Carlucci

by Richard Paul Russo

  Cage nodded back, and smiled. “Sure, Nikki. Let’s go dancing.”

  3

  CARLUCCI FELT LIKE shit. He threw off the covers and sat up in bed, slightly dizzy. A sheen of sweat coated his skin; his throat hurt, and his eyes ached. He looked at the clock. Almost noon. Christ.

  He pushed himself up and onto his feet and staggered into the bathroom, where he threw cold water on his face, then drank deeply, wincing with pain each time he swallowed. Then he raised the toilet seat and pissed, one hand on the tank to hold himself up. He flushed, lowered the seat and lid, and sat down, resting up before getting into the shower.

  Goddamn spring vaccination; every time it hit him like this. The semi-annual vaccination cocktails—five or six vaccines mixed together—didn’t bother Andrea much, and Caroline and Christina, his two daughters, hardly felt any effects at all from them, but Carlucci got sick every damn time. He’d be all right by the end of the day, or maybe the next morning, but right now he wanted to drop into a coma for a few hours.

  He popped some aspirins, took a shower, and by the time he got dressed and moved around a bit, he was feeling better. Andrea had set up the coffee maker before going to work, so all he had to do was start it. He ate two pieces of toast while waiting for it to finish, then took his coffee out onto the deck in the backyard.

  The temperature was mild, and the sky almost clear, the blurred sun shining down through a pinkish-brown haze. Early spring after another mild winter, and there had been no heat waves yet. A pleasant time of the year in San Francisco. In fact, it was Carlucci’s favorite time of year—the weather was usually good, and the homicide rate almost always took a dip.

  Frank Carlucci was half an inch over six feet, and half a dozen pounds short of two hundred—a bit stocky, and constantly struggling to keep from changing from stocky to fat. He was closing in on fifty-six, and he needed more exercise than he got, but right now he felt like he could hardly walk.

  He sat in one of the cushioned chairs, set his coffee on the small square table beside him, and looked out over the garden. The garden was lush and colorful and overgrown and streaked with rot and burn. It needed a lot of work. Neither he nor Andrea had managed to put any time into it yet, no weeding or pruning or thinning; nothing, really, since the fall. The big camellia in the back corner had already bloomed and dropped, the crocuses had come and gone, and half of the other plants in the yard were already beginning to flower. But there was too much brown streaking the leaves—it looked like rust—and there would be other problems less visible, all consequences of the crap in the air and the rain. He and Andrea needed to get out and do the special fertilizing, get some clean soil, and give the plants more filtered water.

  At times like this, Carlucci thought seriously about retiring. He could sure spend more time out here, sitting in the sun and drinking coffee, puttering around in the garden; and more time sitting down in the basement and playing his trumpet. He’d like to build a greenhouse and grow vegetables. He’d like to read more. He was only fifty-five, but there were times when he felt older, and he was sick of that. A lot of it, he knew, was the job.

  He had spent more than half his career in Homicide, and maybe that was too long. Carlucci was very good at his job, and he took satisfaction from that, from the cases he was able to solve, from the stimulation and rush he sometimes got from the work, and from the conviction that he in fact did some good.

  But since his promotion to lieutenant, which pretty much took him off the streets, he had become less and less satisfied. The position was primarily administrative, supervising teams of detectives, assigning cases, overseeing his part of the division, and he didn’t care that much for the job. He felt too distanced from the cases, almost uninvolved. He tried to make the job work better for him by stretching things—with a few of the Homicide teams, like Hong and LaPlace, or Santos and Weathers, he would attach himself as a kind of informal extra detective, working directly but unofficially on an occasional homicide. He also tried to get out on the streets with some regularity, maintaining his contacts and informants, his leeches and weasels. His superiors knew what he was doing, but they let it go because he was good, and because he never got too far out of line, and because they knew he was never going any farther up the ladder in the department.

