by Rachel Lee
Gil and Seamus exchanged quick looks.
“Ain't nobody here but us ducks,” Seamus said. “We've been sitting here maybe ten minutes. What time did that call come in?”
“Less than five minutes ago.”
“Bingo,” said Gil. “You wouldn't happen to have the name and address of the caller?”
“Sure. It was a Mrs. Hatcher, at 4201. Right there on the corner.” He pointed. “I'll just go tell her you guys are cops.”
“Wait,” said Seamus. “We'll go with you.”
“Oh, definitely,’’ agreed Gil. “We want to commend the neighborhood watch.” He switched off the ignition, and he and Seamus climbed out. Seamus glanced quickly around again, sure that curtains ought to be twitching madly now. After all, there was a cruiser on the street, a cop was questioning two strangers in a parked car, and now the strangers were getting out of their car. Somebody ought to be taking note.
And sure enough, two doors down at 4206, he saw the white curtains move. “Another one,” he said to Gil. “Isn't it amazing what a little patience will do?”
Gil flashed one of his hundred-watt smiles. “Remember the Kitty Genovese case?”
“You mean the one in New York where the woman was stabbed to death and not one of her neighbors intervened or called the cops?”
“The same. Do you suppose Genovese's neighbors moved down here? To this very neighborhood?”
“It's beginning to look like it.”
“Yeah.”
“In fact,” Seamus remarked, “this neighborhood is beginning to have a very strong ‘I don't want to get involved’ feeling to it. Remind me not to shop for a house around here.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Rico asked. Having parked his car against the curb, he joined them now. He had the beefy build of a weight lifter and wore the light green shirt and dark green shorts of the standard summer uniform. Some folks complained that the St. Pete cops didn't look like cops in those shorts, but those folks didn't have to work outside in this heat all summer.
“We're talking about neighborhood uninvolvement,” Seamus explained.
“This is a good neighborhood,” Rico protested. “The Mayberry killing is the first murder we've ever had here. We don't even get many domestics.”
“Probably because the neighbors don't report it when they hear screaming,” Seamus said drily.
Gil spoke. “Do you get many calls from around here like the one you just got?”
“From time to time.” Rico shrugged. “Not much happens here. And it's not even a through street, so there isn't much traffic.”
“A little corner of paradise,” Seamus remarked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. He'd always had mixed feelings about neighborhoods like this, where life was smooth and realities of the street were far away, probably because he'd grown up the hard way. It especially galled him when people with all this privilege failed to do their duty as citizens. “This kind of thing just doesn't happen here.”
Either he succeeded, or Rico chose to ignore the sarcasm. “No,” said the younger cop. “It doesn't. The worst that happens around here is an occasional B and E.”
Breaking and entering. Mostly teenagers, no doubt, looking for a thrill and a little loose cash.
“ ‘Hark,’ “ said Gil. “ ‘what light through yonder window breaks?’ “
Seamus turned in time to see curtains moving in another window, in a different house. “Verily, I perceive the light of concern.”
“Aye, there's the rub,” said Gil, rocking on his heels.
Rico looked at the two of them. “You guys always talk weird?”
“Always,” Seamus assured him. “It's a sign of the emptiness of our heads. Let's go reassure Mrs. Hatcher before she has kittens.”
“Or a cow,” Gil said. “She could have a cow.”
“You guys are crazy,” Rico decided.
“No, just Gil is crazy,” Seamus replied. “I'm the sane one.”
Rico laughed.
When they reached Mrs. Hatcher's stoop, Seamus stood with his back to the door, watching the neighborhood as Rico hammered twice on the door with his fist, in the best police style. Hammering instead of knocking had two benefits to a cop. First, it could be heard throughout the entire house, so time wasn't wasted. Second, it was authoritarian and strong, making it clear to whoever was inside that the cop was in charge.
