeeze around the far side of the Dumpster.
Four feet in front of the Taurus, the body was facedown on the brick. A middle-aged Caucasian male, dressed in black kiltie tassel loafers, black twill slacks, and a gray knit shirt under a black windbreaker. Odd, Thinnes thought, that someone who dressed like that would hang with Wiley’s scummy crowd. The dead man’s salt-and-pepper hair was thick and cut short. His mouth and flat-gray eyes were open half way, and his tongue hung out as if he were trying to taste the brick beneath him. There was a .22-caliber hole in his nose, half way between the bridge and the base. Kate Ryan stood over the corpse, talking to a beat copper.
“This Mackie?” Thinnes asked. Ferris and Oster took positions on either side of him.
“What it says on his license.” Ryan was wearing a Cubs cap and had her red hair tucked up under it. “Probably isn’t his license, though.”
“How’s that?”
“The picture looks just like him.” She said it straight-faced. The cop sniggered.
“What’s the story?” Thinnes asked.
“It so happens we have a witness who’s willing to talk. My lucky day.”
“You oughtta buy a lottery ticket,” Oster told her.
“Who’s the witness?” Thinnes asked.
“The cook from that restaurant.” She hitched a thumb toward a metal door twenty feet away, at the back of the closest building. “She was coming out for a smoke, just opening the door, when she heard something going down. She peeked around the door—which you’ve noticed is relatively bulletproof—and observed our victim having a heated discussion with a young man of African-American descent. The word honkey was aired, as well as the n-word. When push came to shove—literally—the wayward youth pulled out a revolver and terminated the discussion, not to mention Mr. Mackie.” Ryan sounded cheerful. Why not? One less cop killer in the world, and the cops weren’t taking the rap.
Thinnes said, “Any idea what it was about?”
“Which one was going to back his car up and let the other go by.”
Ferris peered down at the corpse. “Here lie the bones of John Mackay. He died disputing the right of way.”
Oster scowled at Ferris. “Mackie, not Mackay.” He looked at Th
innes. “You had to bring him.”
Thinnes just shook his head.
“Bendix is here,” Ferris said, pointing north. As Bendix joined them, he asked, “Got you working for Streets an’ San now, Bendix?”
As much as he hated Thinnes, Bendix hated Ferris more. “I’d rather pick up garbage than smell like it,” Bendix said. He asked Thinnes, “Who’d you piss off to get assigned with him?”
“Thinnes’s been working too hard, lately,” Oster said. “Suffering brain farts.”
Twenty-Six
Irene Sleighton, Caleb’s receptionist, was a widow with an instinct for caregiving but no children. She divided her maternal energies between her church and the doctors she served. The office reflected it. It was always clean, but never compulsively neat. They’d had the same fish for three years, the same Boston fern for five. There was always fresh coffee on hand, occasionally donuts or sweet rolls, and she added homey, seasonal touches—like the understated Easter decorations. She herself was slim and silver-haired—though not old—fearless, compassionate, and discreet. And except for a penchant for muzak and tabloid news, she had no bad or annoying habits. When Caleb came in, she said, “Good morning, Doctor. You have a visitor.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Sleighton. Thank you.”
The man in the waiting room stood up and said, “Dr. Caleb.”
Martin Morgan! He was as beautiful as Caleb remembered—thick auburn hair and gray eyes. Caleb felt an almost electric shock of physical attraction. He forced himself to cross the room and offer Morgan his hand as calmly as if he were Dr. Fenwick or Mrs. Sleighton. “Won’t you come into my office, Doctor?”
Morgan shook hands, nodding, then followed him.
As he entered the room, Caleb found himself giving it a quick once-over for signs of dust or disorder. It was immaculate. Bless Irene. He pointed to a chair and took his own seat. “Sit down, Doctor.”
Martin sat. He was the antithesis of the cool person he’d been in his own office, where he was in his element and sure of himself. He clasped his fingers together, then unclasped them and rubbed his palms together. He seemed to notice that his hands were out of control because he made a fist with one and closed the other around it. All the time, his eyes wandered the room nervously, like those of a teenager sent to the principal’s office.
“What can I do for you?” Caleb said.
Morgan glanced at him, then looked at his hands. “I came downtown today to talk to an attorney.”
Caleb refrained from pointing out that he was a psychiatrist. He let his silence draw the problem out. Morgan would get to the point as soon as he could get himself together.
Morgan looked up and tried again. “My wife and I have been married eighteen years, but we’re having difficulties.” Caleb raised his eyebrows. “I’d like to see you professionally. I need to talk to someone.”
Caleb felt suddenly overwhelmed, elated, then disappointed as he realized what that could mean in terms of future contact. But Martin was too damned attractive. Avoid the near occasions of sin. Caleb didn’t trust himself. He wouldn’t be objective, and objectivity was all. Primum non nocere.
He said, “I’m sorry, but I’m not in a position, at present, to take on any new patients.” He tried to sound professional, but he sounded to himself like Dr. God pontificating. He wished he could think of a more plausible excuse for not accepting Martin as a client. The truth was, ethical professionals don’t get involved with their patients, and at the moment, Caleb wanted desperately to get involved. He felt a strong desire to cross the intervening space and kneel at the doctor’s feet.
Stop it! he told himself. Pull yourself together.
“I can give you several names,” he said.
“Very well.” Morgan seemed disappointed, but he had himself back under control, though he was such a controlled man, it was hard to tell.