  But there were limits to what he could do, and those limits were getting to him. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could put up with the situation. Recently he had been thinking he might have to do something drastic—either resign the commission and go back to the streets (which almost nobody ever did voluntarily); or retire. Vaughn, the Chief of Police, might not let him do the former, while he would happily encourage Carlucci to do the latter.

  He got up and went back inside for a fresh cup of coffee. The house was quiet and peaceful; yet it also felt empty to him. Caroline had moved out several years earlier, soon after the Gould’s Syndrome had been diagnosed, but it had only been a month now since Christina had done the same and moved into an apartment with her best friend, Paula Ng. He felt he should appreciate the quiet, the time alone with Andrea, but without the presence of his daughters he brooded even more than usual. He wished he saw them more often; Caroline, especially.

  When he returned to the deck, he left the main door open, closing the screen. Let some fresh air into the house. He sat again, and looked up to see Farley, the gray kitten from next door, standing atop the fence, big eyes staring at him. A year earlier Frances and Harry’s old cat Tuff had died, and six months later they had come home with Farley, who was tiny and skinny, but almost exactly the same shade of gray as Tuff had been, with the same gold eyes. Harry said it almost made him believe in reincarnation.

  Farley scrambled down the fence, jumping the last three feet, and dashed up onto the deck. He pranced toward Carlucci, made a sound in his throat that was pretty damn close to a growl, then flopped onto the deck, purring and playing with Carlucci’s shoelaces.

  Carlucci sipped his coffee and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the top of the chair. He was feeling better now, with the aspirin, the shower, the coffee, and the warmth of the sun. Still exhausted, but no longer feeling awful, and that was worth a lot.

  He thought he heard the front door close, which surprised him, and he opened his eyes. Why would Andrea be home so early? He sat up, the movement startling Farley; the gray kitten jumped a few feet away, golden eyes wide, his attention on the screen door. Carlucci turned, but didn’t see anyone.

  “Andrea,” he called. “I’m out here.”

  A few moments later someone appeared behind the screen, then the door squealed open. But it wasn’t Andrea. It was Caroline, and she looked awful. Christ, had the Gould’s gone active already? He stood up, too quickly, and nearly lost his balance. He reached out, got a hand on the chair arm, and steadied himself as Caroline hurried to him.

  “Papa,” she said, putting her arm around him to hold him up.

  “I’m okay,” he said. And then he put his arms around her, hugging her tightly. “Caroline.” He didn’t want to let her go. Her face was drawn, and she smelled funny. He held her slightly away from him, gazing into her face. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  “I’m fine, Papa.” She gave him a tired smile. “Better than you, I think. You look terrible. Your spring cocktail, yeah?”

  Carlucci nodded. He sat back down, still holding Caroline’s hand, and she sat beside him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m sure,” she answered. “I’m just beat, and I’m really worried about a friend of mine.”

  He released her hand. “You want some coffee? There’s still some in the pot.”

  “No.” She turned away from him, her gaze toward Farley, who had settled at the far end of the deck, watching them, but Carlucci was pretty sure she wasn’t even seeing the gray kitten.

  “So what is it?” he asked.

  Caroline rubbed her eyes with her palms, made a heavy sighing sound, then finally turned back to him. “It’s my fr
iend Tito.” She left it there for a moment, then went on. “He’s got AIDS, and he’s living in a death house in the DMZ. Two days ago I went to visit him. He’d called me in the morning, he’d been pretty sick, but he was feeling a little better, and I was going to go see him. We were going to watch some television, nothing much, and then I was going to sack out on the sofa, keep him company.” She frowned. “He was expecting me,” she said. “That’s the thing.

  “When I got there, he was gone. A guy we know, Mouse, was cleaning out the place. Stealing everything he could jam into this big duffel bag he had. Mouse said two men had come and taken Tito away, and that Tito was never coming back. He said the men had something to do with Cancer Cell, and they’d taken Tito to the Core. And he said no one ever comes back.” She shook her head. “I think I may have heard of them before. Cancer Cell. But I don’t know who they are. I don’t know anything about them.”

