by Tami Hoag
She went up the back steps and into the house. She locked the door and turned out the light. And as she retreated to her bedroom, alone, a dark sedan rolled past on the street . . . for the second time.
12
CHAPTER
ANDY FALLON’S HOUSE was a dark spot in the neighborhood, the only glow the reflection of the neighbor’s porch lights off the yellow police line tape that crossed the front door.
Kovac detached the tape and let himself in with the key. There was always a lingering sense of violation about a house that had been gone through by a crime scene unit. The place had been probed and examined and trooped through by a dozen or more strangers, without the blessing of the homeowner. Personal items had been touched, the sanctity of privacy raped. Judgments had been passed, remarks made. All of that seemed to hang in the air like a sour smell. And yet Kovac tried to return to a home after the fact if it was possible, to walk the rooms and get a feel for who the victim had been before he or she had become a corpse.
He started with the living room, with the Christmas tree—a Fraser fir decorated with small clear lights and a red bead garland. It was a beautiful tree that had the smell of fake pine scent. Kneeling, he checked the tags on the few wrapped gifts, noting names. Most were from Andy Fallon, yet to be delivered to Kirk and Aaron and Jessica . . . He would cross-reference the first names against Fallon’s address book and try to get a line on the friends. He would do the same with the Christmas cards that filled a basket on the coffee table.
Moving on to the entertainment center, he scanned the titles on the spines of the videotape cassettes. Miracle on 34th Street. Holiday Inn. It’s a Wonderful Life—a movie that began with a man wanting to kill himself, but concluded with all the usual nauseating sap of a Hollywood happy ending. No angel named Clarence had saved Andy Fallon from his fate. In Kovac’s experience, there was never an angel around when you needed one.
He passed through the dining room on his way to the stairs. The room appeared unused, as most dining rooms were.
The master bath at the head of the stairs was loaded with the usual assortment of stuff a man needed on a daily basis. There were no towels in the hamper. If there had been, the towels could have been checked for hairs and body fluids, the detritus sent off for DNA comparisons. If Fallon’s death had been an obvious murder—or ruled a murder—he could have had the crime scene people clean the drain traps in the sinks, checking for hairs. In his experience, that kind of trace evidence never made a case, but it was always welcomed by the prosecutors as more rocks in their pile. But this case was officially closed, and no one would be fishing pubic hairs out of Andy Fallon’s bathtub.
A brown prescription bottle of Zoloft sat on a shelf in the medicine cabinet. Antidepressant. Dr. Seiros. Kovac noted all pertinent information and left the bottle on the shelf. Beside it was a bottle of Tylenol and one of melatonin. No Ambien.
The smell of death lingered in the bedroom over a layer of room freshener. The room had been dusted for latent prints, and a fine, ashy residue was left behind on the dresser and nightstands. Other than that, the room was as neat as a new hotel room. The blue spread was smoothed impeccably over the four-poster. Kovac peeled it back at one corner. Clean sheets. Unlike his father, Andy Fallon had no piles of soiled clothing, no jelly jars with half an inch of evaporating whiskey. His closet was neat. He folded his underwear and matched his socks in the dresser drawers.
On the nightstand beside the bed was a hardcover book about a young man’s ill-fated trek into the Alaskan wilderness. Probably depressing enough to warrant an extra Zoloft or two. In the drawer was a Walkman, half a dozen tapes for relaxation and meditation, a couple of honey-lemon cough drops. The table on the other side held an array of squat ivory candles in a hammered metal bowl. Matchboxes from various restaurants and bars were in the drawer with a bottle of K-Y personal lubricant.
Kovac closed the drawer and looked around the room and thought of Andy Fallon. The good son. Fastidious. No trouble. Always striving to excel. Keeping his secrets tucked away in metaphorical drawers and closets. On the dresser was the same photograph Mike had smashed in his fit of grief: Andy’s graduation from the police academy. Tucked back in a corner, out of harm’s way. A memory Andy Fallon had preserved and refreshed every day of his life, despite the strain between him and his old man.