Caleb pulled out a prescription blank, then fingered through his Rolodex. Margaret Thornton’s name jumped out at him and he wrote it down. He added the names of others—two men and a woman. “Interview them,” he said. “Go with the one you feel the most comfortable talking to.”
Morgan took the paper and said, “Thank you.” He rose to leave, hesitated, then held his hand out. “Thank you, Doctor.”
Caleb took the hand. He felt an electric-like shock run through him and wondered if Martin felt it, too. If he did, he gave no sign. He gave Caleb a fleeting smile and walked out of the room.
Twenty-Seven
Early in June, Thinnes got another break in the Banks case. At the request of a Detective Mark Fredd, he drove north, to the state’s second most populous and crime-riddled city, to meet his Waukegan counterpart at the Lake County morgue.
Fredd looked like a candidate for office, from his expensive haircut to his Gucci loafers and matching briefcase. He was a big man—an inch taller than Thinnes and beefy—with coffee-brown eyes, sideburns, and dark brows and lashes. The corners of his mouth turned up naturally, giving the impression that he was constantly amused. Thinnes wasn’t fooled; something about him brought Bendix to mind. His approach seemed political, too, but Thinnes didn’t care. The detective was picking up the tab for lunch, afterward, at a place with excellent AC. That was an important consideration; the weather was hellish.
At the restaurant, their hostess led them to a table from which they could keep an eye on the door, the room, and—through the front windows—their cars.
Thinnes ordered steak and—to appease his conscience for the cholesterol—salad and iced tea. Fredd ordered a Caesar salad with his steak, and “the usual” to drink.
They had just come from viewing the remains of John Smith at the Lake County morgue. Thinnes didn’t waste any sympathy on him. In a rare case of natural justice, Smith had gotten what he had coming. Now he was a run-of-the-mill crispy critter, fried in an arson fire he and his brother started. On the other hand, the morgue, which had just opened in April, was state of the art.
“So what did you think of our coroner?” Fredd asked, as a waitress appeared and put a scotch on the rocks in front of him.
Thinnes took a long swallow of his tea before he answered. The coroner was a woman in her sixties, silver-haired and energetic, and as sensible as anyone he’d dealt with. She’d given him a tour of the new morgue after he’d eyeballed the remains “A class act.”
“Isn’t she? But don’t let her grandmotherly appearance fake you out. Frank Bruno wouldn’t last a round with her.”
Thinnes smiled, then got to the point. “When do I see Abel Smith?”
“Disabled.” Fredd laughed. “You don’t. At least, not in this lifetime.” As Thinnes opened his mouth to protest, he said, “Smith’s chances of surviving the week are about zero.”
“All the more reason! He killed a cop!”
Fredd held up both hands, pudgy fingers splayed. He had a wedding band on his left hand and a diamond pinkie ring on his right. “We got a statement from him, a deathbed confession.” He lifted his briefcase onto the empty chair next to him, snapped it open, and took out a videocassette, which he handed to Thinnes. “The doctors got him so doped up he doesn’t know his own name, but we were lucky. He didn’t fuck up his lungs too bad so…”
“What’s this?”
“A copy of his confession. At the very least it’ll give you the names of his buddies.”
“We’ve got them,” Thinnes said, trying to keep his anger from showing. “Two of them copped a plea, one’s in the ground, and John Smith’s in the morgue. What we don’t need is…What if he doesn’t die?”
“He’ll die, trust me.”
“Even if he does,” Thinnes said, “any public defender’ll get this…,” he waved the tape, “…thrown out.” He dropped it on the table.
“Give us some credit, Detective. Smith’s a Catholic. He figured out for himself he hadn’t got a prayer and asked for a priest. All we did was suggest to the padre that it would help us if Smith confessed to the police while he was at it. After they h
ad their little private talk, Smith agreed to answer a few questions.”
“And to let you videotape it?”
“That’s right.”
Thinnes swirled the ice around in his tea, then took a long drink to stall for time. To think of a diplomatic way to ask whether Waukegan had covered all the bases.
Fredd saved him the trouble. “We read him his rights and got him to say he knew he was a goner. We got what we needed on our case, and he was still with us, so we asked if he wanted to talk about anything else. That’s when he said he helped off a cop—his words.” He flicked his fingers dismissively. “You don’t need to thank me. You can take me and my partner to dinner when we come to town to testify.”
Thinnes tapped the cassette. “If it’s everything you say, you got a deal.”
The waitress interrupted at that point with their food. Fredd held up his watch, which looked suspiciously like a Rolex, and nodded, then winked at her. When she’d put down the dishes, she asked if he’d like another drink.
He smiled, reminding Thinnes of a crocodile eyeing a deer. “You betcha.”
She turned to Thinnes. “Can I get you something, sir?”
“A refill?”
“Surely, thanks.”
Fredd leered as she walked away. When she was out of hearing, he saluted her with his glass and said, “To insure promptness.” He held the glass toward Thinnes, in a hand that nearly buried it, and said, “Cheers.” He finished it in one swallow.
“You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right…” As the voice-over droned on, Thinnes studied what was left of Abel Smith—almost remains, in the usual sense. Not that you could have used the videotape of him without corroboration—lots of it. He was completely hidden by bandages, tape, and tubes. The camera paused briefly on the green-gowned, masked individual providing Miranda, then zoomed in on the slit in the bandages that served Smith for a mouth. Somewhere below the slit, a trach tube disappeared into the material covering Smith’s neck and a gloved hand manipulated it so he could breathe up the air needed to work his vocal cords. Weird. Like a low-budget horror film.
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