It also had the benefit of being audible around the neighborhood. Seamus was rewarded with the sight of a pale face in an upstairs window across the street. The face pulled back from the window as soon as the person realized Seamus was looking his or her way. Very interesting.
Mrs. Hatcher answered the door. She had the look of an aging soccer mom in her khaki slacks, polo shirt, jogging shoes, and short gray hair. If asked, Seamus would have bet that at one time she had either taught physical education or coached girls’ sports. All she needed was a whistle hanging around her neck.
“Hello, Officer Minelli.”
So this neighborhood, that never had any trouble, knew the officer by name? Seamus made a mental note to look into that. He was sure Minelli's name wasn't on any of the reports of the murder. Another cop had answered the initial call, and others yet had conducted the initial investigation.
“Hi, Mrs. Hatcher. I just wanted you to know that the strangers you saw are actually police detectives.”
Mrs. Hatcher, far from looking grateful or relieved, said disapprovingly, “Detectives? I suppose they're here about the murder.”
Gil gave her his most charming smile. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Mrs. Hatcher pursed her lips. “Well, I've said all I have to say about that.”
Seamus didn't even bother to smile. “I realize this is very inconvenient for you, ma'am. It was certainly inconvenient for the young man who was killed.”
“Don't you dare imply that I don't care about that young man! But I already talked to the police. At length. I didn't see or hear a thing, and I resent being questioned as if I were lying.”
“Of course you do,” Gil said sympathetically. “Don't mind my partner. He sometimes forgets that the living are as much victims of the crime as the dead.”
Mrs. Hatcher sniffed, glaring at Seamus, then smiling at Gil. Rico had stepped aside. “Well, I just don't know anything. If I did, I'd certainly tell you. And that's what I told the other policemen.”
“Just when exactly did you become aware that there had been a murder, Mrs. Hatcher?” Gil asked pleasantly, as if he were having a casual conversation.
“When Maudeen Cleary started shrieking.” Mrs. Hatcher shook her head. “That woman didn't stop screaming for ten minutes.”
“She must have been very upset,” Gil said with concern.
“I suppose she was! We all were, and we didn't scream our heads off.”
“No, of course not,” Seamus said. “You weren't alone when you first saw the body.”
Mrs. Hatcher started to take umbrage, but Gil forestalled her. “Don't mind his rough edges, ma'am. He has a lot to learn. So the Cleary woman's screams were the first you knew of it?”
“Didn't I just say so?”
“Were you home all day?”
For the first time, Mrs. Hatcher hesitated. “Yes,” she said finally. “I believe so. At least that's what I told the other policeman, so it must have been true. But it's been three weeks …”
As if such details wouldn't now be engraved on her mind, Seamus thought. She certainly didn't strike him as having Alzheimer's.
“Of course,” Gil said encouragingly. “Things do get a little dim with time for all of us. Now about the gunshot …”
“I didn't hear a thing,” Mrs. Hatcher said firmly. “Not that I remember, anyway.”
“Really?” said Seamus. “But you heard the Cleary woman scream, and the gunshot must have been just as loud.”
The woman frowned. “I didn't hear a thing. I told you.” She averted her face and looked at Gil. “I already said everything I intend
to.”
Seamus was relentless. “You noticed we were parked out there within a few minutes of us getting there. You must look out your windows quite a lot, Mrs. Hatcher. I notice you don't even keep your curtains drawn.”
She stiffened, and Gil intervened. “What my partner is trying to say in his unpolished way, is that we figure you for a good neighbor. It would be my guess that nobody in this neighborhood has to worry about a truck backing up to their house in broad daylight while thieves load it with all their possessions.”
“Well, I hope if I saw something like that that I wouldn't ignore it.”
“Of course not,” Gil said smoothly. She smiled.
“So,” said Seamus, “you expect us to believe that the better part of an entire day went by and you never once glanced out a window and saw that man lying there bleeding to death?”
Mrs. Hatcher backed up, her face paling. “I tell you, I didn't know a thing until Maudeen screamed.”