  Carlucci did. Not much, really, and most of that was gossip and rumor, tasteless jokes and unreliable speculation by other cops. But none of it was good.

  “I waited for him,” Caroline went on. “All through the night, then all day yesterday, and again last night. He never showed up, he never called. I finally gave up this morning and called your office, but Morelli said you were at home recovering from the vaccinations. I didn’t want to call, in case you were sleeping, so I just came by.” Her mouth turned into a bitter smile. “What was I going to do? Go to the police and file a missing persons? For a gay Mexican dying of AIDS and living in a death house in the DMZ?”

  She was right, he thought. It would have been a waste of time. The report would have been tanked before she got out of the building.

  “I asked Mouse what Cancer Cell was, and he told me to ask you.” She rubbed at her right temple, grimacing. “Is there anything you can do, Papa?”

  Carlucci shrugged. “Something, maybe. I’ve heard of Cancer Cell, but I don’t really know anything either. A real low-profile group of people. Unlike most wackos, they don’t like publicity. So maybe they aren’t wackos. I don’t know what they’ve done, or what their cause is, if they have one. Something medical, but Christ, these days that could mean anything, good or bad.” He paused, thinking. “I’ll ask around some, do some checking on Tito. I go back into work tomorrow, but I can make a couple of phone calls today, get something started.”

  Caroline reached across the chairs and squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Papa.”

  “Anything else? You want some lunch or something?”

  She shook her head. “No. But I could really use a shower. Haven’t had one in two days. I didn’t really want to use the communal at the death house.”

  She stood, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then turned and went into the house. He watched her closely, the way each step seemed slow and deliberate. Maybe it was just what she’d said, exhausted from too much worry and not enough sleep. It was crazy, he knew it, he knew he couldn’t change anything, but he could not stop himself from intently observing her every time he saw her, watching her closely and searching for some sign that the Gould’s had gone active; some sign that her death was approaching. It was tearing him apart.

  He sat back in the sun, drinking his coffee, listening to the faint sounds of the shower, and thought about what he could do for her, and for Tito.

  4

  LATE THE NEXT morning, Carlucci sat at his desk, still feeling crappy, but with a lot of the backed-up scutwork done—the stuff he just could not put off another day. He figured he could give himself an hour or so to see what he could do for Caroline and her friend Tito.

  He had called in the day before and asked Lacey to put in a system tracer on Tito. If anything came in on Tito Moraleja—arrest, detention, parking citation, credit chip violation, warrants search, anything—Carlucci would be notified immediately. He didn’t hold out much hope for that, but it was something. Then he’d talked to Diane Wanamaker in Info-Services and asked for a complete records search, see if Tito’s name would come up anywhere. He hadn’t held out much hope for that either, which turned out to be an accurate assessment. Diane’s report was waiting for him first thing this morning. There were blood and print records available from an emergency admission at S. F. General two years earlier; an ID chip had been implanted at the same time. And there was a routine vice pickup from several years earlier that had been dropped. No criminal record, no association hits, nothing that would give a clue to what had happened.

  Which left only one thing—Cancer Cell.

  Carlucci activated the phone, called up the directory, then punched in Martin Kelly’s number. Kelly worked in Counter-Intelligence. Not the top guy in CID, but probably the best. If anyone knew something about Cancer Cell, it would be Martin Kelly.

  “Kelly here.”

  “It’s Frank Carlucci.”

  “Hey, Carlucci. Come estai?” Sometimes Kelly talked and acted like he wished he was Italian.

  “Bene. Grazie.” Carlucci smiled to himself, shaking his head. “It’s almost noon. Can I buy you lunch?”

  “Christ, no. I’m swamped here. You need to talk to me about something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You can buy me coffee, then. I can get away for a few minutes.”

  “Okay. You want me to come up there?” Carlucci asked.

  “No. I’ll meet you in Narcotics. They’ve got better coffee.”

  And a couple of private interview rooms, Carlucci thought. “Meet you there in ten minutes?” he asked.