Sadness ran down through Kovac like a slow rain, draining energy. Maybe this was why he’d never tried harder to be something beyond a cop. He’d seen too many families torn like rotten drapes. Ruined by unrealistic or unrealized expectations. No one could ever let well enough alone. It was human nature to want more, to want better, to want what was out of reach.
He filled his lungs with air and paused as he started to leave the room. The faint scent of stale cigarette smoke caught his nostrils. From his own clothes, he thought at first, then tested the air again. No. It was a scent beneath a masking scent. A woodsy air freshener over burnt tobacco. Faint but there.
There were no ashtrays in the room. No half-empty packs. He hadn’t seen any evidence of a smoker in any other part of the house. The crime scene people weren’t allowed to smoke at a scene.
Steve Pierce was a smoker. Kovac thought again of his impression that Pierce had something heavy sitting on his chest. He thought of the doe-eyed Ms. Daring.
His attention turned back to the bed. Neatly made. Clean sheets. Hadn’t even been sat on. Didn’t that seem strange? Fallon had been found hanging just a few feet from the bed with his back to it. It seemed to Kovac a man might prepare the scene for his suicide or for a sex game, then sit down to think it through before putting his head in a noose.
He went and stood in the spot where Fallon’s body had been hanging and checked the distance to the bed. Only one or maybe two small steps apart. He scowled at his reflection in the full-length mirror. Sorry.
The word was still there. They had found the marker that had probably been used to write it. Nothing special. A black Sharpie permanent marker left lying on the dresser. Kovac made a mental note to call and ask about fingerprints on it.
They had made a ten card of Pierce’s prints Tuesday in the kitchen downstairs—for elimination purposes. Standard op. Pierce hadn’t been happy about it. Because he knew his prints could be found in this bedroom? On the front of the nightstand drawer with the K-Y lube in it? On a bedpost? On the mirror? On that black Sharpie?
It wasn’t a tough scenario to put together: Pierce and Fallon were secret lovers who liked to play on the dark side. The game went wrong, Fallon died, Pierce panicked. Or maybe it wasn’t as innocent as that. Maybe Fallon wanted Pierce to make a commitment and dump the fiancée. Maybe Steve Pierce had seen his cushy future at Daring-Landis circling the drain as Fallon threatened to expose him. Maybe Steve Pierce had come back Tuesday morning to check his tracks, then called the cops and put on the face of the shocked best friend.
He took one last look around the bedroom, then headed back downstairs. In the kitchen, he checked the cupboards for prescription bottles. None. Nor were there any used glasses on the counter. The dishwasher had been run with half a load: three plates, some silverware, an assortment of glasses and coffee mugs. Two wineglasses. Off the kitchen, a washer and dryer sat in an alcove behind a pair of louvered doors. Inside the washer: towels and sheets, molded to the sides of the tub.
Either Andy Fallon had wanted his house in order before he died or someone else had wanted it in order afterward. The second possibility made Kovac’s nerves hum.
There were two bedrooms on the main floor, down the hall from the stairs to the second story. The smaller was a guest room that held nothing of interest. The larger had been converted into a home office with a modest desk, bookshelves, and a couple of filing cabinets. Kovac clicked on the desk lamp and went through the desk drawers, careful to see but not to disturb.
A lot of cops he knew kept old case files. He had a basement full himself. If there was a God, Andy Fallon would have kept a duplicate file on his investi
gation of the Curtis murder. If he had, chances were good he would have it filed under C like a good little anal retentive IA automaton.
The first of the file cabinets held personal financial information and tax returns. The second was the jackpot drawer. Neatly ordered manila folders, the tabs marked with last names printed in careful block letters followed by eight-digit case numbers. None bore the name Curtis. No Ogden. No Springer.
Kovac sat back in Andy Fallon’s desk chair and let it swivel and dip. If the Curtis investigation had been Fallon’s obsession, there should have been a file. The file cabinets hadn’t been locked. Anyone could have pinched the thing and walked off with it. Ogden came to mind, though he didn’t seem as though subterfuge would have been among his strengths. Busting concrete block with his forehead, yes. Clever sleight of hand, no. But then, there was no telling who might have been in and out of the house between Fallon’s death and the discovery of his body. There was too much time unaccounted for, too many people in the neighborhood who minded their own business.