“Of course you didn't, Mrs. Hatcher,” Gil said pleasantly. “Thank you for your time. I hope we won't have to trouble you again.”
Mrs. Hatcher barely nodded before she slammed the door on them. Gil and Seamus walked back to their car, Rico on their heels.
Rico said, “You guys do good cop, bad cop really well.”
Seamus and Gil exchanged looks. “What's he talking about?” Seamus asked.
“Beats me.”
“You know,” Rico said. “The way you were talking to that lady. One of you being the heavy, the other one being the nice guy.”
“Oh,” said Gil, shrugging.
Seamus looked over his shoulder. “Hate to disappoint you, Rico, but that's just our normal personalities.”
Gil stifled a smile.
“Oh.” Rico thought about it. “What was that all about? The questions with Mrs. Hatcher. Why did you ask her again? She must have been questioned two or three times already.”
Not too swift, this guy, Seamus thought. “Just verifying the woman's story. Basic police work, Rico. You always go back to make sure they haven't remembered something new.”
“Always,” Gil agreed. “And she didn't remember anything new.”
“Not a thing,” Seamus echoed.
They stood by their car, watching as Rico drove away.
Seamus looked at Gil. “She knows something.”
Gil nodded.
“She also knows Rico's name. Seems kind of odd in a neighborhood that almost never needs the police.”
Gil nodded slowly. “Maybe she had a B and E at one time, and he responded.”
“Could be.”
Gil looked at Seamus.
Seamus looked back. “And cows fly,” he said finally.
“So I've heard.”
Together they walked toward the next house.
“Well, you were right,” Gil said late that afternoon as he and Seamus returned to the squad room and took their seats at the table. “There's a conspiracy of silence in that neighborhood.”
“So loud it's almost deafening.”
Gil rubbed his ear with a knuckle and grinned. “Did you say something?”
Seamus's phone rang, and he reached for it. He hoped it might be one of the neighbors they'd spoken to that afternoon, claiming to have suddenly remembered something. After all, he and Gil had done their best to leave those people with the impression that they could expect to be questioned by the police every few days until they died unless something broke on the case.
“Seamus,” Carissa Stover said, “I've got to talk to you.”
His stomach lurched, leaving him feeling almost seasick. What, was the woman developing ESP now? Had she somehow realized that he'd decided he never wanted to hear her voice again, even on the radio? “I'm at work, Carey. Try me at home later.” But I won't be there. If he had to stay out all night to avoid her, he would.
Then he decided he was being a chickenshit about a woman he'd broken off with five years ago. It didn't matter anymore. Not at all. Right? Right.
“I'm at work, too,” she said, her voice tight. “But this is about work. About your work. I want to talk to you, Detective.”
He remembered that edge in her voice. In or out of the courtroom, it cowed most people. “About what? Is it urgent?” And then he realized she had just cowed him. He swore silently. He was making futile gasps of resistance. Christ!
“I need to talk to you. Privately. About police business. And face it, Seamus, you're the only honest cop I know.”
He wondered if her mouth had finally gotten her into serious trouble. Curiosity, of which he had always had entirely too much, reared its head. “Okay. When?” And there went number six or seven of his nine lives, he thought with resignation.
“Here, if you want. At the station. I don't go on the air for a couple of hours, but I've got some stuff to do.”
Neutral territory, he thought. She wanted to talk to him about as much as he wanted to talk to her. The realization didn't ease his queasiness any. Taking her home the other night when she was drunk had managed somehow to make five years ago seem like only yesterday. His body, he thought, craved hers the way addicts craved cocaine. That's all it was, a craving. A physical addiction. He didn't actually care about her anymore, he just wanted her.
And that was something he was sure he could deal with.
Feeling better suddenly, he said, “Sure. Give me thirty minutes. I've got some paperwork to take care of first.”
“Great. And Seamus … thanks.”