  “Ten minutes.”

  Carlucci did have to buy their coffees. Narcotics brewed the best coffee in the building, and they sold it to their fellow officers at a buck a cup. The proceeds paid for their annual forty-eight-hour-long New Year’s bash out on Alcatraz.

  Kelly and Carlucci took the coffee into a free interview room, which was small but quiet. They sat across from each other at the table, and Carlucci glanced around the room, noting the video cameras that should be off line, thinking about the hidden cameras and mikes. Narcotics guaranteed their interview rooms to be secure, but Carlucci never completely trusted them.

  Kelly was dressed, as always, in a flashy, expensive suit, dark blue with glowing silver pinstripes and a tie with a wave pattern that continually washed across the fabric. Carlucci had known him for more than ten years, but they had never become friends. They got on each other’s nerves when they spent too much time together, but Carlucci thought there was always something like mutual respect between them.

  “So what’s up?” Kelly asked.

  “What do you know about Cancer Cell?”

  “Jesus Christ, Carlucci. That’s about the last thing I expected you to ask me.” He leaned back in his chair. “What the hell case have you got going, and why haven’t I heard anything about it before?”

  Carlucci shook his head. “There is no case. Not exactly. Someone my daughter knows has disappeared and I told her I’d look into it. There’s a chance it has something to do with Cancer Cell. That’s all.”

  Kelly didn’t say anything. He moved the paper coffee cup around and around in small circles on the table, staring at him.

  “What is it?” Carlucci asked.

  “You trying to run something on me?”

  “Of course not. It’s just what I said. Why? What’s going on?”

  Kelly frowned. “I wish I knew.” He continued to stare at Carlucci, as if trying to decide something. “I’ve never liked this Cancer Cell business,” he eventually said. “It always bothers me when you hear about something, or somebody, but you can never find out anything about them. The name pops up, but no one knows anything. You dig and you dig, and then dig even deeper, and all you come up with is a lot of what you know is horseshit.” He sipped at his coffee, started to put it down, then drank again. He stared into his cup for a minute, then finally set it down and resumed making circles with it. “Cancer Cell is like that. I’ve been digging around at it for, I don’t know, four or five years now, and I don’t know much more now tha
n I did before.”

  He paused again, looked around the room, then back at Carlucci. “Then a few weeks ago, I get a query on Cancer Cell from one of the slugs.” He left it there, giving Carlucci a twisted smile.

  The slugs were technically still human beings, though they didn’t look much like it anymore. They lived in individual quarters on the top floor of the building, surrounded by all the computers and information access networks they wanted, and they pumped themselves full of intelligence boosters and metabolic enhancers until they became bloated, barely mobile creatures encased in formfitting, shiny black environment suits. Their job was to help the police solve difficult cases, but Carlucci didn’t know a single cop who wanted to have anything to do with the slugs. Even his old friend Brendan, who had worked a lot with the slugs, had eventually resigned and was now trying very hard to drink himself to death.

  “I didn’t think much of it,” Kelly resumed. “I didn’t have anything to give the fucker anyway. But then you show up and ask me about the same thing just a few weeks later. Makes me very suspicious.”

  “Which slug made the query?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Carlucci shrugged.

  “Monk. You know him?”

  Monk. That made Carlucci suspicious. “Yeah, I know him. I had a session with him a few years ago.” He pictured Monk the slug, a goggled, bloated thing enclosed in slick black, hardly able to walk, hardly human. “But I haven’t had anything to do with him since.” He shrugged again. “Didn’t like the bastard much.”

  Neither of them spoke for a couple of minutes. Carlucci wanted to reassure Kelly and get some information out of him. At the same time, he was trying to imagine what Monk’s interest in Cancer Cell was all about.

  “Carlucci, tell me. No bullshit. What’s this with your daughter’s friend?”

  Carlucci related everything Caroline had told him. It really wasn’t much—a strange deal, but with the added factor of Cancer Cell.