He played angles and odds in his mind, trying to scheme a way to get at the actual IA file, but nothing good came to mind. Every path was blocked by the lovely Lieutenant Savard. He couldn’t get to the file without her, and she had no intention of letting him past her guard. In any respect.
He could see her plainly as she had looked standing beside the desk in her office. A face right off a Hollywood glossy from the days of black-and-white and Veronica Lake. And he somehow knew that what lay beneath those looks was a mystery worthy of any of the great detectives, real or fictional. That drew him in as much as the looks. He wanted to slip in the secret door and find out what made her tick.
“Like you got a shot, Kovac,” he mumbled, amazed by and embarrassed at himself. “You and the IA lieutenant. Yeah, that could happen.”
It struck him then, as he wasted time with thoughts of a woman he couldn’t have, that there was something missing from Andy Fallon’s desktop. There was no computer. The printer cord with its wide, multi-pinned connector lay there like a flat-headed snake, its other end joined with an ink-jet printer. Kovac checked the drawers again, finding a box of blank diskettes. He pulled the drawer with the case files and found that each folder contained a diskette. He went to the bookcase and found, in the collection of instruction manuals for phone/fax, for printer, for stereo equipment, a manual for an IBM ThinkPad laptop computer.
“So where is it?” Kovac asked aloud.
As he considered possibilities, a sound pierced his consciousness—sharp, electronic, coming from another part of the house. A beep followed by the creak of a floorboard. He flicked off the desk lamp, plunging the room into darkness. His hand went automatically to the Glock in his belt holster as he moved to the door, waited for his eyes to adjust, then slipped into the hall.
Out of habit he had turned out the lights as he left each room during his search. Not wanting to attract attention from the neighbors. The only light now was muted and white, coming in through the glass panes in the front door. Enough to backlight the figure of a person.
Kovac pulled the Glock and leveled it in his right hand, located the hall light switch with his left.
The figure near the front door lifted a hand close to the face.
Kovac held his breath, waiting for the click of a trigger.
“Yes, it’s me,” a man’s voice. “I’m at the house. I—”
“Freeze! Police!” Kovac yelled, hitting the switch.
The man started, letting out a cry, eyes going wide, then squinting against the light, free hand coming up as if to ward off bullets. A tinny voice squawked out of the cell phone in his hand.
“No, it’s all right, Captain Wyatt,” he said, slowly lowering his free hand. The cell phone was still pressed to his ear. “Just one of the city’s finest, doing his job.”
Kovac took a good long look at the man before him, keeping the Glock out because he was pissed now and wanted to show it. He recognized the face from the party. Mr. Too Handsome with the black hair and the smell of Ace Wyatt’s ass on his breath.
“Hang up the phone,” Kovac ordered crossly.
Too Handsome stared at him. “But it’s—”
“Close the goddamn phone, Slick. What are you doing walking in here? This is a secure police scene.”
Wyatt’s man clicked the little phone shut and slipped it into the inner breast pocket of an expensive charcoal topcoat. “Captain Wyatt asked me to meet him here. You might think that would be reason enough—”
“You might think wrong, Slick,” Kovac snapped, coming forward, gun still in hand. “I could have blown your pretty head off. You never heard of a doorbell?”
“Why would I ring the bell at a dead man’s house?”
“Why would you come here at all?”
“Captain Wyatt’s on his way with Mike Fallon. Mr. Fallon has to select burial attire for his son,” he explained, using the kind of tone one might use on ignorant hired help. “I work for Captain Wyatt. Gavin Gaines is my name, in case you get tired of calling me Slick.”
The smile was a little too self-amused, Kovac thought. College-educated pricks were his least-favorite kind.
“Should I assume the position?” Gaines asked, hands out at his sides. Outside a car door slammed.
“Don’t be a smartass.” Kovac slid the Glock back into its holster. “Like you can help it. What exactly do you do for Captain America?”
“Personal assistant, public relations, media liaison. Whatever he needs.”
Translation: toady, gofer, suckup.