Thanks? Carissa Stover didn't thank people for anything. She asked for it, then accepted it as her due. And for some reason he didn't like the idea that the years might have changed her. It renewed his uneasiness.
“Hot date?” Gil asked when he hung up.
“No. Business.” He was being short, but he didn't want to get into it.
“Was that Carey Stover? Didn't you used to date her?”
Seamus's eyes suddenly felt hot in his head, and he wondered if flames were leaping out of them as he looked stonily at his partner. “Ancient history.”
“Right,” said Gil. He let the subtext hang in the air between them.
The hell of working with Gil Garcia, Seamus thought as he started to write his report, was the way the guy could crawl into his head.
He wondered if it was too late to pull up the drawbridge, close the windows, and lock the doors.
He had the feeling it already was.
CHAPTER 5
18 Days
Carissa was holed up in an empty recording booth with papers scattered all around her, giving a damn good imitation of being deep in preparation for her show. She still had to figure out the thrust of another monologue on the Otis case to kick off with tonight, but she didn't have a foggy idea what tack she wanted to take. Right now, waiting for Seamus to arrive, she didn't seem to be able to think about anything at all except the reason she had called him.
The back of her neck was tingling, and hadn't stopped since she'd talked to Evan Sinclair at the Prosecutor's Office about a story Ed Ulrich had mentioned to her. The harder she had tried to shake the feeling, the more persistent it had become. Finally, she had called Seamus, even though she knew full well what he was going to say about this.
Finally the half hour was up, and she went out to the lobby to see if he was there. His car was just pulling into the parking lot under leaden skies. Gray, wispy fingers were reaching groundward from the rapidly moving clouds, almost touching the tops of the palm trees at the entrance to the parking lot. The palm fronds and the live oaks around the edge of the lot were being tossed by the strong wind looking silvery in the strange greenish light.
Tornado weather.
“Looks nasty out there,” Becky Hadlov remarked.
“I love this kind of weather.” It was a pleasant change from the burning sun and baking heat of this time of year, as long as she didn't have to drive in it.
“You would.”
Carey glanced over her shoulder. “Meaning?” She was c
areful to make the question pleasant.
“You like excitement.”
“True enough.” Why else would she have dragged Seamus Rourke, whom she would have been happy never to see again, all the way over here on a mere wisp of intuition?
She turned back to the windows and saw Seamus walking up with his usual, insouciant stride. That was the very first thing she had noticed about him, she remembered: that walk. That “I'm comfortable in my body and with my maleness” walk that had caused an instantaneous sexual reaction in her.
He still had the walk, and she still had the reaction. Great. Wonderful. Like she needed this?
He was wearing a lightweight dark blue suit, white shirt, and tie. She recognized the slight bulge at his hip that was his gun, and remembered watching him strap it on his belt in the mornings, an action that had always somehow left her feeling that they couldn't possibly be on the same side. She had carried a badge, too, back then, but not a gun. That gun had marked a major difference between them.
Or so she had thought. But what was the difference? she asked herself now. He could shoot a perp if necessary. She had sent one to the electric chair. Maybe it had been realizing that there really was no difference that had been the final straw for her.
He reached the door and pulled it open, letting in a gust of warm, moist air that was laden with the sound of the wind, clattering palm fronds, and passing traffic. He stepped through, and the door closed, shutting out the mixed sounds of nature and civilization.
“Hi,” he said.
“Come on back.” Carissa turned and led the way to the booth she'd commandeered. When she closed that door, no one would be able to hear what they were saying.
She pointed to a stool and he took it. Then she rounded the console and sat on the other side, facing the familiar array of buttons and slides. They grounded her somehow and, with Seamus this close, she needed to be grounded.
“So what's up?” he asked, unbuttoning his suit jacket and letting it fall open.
All of a sudden her intuition seemed flimsy, and she wished she had never called him. What did she have, after all, except a time proximity between two events that were probably totally unrelated?