“He needs you to help get Mr. Fallon in the house,” Kovac said, going to the door and opening it. “Or will that muss the look?”
Gaines gritted the perfect teeth. “Like I said, whatever he needs. I live to serve.”
It took the two of them to negotiate the steps with Fallon, Mike hanging on them, deadweight. Worse than when he had been drunk, Kovac thought. Grief had somehow increased his body mass; the desperation of it had sapped his strength. Ace Wyatt brought the wheelchair.
“Sam, I hear you nearly took out my right hand here,” Wyatt joked. Mr. Congeniality.
“If you’re paying him per brain cell, he probably owes you some change back,” Kovac said. “He’s a little short in the common-sense department.”
“What makes you say that? It’s not as if Gavin was walking into a crime scene. He had no reason to expect anyone to be here. Why are you here, by the way?”
“Just doing the usual walk-through,” Kovac said. “Looking for pieces.”
“You know Andy’s death has been ruled an accident,” Wyatt said in a hushed tone, his gaze on Mike Fallon sitting slumped in his wheelchair. Gaines stood farther into the room, waiting with his hands folded in front of him and a thousand-yard stare going off in the direction of the Christmas tree. A look he’d probably picked up watching actors play Secret Service agents in the movies.
“So I heard,” Kovac said. “That was big of you, Ace, moving things along the way you did.”
Wyatt missed the bite in Kovac’s voice. “Well, what was the point of prolonging Mike’s misery? Whose interest would be served calling it suicide?”
“The insurance company. Fuck ’em.”
“Mike gave the department everything,” Wyatt said. “His legs. His son. The least they can do is pay out the benefits and put a better face on it.”
“So you’ve seen to it.”
“My last great act as captain.” He flashed a tired version of the famous smile. His skin looked a little jaundiced under the hall light, and the lines at the corners of his eyes seemed chiseled deeper than two nights ago. No makeup.
His last great act. Fitting, Kovac thought, considering the case that had launched Ace Wyatt’s stardom within the department had been the one that had brought Mike Fallon down.
“Where’s my boy?” Mike roared.
Wyatt looked away.
Kovac squatted beside the chair. “He’s gone, Mikey. Remember? I told you
.”
Fallon stared at him, face slack, eyes vacant. But he knew. He knew his son was gone, knew he was going to have to face it, deal with it, carry on. But if he could pretend for just a little while . . . An old man should be entitled to that.
“I can take care of selecting the clothes, if you’d like, Captain,” Gaines offered, moving toward the stairs.
“You want that, Mike?” Kovac asked. “You want a stranger picking what your boy wears to the hereafter?”
“He won’t go,” Fallon mumbled, bleak. “He took his own life. That’s a mortal sin.”
“You don’t know that, Mikey. Might have been an accident, like the ME said.”
Fallon stared at him for several seconds. “I know. I know what he was. I know what he did.”
His eyes filled and he started to shake. “I can’t forgive him, Sam,” he whispered, clutching Kovac’s forearm. “God help me. I can’t forgive him. I hated him. I hated him for what he was doing!”
“Don’t talk that way, Mike,” Wyatt said. “You don’t mean it.”
“Let him say what he needs to,” Kovac said shortly. “He knows what he really means.”
“Why couldn’t he just do like I said?” Fallon mumbled, talking to himself or his God—the one who kept a bouncer at heaven’s gate to keep out gays and the suicidal and whoever else didn’t fit within the confines of Mike Fallon’s narrow mind. “Why?”
Kovac touched the old man’s head. A cop-to-cop benediction. “Come on, Mikey. Let’s go do it.”
They left the wheelchair at the foot of the stairs. Again, Kovac and Gaines carried Mike Fallon. Wyatt brought up the rear of the procession. They set the old man on the edge of the bed with his back to the mirror that bore the apology for his son’s death. But there was nothing to do about the smell—a smell every cop knew too well.
Mike Fallon hung his head and began to cry silently, lost in the torment of wondering where it had all gone so wrong for his boy. Gaines went to the window and looked out. Wyatt stood at the foot of the bed and stared at the mirror, frowning.